Sea Wraith

by Jocelyn Kelley

  “You could not know when you were stopped that they were not common highwaymen. That you stood by Sian’s side, despite your fear, is admirable. Men deemed brave have cowered before wreckers.”

  “I would ne’er leave Miss Nethercott’s side, my lord. She ‘as been known to choose doin’ the right thing over doin’ the safe thing.”

  He chuckled, and Sian guessed her own face was as red as Helen’s had been. “It seems to be a trait that infects the Nethercott sisters,” he said.

  Helen giggled, then lowered her eyes. “I cannot say, my lord, because I should not be discussin’ Miss Nethercott with ye.”

  “Especially when she stands right here,” he said with another laugh.

  “Yes.” The maid giggled again before bending to her work.

  Constantine tapped Sian’s cheek lightly. “This color is very becoming, if I may be so bold.”

  “You are bold and in a very teasing mood.” Her eyes widened. “Has something good happened?” She was proud her voice gave no suggestion of her dread that his good news was that Wraith had been captured.

  Before he could answer, a maid brought in a tray with cups and a teapot. More dishes were set on it, and she placed the tray on a table in front of the room’s only settee. She glanced toward Sian, then at Constantine.

  Sian nodded her permission and smiled. She appreciated the maid being concerned that Sian might not want to sit on the settee with a caller.

  The maid dipped in a curtsy and left the room. Sian followed her and reached to close the double doors.

  “Leave them open,” Constantine ordered. “It is not easy to listen at keyholes when there is a clear view of the passage.”

  She smiled as she returned to the middle of the room. She motioned for him to select a seat. When he sat on the settee which gave him an excellent view of the garden through the window where she had checked her reflection, her stomach clenched. But everything was still and whoever might have been wandering past had vanished. Maybe no one had been there to begin with.

  After she sat in the chair across from him, she poured tea. He took the cup she held out. Setting it on the table, he declined the offer of a frosted cake. Then he reached beneath his coat and drew out a folded paper.

  “I promised I would bring this for your perusal,” he said, “so you can see that all is as I told you at Lord Pitchford’s house last night.”

  She took the page, noting how he avoided using his commander’s military title when he might be overheard. Did Constantine believe that nobody in St. Gundred knew that the marquess had served in the war against Napoleon? She could not help recalling Wraith’s curiosity about her visit to Lord Pitchford’s cottage and her conversation with Constantine by the carriage. Maybe there was a way she could pass information from Wraith to Constantine; then she thought of the complications such words might cause. If he learned that she had spoken with Wraith again—and had failed to alert him or his colonel right away—he would believe she was trying to protect the wrecker from justice.

  And am I?

  That was a question she could not answer. She was confused, but knew she did not want to be torn apart by two men. Wraith’s words—and her own—echoed in her mind.

  “Ye cannot see the lines that divide St. Gundred or even Bannatyne Hall,” he had told her. “Ye may not know that everyone watches ye, waiting to see which side ye shall take. Talk too long to a person, and ye will be labeled that one’s ally and someone else’s foe.”

  “That is absurd. I want no part of your crimes, and I am in no position to put a halt to them.”

  “Wise words. Do not ever forget them.”

  If she repeated those words to Constantine, he would agree with Wraith. She kept them to herself, not wanting Constantine to despise her for falling under Wraith’s spell.

  “Are you going to read it?” Constantine asked. “My call here must be short, because Lord Pitchford asked me to look into a few matters for him. If you would read this. . .”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” She unfolded the page.

  The letter was a simple one. Written in a precise hand that she guessed belonged to her brother-in-law’s solicitor, it granted Colonel Pitchford, and anyone working for him, full use of the resources of Bannatyne Hall for the time necessary to put the wreckers out of business. A scrawled note across the bottom in Gideon’s impatient handwriting wished the men good luck in ridding St. Gundred of the—she could not make out the word, but suspected it was not meant for a lady’s eyes, so she substituted another she had heard him use—curs who preyed on ships.

