Part 11 (1/2)
”No.”
Just ”no”? What was she to make of that? What did he think of her? She stifled the needy, desperate questions that struggled to the surface. She'd already embarra.s.sed him-and herself-sufficiently. Frantically, she cast around for some neutral topic. ”When I came out, I was looking for the path to the beach.”
His mouth lengthened with disapproval. ”It's steep and not easy for a lady. That's how I remember it nine years ago. I suspect it's in worse repair now. You'd be better staying in the grounds.”
Lady Charis Weston would have stepped aside, let him return to his work as he clearly wished. Sarah Watson was a more demanding creature and desperate for a few more minutes of his company. ”Can't we at least try?”
Sudden amus.e.m.e.nt flashed across his face, banis.h.i.+ng the sternness, making him look years younger. ”You're a stubborn sc.r.a.p of a thing, aren't you?”
Even more astonis.h.i.+ngly, his black eyes swept her body, subjecting her to a thorough, masculine inspection. Instant agonizing tension extended between them. Heat crawled over her skin, and her heart bucked and plunged in her chest. Her nipples puckered with painful swiftness, and something warmed and melted in the pit of her stomach.
The powerful, unfamiliar sensations frightened Charis. It was as if the body she'd known for twenty years suddenly belonged to a stranger. With every ragged breath, the hard points of her nipples rubbed against her s.h.i.+ft. The friction was maddening, unstoppable, infuriating.
She lifted a shaking hand to her breast to ease the ache, then realized what she did. Her face became hotter. He couldn't miss her discomfort. She wished the ground would open up and swallow her like the whale had swallowed Jonah.
She lowered her head to hide her mortifying reaction, to break that scorching connection with his eyes. ”Not exactly a sc.r.a.p,” she muttered, turning away to rip at the leaves of a camellia.
”No, perhaps not.” He released a harsh laugh, bitter and without amus.e.m.e.nt. She didn't have the courage to check his expression. ”Let's show you our fine beach.”
She sucked in a shuddering breath while delight and self-consciousness vied within her. Now that she wasn't looking at him, she gained some small control over herself.
”I'd like that,” she said almost inaudibly.
Feeling like the greatest fool in Creation, she scattered the shreds of greenery on the ground and nerved herself to glance at him under her lashes. She'd expected to see anger or contempt or disgust, but his expression was, as so often, inscrutable. Was there a chance he hadn't noticed how fl.u.s.tered she was?
At least he was still here. More, he planned to escort her to the beach. Breathlessly, she waited for him to take her arm, but he merely gestured her toward the overgrown path and fell into step behind her.
He went ahead once they had to fight their way through a ma.s.s of untidy rhododendrons. Like everything else at Penrhyn, the garden reeked of neglect. Charis knew it was insane but she felt that the house cried out to her to save it, to make it a home.
Stupid fancy. She was only a temporary visitor to this beautiful place. She'd leave soon, to be quickly forgotten by Penrhyn and its owner.
The bleak knowledge set like concrete in her belly.
Her host was as unkempt as the manor. She studied his tall figure as he forged a path for her. He wore breeches and s.h.i.+rtsleeves, and his boots were old and scuffed. Still, he was utterly splendid. Her pulse, which had started to steady, kicked into a gallop again. She pictured him standing on the prow of a s.h.i.+p. A gold ring glinting in one ear. A cutla.s.s at his waist. A knife clenched between his teeth.
He stopped to lift a p.r.i.c.kly bramble high over her head. ”What are you smiling about?”
She hadn't realized she was smiling. ”Were any of your ancestors pirates?”
”Black Jack Trevithick was one of Bess's Sea Hawks.” As she pa.s.sed him, he flashed her a grin that was devilment personified. Her unruly heart somersaulted. Heaven help her. ”His portrait's in the long gallery. At least it was. Black Jack looks like me, so my father may have retired it. My father and brother took after my grandmother's family, the St. Ledgers. But I'm all Black Trevithick.”
”Is that because of your hair color?”
”Partly. Also black temper, black nature, black sheep, black heart.”
She couldn't restrain a startled laugh as she pushed her way through the shrubbery ahead of him. ”Goodness. I find myself quite terrified to be in your presence.”
Of course it wasn't true. Gideon Trevithick's company was as intoxicating as champagne. He unsettled her more than anybody she'd ever met. He confused and troubled her. But she could hardly countenance that once she left, she'd never hear his voice again.
