Sea Wraith

by Jocelyn Kelley

  “A war?”

  “Call it what ye wish, but there will be fighting, and there will be dying. That sounds like a war to me.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  “Always, sweetheart. And so are ye and everyone along this coast. If ye are wise, ye will not delve further.”

  His cloak flowed out around him as he turned on his heel, swung into the saddle, and vanished into the night.

  She hobbled to the door and opened it. Tibbet was sitting by it, snoring loudly. Her unsteady footsteps must have reached past the noise that rivaled the thunder, because he woke.

  Jumping to his feet, he gasped, “Miss Nethercott, where have ye been?”

  “I was caught in the storm, and then I had to avoid the wreckers on my way back. That took more time than I would have guessed.”

  “Mrs. Jenkin and Oates are in the solar. They will want to speak with ye straightaway.”

  “You may inform them that I am safe. And I am exhausted. I will make my apologies to all of you in the morning.”

  The footman clearly wanted to ask more questions, but she crossed the room and began going up the flight of stairs beyond it. When he stepped forward to help her, she reminded him that he needed to tell the housekeeper and the butler that she had arrived home. She climbed the stairs, pausing more and more frequently as the pain in her leg expanded until she ached all over.

  Helen was asleep on the chaise longue when Sian entered her bedchamber. Not wanting to disturb her maid, she sat on the bed to draw off her shoes. When she saw a mist appear in one corner of the room, she did not wait for it to take its male form.

  “Begone,” she said as she pulled back the covers on the bed.

  “Daughter of—”

  “Not tonight,” she stated firmly as she drew the blankets over her head and shut out the ghost’s light.

  Chapter Twelve

  Sian was almost grateful for her twisted ankle. Not only did it give countenance to her half-true story when she apologized to Mrs. Jenkin for upsetting the household, her aching leg meant she had an excuse to remain inside Bannatyne Hall and paint.

  Her work on the mural was limited to the distance she could reach with her paintbrush while seated with her foot propped to one side. Tibbet or another footman waited nearby as she worked, ready to help shift her and her chair when she completed one section. It was frustrating, but not as much as being cut off from the rest of the world.

  For the first fortnight, her only contact beyond Bannatyne Hall was a letter from her sister Jade. They were delayed leaving London because their older sister China and her husband had not yet arrived back from the Continent. As soon as possible, they would travel together to Cornwall. As Sian folded the letter closed, she wondered how much longer it would be safe for Jade to travel. The baby’s arrival was only a few months away, and Sian hoped that she was not alone at Bannatyne Hall while the baby was born in Town. She missed her sisters as well as their husbands, and she wanted to cuddle that new baby.

  For two weeks, and then another, Sian sat by her window at night and watched the moon grow round and then wax again. The weather had become tranquil in the wake of the thunderstorm that had sent her scurrying for shelter at the brothel. Every night she looked for activity along the shore, but saw none. Occasionally she saw a ship’s lights, always far from the dangerous rocks in the bay.

  And every night, she looked forward to sunset and the chance to see Wraith striding through the twilight in the gardens. She had thought he would return to make sure she was all right, but there had been no sign of him, just as there had been no callers from the village. Other than a short note from Lord Pitchford expressing his and Constantine’s dismay at news of her injury, she had heard and spoken with nobody but the household.

  As she sat alone day after day while she dabbed at the wall, not feeling inspired, she wondered if she had been forgotten by everyone beyond Bannatyne Hall. Out of sight meant out of mind.

  She should be accustomed to that with Constantine. He had pushed her out of his mind after their brief encounters in London. His explanation of why he never wrote had been plausible, but that did nothing to ease her bruised pride at being so easily forgotten.

  Mr. Trembeth had promised to call so he could explore Gideon’s library, but he had not. She could not be distressed with him, because Mrs. Jenkin spoke of measles spreading through the village. Comforting his parishioners would keep the curate too busy to think of anything but their welfare. Yet she missed his conversation and the aura of mystery he projected, even as he tried to act as a curate should.

  But why had he—assuming Mr. Trembeth wore that black domino—failed to appear as Wraith? Did Wraith have heinous business somewhere else?

  Every time her hand brushed her breasts, she recalled his fingers on her. Her body longed for the moist fire of his tongue moving along her.

  She should be glad he was gone, she lectured herself. No longer was she tempted to disgrace her family by yearning for a criminal. It was simpler this way. She kept trying to persuade herself that. . .and failed.

  As her ankle slowly healed enough so she could walk short distances if she used a cane, she felt worse, cut off from the rest of the world and a prisoner in Bannatyne Hall.

  That was why Sian was astounded when, as the twilight edged toward night and she had blown out all the lamps but one, her maid came rushing up to the nursery to announce, “Miss Nethercott, the curate is ‘ere to see ye.”

  “Mr. Trembeth?” She sat straighter in her chair. “At this hour?”

  “The curate said to tell ye this is the first moment ‘e ‘as ‘ad free, and ‘e came straightaway to see ‘ow ye fare.”

  Sian looked at her paint-splattered gown. “Helen, please have someone escort Mr. Trembeth to the library and have a light supper brought there. That will allow me time to change into something appropriate for receiving callers.”

