Книга - A Dangerous Seduction

A Dangerous Seduction
Patricia Frances Rowell


Revenge Was A Kind Of JusticeOne perfectly suited to the rocky coast of Cornwall that Morgan Pendaris could again call home. Having won back his birthright, he could now savor his title, his lands…and the exotic charms of Lalia, the widow of his enemy–who held his heart in the palm of her hand.What Price Love?Sold during girlhood into a loveless marriage, Lalia Hayne had never known the safe haven of a true lover's arms. But now Morgan Pendaris had come to claim her home as his own, and she found herself suddenly willing to give anything for one touch of passion in a stranger's embrace!









“Come now, sweet torment. Tell me, if you can, that you do not want me.


“Tell me you wish to leave me. Tell me that while I take your breath away, while I make you moan. Come, make me believe it.”

He pulled her into his arms, bruising her lips under his. She collapsed against him, and Morgan thought the victory won.

But suddenly she pulled back, holding him off with her palms, her eyes the ominous gray of a lowering storm. She spoke quietly at first, but her voice rose steadily with growing emotion. “You say I want you. And I do.” She wiped angrily at her eyes. “You know it. And you are taking advantage of it, and…” She was shouting now, tears trailing down her face.

“I will not be your whore!”




Praise for Patricia Frances Rowell’s debut


A PERILOUS ATTRACTION

“…promising Regency-era debut…

a memorable heroine who succeeds in capturing

the hero’s heart as well as the reader’s.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Ms. Rowell has a nice touch for penning

likeable characters…a relaxing, romantic read.”

—Romantic Times

“…a promising first romance.”

—The Romance Reader




A Dangerous Seduction

Patricia Frances Rowell







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


In memory of my young friend Morgan Mitchell,

who left us at the age of nine

And for my grandchildren,

who are, happily, still with us—

Zachary Nathaniel, Eric Dean, Joseph Richmond,

Amber Nicole, Camille Elise, Joy Anna, Jillian Paige

and Andrew Houghton

And, of course, for Johnny




Acknowledgment


I would like to thank my friend Maria Budzenski

for her help with this story. She sent me literally

boxes of information in addition to her personal

observations of Cornwall. Thank you, Maria.




Contents


Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue




Prologue


London, England, 1808

P ain. Gripping, grinding, paralyzing pain. He lay on the grass in the pool of blood that leaked through his fingers. But how could he…?

Five, six, seven—three more steps and he would kill the bastard. But there had been no more steps. Eight… A flash of light, a blast, and he was falling. Falling forward, propelled by a blow that knocked him off his feet and onto his face.

Laughter. Shouts. Running feet. Shots. The blood stained his coat and dripped over the hand he pressed in vain against his chest.

The scurvy dog shot before the count! Shot you in the back.

And he laughed.

The laughter echoed through the darkness that was closing around him.

The bastard laughed!

Hoofbeats. The laughter trailing away.

He had thought he hated the man. Now he knew better.

In that moment was conceived a hatred as deep as his soul.

He tried to raise himself on one elbow, tried to lift the pistol still clutched in his hand. Too heavy. Too dark. Hands taking the pistol. Voices calling his name. The darkness wrapping around him in a smothering cloud. Gasping. Choking.

Breathe, damn you, breathe. A breath. Another breath. One more. Another. You can’t die. Not now. The dog must pay.

He will pay. He will pay with everything.

Everything.




Chapter One


Cornwall, England, 1816

T here it lay.

Morgan Pendaris, Earl of Carrick, drew rein at the top of the knoll, bringing the curricle to a stop. Before him over the rolling hills spread the woods, fields and meadows of his home, lush and green, neatly divided and stitched across by ancient hedges.

Nineteen years. Nineteen long years. Nineteen years dark with blood and hate. But, at last, Merdinn again belonged to him. His eyes narrowed with satisfaction, the words that had been his polestar ringing in his head, the words of Genghis Khan.

The greatest joy a man can have is to see his enemy in chains, to deprive him of his possessions, to ride his horses, to see tears on the faces of his loved ones, and to crush in your arms his wives and daughters.

He had at last deprived Cordell Hayne of every possession, including the estate that Hayne’s father had stolen from his. Chains were not far behind. The cur was firmly under the hatches, his only choice debtors prison or the transport ships.

“Why are we stopping, Uncle Morgan?”

“Because we have reached the Merdinn lands, Jeremy.” Morgan raked his dark curls out of his face with impatient fingers, a gesture that was the despair of Dagenham, his long-suffering valet. He smiled down at the boy seated beside him. “It has been a very long time since I have seen them.”

“But you lived here when you were my age?” Without waiting for an answer he already knew, Jeremy rushed on. “When will we see the castle?”

“Soon now.” Morgan flicked his reins and the curricle started down the hill. “It stands behind that bit of woods there.” He pointed with his whip.

The road wound between the fields, the summer sun of Cornwall hot on their heads and necks. A sliver of silver on their left marked the sea, placid at the moment, only the tiniest waves visible. As they neared the castle, the bridge across the old ditch rang hollow beneath the hooves of the horses and they plunged into the cool shade and dank greenery of the small forest that now covered the motte. The way rose steeply as they climbed the man-made hill, flickering through the shadows cast by the twisted trunks of the trees.

Jeremy bounced in his seat. “And there are real towers and real battlements?”

“Yes, as I have told you many times, there are two towers on the seaside wall.”

“But there is no drawbridge and it looks more like a big house now.” The boy’s voice clearly reflected his disapproval of another fact he had often been told.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Jeremy.” Morgan chuckled. He remembered how much, as a seven-year-old boy, he himself had wished that the crumbling walls still stood, that the bridges still lifted, that he might charge across them on a fiery steed. But alas, those deeds belonged to ages past. The towers, however, remained satisfyingly intact—or at least, mostly so. They shared with the rest of the manor the deterioration of two generations of neglect, the neglect that he intended to wipe away.

And when all had again been restored to stateliness and comfort, he would bring his mother home, back to her rightful place as mistress of Merdinn.

Suddenly the trees parted and Morgan’s heart swelled as his boyhood home stood before his eyes—somewhat battered perhaps, as he himself was, but still proud and strong.

Across the level ground of the bailey that had once lain inside a curtain wall, lay the gray stone of the manor itself, with the twin towers on the wall behind it standing proudly against the azure sky. Behind them, he knew, the cliff fell away over jagged rocks into the sea.

He heard beside him a small sigh of satisfaction. “There really are towers.”

“Did you doubt my word?” Morgan lifted one eyebrow as he guided his blacks around the curving drive.

“Oh, no!” A touch of dismay sounded in the boy’s voice. “I wouldn’t question your honor, Uncle Morgan.” He glanced speculatively up at his uncle. “You aren’t going to call me out, are you?”

“No. Not today.”

A sigh. “I thought not.”

Morgan couldn’t decide whether he heard relief or disappointment. “Are you so eager to engage in an affair of honor?”

“Well,” Jeremy pondered, “not with you. But I think it would be famous to have a duel.”

“Believe me, it is not.” Morgan pulled his horses in before the double doors of the house. “I hope you never have occasion to find that out for yourself.”

As he waited for a groom to come take his horses, a surge of excitement coursed through Morgan. The success of another of his goals would be achieved within minutes. He did not expect to find Hayne at Merdinn. The bastard would be in London, trying desperately to find a way to recoup. But his wife… Ah. Hayne’s mysterious, never-seen wife, the usurper of his mother’s place, the cause of his sister’s disgrace. She would be there.

Within minutes he would put her out of his house.

Let her go to her rotten husband. Let her go with him to whatever hole claimed him. Let her beg on the streets, for all he cared. No longer would she be a barrier to decent women, to the women he loved. Enough time had elapsed. She should already be preparing for departure.

Several minutes passed without the appearance of a groom. Hmm. Had Hayne already dismissed his staff? Was the place deserted? No. The windows were open on the second floor. “Well, then, Jeremy. It seems that we will have to take the horses to the stable ourselves.”

“I can take them, Uncle Morgan, while you go inside.” Jeremy looked hopefully at his uncle.

Morgan tousled his nephew’s hair as he once again gave his mettlesome horses the office to start. “All in good time, ambitious one.”

Another heavy sigh. Shaking his head in amusement, Morgan directed his team through the stable door and climbed down. Jeremy scrambled down after him and dashed past him to the back door of the building. Morgan sauntered after him, his critical eye appraising the lone riding mount and the sturdy cob that appeared to be the only occupants of the stalls. Hardly an impressive selection.

Perhaps Hayne had contrived to depose of his stable before Morgan could take possession of it. He scowled. Much good it would do him. Morgan now owned the paper on every debt that Hayne had incurred in a long and profligate career. Even the sale of his horses would not save him. Morgan rubbed at his chest absently. Nothing would save the cad now.

He followed Jeremy out into the sunshine behind the dark stable. At the rear of the stable and the kitchen wing of the house, a large kitchen garden tumbled down the motte. Morgan frowned thoughtfully. It looked to be a great deal larger than he remembered. And now that he thought about it, there were more flower beds in the lawn of the bailey. He wouldn’t have thought that Hayne would have spent money on gardens. Perhaps it was the wife.

Two women, their hair covered with kerchiefs, worked far down the slope. They apparently did not hear him, or perhaps considered the arrival of guests none of their concern. One of them stepped with the slow movements of age, and gray hair peeped from under her scarf. The other looked young and possibly shapely under her heavy skirts. A midnight-black braid of hair as thick as her wrist dropped from beneath her head covering to her hips. It shone lustrously in the sun.

At the sound of footsteps Morgan reluctantly tore his gaze from the shining hair and the hips beneath it. Jeremy rounded the far corner of the stable, a tall, thin man in his wake. “Look, Uncle Morgan, I found someone.”

“James!” Morgan hurried forward, his hand extended. “It’s good to see you.”

“Lord Morgan? Is it really you?” The old man grasped his hand and pumped it vigorously. “It’s a sight for sore eyes you are! What brings you here?”

“I’m home to stay, James. Merdinn is no longer in the hands of the Haynes.”

“Him!” James spat on the ground. “I’ll be glad to see the back of his head. He had his way he’d have turned me off long ago. Said I can’t do the work no more.” He patted his silvery locks. “Just because there’s a little snow on the roof… But the missus keeps me on. I handle everything just fine by myself.” He jerked his head toward the two resident horses. “Ain’t all that much to do. But let me see to your team. Beautiful bits of bone and blood they are, too. You and the little fellow go on up to the house. I’ll take care of ’em.”

Murmuring his thanks, Morgan herded Jeremy out into the bailey. As they strolled toward the main door of the house he glanced at the beds of plants that dotted the lawn. To his surprise he noted that they contained as many vegetables as flowers. The effect was odd, but strangely pleasing.

Not bothering to knock, he opened the door and Jeremy darted inside. They found themselves in a vaulted hall, before them a wide set of stairs leading up. “Where do they go, Uncle Morgan?”

“To the upper levels. Hold your horses but a little longer, Jeremy, and I will take you over the whole place. For now, come into the library and let us see if anyone is about.” He turned to a door on his left and led the way into a large room lined with books. He gave the bellpull an authoritative tug and sat down in the chair behind the desk. Jeremy immediately climbed the book ladder to the top and sat surveying his new domain.

