Читать книгу A Dangerous Seduction - Patricia Frances Rowell - Страница 12

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.