Captive of Sin

by Anna Campbell

  She bent to pick up her shawl and stumbled to her chair. Standing so long had tested her strength. Across the room, Gideon didn’t say a word, just watched the snow drift past the window. She told herself she had no right to feel slighted by his indifference.

  The arrival of breakfast interrupted her dour thoughts. Charis kept her head down and shrouded in the shawl. She couldn’t help her ill-matched costume, but if the servants saw her hair and bruised face, they’d identify her immediately if her stepbrothers asked about her.

  Feverishly, she tried to plan her escape even while Sir Gideon’s nearness was a persistent tug on her senses. The bad weather was both savior and pest. If she could get away, it would hide her. But she wasn’t dressed for such cold. She resigned herself to stealing the greatcoat. It was a loan rather than a theft, she assured her howling conscience. In a few weeks, she’d return it and repay Sir Gideon for his kindness.

  Surely tracing Sir Gideon Trevithick of Penrhyn in Cornwall wouldn’t be difficult. If they made contact again…

  She put a brake on foolish dreams.

  First she had to survive the next three weeks and stay out of her stepbrothers’ clutches. She had to find shelter and food and some way of supporting herself, all without revealing her identity. Or the identity of the powerful men who sought her. Hubert was Lord Burkett and Felix was a rising figure in Parliament.

  Gideon, Akash, and she settled down to another silent meal. Tulliver must have retreated to the taproom. Charis was grateful for the lack of conversation. She’d choke on any more lies. And she had a foolish desire to cry at the thought of leaving Sir Gideon. How had he gained this astounding power over her emotions in such a short time? It was like a strange madness possessed her.

  After the servants cleared the plates, she managed to inject an appropriate note of feminine embarrassment into her voice. “Would it be all right if I had a few moments of privacy?”

  A look passed between Gideon and Akash but both stood readily enough. “We’ll send someone to assist you,” Gideon said.

  “No need,” Charis said hurriedly, her chance at escape evaporating before her eyes.

  “I insist.” Gideon, curse him, waited while Akash left to summon the servants.

  A parade of maids brought hot water and towels and a range of grooming articles. She couldn’t help sighing with pleasure when the last item laid out before her was a cheap brown cotton gown. She was desperate to change her ragged, dirty dress.

  Goodness knows where Sir Gideon found the frock at such short notice. Yet another sign of his thoughtfulness. Again, she suppressed that rebel urge to confess everything and beg him to help her. Men changed when they saw the chance of filling their pockets with gold.

  Gideon stood by the door and dismissed the staff. “Tulliver’s outside if you need anything.”

  “Thank you.” How she wished she could say more, say good-bye, express her gratitude, tell him she wished she could know him better.

  But it was impossible.

  For a long moment, she stared at him, drinking in his physical magnificence, the strength and intelligence in his compelling features. Already she knew she’d never forget him. She turned away and pretended interest in the items on the tray. If she kept looking at Gideon, she’d start to cry.

  The door closed softly. At last Charis was alone. She let out the breath she’d been holding. Yet she didn’t immediately put her plan into action. Instead she slowly approached the cheval mirror in the corner.

  Ridiculous, really, given her legion of troubles, that the mere act of checking her reflection needed every ounce of courage.

  She braced to confront the woman in the mirror. When she did, she couldn’t stem a broken peal of laughter.

  Had she read desire in Sir Gideon’s eyes? What a vain, deluded fool she was. No man could look at her now with anything but pity. Or revulsion.

  She’d expected to be shocked. What she saw was worse than her wildest imaginings. Her face was a mottled mixture of purple and yellow. Her jaw was grotesquely distorted. Above the bruising, familiar hazel eyes stared back with a dazed expression.

  She bit down hard on her quivering lip, but the jab of pain couldn’t dam her tears. She was a monstrosity, a hobgoblin, a gorgon. So stupid to mourn what would mend, but she had to lift her good hand to dash the moisture from her streaming eyes. Akash had assured her the damage was superficial, but the words seemed meaningless when she looked at the woman in the mirror.

  The once-elegant blue dress was streaked with dirt and torn beyond repair. Her shaking hand shifted to touch the matted hair that tumbled around her shoulders.