While he waited, Morgan glanced at the papers on the desk. They seemed to be household books, but there were not enough of them to account for the running of the castle. He was going through the drawers when a frail young girl timidly opened the library door and poked her dull blond head into the room. When she saw him sitting at the desk and Jeremy perched like a gargoyle on the ladder, she squeaked and hastily withdrew.

“Wait!” Morgan sprang out of the chair and through the door barely in time to grasp her arm before she could disappear into the kitchen wing. Jeremy scampered down the ladder and peered around the door. “Here now. What’s the matter with you? Where is everyone?” The girl cringed away from him and hung her head, giving every evidence of terror. Morgan snorted in frustration. “Is your mistress at home?”

The girl nodded. At last! A response. “Then kindly tell her that the Earl of Carrick would like a moment of her time. I’ll be in the library.” She scurried away and disappeared. “Am I mad or is it everyone else?” Morgan stalked back into the library and sprawled into a chair. “One pensioner in the stable and one half-wit in the house. Perhaps Mrs. Hayne is almost ready to leave.”

At least she had ordered a good cleaning before going. The books looked dusted and the leather chair smelled of lemon oil. The stone floor was well polished, although the carpet was distinctly worn. It had been worn the last time Morgan had seen it. Too impatient to sit longer, he paced around the room. Where was the woman? He had been waiting for at least twenty minutes. Was she showing her disdain for him? His lip curled. If so, let her enjoy it while she may. If the curst woman would but show herself…

After another half hour his anger had grown to the point of explosion. Jeremy prudently busied himself with looking at the pictures in an old book, careful to avoid the avuncular displeasure. Morgan had almost decided to scour the castle for its soon-to-be-former mistress himself when the door opened and a woman stepped into the room. He recognized her immediately as the younger woman he had seen in the garden.

“Who the hell are you, and where the hell is Mrs. Hayne? I sent for her an hour ago. She has not yet done me the courtesy of responding.” He glared at the gardener. Her gown had green stains from the plants and there was a smudge of dirt on her nose. There was also a puzzled expression in her eyes—eyes, he noted, that were the calm, transparent aquamarine of the shallows on a sunny day.

“I’m sorry you had to wait, my lord.” She crossed the room to the chair opposite Morgan and sank into it gracefully. “Peggy did not tell me until a moment ago that you were here.”

Morgan stared in astonishment. This woman certainly had a lot of brass for a gardener. His scowl deepened. “What’s wrong with Peggy? Is she half-witted?”

“No, just fearful.” She wiped at the dirt on her face, smearing it and making matters worse.

“What the devil is she so afraid of?” Morgan’s eyes went to the streaked face and then to the skin beneath the dirt. It appeared to be flawless—as luminescent as a pearl. The tendrils of raven-black hair escaping from the kerchief framed softly rounded cheeks that glowed a slightly deeper rose. When she spoke he discovered that, for a moment, he had forgotten his own question. He jerked his attention back to her answer.

“Everything. Of you. Of me. Of making a mistake.”

Morgan shook his head, not completely understanding. If that were the case, the young girl deserved his pity, not his scorn. In fact, it came to his attention that the woman in the chair across from him did not deserve the anger he had generated toward the elusive Mrs. Hayne. He should not have cursed in her presence, whoever she was.

He moderated his tone. “You have still not told me who you are.”

She looked startled. “Why, I am Eulalia Hayne. You asked for me?”

The sense of unreality that had been growing in Morgan reached a new height. This lovely but disheveled creature was the stylish Cordell Hayne’s wife? He had pictured a cold and haughty woman, lifting herself on the backs of others as Hayne himself did. And he had pictured her living in grandeur stolen from his family. He could only stare.

“You are Mrs. Hayne?” She nodded and he thought he glimpsed for a moment the slightest twinkle in those remarkable eyes. “Where is the rest of your staff?”

“There is no staff except me, my grandmother, James and Peggy.”

“And Hayne is content to live like this?”

For a moment the eyes darkened, as though a cloud had passed over the sun. Then a small smile curved the deep-rose lips. “My husband is very rarely here, except when he takes his sloop out. Did you wish to speak to him?”

The question of Hayne’s whereabouts began to disturb Morgan. “Is he in residence now?”

“No. He rode in yesterday, but only for a short while. He left again in the Seahawk, saying that he had a wager on a sailing race that would bring him about.” She shrugged. The movement brought the tops of two plump globes covered in pearly skin nearer to the rounded neckline of her dress. The train of the conversation again momentarily eluded Morgan. With an effort he pulled his gaze back to her face as she continued. “I don’t know what he meant, exactly, but he often races the Seahawk. He has been doing so a great deal of late. It’s very fast, and he likes to wager on the outcome.”

“He likes to wager on everything.” Morgan frowned. Apparently he had not succeeded in depriving Hayne of his boat. An oversight on his part. But perhaps not. Hayne would think nothing of taking out a boat that had already been foreclosed. Or of making a wager when he no longer had anything to back it.

Or of leaving Morgan to break the news to his wife that she no longer had a home.

Suddenly the shining prospect of that satisfying moment faded a trifle. He had believed that Hayne would have at least sent word to her that he had lost Merdinn, but obviously he had not. His wife sat before him with confusion in her eyes. As Morgan searched for the words that would at last avenge his mother and sister, Jeremy closed his book and edged forward to get a better look at the lady.

She turned in surprise, and the first real smile Morgan had seen bloomed in her face. “Well, who is this?”

Morgan motioned the boy forward. “This is my nephew, Jeremy Pendaris. He makes his home with me.”

Jeremy stepped closer and essayed a polite bow. “How do you do, Mrs. Hayne?”

She held out a welcoming hand and clasped Jeremy’s small one. “How nice to meet you, Jeremy.”

Seeing the warm response in his nephew’s face, Morgan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Things were not going as he had expected. “Jeremy, I need to speak with Mrs. Hayne privately. You may explore on this floor of the building, but on no account are you to climb the wall or the towers. Nor are you to go down the path to our cove alone—not now or at any other time. Do I make myself clear?”

“Oh, yes, sir. I promise.” Jeremy quickly dashed for the door before his uncle could change his mind.

When the door had banged shut behind him, Morgan turned back to Eulalia Hayne and hardened his heart. “Mrs. Hayne, apparently it falls to me to explain your situation to you.” Damnation! Where were the arrogant words he had rehearsed so many times in his dreams? “Are you aware that nineteen years ago your father-in-law came into possession of Merdinn, a property that had been in the Pendaris family for generations, as the result of a dishonorable business arrangement?”

Again her eyes seemed to darken to a light gray, like the sunless winter sea. “I know very little about the dealings of my husband’s family. At that time I would have been only five years old. My family lived nearby, but I would not have remembered anything like that.”

Morgan remembered. He remembered that day in every agonizing detail. His father’s impotent anger, his mother’s tears, his own pain as his beloved home was ripped away from him. His own anger. It welled in him again, and a muscle jumped in his tightened jaw. At the age of fifteen he had been dispossessed of his birthright. He spoke through clenched teeth. “Suffice to say that he did so—by defrauding my father. I have recently been able to regain what the Haynes stole from my family.”

A small pucker increased between the lady’s brows. “I am not sure I understand.”

“I now own Merdinn.”

He watched in silence as the significance of the statement sank in. She sat very still in her chair, her hands lying motionless in her lap. At last she nodded. “I see. My husband has sold it to you?”

“No.” The word was stark, harsh. Morgan waited a heartbeat before continuing. “Your husband had mortgaged everything he owned—and he was far in arrears on even the interest, let alone the principal. I have bought up all his notes—on the land, his wagers, his cattle—everything. He now owns nothing.”

“I see.” She continued to sit like a statue, but he could see a pulse beating frantically in her throat. “My only income derives from a small portion of the tenant rents.”

“Unfortunately, any arrangement that Hayne made is no longer worth the ink in which it was signed. All the rents are now payable to me.”

She stood and lifted her small chin. The gray of her eyes now approached the dark color of the sea in storm. “I understand. My grandmother and I will leave as quickly as we can. Will three days be soon enough?”

“You may wait for your husband’s return. You will no doubt want to go with him.”

An expression he could not read flitted over her face. “I do not believe that it will be useful to wait.”

She left the room with a dignified tread. Morgan blew out an angry breath and slumped in his chair. He did this for his mother, and even more for his poor deceived, disgraced little sister. For Beth. Especially for her. God rest her unhappy soul.

But the triumph suddenly left a bitter taste in his mouth.




Chapter Two


L alia carefully laid the hairbrush on the dressing table, forbidding herself to throw it, and dropped her face into her hands. Her thoughts spun ’round and ’round and back and forth like the unattended wheel of a ship in a gale. What was she to do? Where in the world could she go? And what about Daj? She was no longer young, and her bones hurt her so. She could do very little work. Lalia would have to earn their bread for both herself and her grandmother. She had almost no money to provide for them until she could find employment. She could not afford to go to London or even Bath. And what was she trained to do?

Manage a home she no longer had.

What? Where? How? When? How? Where…?

Dizziness threatened to overcome her. She jumped up from the dressing stool and began to pace. A flicker of lightning brightened the window for an instant and she paused to look out on the dark sea. The clouds had already defeated the moon. She could see nothing until the approaching storm hurled another bolt.

One thing was certain. Her husband would not rescue her.

Rain began to patter against the glass, and the wind rattled the casement, reflecting the storm that raged inside Lalia. Her feelings changed with every wave, battering her against the rocks of indecision. Fear. Anger. Grief. Her usual serenity had long since disappeared into the depths. She had become the storm.

She couldn’t stand it another minute.

Snatching her wrapper from the bed, she flung it over her shoulders and raced out of the room.



Morgan threw open the wardrobe and took stock of its contents. They didn’t amount to much. Apparently, as Mrs. Hayne had said, her husband spent very little time at Merdinn. But even a single cravat, a pair of stockings, an unmatched glove was too much. He began to pull shirts and coats and trousers out of the wardrobe and throw them on the floor.

Boots, small clothes… When the wardrobe was empty, he attacked the dressing room. Brushes, razors and shaving mug joined the heap on the floor. When not a solitary item belonging to Hayne remained in place in the master suite, Morgan gathered up the pile and dumped it in the hallway. Tomorrow James could take the lot to the vicar to give to the poor. He wanted no trace of the man to remain in his home.

Morgan walked to the window to watch the storm. As he stood there, a distant thump vibrated its way through the house. A door slamming. Now who would be going out into this weather? As he pondered the question, a flicker of movement on the ground below him, caught in a flash of lightning, captured his attention. Someone was abroad.

The next bolt of lightning revealed someone leaning against the parapet at the top of the east tower. As he watched, the wind blew a sail of hair back from the figure. So much hair. Eulalia Hayne.

Alarm shot through Morgan. Good God! She intended to jump! He whirled and dashed into the hallway and ran for the stairs. Taking them two at a time, he gained the lower floor and found the door behind the main staircase unfastened. Looking up, he could still see her leaning into the gale, the rain beating down on her lifted face. He ducked his own head against the rain and made for the tower.

