The Passions Of Lord Trevethow

Chapter Three

Cassian loved a good fair and the town of Redruth did not disappoint. It was a point of pride for the town as the nominal originator of the St Piran festivities. Many other towns in Cornwall had their own celebrations these days for the patron saint of tin miners, but Redruth had been the first.

Cassian stabled his horse at the livery, tossing an extra coin to the sulky young ostler left on duty while his comrades had gone off to join the festivities. ‘You’ll be rich when they come back with their pockets to let,’ Cassian consoled him, but the boy continued to pout. Well, he knew a little something about that. He wasn’t so far past boyhood himself that he’d forgotten how much he’d looked forward to an outing when he was younger. Fun was sparse in this part of the world. His pleasure garden could change that. It would have entertainments for all ages, unlike Vauxhall, which catered to an adults-only crowd. Children needed stimulation, too, especially when their imaginations were at their most fertile. Growing up, he’d loved adventure stories even though reading had been a labour for him. He’d loved any day that his father or Eaton’s father or Richard Penlerick had taken the four of them out riding or exploring. But those days had been rare. Perhaps he’d bring the sulky ostler a pasty when he came back. Cassian’s stomach rumbled at the thought of a hot pie, a reminder that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Outside in the street, happy townsfolk jostled past as he let his nose lead the way to a pasty vendor. He purchased a pasty and bit into the flaky crust, the savoury meat warm in his mouth. It took the edge off the weather’s late afternoon crispness. March wasn’t really spring in this part of the world. Cassian wandered the booths, stopping every so often to admire goods that caught his attention. It was at the leatherworker’s booth, as he studied the workmanship on a bridle, that he noticed her out of the corner of his eye. He couldn’t say what it was exactly that drew him: the swirl of her cloak, perhaps, or the way the woman beneath the cloak moved, all slender, straight-shouldered grace as opposed to the bustle of the fair-goers.

Cassian stepped back from the leatherworker’s booth to study her. She moved as if she were savouring each sight, lingering over each of the items in the stalls, treating them as if they were luxuries. Maybe they were. Not everyone who came to a fair had coins in their pocket to spend. The hood of her brown cloak was drawn up over her face, her hair. Cassian found himself wishing it wasn’t so. He wanted to see this woman who walked through a village fair with such reverence. More than that, he wanted to know her mind; what did the fair look like to her to inspire such awe? How might he capture that for his amusement park? It was precisely how he wanted guests to look when they visited. If he ever got it built.

She moved into the crowd and Cassian followed. Perhaps he would speak to her. She appeared to be alone, an odd condition for a woman at such an event. For all the excitement a fair could bring, there were dangers, too, if one wasn’t careful, especially as the day wore on and the men were deeper into their drink. At the edge of the village green the booths gave way to the pens of livestock and the crowd thinned. Here, she halted, suddenly surrounded by a gaggle of children who’d swarmed her.

Cassian quickened his steps in concern. There were too many of them. These were not village children. These were street urchins, some of them older boys who likely followed the vendors from fair to fair. A smaller boy, likely the decoy, said something to her, tugging at her and claiming all her attention. Cassian could guess what he was asking for. The woman hesitated and then reached beneath her cloak and produced a coin for the lad. That would never do. The boys would either beg the rest of her purse from her or come back to steal it later now that they knew where she kept it. From the looks of her clothes, she hadn’t the money to spare should she lose whatever her purse contained.

‘Hoy there, lads! Be off with you!’ Cassian strode into their midst, dispersing them with his sheer bulk. Smart lads didn’t mess with men built with height and breadth to match. They scattered like swatted flies in the wake of his broad-shouldered, baritone-voiced barrage.

The woman straightened, becoming taller, more slender, more graceful than she’d been in the marketplace. ‘That was hardly necessary, sir. They were just hungry children begging a coin.’ There was a slightly imperious tone to her voice. A proud woman, then, a woman who liked to be self-sufficient. He had two older sisters who had that same tone. He knew it well. A man had to tread carefully where such a woman’s pride was concerned. It was a lesson he’d watched his sisters’ husbands learn over the years.

‘They’ll have your whole purse off you if you aren’t careful. Those were no ordinary children,’ he scolded kindly.

‘I know their sort very well. It doesn’t make their plight any less pitiable. Out of concern for my fellow mankind, I’ll take my chances, every time,’ she answered staunchly.

Cassian nodded. ‘A noble sentiment, although I doubt they’ll extend you the same courtesy when they come back to take your purse. You exposed yourself, you know.’ He wished she’d expose a little more of herself, perhaps push that hood back from her face, show him the eyes, the mouth that went with her voice. In his experience, a confident woman was always attractive. He found confidence sexy in the bedroom and out. This woman’s confidence stirred him, intrigued him. ‘Perhaps I might escort you in case they return.’ If he was beside her, he was certain they wouldn’t.

