Devil's Prize (7 page)

‘You really want to stay here with me?’

Her eyes darkened and he saw her throat work as she swallowed. But her gaze remained steady on his. ‘Yes.’

She was daring him, another challenge. But this time he wouldn’t back off.

His eyes were dark and hard as agate. She sensed a battle raging in him, knew he was testing her. He expected her to back down. But she wasn’t a child and it was time he realised that. She stood absolutely still, partly from an instinctive sense that the next move must be his, and partly from fear that he might turn away again.

 When he opened the door to her his features had been slack with exhaustion. Now they were taut, ruthless, his brows drawn together. His gaze roamed her face with intense concentration, lingering on her mouth. Then he looked up, his eyes meeting hers.

He held out his hand, hating that he wanted her to stay, that he wanted her. Time seemed to stop. Would she shake her head and mumble some excuse? Best if she did. Best if she left now, before – then she reached out. Her fingers were cold and trembled as they curled around his.

Uncertainty flashed across his face, briefly softening the harsh planes. She felt a rush of triumph instantly swamped by a wave of tenderness so powerful her heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t mocking her now. Had he finally realised how much he meant to her?

He glanced at their joined hands. He had meant it when he told her to go, had given her every chance to leave. She was taking it right to the edge. So be it.

‘All right then.’ He drew her towards him. ‘Stay.’

She could smell the musky scent of his skin, feel the heat radiating from his body. She knew she had taken a risk coming here. But her courage had paid off. Never before had he looked at her the way he did now. A maelstrom of emotions swirled inside her: curiosity, anticipation, and a quivery sensation that wasn’t exactly fear. Yes, she was nervous. But she had no reason to be afraid. This was Devlin and she loved him.

He was the most self-sufficient man she knew. But even he needed to escape sometimes from demands and the dangers of his world. She would give him that. She would give him all she had, all she was, all she could be.

Drawing her closer he ran his fingertips lightly down her cheek. Unwilling to shatter the moment with words that could not begin to express the tumult inside her she turned her head and pressed her lips to his callused palm.

His in-drawn breath hissed softly. Cupping her face between his hands, still fighting but knowing the battle was already lost, he lowered his head.

As his mouth brushed hers her eyelids fluttered closed. Her head swam. Afraid she would fall she gripped his shirt. She had not known what to expect from a man renowned for both bravery and brutality. His lips were warm, their caress as light as a falling petal. But she sensed an explosive tension in him. His mouth moved over her face, along her jaw and down the side of her throat, sensitising every nerve. Her pulse galloped and thundered as once again his lips covered hers and his tongue parted them.

His stomach tightened. The warning that clamoured in his brain was lost beneath driving need. Never in his life had he craved anything as much as he craved her. The strength of his desire, the deep ache for far more than physical release, terrified him. He clung to control by his fingernails. Control was everything. He’d learned young and learned well. Control meant being the man giving orders not taking them. It meant protecting himself by not allowing anyone to get too close. It meant holding something in reserve and never revealing his deepest feelings. Those were the basic rules of survival. Ignoring them might reveal a weakness, an advantage others could and surely would exploit. Ignoring them was foolish and dangerous.

Needing to touch, Tamara slid her hands up beneath the loose shirt. His skin was damp, burning, slick and smooth, and the hard muscles bunched and quivered beneath her fingers. Caught like a leaf in the storm he had unleashed within her she clung to him as her legs trembled and her bones melted.

Control snapped and he plunged. His fingers curled in her hair, pulling her head back as he crushed her against him. His lips locked on hers, not gentle now but hard and hot and demanding.

His hungry mouth stifled her gasp as he pulled her down onto the tumbled bed, his fingers at her bodice. She felt cool air on her skin, then his lips, his tongue. His hand skimmed over her body as if learning every curve and hollow and her flesh leapt to his touch. She quivered, instinctively arching towards him in passionate yearning.

Beyond thought or reason, conscious only of need, she pushed his shirt open and pressed her mouth to his throat, his shoulder. She licked, tasting heat and salt, held him close, wanted him closer. She felt his hand on her thigh, and her body rose to his. ‘Oh yes, oh please.’

His grip tightened and a tremor rippled through him as his mouth ravished hers. He lifted her, his breath hot and quick against her face. She gasped at the sharp pain.

He froze, shock tearing a harsh sound from his throat. But she pressed against him, seeking his mouth and he lost himself in the taste and scent of her, the velvet softness.