The heavy wooden door into the tower opened easily enough, but the moment it closed, he was in total darkness. Feeling his way up the steps, Morgan had climbed only three when his foot encountered not the fourth, but open air. He caught himself on the next stair up, banging his elbow and painfully scraping his shin. Damnation!

The place had deteriorated badly since he had been here. How the devil did she get up there? Rubbing his elbow, he backed down to the floor and considered. As a boy he had known everything there was to know about Merdinn. Including the flight of unprotected steps that led from the wall around the outside of the tower to the watch platform where his quarry stood. Not a route to pursue in this kind of weather, however.

But a life was at stake. The thought gave him pause. Was it a life that he was willing to risk his own to save? Or was he willing to drive Cordell Hayne’s wife to her death as Hayne had driven Beth to hers? Had it been Hayne on the parapet, he would have watched him fall without lifting a finger. But his hapless wife? Could he stand by and watch Eulalia Hayne die, even to avenge his little sister’s death?

He swore under his breath and started for the wall.



Lalia closed her eyes and let the rain mingle with her tears. It poured over her, washing away her agitation and confusion. The wind swirled around her, blowing her mantle of hair first toward her and then out behind. She didn’t feel the chill. She didn’t want to feel. Didn’t want to remember the resolve she saw in Lord Carrick’s hard, glass-green eyes. Didn’t want to think anymore.

Not thinking—the very thing that had kept her in this situation. Allowing herself to drift, to accept. Think she must, but she would do it tomorrow. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow.

Now Lalia only wanted the rain.

Suddenly she heard the scrape of leather on stone and before she could spin around, a large, authoritative hand grasped her upper arm and pulled her away from the parapet. Stifling a shriek, she put up her other hand to fend off whomever had taken hold of her. Her hand encountered something very warm and very hard. A flash of light revealed the something to be Lord Carrick’s chest. He only tightened his hold when she tried to step away.

“My lord! What are you doing?”

“What am I doing? I am stopping you from leaping onto the rocks. What are you doing? Surely your situation cannot be that bad.”

“You have no…” Before she could finish the sentence a gust blew her curtain of hair across her face, covering both her eyes and her mouth. She fumbled ineffectively with her free hand to clear it away. Before she could gain control of the errant tresses, a second large hand gathered them together and lifted them over her head, holding them firmly at the nape of her neck. The wrist rested heavily on her shoulder.

“Think, Mrs. Hayne. Is any misfortune worth your life?”

Lalia looked up into the stern face with the dark curls plastered to the broad forehead. It was too dark to see the green of his eyes, but they glittered wildly in the intermittent light. She pressed her hand against her chest where her startled heart still pounded loudly and tried to gather her composure. He seemed to expect a response.

“I… You… I’m sorry, my lord. I did not mean to alarm you. I have no intention of jumping to my death.”

His lordship looked skeptical. “Then what, pray tell me, are you doing up here in the midst of a storm? Are you hoping to be stuck by lightning?”

A blinding flash and a deafening crack of thunder punctuated this question. Lord Carrick jerked her against himself as if to shield her. Lalia ducked her head, hiding her face against his shirt. After a cautious moment she decided that she was still alive and tried to draw back a step. His lordship hesitated for a second, looking deeply into her eyes, then loosened his hold slightly.

The warmth of his muscular body enveloped her. Lalia vainly willed her racing heart to slow. She could hear it banging in her ears. “I am not seeking death, my lord. I simply wanted the rain.”

“You wanted… You wanted the rain?” His lordship still looked unconvinced.

“Yes. It calms me.”

“I see.” He did not let go of her. He lifted one eyebrow. “You are telling me that I have come out into a storm, risked my health to an inflammation of the lungs, risked my neck climbing a crumbling wall and an open stair slick with rain, and you tell me you simply wanted to be calmed?”

In spite of herself Lalia chuckled. “Apparently so. But thank you for your concern.”

Lord Carrick did not chuckle. The next flash of light revealed an intimidating crease between his eyebrows. At last he spoke. “If you say so. Nevertheless, I am unwilling to put the matter to the test. How the devil did you come up? Surely you did not climb the outer stairs.”

“I came through the old guard room, my lord. I am familiar with the broken steps in the tower.”

“Very well. You can lead me back down.” He paused for another frowning moment, then asked abruptly, “Have you anywhere to go?”

Lalia shook her head. “No, my lord.”

“Hayne will certainly return for you.”

Lalia dropped her gaze to the stone floor. She knew that would never happen. Looking once more into his face, she drew a deep breath. “I consider that very unlikely.”

Lord Carrick sighed. “Then we will continue this discussion tomorrow—without the danger of being incinerated by lightning.”

With every evidence of reluctance, he released her hair and ushered her toward the door of the tower room.



Having divested himself of his wet clothes, Morgan poured himself a brandy and leaned back against the headboard of the bed, pulling the quilt over his legs. He rubbed at the spot on his chest that always ached in damp weather. A fire would have been nice, but Mrs. Hayne informed him that they did not purchase wood for the bedchambers at Merdinn in the summer.

Hellfire and damnation! What had he got himself into now?

He was realizing that, if the woman truly had nowhere to go, if her husband had abandoned her, he would have a very hard time making himself send her into the streets. After all, was his desire to avenge Beth on Hayne’s woman any better than what Hayne had done to Beth? Morgan was beginning to feel a bit like a cad and a bully in his own right. Not the way he wanted to view himself. Besides—another idea had taken strong hold of his mind.

…to crush in your arms his wives and daughters.

Perhaps it was time for him to do a little crushing.

What better revenge on your enemy than to take his woman from him, to take her to your bed? No man could stand that. A cold smile lit Morgan’s eyes.

He felt himself getting hard. He had been hard off and on ever since he had grasped Eulalia Hayne’s arm on the tower. Her soaked nightclothes clinging to every inch of her body clearly revealed the curves whose presence he had hitherto only deduced. Lovely, plump curves covered in flawless, translucent skin. And all that hair. Black satin spread out beneath him, lying beneath those succulently rounded hips, covering those soft, generous breasts.

Morgan rolled the brandy over his tongue. He couldn’t wait to get his mouth on her. He must have been mad to even consider sending away such a delicious morsel.



Lord Carrick had asked her to join him for dinner in the family dining room—one of the rooms she and her grandmother usually allowed to go uncleaned. Lalia had more than enough work, and her pride, such as it was, did not prevent her eating in the kitchen with the rest of her small household. It did, however, prevent her from serving his lordship in a dirty room. She buffed the table, her hands busy while her mind worried the problem of what she should do.

Lalia pushed her hair out of her face with a wrist that smelled of beeswax. She sensed that Lord Carrick intended to give her a reprieve, that he would tell her that she need not leave immediately. But was that the best decision for her? Certainly it was the easiest.

The question of what she would do here loomed almost as large as that of what she would do if she left. Even with her grandmother as chaperone, living here with his lordship in residence would really be not at all the thing. The memory of the heat of his body and the hardness of his chest washed over her, causing her to tremble. No, indeed. Not the thing at all!

Daj, as always, counseled patience.

“Wait and see, Lalia.”

Wait and see, wait and see, always wait, wait, wait.



Apparently a small miracle had occurred. When Morgan had looked into the family dining room earlier in the day, he had resigned himself to a dinner eaten alongside the dust that had covered everything. But now the cobwebs were no more and the surface of the table reflected the fine, gleaming china and crystal his mother had not been able to take to London with her. The heir-loom silver had even been polished, glinting softly in the candlelight. Another miracle that Hayne had not sold it all. Likely he never visited the pantries. Morgan leaned back in his chair with satisfaction.

Now if his dinner companion would but appear, he would enjoy a meal at his own table. And enjoy his companion. He licked his lips. Even if she appeared in the worn work clothes that seemed to be her only garments, she would outshine most of the beauties in London. He looked at his watch. Any moment now.

As Morgan slipped his watch back into the pocket of his dark evening coat, the lady stepped through the door. Or at least, he thought it was the same lady. Surely the third miracle of the day had come to pass.

Eulalia Hayne glided through the door in a gown of some shimmering fabric that clung to her curves like the hands of a lover. The seafoam green silk, a little lighter than her limpid eyes, caressed her breasts, swooping low across them. A rope of pearls dipped into the valley between. Her masses of shining, inky-black hair, freed from the braid, were piled in loops and swirls high on her head. The arrangement appeared to defy gravity, allowing only soft wisps to escape around her face.

For a moment Morgan could only stare. Surely if he looked hard enough he would be able to see through that gown to the luscious skin beneath it. Surely if she moved, that bodice would slide down, revealing her rosy nipples. Surely… Suddenly he bethought himself of his manners and came hastily to his feet.

“Good evening, Lord Carrick. I trust I haven’t kept you waiting.”

“Uh, um…not at all.” Morgan pulled out her chair and leaned over her shoulder hungrily as she seated herself. That neckline was bound to move, if he just kept his eye on it. “I have just arrived.” The bodice stayed stubbornly in place and he moved regretfully to the sideboard. “May I pour you some wine?” She nodded, and Morgan gave thanks to his father’s ghost for hiding away his best collection of wine in the deepest, darkest cellar.

Sitting down again, he gave a thought to the wondrous dress. Perhaps Mrs. Hayne enjoyed more affluence than he had yet observed. He tried to feel anger at some possible deception on her part, but it failed to materialize. Even he could see that the garment was years from being the height of fashion. But curiosity pricked. “Your gown is lovely. Did you purchase it in London?”

Mrs. Hayne sipped her wine and shook her head. “I have never been to London.”

“Never?” Everyone had been to London.

She smiled. “I have led a rather secluded life.”

Apparently so. Everyone had been to London. “Did you live in Cornwall before your marriage?”

“Yes, my father was Sir Richmond Poleven. He owned an estate not far from here. My half brother, Roger, now lives there.” After a moment with a curious lack of expression she added, “It was he who arranged for my marriage.”

So she was Poleven’s sister. That explained some things. He knew Roger Poleven to be a crony of Hayne’s. He surpassed Hayne in character by a small margin, but Morgan did not think very highly of him. “I would think he could have done better for you than Cordell Hayne.”

Mrs. Hayne looked down into her glass, then back at him with eyes that had turned gray but steady. “It is not easy to find a match for a dowerless, half-Gypsy sister. I believe Roger brought it about by forgiving a debt.”

Startled, Morgan exclaimed, “Gypsy? Your mother was a Gypsy?” It was almost unheard of for a nobleman to marry anyone not of the gentry, let alone a person considered an outcast by even the lowest peasant. Perhaps Sir Richmond had an aversion to leaving a bastard behind. But to know she had been foisted onto a scoundrel through coercion… What a blow to her pride.

If the lady felt any chagrin, he did not see it on her face. “Yes, my father married her a long while after Roger’s mother died. Mine died giving me birth.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. As I never knew her, I have not felt the loss, especially as her mother has taken care of me ever since.”

“So your grandmother is a Gypsy.”

She smiled. “Oh, yes. She has never given up her Romani ways. Roma is the name they call themselves,” she explained. “When a woman marries a gadjo, a man who is not Roma, she becomes marimé, and no longer Gypsy. Since my father would not give me up when my mother died, my grandmother also left her tribe rather than abandon me to a strange household—but she is still Roma to the core.”