‘Where might you escort me? A dark alley?’

‘Would you like me to?’ He flirted with a smile. ‘There are many things one can get up to in a dark alley, not all of them bad.’

‘You might be more dangerous than the gang of boys,’ she answered shrewdly. She was enjoying the exchange. ‘How do I know you’re not in on it with them?’ She gave a throaty laugh when he raised an eyebrow in approval of her quick wit. ‘See, I’m not as green as you think.’ Sweet heavens, the minx gave as good as she got. The open boldness appealed.

Cassian chuckled. ‘I never thought you were. I was merely concerned you were too kind-hearted for your own good. Might I interest you in a pasty or some other delicacy?’

‘I don’t even know your name, sir.’ She was serious about that. He’d reached the limits of what she’d tolerate. However, he was enjoying her far too much to ruin it by announcing his real name. It would change everything if she recognised it. Even if she didn’t recognise it now, she would be sure to recognise it later. A name was power, to be used for or against him. He would not put that kind of power in a stranger’s hands.

‘What would you like my name to be?’ Cassian flirted. ‘Choose one for me.’ Beneath the hood of her cloak, green eyes lit in liking and understanding. The idea appealed to her as well. His intrigue ratcheted. His lady liked games.

‘Matthew.’ She chose easily and quickly. ‘And what shall you call me?’ It was an interesting woman who saw the benefit of an alias, who perhaps was just as eager as he to keep her identity hidden. Maybe because it made the little game between them more exciting, or maybe there was something more to it.

‘Must I call you anything? I’d rather know your face than your name.’ Cassian cajoled. ‘Push your hood back a little farther so that I can see you better.’ He was starting to like this game. This was a woman with secrets, a woman who liked her privacy. He respected that. He had secrets of his own.

With her free hand, she pushed her hood back just far enough to reveal hair the colour of caramel and honey and eyes like sea glass, a mouth that was full and inviting. Taken together, her features were starkly, intensely riveting. Memorable. In the right clothes, the right setting, she would be a beauty. Amidst the plain folk of Redruth, she was remarkable, a faerie queen among mere mortals. He understood why she stayed cloaked. Remarkable women drew attention and hardly ever the right sort.

‘I saw an opal once the shade of your eyes, but I think Emerald makes a better name.’ Cassian let her draw her hood back up. ‘That way I can call you Em. It sounds friendlier.’

‘Are we to be friends, then, for the night?’ They’d begun walking back towards the stalls, the decision to share the evening already implicitly made.

‘We shall be whatever you want, Em.’ He let his voice linger on the last, the caress of his tone carrying the nuance for him; they could be strangers, lovers, friends. Em suited her, his cloaked minx with her throaty laugh and her bold mystery. He purchased two pasties stuffed with hot, sliced potatoes. He passed one to her and watched her bite into it.

‘Oh, that is good.’ Her eyes closed as she savoured the food, chewing slowly, and Cassian felt himself grow hard at the sight. If she looked this delicious eating a pasty, what might she look like in the throes of taking her pleasure? Her hair loose from its braid, her long neck arched?

A droplet of juice dribbled on her lips and Cassian felt the wicked urge to lick it from her mouth. She smiled coyly as if she guessed the direction of his thoughts, but before he could lean forward, the tip of her tongue darted out to claim the drop.

He wanted to kiss her, this handsome, dark-haired man. A little frisson of excitement raced through Pen at the realisation. She’d read enough novels to know. The drop of the eyes, the lingering gaze on one’s mouth. Those were the signs. Only she’d beaten him to it with her tongue.

Perhaps she ought to have let him kiss her? But it was too soon. He’d think her easy. They’d only just met and she’d broken so many rules already: talking to a stranger, walking with him, accepting food from him, flirting outrageously, saying wickedly witty things she’d only ever practised in her mind and taking on a false name. Em, he’d called her, only when he said it, she imagined it as M. M for mystery, perhaps. Perhaps he might try for a kiss again when they’d known one another a little longer and she could oblige. It was naughtily delicious to think she might get kissed tonight; her very first kiss, and from a tall, dark, handsome stranger at the fair.

They finished their pasties and began to wander the booths, stopping when something caught their eyes: a belt here, a scarf there, a pretty bauble, a scented bar of soap and a never-ending stream of conversation. Matthew was easy to talk to and easy to listen to. He had stories about everything from how the French soap was milled to how many crimps of a crust it took to make a true pasty to how Brussels lace was made.

