Wicked As Sin Page 2

  Her full mouth firmed. Then, before he could avert his face, she wiped a blob of blood-streaked turnip from his cheek with the forefinger of her pearl-buttoned kidskin glove.

  “My mother thinks you are going to come to a bad end,” she said softly.

  He flinched at her touch. She looked blindingly clean and pure. He reeked of cabbage and ordure.

  “It isn’t the end yet. Oh, bugger it. Your mother is right. So is your father and your grandfather. Now do you mind leaving me to my misery? You’re not exactly helping, you know.”

  “I’m not?”

  He cursed to himself. “You shall only land me in more trouble.”

  She edged a few inches from the posts that imprisoned him. Her father’s two footmen had leapt off the carriage, ostensibly to guard her. “But you’re the son of a viscount. A Boscastle. How did—”

  “My father is dead, and with him all the good and glory. Haven’t you heard? Get away from me.”

  “I was only trying to be kind,” she said, sounding hurt and indignant.

  Trying to be kind.

  Even then he could have told her that gentleness was not only a waste of time but a weakness that others would exploit. He’d learned that much in his early life, and the years afterward had done nothing to dispel that belief.

  “Have I asked you for anything?” he asked in a dispassionate voice.

  He dropped his gaze in an attitude of disinterest even though every muscle in his confined body coiled tight and something in him wanted her to stay. The two footmen were gently escorting her back to her parents. He could see her mother in the carriage window holding an orange pomander to her aristocratic nose as if Gabriel had been plagued with a contagious disease instead of an abusive stepparent and a bad temper.

  He suppressed a rush of useless fury. Hell, hell, hell. He hated everyone, himself especially, having the prettiest girl he’d ever seen act as his champion.

  Lady Alethea’s embroidered slipper caught on a head of cabbage. A footman steadied her before she could stumble, and just when he would have expected her nose to wrinkle in distaste, she reached down, grabbed the drippy cabbage, and hurled it into his awestruck band of tormentors.

  He stared past her. Well, now his humiliation had come to a boil.

  What had she hoped to prove?

  Didn’t she know that boys were supposed to protect young girls? And women? Gabriel had done everything he could to protect his mother. It hadn’t been enough.

  “I have seen you look at me, Gabriel Boscastle,” she whispered, pulling her shoulders free from the servants’ guard.

  His gaze drifted up from her dirtied slippers to her firm chin. He’d rather she think him belligerent than weak. Why had she bothered? It only made him feel worse. “What of it?”

  “I’ve noticed, that’s all. And I think—whatever the reason, it probably wasn’t decent.”

  “I’ll look if I want to,” he called after her, his defiance the only weapon at his disposal.

  She slowed, glancing around. “Pillory boy. I don’t care if you do look.”

  Chapter Three

  Common sense, as well as past experience with her previous neighbors, warned Alethea that any man who had won Helbourne Hall in a card game could not be trusted. Still, one ought to grant even a gamester the benefit of the doubt, if not extend the hand of friendship. She might no longer hope that she would marry and become mistress of her own estate. She might have given up her belief in handsome lords and happy endings in the last year. But surely fate could at least consider sending Helbourne a decent man who would take advantage of his luck and settle down.

  It seemed a small favor to ask. That for once, Helbourne would defy its bleak history and claim a reputable owner so that Alethea could continue to seclude herself from the world and its unpleasantness.

  Her brother’s gamekeeper, Yates, came bounding through the trees with three leashed wolfhounds barking furiously at the bridge. His green cap was listing over his left ear. His ancient blunderbuss, whose deafening roar proved it still functioned, rested against his shoulder. “We’ve got his name, my lady. His coachman ended up at our house by mistake. He’s a Boscastle.”

  Alethea turned her head, a shock firing her nerves. “A—”

  “The Boscastles are a well-known family,” Cooper, the footman who’d accompanied her, added. “Every servant in London dreams of working for the marquess, and now one of the sisters has just married a duke. They always make the newspapers.”

