“The wars,” she sighed. “They did not grant us many favors but used our fields as battlegrounds.”
Wescott sat up in his chair. He was quiet for a long moment, obviously looking at her, though she could not see his face as clearly. She pulled the hem of her skirt over her legs and tucked it tightly about them. “A young politician,” he teased. “You could not have been very old when your father’s fields held wars.”
“I was very small and mostly afraid,” she said. “Since then I’ve heard my father talk with the farmers in our town. They all remember different parts of the battles fought near us, and some do not remember the wars well, even though they were there.”
“Wars are for the rich,” Wescott growled. “Villages like Bowens Ash bend to the will of the baron. They seldom know when the baron sells them.”
She simply lowered her gaze, thinking it most unwise to discuss this with him lest she be chastised here, too, for talking of men’s things.
“But you are here in defiance of Lord Kerr,” Sir Trent said. “Then I must not tell you how stupid the villagers are.”
“You are not wrong, milord,” she said quietly. “There are only a few who know a just lord’s ways. Only a very few.”
“Will you tell me that your father is one? But then if you defy him, you must not think him an honorable man.”
“He raises a few crops. That is all.”
“Ah, but he raises courageous children. You, Jocelyn. You came to this tomb to sacrifice yourself for your brother, your village. Was your father too weak to stop you?”
“My father blames me for Peter’s misfortune,” she said almost under her breath.
“How so? Did you sell out the lad?”
“No, milord,” she answered quietly. “I was told to stay within the house when Master Kerr came seeking a higher toll. When they began to argue, I let myself be seen and Master Kerr threatened to exact the toll from me. My father was tied in the square for three days, and when Peter feared him dead, he attacked Master Kerr.” Wescott made no response from his place behind the desk. She looked toward him, her eyes glistening earnestly. “He says women are a curse, milord. He has fewer troubles with me gone.”
“I am inclined to agree with your father,” he said, his voice holding some amusement. “But I think him unfair to blame you for his troubles. However,” he said, rising from behind his desk and coming around to a place where she could better see him, “you have created a great stir: first tempting young Kerr, then sneaking along his property to see to your brother’s needs, then coming to this place to seek an avenger for your brother’s life. Jocelyn,” he said, smiling, “you don’t seem to have a care for your safety.”
She looked down at her lap.
“Is life too dull for you, that you must court danger so?”
“My mother called me brazen,” she said softly. “I was oft punished for sneaking about in the night.”
He laughed lowly and sank down into the chair across from her, taking another drink. She looked up at him, having a better vantage point now.
“Do you know how to work the flint?” he asked.
When she nodded, he asked her to light more candles that he might see her more clearly when he talked to her.
Jocelyn moved about the small study easily, grateful for any task that would occupy her and give him pleasure. She had forgotten being tired or ill at ease. The room seemed more congenial to her when he was present in it. She brought three candles to the table near the settee on which she had slept, since his wish was to see her clearly. Then she produced two more from the shelf and lit his image, selfishly, for the chance to study his appearance. If he noticed her tactics he did not say so.
Jocelyn was in no way put off by what she saw. His white shirt was contrasted in the candlelight to his dark Bourbon skin. His jet-black hair and coallike eyes gave him the appearance of a beast of the night. She noticed his shoulders as broad as the generous chair he sat in, and his lips, pink against the growth of a day’s beard, curved slightly in some amusement as she studied him.
“Did your father warn you about me? If he knows his wars, then he would know much of me.”
“My father said you are to be feared.”
“And that I am a thief and murderer?”
“He suggested as much.”
“But you are here just the same?” he asked.
“Because I know this of Lord Kerr … and it is only rumored of you.”
“You are a sassy bitch,” he chuckled. “Do you know why I look at you and let you stay?”
“No, milord.”
“Because you wear the mark of Kerr’s whip.” He leaned closer to her. “And so do I.”
She leaned forward as well and could barely make out the line of a scar above his left brow. Her own eyes grew round as she beheld it. “He would whip you?” she asked, startled at the very prospect.
“Only when I was already much defeated. And it is plain he still beats those he can easily overcome—but never his match in fair battle. And it is the mark on your cheek that gained your entrance here. And the way it sits upon your face. You seem to wear it almost as a badge. Are you proud, chérie, of your scar?”
She touched the place on her cheek. She hadn’t thought herself proud of the incident, nor the beating. She hoped to use Wescott’s hatred of the Kerrs for her personal gain. But she thought that only reasonable. She dropped her hand to her lap without an answer, since she had none in her own mind. His gaze on her was relentless, and it was in that moment that her mind reeled with the sight of him, his eerie and mystical presence before her, that she was lost in the dark cloud that covered him. He forced her to respond. Although they had never touched and had only been within each other’s sight for mere moments since the first meeting, the atmosphere around them was highly charged.
“I asked, ma chère, is that mark of Kerr’s whip a medal that you wear proudly into my house?”