He began to move, a slow rhythm that turned warmth to heat, that swept her up and carried her with him and she knew she would die if he stopped. Inside her something spiralled, lifting her ever higher. Her breath caught in tiny gasps as the coil tightened. A strange tingling began in her toes and blossomed into a silent explosion that broke and wrecked her. As she cried out his arms tightened and she clung to him while his body bucked and shuddered.

She gloried in his weight, the sensation of his skin against hers, his ragged breath warm on her neck. This then was the joining of man and woman? This was what the marriage service meant? She had dreamed of him. He was always in her thoughts when she walked the cliffs and rode over the moors. But this was beyond anything she had imagined. Now she was his, body and soul.

But suddenly, abruptly, he rolled away. Bereft, she smothered a cry and reached out, seeking reassurance, an anchor while the storm quieted and she came back to herself.

Lithe as a cat, he rose to his feet and with his back to her, cursed with intense and bitter fluency as he buttoned his trousers. He hadn’t known. How could he have known? Any girl as bold as she was, who teased and flirted like she did, knew what she was doing, knew what she wanted. So he had obliged.

But he had been wrong about her, totally wrong. She had come here a virgin, untouched. Shy yet ardent, naïve yet passionately responsive, she had given as he took, taking when he gave. She had reached him in ways he had not expected and did not know how to deal with.

 It was impossible to undo what had been done, to return to ‘before’. Impossible because this had been different. He had lost himself in her. That frightened him far more than any revenue cutter. Never again. He did not want – could not afford – distractions. A woman should know her place and stay there. Tamara Gillis obeyed no rules but her own. He wanted her gone. Out of his home and out of his thoughts.

Sensing something wrong, Tamara sat upright and drew her skirts down. Her throat was parched and her mouth felt swollen. There were other aches too but they were her secret pride, her proof of womanhood.

He swung round, one brow arched. ‘‘I don’t play games with you,’’ he mimicked then his mouth curled. ‘You tricked me.’

Shock blanked her face. ‘What?’

He might as well have slapped her. He’d known she was intelligent and saw the instant she realised what he meant. What he hadn’t expected, and what deepened his guilt and his anger, was the terrible hurt that widened her eyes.

‘You thought – you believed that I – with someone else?’ Her expression reflected her horror and disbelief. ‘How could you even think that I would ever …’ Her mouth quivered and she bit hard on her lower lip as she fought for control. Her breath caught as she lifted her chin. ‘Well, now you know differently.’

‘Why?’ It burst out against his will. It didn’t matter why. He gestured abruptly, dismissing the question. He didn’t want to know.

She sighed, bewildered and impatient. Why ask a question to which he already knew the answer? Why else would she have come? Why else would she have stayed?

‘You know why. I love you.’

Stunned, he stared at her. Love? He’d never known it, didn’t trust it. He shook his head. ‘No, you don’t. You might think you do. But it’s just –’ he waved an arm in frustration, ‘girl dreams. You don’t know me. No one knows me.’ He jammed his fists into his pockets, wanting to kick something, or pound someone to a pulp. She didn’t know what she was saying. How could she love him?

Scrambling to her feet Tamara buttoned her bodice with violently trembling fingers. What had she done? She had been so sure he would understand. How could she have been so wrong?

Tidying herself as best she could, she reached for her coat. ‘Don’t presume to tell me what I feel, Devlin. If you don’t want me, that’s your loss.’ She paused to swallow the agonising lump in her throat. She had made a terrible mistake. She felt sick and shaky and needed to get home. But she would pull out her own fingernails sooner than let him know how deeply his words had cut. Pride was a flimsy veil but it was all she had.

He looked away, keeping his distance as she struggled into her sodden coat. Loathing himself, and furious with her, he wished she would hurry up and go.

Shock and the cold weight of her coat made her teeth chatter. But she steadied her voice by sheer force of will. ‘You’re right. I don’t know you. I thought I did. I believed you were different. I was sure you understood things that other men can’t or won’t. But I was wrong. You’re blind. And you’re a coward.’

The scorn in her voice stung like a whiplash. His head jerked up. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ he snapped. ‘I face death every time I go to sea.’

She fastened her coat and picked up her umbrella. ‘Yes, perhaps you do. But so does your crew. So do the miners who work underground. So does every woman who bears a child. People face death every day. But to embrace life, to share your heart and soul as well as your body,’ she opened the door to the relentless rain. ‘That takes courage.’ She stepped out into darkness. ‘And you don’t have enough.’

