His amber gaze caressed hers with sadness. ‘‘Don’t, Sophie. Don’t let it matter so much to you.’’
The beginning of tears pricked her eyes, pinched her throat. She pulled back, letting the cool air flood the space between them, even as a cold despondency filled her heart. ‘‘Why do you do this? Why do you reach for me, then push me away?’’
‘‘Because I have no right to reach.’’ Pain etched his features in sharp relief.
‘‘How can you say that? Why . . .’’ A disquieting suspicion slid from nowhere to silence her questions. She tried to shove it aside, tried not to think ill of him, but an insidious doubt quivered through her.
Lies. Half-truths. Evasiveness. He refused to admit being at Edgecombe the day she had seen him staring out the window. She couldn’t help wondering what he might have been doing there that he didn’t wish her to know about. Then this morning on the quay he had seemed overcome by a desperate, personal grief, though he had not known any of the victims brought ashore.
‘‘What are you hiding?’’ She seized his face in her hands. ‘‘Have you . . . done something . . . something that makes you afraid?’’
For an instant his startled reaction took her aback. Then he gained control of his features and locked his thoughts away behind a blank expression. He encircled her wrists and lowered her hands from his face. ‘‘Yes, I am afraid. You frighten me, Sophie, with your unthinking recklessness and your stubborn refusal to listen to reason. You might have gotten us both killed tonight.’’
The allegation stole her breath, sliced her to the core. Tears threatened once more, blurring his image. She blinked them away and realized what he had just done.
He had avoided her question. Avoided having to trust her or confide something about himself by turning the conversation back to her. Her faults. Her failings. As if she hadn’t already been more than open with him. As if he didn’t know far more about her than she did about him.
More evasiveness. More half-truths.
‘‘You’re lying.’’ She raised her chin to meet the out-thrust angle of his. ‘‘I don’t care if that angers you; I’m not afraid to say it. You are carrying something around inside you, and it’s destroying you.’’
‘‘You know nothing about me.’’
She shook her head sadly. ‘‘Oh, but I do. The night we met, here in this very chapel, I saw who and what you are. A good and decent man. A man of courage and principles. A man I could easily . . .’’
This time she was grateful for the rising sob that quelled a confession she might have regretted. ‘‘I believe I met the true Chad Rutherford that night, and I’ve been searching for him ever since.’’
‘‘Have you considered that, like everything else that night, that man might have been a figment conjured by the mist?’’
She wanted to shake him out of whatever miasma held him in its grip. Instead she moved off his lap, came to her feet and closed her cloak around her.
‘‘I am returning to my aunt’s house,’’ she said. ‘‘I have no choice. If I go to Edgecombe with you I’ll only raise my uncle’s suspicions. It is safer this way.’’
He stood up beside her, tall, brooding and still so desirable. She marveled that she could be so drawn to him, want him with such aching intensity, despite the barrier he maintained between them. Yet it was shaky at best, that barrier, and she knew that if she moved the necessary few inches, his arms would encircle her again, surround her in strength and protection. Oh, but not with the truth of what seethed inside him.
She resisted the urge and walked to the end of the pew. ‘‘Are you coming, or shall I make my way back alone?’’
She started down the aisle, expecting him to follow. At the front door she stopped, listened for his footsteps, heard nothing, and pushed her way outside. Amid the jumble of leaning headstones she came to another uncertain halt. Would he let her stumble home alone across the moor? Had she pushed him away for good?
At a creaking behind her she whirled to behold him standing in the doorway. No part of him moved but his chest and shoulders, heaving up and down as if he’d run the length of the nave. He simply stood there with a wild, tumultuous look that pierced the darkness and prompted her to turn back around and shut her eyes.
His approaching stride pinned her to the spot. Her knees went weak as he came up behind her, as he snaked an arm around her waist. He pushed her hair aside and spoke against her nape.
‘‘You want to know why I reach for you? Here’s your answer.’’ He pressed his length to her back and buttocks, his hard planes digging into her soft flesh. The restrained energy quivering in his muscles aroused her senses.