His voice was harsh and raspy with emotion and all of him filled her. Her stomach began to leap in fearful joy, and she was thinking alternately that her destiny was with him and then otherwise that she should flee before he chewed her up and swallowed her. And because he produced those conflicting feelings within her, she experienced the first taste of passion she had ever known.
“I don’t know if I am proud, sir,” she said as resolutely as she could. “I know that I am not ashamed. And I have expected nothing better than this from Stephen Kerr.”
“Why do you speak well?” he asked suddenly.
“How so, milord?” she asked.
“You speak as one educated. Have you been schooled?”
“No, milord. My father fancied himself a preacher of sorts, having studied scripture with men of God before he married my mother. I spell a few words, that is all.”
“Still, you could pass for one schooled and well-read.”
“A discipline of our house, milord. My father demanded much.”
“And did he give as much as he demanded?” Jocelyn looked down self-consciously, not answering. “And your mother?” he asked.
“Dead seven years, milord,” she answered. “There is Peter, who is four-and-ten, and two children younger, Sarah and Warren.” Then she looked at him closely and earnestly. “But they are well able to care for themselves and our father, now.”
“After you have given your labors to me and your brother is loosed of Kerr’s ropes, will you return to your family?”
“No, milord,” she said. “My father … that is, when you have no further use for me, I will go on to a new place.”
Wescott was silent and still for a long time. His expression told Jocelyn that he had enough information to evaluate her circumstances. He would have figured out by now that her father would disown her for her decision to venture to Braeswood. Finally he spoke quietly. “You give up a great deal for this slim chance that I will help your brother.”
She felt herself begin to smile ruefully. “Truly, milord, I do not give up so very
much.”
“But I have not promised to help your family.”
“Nor has anyone.”
“You will not trap me into pity for your state.”
“Nor will I pity yours.”
He was stopped short by her statement. He watched her for a moment, then drained the liquor from his glass. He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees. He seemed to want to speak, opening his mouth several times and then closing it again and rubbing his head and temples with his fingertips as if in frustration. When finally he spoke, he seemed exasperated. “You are a comely wench and not slow-witted, though I suspect you will not find what you expect here. I’ve no need of another scullery or maid and no desire to parent a youth gone astray.”
He rose and found the decanter of liquor on the desk and filled his glass. Then turning and looking at her again, he took a slow sip, his eyes smouldering over the rim of the glass. He swallowed heavily.
“You’ve set yourself upon me at a time when my worldly pleasures have been damn few and I am in want of more. It may yield me fair in the end, it may not. If you are determined to make this trade, make your way to my chamber. You’ll have no trouble finding it, the door stands ajar and there is a fire in the hearth.”
She continued to look up at him, lost for words and unable to move for several moments. Jocelyn had not ventured here naively. She held out a small hope that he would provide her with a job as a maid and laundress in exchange for his help, but inwardly she knew that was impossible. From the time the first flush of womanhood was upon her, the cause of most of her troubles was exposed. It was first her father’s constant chastisement, then the threat of losing her virtue to Stephen Kerr. She had known all along that this was the thing Trent Wescott would extract from her, if he even considered her at all.
With measured determination, she uncurled her legs and stood, walking slowly toward the study door. She opened that portal and closed it quietly and with care.
Trent looked in the direction of Jocelyn’s passing and sighed deeply as he thought of her climbing the stairs to his bedchamber. She would have no trouble finding the place; he’d left it alight and more than inviting.
He mentally reproved himself for being a fool of long-starved passions. While wenching in the village was a standard pastime for nobles, it had not been thus for Trent. He’d lived a hard life since leaving England and had not enjoyed the finer accoutrements of lordship in many years; neither had the fleshly pleasures men of power could easily procure been his. Once returned and with his house in order; he made quick mental notes of the women in the village and manor who were well learned in the ways of love and would gladly spread themselves at the snap of his fingers for only his approval and a few trinkets. Yet he had tasted of none of these. It was neither policy nor conviction on his part, but simple indifference.
When he saw Jocelyn withstand Stephen Kerr’s beating, he had respected her spirit, admired her fairness, and felt a slight stirring, but pouncing on the young bastard took precedence and he did not bother her. When he later witnessed her slight but dignified form in boy’s clothing, pressing him for yet another good deed, his notice was taken again and he felt his appetite grow. She had an elemental beauty, this dark flower from the field, and she seemed stronger than her meager figure would avow. Her erect posture under his glowering stare had tickled his desire, and the mere fact that Stephen Kerr would defile her urged him to disallow that vermin’s touch and brand her first with his own.
She was comely and fresh and would serve his needs well for a time. He had acknowledged the need of a woman to soften his hatred, and he’d been a long time without tenderness in his life. His energy had been given to duty and business for many months. This woman, he told himself, who sold herself so resolutely into prostitution, need not remain under his roof for long to remind him of his human hungers. He vowed to treat her gently and give her a decent reward to set her aright when she left his house. Although she wished nothing in return but her brother’s freedom, he determined not to burden his conscience. He had, after all, neglected to tell her that her wish had already been granted.