Although of course it wasn't just his conversation that made her head swim with excitement. He was handsome. More than handsome. He was beautiful, like some being sent down from heaven to illuminate dull earth. And strong and virile and manly. No woman with blood in her veins could fail to respond to his attractions.
Perhaps when he knew who she really was, he'd consider courting her. She saw no evidence of huge riches at Penrhyn. Could he overcome his disinterest in her person if he knew he married the greatest heiress in England? The Earl of Marley's t.i.tle had lapsed along with the entail upon her father's death. Every penny, every acre, of the ma.s.sive Weston inheritance devolved upon the earl's one direct descendant, his daughter.
Dear Lord, was she so lacking in pride, she'd trade gold to gain the man she wanted even if he didn't want her? Her belly clenched in sick shame. She needed to leash her foolish imagination before it brought her to grief.
They emerged from the bushes onto the cliff edge. Below, the sea spread like s.h.i.+ning blue silk. Gideon paused behind her. She was so attuned to him, she felt his every breath. An unwelcome premonition brushed across her skin and made her s.h.i.+ver. This preternatural awareness seemed more significant than mere physical reaction.
”This is such a beautiful place,” she said softly.
With an unwillingness she immediately recognized, he moved closer. A light wind played with his thick hair. Lucky breeze to take liberties with him that she couldn't. She closed her fists at her sides to stop herself smoothing the disheveled locks. It disturbed and frightened her, this continual, frustrated need for physical contact. It left her jumpy and awkward.
She watched him draw in a deep breath of crystalline air. The tension seeped from his broad shoulders as if the view fed his soul.
”I didn't realize how much I'd missed it. The sea. The wind. How...clean it all feels.” His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, but she had the strangest impression he saw something else entirely. Something that haunted him. ”When I was in Rangapindhi, I remembered this view. It made me want to live.”
She must have made some sound of protest or surprise because he stiffened and turned his head, fastening those glittering eyes upon her.
”Why wouldn't you want to live?” she echoed, shocked.
He frowned. ”Do you truly not know? My story has been in all the papers. Quite the sensation of the season.” He spoke with a biting sarcasm she didn't understand.
”My brothers kept me prisoner. I'd never heard your name until we met.” She curled her arms around herself, although the chill she felt was more spiritual than physical. ”Those men in Portsmouth called you the Hero of Rangapindhi. Were you a soldier?”
”No.” He bit the word out like a bullet fired from a gun. His unspoken pain was a vivid, twisting, tangible ent.i.ty.
Charis tightened her arms to stop herself reaching out. A stinging mixture of compa.s.sion and desire lodged in her throat. She forced her question past the constriction although she was sure he'd dismiss her curiosity. ”Did you hate India so much?”
His regard was unwavering, and his voice deepened with emotion. ”No, I loved it.”
It was the same answer he'd given her when she asked whether he hated Penrhyn. Gideon Trevithick seemed to have an ambiguous relations.h.i.+p with love. Again, she wondered at the despair that shadowed him, closer to the surface today than she'd ever seen it.
He sighed, and his shoulders slumped. ”I wish I was the man you think I am.” His voice was so sad, it made her want to cry. ”But I'm not worth an ounce of your regard.”
She sensed the acrid shame beneath his words. He was dauntingly complex, and he drew her more powerfully than anyone else ever had. After a long silence, she dared to ask, ”Will you tell me why?”
”No. I don't want you to share my nightmares.” His smile festered with bitterness. He lifted his gloved hand. For one breathless moment, she imagined he meant to touch her cheek. Her eyes fluttered shut as she waited to feel the brush of his fingers.
Nothing happened. She opened her eyes slowly to catch poignant sorrow on his face. His hand fell to his side. ”But believe me when I say I'm no hero.”
She swallowed, and her voice shook as she spoke. ”You're a hero to me.”
The regret drained from his expression, leaving comprehension and a pity that stabbed her like a knife. ”Miss Watson...”
Intent on silencing him, she made a gesture of denial. She didn't want comforting plat.i.tudes. The pity in his eyes indicated he divined her unseemly hunger for him. How could he not? The feeling was too overwhelming to hide, and he was a perceptive man.
She blushed with mortification, and spoke quickly, before he could. ”Aren't...aren't we going to the beach?”