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“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.