  She drew in a breath that was close to a sob and met her watery gaze in the glass. This wouldn’t do. She straightened her spine. She was Lady Charis Weston, the last of a long line of warriors. No daughter of Hugh Davenport Weston would admit defeat to a pair of poltroons like Hubert and Felix.

  The horrors she saw in the mirror would pass. Right now, she needed to concentrate on escape.

  Hurriedly, she washed and changed out of the ruined gown. The cheap dress was scratchy on her sensitive skin and too big, but at least it was clean and whole. Fastening the frock took too long, and she panted with pain before she finished.

  She spent valuable minutes struggling with the knots in her hair. Eventually, she managed to bundle it away from her face. The girl in the mirror started to look moderately respectable. As long as nobody noticed her bruised face.

  With shaking hands, she drew the greatcoat on. Her sore arm twinged as she gingerly slid it into the sleeve, but, thanks to Akash, the pain was bearable. The huge coat looked absurd on her small body, but she couldn’t manage without its warmth.

  She patted the pocket to check for the pistol. Once she’d found somewhere safe to stay, she’d pawn it. She told herself taking it wasn’t theft. When she could, she’d redeem the weapon and return it. She’d already steeled herself to pawning her mother’s ring and locket although her heart ached at the prospect.

  How long had she been in here? Were Gideon or Akash likely to return and demand to know what she was up to? She mustn’t linger. Dressing had taken too long already.

  Her mouth was dry with nerves as she darted to the window. Beneath the sill, she knew a flat roof extended over the rear yard. Climbing about in the snow with a sprained wrist was risky. But less so than waiting for her stepbrothers to find her, or for her rescuers to discover her identity and hand her over to the local magistrate.

  Carefully, she raised the sash window and eased herself out. Her bruised ribs protested, but she gritted her teeth and continued. Any pain now would be as nothing if her stepbrothers caught her.

  Three weeks to freedom, she promised herself grimly.

  Stifling the alluring memory of black eyes burning into hers, she found her footing on the slippery roof.

  Three

  Guvnor, we got trouble.”

  Gideon looked up from the dregs of his ale to meet Tulliver’s worried eyes. A shock to see him anything but imperturbable.

  “What is it, Tulliver?” He set his tankard on the table. He sat in the darkest corner of the inn. And the coldest. The benches around him were empty. On this frigid day, the occupants of the long room crowded around the fire blazing at the other end. But even so, all these people sharing his space, his air, left him jumpy, on edge.

  Of course, he knew what Tulliver would say before the man spoke.

  “The lass. She’s gone.”

  Tulliver had been on watch outside the room. Gideon didn’t need to ask whether she’d got out that way. “How in Hades did she go across the roof? She’s got a sprained wrist.”

  “Aye. But it didn’t stop her.” Tulliver’s voice held a trace of grudging admiration.

  “Damn.” Gideon surged to his feet and strode toward the taproom’s rear door.

  Stupid, stupid girl. Didn’t she realize the risks? But he reserved his sharpest castigation for himself. Careless bastard he was. How could he let her escape
? It wasn’t as if he hadn’t guessed her plans. Although given her injuries, he’d never imagined she’d clamber out an upstairs window and make it across an icy roof.

  “How long ago?” he grated out.

  Tulliver kept up with his rapid pace. “Seconds, I reckon. The room wasn’t cold enough for the window to be open long.”

  “She could be anywhere.” He ducked under the low lintel and entered a long, flagstoned corridor. “Damn,” he said again with more emphasis.

  “Damn what?” Akash emerged from a side hallway.

  “Miss Watson’s gone,” Gideon said sharply.

  Akash grabbed his arm. Immediately Gideon stiffened, and Akash snatched his hand away with a gesture of apology. But his eyes didn’t waver in the gloom. The stare was calm, perceptive, compassionate.

  “She can’t give you back what you’ve lost. No one can.”

  Gideon flinched as if he’d been struck. Had anyone else but Akash said it, they’d be nursing a broken jaw.

  “You think I don’t know that?” he asked through tight lips.

