Again, he couldn’t stifle his admiration for her indomitable spirit. “You’re a brave young woman.” And she’d need every scrap of that bravery before she was done. He paused and forced himself to set before her a factor she should consider. “It will be a bachelor establishment, Miss Watson. Me. Tulliver. A few servants. Akash when he arrives in a couple of days.”
Briefly, she raised her good hand to touch her mottled cheek. The gesture indicated uncertainty and drew his unwilling attention to her face. This morning both the bruising and the swelling had subsided. A hint of her true features emerged like a shadowy reflection in a mirror. With a doomed sinking in his gut, Gideon recognized that Miss Watson promised to prove a beauty under her injuries.
When he’d rescued her, he hadn’t spared a thought for her physical attractions. She was just a woman needing help. The last thing he wanted to deal with was a winsome female. She would only be a blistering reminder of everything he’d never have.
Fate clearly was in a mood to torment him.
“No ladies at all?” She sounded hesitant. He couldn’t blame her. For a gently bred girl, the prospect of moving into a masculine household must be daunting. “No aged spinster aunts or widowed cousins?”
“I’m afraid not.” He wished he could reassure her that his aid came without risk of consequences. He wished to God he had some alternative plan for her safety. “We may get away with it. I’ve been abroad a long time, and I have no plans to join local society. The house is remote, and the villagers distrust outsiders.”
Nervously, she plucked at the bandage on her arm, her fingers long, pale, and graceful. He noticed she held her arm more easily against the swaying carriage. Clearly Akash’s potions had relieved the worst of her pain.
There was a troubled silence before Sarah spoke. “My safety is more important than my name.” She sounded as though she reached that conclusion reluctantly. As she looked up, she managed a shaky smile. “I still can’t see why you take this trouble. Your generosity to a stranger does you credit.”
Gideon shifted uncomfortably under her wholehearted approbation. He desperately needed to shatter the encroaching intimacy, fine as spider’s web, strong as steel, but something in her unblinking regard forced the truth from him.
“I abhor injustice. I abhor bullies. Everything in me resists allowing men who treat a woman as you’ve been treated to profit from their evil.” His voice roughened with emotion. “While there is breath in my body, Miss Watson, I’ll do my utmost to ensure your freedom and security.”
Immediately he repented his impulsive declaration.
Her eyes glowed gold as a streak of sunlight striking a forest pool. Her lips parted, but no words emerged. She leaned toward him but, thank God, didn’t touch him. Even so, his skin itched as though she reached for him.
Damn, damn, damn. He should have recognized the looming danger before this. He needed to destroy this building affinity, not encourage it. Why hadn’t he kept his blasted mouth shut?
At last he interpreted exactly what her expression portended. His inescapable conclusions made his stomach lurch with nausea.
Miss Watson regarded him with unstinting, uncritical, and completely unwarranted hero worship.
Following his moving declaration of unconditional protection, Sir Gideon’s withdrawal was tangible. She stifled a prickle of hurt she had no right to feel.
He spent most of the day asleep. Or feigning sleep. She couldn’t be sure. What she could be sure of was that he wouldn’t welcome her curiosity. Even though curiosity about him gnawed at her mind like hungry rats.
His apparent oblivion provided her with uninterrupted hours to study her companion. The mysterious ailment had passed although he was still pale and gaunt. Charis was guiltily aware that her reckless escape had prompted his attack although she had no idea why. His suffering had been so extreme, she could hardly bear witnessing it. The agonizing frustration was that she could do so little to help.
She gathered he endured these awful spells on a regular basis. What on earth was wrong with him? She hadn’t seen anything like his illness before although she’d nursed her father and her mother and ministered to many sick tenants on the estate.
Gideon Trevithick puzzled her. He fascinated her. She’d never known anyone to compare to him. She’d never known anyone who affected her the way he did. He was such a compelling mixture of strength and vulnerability. Every time she looked at him, her heart launched into a tipsy dance. This breathless excitement was unfamiliar and frightening. None of her suitors had stirred this hunger for their merest presence.
Perhaps she felt this way because he’d saved her. First in Winchester, then from those vile miscreants in the alley. A shudder rippled through her as she imagined what would have happened in Portsmouth if Gideon hadn’t appeared like a guardian angel. Degradation and death had edged so close.
But as her eyes traced Sir Gideon’s dark features, she knew her interest went beyond gratitude. Deep and sincere as that gratitude was. He was beautiful, he was brave, he was damaged, he was frighteningly clever. And the briefest sight of him made her breath jam in her throat.
De
ar Lord, she’d known him little more than a day, and already she brimmed with giddy, irrational longings. What state would she be in after three weeks in his company?
At least the continuing silence served one good purpose. He didn’t question her further, saving her from dredging up more lies to prick her conscience. Ingrained habits of mistrust and caution urged her to keep her identity secret, although if anyone deserved her honesty, it was Sir Gideon.
Now she was about to move into his house. A forbidden thrill raced through her at the prospect. A thrill mixed with apprehension. If the world discovered she lived under his roof without a chaperone, she’d be ruined. Another good reason to keep her identity secret.
She glanced across at her sleeping rescuer and couldn’t help thinking that ruin had never looked so alluring.
Oh, Charis, wicked, wicked. The angels weep for you.
Charis’s endlessly circling thoughts eventually took on the carriage’s rocking rhythm and lulled her into a half-waking state. Each lurch of the coach worsened her aches and reminded her she was far from recovered after Hubert’s beating.
For most of the day, they traversed rough moorland. In the late afternoon, Charis was awake to notice they passed between two gateposts, worn and covered in ivy. Rampant lions held carved stone shields so old and moss-encrusted, any detail was long obliterated. Rusted gates hung drunkenly, smothered in weeds that had died last summer and never been cut back. Soon after, they entered a thick wood.