  Alethea studied the sturdy figure who appeared to be conversing with his massive horse. A dark knight, she thought again. Apprehension intermingled with a poignant memory of the past. So, he’d returned home, and apparently with no more decorum than he’d had when he left.

  The footman cleared his throat. “Did you hear what I said, my lady? He’s not an ordinary devil.”

  “A special one, then?”

  “He’s a Boscastle from London.”

  “There are more branches of the Boscastle family than that notorious line in London,” she murmured, stealing another look at the broad-shouldered figure at the bridge. Her heart had begun to race in an irrational rhythm.

  “Do you know any of the Boscastles personally?” the gamekeeper asked carefully. He had not been in her brother’s service long and therefore had little knowledge of Helbourne’s history.

  “I knew three of the young gentlemen a long time ago.” She smiled despite herself. “We did not associate. Their family resided not far from here when I was younger. But this man—”

  “Sir Gabriel Boscastle,” the gamekeeper broke in, his gaze now also affixed to the man on the bridge. “That was the name his coachman gave.”

  “Gabriel. Sir Gabriel, is he now?”

  “Aye,” the gamekeeper said. “He was a colonel in the cavalry.”

  “That seems fitting. He always had a passion for horses.”

  “He’s got other passions now, I hear.”

  “Really, Yates.”

  “Beg your pardon, Lady Alethea.”

  She drifted a little closer to the bridge. Her dark knight was watching her too, now. She doubted he would recognize her. In the old days she’d taken great pains with her appearance. Now her hair had grown an unruly length. She dressed in drabs for comfort and rarely remembered to wear gloves. Not that she cared to impress a rogue, which Gabriel, to no one’s great surprise, had become.

  From what she’d heard, her bad boy had been a soldier in Spain, a rakehell between regiments, and a gambler who heartlessly won properties from reckless young gentlemen.

  She’d always prayed that he would not come to a bad end. Mama had been right…except, it still wasn’t really the end yet, was it? His early life had not been easy. Perhaps he’d managed as best he could. His stepfather had had a reputation for cruelty.

  She knew now what she hadn’t known then. That other people, even those who claimed to care for you, could cause deep sorrow. Could hurt you in unspeakable ways.

  “What do we do, my lady?” the footman inquired. “He looks a formidable sort.”

  “I believe he is.”

  She wasn’t sure herself what to do. She could burst into giggles at the irony of it, or more wisely ride to the village church and beg the vicar’s sanctuary. Sir Gabriel certainly exuded a devilish air that challenged her desire to see a decent owner take possession of Helbourne for a change.

  Still, she was not responsible for his morals.

  She walked slowly toward him. “Gabriel Boscastle? I do not believe it possible. Is that really you after all these years?”

  He laughed a little uneasily, not moving but watching her so closely that she knew the rumors about him must be true. “If I admit to that identity, am I going to be shot for a crime I do not have cognizance of committing?”

  “Have you committed many crimes?” she asked teasingly.

  He smiled, his response bringing an unbidden blush to her cheeks. “Are you going to punish me if I admit to them?”r />
  “No.”

  “What a pity.”

  She had come close enough to examine him in the tree-dappled moonlight. Ah, what a forbidding face. Those same hard sculpted features, the intense blue eyes that burned with inner fires, but now he stood older, edgier, all traces of boyhood hurt and humiliation buried if not dead. The jagged purple scar that bisected his lower jaw to terminate in a puckered gash across his throat looked hideous but did not disfigure him. She might have been frightened had she not known him before.

  Gabriel’s attitude had always given pause to those who approached him. Now he had a physical mark to discourage anyone whose presence he did not invite. She guessed he probably didn’t mind one bit. Yet somehow he still tempted her, in the words of her late father, to venture where she ought not.

  She stopped short of stepping onto the bridge. “I don’t think you should cross here,” he remarked calmly, his gaze assessing her cloaked form. “You might fall and I should be forced to save you.”