  “Then let her follow her own destiny.”

  He owed this man so much. His health. His sanity. His very life. But now he had no time to explain what he barely understood himself. “If I help her, it might wash some of the black from my soul.”

  “She’s a stranger.”

  “She’s in trouble. We have to find her.”

  For a moment they couldn’t afford to waste, Akash studied him. Finally, he gave an abrupt nod. “She has an aunt in town?”

  “A lie. She’s on the run from someone or something. My guess is she means to take her chances on the streets.”

  “She’s a lady. She won’t survive.”

  “She will if we find her.” The idea of the girl’s pride and courage coming to disaster made Gideon’s gut cramp. Without another word, he set off down the hallway toward the back door.

  They emerged into a bleak snow-covered yard behind the kitchens. The freezing wind smelled of thousands of coal fires and salt from the sea. Directly above was the room the girl had escaped. The day was gray and grim, but there was plenty of light to show a line of small footprints leading to the back gate.

  Thank God it had stopped snowing, although it was perishing cold. Gideon hoped Sarah had had the sense to take his greatcoat. He shoved his gloved hands into his jacket pockets and set out along the trail. Akash and Tulliver were a reassuring presence behind him.

  The high wooden gate led into a dingy alley sheltered from the weather by brick walls. No more footprints. It didn’t matter. One end of the alley ended in a blank wall. She could only have taken the other direction, toward the busy street that passed the front of the inn.

  Cursing, Gideon set out at a run and burst onto the packed thoroughfare. Even on a bitter day, Portsmouth thronged with people. Sailors of many nations. Respectable burghers. Militia in their bright scarlet uniforms. Roughly dressed farmworkers from the surrounding countryside.

  But no slight bright-haired girl weaved her way through the pulsing, noisy crowd. Gideon scanned the street while dread beat a remorseless tattoo in his heart. She was small and too easy to miss.

  She was small and too easy to hurt.

  “Do you see her?” Akash asked beside him.

  “No. But she can’t have gone far. Tulliver only just missed her. Those footprints are fresh. And she doesn’t know the town. We’ll split up and meet back here in half an hour.” Without waiting for a reply, Gideon launched himself down the street.

  Leaden fear settled in his belly as he realized he headed toward the docks. For all his burning need to find Sarah, he hoped to hell she’d chosen a different route. Portsmouth was a navy town and full of press-ganged sailors, brutish men not far removed from criminals. Every step closer to the waterfront was a step closer to peril.

  The press of people chafed, but compared to those overwhelming weeks in London, it was bearable. He forced himself to breathe deeply, evenly, concentrating on each inhalation and exhalation. He could control his discomfort in a crowd. He couldn’t quell the tension that tightened his shoulders as his fear for Sarah rose. At least he’d given her the pistol although heaven knew if she had the spirit to use it.

  He recalled her reckless courage. She’d use it, all right. He just prayed he found her before she needed to.

  Devil take her, why hadn’t the chit trusted him?

  He tried desperately not to think what might happen to her. She’d already suffered so much. He’d promised her help, and he’d failed miserably.

  He’d failed so often. Damn it, he wasn’t going to fail this time, not when the girl’s life was at stake.

  Swiftly but purposefully, he moved down the street, checking doorways and side passages. He doubted she’d go into one of the shops lining the road, crowded as they were with people avoiding the weather. She’d be too conspicuous, with her bruised face and bandaged wrist.

  Dear Lord, keep her safe until I get to her.

  He repeated the silent plea with every thud of his heart until the words lost meaning, and all he knew was his overpowering need to find her. Still he searched. Every nook, every recess, every corner. By God, he wouldn’t let her escape him.

  He nearly missed her.

  A group of rowdy men crowded into a narrow alley. Sailors by the look of them, with their dirty calico smocks. Drunk, seeking trouble.

  Something about their concentrated menace alerted instincts honed in a thousand dusty Indian byways. Then one of the roughly dressed men shifted, and Gideon glimpsed a familiar black greatcoat.

  Sarah.

  Seeing her trapped, he yielded to a deep, gut-churning anger. The will to kill coiled in his belly like a cobra. With a low growl, he reached into his pocket for his pistol, twin to the one he’d given her.

