Читать книгу A Dangerous Seduction - Patricia Rowell Frances - Страница 10

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.