Read Online The Vicar's Frozen Heart by Karyn Gerrard - Free Book Online
Authors: Karyn Gerrard
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been carved like a piece of pork loin. Muscles and tendons were destroyed. “You will never walk again.” Well, he had proved the blighters wrong, but at what cost?
Hanging onto the bedpost for dear life, he pulled himself up as he bit his lower lip until it bled. He stood absolutely still for several minutes until the agony lessened, then reached for his cane and hobbled slowly toward his study.
The sun hovered on the horizon, casting golden shadows across the property. Tremain stood at his study window with a full tumbler of brandy clutched tight in his hand and watched the sun rise. Bad enough he dreamed of death, today he would have to deal with it more directly as Ruth Payne was not expected to see out the day.
Isn’t this why he turned to the church after the army? He would have been drummed out at any rate, thanks to his injury. Regardless, he made the decision to give his life in service to his fellow man, hoping against hope it would bring him some modicum of peace. To serve penance for the lives he’d taken in the name of Queen and Country.
All it did was leave him empty. Not surprising, as he left his heart and soul in the Transvaal at that burned-out mission hospital. He stood a broken, wounded animal and would acknowledge as much. Glancing at his desk, he took notice of the unopened correspondence. Letters from his parents and brothers. Also in the pile lay a letter from a former lover no doubt wishing to become reacquainted. The sickening scent of lilies emanated from the envelope, informing him the correspondence came from the widow, Lady Samantha Trimly, his last mistress before he left for South Africa. He should toss it in the flames. Meaningless sex held no temptation for him. Not any longer. Especially not the numerous, debauched encounters he indulged in during his affair with her. With complete indifference, he hurled the letter into the fire.
He took a sip of the brandy. The burn caressed its way down his throat, the fire easing the ache in his thigh and leg. Liar. Miss Eliza Winston tempted him to the point of pain. Since the war no woman had aroused him in such a raw, stark way. The attraction was earthy, lustful, but also hinted at something deeper, which disturbed him more than the actual desire itself.
With a decided grunt, he hobbled to his desk and sat. After pulling out blank paper from the drawer, he opened the ink bottle and dipped his pen. He would write to this housekeeper, Mrs. Travers, in Yorkshire, and request detailed information on Miss Winston . Eliza. If the stubborn young woman was determined to stay in the village, he should be certain of her past since he had recommended her to the Tompkinses. Admittedly, he wanted to know more for his own personal reasons as well.
Though he had every intention of ignoring the impulsive and forceful emotions churning within him in regards to Eliza, he should know of her character in case things took a turn. Right . Imagine if the vicar took up with the barmaid. The reverberations from it would be felt for miles. Continuing to sip his brandy as he scribbled away, he barely heard the knock at the front door. Frowning, he glanced down at his naked state. He must stop traipsing about the house in the altogether. Gripping his cane tight, he made his way to the front entrance. “Who is it?” he barked. Dawn had barely broken.
“’Tis Tommy from the inn. Mrs. Tompkins said to fetch you and get you to nip along sharpish if you be wantin’ to catch the last breath of Ruth Payne and say yer prayers and such over her.”
In spite of the dire circumstances, Tremain actually smiled briefly in amusement. He doubted Mrs. Tompkins wanted the lad to use those exact words. “Very well. I’ll be back in a moment to let you in, Tommy.”
The cane thumped on the wood floor as he made his way toward his bedroom . He had watched helplessly as poor Ruth lingered in agony for months, wasting away before his very eyes. There was no mercy in life, but
Hanging onto the bedpost for dear life, he pulled himself up as he bit his lower lip until it bled. He stood absolutely still for several minutes until the agony lessened, then reached for his cane and hobbled slowly toward his study.
The sun hovered on the horizon, casting golden shadows across the property. Tremain stood at his study window with a full tumbler of brandy clutched tight in his hand and watched the sun rise. Bad enough he dreamed of death, today he would have to deal with it more directly as Ruth Payne was not expected to see out the day.
Isn’t this why he turned to the church after the army? He would have been drummed out at any rate, thanks to his injury. Regardless, he made the decision to give his life in service to his fellow man, hoping against hope it would bring him some modicum of peace. To serve penance for the lives he’d taken in the name of Queen and Country.
All it did was leave him empty. Not surprising, as he left his heart and soul in the Transvaal at that burned-out mission hospital. He stood a broken, wounded animal and would acknowledge as much. Glancing at his desk, he took notice of the unopened correspondence. Letters from his parents and brothers. Also in the pile lay a letter from a former lover no doubt wishing to become reacquainted. The sickening scent of lilies emanated from the envelope, informing him the correspondence came from the widow, Lady Samantha Trimly, his last mistress before he left for South Africa. He should toss it in the flames. Meaningless sex held no temptation for him. Not any longer. Especially not the numerous, debauched encounters he indulged in during his affair with her. With complete indifference, he hurled the letter into the fire.
He took a sip of the brandy. The burn caressed its way down his throat, the fire easing the ache in his thigh and leg. Liar. Miss Eliza Winston tempted him to the point of pain. Since the war no woman had aroused him in such a raw, stark way. The attraction was earthy, lustful, but also hinted at something deeper, which disturbed him more than the actual desire itself.
With a decided grunt, he hobbled to his desk and sat. After pulling out blank paper from the drawer, he opened the ink bottle and dipped his pen. He would write to this housekeeper, Mrs. Travers, in Yorkshire, and request detailed information on Miss Winston . Eliza. If the stubborn young woman was determined to stay in the village, he should be certain of her past since he had recommended her to the Tompkinses. Admittedly, he wanted to know more for his own personal reasons as well.
Though he had every intention of ignoring the impulsive and forceful emotions churning within him in regards to Eliza, he should know of her character in case things took a turn. Right . Imagine if the vicar took up with the barmaid. The reverberations from it would be felt for miles. Continuing to sip his brandy as he scribbled away, he barely heard the knock at the front door. Frowning, he glanced down at his naked state. He must stop traipsing about the house in the altogether. Gripping his cane tight, he made his way to the front entrance. “Who is it?” he barked. Dawn had barely broken.
“’Tis Tommy from the inn. Mrs. Tompkins said to fetch you and get you to nip along sharpish if you be wantin’ to catch the last breath of Ruth Payne and say yer prayers and such over her.”
In spite of the dire circumstances, Tremain actually smiled briefly in amusement. He doubted Mrs. Tompkins wanted the lad to use those exact words. “Very well. I’ll be back in a moment to let you in, Tommy.”
The cane thumped on the wood floor as he made his way toward his bedroom . He had watched helplessly as poor Ruth lingered in agony for months, wasting away before his very eyes. There was no mercy in life, but
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