  As his fingers curled securely around the handle, he strode up behind the bastards. None of them noticed his approach although he made no attempt at subterfuge. They were too focused on their terrified bounty.

  Shaking and trying to stifle panic, Charis backed into the damp stonework. Her good hand fumbled for her gun in the coat’s generous pockets. The four burly men stank of liquor, rotten fish, and pungent male sweat. She sucked in a shuddering breath, then gagged on the foul stench.

  Why hadn’t she listened to that persistent voice insisting she trust Sir Gideon? Now it was too late. She was a woman alone, fair game for any stranger.

  The largest man ripped the shawl off her head and flung it into the sludge on the ground. As she choked back a futile protest, her insecurely fastened hair collapsed around her face.

  “Eh, lookee, Jack! She got lady’s hair,” one of the men cried in delight.

  “All the better to hold her with, shipmates.” The big man twined one meaty paw in a tangled hank while he ripped at his coarse trousers with his other hand. The tang of male excitement was ripe on the cold air and made Charis’s muscles knot with revulsion.

  When she strained to break free, agony shot through her scalp. Bile rose as she read unmistakable intent in her captor’s sunken, bloodshot eyes.

  “She’s been fair knocked around,” another of the sailors said doubtfully.

  “I ain’t bothered with her sodding face,” the man snarled. “I reckon the bits I want are in fine working order.” He laughed salaciously. He was close enough for the alcohol on his breath to make her recoil.

  “Leave me alone.” Her voice sounded raw.

  “You don’t mean that, hinny.” His croon was more frightening than anger. Her stomach roiled with icy terror.

  “Have at her, Jack,” one of the men urged in a guttural voice.

  Frantically, she fought for a grip on the little gun but it kept sliding out of reach. She stretched after it, but the slightest movement ripped unbearably at her trapped hair.

  “I’ll scream if you touch me.” Her voice cracked.

  The man’s leering grin reeked confidence. His brutal hold tightened until hot tears rose to sting her eyes. �
�You’d have hollered afore now if you reckoned it’d do you a mite of good.”

  On the street, she’d hesitated one fatal instant before calling for help. Time enough for them to crowd her into this alley, stinking of urine and rotting refuse.

  Charis opened her mouth to scream but only a whimper emerged when the man wrenched at her hair. “Shut your gob, bitch.”

  “Let me go,” she croaked, still scrabbling for the gun, but her trembling, damp hand couldn’t find purchase on the pearl handle. Her heart pounded so furiously against her ribs, she thought it must burst.

  “I’ll let you go, all right.” The beefy sailor smacked his thick lips together as if contemplating a hearty meal. “Once I’ve got my fill. And if you cut the ruddy backchat. Otherwise, I’ll wring your neck, my bonny.”

  Desolation froze the blood in Charis’s veins. Death was a cold, tangible presence. There was no hope. All her struggles, all her suffering, all her defiance led to this. Lady Charis Weston violated and murdered in a port city’s backstreet.

  “Get away from her.”

  Like a honed saber, the command sliced through Charis’s blind horror. Sir Gideon is here. I’m safe. I’m safe.

  Her galloping pulse slowed to a joyous hymn of gratitude. She dragged in her first unfettered breath since she’d escaped the inn, then gasped as her bruised ribs protested. Abruptly, she became aware of aches lingering from yesterday’s beating. Her sprained arm throbbed painfully.

  The ringleader relinquished his grip on her hair. The burning pressure on her scalp eased. She slumped against the wall as a dizzying wave of relief washed over her.

  He stepped to one side to face the man at the mouth of the alley. Charis at last got a clear view of Gideon. She shivered as she stared into that perfect, ruthless face. Fury blazed in his eyes. He looked strong, brave, in control. Lethal.

  “Move along, chum.” The sailor folded his arms across his bulging chest. He was much broader than Gideon and stocky with muscle. The blackguard’s cohorts set up a solid barrier around him.

  “Leave her be.” As Gideon approached, he sounded completely undaunted by the array of masculine strength. His voice was colder than the wind whistling through the alley.