‘‘No matter how strong I resolve to be, when I am near you I lose all sense of what is right.’’ His whisper both scorched her flesh and raised goose bumps. ‘‘I forget who and what I am, and who and what you are. You wish to be reckless? To stand up to the likes of me? Then be warned. Despite my birth I am no gentleman. A lady like you should never put her trust in a rogue like me.’’
Before she had time to think, to either resist or acquiesce, he turned her around and crushed his mouth to hers. Confusion, shock and raging desire collided with the forceful thrust of his tongue, and the whole of her melted, surrendered to him without a struggle. As the kiss went on and on, she spiraled into the glory of it until the chapel and the graveyard dissolved around them, and reality became nothing more than their joined mouths, hot breath and pummeling hearts.
Then his hand was beneath her cloak, her shift, gliding between her thighs. Even as she sank into the compelling temptation of his palm a dangerous fear filled her, not of losing herself to him but of relinquishing herself, handing herself over without heeding the consequences. Consequences she sensed, feared . . . yet continually defied.
His free hand tunneling into her hair, he tipped her backward, robbing her of balance and exposing her throat to the heat of a blistering promise. ‘‘Were we anywhere else but on hallowed ground, I’d make you mine this instant and teach you a thing or two about risk and adventure.’’
His head came up, his eyes glinting with irony as he took in the churchyard. ‘‘Bless us, Father, for we have sinned. . . .’’
‘‘No, we haven’t.’’ Her voice caught. Giddy, reeling, she swallowed, trying to clear away the hitch and only half succeeding. ‘‘Not yet.’’
‘‘But we will. We both know it.’’
A shiver went through her at the truth of those words.
He released her. They left the churchyard and made their way across Blackheath Moor, coming finally to the pastures, the road and her aunt’s farm, where he kissed her quickly and disappeared into the night.
Chapter 14
It was all Chad could do to let Sophie go, to wait in the roadside shadows long enough to make certain she got inside without mishap, and then, when nothing disturbed the quiet farmhouse, to turn and walk away.
He left her at the hands of an uncle who could not be trusted, yet staying would only have endangered her further. She still didn’t comprehend that. She thought she knew him, understood the kind of man he was. Good God, she had no idea how readily he could point to those men who had shot at them tonight and say, ‘‘I have conspired with fiends exactly like them. I am one of them.’’
But like a fraud and a cheat he had held his tongue, because part of him—perhaps the very worst part of him—could not let her go.
For her, then, in the effort to someday deserve even a shred of her regard, he doubled back onto Blackheath Moor. Using the stars and familiar rock formations to guide him, he approximated the path Gordon had followed and returned to the isolated farmstead.
All lay dark, as still as a crypt. Climbing over the outer wall, Chad crept close to the largest of the outbuildings, a sagging barn roofed with ragged tufts of thatch. A whiff of the air revealed no scent of dung, nor the pungent odor of perspiring hides. The barn held no animals, hadn’t for quite some while.
So what was inside?
After another look about him he sprinted across the barnyard to the stone cottage. He approached the door gingerly and set his ear against the wood.
He heard nothing. Were they asleep, or gone?
He tried the latch. It stuck, then gave a click that arrested the beat of his heart. Breath frozen in his lungs, he waited. Then he opened the door an inch and moved his eye to the gap.
He both smelled and heard them before his eyes adjusted to the denser gloom inside. The place reeked of foul breath, sour whiskey and odors he would sooner have associated with the barn. The wheezy gusts of deep breathing and the occasional snort marked the rhythm of drunken slumber.
Gradually their outlines took shape. One lay stretched out on his stomach on the floor, his feet sprawled beneath a kitchen table, his head pillowed on what looked like an old boot. Near his half-curled hand, shards of glass caught the faint gleam of light from the open door. Bottles and tankards, some knocked on their sides, littered the tabletop. A second man sat in one of several mismatched chairs, head tipped against the wall, mouth open wide.
