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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!”