‘You’ve seen them make the lace?’ She fingered a delicate sample in renewed appreciation for the labour. At home in her wardrobe, she had several gowns with lace collars and yokes. She’d not stopped to think of the effort those yards had taken.

‘Yes, it’s a very elaborate, time-consuming process. It can take months to produce a design.’

She gave a sigh. ‘I’m envious of you and your travels! How wonderful to see the world. I’d give anything to leave here, at least for a while. Where else have you been?’ They stopped to sniff little vials of perfume. She held up a vial of sandalwood mixed with an exotic scent. She sniffed and handed it to him. ‘Try this one. It’s very masculine.’

He sniffed and put the stopper back in. ‘It’s nice. It reminds me of Russia.’

She smiled. ‘So, you’ve been to Russia. Tell me. What is Russia like?’

He winked. ‘I will, but first we need sustenance.’ He was a bottomless pit, she discovered. The pasty they’d consumed earlier was followed by a sampling of every sweet available as they shopped and talked and he regaled her with stories of his travels. They ate, turning the night into a parade of scones with jam and clotted cream and saffron buns warm from the oven. When they stopped at a stall selling fairings, she gave a laughing groan as he bought a bag of the biscuits and offered her one. ‘Oh, no, I couldn’t eat another a bite!’

Matthew grinned mischievously and waved a ginger treat under her nose. ‘Are you sure? I have it on good authority from my nieces and nephews that fairings are generally irresistible and these are fresh. Try one, for me, please.’

He smiled at her and it seemed to Pen that the crowd disappeared, that the whole world vanished when he looked at her like that with whisky eyes and long black lashes. She was lost. ‘Well, perhaps I could find room for one,’ she teased.

‘Open wide, then, Em.’ Her pulse raced as she divined his intentions. He meant to feed it to her from his own hand! She took the fairing from him with her teeth, aware of his fingers lingering on her lips, aware of the spark that leapt between them. Around them, the lanterns began to cast their glow as light faded, the day was changing and they were changing with it. There was a charge between them. Matthew’s eyes were on her as she swallowed the fairing, searing into her as if his gaze could see into her mind, her very soul, into every fantasy she’d ever harboured of a night like this—a night with a stranger who wanted her, just her; a stranger who knew nothing of her family’s tragedy, of her seclusion, her private fight for freedom; a stranger who didn’t want her for her money, her land, her family’s title, a man not curated for her by her father.

She was aware, too, that the fantasy had to end very soon. She’d already stayed longer than she’d intended. Matthew fed her another fairing and she took this one more slowly, revelling in the brush of his fingertips at her lips as she summoned the willpower for the words that must come. ‘I have to go.’ Her maid, Margery, would cover for her, of course, but she still had to walk back and that walk would now occur in darkness.

‘Soon,’ he said, taking her hand in his and beginning to stroll again. ‘But not yet. We haven’t seen the Venetian glass-blower.’

‘One more booth and then I must go.’ She could not resist the temptation of a few more minutes with him, a few more minutes of freedom.

The glass-blower did not disappoint. In the darkness, the flame of his forge was inviting and warm. They joined the semi-circle of onlookers gathered around the stall to watch him work his magic. Pen gasped as the man blew through a tube and a fragile shape took form at the other end. She’d never seen glass blown and the process mesmerised her almost as much as the man standing behind her. She was acutely aware of him, of his height, of his body so close to hers in the crowd, the breadth of his shoulders beneath his greatcoat, the heat of him rivalling the heat of the glass-master’s forge. She felt the gentle grip of his hand at her waist as they watched the demonstration. No man had ever dared touch her so intimately, so possessively, but he did it easily as if his hand belonged there, as if it had a right to belong there.

A hungry, curious, lonely part of her wished he had that right, but she knew better. She was an earl’s daughter, a woman destined for a match that went far beyond the means of this whisky-eyed stranger. He was not a peasant. His bearing, his confidence was too grand for that with his greatcoat and boots. Perhaps he was a squire’s son, a man of decent means, but no substantial wealth, a man who could never be a contender for the hand of an earl’s daughter. She could only be his for the night. And who knew? Perhaps he had obligations elsewhere as well? Perhaps he could no more be hers beyond tonight than she could be his?

The glass-blower completed his demonstration to applause and the crowd dispersed. Pen lingered to look at the items on display in the case: a clever glass heart that could be hung as a pendant, a menagerie of little glass animals of all sorts, tiny thimbles and teardrops. ‘Amazing,’ she whispered under her breath. ‘To think that Venice has come all the way to Redruth. What a world it must be.’ It was worth it to be late getting back to have seen this and to have seen it with him, her Matthew. She slid a glance his way and smiled. ‘I’m glad you insisted I see this.’