  She released her breath. His voice was rougher than she recalled, more cynical if possible, low with control. “You shouldn’t be crossing it, either. Didn’t you see the sign?”

  He shrugged. He was taller now, too, his shoulders wide, his torso well-formed. “I thought it might have been to keep trespassers away. Whose bridge is it, anyway?”

  “It’s yours.” She paused.

  He had become an unusually attractive man, and appeared to realize it. Certainly he made no overt attempt to hide his interest in her female appearance, slowly examining her face and figure until heat stole up into her shoulders and neck.

  “Tell me that you’re only a trespasser,” she said in an undertone. “Or a visitor to the person who now owns the hall. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Gabriel—don’t you remember me?”

  He grinned, his eyes locking with hers. “Lady Alethea.” He sketched a mocking bow. The bridge he stood upon creaked another unheeded warning. “The pleasure of our reacquaintance is surely all mine.”

  Wicked boy.

  She struggled against a grin until at last, she burst into laughter. “I can only hope you’re nicer than the last time I talked to you. Do you remember? I shall be offended if you’ve forgotten.”

  It was hard to believe she’d felt sorry for Gabriel once. He had been getting deeper and deeper in trouble in the months that followed his father’s death. He had always seemed more mature than his age. To this night, she could still feel his fierce blue eyes appraising her when she rode past him on her dainty little pony. It had been rude of him to continue to stare at her. Her groom had even scolded Gabriel once for doing so.

  But that hadn’t stopped him.

  Wretched boy.

  Beguiling man.

  He was still staring at her in that way that made her feel embarrassed and warm.

  Yet there appeared to be something different in his eyes now. Knowledge. A guarded awareness she recognized from her own experiences.

  “You didn’t think I would ever forget you, did you, my beautiful champion?” he asked, his arms braced on the flimsy railing.

  She glanced back at her entourage in embarrassment. “We barely knew each other. I think we only spoke on a few occasions, the last when you were confined in the village square.”

  “I remember our conversation.” He lifted his hand to his heart. “The words are forever engraved in this empty cavity. That was not one of my best memories, I’m afraid. Not due to any fault on your part.”

  “Why did you come back?” she asked quietly.

  “I came to claim my estate—Helbourne Hall. Can you direct me?”

  She shook her head in disappointment. “It’s across the bridge, right behind you. You cannot miss it.” She pointed past him. “There.”

  His white teeth gleamed in a rueful grin. “The gatehouse, you mean—” He glanced around, giving a derisive snort. “Or is that the barn?”

  She smiled slowly, thinking that of all the hall’s past usurpers, Gabriel seemed most suited to the estate. “I will give another caution—this about the staff you have inherited. I have been told they are prone to be troublesome and derelict in their duties.”

  She heard her footman snigger at this understatement and cast a silencing look his way.

  “The servants have been unsettled by the rapid succession of owners,” she continued. “Without stability and correct guidance, they have learned to take advantage.” Which was a polite way of informing him that his staff was comprised of drunks, former felons, and social outcasts.

  For one satisfying moment she thought she had touched upon his higher principles. Then he raised his brow like a devil of enterprise and asked, “I don’t suppose you come with the house?”

  She gave a dismissive half-laugh and withdrew a step. “Pleasant dreams, Sir Gabriel. If the river carries you away, do not say no one warned you.”

  “Alethea—”

  She hesitated. “Yes?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  Chapter Four

  Warned him. As if he’d ever heeded a warning, when a woman was concerned, in his life. He watched her graceful figure disappear down the tree-lined bridle path to where her horse awaited before he came to his senses. Even as a girl Lady Alethea Claridge had lured him out of his depths. Who did she think she was to come to his rescue? He could have told her he marked the day she had spoken to him in the pillory as the nadir of his public humiliation.

  His stepfather had provided deeper humiliations in private, but Alethea’s interference had only heightened the shame Gabriel had struggled to keep secret. He’d never sunk lower again in his own personal estimation, although others might venture an opinion to the contrary.

