“Stay here,” Tibbet ordered in a whisper against her bonnet. “I will see if I can draw them off.”
“No!” she gasped. “Stay here. You could be killed.”
He did not heed her, but scrambled away on hands and knees. He stayed below the top of the gorse, so his passage could have been the sea wind rustling through it.
She wanted to follow, to flee. She did neither as she pressed close to the ground and prayed both of them would return to Bannatyne Hall alive.
Her breath caught as she noticed ferns waving in front of her. She put her head down, willing whoever walked toward her not to see her. It is not dark yet! It is not dark yet! The words rang through her head, but she should have guessed the wreckers did not keep regular hours. They must have grown so bold that they would gather before night fell, and they did not hesitate to shoot.
The toes of black boots halted in front of her. They shifted as the man wearing them squatted and tapped her head.
Shocked, she looked up into Constantine’s green eyes. They were narrowed, yet flashed with fury.
“Constantine!” She kept her voice low. “Stay down. The wreckers! They are shooting.”
“No, we are shooting.” He held out his hand as he stood. “In the air. A warning to halt before we realized it was you.”
She stared at him. “We? You and Lord Pitchford?”
“Take care what you say, even here. Who knows who might be privy to it?” Not waiting for her to put her hand in his, he grasped her arm and brought her to her feet.
“There are no wreckers?”
“Not here. Thanks to you bumbling about out here and not stopping when the colonel told you to, our trap is sprung. The sound of that shot must have reached St. Gundred.”
“I did not shoot the gun. Why are you blaming me?” She bent to brush dirt off her gown.
“Did you heed nothing we told you?”
“How was I to guess that you would set up a trap in this field?”
Instead of answering, he put a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face so he could see her left cheek where scratches burned like a dozen small fires. “You are hurt.”
“I will be fine.”
“Where else are you hurt?”
She held up her hands where scrapes crisscrossed her palms. “See? They are nothing. You can go back to Lord Pitchford and continue your work.”
“It is too late for that. He has already left to return home. He knows, as I do, that even if the sound of the gun firing did not reach all the way to the village, someone will have heard it and spread the word that we were on the hunt here.”
Sighing, she closed her eyes. “Constantine, I am sorry I made a jumble of your plans.”
“I should have alerted you. After all, we are on Bannatyne lands, and you are a relative of the current lord.”
“But you did not trust me with your plans.”
“I trust you, Sian. It is the wreckers I do not trust. If they discovered you were privy to my plans, you could be in greater danger.” He took her hand and held it between his. “You must believe me.”
She opened her eyes as the warmth of his rough skin oozed through her, and she wished he would not release her fingers any time soon. Had she learned nothing during the long months when she had waited to hear from him and no letter had arrived? She had been silly enough to fall in love with him during a few conversations. How could she be tempted to make the same mistake all over again?
As she was tempted to do with Wraith.
Had she lost every bit of sense she ever possessed? She was attracted to Constantine and the man he sought to catch and have executed. Her stomach clenched at that thought. If Constantine did capture Wraith, would the wrecker’s conversations—and more—with her come to light? Then the earl would not regard her with warmth as he did now, for he could believe that she had ruined his traps in order to protect Wraith.
She could not continue living this duplicitous life, savoring a villain’s kisses while being unable to deny her attraction to the redheaded earl. She recalled the advice Constantine and Wraith had given her to stay close to Bannatyne Hall and concentrate on painting the mural. It was time to heed it.
“The sun is nearly set,” she said, slipping her hand from between his. “I must return to the Hall.”
“I will go with you.”
“But Tibbet can—”
“I will go with you, Sian.” He settled her hand on his sleeve and led her toward the road. When the footman appeared out of the gorse, Constantine motioned him to lead the way back to the Hall, then said, “There is nothing more I can do here tonight, save making sure you get there safely.”
She was tempted to tell him how protected she felt in his company, but she did not want to embarrass him. Instead she asked, “Why were you here? The wreckers work along the shore.”
“But they must get to the shore somehow.” He pointed to the well-worn path she had been following. “What better way to hide their route than to follow one that the sheep have conveniently created for them?”
She looked from the path to him. “You are right, and I am sorry I ruined your plans. I am too foolish to imagine such tactics.”
“Not foolish. Only naïve.”
“Which is as bad.”
He shook his head. “No one can be faulted for being so law-abiding that one fails to think like a murdering thief.”
She shuddered. “I wish they would stop.”
“And do what? Go back to fishing? Work themselves to death in the poisoned air of the tin mines?”
“You know Gideon has offered to help families who need it.”
“But these Cornish are proud people. They do not want their lord’s largesse. They want to work and earn an honest shilling.”
“Unless it is easier to earn a dishonest one.”
His smile eased the taut lines along his face. “True.” He added nothing more until they reached the gate as the first stars poked through the darkness to the east. “Do yourself—and me—a favor, Sian, and stay at Bannatyne Hall. Stay away from the cliffs and the shore except at midday when you know there is no chance of you being caught there after dark. Do not go into St. Gundred at all. Send a servant if you need anything from there.”