The door opened and James came in with a tray bearing two plates of a savory stew with a hearty pancake-like bread useful for scooping. Morgan drew in the aroma appreciatively. “Is this a Romani dish?”

“Yes, I hope you don’t mind. Romani food is all my grandmother or I know how to cook. We were never in the kitchen at my father’s home.” Mrs. Hayne appeared to study her dinner, speaking with a bit of hesitation. “Is your own chef coming soon?”

“In a few days. My man of business is assembling a full staff.”

“I see.” She kept her gaze on her plate. “We shall try to be away by then.”

Morgan pushed away from the table and poured himself another glass of wine, his brows creased thoughtfully. Without asking, he refilled her half-empty glass. “You seem to be certain that Hayne will not return for you.”

She took a tiny sip of the wine. “I think that it is highly unlikely, my lord. If, as you say, he is ruined, he will not want an additional burden. And…he has never sought my company.”

Never sought her company? The man must be blind as well as a blackguard. “Will you go to your brother?”

She appeared to consider for a moment, then shook her head. “My half brother. I doubt that will be possible. I have not seen Roger in years.”

So Poleven did not want an embarrassing Gypsy relative in residence. It fit with Morgan’s assessment of his nature. And with his own plans. He hesitated a moment before asking the next, potentially humiliating, question, and then decided to ask it anyway. “Have you any money?”

“I have some, my lord.” She did not meet his eyes and he deduced that some meant very little indeed. The answer also suited his purposes. She would stay because she could not leave.

If she felt ashamed, her voice did not betray it. “I have tried to sell these pearls, but no one I know can buy them.” Her eyes, now clear again, twinkled, and a little smile played around her lips. “Besides—they all have their own finery.”

The light dawned on Morgan. Salvage. Goods washed ashore from shipwrecks by law belonged to the crown or the ship owner. Apparently she was not above skirting the law a bit herself. What had he expected of Hayne’s wife? Roger Poleven’s sister? Did she also engage in a little smuggling?

“You, uh, found the pearls?”

“A trunk appeared as if by magic in our cove several years ago.” She assumed a very innocent expression, opening her eyes wide. “There was no ship in sight, so how were we to know how it got there?”

In spite of himself, a bark of laughter burst out of Morgan. He knew well that where so many ships met their doom on the treacherous cliffs of Cornwall, outwitting the salvage officers had long since become a major industry. “And the dress?”

“From the trunk, also.” She returned serenely to her dinner. How like Cordell Hayne to leave his beautiful wife to resort to the sea for an out-of-fashion evening dress, to leave her to manage his estate on a paltry allowance.

And now he left her conveniently penniless. Morgan started to refill Mrs. Hayne’s glass, but it was still full, so he poured another glass for himself. Apparently the seduction of his enemy’s lady would not be accomplished by plying her with strong drink. Pity. The longer she sat across the table from him in that enticing gown, the more impatient he became.

He would have to offer her a position. But not as the mistress of Merdinn. Cordell Hayne’s wife would never be that.




Chapter Three


W hat should he suggest? The position of housekeeper? Demeaning for a gentleman’s daughter, but perhaps suitable for the wife of one’s defeated enemy. But, no. He already had a housekeeper on the way. Besides—she might move out of the mistress’s bedchamber that adjoined his and take up residence in the housekeeper’s rooms.

The offer must be something temporary. Then if things did not work out as he wished, he could find a position for her with one of his acquaintances. Even if they did, he could not picture himself carrying on an affair with an employee under the same roof as his mother. No, indeed.

That thought gave him pause. An affair with an employee? Never before had he even considered such a dishonorable course of action. But she would not really be an employee, just a…

A woman without protection.

The notion trust itself forward unbidden. He shoved it back. Damnation! She was Cordell Hayne’s wife! It was his responsibility to protect her. Married women had affairs all the time—after producing a few heirs, of course. It was an accepted fact of ton life.

But Mrs. Hayne must be long gone before his mother’s arrival at the end of the summer. Ah! That gave him an idea. Morgan schooled his features to reveal none of his thoughts. This must be done carefully.

“Mrs. Hayne, I wonder, since you have no immediate plans, if you might be able to oblige me in the matter of Jeremy’s supervision? I dismissed his governess when we left London. He is old enough now for a tutor, but I want to allow him his freedom for the rest of the summer. As I will be very busy with the renovations of Merdinn, perhaps you might agree to keep him out of trouble for me? By summer’s end, you should be able to arrange a position elsewhere.”

“Thank you, my lord. I appreciate your offer, but what of my grandmother?”

Apparently the grandparent came with the lady. In any event, Morgan could certainly not see himself turning out an infirm and aged woman. “She will remain as my guest, of course.”

Lalia took a careful sip of her wine. The expected reprieve had become reality—and presented in a very palatable form. Not charity exactly, but a position. Not a very exalted position, true, but honorable enough. A governess of sorts. No, not quite that exalted. Rather a nursemaid. Very kind of his lordship.

Very kind.

He was up to something.

She looked steadily into his face for a moment. He looked back, politely expectant—nothing more. Yes, he was definitely up to something. He clearly hated her husband, so why should he feel any differently toward her? Why indeed.

Perhaps she presumed in thinking that his lordship had designs on her plump person. She was but a mere dab of a woman, too short and too well padded for fashion. No one had ever called her a beauty. But she saw…something…behind that enigmatic green gaze. Clearly the safety of her virtue lay in departing Merdinn as fast as her legs could carry her.

But when had she ever had the luxury of safety? Not since her father died certainly. And what of Daj? Her legs hardly even carried her up the stairs. Once again Lalia would have to be practical. At least the post would give her the time she needed.

All her other choices really constituted no choice at all. Once again she must accept the inevitable. The very thing she had always done. Accept and make the best of it. Accept the position of an ostracized half-Gypsy daughter sheltered on her father’s estate. Accept the guardianship of a half brother who married her to a ne’er-do-well at the age of sixteen, because he didn’t want to be bothered with her well-being. Accept a husband who took no thought for her well-being at all.

Now, if she stayed, what might she be asked to accept?

“Very well, my lord. Until the end of the summer then.”

If she could avoid her husband, she certainly could avoid Lord Carrick.



The next morning Lalia had her first inkling that Lord Carrick might prove a little harder to avoid than her usually absent husband. Just as she and Jeremy were climbing into the gig outside the stable, his lordship came running toward them up the lane. Good heavens! What could be the matter? She tossed the reins to James and, hastily jumping down, hurried toward Lord Carrick. He ran easily up to the carriage, his long legs pumping, the muscles flexing inside the skintight britches. He came to a stop beside her, his breathing only slightly deep.

“My lord! What is it?”

He bowed carelessly and tossed sweaty curls off his forehead. “What is what?”

“Why are you running? Is there some emergency?”

“Oh, that. No, I often run.”

He smiled down at her, his eyes warming, and suddenly Lalia’s own breath caught in her throat. He had pushed his rolled sleeves above his elbows, revealing sculptured forearms, and his open collar showed the cords of his strong neck. A sense of power flowed off of him along with his scent and the heat from his body, embracing her in a mesmerizing cloud.

Lalia took a step back. “Oh…uh…” She drew a sustaining breath. “You alarmed me. I have never known a gentleman to…”

“To run? Most gentlemen do not have my motivation. I suffered an injury to my lung. Running has helped me to regain my stamina.” The smile dimmed a bit and the seductive light in his eyes went out. Somehow the expression changed to something just a little menacing.

Lalia stepped back again. “I—I see. That must have been very difficult for you.”

“Yes, at first.” He move a pace nearer, and Lalia retreated again, bumping against the gig. The horse sidled and his lordship steadied it with a hand on the bridle. “Where are you two going?” He casually put his hands on her waist as though to help her into the carriage.

And he took his time about it. Drat the man! Lalia braced herself and prepared to be lifted. “To see Widow Tregellen. I am taking her some of our fresh vegetables.”

The hands that had tightened around her were abruptly removed and she almost stumbled in surprise as she found herself still on the ground. Lord Carrick stepped back. “I see. As you have been doing as lady of the estate.”

“Well, yes. I guess you might say that. The tenants have no one else on whom they may depend.”

“Had no one else. The situation has changed. That is no longer your responsibility, Mrs. Hayne.”

Lalia’s cheeks grew warm. “I—I had not thought of that. I did not mean to… It is just that she can no longer manage her own garden, and I thought she would especially enjoy the green onions.”

“No doubt.” His lordship crossed his arms over his chest, his expression unyielding.

“Very well. If you don’t wish her to have them… James, you may unhitch the gig. Come, Jeremy.”

“Aw, Uncle Morgan.” Jeremy made to climb down. “We were going to see the lighthouse.”

Damn the woman! Morgan perceived that he had been cast neatly in the role of villain—an uncaring lord denying an aging dependent a few fresh vegetables and his nephew an outing. Now what was he to do? He held up a restraining hand. James stopped his preparations to lead the carriage away, a carefully neutral expression on his lined face.

“I did not say I did not want her to have them.” Morgan grimaced. Damnation! Now he sounded defensive.

“You could come with us, Uncle Morgan,” Jeremy put in hopefully.

Not a bad idea, three of them crowded onto the seat. Morgan glanced down at his sweat-stained clothes. But not at this particular moment. He turned to the lady who waited quietly. “Are you a competent driver?”

James chortled. “At least, she never put the gig in no ditch, as I seem to recall a certain young gentleman doing.”

Morgan scowled, then grinned ruefully. “That was a long time ago, James. I have since learned caution. Very well, Mrs. Hayne. Please deliver the produce with my compliments and greet Old Tom for me. Tell him I will stop in at the lighthouse at my earliest opportunity.”

“If you wish it, my lord.” She turned back to the gig and Morgan again seized her waist and tossed her up. As she took the reins, he waited until he could capture her gaze. When she looked at him in inquiry, he smiled slowly and allowed his gaze to travel briefly to the bosom concealed beneath the shabby pelisse. When he saw the blush climb from her neck to her cheeks, Morgan turned and withdrew, checked, but in good order.



Now what had that look been all about? As if she didn’t know! Lalia guided the cob down the road toward the widow’s house, considering. In the first place he had been determined to put her out of countenance, retaliation for her presumption—in short, to show her her place. Well, he could just put his mind at rest. She would certainly never act in her former role again. A spark of anger crept through the calm facade she showed the world.

Then, of course, there was the second place. Did he think she would so easily fall into his bed? She did, after all, have marriage vows to remember—not that her husband had ever given them a moment’s consideration. Again the wind of wrath ruffled her still waters. Why must she be chained to such a scoundrel—drunken, abusive, neglectful of everything but his pleasures and his schemes?

Oh, yes. She had heard the schemes. On the rare occasions when he graced his home with his presence, always deep in his cups, he pounded her ears with his talk. He even had the goodness to regale her with his amatory adventures. As if she cared. Apparently he hoped that jealousy would open her door to him, but she long ago had learned better than to do that.

She knew just when, before he had quite finished the third bottle, to make good her escape and turn the key. If she left him too soon, before he grew helplessly drunk, he would come after her and drag her back. If she waited too late, he would begin to paw her where she sat. Let him batter her door. That was better than his battering her body.

