The Bride Sale (8 page)

“Well?” Gonetta prompted. “'Ee be stayin', then?”

Verity threw up her hands in a gesture of resignation. Her eyes had the look of those of a soldier packing up his kit in forced retreat. “All right,” she said. “I will agree to stay. But only until Davey has recovered and I've taught you and your mother a few basic herbals. If,” she added emphatically, looking directly at James, “his lordship has no objections?”

“You
know
you are welcome to stay, cousin,” James said, his voice surprisingly even, considering the state of his nerves. “As I have told you.”

Verity sniffed disdainfully, then turned toward one of the plants. “Let us take some hyssop with us,” she said to Gonetta. “Your brother will need more of it very soon.”

James produced a pocket knife that Verity used to cut several stalks of the hyssop plant. With a now purposeful stride she led them all back to the kitchen. James leaned against the wall next to the hearth, his
arms crossed over his chest, as he watched Verity instruct Gonetta in caring for the herbs.

James had no reason to stay and watch. He had much to do about the estate and ought to check on the new pump at Wheal Devoran. In fact, he knew he should get away from Verity Osborne as quickly as possible, and stay away. But something about her piqued his interest. Something more than her physical appeal, though, God knew, there was that. His lip curled into a sneer as he considered how predictably base it was for the biggest scoundrel in Cornwall to lust after the first new woman to cross his path in over six years.

He ought not be interested in her at all. It could only lead to trouble. And yet she intrigued him.

He had always been drawn to the soft, fragile, feminine sort of female for whom he could feel protective. Rowena had been such a woman: fair and delicate as a May blossom. But there was nothing particularly delicate about Verity. Though their strange association gave him every right to feel protective of her, she did not encourage it. Beneath the uncertainty and fear she showed remarkable self-possession in the way she stood up to him, in the way she faced the inevitable decision to stay. Or perhaps it was not true courage, but merely pride.

He wondered what it would take to make her crack.

Just then, Agnes swept into the kitchen like a storm cloud, gathering her black skirts about her as though afraid to touch anything. James groaned. He had never before known her to venture into the kitchen. Why now, of all times?

“What is going on?” she said, her brows drawn together like thunderbolts into a deep scowl. “I demand to know where Cook is. I have been waiting this past hour to review the day's menu. And now I am forced to come”—she looked around the room, her mouth puckered in distaste—“down here. James, what are you doing here? I demand to know what is going on.”

“I am sorry no one thought to alert you, Agnes,” James said. “But Cook's youngest son, Davey, has taken very ill.”

“Well,” she said, dismissing such a trifle with a pettish shrug, “does that mean the entire household must come to a halt? Where is Mrs. Tregelly?”

“She is with Cook and Davey,” James said, holding on to his temper with difficulty. “Shall I send her up to you to discuss the menus?”

“Yes, do that.” Agnes turned toward Verity, who was looking at her as though she beheld an apparition. “What is
she
doing here?” Agnes asked, her voice rigid with icy disdain.

There was no easy way out of this. Agnes had to meet Verity sooner or later.

He moved toward Agnes, took her firmly by the arm, and steered her toward the shelves where Verity and Gonetta had been hanging bunches of hyssop. She resisted, but he tugged her along nevertheless.

“Agnes,” he said, “allow me to make known to you Mrs. Verity Osborne. She is a cousin of mine who has come to stay with us at Pendurgan.”

Agnes looked down the length of her nose at Verity, as though she held a quizzing glass trained on an insect.

“Cousin,” he continued, “may I present to you my mother-in-law, Mrs. Agnes Bodinar.” When Verity flashed him a startled look, he added, “Mrs. Bodinar is the mother of my late wife. She lives here at Pendurgan.”

Verity collected herself quickly. She laid aside the herbs and brushed her hands on her blue wool skirts. She then very calmly offered her hand to Agnes. “I am pleased to be introduced to you, Mrs. Bodinar. At last.”

James wondered what she meant by that. “Have you met already, then?”

“Mrs. Bodinar stopped by my room last night to welcome me to Pendurgan,” Verity said, her eyes never leaving Agnes's.

Good Lord. What had Agnes done?

“But she left before I learned her name,” Verity continued, cool as could be in the face of James's formidable mother-in-law. He would have expected her to be frightened of Agnes, who, Lord knew, frightened most everyone else with little more than a glance. Yet after that initial moment of well-concealed shock, Verity did not tremble at the sight of the old woman; her voice did not quaver.