Chapter Seven

Jenefer woke with a start. There was a time, before the accident, when she had slept deeply, rarely waking until morning. But now, always aware that Betsy might need her, she could never relax completely and her sleep was light and fitful.

She lay in the darkness listening to the wind outside and the waves crashing on the rocks as she waited for a repeat of whatever had disturbed her sleep. A few months ago she would have jumped out of bed immediately. But it had been warmer then, and the nights lighter. Nor had she been so desperately tired.

Was that a door creaking? Please don’t let it be her father up again. After settling her sister for the night Jenefer had emerged from Betsy’s room and heard muffled voices in the hall below. Looking over the banister she had seen Treeve, who was certainly not sober, with a supporting arm around her father who was so drunk he could barely walk.

She had known better than to offer help. She would get no thanks. Her father was more likely to curse her interference then accuse her of spying on him. Walking quietly along the landing to her own room she had closed her door and, leaning her back against it, listened to their erratic progress up the stairs.

A thud followed by a series of smaller ones told her one of them had dropped something, probably a bottle or maybe a decanter. It bounced to the bottom but didn’t smash. She would make Treeve mop up the spillage in the morning. Maggie already had more than enough to do and Treeve was responsible for her father’s condition. Yet, as Treeve said when she tackled him about it, if mister ordered him to fetch brandy and threatened dismissal for him and Maggie if he refused, what was he supposed to do?

Voices, one slurred and querulous, the other trying to placate and being shouted at, had indicated their advance along the landing to the master bedroom on the far side of the stair well. Eventually the door slammed. It would have taken Treeve an hour to undress her father and get him into bed. Though she had searched, all the while fighting guilt at intruding, she had not been able to find any brandy in his room. But that meant nothing. If it were there it would be hidden.

Preparing for bed, Jenefer had dabbed her wrists with lavender water and closed her eyes while inhaling the fragrance. She recalled her mother claiming it soothed the nerves. But she doubted her mother’s nerves had ever been scraped and battered like this.

Eventually all her anxieties had blurred into a multi-stranded tangle as exhaustion sucked her down.

Now, hardly breathing, straining to hear, she wished she knew what time it was. A muffled crash made her gasp and she sat up, her heart pounding. Throwing back the covers, shivering in the chilly air, she reached for the flower-patterned bedgown lying across the bottom of the coverlet and pulled it on over her nightdress, her fingers unsteady as she knotted the sash.

In the faint glow from the embers of her bedroom fire she fumbled for the saucer-shaped brass holder on her bedside table and lit the candle with a taper.

As she opened her door she heard Maggie scream. Then a male voice growled an order. It wasn’t Treeve’s voice. Someone had broken in. Who? Why? What did they want?

Fear and indecision paralysed her. Should she go downstairs? Or go and reassure Betsy? Or try to wake her father? She dismissed that thought immediately. Even if she were able to rouse him he’d still be fuddled and of little help. Where was Treeve? She could hear Maggie shouting and being shouted at in turn. Suddenly Jenefer realised. Maggie was trying to warn her.

Her father kept a pistol in the desk drawer in his study. Fearing his dark moods and knowing how clumsy and careless he could be when drunk, she had begged him to let her lock it away safely in a cupboard. Offended, furious, he had reminded her that he was a soldier and knew perfectly well how to handle firearms. At the time his refusal had added yet another to her list of anxieties. But now she was grateful for his stubbornness.

Shielding her candle with a trembling hand she crept quickly down the stairs, her nose wrinkling. The smell of brandy was strong. How much had spilled? It was too dark and the candlelight too weak for her to see.

If she could just reach the study … She was half way across the hall when her heart leapt into her throat at the imperious summons of Betsy’s bell. She stopped, torn between reaching the pistol that would offer both protection and threat, and the equally desperate need to stop Betsy ringing the bell before the intruder heard it and realised others in the house were awake.  

Too late. Two men appeared at the far end of the hall. Both had pistols. One held a lantern high. The other held a struggling Maggie.

‘Run, Miss, run!’ Maggie panted.

‘Shut up, you daft besom,’ Maggie’s captor shook her.

‘You move one step and I’ll shoot ’e down,’ the man with the lantern warned Jenefer.

Seeing their filthy, red-stained coats and canvas trousers Jenefer knew at once they were tinners. Their boots were old and scuffed. Each wore a shapeless felt hat and a grubby kerchief that masked the lower half of his face.