  “You look lovely as you are,” came the curate’s resonant voice from the doorway.

  Again she heard hints of Wraith’s timbre in it, but she warned herself not to let her craving for the man in the mask to misdirect her. So far no rumors about her had emerged from Bennath’s brothel. Wraith had been as good as his word, but she wondered again what the cost had been for the madam’s silence. She knew what the cost had been to her own heart and soul. She longed, every second of every day and every sleepless hour of the night, to feel his heated caresses again.

  “You are very kind,” she replied automatically to hide her craving to throw herself into his arms. How would he react to such outrageous behavior when he stood before her as Arthyn Trembeth? “And you look exhausted.”

  “Too many nights without sleep.” He gave her a tired smile as he walked into the room. “Is this your work?” He squinted through the dim light. “I shall have to return in the daylight to see it better.”

  “I would prefer you wait until it is completed.” She picked up the cane she kept beneath the chair. Like her apron it was spotted with every shade of paint she had used, but unlike her apron, she thought the cane was better for the colors.

  She watched as Helen sent the waiting footman to take Sian’s orders to the kitchen, then, as was her custom, rushed out into the hallway to wait in case Sian needed help with the stairs.

  “As you wish,” said Mr. Trembeth, “but I do look forward to seeing your mural when it is done.” He offered his arm. “May I assist you down the stairs?”

  “Thank you.” Her breath caught as she put her fingers on his arm. It had a strength that suggested he spent far less time with books than he wished everyone to believe. To cover her reaction, she hurried to add, “Tell me how the ill children in St. Gundred are. I hope they are recovering.”

  As they went with slow, unsteady steps down the stairs, Mr. Trembeth gave her a full report of each household in the village and who had been ill and who was well. She was glad for his prattle, because she did not have to pretend that she could talk with ease while she went down the sta
irs. If her fingers were gripping his arm painfully, he showed no sign of it, but hers was not the only sigh of relief when they reached the first floor.

  “Forgive me, Miss Nethercott,” the curate said, as she led the way toward the library on the leeward side of the house.

  “For what?” She did not stop, unsure if her still weak ankle would let her start again.

  “I should have carried you down the stairs instead of making you endure such pain.” He put his hand to the small of his back. “I fear I am not as hale as I appear. That has been a disappointment to my father.”

  “Was he a man of the church, too?” She wondered how many more layers of lies he had build to hide the truth.

  “No, of the military.” His face flashed with color, then he said, “As I told you, I have never managed to meet the high standards he set for himself and everyone around him.”

  “That sounds like every military man I know.” She was unsettled by his sudden confessional tone, because she could only wonder what else he might reveal. That he truly was Wraith? She was torn, wishing he would, but anxious about what such an admission would signal.

  “Do you know many?”

  “Here, I know Lord Pitchford and Lord Lastingham, of course. My sister China’s husband served on the Continent.”

  “So you understand their high standards.” He rubbed his back again. “I fear I shall never achieve the same, but even more I fear I have let you hurt yourself more.”

  “My ankle is healing well, so do not let it concern you, Mr. Trembeth.”

  “Arthyn, if you would, Miss Nethercott.”

  “Thank you, and please call me Sian.”

  He nodded, frowning as she walked unsteadily. He put his hand under her elbow, and she had to fight leaning into him.

  “As I said,” she went on, “you should not be concerned, Arthyn. I need to exercise my ankle, even if it is uncomfortable.”

  “You are a brave woman.”

  “Determined, I would say, is closer to the truth.”

  His frown eased into a smile as they entered the massive library with Helen following to give the call propriety. Sian wondered if his change of expression was because of her words or because he viewed the shelves that ringed the room and reached thick fingers out into the center. There were hundreds of books on the shelves, and, from the excitement in Arthyn’s eyes, he was eager to read each one.

  “You will find,” she said as she eased herself into a chair by the hearth at the far end of the room, “that there is no order to the books. It is as if every Bannatyne gathered volumes and placed them hither and yon. It would be a huge task to bring order to the library.”

  “But a most rewarding one.” He tore himself from staring at the shelves to select a chair close to hers. Glancing around, he looked out the tall bay windows behind him where Helen sat like a silent shadow. “I did not realize the Bannatynes had such a clear view of St. Gundred from here.”

  Sian smiled as she admired how the lights from the village cottages resembled the stars reflected in the sea. They seemed brighter tonight than usual, but the thinning moon had not yet risen. “Either by chance or by design, every window of Bannatyne Hall offers a view that gives its master a way to keep an eye on the estate’s tenants and their activities.”

  “Legal and not.”

  “Yes.”

  His answer was forestalled by a maid entering with a heavy tray of delicious-smelling meat and bread and tea and sweets. Helen jumped to her feet to help the young woman, and quickly a pleasant repast was spread out on several small tables. While Helen prepared a plate for Sian, Arthyn served himself. He smiled as Sian handed him a cup of tea. Had he felt the light brush of her fingers as she had his? It was such a small thing, something she would have not taken notice of with anyone else, but she could not be unaware of a single aspect of him.

