The Bride Sale (9 page)

“You've no cause to smile. You're not safe here,” she hissed, wagging a bony finger next to her nose. “He's evil, I tell you. Evil!”

She leaned away from Verity and eyed her from head to foot. “I don't care what lover's lies he may have whispered in your ears, or how much he's pay
ing you. I'm only telling you to be on your guard if you know what's good for you. The man's a devil! He means you nothing but harm, mark my words.”

I thought he had other plans for you
, the steward had said.

“You should leave this place,” Agnes continued. “Leave while you can.”

Verity turned away from Agnes and bounded up the stairs. When she reached her bedchamber, she slammed the door closed and sank heavily back against it.

Yes, she ought to leave. These shifts between normalcy and nightmare and back again were too much for her. She thought again of sinister plots, of attempts to so confuse her that she didn't care what happened.

She would leave this place after Davey was fully recovered. She could not bear this bizarre game of wits any longer. She wasn't yet certain what the stakes were, but she knew they were high. And she was bound to lose.

The problem was, she did not know what sort of loss she faced. Would she ultimately lose her life? Would she merely lose her virtue? Or would she finally, inexorably lose her mind?

 

Thick smoke filled his nostrils and burned the back of his throat. The night air throbbed with the ceaseless din of gunfire. Shot and shell whistled through the ranks, but James held his men back while the first column stormed the breach. Through the veil of smoke and screaming men, he watched as the brigade was cut to shreds by the French guns.

A handful of intrepid souls scrambled across the trenches dug on either side of the breach where two twenty-four-pounders hurled grape at the attackers. After two more shattering rounds, the big guns fell silent. With only their bayonets, the stubborn men of the 88th must have dispatched the gunners. It was time to move. At Picton's signal, James waved his men forward onto the ramparts.

“Go!” he shouted as they ran past.

And then the earth exploded beneath him.

Balls of fire fell at his feet, and a heavy, sizzling mass knocked him to the ground. Pain in his left leg shot all the way up his shoulder and down again. Flames erupted all around him, catching everything combustible and sending off smaller explosions every few seconds. Two burning figures ran toward him, completely engulfed. Was one of them Hughes, his sergeant?

He had to help them.

The smell of burning flesh assaulted his nose and he thought he was going to be sick. But there was no time for such weakness. He had to get to his men. He had to help them.

But he couldn't move. Dammit, he couldn't move. Something pinned him to the ground. He flexed his back to shake it off, and a charred, smoldering arm fell across his face. Shuddering, he flung it away and swallowed hard against the bile that rose in his throat.

Still, the burning figures approached. Still, James could not move and the pain in his pinned leg had become an agony. One of the figures screamed his name and collapsed in a flaming heap a few feet
away. A horrific wail pierced the air, subsided to a whimper, then fell silent.

James stretched out an arm toward him. “Hughes!” he cried out. “Hughes!”

The blackened form of his young sergeant stirred, limbs still licked with flames. The head moved.

But when the face lifted, it was not that of the young soldier looking back at him. It was Rowena. His beautiful Rowena, her face twisted in pain and despair. James watched in immobilized horror as she sat up. He saw the limp form of their son, Trystan, cradled in her arms. Her mouth formed the word, “Please!”

He struggled again to free himself, to go to them, but the burden on top of him seemed to push down, push down, until he could barely breathe. He had to get to them. He had to save them. They would die without his help. And Hughes and all the rest. They needed him. They all needed him.

But he could not move.

Rowena let out a long, mournful cry, and burst into flames.

“No!” James shouted, his eyes flying open as he struggled against the weight pushing down on him.

But it was only the blanket and counterpane, now hopelessly tangled with his thrashing. He fell back against the pillows and let his breath out in a whoosh. His body was covered in sweat and he felt as though he'd sprinted all the way up the hill to Pendurgan.

Damnation. Would he never be free of the dreams?

As usual he'd stayed awake last night as long as possible, having learned that the deep sleep of exhaustion, or occasionally of drunkenness, was often
dreamless. But sometimes the nightmares came anyway, usually in the morning just before waking.