Jenefer swallowed and forced the words. ‘What do you want?’

‘Gemstones,’ said the one with the lantern.

‘Money,’ added his partner.

Jen darted an involuntary glance towards the stairs as the bell rang again and Betsy’s voice called her name through the closed door.

 ‘That the cripple, is it?’ The man turned to Maggie. ‘Go and shut ’er up.’

Jerking free, Maggie rubbed her arm. ‘I’m some sorry, Miss. I couldn’t –’

‘Never mind that,’ the man snarled, shoving her violently with his pistol barrel. ‘Get up they stairs.’ As Maggie hurried up the staircase, the tinner turned back to Jenefer. ‘Now tell us where your father do keep the stones and be quick about it.’

The candle was shaking in Jenefer’s grasp. ‘There aren’t any stones.’

‘Want me to shoot you?’ The man threatened, raising his pistol. His hand, she saw, was rock steady. ‘Better still, I’ll shoot the cripple and you can watch.’

Jenefer swallowed again. Her mouth was dust-dry and her lips felt stiff. ‘Do you think I’d risk my sister’s life by lying to you?’ Mortified, her skin hot and damp with perspiration, she told them the truth she had done her best to hide from everyone but her father. A truth he had simply refused to face. ‘There’s no money and no gems.’

The second man stepped forward and punched her shoulder hard with a clenched fist. ‘Bleddy liar. Your father brought ’em back from India.’

 How did they know? ‘Yes, he did. But they’ve all gone. My father is a venturer. The gems were sold and the money used to buy cargoes of contraband. Thomas Varcoe organised it all. His uncle is a merchant in Roscoff. Mr Varcoe took the last of the gemstones to Truro over two weeks ago.’

The men exchanged a glance. Then the one with the lantern threatened, ‘If we search the house and find anything –’

‘You won’t find anything because there isn’t anything to find.’

‘Maybe the cripple knows something you don’t.’

‘Stop calling her that!’ Jenefer shouted, her fear swamped by sudden fury. ‘My sister was injured in an accident. She can’t walk. So even if something had been hidden in the house – which it hasn’t – she wouldn’t know anything about it. I can give you food and clothes, but that’s all. There isn’t anything else.’

‘Think we’re stupid, do ’e?’ the tinner spat. ‘We been lied to by mine owners, gentry, and politicians. Why should us believe you? Where’s your father’s study?’

Arguing was pointless. ‘This way.’ If she could just reach her father’s pistol. But she would need to divert their attention. How on earth was she to do that? Raising her candle she opened the door. The smell of brandy was even stronger in here.

The back door crashed open, making Jenefer jump. Booted feet pounding down the flagged passage.

‘Maggie? Wha’d’e think you’re doing of leaving me out there? ’Tis bleddy freezing in that bleddy barn,’ Treeve bellowed.

Startled, distracted, both tinners turned towards him.

‘Stop or I’ll fire,’ one shouted.

While they had their backs to her, Jenefer seized the moment. Setting the candleholder on the paper-strewn desk her father would not let her touch even though he could never find anything, she wrenched open the drawer. Trembling violently she grabbed the pistol. It felt cold and heavy. She remembered to pull back the hammer but needed to use both thumbs. Holding the pistol with both hands she ran towards the door, gasping with fright as one of the tinners loomed in front of her and swung his lantern high.

Her finger jerked on the trigger. The noise was deafening. Shocked, she screamed as he stumbled backward and fell sprawling. The lantern flew from his hand and smashed against the bottom stair. Treeve and the other tinner turned.

‘Jesus, miss!’ Treeve croaked. ‘You bleddy shot him!’

Jenefer dropped the pistol, her hands flying to her mouth. ‘I didn’t mean – oh God, is he dead? Have I killed him?’

The candle from the smashed lantern rolled into spilt brandy that had pooled beneath the bottom stair. A shimmering blue line snaked into the study and up the stairs and erupted in bright white flame.

‘Get back!’ the uninjured tinner waved his pistol, motioning Jenefer and Maggie away. ‘You,’ he snarled at Treeve. ‘Open the front door.’

‘No, you mustn’t –’ Jenefer cried desperately.

‘Shut your mouth!’ As he hooked an arm around his unconscious partner, Jenefer saw a dark red stain spreading down the fallen man’s filthy sleeve. Blood dripped steadily from limp fingers. Please, please let it be just a flesh wound, she prayed.