“I am so happy to know who you are, Mrs. Bodinar. I wanted to thank you for being the first to welcome me.” Verity continued to hold out her hand, though Agnes looked as if she'd rather touch a toad.

“Hmph! Cousin, indeed.”

She would, of course, know the true story of how Verity came to be here. All of Cornwall would know it by now. But James was determined that in his own
household, at least, the charade of the poor relation would be maintained.

“Yes, my dear,” he said. “A distant cousin, but a relation, nonetheless. I trust you will afford her the same respect you would show any guest at Pendurgan.”

Agnes turned away from Verity without a word. “Send Mrs. Tregelly to me at once,” she said to James as she gathered her skirts about her and headed out of the kitchen. The rustle of fabric rang out in the silence of the cavernous room. At the doorway she stopped, turned around, and fixed Verity with a piercing gaze.

“Doxy!” she hissed, and left the room.

T
he place was growing on her. The gardens of Pendurgan, even as winter approached, were full of wonders, especially for one with an eye for herbs and other useful plants.

With little more asked of her than to tend to Davey and provide herbal instructions to Gonetta and her mother, Verity had had plenty of time to explore the grounds in the five days since her arrival. She wandered freely through the terraces on the south side of the house—the only formal gardens at Pendurgan—to the winding paths that snaked through the heavily wooded lower grounds, ending in an ancient-looking granite wall that overlooked the river below. To the east were apple orchards and plots of winter vegetables.

Even with the fading autumn colors and the drab
gray of its granite and slate buildings, Pendurgan had a certain beauty.

The place was growing on her.

Verity tucked her cloak snugly about her against the chill air as she meandered along a narrow path in the lower grounds, her favorite of all the gardens. Heavily wooded with golden ash, oak, white thorn, larch, and copper beech, its paths twisted and turned, leading to unexpected broad vistas or intimate rustic alcoves, to fishponds and tiny thatched pavilions. She paused near an old slatestone dovecote to watch two white doves flutter out from the corbel in the domed roof. Following their flight, her eyes were drawn to a patch of Scotch broom farther down along the path. She hitched her basket upon her hip and considered the various uses she could make of even the dry wintry branches.

Clipping the stalks with the hand shears borrowed from Mrs. Chenhalls, Verity considered the Pendurgan cook and her family. Davey's fever had broken and he continued to recover, slowly but steadily. Verity's meager talents with herbs had been lauded as a near miracle. The fact that she had stood firm against the physician from Bodmin, who had indeed wanted to have the boy bled, only made Verity's star shine brighter among the Chenhalls family.

This small victory had given Verity a great deal of satisfaction, and not only for the boy's sake. She had begun to discover an unexpected bit of backbone she never realized was there.

It took little effort to settle into complacency among the friendly red-haired family who, along with the sweet-faced Mrs. Tregelly, kept Pendurgan
running smoothly. Though it was by no means a large estate, Verity had been surprised at the small number of servants. Was the staff so limited because no others wished to work for a man everyone called Lord Heartless?

It was easy to ignore such suspicions with the Chenhalls family, especially Gonetta, who was cheerful and bright and eager to keep Verity at Pendurgan indefinitely. Verity had long ago abandoned the notion that the girl was part of some grand conspiracy—to make her feel welcome, to make her feel safe, to make her want to stay. To make her so complacent she would not notice the evil web being spun around her until she was trapped and the spider pounced. Never in all her life had Verity been prone to such bizarre fantasies.

But it was not all fantasy.

The fearsome Mrs. Bodinar was no figment of Verity's imagination, and stood in sharp contrast to the amiable staff. She glared, she sneered, she huffed, and she generally made herself disagreeable. When she spoke at all, when they took meals together in the evenings, it was to offer some criticism or to make some remark about having to share a roof with her son-in-law's trollop.

Verity had chosen not to respond to such attacks. She wasn't sure what to say in any case. Agnes Bodinar surely was not the only one at Pendurgan who assumed Verity was Lord Harkness's mistress.

So far, however, she was not.

The fact was, she rarely saw him. He spent much time away from the house, apparently at the mines, and kept very much to himself when he was at home.
But when she did see him, his presence still had the ability to unnerve her.