  Sian was not surprised by her brother-in-law’s vehemence. He had a shipping line of his own, as well as being interested in building ships. While his crews might not have been preyed upon by the wreckers, he would have great sympathy for those who had. Guilt slashed at her anew. Both her sister and her husband would be horrified if they learned of her conversations—and more—with Wraith.

  “Thank you for sharing this with me,” she said.

  “Bannatyne should have informed you of this before you came to Cornwall.”

  “Maybe he did not want to put it into a letter that could have been seen by other eyes.” She folded the piece of paper and handed it to him. “I can understand why someone would be hesitant to write of such matters.”

  “Are you offering me a kind way to explain why I could not write to you as I had promised?”

  “You clearly had other matters on your mind.”

  “I would not say that exactly.” His green eyes took on a smouldering glow as he reached across the table to fold her hand between his. His voice dropped to a rough whisper that would not reach beyond her ears. “I did want to write to you, Sian. On many occasions, I wished I had the liberty to let you know why I had broken my vow to you.”

  She gazed into his eyes, amazed how easily she could become lost within them. How could she be enticed by Constantine and Wraith? They were enemies, and she could not help wondering if the wrecker used his kisses to keep her unsettled so she would not betray him to Constantine.

  “What I am allowed to say to you face-to-face,” he continued, “is considerably different from what I could put in writing.”

  “I understand. You cannot be certain who would read your words before I did.”

  “Or after, and that could have endangered you, Sian. I would not allow that, even when it meant that I had to break a promise I had looked forward to keeping.”

  Her reply was halted by footfalls. Looking over her shoulder, she watched Tibbet pause in the doorway.

  “Mr. Trembeth,” he announced. “May I bring him in, Miss Nethercott?”

  “Please.” She wanted to ask him to have the curate wait until she finished her conversation with Constantine, but now that it had been interrupted, she guessed regaining the connection would be difficult.

  As Constantine put the folded page beneath his coat and stood, Sian rose to greet her latest guest. She was halfway to the door when she realized Constantine was at her side. She was curious why he acted as if he were the host of Bannatyne Hall, then she realized he meant to protect her, even from the curate.

  When Mr. Trembeth walked into the room, again she was struck by how both men were of such a similar height and build. If Mr. Trembeth had not hunched his shoulders, his mien would have been as impressive as Constantine’s. The two men acknowledged each other with nods before Mr. Trembeth bowed over Sian’s hand. His long fingers curled around hers, giving them a gentle squeeze. He was acting very brazen when they had had barely one true conversation. . .unless he hid behind Wraith’s mask at night. Then a hidden caress was nothing compared to what they had shared in the garden. Her skin grew warmer just thinking of his bold kisses.

  “Would you like some tea, Mr. Trembeth?” she asked as the curate sat on the opposite end of the settee from Constantine. She was proud that her voice was steady. “And a cake?”

  “Tea will be sufficient.” He wore a self-effacing smile. “I have been lecturing th
e boys in my school about the need to be moderate in their appetites, especially with sweets. It is a practice I keep myself, and I hope they will learn from my example of temperance in all things.”

  Constantine raised one russet brow. “An odd lesson to teach children who seldom have anything frivolous to eat.”

  “As a former military man, you must recognize the need for discipline,” Mr. Trembeth said. “It is something I have learned, too, during my conversations with Lord Pitchford. One cannot expect self-restraint in others if one does not learn to practice it oneself.”

  Before Constantine could say something else to bait Mr. Trembeth, Sian interjected, “I am so pleased you have called. I did not realize you and Lord Pitchford were so well acquainted.”

  “I have known him for many years, most of my life to be exact. It was on his recommendation that I came here.”

  “Pitchford’s?” asked Constantine. “Surely I have heard you say that Lord Bannatyne invited you to succeed the current vicar.”