Treeve opened the door and the tinner stumbled out bowed under the weight of his burden. Fuelled by the blast of fresh air, hungry flames leapt up the carpeted stairs and billowing smoke began to fill the hall.

Panic swamped her. Should they try to fight it? No, get Betsy out first. What about her father? Trembling with shock and cold she clasped her arms across her body.

‘Treeve, Treeve! Push Betsy’s chair outside then try and wake my father. Maggie, we have to get Betsy.’

‘What about the door, miss? Leave’n open, shall I?’

Jenefer wanted to scream. If she closed it the smoke would soon make it impossible to breathe. But the freezing air was fanning the flames. ‘No, close it. Treeve, when you’ve put Betsy’s chair outside, get water from the kitchen and throw it up the stairs as high as you can reach.’

‘We’ll never get up there, miss,’ Maggie turned her panic-stricken gaze from the burning staircase to Jenefer, ‘let alone bring her down.’

Jenefer could hear Betsy screaming. ‘We’ll use the back stairs. If Treeve can soak the carpet it might stop the fire reaching the landing before we can get Betsy out.’

The front door slammed. Leaping flames lit the hallway and cast dancing shadows. Thick smoke billowed and coiled upward, burning her eyes and catching in her throat. Coughing, Jenefer held her nightgown and robe tight against her legs as she ran down the hall and through to the kitchen with Maggie panting along close behind her.

Slamming the door, praying it would hold back the flames, she skirted the big scrubbed table and lifted the latch on the door concealing the narrow wooden staircase that led up to the first floor where Treeve and Maggie had their room. As she hurried along the landing, smoke thickened the air making it hard to breathe. She heard Treeve clattering up behind her.

Bursting into Betsy’s bedroom, Jenefer saw her sister’s eyes huge with fear in the orange light of the flames.

‘Jen? What’s happening? I heard a shot and –’

Jenefer heard a clank and rattle then the gush of water as Treeve emptied his bucket down the stairs, then the thud of his boots receding. She shut the door. ‘We have to get you outside.’

‘But what –?’

‘Two tinners broke in but they’ve gone now.’

‘But the shot –’

‘Later, Betsy, I’ll tell you later.’

Maggie was already at the closet pulling out clothes. ‘C’mon, my bird, let’s get you dressed quick as we can.’

As Betsy pushed back the bedclothes, Jenefer reached into the chest for a clean sheet, shook it open and laid it on the floor. Crossing to the chest she pulled the top drawer open, scooped out the folded underwear and tossed it onto the sheet, almost colliding with Maggie as she turned again to the chest.

‘Look, miss, us’ll be tripping over each other. I’ll get Miss Betsy ready and the rest of ‘er clothes. Go on, you see to yourself.’

Reluctant to leave them, Jenefer knew Maggie was right. She hurried to the door. ‘Drop the bundle out of the window. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

‘Maggie, my needlework.’ Panic drove Betsy’s voice higher. ‘All my silks – there, on the chair.’

‘All right, my bird. Calm down now. I’ve put’n in with the rest.’

Jenefer ran to her own room and emptied the contents of her own closet and chest onto a sheet ripped from her bed. Knotting the corners, she heaved up the lower sash window and pushed the bundle out. Pulling pillow and bedding from the mattress she rolled them up and tossed them out as well, sucking in deep breaths of cold clean air before she closed the window again. At least it wasn’t raining.

Turning she saw flickering orange light at the bottom of the door. Puffs and tendrils of smoke curled into the room. She didn’t want to go out there. She had no choice. Betsy needed her. Grasping the doorknob, trying to ignore the roar and crackle of the fire beyond, she took a breath and pulled the door open. On the landing the smoke was thicker and the flames had almost reached the top of the stairs. Panic gripped her throat along with the choking smoke and her heartbeat drummed in her ears as she coughed and gasped for breath.

Keeping close to the wall she stumbled along the landing to Betsy’s room. Her sister was sitting on the edge of her bare mattress.

‘Maggie, get your clothes and go outside,’ Jenefer ordered. Don’t try to save anything else.’

‘Never mind about me. Let’s get the both of you out first, ‘ Maggie urged. ‘How do’e want ’er?’

‘Jen, you can’t carry me. I’m too heavy. Where’s Treeve?’

‘Helping your father,’ Maggie said. ‘We’ll get on without’n.’