by Jo Goodman
Tempting Torment
The McClellans Series
Book Three
by
Jo Goodman
Author's Cut Edition
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ISBN: 978-1-947833-31-9
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Cover
Dedication
Note to Reader
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
Meet the Author
Dedication
For Cathy and Amy and the men smart enough to marry them, my brothers Richard and John.
Note to Reader
Dear Reader,
When I began writing about the McClellan family in Crystal Passion I did not anticipate that they would be the subjects of several books. It was actually the mysterious Jericho Smith that made me want to revisit to the McClellans in Seaswept Abandon. Encouragement from readers and my own interest in the family (plus a strange desire to write about a character who gets seasick) prompted me to go back to them again a few years later to develop a story around Noah McClellan. Tempting Torment was that book. It is a pleasure to have it released again as an ebook and to be able to introduce it to new readers.
All the best,
Jo Goodman
Prologue
January 1787
Icy shards of rain hammered relentlessly against the leaded windows. Edward Penberthy stood facing the inner courtyard, legs slightly parted, his hands clasped behind his back. He rocked on the balls of his feet while he studied the dim yellow cast of candlelight from the nursery. The light was extinguished. Edward waited, his pale blue eyes shifting slowly as he imagined Jessica's silent retreat from the child's room to her own adjoining one. A moment later a lamp was lit. He squinted, trying to make out Jessica's form as she passed back and forth in front of the window. The driving rain confounded his efforts, and his frustration showed as a faint tic along his narrow jawline. He almost thanked Jessica for at last turning back the lamp and putting an end to his vigil. Edward paused then unfastened the ties that held back a pair of blood red velvet drapes. They fell softly and soundlessly closed.
"You haven't answered my question, Edward."
The voice was at once petulant and demanding. Both qualities grated equally on Edward's nerves. He turned slowly, adjusting the lacy cuffs on both wrists, and greeted his wife with a narrow smile. He was somewhat startled to find her so beautiful. Her skin was like porcelain, unlined and unmarred by any blemish. The small mole that set off the high curve of her cheekbone was mere artifice, a heart-shaped beauty patch she applied with delicate precision. Her thick black hair was coiled smoothly at the back of her head. Not so much as a wisp of it fell across her high forehead or curled around her dainty ears. Quite simply, Barbara wouldn't have allowed it. She abhorred not being in control. Familiarity, he thought, does indeed breed contempt. With his eyes closed or his back turned, his vision of her was in many ways clearer. He was not drawn to the dark emerald pools of her eyes or the allure of her shapely mouth. He closed his eyes briefly, seeking patience, and in his mind's eye he saw a harridan, perhaps a fishwife, a harpy. How her eyes would spit at him if she suspected the path of his thoughts. "I don't believe you posed a question, Barbara. A proposal is what you called it."
"It still requires a reply," she said, refusing to be ignored. Barbara Penberthy held her husband's hard-edged gaze defiantly. Her eyes then wandered deliberately to the four thin scratches that scored his left cheek. The scratches were nothing, she thought, but the wound to his pride would be considerable. When she first saw them she knew the time was right to approach Edward again with her plan. He would want some sort of redress now; his advances had never been refused. She wanted to comment and then thought better of it. He might mistake her interest as jealousy, suspect there was more to her plan than simply ridding themselves of Adam. That would not do. Not at all.
Edward sat sideways in the spindle-legged chair opposite his wife, throwing one of his legs over the chair's arm. His position effectively removed the scratches from her sight though he knew she was well aware of them.
He had offered no explanation for their sudden appearance, but Barbara was not a fool. She knew how he had come by them. He wondered if it amused her. "I thought the matter was settled," he said.
Barbara stopped fiddling with her emerald dinner ring and folded her hands in her lap. "I recall we did not so much settle the matter as table it. Honestly, Edward, your reticence ill becomes you. I will not believe that you have developed some special fondness for the boy. You've never made any secret of the fact that you cannot abide children."
"Adam is my cousin."
"Your third cousin. You barely knew his parents. Don't spout nonsense about blood being thicker. Kenyon and Claudia Penberthy had little use for you while they were alive. Now, they force you to take guardianship of their brat and deal with his estate and finances."
A faint smile flickered at the corner of Edward's lips. "I don't think they intended to die so young," he said dryly.