  “I must speak with Lord Bannatyne,” he said, “and ask if he would like my help with arranging his splendid library so it will be of use to him and his family.”

  “Will you have time for such an undertaking with your other duties?” She took the plate from her maid. “Thank you, Helen. Do help yourself, too.”

  “Thank ye, Miss Nethercott.” Helen glanced once at the curate, then looked back at Sian with raised brows and a half-smile.

  Sian kept herself from rolling her eyes at her maid’s overt attempt at matchmaking. By the time Arthyn returned to his chair and Helen to her seat by the window, Sian had her amusement under control. Laughing might distress Arthyn, and she was so grateful for his call that she would not do anything to bring it to an early end. If her maid had any idea how often Sian had been in this man’s arms—even though she had not once seen his face—Helen would be shocked.

  “You ask a very good question, Miss Nethercott, because my duties are onerous,” he answered.

  “Please call me Sian.”

  He nodded. “All day long—and often nights as well—I try to ease the lives of St. Gundred’s parishioners. I am not complaining, I want you to understand.”

  “I do understand.” Was he trying to tell her what she suspected was true? His days he spent as the curate, and at night he led a group of wreckers. Their booty would benefit the villagers who worked with him. Was that what he meant? Did he want her to know? Should she tell him that she had already guessed the truth?

  “Aye, I think you do.” Arthyn took a generous bite of the meat he had piled on his plate. After he had chewed and swallowed, he went on, “I am constantly surrounded by people who need something from me. It would be a great pleasure to spend a few hours each week, for I could spare no more from my duties, in hushed solitude in a marvelous library with only books for company.” He regarded her eagerly. “You do understand that, don’t you?”

  “Most certainly. I enjoy people’s company, but I also like the time I take for my painting and drawing. It allows me to reach more deeply within myself and helps me banish those other voices that have filled my head.”

  “How insightful of you, Miss Nethercott!”

  “Sian, if you please.”

  “Of course.” He set his plate on the tray. “You see what I bumbled in my attempts to explain. You are, if you will pardon the comparison, as marvelous as this library.”

  “And, I hope, in a bit more order.”

  His eyes widened. “I did not intend my words to be anything other than a compliment.”

  “And I did not intend mine to be anything other than a jest.”

  “Ah.”

  When he added nothing more, silence settled between them. Not the comfortable quiet shared by friends, but the uneasy one between people who did not know each other well. But if he were Wraith, they had shared the beginning of an intimacy closer than she had ever had with a man. She could not speak of that. Not now. Not within the walls of Bannatyne Hall—and in proximity of Helen’s ears. She realized the secret of those wondrous kisses and his fiery touch, as much as the secret his life as Wraith, was the source of the silence. Searching for something to say, Sian had no choice but to fall back on the trite.

  “I will talk to Gideon about your helping in the library. I am sure he will be impressed with the excellent work you have done with the boys in the village. Your teaching them to read is a gift they may not appreciate now, but it will make a difference in their lives.”

  Arthyn picked up his cup and stared into it. “Aye, it will allow them to understand what is written on the crates they fish out of the sea.” Raising his eyes to meet hers, he grumbled, “Perhaps I should be teaching them French, so they can read the sides of boxes they steal from smugglers bringing brandy and wine from France.”

  “Not all of them will become criminals.”

  “The others will go into the mines or try to grow grain on this unforgiving soil.”

  “Some families are fisherfolk, and others herd sheep or work at skilled jobs like smithing or weaving.”

  “Now you sound like Lord Bannatyne.”

  “From what m
y sister has written to me, Gideon has spent more time than his predecessors trying to help the people here. He—” A flash of light caught her eye. “What is that?”

  “What is what?”

  Coming to her feet, she pointed out the window toward St. Gundred. “What is that bright light?”

  “Fire!” He put the cup on the tray. He gulped harshly. “I hope I am wrong, but it looks frightfully close to my house. I must go.”

  “Go! I will get what food is prepared in the kitchen and follow in the carriage.”

  He grasped her hands. “Send servants in your stead. The wind was rising when I came here, and it could spread the fire throughout the village. It is too dangerous for you.”

  “No more dangerous than for anyone else, and, Arthyn, if your cottage is damaged, you are welcome to stay here until it is repaired.”

  “You are kind beyond measure, Miss Nethercott.”

  “Sian! You must call me Sian.” She pulled her hands out of his and gave him a shove toward the door. “Go!”

  When he ran out of the library, bumping into a bookcase in his efforts not to knock a maid off her feet, Sian motioned for both Helen and the other maid to come to her. She gave quick orders for food to be wrapped and put in the carriage that should be brought to the front door. The two maids rushed out, one heading toward the kitchen, and the other to send for the carriage.

  Taking her cane, Sian followed at her best pace. It was intolerably slow, but if the fire was out by the time she arrived in St. Gundred, and she hoped it was, then the food would arrive at the perfect time for the firefighters.

  Helen was waiting in the foyer by the time Sian reached it. She had retrieved Sian’s bonnet and a black cloak that reminded her of Wraith. No, this was not the time to think about the man who had thrilled her with his masterful lips, even if he might be the very man who had just left.