And now the Earl of Carrick appeared, smiling temptation thinly covering his anger. But for all that, he represented a very tempting temptation, indeed. How she would love to… No. No, she would not think of that. She, at least, would keep the vows she had made before God.

She drove silently for a few moments, recovering her tranquility. Repining did no good. It merely cut up her peace. She looked around her and drew a deep breath. She had a lovely day to enjoy, and Jeremy was chattering happily beside her. Time to once more put away what could not be remedied.

“Forgive me, Jeremy. I wasn’t attending. What did you say?”

“I asked you if I must call you Mrs. Hayne.”

Lalia pondered the question. “I don’t know. Do you not wish to call me that?”

“No-oo.” The boy lowered his gaze. “I don’t like the way it sounds when Uncle Morgan says it. He sounds as though he doesn’t like it, either.”

That made three of them. Lalia didn’t like it very much herself. “I suspect that is because he is angry with my husband. What would you like to call me?”

Jeremy brightened. “I don’t know. I know I shouldn’t call you by your given name.” He paused, squinting up at her in the bright sunlight. “You do have a given name, don’t you?”

Lalia chuckled. “Of course. It’s Eulalia.”

“Yoo…lol…ya. That’s a very long name.”

“My family calls me Lalia.”

“I could call you Miss Lalia.” He looked at her hopefully.

She smiled and ruffled his hair. “I think that would be nice.”



That must have been very difficult for you.

Yes, at first.

If only the woman knew. Difficult had hardly been the word at first. That came later. At first the word had been agonizing, lying propped on a stack of pillows, blood frothing on his lips, every breath an excruciating effort. Everyone knew Morgan would die. But they didn’t understand. He couldn’t die—wouldn’t. He survived to bring the bastard low.

Although, Morgan had to admit, at the moment he had not yet brought the scum quite as low as he had thought. The man was still at liberty, entirely without chains, and still on English soil. But Morgan would soon change that state of affairs. He strolled into the stable and surveyed the meager array of livestock.

…to ride his enemy’s horses…

That portion of his revenge was not going well, either. Aside from his own team of blacks, he saw only one horse—the cob, of course, being busy elsewhere. Even counting that functional if unglamorous animal, a stable of two horses did not provide much scope for revenge. Even the lone mount on which Hayne had ridden lacked quality.

Oh, well. Perhaps he should place Hayne’s sloop in the horse-riding category. He had no doubt that the small yacht would be better kept than the stable. It represented the only passion, greater than gambling and seducing women, that Hayne had. In place of the horse riding, sailing Hayne’s boat should pain his enemy even more. If he could find it. But Morgan, after all, owned numerous shipping vessels.

He would find it.

Horses and boats were a minor matter, in any case. His larger problem lay in deciding just how to bring about the desired crushing in his arms of Hayne’s wife. She would not hold him off for long. He could see that in her eyes, in the way she stepped away from him when he crowded her, in the way her breath quickened. She felt the tug of desire, just as he did. Hayne had obviously neglected her, leaving her hungry for the touch of a man. Yes, Morgan judged that he would soon prevail.

But he must not let her think that she would ever again be the mistress of his home. His mistress perhaps, but not the lady of the manor. Yet, upon reflection, he felt a grudging appreciation for her desire to see to the welfare of his people. At least they had had someone to turn to in his absence. The lady appeared to have a caring heart behind those delectable breasts. But as soon as Merdinn was again livable, he would bring his mother home to assume those tasks. Mrs. Hayne must learn her new place.

She would soon have other duties.



“Uncle Morgan, Uncle Morgan!” Jeremy slammed through the main door and raced into the library. “There’s a shipwreck! There are pieces of ship and dead people lying all over the cove!”

“Dead people?” Morgan scowled at his nephew’s caretaker as she followed her charge through the door at a more sedate pace.

His nephew glanced at him uncertainly. “Well, I think they were dead, because Miss Lalia would not let me go down to see.”

Morgan looked inquiringly at the lady. She nodded as she removed her frayed bonnet and smoothed her hair. “I fear so, my lord. The wreck occurred in Sad Day Cove, just this side of the lighthouse, some distance from our cove. The currents there are very strong and the rocks are vicious. I spoke with Old Tom where we met him on the road. He said that no one seems to have survived. I brought Jeremy straight away.”

“We did not get to see the lighthouse,” Jeremy rushed on, still excited, “because Mr. Tom was going to look at the wreck. But just think…I saw a real shipwreck!”

“No doubt a high treat, but I’m sure you’ll forgive me if, as a ship owner, I don’t share your enthusiasm,” Morgan responded dryly. He turned back to Mrs. Hayne. “Is there any indication as to who owned the vessel?”

“Tom thought it was a French ship—perhaps carrying passengers only. There seems to have been little cargo washed up.”

Morgan lifted an eyebrow. “Stranded goods rarely stay in evidence for long.”

“True, but from what I heard, there was not much to be seen when fishermen first noticed the debris just after dawn. Everyone was very disappointed.”

Morgan’s mouth quirked at this matter-of-fact assessment, but it bothered him that there had been so much loss of life. Unfortunately, when the booty looked rich, more than one struggling survivor had been known to die after reaching the safety of the beach. He got to his feet. “I’ll ride over and have a look.”



From the top of the cliff the rocks looked to be covered with ants. Two-legged ants. Both men and women swarmed over the rocks below him, searching in every cranny for anything valuable, or even useful. Breakers, crashing over the boulders as the tide advanced, wet everyone and threatened the bravest who teetered on the outlying stones. Several men climbed a rocky cleft, straining to keep hold of a rope attached to a grim burden. As they neared the top of the cliff, Morgan stepped forward and grasped the rope, adding his strength to pull the body onto level ground. While the other men caught their breath, he knelt and lifted away the covering sheet and studied the bruised face.

It had belonged to a young woman. About Beth’s age. The age Beth had been. Morgan winced at the thought of the tender body being pounded against the cruel rocks. What fear had gripped her as she fought the clutching breakers in the black darkness? He could only hope she had drowned before encountering the jagged stone teeth. He rose and stood looking thoughtfully at her, the questions in his mind still unanswered.

“It’s a sad day, me lord.”

Morgan started at the familiar voice. “Well, hello, James. I didn’t see you.”

James nodded at a second body, wiping his face. “I been doing my possible to help bring ’em up, but that ain’t as much as I’d like anymore. Good thing that’s the last one.”

“I’ll lend a hand. I’d have come sooner if I had known.” Morgan clapped his henchman on the shoulder. “You bring my horse.”

Morgan took James’s place and, encouraged by fresh help, the bearers resumed their burdens and carried them away from the edge of the precipice. They arrived shortly at a small, level spot where several bodies were laid out. A fair-haired young man in the uniform of the preventive services stood looking glumly at the corpses, casting an occasional glance toward the ocean.

Morgan approached him. “Good afternoon. I’m Carrick. Nothing to salvage, Mr….?”

The officer touched his hat respectfully. “Hastings. Nay, my lord. Not worth the battle with that lot.” He nodded toward the cliff. “Even most of them will go home empty-handed—unless the tide brings something in.”

“Do you know what happened to her?”

“No, my lord. The wind wasn’t all that high last night. I can’t see why…” The man shrugged. “You invest in shipping?”

Morgan nodded. “I have shipping interests, yes.”

“I see. Well, if I learn something I’ll send you word. Good day, sir.” The officer bowed and walked off toward the cliff.

Morgan strolled to where the village doctor knelt examining the dead, his white hair and side whiskers shining in the sun. Morgan extended his hand. “Dr. Lanreath.”

The doctor turned in surprise. “Lord Morgan! Or I guess I should say ‘Lord Carrick’ now. I heard you were back. It’s good to see you.”

“Thank you. Have you found anything of interest to a sailor here?”

The doctor narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “Do you mean, have I found evidence of foul play?” He shook his head. “Not that I can see. Looks like the sea did the work, but it’s impossible to tell for sure. I’ll tell you this, though. None of them have anything valuable on them.”

Morgan looked around at the men still hovering near the cliff top. None of them returned his gaze. Well, that didn’t surprise him. Lanreath straightened from his work, coming stiffly to his feet. “Nothing more I can do here. They may as well bury them. Join me for a tankard at the Pilchard?”

“With pleasure.” Morgan retrieved his horse and followed the older man’s gig to the village. The tavern, identified by a worn sign featuring a sad-looking fish peering from a stargazey pie, looked much as it had nineteen years before. They found a place at a table in the tap room, the cool shade welcome after the warm day.

Morgan surveyed the assortment of patrons collected there, most of them talking about the wreck. Some of them he vaguely recognized, but the bull-necked man with the completely bald head serving the drinks was a stranger to him.

He returned his gaze to his companion. “Has Wendrom given up the Pilchard?”

“In a manner of speaking.” The doctor took a long draught of his ale. “He died of a fever last year, and his wife sold the tavern to Killigrew there. Don’t know why he came here—speaks as though he hails from London. Don’t like him above half myself. Mean customer. Doubtless into smuggling.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow, watching as the man, his massive muscles bulging, easily hoisted a keg and lifted it into the rack. “Aren’t all innkeepers?”

“Oh, aye, but this one…” Dr. Lanreath shrugged. “I’m only thinking out loud, and not very loud at that. Some sorts of thinking can prove to be very bad for one’s health. Don’t want to become my own patient.”

Morgan nodded thoughtfully, but didn’t pursue the subject. “I don’t recognize many of these fellows. I guess they were just lads when I went away.”

“Aye, that they were, and many of them have been abroad fighting Napoleon. A large number of fishermen were impressed into the navy, as I’m sure you know. Now they’re home, and with damn little work for them to do, unless they want to work for the preventives—which they don’t. Put that with a man like Killigrew… Well, I’m talking out of turn again.”

“Just so. Best you be careful on that subject.” Morgan swallowed down the last of his ale and shook hands with the doctor. “I better get back to Merdinn and see what my scamp of a nephew is up to. Stop in to see us when you’re passing.”

Morgan emerged into the sunlight and started for home. Everyone in the district seemed to have driven out to have a look at the scene of the disaster. By the time Morgan had spoken with half a dozen old acquaintances met along the road, he barely had time to wash and change his clothes for dinner.

He tied a fresh cravat with a bit more than his usual care, wondering if Eulalia Hayne would wear the same mouthwatering dress, or whether the magically discovered trunk had yielded more than one. He was humming as he made his way downstairs to the dining room.

The humming came to an abrupt stop as he approached the table. Only one cover had been laid, resting in solitary splendor at the head of the table.

Hmm. The suspicion blossomed in Morgan that he had just been shown his place.




Chapter Four


T he hell with this!

Halfway through a plate of some kind of spicy meat rolled in cabbage leaves, Morgan threw down his napkin and picked up his plate. Eating alone was not what he had in mind, even if he was the master of the house. Apparently Mrs. Hayne was giving him the opportunity to regret his reminding her of her new status. On inquiry, James had assured him that she was presently dining in the kitchen as she always did, so possibly she was simply following her usual custom. But she was bound to know that he intended his invitation the previous night to be of a standing nature. Wasn’t she?

In any case, he did not relish lordly solitude.