“You clearly have heard about my encounter with Gillis.”
His russet brows dipped lower, furrowing his brow. “Little else is being discussed by the villagers who are evenly split over whether you were brave or stupid to make a fool of Gillis on the village green.”
“What do you think?”
He opened the gate. “Do not ask me, Sian. You will not like the answer.”
“Constantine, Gillis is terrified of Wraith.” She hesitated, then plunged ahead. “I doubt the leader of the wreckers would be so scared of an interloper.”
“What are you saying?”
“I am saying that Gillis may be nothing more than a puppet dancing to someone else’s manipulation.”
He looked toward the sea. “These people are close-knit. They will not allow someone else to come in and order them about without bemoaning the fact endlessly. I have heard no talk of anyone but Gillis being the man to avoid. You need to stay as far from him as you can.” He gripped the gate so tightly that his knuckles bleached. “Sian, I cannot do my work if I must worry about you confronting Gillis and his men again.”
“I understand,” she said with a sigh. When he told her about his work in Cornwall, she had believed that he was enlisting her to help in it. Instead he had, she realized in retrospect, wanted to scare her so much she did not put a toe out of Bannatyne Hall. She was scared, and soon, if the wreckers were not halted, even the thick walls of Bannatyne Hall would not offer enough protection.
Chapter Ten
The sketchbook.
It was gone.
Again.
She must have dropped it when she collapsed to the ground in the meadow.
Sian sat on a windowseat in the nursery’s largest room and stared across th
e strange roof angles toward the field beyond the garden. Could she pinpoint the spot where she had dropped it? With ferns covering the ground and the unyielding gorse, she could spend hours searching and never find it.
She rose. Going to where she had begun work on the barrow, she sighed. She had been sighing a lot since she had left Constantine by the gate. He had been right about her risking the barely balanced status quo in the village by confronting Gillis. Not only that, but she had ruined the trap set by Constantine and Lord Pitchford.
Maybe that was why she had spent so much time drawing the barrow. The day she spent on the shore with Mr. Trembeth had been the least complicated one since her arrival in Cornwall . . .unless he was the man behind the mask Wraith wore.
She whirled away from the slanting wall and snarled a curse that would have brought a scandalized gasp from the curate. Bother! Wraith! Bother him and every man who sent sailors to a watery grave! She was tired of each and every one of them!
Storming out of the nursery, Sian went down the stairs. She considered going to the library, which she had only begun to explore, but she wanted fresh air. If she started reading some dry tome by some man who believed he knew the answers to all the questions since the beginning of time, she might gleefully throw it onto the hearth and watch it burn.
She could not recall the last time she had been in such a foul mood. Usually she could banish the dismals by painting or drawing. Not even that helped.
For once, she met no one as she walked out of the house by a side door. She wondered if the servants had scurried away at the sound of her heels trying to smash right through the stone floors. Drawing in a deep breath, she held it and then released it slowly. She did the same two more times. The exercise that her father had taught them to use when they were ready to fly up into the boughs had never failed.
Until now.
The low wall that separated the western terrace from the garden was pitted from sand blown against the stone during countless storms. She understood the power of a tempest all too well because one swirled inside her.
She pushed away from the wall and went down the five steps to the ground. Another trio of risers dropped to a lower section of the garden. It was overgrown, but she could see hints of statuary that once must have been visible from the house. Now they were cracked and broken, Grecian style stone heads on the ground next to pedestals. She strode up the steps and around the house. Why was she wasting time looking at mismatched heads and limbs when she could spend the same time searching for her sketchbook? Even Constantine had said it should be safe for her along the shore at midday, and it was still more than an hour before luncheon. She would search for her sketchbook, giving herself a couple of hours to find it.
An hour and a half later, Sian had more scratches, sunburn on her nose, and a rip in the hem of both her apron and her gown, but no sketchbook. Finding the exact spot where she had last held it had been fruitless. Maybe Constantine could locate it, but she could not. She was unsure whether she was more distressed by losing it—again—or the idea that he might succeed where she had failed.
As she straightened, she saw sails in the distance. A ship! The sight drew her toward the cliffs. Shielding her eyes against the sun, she watched the great expanses of canvas stretching ahead of the wind. Where had it sailed from? Where was it bound?
She wanted to watch the ship sail away. She wanted to escort it past St. Gundred to where it would be safe. Every ship that avoided the rocks was a small victory.
Sian was surprised when, about a half mile farther on, the slope led down to the shore where a half dozen small boats were drawn up on the shingle. She recognized two as fishing boats and guessed the others were, too. The reek of dead fish filled each breath she took as she looked in both directions along the shore.
As soon as she stepped onto the well-trod path, she wondered why Mr. Trembeth had insisted on going down the steep cliff path and up another just as sheer instead of coming to this spot. She understood why he wanted to reclaim his hat quickly, but, even after visiting the barrow, they could have returned in this direction and had an easy climb to the road. And did Constantine know about this area? Why would he have set up a trap by the cliffs when the wreckers could use this path?