The bed chamber door opened quietly and Samuel Lobb entered. “Morning, m'lord.”

James grunted a reply and burrowed deeper into the pillows, trying to shake off the dream images. But it was useless. They were always there, skirting around every conscious thought during waking hours and interrupting what passed for sleep. They were constant reminders of his weakness, his cowardice, his shame.

He heard the manservant walk to the fireplace and begin stoking the coals.

“Another bad 'un, m'lord?”

Poor old Lobb had suffered through many a bad night with James. More than anyone, Lobb understood about the dreams. He'd been at Ciudad Rodrigo, though as his batman and not therefore in the thick of fighting. Shortly after the explosion, when the 3rd Division stormed the retrenchments and took the town, Lobb had searched through the bloody, scorched mass of bodies and found James. He had pulled off the charred corpses whose weight had pinned James to the ground and carried his semiconscious employer to safety.

Lobb understood about the dreams.

“You'll be needin' this, m'lord.” He set a steaming mug on the table next to the bed. Strong black coffee laced with brandy and a few other ingredients that Lobb kept to himself: his remedy for a particularly bad night.

James shrugged off the bedcovers and reached for the mug. “Thank you.”

He took a long swallow and let the brandy soothe his nerves while the coffee prepared him to take on the day. He did not know what he would do without Lobb.

He was suddenly struck by an errant thought. “Lobb,” he said, “I've heard it whispered about that Mrs. Osborne suffers nightmares, too. Do you know if it's true?”

The manservant pulled a fresh shirt from the clothespress and shook it out. He looked over at James, his brow furrowed as though he was hesitant to speak. James arched a questioning brow. “I believe it was true at first, m'lord,” Lobb said at last. “Several of us heard her cries at night.”

James winced, wondering what role he played in the woman's nightmares.

“But I could not say if it is still true,” Lobb went on. “I have not personally heard her cry out these last few nights.”

“If you do, perhaps you ought to send her some of this,” James said, holding up the steaming mug. “It might help.”

“Yes, m'lord.”

James crawled out of bed and settled into the business of washing and shaving. His thoughts drifted to Verity Osborne. Despite her cries in the night, she seemed to have settled in quite comfortably. The staff doted on her, possibly because of the recovery of the Chenhalls boy. As far as he could tell, she had been true to her word about instructing them in the preparation of her herbal remedies. He had often seen her gathering plants, though he made a point of keeping his distance. Those deep brown eyes and the long
white column of her neck bedeviled him.

But he studied her closely during the evenings when she took supper with him and Agnes. She never flinched during Agnes's frequent taunts, never spoke out to correct the impression that she was his mistress. She sat silent and dignified, the prideful angle of her jaw a clear refusal to be intimidated. Perhaps it was merely false bravado, though, with no real strength beneath it. After all, she did have nightmares.

When James had dressed and breakfasted, he made his way to the steward's office to check on the progress of the winter threshing. Rufus Bargwanath was a rough character at best, but a decent steward. Old Tresco, steward since James was a boy, had left after the tragedy in 1812. It had been difficult to get anyone to work at Pendurgan after that. Bargwanath knew it, and took advantage of the situation by requiring a salary far beyond his worth. James paid it just the same. He had no choice.

He found Bargwanath at his desk, his office in its usual disarray. James spent a half hour going over the stocking of fresh straw for the winter, and the progress of ditching and hedging.

Satisfied that Bargwanath had it all well in hand, James took his leave. When he reached the office door, the steward called out to him.

“I chanced upon that new warming pan o' yers yesterday,” Bargwanath said. “You keepin' her all to yerself, or what?”

James spun around. “Watch your mouth, Bargwanath. Mrs. Osborne is a relation of mine and you will treat her with respect.”

The steward gave a crack of laughter and leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his neck. “You don't expect nobody round here to fall fer that cousin story, do you? Hell, we all know how she come to be here.
And
what you paid for her. I just figured since you had her workin' in the kitchen that she was fair game.”