He watched her. She constantly felt him watching her with those cool blue eyes in a way that made her decidedly uneasy, in a way that made her think he would surely come at night to claim his rights, by purchase, of her body.

He had not done so, however, and Verity did not know what to make of it.

She watched him, as well. She often caught herself studying his long elegant fingers with their dusting of dark hair, or his angular profile with the strong, almost Roman nose, or the blue-black sheen of his longish hair in the candlelight, or the oddly attractive sprinkling of silver at his temples. He was not handsome in any sort of conventional way. Even so, there was something compelling about a face with cynical, vivid blue eyes set amid hard planes that might have been carved out of the local granite.

She ought not to notice such things. She ought to keep far away from him, for an air of danger hung thickly about him.

Perhaps that was what drew her, what fascinated her. He was dangerous, like no one she had known before, and she did not know when he might make his move. So there could be no complacency at Pendurgan until Verity understood this dark stranger and the role he intended her to play.

She arranged the broom stalks in the basket along with the other plants she'd collected and began the walk back to the house. She would go by way of the rear entrance to drop off the plants in the makeshift stillroom she'd arranged in one corner of the old
kitchen. Tomorrow she would use the broom and comfrey roots to instruct Mrs. Chenhalls and Gonetta in the preparation of various oils and decoctions for stiff or swollen joints.

The wind whipped her skirts as she walked up the narrow, winding path through an archway in the old stone wall. Broader paths, lower walls, and open gateways led finally to the rear of the house and the kitchen garden. The wind picked up and blew strongly against her, almost taking off her bonnet. Verity dipped her head and held down the brim of the hat, using it to shield her face. Fighting her flapping skirts and the cloak billowing behind her like a sail, she hurried along with bowed head, following the familiar gravel path through the herb garden.

“Here now, what's this?”

Verity bumped against something solid and found that her blind steps had led her straight into the barrel chest of a man. He grasped her elbows to steady her, and she looked up into the eyes of Rufus Bargwanath, the steward at Pendurgan. She had been introduced to him briefly a few days earlier by Mrs. Tregelly but had not seen him since. He was a burly Cornishman of middle age with thick brown hair peppered with gray, a slightly bulbous nose, and a florid complexion. She had disliked him on sight.

He had a small office in the kitchen wing and must have stepped outside without Verity seeing him. He kept one hand on her elbow while he removed his hat with the other. “Ah. Mrs. Osborne, is it not?”

A sneer curled his lip as he emphasized the word “Mrs.,” and a twinge of alarm crawled up Verity's spine. His indolent gaze roamed over her body and
came to rest on the basket clutched tightly against her breast. Verity became uncomfortably aware of the strong wind molding the thin woolen dress against her body like a second skin. She squirmed, but his grip held firm.

“I had not realized Harkness had put you to work in the kitchen,” Bargwanath said. He did not speak in the friendly broad Cornish of the Chenhalls family but in a rough, gravelly, thoroughly unpleasant voice with only a hint of the local accent in the long vowels. He gave her elbow a suggestive squeeze. “I thought he had
other
plans for you,” he said.

A lecherous grin revealed a small mouth overcrowded with yellowed teeth. His breath stank of tobacco and onions. Verity wrenched her arm from his grasp. “Excuse me, Mr. Bargwanath,” she said, then stepped around him and hurried toward the back entrance. His jeering laughter rang out behind her.

She raced through the larders and sculleries and into the welcoming warmth of the ancient kitchen. Mrs. Chenhalls stood in front of the enormous open hearth and looked up at Verity's entrance.

“Afternoon, Miz Osborne. Ogh! Been out gatherin' more herbs, have 'ee?”

When Verity reached the corner where she had stored plants and other materials for her herbal preparations, she set the basket down and pressed a hand to her chest. Panting as though she'd been running, she took a moment to compose herself. She braced both hands against the wooden counter and inhaled the fragrant aromas of roasting meat and freshly baked bread.

“I've been to the lower grounds,” she said at last,
then untied her bonnet and hung it on a wall hook. She did not look up as she spoke, knowing her face must still be flushed from the steward's coarse words. “I found several good plantings down there that will be useful. I will tell you and Gonetta all about them tomorrow, and show you where to find them. If the weather's clear.”