  In fact, he was half-tempted to call her back again and state that she was absolutely out of her beautiful mind if she thought that either a broken bridge or a run-down estate would matter much to him after the things he’d seen and done.

  Damned irritating, that she could still befuddle him.

  He wasn’t a complete ne’er-do-well. He had won his share of skeleton mortgages before. In his assessment, if the rickety bridge gave any indication of what lay beyond, Helbourne Hall would probably cost him a fortune in repairs without yielding a single pound of profit in return.

  He reckoned he’d waste a fortnight or two here at most. His comely neighbor, Alethea, deserved a few days of his attention if only for auld lang’s sake. After all, he could count on one hand the number of brave souls who had ever bothered to defend him. Three of his Boscastle cousins. His infantry commander.

  A headstrong young girl who had dared defy her upbringing and dirty her gloves by wiping ordure from a hell-raiser’s cheek.

  Precious few were those persons who had dared to befriend him during his darkest years, for fear he would turn around and bite them.

  Like it or not, even by a scoundrel’s standards, he owed her a favor. Was there an undesirable suitor she wished would disappear from the face of the earth? Was there a recalcitrant one she hoped to make jealous? Perhaps the young lady found herself embarrassingly in need of funds. Perhaps her parents had died, and her brother—he seemed to recall that she had one—had brought disgrace upon the family name.

  It was said that as part of their personal code, a member of the Boscastle family never forgot an insult or a favor. Unsaid, but assumed, was that should Gabriel reap a reward in the course of repaying Alethea for her past kindness, he would be obliged to accept.

  What kind of girl defied her father to help a willful boy whom everyone else in the village took precautions not to cross? It made him wonder about her sanity.

  Her voice floated from the woods. “There are ghosts who haunt that bridge, Gabriel. A jealous lover drowned his sweetheart beneath and then took his own life. Try not to disturb them further.”

  He stared at her. Flirtatious curls escaped the hood of her cloak to caress her face. He had always wondered whether she had been as pretty as he remembered. She was, but seeing her again made him ach
e with the pain of dreams abandoned at the crossroads.

  “Did you hear me, Gabriel? I don’t know if you are superstitious, but a pair of unhappy spirits haunts the very place upon which you’re standing.”

  He shook his head, snorting as he turned back to the bridge. There were ghosts who haunted him, too, but he wasn’t afraid of them anymore.

  He looked back at her with a smile.

  Then he crossed the bridge.

  And his horse followed.

  Chapter Five

  Gabriel had first captured her attention when she had noticed him fighting one of the older boys in the village. Even seven years ago he’d looked strong enough to take care of himself. As she recalled, he had been getting the best of his bloody-nosed opponent until the pair of them noticed her. At once they broke apart and stopped their brawling. Then the other boy ran away, Gabriel shaking his head in disgust. She knew he had probably started the fight, but something angry and wounded in the way he acted made her wish to soothe him.

  It had required all of her nerve, and earned her a lengthy scolding from her governess, to smile down at him one day from her pony when he suddenly looked up from the bench outside the public house where he’d gathered with his friends.

  He glared back at her like a young dragon. Even though she had known she should be offended, deep beneath she’d felt a shocking thrill as his moody eyes locked briefly with hers. He hadn’t always run wild, Alethea had overheard her mother explaining to the governess, although Mama cautioned her repeatedly to avoid him, hinting at the dire repercussions that befell girls who got involved with incorrigible boys.

  Other times Mama had almost sounded sorry for Gabriel, reflecting that he and his brothers had been polite young gentlemen before their father had been killed and their mother had married that merchant who liked drink too much and visited the tavern maid. His three older brothers had left home. Alethea never knew what had become of them.

  But she knew that every time she saw Gabriel there was trouble brewing in his eyes. She even knew why he’d been put in the pillory, and that he hadn’t deserved to be punished. The apothecary’s daughter Rosalinde had told her one afternoon while her father was compounding a toothache remedy for Alethea’s brother.