He grabbed the wine bottle and made his way down the steps to the kitchen. How to handle this? His first thought had been to let the lady sulk. But that would deprive him of her voluptuous company. He might have little time to spend with her in coming days, and he required proximity for his intentions to become reality. This situation must be nipped in the bud.

And it must be done subtly. If he confronted her directly, he would merely confirm the fact that her withdrawal had nettled him. That would not do. No, he would do better to sound magnanimous—the gracious lord politely delivering a command disguised as an invitation. The gracious lord not too high in the instep to join his overworked staff in the kitchen until help arrived. Yes, that should set the tone nicely. Never mind the gracious lord who wanted to keep his prey in his eye.

Pleased with this strategy, Morgan strolled into the kitchen nonchalantly. Mrs. Hayne came immediately to her feet, delicate eyebrows drawn together. “Lord Carrick! Is something wrong with your dinner?”

“Oh, no. On the contrary.” He set the plate and bottle on the table and slid onto the bench opposite her. “I find that good food requires good company to be properly appreciated.” He let his gaze rest on her face for a long moment. “And I don’t wish to add to your work unnecessarily. The rest of the kitchen staff will be here day after tomorrow. I’m content to eat here until then.”

She did not speak until Morgan asked, “Where is my nephew?”

“In his room, my lord. He was hungry earlier, so I gave him his dinner and suggested he play quietly until I come to tuck him in.”

Morgan nodded approval.

He lifted the wine bottle, offering for them to join him. Mrs. Hayne shook her head and sat down again. James jumped up with alacrity and brought two cups to the table. Peggy stared at her plate. Morgan glanced at the elderly woman sitting at the foot of the table. This must be the grandmother. She calmly finished the last of her food and, without a word, handed her plate to Peggy and left the room. Peggy scurried into the scullery.

Feeling a bit like the skeleton at the feast, Morgan nevertheless took his time finishing his dinner. He and James talked a bit about the wreck, speculating as to the cause until the bottle of wine had been emptied. Mrs. Hayne contributed nothing to the conversation, but listened attentively.

He was on the point of asking about her grandmother when that lady reappeared. Still without speaking, she began to spread thick slices of bread with jam and clotted cream. She brought a plate of this delicacy to Morgan’s place. He turned to face her at her approach.

She quickly stepped back and said something Morgan did not understand. He looked inquiringly at her granddaughter.

“She said, ‘Bolde kut, kako.’ With the Roma the men are always served from the back. A woman must not pass in front of a man or between two men,” Mrs. Hayne explained. “Therefore she asks you to turn away.” Morgan obediently faced forward and the plate was set before him.

Apparently only he merited this service. The old woman placed the bread and containers on the table, and the rest of the group served themselves. When all had finished the plain dessert, Morgan rose and thanked the ladies for an excellent repast, refusing to acknowledge the awkwardness around him. He smiled.

Let Mrs. Hayne reap what she sowed.

“I’d best go up and see to Jeremy.” Lalia rose from her bench and started out of the room.

“I’ll come with you and tell him good-night.” Lord Carrick hastily stepped ahead of her to open the door, but he did not provide quite enough clearance for her to exit without brushing against him.



So… His lordship was still up to his tricks. Lalia would ignore it. He offered her his arm. Refusing to smile her thanks, she laid her hand on his sleeve. That was considerably harder to ignore. Lalia felt the hard muscle through his coat and could smell an almost smoky scent that surrounded him. She schooled herself not to react.

“I hope,” he said, smiling down at her, “that when more help arrives, you and your grandmother will do me the honor of joining me for dinner each evening. Eating alone is very dreary.”

Was that a gentle reproof? Lalia couldn’t be sure. She resisted the temptation to point out that she was no longer mistress of the house but a lower servant. But that kind of spite was certainly beneath her dignity. Nor would she give him the satisfaction. Besides, there must be peace, at least, between them for the rest of the summer.

And she could never hold a grudge, anyway.

“Why, thank you, my lord. I should be delighted.” Well, perhaps something a little less than delighted. His lordship’s masculine presence tended to put a severe strain on her self-possession. “I cannot speak for my grandmother. It is very difficult for her to climb stairs. That is why she moved to a room in the service wing.”

Now what accounted for that look of satisfaction on the man’s face?

Before Lalia could decide, they arrived at Jeremy’s room just in time to witness the annihilation of a troop of cavalry by a hail of artillery fire. Jeremy lay on his stomach shooting crockery marbles into the ranks of the wooden soldiers, making too much noise to hear them enter. “Boom! Boom! Boom!”

Lalia put her hands to her ears. “Jeremy! I said play quietly.”

The barrage ceased as the boy leapt to his feet and bowed politely. “Oh, hello, Miss Lalia. Uncle Morgan. Have you come to tuck me in?”

They both assured him on this point, and Lalia sent him behind the screen to wash his face and change to his nightshirt. She watched in some surprise at the tenderness with which Lord Carrick tucked the covers under his nephew’s chin. Apparently his lordship’s harshness and conniving were reserved for her and her husband.

Afterward, he insisted on walking her to her bedchamber in spite of protests that she could walk the few yards alone quite safely. At the door he somehow succeeded in capturing her hand before she could escape into her room. With his gaze never leaving her eyes, he carried her hand to his lips. In spite of Lalia’s determination, her fingers trembled.

That look of satisfaction again in his hard green eyes, he reached past her to open the door. Lalia slipped hastily through the narrow space he allowed, her breasts brushing his chest slightly before she could get the door closed, sighing with relief.

That encounter had been a near run thing.



Morgan resisted the impulse to pace. He hated not being able to sleep. The level of brandy in his glass had sunk almost to the bottom. Perhaps he would have another. But, no. He had drunk too much already. His wits would soon be wandering. Besides, rather than dampening the feelings that persisted in tormenting his lower body, the wine seemed to increase them. He was ready and more than ready to crush his enemy’s wife in his embrace. And the lady was nothing loathe, he was sure.

He could hear her quick intake of breath when he touched her, could see the warmth kindle in her eyes. Ah, those eyes. So changeable. So expressive. What color would they become in the throes of passion? He would soon know. He could sense her weakening.

The thought of her lying in the next room in the big bed wanting him, needing him, made his mouth water and his groin ache unbearably. No, this state of affairs could not go on much longer.



Lalia had not been asleep. How could she sleep with the foundations of her life crumbling? Lalia had been staring at the faded canopy of her bed, wondering for the hundredth time—no, the millionth time—what sort of work she might do. And how to resist his disturbingly seductive lordship. The noise in the corridor had been so muffled that it almost failed to pierce her consciousness—a light thump, as though someone had collided with the chair outside her door. She sat up listening.

The sound did not repeat itself, but the furtive quality of it disturbed Lalia. Lord Carrick had come up to bed an hour ago and she had not heard the door of the adjoining room open since then. Perhaps Jeremy needed her and had lost himself in the dark.

Lalia swung her feet over the side of the bed and lit the candle. Pulling her wrapper over her cotton nightgown, she eased the door open and put her head out. Seeing no one, she slipped into the hall and held the candle high. Still no one. In her bare feet she padded silently to Jeremy’s room and peeked in. The boy lay lost in the slumber reserved for the just and the very young.

Puzzled, Lalia retreated to her own door, then glanced at his lordship’s. Should she alert him? She took two more steps, but hesitated as she reached the portal. Did she really want to wake him? An encounter in a darkened passage might be… Well, it would be too… But… If someone were prowling… Lalia lifted her hand to knock, but stood frozen by indecision. Was he awake or asleep? Cautiously she laid her ear against the panels.

Suddenly the door swept open, knocking her back against the wall. The candle fell to the floor and went out.

Hearing a startled squeak issue from behind the door, Morgan stepped into the hall and peered behind it. He beheld the object of his recent plotting leaning against the wall with her hands held up to ward off the collision. So she had come to his bedchamber!

“Good evening, Mrs. Hayne.” Smiling with satisfaction, Morgan leaned his hands against the wall, one on either side of her head. “Have you come to keep me company in my lonely room?”

“Uh…” Her voice sounded strangled and she cleared her throat. “N-no, my lord. I heard something in the corridor.” She still held her hands before her and now she pushed against his chest tentatively, as if to move him away.

Morgan didn’t budge. She heard something? Ha! “So why were you listening at my keyhole?”

“I—I didn’t know if you were sleeping… I didn’t want to…”

He shifted one hand to gather a handful of silky black hair, pinning it to the wall. She pushed again, harder. Morgan leaned into the pressure, bringing his face nearer to hers so that she could feel his breath on her lips. “You didn’t want to what?”

“I didn’t…” She stopped in midsentence and looked into his face. “My lord, why are you doing this?”

The question took Morgan by surprise. He moved back a bit. “Why? Because you are lovely, and I want you. And you want me.”

She shook her head. “That is not the real reason.” Her voice was now calm and certain. She did not push again, but seemed still and waiting. “You hate my husband. Why would you want me?”

Shrewd as well as beautiful. Well, then…she asked. “Because you are his. I want everything that is his—especially you. No man can stand the thought of another man taking his woman, holding her, touching all the places that are his alone.” He moved his lips nearer, brushing them against her face between words. “The way I want to hold you…touch you.”

Her laugh almost startled him into releasing her. “For all your hate, you don’t know my husband very well, do you, my lord?”

This was not going well. Morgan increased the distance between them slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Let me tell you a story, my lord.” She made no further attempt to escape. “You must understand that my husband seldom came here. He could be very…unpleasant when he did appear, and I learned to avoid him. It angered him, but…well, he soon left again.” Her quiet manner had captured Morgan’s full attention. “One day he came bringing two other men with him. By evening they were all very drunk. I was on the way up to my room when I overheard their talk. He owed them gambling debts. I heard him propose that in place of the money he owed, they might…might…share me throughout the night.”

Morgan dropped his hands to his sides and stepped back. Good God! What was he doing? “What happened? Did they…?”

“No.” She stepped away from the wall. “I ran to my room to lock my doors, but when I looked for the keys, they had been removed.” She no longer looked at Morgan, but seemed lost in remembering. “I suppose he took them earlier. I could hear them coming up the stairs… They were laughing.” She glanced at his face. “Do you know about the hidden stair in my room?”

“Yes, a priest’s hole. It has been there for centuries—comes out above the path to the cove.”

She nodded. “I knew they would catch me if I used it. They were too close. So I opened it and hid in the wardrobe. I heard them make for the stair, laughing and shouting and hallooing as though they were hunting… Which I guess they were.”

Morgan winced at the image.

She continued calmly. “The panel can only be opened from inside my room, so I closed it and ran back the other way and hid in the tower guard room. You saw the condition of the steps there. I thought that, as drunk as they were…”

“That they would break their necks climbing them.”

“Well, I did not think they could come up, and they didn’t. They all went away the next day.” She smiled a sad little half-smile. “But you see, you will not harm my husband in this way.”

Morgan moved away from her a few more steps. “Mrs. Hayne, I find myself taken at fault. I beg you will forgive my boorish behavior.” He heard the coldness embarrassment injected into his voice and made an attempt to ameliorate it. “I assure you, however, that my actions were based more upon feelings engendered by you than on those I hold toward your husband. Nonetheless… I apologize.” He walked around her, picking up her candle as he passed. “I’ll have a look around for what you heard before I go back to bed.”

