If a man traveled alone with a woman, she could fill few roles in his life. A relative, and Pollett intimately knew the sparseness of the Trevithick family tree. A wife. A mistress.
Gideon stifled grim laughter. He wished to hell he was normal enough to have a mistress. If he did, she’d be a damned sight better turned out than Miss Watson. However low the Trevithicks sank, they always dressed their ladybirds comme il faut.
The girl hovered at his side with visible uncertainty. She’d raised the greatcoat’s collar around her face, and her shoulders hunched.
Shame was so familiar, he had no trouble recognizing it in another. He hated seeing such a proud spirit brought low. She hid her injuries, as though they marked her unclean, contagious. More than that, she must know her virtue was in question.
She waited silently, gazing at the ground. Poor Sarah. Hurt. Alone. Helpless.
Her brothers’ violence cast her into an unforgiving world. How she must loathe relying so totally on strangers. In this isolated place, she had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.
His glance swept the small crowd arrayed before him. Generations of service tied these men and women to the Trevithicks. He drew himself up to his full height, and his voice rang with authority. “Miss Watson is an acquaintance who needs somewhere to stay.” He ignored her muffled gasp of horror as he used her name. “It’s imperative nobody knows of her presence. I entrust her safety to your good sense and discretion.”
Sarah mightn’t realize it, but he’d just claimed her as a denizen of his private kingdom. Penrhyn had always been a realm unto itself, loyal to those who belonged, suspicious of incomers. He waited as first one maid dropped into a curtsy, then another, and the men bowed acknowledgment.
Gideon gestured for her to precede him up the stairs and into the cavernous hall. But as he followed her into the house, reluctance weighted his tread.
The day’s last sunlight poured in dusty rays through tall mullioned windows. Inside, the shabbiness evidenced outside was overwhelming. Sparse furniture littered the vast space. There were signs of a hurried cleaning, but the elaborately carved moldings were unpolished, the curtains dusty, the fires unlit. The servants trailed in and lined up against the dark paneling.
“We put on extra staff when we heard you were coming, Sir Gideon. But I awaited your orders before I did too much. For the last year, it’s just been me and Mrs. Pollett in the house.” For a moment, Pollett’s formality faded. “I’m sorry, lad. It’s not much of a homecoming.”
Gideon looked around the unprepared, dirty room. Memories of his childhood were colder than the winter air. His father had conducted punishments here, usually before the staff. Gideon’s refusal to cry under the whip should have pleased the old tartar. After all, Sir Barker’s constant carp was that he’d spawned a puling weakling in his second son. But Gideon’s sullen obstinacy had only incited greater violence.
“Sir Gideon?”
The girl’s soft voice shattered his painful reminiscences. He turned to look at her. The collar folded back from her face, and as luck would have it, she stood in a pool of sunlight. Lit like a saint in a religious painting.
Her features were clearly discernible. A pointed chin, full lips, large eyes as changeable as the Cornish weather. Her hands tangled in the black folds of the coat, he guessed to hide their unsteadiness.
“You must be tired.” Now he looked more closely, there were dark crescents beneath her eyes, visible even under the bruising. “The travel has been difficult.”
When she met his stare, she raised her chin and summoned a fleeting smile. She was alone, afraid, defenseless, but she dared fate to defeat her. Something shifted in the farthest reaches of his heart, and the house’s sounds receded to a hushed murmur. Sarah Watson drew him as no other woman ever had. If circumstances weren’t so tragically askew, he might aspire to offer for her hand.
Instead, she’d do better to run a thousand miles from him. He was no use to himself. He was no use to the world. He could be no use to a wife.
That knowledge didn’t stop him yearning for joys other men took for granted.
He’d had months to count the agonizing toll of his years in India. He thought he’d measured the price of his experiences. But only now, when the phantom life he might have led beckoned like a desert mirage, did he truly comprehend all that had been stolen.
Grim reality dictated that Sarah remained an unfulfilled promise of everything he’d never have.
He tamped down the poignant longing, the regret, the sadness. She’d be gone in three weeks. He could endure that, surely. He’d endured a year of unspeakable suffering in Rangapindhi and survived.
“I’m all right.” She hesitated and bit her lip. “I’d love a bath, if that’s possible.”
“I’m sure it is.” Gideon glanced at Pollett, who waited nearby. “Are any bedrooms ready?”
“Aye, Sir Gideon.” The man stumbled every time he spoke the title. “The master suite is prepared.”
“That will not be suitable for Miss Watson,” he said curtly. The glare he shot Pollett made it clear Miss Watson was not and never would be his mistress. “Have the maids make up the Chinese room. You’ll need to make preparations for my man Tulliver too. And I’m expecting another guest, an Indian colleague, in the next few days. He’ll use the ivy room.”
Pollett bowed and spoke in a subdued voice. “Yes, Sir Gideon.”
Gideon desperately needed to escape this room with its hordes of unhappy ghosts. He gestured Sarah toward one end of the hall. “In the meantime, Miss Watson and I will take tea in the library. If it’s habitable.”
Pollett bowed again as he passed. When he lifted his head, he spoke softly and with a sincerity that made Gideon cringe. “I’m glad you lived to come home, lad.”
“Thank you,” he muttered, wishing he felt a shred of grati