He thought for only a split second that she was no ordinary strumpet. Harlots, he’d pleasured himself with many, and they rejoiced in his attentions because he was so generous with them. But they were sorely used and painted women, and this simple maid was more the type he would woo cautiously before he rapidly fled some farmer’s wrath.
He gulped the last of his liquor. “She will rue the day she passed my door when I am well oiled of liquor and needing a woman. Ah, but the lot of them are alike; they think they know their own mind until the deed is all but done, then they fight like tigers in a sudden change of conscience.” He put the glass on the desk. “The fool who troubles a virgin,” he thought disconsolately, “deserves his lightened purse and poor luck.”
He took the stairs two at a time, reminding himself he was lord here and had not forced the maid. His closed chamber door indicated she was within, and he fully expected to find her perched on the edge of a chair, tremulously awaiting her horrible fate. But when he entered the room, all of his preconceptions fell away.
The fire had burned low and Jocelyn had extinguished a few candles for modesty’s sake. She stood erect and proud, dressed only in a shift that had been donated by some servant of the same size. Her clothes were folded neatly on a nearby chair and her unbound hair streamed invitingly over her shoulders and down her back. The pale, translucent fabric barely concealed her body’s beauty and her full breasts strained at the worn chemise. Her arms hung at her sides, her head was high, and her eyes were lightly closed. She presented the picture of a rare and angelic bride, her trim waist and slim limbs beckoning. His hands suddenly ached to be filled with her lustrous hair, and his thoughts of strumpets and virgins left most abruptly.
Trent forgot all his intentions to be generous and coaxing, as he forgot his theory that she would fight him in a fit of conscience. He tore off his shirt, kicked off his shoes, peeled down his stockings, and moved toward her. His heart began to race instantly and his breathing became labored. He embraced her suddenly and without caution or preamble, covered her mouth and tasted her sweet flesh hungrily. He did not remember this was a coolly calculated exchange of favors but was dizzy with the wealth of this gift he held in his arms.
He filled his arms with her, the fresh scent of her hair and skin unlike any other he had known. Her arms were slack and then clumsily and cautiously reached up to rest lightly on his arms, then timidly circled his back. She yielded as a sail bends to wind but did not press him closer or encourage him in any way. His passions were quickly roused and phrases attesting to her beauty floated about her ear, throat, and breasts. He felt only a slight trembling within his embrace, and her voice came as light as a butterfly’s wing in his ear. “Milord, I do not know what to do …”
He gave her no answer or careful guidance, but in a madness that robbed him of restraint, rolled with her on the bed, kissing, caressing, and muttering endearments that he wholly believed. He clumsily struggled with her shift and his trousers, thinking of her with his every movement and then again not at all. And too quickly, with little thought of her inexperience, he took her. He pressed himself home, feeling her natural resistance burst and yield to him a maddening and fearful joy the likes of which he had never known. He had not considered himself violent, yet he was completely aware that she arched in sudden pain and gasped, falling back into the pillows.
When his passion ebbed and he had done his worst, he looked down at her with confusion wrinkling his brow. She didn’t see his look of deep consternation, for her eyes were tightly closed and tears gathered on her dark lashes. Trent shook himself as if to wake. The reasons had been most unclear, but for a space of time filled only with this maid, he had lost all conscious intent and had in truth been as vulnerable as she.
He eased himself carefully away and she turned her head, lying still and obedient but for the slight glistenin
g on her eyes and cheeks. She did not open her eyes to look at him as he studied her but slowed her own breathing as if in an effort to calm herself. He thought it would be kind to draw the sheet over her, but he could not bring himself to do it.
He had drawn himself a great lover, but on this night he had been clumsy and eager. He thought himself lordly and practical, simply taking the available route to assuage his hunger, but now he was filled with remorse that he had considered her so little. More than all that, he considered himself worldly and indifferent to the wenches who would eagerly ply their charms, yet this one had trapped his mind. The moment he saw her as she awaited his pleasure, he was breathless. The moment he touched her, he was crazed.
As he contemplated the rare beauty that lay bare to his gaze, he considered that she had served him well indeed, better than any before her, and his hunger for her began to rise again. He bolstered himself and reluctantly pulled the coverlet over them both. There was no question that she would already consider him cruel, but for some reason it seemed important that she not believe him to be a ravenous animal. He chose not to put himself upon her again on this night, but to show her instead that in spite of all, he could display a gentler nature.
He held her comfortably in his arms, stroking her hair until she slept. Sleep was more difficult for him; he was sorely beset by all the conflicting thoughts she inspired. “I will see this very differently in the light of day and sober mind,” he sternly told himself. He touched the ivory skin of her shoulder with his lips. “But however much I ponder her,” he thought with a smile, “there is no question but that she was beggared in the trade.”
Chapter Five
From within the windowless study, Trent judged the rising of the sun from the sounds of activity about the manor. This once he rose before cockcrow and dressed quietly, giving himself over to the accounts, ledgers, and lists that lay scattered atop his desk. Yet he was wholly robbed of his concentration and hoped that by the time this day was out he would be in control of his thoughts again.