Opening her door, Morgan cursed himself for a cad and stood well back, giving her plenty of room to enter.

He should have known that he would not force himself on an hesitant woman, the crushing precept to the contrary notwithstanding. Convincing himself that she shared his desire was blatant wishful thinking. True, as the veteran of a number of affairs, Morgan knew encouraging signs when he saw them, and he felt sure he had seen them in Eulalia Hayne. That, however, brought him around to what should have been obvious to him by the second day of their acquaintance.

In spite of the fact that polite society condoned discreet affairs in married women, this lady did not. This lady would keep her vows, even when they trapped her in a hideous marriage. This lady, for all her soft, gentle manner, had courage, resilience and character. She made Morgan examine his own.

On reflection, he did not regret one moment of ruining Hayne. The man was a predator from which society needed protection. Had Morgan been able to kill him in a fair fight, he would gladly have done it. But subjecting Hayne’s wife to further abuse…

Unforgivable.

It put him firmly in the category with Hayne himself. That thought made Morgan want to take a bath. The devil was in it, though, in that he wanted the woman as much as—no, more than—ever. He couldn’t quite give up his determination to have her in his arms, to taste her sweetness.

But he could not do it as an act of revenge.



The pile of vegetables in the basket beside her grew steadily as Lalia’s sure hands picked them and plucked dead blossoms from their neighbors. A few feet away Jeremy, not so sure, attempted to master the mysteries of what constituted a weed. She smiled. The bed would be short a few flowers by the end of the day, but he seemed to enjoy the challenge if not the work.

Usually working with the plants lifted Lalia’s spirits, but today even the cheerful sun and soft ocean breeze did not help. Despite her optimistic nature, the future looked bleak. She had not realized how much her home meant to her. Now that she had only a few more weeks to spend in it, even the relentless drudgery and loneliness seemed dear. And she would greatly miss visiting the tenants. They accepted her—most of them, at least.

What would she do with herself, aside from caring for Jeremy, for the next three months? Already Lord Carrick had taken away most of her duties. He himself had greeted the crew of workers who had appeared earlier in the morning, explaining to the overseer what he wanted done first. He had made it very clear to her that he did not want her help.

Another in a long line of people who did not want her. She didn’t know whether to welcome his apology of the night before or to regret it. At least he seemed for a moment to want her. But Lalia knew from bleak experience that Carrick’s approaches did not count as wanting her. The future looked lonely indeed.

Lost in these melancholy thoughts, she jumped when the subject of her thoughts spoke right behind her.

“You two are busy to a purpose this morning.”

“Oh! Good morning, your lordship. You startled me. Have you… No, Jeremy, not that one. That’s a delphinium.” Lalia turned back to smile up at Lord Carrick from her spot seated beside the flower bed.

He knelt on one knee and examined the bed, pulling out what was obviously a dandelion. “Do you always plant vegetables in your flower beds?”

Lalia nodded. “We need them. I considered putting the whole bed to them, but I can’t bear to give up all the flowers.”

“Can’t you just buy some of the local produce?”

“We could, of course, but…” She paused and turned her head back to her work. “But the tenants need what they grow for their families, and it…it is more economical to grow them myself.”

“Well, soon you will not have that necessity. The new gardeners start next week, and I have hired enough help to reopen the home farm.”

Lalia swallowed around a lump that had suddenly appeared in her throat. So… Soon she would not even be allowed to garden. Unless… A ray of light appeared. Perhaps she could hire herself out as a gardener. To work all day at what she loved—at last, a heartening thought.

Lord Carrick stood and brushed the dirt from his knee. “Jeremy has been plaguing me to take him down to the cove. The cleaning in the great hall seems to be well under way, and the tide is out. I thought this would be a good time.”

“Hooray!” Jeremy bounced to his feet. “Come on, Miss Lalia. I’m tired of being a farmer.”

Lalia smiled, shaking her head. “I must take these to the kitchen and help Daj. I will see you when you return.”

“Unnecessary.” Carrick bent and scooped up the basket. “Another local woman has been hired to help in the kitchen. We will take these in before we explore the cove.”

Lalia sighed. Another role removed.



Morgan extended his hand to help Lalia down a rough portion of the path. He knew she didn’t really need the help, but it gave him an excuse to touch her. Exulting in the crackle of awareness between them, he clasped her fingers and rested his hand lightly on the small of her back as she passed him. No, the lady was by no means as cool as she would have him think. Perhaps there was hope for him. She kept her gaze carefully on the path, avoiding puddles left by the tide, while Morgan enjoyed his view of the dainty curve of her neck.

Jeremy scrambled down the rocky track easily. A small stream had cut a narrow defile through the cliff. The old trail ran beside it, switching back and forth across the width of the cleft in the steeper spots and around a few twisted trees, dipping and rising with the broken ledges. Above them loomed the precipice, crowned by the towers of Merdinn. The cove boasted very little in the way of sand, but Morgan knew that the spaces between the guarding boulders allowed a medium-size vessel to come through and shelter there. Jeremy immediately made a dash for the water, quickly wetting himself to the knees.

“Don’t step out very far,” Lalia called, hurrying toward him. “The currents are not safe.”

“Yes, ma’am. I want to see what’s up there, anyway.” The boy pointed at a small dam of stones holding a tidal pool. He sprinted away.

“He will be well enough. I’ll keep my eye on him.” Morgan strolled along the waterline examining and discarding shells. It had been nineteen years since he had lived by the ocean. He looked forward to having a personal sailing craft close by again—when he found Hayne’s. If he didn’t find it soon, he would have his own sloop brought in. He turned to Hayne’s lady.

She was investigating another tidal pool, waving at his nephew. “Look, Jeremy. There are crabs.”

Morgan moved closer to observe the crabs—and the lady. Careless of her threadbare gown, she knelt beside the puddle, turning stones on the bottom with a piece of driftwood. He hunkered down beside her, and she smiled, her usual wariness dissolved in her enjoyment of her discovery. Her face glowed with pleasure.

Breathing in the scent of sunshine and woman, he resisted the desire to touch her again. Her caution would certainly return, and he liked the way she looked now, happy and carefree, her petite figure almost childlike. Far be it from him to spoil her mood. Besides, the sea and the sun made him feel young and carefree himself. And perhaps a little foolish. He reached into the pool and drew out a small but indignant crab.

Turning suddenly he thrust waving pinchers toward Lalia’s face. She shrieked very satisfactorily and jerked away. Overbalancing, she tumbled backward onto sand, skirts flying. Morgan caught a glimpse of beautifully shaped leg before she sat up, laughing, and subdued the unruly garment.

“My lord! What a wicked prank! You will be teaching Jeremy bad tricks.”

Tossing the crab back into the puddle, he held out his hand and grinned. “No one needs to teach boys that sort of mischief. They come by it quite naturally.” He pulled her to her feet. “Forgive me. I forgot the dignity of my years.”

“Humph.” She straightened her clothes and brushed at the sand clinging to them, twinkling eyes denying her stern tone. “I do not see one particle of penitence in your countenance, my lord.”

“I’m hopelessly corrupt.” He favored her with his most winning smile. “Here, let me help you.” He limited his assistance to whisking the dirt off her shoulders, regretfully restraining himself from more interesting areas. Bethinking himself of his nephew, Morgan looked around for the whereabouts of that fearless young man. He was discovered to be tugging vigorously at something jammed between two rocks a few yards away.

Morgan sauntered in his direction. “What do you have there, lad?”

“I think it’s part of a boat. Maybe the one that got wrecked.” A final wrench freed the object and Jeremy sprawled backward, following Lalia’s undignified example. “Ow!” He got up sucking his finger.

“Oh, dear. Let me see.” Lalia took his hand in hers. “Yes. It’s a splinter.” She grasped the sliver and pulled before Jeremy could object and withdraw his hand.

“Ouch! Don’t!” He stuck his finger back in his mouth, mumbling, “Did you get it out?”

“I think so. Let me see. Stay still a minute. How can I…?”

Ignoring the tussle with the splinter, Morgan stood, brow furrowed, studying the battered lettering on the length of wood Jeremy had retrieved. He turned to Lalia. “What did you call Hayne’s vessel?”

“The Seahawk. Why?” She glanced at what he held, then froze. “Oh, my.”




Chapter Five


M organ knew that the wreck of the day before had not been the Seahawk. That had been a much bigger vessel than Hayne’s private yacht. A ride along the cliff tops revealed several more pieces of flotsam the color of Hayne’s boat lodged against the rocks, but no sign of Hayne. Inquiries in the village brought no further enlightenment. All declared that no one had seen him since he sailed away several days before. Nor did anyone seem very interested in searching for him.

Possibly because they already knew where he was. A man of Hayne’s caliber must surely have friends among the rogues who plied the smuggling trade in the district. It defied belief that the Seahawk had never carried a cargo of run brandy. Hayne always needed money. But if his yacht had come to grief, and no body was to be found, where was Hayne? He returned home with the question unanswered to find his library occupied.

He studied the man sitting across from the desk with a carefully neutral expression. Morgan did not like Roger Poleven. He surveyed his guest with as much courtesy as he could muster. The family resemblance between Lalia Hayne and her half brother did not extend beyond the blue-green eyes. His did not even show the brilliant clarity of hers, but looked bloodshot and murky. Neither did the dark brown hair shine as her black braid did. He certainly did not demonstrate any of her gentle nature.

Poleven lounged carelessly in the chair, brandy in hand. “I found it expedient to rusticate for a time, so I thought I would call and greet my sister. How long have you been in Cornwall?”

Morgan took his time in pouring his own brandy and seating himself behind the desk. From what Lalia said, the man had not troubled himself to greet her in years. What, then, was this show of brotherly affection? “I’m afraid you have missed Mrs. Hayne. She has driven out with my nephew. I don’t expect them back for another hour.”

“Ah, well. Another time.” Poleven waved a disinterested hand. “Your nephew, eh?” A knowing smirk appeared on his face, but he quickly removed it as Morgan directed a cold look at him. Poleven hastily changed the subject. “The talk is that you have bought up Hayne’s mortgages?”

Morgan nodded silently.

“And my sister is still in residence? I would have thought you would have remedied that by now.”

Morgan’s continued silence slowed Poleven a bit, but didn’t daunt him.

The man’s face took on a sly expression. “Well, I can’t blame you. She’s a pretty enough chit. In any case, that’s Hayne’s problem, not mine. Can you imagine? My father left not one shilling for her maintenance.”

Morgan raised one eyebrow. “No doubt he expected that you would provide a home for her.”

“Me? Keep a thieving Gypsy in my house? No thank you. He was touched in his upper works. At least I found a suitable match for her. Cost me a pretty penny and so I’ll tell you.”

Good God! The man was every bit as despicable as Hayne. “Perhaps you know where your sister’s husband is to be found?”

“Not I. No one’s seen him this age. Probably with someone else’s wife somewhere.” Poleven tossed off the rest of his brandy and looked hopefully toward the decanter.

Morgan stood. “I’ll tell your sister you called.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Poleven got reluctantly to his feet, one eye still on the decanter. “I say, Carrick, I was just wondering as I rode up…I’m a bit embarrassed at the moment. Perhaps you might help me out with a few pounds until I come about?”

