Captive of Sin
“Of course you’ll marry. You’re young, you’re handsome, you’re…”
He silenced her with a cutting gesture of one hand. “Spare my blushes, Miss Watson.”
His sarcasm stung, although she knew she deserved the set-down. Her cheeks stung with humiliated heat. She wished she could keep her impulsive comments to herself, but something about Sir Gideon made her burst into ill-considered speech at the very worst of moments. The merest sight of him, and any pretensions of poise flew into the ether.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a subdued voice. “I had no right to say those things. You must think I’m a rag-mannered hoyden.”
“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 embarrassed 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 amusement flashed across his face, banishing the sternness, making him look years younger. “You’re a stubborn scrap of a thing, aren’t you?”
Even more astonishingly, 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 shift. 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 scrap,” she muttered, turning away to rip at the leaves of a camellia.
“No, perhaps not.” He released a harsh laugh, bitter and without amusement. 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 flustered 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 mass 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 i
n 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 shirtsleeves, 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 ship. A gold ring glinting in one ear. A cutlass at his waist. A knife clenched between his teeth.
He stopped to lift a prickly 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 passed 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.