Despite the prudence of retreating, Chad lingered, squinting to make out their features. The merest phantom of familiarity stirred his memory. Had he encountered them at the tavern? On the docks this morning? He couldn’t be sure. He studied the color of their hair, the shape of their features.
Rage released a scalding rush of blood into his veins. Whoever they were, their dirty hands had fired guns at Sophie. He found himself wishing he were capable of standing as judge and jury, of stepping across the threshold and making bloody certain neither of those miserable bastards ever again fired a gun.
A tiny glint banished his murderous thoughts. His pulse kicked but he hesitated, disbelieving the sight before him. Then he shouldered his way inside.
The offensive stench enveloped him. A cough threatened, but he swallowed against it. Moving with deliberate care he stepped over the body slumped across the earthen floor. He resisted the urge to give a good hard kick, instead bracing his feet and reaching toward the table. His fingers closed over cool metal.
A snore ripped through the silence. Heart crashing, Chad nearly dropped the ring of keys. They clattered in his palm. He froze, gaze zigzagging back and forth between the men. Inches from his feet a hand shot out, fingers grinding over the broken glass before once more falling limp. Chad backed toward the door.
‘‘Wha . . . ?’’
Halting in midstep, Chad stared into the open eyes of the man in the chair. With the clamor of a thousand bells hammering inside his skull, Chad stared back, unmoving, not breathing, praying for a miracle.
The drooping mouth formed another incoherent word, then went slack. The eyes dropped shut. Wasting no time, Chad cleared the threshold in two swift strides and eased the door closed behind him. His prize clutched tight, he dashed across the open ground to the barn.
His pulse careened the moment the doors swung open and he stepped inside. He had been right. No animals inhabited this barn. He didn’t know where to turn first, which part of the piled mound to explore. Crates, trunks, barrels, casks . . .
Evidence. Scads of it. Enough to put away these drunken swine for many years to come. But for what? Smuggling? No great revelation there, except it contradicted the vicar’s claims that smuggling in Penhollow had all but ceased.
From where had this plunder originated? And under whose orders? He considered the two men in the cottage. Would they show up at Edgecombe one day soon to issue the commands the condemned pirate, Giles Watling, had told Chad to await? How, exactly, did Sophie’s uncle fit into the mix? Instinct told him all three constituted a workforce, and that their leader remained elusive. If he summoned the authorities prematurely, his efforts might merely serve to send other, more blameworthy culprits into hiding.
He retraced his steps, relocking the barn doors and stealing back into the shack. He dared not leave the slightest trace of his presence. He wanted the bastards to remain confident.
Repeating his earlier actions in reverse, he leaned over the sprawling form and placed the keys on the table. Then he set out for Edgecombe, intent on forming a plan.
Following breakfast the next morning, a bleary-eyed Sophie returned to her bedroom to discover Rachel kneeling on the floor and pulling something out from under the bed they shared. Sophie’s heart stilled as the younger girl tossed her curly black hair over her shoulder and glanced up, her hands filled with the stained folds of broadcloth she had just drawn into her lap.
Knowing she could not have returned the cloak to the kitchen with mud and vegetation clinging to its hem, Sophie had bundled the garment beneath the bed with plans to set it to rights at the first opportunity.
An opportunity she had apparently missed.
‘‘Where were you last night?’’ her cousin asked.
Guilty heat suffused Sophie’s cheeks, until she remembered she was being confronted by a girl four years her junior, one who not only bore her own secrets, but whose father consorted with criminals.
‘‘I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk.’’
Rachel pushed to her feet and held out the cloak. ‘‘Where? Across the moors?’’
Sophie swallowed. ‘‘Of course not. I took a shortcut through one of the holding pens. I’m sorry. I’ll do my best to clean it. If need be, I’ll purchase another.’’
Rachel ran a hand back and forth across the soiled lining. ‘‘Still damp. A walk across a holding pen would not have soaked it so.’’