So that was it. The rascal wanted money. Obviously he already knew he would find Morgan at Merdinn. Perhaps he fancied that he had some leverage. Morgan gave him a flint-hard look. “I’m afraid it will not be possible for me to oblige you.”

Poleven shrugged. “No matter. I’ll stop in again sometime.” He collected his hat and gloves and ambled out the door.

When Watford arrived, Morgan’s first instruction to his butler would be that Roger Poleven should never again set foot within the walls of Merdinn. The man’s attitude toward his sister was vile—unpardonable. One did not abandon one’s relatives because of some irregularity of birth. If he ever heard Roger Poleven call Eulalia Hayne a “thieving Gypsy” again, he would probably plant him a facer.



“Beg pardon, ma’am.” Gwennap, the foreman of the renovation crew, stuck his head through the door. “Where might I find his lordship?”

Lalia looked up from trying to find a place for more vegetables in the cool of the cellar. His lordship’s chef had arrived the day after their discovery in the cove, along with the rest of the staff, but while she had become unwelcome in the kitchen, no one had yet driven her out of the garden. “He is not here. He took his nephew down to the village. May I help you?”

Gwennap looked perplexed. “Well, I can’t rightly say. We’ve finished cleaning the great hall, and I don’t know what he wants done next.”

“Have you asked Mrs. Carthew?”

“The new housekeeper? She’s gone to the market, ma’am.”

“Very well, I’ll go with you to look. I’m sure the large dining room needs a great deal of work.” She led the workman up the stairs to the ground floor.

At the door of the room formerly used for large dinners, she paused and waved a hand. She had long wanted to turn it out for a good cleaning. “Everything needs work—the floor stones need scrubbing, the paneling must be cleaned and polished… And the furniture…well, it is probably still usable if scrubbed and the chairs recovered, but… You will have to ask Lord Carrick if he wants the draperies cleaned or discarded. In any case, they must be taken down. Here…”

Within a few minutes the work force had invaded the room, and Lalia dived into supervising, lending a hand here and there. She was happily engaged in bundling up the old draperies when his lordship sauntered through the door. Lalia sneezed.

“Oh, excuse me, my lord. These are very dusty.” A quick glance suddenly informed her that he did not look best pleased. She dabbed at her nose with her handkerchief. “Is something wrong?” She sneezed again.

“What are you doing in here?”

“They have finished in the…” Another sneeze interrupted her response. “Oh dear, I’m sorry.” She fished for her handkerchief again. “They finished cleaning the hall and did not know what to do next. I thought they could spend their time…”

Carrick scowled. “I thought we had agreed that you need not concern yourself any further with their work.”

“But I don’t mind. I hadn’t anything else…” Yet another sneeze burst forth. Her small handkerchief had become too damp to be useful, so Lalia sniffed behind her finger as quietly as she could.

Morgan took her firmly by the arm and led her out of the dust into the corridor. How the devil could he express his displeasure to a woman who kept sneezing? And sniffling. He handed her his handkerchief. “Now…why are you involving yourself in this? You now have other duties.”

“Very few, my lord.” She blew discreetly. “Thank you.” She put his handkerchief in her pocket. He wondered if he would ever see it again. “You and Mrs. Carthew were both away, and Gwennap came and asked me what to do. But I don’t know what to tell him about the draperies. Will you replace them?”

Morgan tried another frown. Somehow he was not getting through. These decisions were no longer her responsibility. “That will be for my mother to decide. When the work is complete, this will again be her home.”

At last she looked at him with something approaching comprehension. The smooth skin of her brow wrinkled. “I see.” Her eyes clouded over. “Then you will write to her about them?”

“Yes, I will ask her.”

“Very well. Perhaps she can select new fabric in London. I really wouldn’t recommend…” She sneezed and reached in her pocket. “These are just too dirty.”

“I will convey your opinion to her.”



I will convey your opinion to her. And what would his lordship convey to his mother about Lalia’s continued presence? The lady must not like her being here any more than Lord Carrick liked it. Somehow Lalia must stop thinking of Merdinn as her home. She had no home. She would be leaving in a few months.

Again the frightening specter of where she would go in the fall arose. Other than her tenants, she knew so few people. She had no idea where to start looking for a position. Would his lordship know of something? She hated the thought of having to ask him, but the unpalatable fact was that she needed his help. If she didn’t have Daj to think of it might be much easier. But she did, and she would contrive somehow. Just as always.

She had just washed her face and hands and looked in on Jeremy’s activities when Watford found her. “The Reverend Nascawan wishes to know if you are in?”

It had been so long since Lalia had the assistance of servants that for a moment she couldn’t think how to respond. “I… I…” Everything was so disrupted by the cleaning… “Yes, of course. I’ll talk to him in the library if his lordship is not using it.”

She made her way down to the book room to find the good parson sipping a glass of brandy to which he had helped himself. Lalia had tried hard to like the man. She truly had. Somehow she never quite succeeded. Tall and gaunt, his emaciated face and wispy hair made her think of a graying cadaver. He always wore a resigned expression, as if he had given her up for lost but felt duty-bound to keep trying. At least he no longer exhorted her to brave the snubs of his congregation by attending services. He bowed.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hayne.” He held out a small, damp bundle. “I have brought you something you might find useful.”

It would be a collection of worn-out clothes. He often brought them. These smelled of seawater and mildew. She reached for them politely, and his bony hand, chill and clammy, lingered against hers as he released them. Why must he always do that? Lalia repressed a shudder. “Why, thank you, Reverend Nascawan. How thoughtful of you.”

“And I must ask you—when did his lordship bring his household here?”

Oh, dear. A lecture loomed. “A few days ago.”

The clergyman drew his eyebrows together and folded his hands before him. Yes, definitely a lecture. “I must say, ma’am, that I am very surprised to see that you are still here. Certainly you must know that for a lady to reside with a gentleman not her husband…” He turned toward the door. “Ah. Lord Carrick?”

Carrick stood in the doorway, his face expressionless. “You have the advantage of me, sir. You are…?”

Lalia, still holding the smelly bundle, hastened to make introductions. Carrick stepped out of the doorway but remained standing. “I see. It was kind of you to call on Mrs. Hayne.”

Nascawan hesitated. Even he could not completely disregard the dismissal, but apparently he felt obliged to make one more sally. “My lord, I must point out to you that your living in the same house with…”

His lordship raised one eyebrow. “Must you?”

Lalia listened in astonishment, all admiration for Lord Carrick. Obviously he did not suffer busybodies gladly. At last she was about to see the redoubtable cleric routed foot and horse.

The pastor, however, was still game. He put on a stern expression. “Sir, under these circumstances Mrs. Hayne’s reputation must be called into question.”

“Not in my house.”

The chilling response stopped Nascawan in his tracks. He blinked and drew himself up. Handing Lalia his glass, he mumbled a haughty goodbye and abruptly took himself off, his dignity trailing behind him.

Morgan moved into the room and took the clothes out of her hands, his nose wrinkling. “What the devil is that?”

“Reverend Nascawan very kindly brought me some used garments.” She grimaced. “He often does so.”

“Clothes? Do you use them?” No wonder her wardrobe looked so shabby.

She shrugged. “Sometimes, if Daj or Peggy or I can wear them. Otherwise, I give them away or use them for cleaning rags.”

Her answer gave Morgan pause. Was her poverty such that she had actually been reduced to accepting that sort of charity? The lady had endured a great deal indeed. He tossed the bundle through the door into the hall. “Surely you won’t use those?”

She smiled. “No, I fear they are past praying for. They did not fare well in their encounter with the sea.”

Morgan settled himself behind the desk and invited her to sit with a wave of his hand. “Do you think they came from the recent wreck?”

“I would think so. The things he brings often do.” She seated herself in the chair opposite him.

“So the good pastor is not above a little scavenging?”

She smiled. “No, nor a little smuggling, I feel sure. He does like a good glass of brandy.”

“In common with many Cornish clergymen. Did you offer it to him?”

“Oh, no.” She looked shocked. “I would not make free with your wine. He must have helped himself.” She giggled. “No doubt a privilege of the cloth. He means well, I’m sure.”

“I’m not.” Another thought occurred to Morgan. The man had been noticeably preoccupied with where Eulalia Hayne was sleeping. “He seemed very interested in our living arrangements. Has he ever accosted you?”

“Mmm…no.” Morgan did not miss the slight hesitation in her voice. “No, not exactly. He just… I don’t know. He is married, after all. Very likely I imagine it.”

“No, you do not.” He recognized that with the certainty of a man who senses a rival for the woman he wanted. “He doesn’t seem very highly principled, and you are very…” He let the sentence go. No need to rekindle her wariness of himself. Of course, the old rascal wanted her—her appetizing curves, her luscious skin. What man wouldn’t?

“Well, I do appreciate your sending him on his way. I am very tired of lectures on one subject or another.”

He brought himself back to the conversation with an effort. “You are too kind and polite. You do not have to receive him, you know.”

“I guess not.” She seemed startled. “Now that there is a butler in residence…”

“I suggest you make use of him.”



Climbing the stairs to her room, Lalia pondered his lordship’s advice. Too kind and polite? Perhaps so. Perhaps the reverend mistook that for encouragement. Surely not? She had not been that kind and polite. And he knew her to be married. Would a man of the cloth really…? Hmm. Yes, she would take Carrick’s suggestion. She would instruct the butler to deny her to Reverend Nascawan in the future.

How luxurious to have a butler! And how luxurious to have someone to defend her good name. His lordship had surprised her. Having him protect her from Nascawan’s innuendos had been… Well, a luxury she had not had since her father’s death. She had expected never to have it again. If only… Never mind. It was not likely that she would enjoy that protection for long.



The stonework in the great hall, one of the oldest parts of the house, had sustained quite a bit of damage over the centuries. Not since Morgan’s grandfather’s day had the family fortune been sufficient to keep the place up as it should have been. The graceful arches showed cracks and chunks of limestone had even fallen out in places. Morgan had spent the entire morning working with the stone mason, determining the needs.

He was closeted with the architect, arguing as to whether to keep the original fireplace, when his housekeeper appeared at the door. Morgan looked up in annoyance. He didn’t have time for interruptions today. “Yes, Mrs. Carthew?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, my lord.” She curtsied. “We seem to have an usually large number of summer vegetables in storage. Many of them cannot be preserved and will spoil before we can use them, and there is no more room in the cellar. James tells me that Mrs. Hayne is accustomed to giving them to those in need. I thought perhaps, if you don’t mind…”

Morgan waved a hand at her, turning back to the architect. “Of course, of course. Feel free to take them to someone.”

The housekeeper curtsied again. “I would, my lord, but I’m needed in the large dining room at the moment, and I see that you are occupied. I thought that if Mrs. Hayne is not busy today, perhaps…”

Morgan turned slowly to look at her, eyes narrowed. She looked perfectly innocent, if a little startled by his scrutiny. Apparently Mrs. Hayne had obeyed his previous order, but… “Did Mrs. Hayne suggest that?”

“No, my lord, but it would be a big help to me. I believe it will require more than one trip.”

“James?”

“James has gone to the smithy.”





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