Mrs. Chenhalls turned back to the hearth and began adjusting a roasting spit between two stout iron fire dogs angled against the back wall. She chattered on about the capricious Cornish weather while Verity emptied her basket and began to tie the plants and roots into bunches. She only half listened to the woman's thickly accented words, her thoughts distracted by the disturbing encounter with the steward.

This was the only time she'd been truly frightened since that nightmarish first night. Since then, Agnes had been merely unpleasant, and Lord Harkness had kept his distance. Though Verity remained wary of both of them, neither had done anything to physically threaten or frighten her.

Oh, how she wished she was an ordinary guest in an ordinary household filled with ordinary people. Then there would be nothing to stop her from complaining to her host about the steward's impertinent behavior.

But there was nothing remotely ordinary about her situation.

How could she complain about the steward's insolent manner to a man whose very presence made her more uncomfortable still?

She fought back the disagreeable feeling of vulnerability. She would not give in to helplessness again.
She had come astonishingly far in overcoming her normally submissive nature. She would not give in now.

Verity finished organizing the plants, a routine that acted as a soothing balm to her taut nerves, then stood chatting with Mrs. Chenhalls about Davey's progress. The boy was still weak and a hacking cough lingered, but he was much better now that the fever had passed. Verity reminded the cook to keep the boy warm, promised to stop by to visit with him after supper.

“He'll be that pleased, he will,” the cook said. “Think 'ee do be his very own ministerin' angel,
re Dhew
. He do be awful keen to get out o' bed, bless him.”

“Oh, but it is too soon,” Verity said.

“Aye, but he do be too young to know he in't quite well yet. If 'ee tells him to stay put, though, he'll listen. The boy'll listen to 'ee, if not his own Ma.”

Verity smiled. “I'll do my best.”

She left the kitchen thinking how fond she'd grown of the little red-haired boy who always grinned up at her impishly despite his illness. The small accomplishment of Davey's recovery banished all thoughts of the wretched steward, and a glimmering of pride brought a smile to her lips as she passed through the Great Hall on her way to the main stairway.

The smile faded and her breath caught when she saw Lord Harkness enter the hall from the outside. Verity did not know why he still unnerved her so, when he had not given her any real cause to fear him. She did not, in fact, fear him. What frightened her
was her own foolish reaction to him each time she saw him.

He took off his hat and gloves and placed them on the small table near the door before he turned and saw her. For a long moment, their gazes locked and neither spoke.

“Cousin,” he said at last, and she let out the breath she'd unconsciously held. He seemed uncertain what else to say; she could have sworn he was as uncomfortable as she was. It puzzled her to think why.

“How is your patient?” he asked.

“Improving. The fever has passed and now he must simply regain his strength, poor thing. But he is a fighter, I think.”

“Yes, the lad's a true Cornishman. We're a tough race.” Some unreadable emotion flickered in his eyes for an instant, then disappeared. “Most of us,” he said. “Thank you again for being such a help to him.”

“It was my pleasure,” she said.

“Was it?” His eyes narrowed and regarded her intently. “I wonder.”

Verity tried, she really tried, to hold his gaze, to demonstrate some of the new backbone that had lately made her so proud. She did not want him to know how much he rattled her. But she was no match for those cold blue eyes and had to look away.

“If you will excuse me,” he said, “I have work to do.” He walked past her toward his library. She heard the door close behind him.

She wished she knew what he was thinking, what he wanted of her. Anything was better than this uncertainty. At least she had held his gaze, she thought
as she approached the landing on her way upstairs to her bedchamber. But was it due to strength of will or simple fascination for a man who was still little more than a dark stranger?

Silly girl. This old place was growing on her all right. It was making her foolish.

“And what could you possibly have to smile about?”

Agnes Bodinar stood on the landing looking down at Verity. She wore her usual black dress and familiar black expression. Her mouth puckered with disdain, and the contemptuous look in her gray eyes caused Verity to halt in mid-stride.

“Well?”

“It was nothing,” Verity replied. She gripped her bonnet tightly in both hands and stood her ground, just as surely as she had with Lord Harkness. “Nothing at all.”

“Hmph!” Agnes snorted. “I should hope not.” She stepped off the landing onto the stair where Verity stood and brought her face to within inches of Verity's. Verity sucked in her breath and inhaled the fragrance of face powder and starch. The older woman's eyes narrowed, her brows knit together so tightly they formed deep furrows down the center of her forehead.