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

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.”