The village was not visible from this section of the shore, so, picking up a long piece of driftwood to use as a walking stick, Sian continued following the ship until it vanished beyond the horizon. As it sank into the place where the sea and the sky were one, she waved, even though she knew the sailors probably were too busy to take note of her good wishes on a safe journey to their next port. It must be heading north. To Padstow or perhaps to Bristol or even to Cardiff in Wales.
She smiled. One ship had avoided the wreckers’ webs. It was silly to be pleased, because the ship had not come close to shore. Yet she would enjoy this private triumph.
“What are you doing here?” asked a voice she recognized by its indistinct mumbling.
She glanced around, startled, but did not see the ghost from Nethercott Castle. “Where are you?”
“I have no time to materialize. You need to get away from this shore. Now!”
“There is no one here to endanger me.”
“Not a person, but—”
Lightning flashed, and Sian looked over her shoulder. Ebony clouds had consumed the blue sky. Thunder followed, warning that the storm’s vanguard was only a couple of miles away. She had been so caught up in watching the ship, she had not noticed the storm building.
“Do you know how I can get to the village?” she cried. “I cannot stay on the beach. In the open fields, I will be just as much a target for lightning.”
“Heed what I have to say carefully.” He gave her a quick list of directions to a path to the top of the cliffs.
After she had repeated them back, she asked, “Will that get me to St. Gundred?”
“If you follow my directions exactly. Hurry.”
“Thank you.”
He did not reply. He was gone.
She had never guessed a ghost would be her guardian angel, but she did not pause to wonder at how he had come to help her. She needed to reach the village.
Lightning rippled across the sky which was turning from day to night. In the quick flicker, she saw a man standing behind her.
He was dressed in ragged clothes. From the stench around him, she doubted he had bathed since they were new. His matted hair hung over his face. For a moment, she thought it was Gillis, but the man was twice as wide as the wreckers’ leader.
“Ye lost, darlin’?” His grin revealed blackened stubs of teeth.
“No, I can find my way. Thank you.” She tightened her grip on her walking stick. She would bash it into his skull if he came any closer. If he had allies among those watching. . .No, she would not think of that. Holding her chin high, she said, “If you will excuse me, I shall be on my way.”
He moved toward her, but paused when she raised the stick. “No need to hurry away, darlin’. Ye can go home after.”
“After?” she asked carefully. “After what?”
A bolt of lightning struck the sea, and thunder crackled, but the man grinned more widely. “After ye give me what is in yer purse, darlin’.”
“I do not have a purse.”
“A fine lady like ye? Fine ladies always have purses. If ye will not give it to me, then I will take it meself.” He grabbed for her.
She swung the driftwood. It hit him squarely on the head. Splinters shattered in every direction. He reeled back. She ran in the direction the ghost had told her to go. The sound of boots on the stones told her that the fetid man had not given up. Fear added speed to her feet. Her heartbeat roared in her ears, and each breath burned beneath her ribs. She had to find the path up to the village. Where was it? She scanned the cliffs that were growing in height again. Had she misunderstood the ghost’s directions?
She saw a footpath leading up the cliff. Not caring if it was the correct one or not, she clamored up it, fighting
the wind that wanted to pluck her off it. Her feet slid from beneath her, first one, then the other. She bent over, grabbed the ground to keep from falling, and kept going.
Then the path vanished. She moaned. She could not go back. The man was not far behind her. She kicked small rocks down on him, slowing him, but not for long.
Lightning illuminated another section of the path. She needed to jump across a gap of about three feet. On flat ground, it would have been simple. Here. . .
“Give me yer purse!” she heard from a few yards below her perch.
She backed up and ran as fast as she could on the narrow path. She launched herself with all her strength. For a moment, she soared, then, lit by another flash, put out her foot to the other end of the path. She slipped, but held onto the cliff. Blood ran from her torn fingertips as pain stabbed her left ankle. Teetering, she forced her right foot hard against the rocks to keep her from falling. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she paid the pain no mind as she continued up the cliff.
When lightning struck a bush not far from the top, she crouched by the sharp stones. The bitter odor of burnt air choked her, but she pushed herself to her feet and scrambled over the top. She did not look back to see if the man was still in pursuit. She had a more deadly enemy now. The clouds swirled above her, and the wind buffeted her. The heart of the storm was still to the west.
She cried out in horror as another flash of lightning blinded her. The thunder crashed seconds later, a gigantic warning for her to flee.
But where? She could not see lights from the village or from Bannatyne Hall. How far had she gone while following the boat? How much farther had she gone while fleeing from the stinking man? She could not stay there. She had to go somewhere. But where?
She took one step and almost collapsed. Had she twisted her ankle or broken it? She was uncertain, but if she lingered out in the storm, she could be killed.
Lurching inland, she wished she still had the driftwood for a walking stick. She had not gone far when she saw two pinpoints of light to her right. It was the wrong direction for St. Gundred or the Hall, but she did not care. As thunder cracked its massive whip, she limped toward the lights. A cottage! She climbed the steps and banged her fist on the door.
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