‘‘I went as far as the beach. I must have strayed too close to the water’s edge. What does it matter? Why all these questions?’’ She regretted the query immediately. Better to have let the subject drop.
She retrieved the cloak from her cousin’s arms. ‘‘A good, stiff brushing will dislodge most of this mess,’’ she said with false brightness. ‘‘If not, I’m certain your mother will know an effective remedy.’’
‘‘Supposing I ask Father how best to clean it?’’
Sophie met her gaze. ‘‘Don’t.’’
‘‘Why not?’’
‘‘Because I’m asking you. Just don’t.’’ She drew a steadying breath and searched Rachel’s pretty features, shadowed now by apprehension. Was Rachel debating her loyalties? Could Sophie hope to prevail against the girl’s own father?
‘‘I’m worried about you, Sophie. I’m . . .’’
‘‘You’re what, Rachel? Frightened? You are, aren’t you? I see it in your eyes.’’
‘‘Don’t be silly.’’ The girl blinked, looked away. ‘‘I have nothing to be frightened of. I simply don’t wish to see you land in yet another scrape.’’
The reference to Sophie’s London disgrace sent her chin inching higher. ‘‘Am I the only one with a penchant for scrapes?’’
It was Rachel’s turn to bristle. ‘‘What do you mean?’’
‘‘I’m referring to the fisherman you were so desperate to find at the quay yesterday. The rather strapping young man with sandy hair. What was his name, Ian? You shed a good many tears over him before you learned he was safe, yet you didn’t so much as acknowledge his presence once we reached the tavern and you were surrounded by people again. Nor he you, come to think of it.’’
A guilty blaze flooded Rachel’s face. She swept to the window, her back to Sophie. ‘‘Ian and I haven’t done anything wrong. It’s just that . . . Father doesn’t approve. Not yet, at any rate. Mother suspects, but only Dominic knows that Ian and I find opportunities to meet. And now you, of course.’’
‘‘I won’t tell a soul,’’ Sophie promised quietly, ‘‘but surely you’re not going to wait for your father’s approval. Not if you love your young man.’’
Rachel didn’t reply. Sudden indignation sent Sophie to her. She grasped her cou
sin’s shoulder and spun her about. ‘‘Why won’t you answer me? Are you going to allow your father to rob you of happiness? Will you sit in his house silently carding wool for the rest of your life?’’
Rachel wrenched away. ‘‘I card wool, and dye it, spin it and weave it, because it is among my duties to do so. Because my first allegiance is to my family, not myself.’’
The hurt in her voice doused Sophie righteous anger and stabbed at her conscience. If Sophie’s loyalties to her own family had matched her cousin’s, perhaps she would have taken greater pains to ensure that the incident at the Winthrops’ never occurred.
But she hadn’t. She had set her own ambitions first, with disastrous results.
She grasped Rachel’s hands, usually so steady as they performed intricate chores, but now trembling and damp. ‘‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to belittle your life; truly I didn’t. I have nothing but respect for you and for all you do here.’’
The truth of those words resonated. Had she initially believed Rachel to be docile, lacking in ambition? For all her reticence, Rachel possessed a strength Sophie could never hope to attain, the sort that allowed the younger girl to put the needs of others well before her own without a word of complaint.
Humbled, she drew Rachel with her onto the edge of bed. ‘‘Our lives have been so different. Perhaps I do not—cannot—fully understand what yours has been, but I’d like to. If you’d give me the chance.’’
Rachel gave a half shrug, a sad smile. ‘‘Our mothers are sisters, but as unalike as these moors from a London street. Your mother married into wealth and privilege, mine into hardship, at least by comparison. But my father wooed her, and she fell in love with him. Loves him still . . .’’
‘‘Yes. I suppose I can see that.’’ In their harsh way, Aunt Louisa and Uncle Barnaby did share a tenderness of sorts. Did her own mother love her father? Sophie had never considered the question before. She discovered she didn’t know the answer.
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