  “As he did.” Mr. Trembeth’s hands shook as he took a cup from Sian. She could not guess if it was from anger or some other emotion, because his voice remained calm. It was a sign that strong passions hid just below his serene surface. “However, when I sought the marquess’s counsel, because he knew I wanted to better myself, he suggested I take the offer.”

  “So,” Constantine drawled, “St. Gundred is only a first step on your journey toward becoming Archbishop of Canterbury?”

  Sian shot him a chiding look, then, as if there were no tension in the room, said, “Mr. Trembeth, I am pleased you have called. I was just about to ask Lord Lastingham’s opinion of where I could best sketch the sea, and I would appreciate yours as well.” She held her breath, hoping that the earl would not point out her lie.

  Constantine asked, “You are sketching again? Did you find your sketchbook?”

  “It was returned to me last night. I was very grateful to get it back.” At least that was the truth. “Now I can return to working on sketches for the mural.”

  “I hope,” the curate said as he sipped the tea, “Lastingham told you that the safest venue for such work is from the windows of Bannatyne Hall.”

  “There must be some place I can go.”

  “I would suggest Penzance,” Constantine said without a hint of a smile.

  “Aye,” agreed Mr. Trembeth. “That may be the closest place. Smugglers abound, but I have not heard of wreckers in Mount Bay. With the castle of St. Michael’s Mount set in the middle of the bay, the wreckers cannot confuse sailors about their location.”

  She picked up her cup, then put it down again. “Gentleman, your suggestions are unacceptable. The design must include local vistas, not ones that I must ride half a day to reach.”

  That started a debate between the curate and Constantine. While Constantine had two suggestions of where she could sketch the cliffs without risking a tumble to the shore, the curate stuck to his opinion that she would be inviting trouble by going anywhere beyond the garden.

  As she listened, she could not keep from comparing their stances with Wraith’s. She was amazed that the wrecker’s views almost matched Mr. Trembeth’s. In fact, the curate expressed many of the same thoughts, word for word. She watched him and noted how he used his hands expressively. Did Wraith do the same? She could not recall, because she had spoken with him only in the dark and had not been able to see his hands well, even though she recalled their gentle, eager touch.

  Do not be ridiculous, she cautioned herself. She could not imagine every man in St. Gundred was Wraith. She had no idea what color hair hid beneath the domino or what any of his features looked like above his lips. Still, ignoring what was right in front of her could lead to trouble, too.

  When Constantine took his leave, after thanking her for her hospitality, silence stretched across the solar. Mr. Trembeth seemed mute now that there was no one else to carry the conversation.

  “Are you enjoying your tenure in St. Gundred?” Sian asked, desperate to fill the quiet.

  “It was not my first choice of position, but one must go where one is needed.” He held out his cup for a refill, and she wished she had said nothing and let him take his leave. Not simply because the stilted conversation was unnerving, but because his very presence was. He acted as a shy country curate should; yet she had seen those strong fervor flashing in his eyes. . .and in his touch.

  With the smile she had practiced for uncomfortable times, she poured more tea and cream into the cup. “How long have you been attached to the parish church in St. Gundred?”

  “It has been slightly more than a year, I believe.” He frowned as he considered her question. “Forgive me. I am not trying to be evasive. It is simply that my time here seems to have unfolded far more slowly than normal time does. Even though I would not aspire at this point to serve in Canterbury, I do hope for a better parish in the future.”

  “Your connection with Lord Pitchford may open doors for you, but, in the meantime, your presence here may make a greater difference than you can guess.”

  “That is very kind of you to say, Miss Nethercott. I would like to think I may enlighten these children to what could await them if they choose not to follow their parents’ steps and try to wrench a living from the sea.”

  “Both legally and illegally.”

  “Aye.” He set his cup on the tray. “You very quickly have grasped the intricacies of life in St. Gundred. I trust you will learn just as quickly to heed my advice and stay away from the cliffs.” Setting himself on his feet, he took her hand and bowed over it.