Barbara frowned at her husband's interruption. "That is neither here nor there. It remains that they did die. And quite without thinking things through. They made no provision at all for Adam's care. If their man of affairs hadn't located us, the responsibility would have fallen on a complete stranger appointed by the court."
"I fail to understand your dissatisfaction. What is it you resent?" He waved a hand negligently about the room, indicating the richness of their surroundings. A near priceless painting by Titian dominated the wall above the green-veined marble mantelpiece. The carpet beneath their feet had been imported from China at no little cost. The furniture had been designed by the finest craftsmen living during the reign of Queen Anne. "You have some objection, perhaps, to living in such luxury?"
"None of it is ours," she said, cutting to the heart of the matter. "We have all the burden and none of the gain. When Adam comes of age everything will be in his control. I don't like it, Edward. It's unfair that we will be discarded without anything to show for our years of caring."
"But if something were to happen to Adam..." she said. "Things do happen to infants, you know," she added quickly when Edward's eyes narrowed darkly. "They are likely to get all manner of diseases."
"I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Barbara. You would be wise to keep such thoughts to yourself."
"I was only speaking of childhood diseases," she said, defending herself.
"You were opening a door to murder. Your implications are offensive."
Barbara cast caution aside. "It's because of her, isn't it? You are willing to put up with the boy because you desire her!"
Edward flicked a speck of lint on his satin breeches. "Would you care to be more specific? Precisely to whom do you refer?"
Barbara's chin shot up and her lips pursed with aggravation. "Do not pretend ignorance. You know very well I mean Jessica Winter. I do not delude myself into believing your frequent visits to the nursery have anything to do with Adam. You have been straining your breeches since you laid eyes on the girl."
"Don't be vulgar," he snapped.
"It is you who are vulgar. Your attempts to carry on an affair with her in this house, under my very nose, are pathetic. She is a servant, twenty years your junior, and the child's nanny."
Edward leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. He regretted that he had pushed Barbara's patience to the breaking point. She was going to be tiresome now, needling him about Jessica. "I understand from Mr. Leeds that Miss Winter was very well thought of by Kenyon and Claudia. The circumstances of her employment were most uncommon."
Barbara did not want to dwell on Jessica Winter's past. Kenyon's lawyer had explained all when he approached them to become Adam's guardians. Barbara refused to feel pity for the girl. "We don't owe her anything," she said repressively. "She can find employment elsewhere."
"It would be difficult for her. Her family was quality, after all. Many people would be uncomfortable having her in their home."
"Are my feelings of no importance? I am discomfited by having her in my home. If no one else will have her she can always go back to those friends of hers. They are a nuisance anyway, always coming around to the servants entrance. Cook has complained to me several times. She says they are common criminals. Smugglers and the like."
"Cook is probably correct. I do not consider it prudent to raise their ire by sending Miss Winter packing."
"Oh?" she said skeptically. "And how do you think they will react when Miss Winter tells them that her new employer is a lecher?"
Edward's lips pressed into a grim line. He turned his face toward his wife and raised a hand to his cheek. "I doubt Miss Winter will mention it at all. As you can see, she gave better than she got. It is over between us. I was mistaken in the matter."
Barbara's laughter was without humor. Her eyes pinned Edward to his chair. "You're afraid of her! You're afraid of her friends! That's why you won't do anything about Adam. You don't want suspicion for his death falling on the girl."
"Stop it, Barbara," Edward said with deadly calm. "Let it be."
"I will not. I am not such a coward as you. You want the same things I want, you simply haven't the backbone to take them. Admit it, Edward! Admit that you want the boy out of your way! Every door will be opened to us. Think of it! Entrance to the most exclusive circles, not because we are the guardians of Adam's wealth, but because you are the Penberthy heir. It can all be yours."
Edward stood. "I can see there is nothing to be gained by trying to reason with you. You will do what you will do."
His cryptic words gave Barbara pause. "What are you saying?" she asked slowly.
"I am saying that you will do what you want regardless of my feelings on the matter. I suggest that you be very careful as to how you proceed unless you want to live out your days in Newgate. If you escape the hangman, that is."
He was giving his sanction! Barbara's heart thudded in her breast. She had been correct. No matter what his words to the contrary, he wanted Adam and the girl out of his life. "I'll be cautious," she said. "No one will ever know. You realize that once Adam is gone there will be no position for Miss Winter."