“How dare you!” James took a step toward the desk, reining in the fury that had him ready to throttle the man.

“Looks to have a bit of spirit, she does. I like that in a woman, don't you?”

James placed both palms down on the desk and leaned forward. He fixed the man with a glare he'd honed to perfection in the army, a glare that had sent soldiers scurrying to do his bidding. “Keep your hands off her, Bargwanath,” he said, his voice edged with steel, “if you know what's good for you. She has not been put ‘to work,' as you call it. She is a guest at Pendurgan and I expect you to treat her accordingly. Do I make myself clear?”

Bargwanath shrugged indolently. “Sure, sure. I was only askin'.”

James held the man's gaze for several long moments before Bargwanath lowered his eyes. He stormed out of the office, furious with the steward and his bloody impertinence. If he ever heard that Bargwanath had laid so much as a finger on Verity Osborne, he would kill the man with his bare hands. The very thought of him touching her twisted his gut into knots.

Too keyed up to check on the work at Wheal Devoran, James decided to ride off his anger. Jago Chen
halls saddled Castor for him, and James took off for the moors.

He'd ridden as far as one of the high tors before he slowed down. Caressing the gelding's damp neck, James let him walk, guiding him carefully along the ridge of broken and balancing granite rocks, of deep horizontal joints and sharp protrusions. Ageless and inviolable, the place never failed to inspire him, to exert its inexplicable power over him. There was a spiritual quality to it, elemental and secret. It was a place of ancient tombs and stone circles, of ghosts and piskeys, of legend and lore.

He led Castor slowly down the gentle slope of the rugged, boulder-strewn hill, allowing himself to absorb the spirit of the moor. Despite all the bad he'd seen and felt and wrought in his life, there was still this. There was still Cornwall.

James continued down through dun-colored wastes dotted with the deep green of furze, and onto the sweep of upland where the transition from moorland to cultivated countryside was abrupt and dramatic. He was on Pendurgan land now.

He saw a rider coming his way. When the familiar figure of Alan Poldrennan drew closer, James brought Castor to a halt and awaited the approach of the only man in the world he could rightly call his friend.

“Harkness! Well met,” Poldrennan said as he reined in the bay mare. His genial smile was a welcome distraction. “Are you on your way home?”

James looked up at the darkening sky and realized he had been out on the moors for hours. “Damn,” he said. “I hadn't realized it was so late. I must have lost
track of time.” A look of concern flickered in Poldrennan's eyes. James sighed. “It's all right, Alan. I was just wandering the moor, deep in thought.”

Poldrennan smiled. “And so are you expected at home, or would you care to follow me to Bosreath and share a bottle with me? A bottle and a bird, perhaps?”

“By God, I think I will,” James replied.

“Splendid!”

The two men turned their horses to the west toward Poldrennan's neighboring estate. “I haven't seen you in over a sennight.” Poldrennan slanted a look at James. “I believe there have been changes at Pendurgan. Was it those changes that kept you so deep in thought you lost track of time?”

“I suppose you've heard the whole sorry tale?”

“News travels swiftly around here,” Poldrennan replied. “I suspect there are few who have not heard some version of the tale. I'd be interested to hear what really happened.”

As they rode toward Bosreath, James told his friend about the auction.

“What made you do it?” Poldrennan asked. “Were you thinking perhaps that she might…that you would…Well, dammit, I suspect it's been a while since you were with a woman. Was that why you bought her?”

James bristled. “No! No, of course not. That's not it at all. At least…at least I don't think it is.” He slapped his thigh angrily. Castor misunderstood and set off at a gallop. James reined him in, crooned an apology in his ear, and waited for Poldrennan to catch up. “Damnation,” he continued as though
there'd been no interruption to their conversation. “Don't you think I've been asking myself the same question for the last week? Why? Why did I do it?”

“And?”

“And I still don't know.” He flung up a hand in a vague gesture of frustration. “All I can tell you is that something inside me could not bear to see that poor woman handed over to Big Will Sykes. It made my stomach turn to think of it. And before I knew what I was doing, I'd bought her myself.”