  “I have listened to your counsel,” she said.

  “Do more than listen.” He lifted her hand to his lips, and she held her breath, wondering if his kiss would confirm her suspicions. “Good afternoon, Miss Nethercott.”

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Trembeth.” She lowered her hand to rest on her lap. Nothing in the curate’s kiss had suggested he rode through the night as Wraith. But nothing contradicted her intuition either. The kiss had been perfect for a man of the church, exactly the kiss Wraith would have given when he did not wear his mask and wished to hide the truth.

  Mr. Trembeth was barely out of the room when Helen muttered, “Disagreeably ‘igh in the instep, isn’t ‘e?”

  “Helen, that is no way to speak of a churchman!”

  “Church, yes. Man? All of them are alike, Miss Nethercott. That one is tryin’ to beguile ye because ‘e ‘opes ye ‘ave influence on Lord Bannatyne.”

  “That is enough!” She seldom used such a sharp tone with her maid, and she wished she had not now. She truly was more dismayed with herself and the course of her thoughts than with Helen. “You must not assign such motives to Mr. Trembeth without having a reason, other than a hunch, for accusations.”

  “I am sorry, Miss Nethercott. I should ‘ave kept my thoughts to myself, but I was watchin’ closely.”

  Sian should put an end to the discussion, but it was not like Helen to get a bee in her bonnet. “And what did you see?”

  “Every time ‘e looks at ye, it is as if ‘e knows more ‘bout ye than ‘e should. That troubles me. ‘e is not what ‘e appears to be.”

  She winced as Helen’s words matched her own misgivings. She had thought coming to Bannatyne Hall would be a haven from the mistake she had made in Yorkshire by agreeing to marry a man she did not love, but she had traded that mistake for new ones. Far more dangerous ones.

  Telling Helen that she was going to rest before dinner, she went up to her bedchamber. She wanted to be alone to sort out her thoughts. The seaside windows were open, and she rested her hands on a sill as she watched small boats coming into the harbor below St. Gundred. Fishermen, she guessed, returning from long hours on the sea. There still was too much light for either smugglers or wreckers to be on the prowl.

  She pushed away from the window and bit back a scream as she saw a thickening mist in the center of the room. Putting her hands over her mouth, she stared as the silvery fog began
to assume a form, as it had in the well house at Nethercott Castle. A man’s silhouette, but, as before, the face did not appear.

  “Greetings, daughter of Nethercott Castle,” came the mumbling voice she had never guessed she would hear in Cornwall.

  “What are you doing here?” She rushed to close the door before someone passed by and looked in to see. . . a ghost!

  “You are worrying needlessly. No one else can see me now.”

  “At other times?”

  “They will see me when it is necessary for them to do so.”

  “And when will it be necessary?”

  “When I choose.”

  Sian shuddered. She had never guessed the ghost would echo Wraith’s words. “Why are you here?”

  “Because you are.”

  “I thought you are a guardian of Nethercott Castle.”

  She could not see the ghost’s face, but, even so, she could hear a smile in his voice. “I am, but you are a part of Nethercott Castle, so when you left, I did as well. There are others to serve as guardians of the castle itself while I watch over you, daughter of Nethercott Castle.”

  “And you journeyed with us?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you see and hear all we saw and heard?”

  The ghost’s head shook, leaving wisps of light in the wake of its movements. “We do not travel as you do. It is more like we know when we need to be somewhere else, and we go there.” His voice grew slower as if he carefully selected and enunciated each word. “You must take care with your heart, daughter of Nethercott Castle. You were careless with it before you left the castle.”

  “You are mistaken. I never risked it.”

  “No? Do you think the only hazard to a heart is falling in love foolishly? Isn’t it put into as much jeopardy when it is threatened with never finding love? If you had married a man you never could love, you would have consigned your heart to a lifetime of neglect.”

  She could not argue with that. Yet she had no interest in hearing a litany of her mistakes. They haunted her more than the ghost did.