He nodded. "Her friends will find nothing strange in that... nor will she." Edward took a step toward his wife and searched her face for a long moment. There was no mistaking the hard resolve that tautened the pale skin across her cheekbones. "I never want to discuss this again, Barbara," he said at last. "Never." He left the room then, but not before he caught the smirk of complacency on Barbara's lips. Beyond the door his hands trembled and he thrust them into the deep pockets of his jacket. "God forgive me," he whispered into the emptiness of the hallway. "What have I done?"
Chapter 1
March 1787
Noah McClellan lowered his hat over his eyes and settled back in his seat, pressing his broad shoulders against the stiff cushion. He longed to stretch his legs comfortably on the seat opposite him. As that would have put the heels of his muddy riding boots squarely in the lap of the vicar, he suppressed the urge. Everyone in the carriage had already identified him as a cloddish colonial, or more precisely, an ill-mannered American. They were wary of him; no one had deigned to speak to him in the half hour they had been on the post road to London. Not that he hadn't given them a right to be wary, he told himself. His behavior back at the inn had fulfilled every preconceived notion they had about Americans. He had been rude, even surly. Certainly he had chosen his words incautiously when speaking to the innkeeper, making extensive demands on the man's graciousness and patience.
A sheepish smile touched Noah's mouth and by clearing his throat and turning restlessly in his seat, he smothered a laugh at his own expense. His elbow accidentally dug into the ribs of the white-haired gentlemen on his left. Noah surprised all seven of the other passengers by murmuring an apology before the gentlemen could take exception.
"Will your animal be all right, do you think?"
It took Noah a moment before he realized he was the object of the softly framed question. He flicked back his hat with the tip of his forefinger and regarded the woman who had addressed him. Beneath her drab and dusty traveling cloak, the severe black lines of her gown proclaimed her mourning. A black satin ribbon and bow edged the unbecoming bonnet she wore. The bonnet itself was so stiff and confining it reminded Noah of blinders that a horse might sport. He wondered who she was mourning as his eyes drifted briefly to the sleeping babe she cradled in her thin arms. It was borne home to him that neither the vicar on her left nor the bored young lord on her right were accompanying her. She was quite alone, traveling without male protection, and Noah came to the unhappy conclusion that she was a widow. Her concern for his plight in light of her own circumstances touched him.
"I'm sure he will be," he said, raising his gold and green flecked eyes to hers. "A sprained foreleg," he added.
The corners of her mouth were touched by a smile. "So I heard," she said softly, dry amusement brightening her wide gray eyes. "The injury having occurred on these damnable English roads, I think you said."
Noah grinned, ignoring the swift censure the vicar directed at the young woman for having quoted Noah so accurately. The widow seemed equally unconcerned, though Noah was certain she had not missed the pointed throat clearing. There was, after all, a pale blush on her cheeks that had not been there before. "A comment I have every cause to regret," he told her. "You know very well how the innkeeper took exception and refused to sell or lease me a single animal from his stable."
"I believe he doubted your riding s
kills."
Noah's grin dissolved into a wry smile. She had put that very delicately. The innkeeper had been moved to denounce Noah's horsemanship, his nationality, and eventually his parentage. All in all, the exchange had developed into quite a row. It was saved from becoming a brawl by the arrival of the coach to London. Noah recognized there was nothing for it but to pay the innkeeper to stable his injured horse and make the remainder of his trip by coach. He had had to pay well for both privileges. The sum the proud and put-upon innkeeper demanded would have met the needs of a stable full of horses for a year. The driver of the coach, after a quick exchange with the innkeeper and an eye toward the main chance, charged Noah double for his place on the stage. There had even been some discussion about Noah riding on top with the baggage so as not to discomfit the other passengers. At that point Noah's gritty smile and lightly clenched fists came to his rescue and the driver thought better of his suggestion.
Noah leaned forward in his seat, surreptitiously taking measure of his fellow travelers. In addition to the vicar, the fiercely correct white-haired gentleman, the widow, and his lordship, the coach carried one of the king's soldiers, a dour looking farmer, and a portly tradesman. With the exception of the widow, none of them had shown the slightest inclination to warm toward him.
"Yes," said Noah, "I believe he did say something about not trusting me with his mule, least of all one of his good mounts." He chuckled. "It will be a good tale to tell my family," he explained when she looked at him oddly, surprised by his laughter.
"Oh?"
"I rode before I could walk." He paused. "We raise thoroughbreds. "