Sea Wraith

by Jocelyn Kelley

  “Come away from the window,” she whispered.

  “And go where?”

  “It is my bed chamber.”

  “Is this virtuous Sian Nethercott speaking?”

  She laughed, then her voice caught anew as his fingers glided down over her bottom. He pulled her hips so close to his that she could not doubt how much the idea of being in her bed excited him.

  “My doors are locked,” she said. “No one will come here until dawn.”

  “I must be gone long before then.”

  “But the night still has many hours when we can be together.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “There are no lights in the room, so you need not fear that I will see the man behind the mask.”

  “Ye will not touch my face?”

  “Only with my lips.”

  He groaned with the need that threatened to devour her. “And I shall explore ye with my lips, too. Starting with yer mouth.”

  She slanted into his kiss as she reached for the draperies to fling them aside. Her fingers dropped away from the fabric as she ran them up his chest to the brooch holding his cloak closed at his throat.

  “Daughter of Nethercott Castle.” The words drifted through the thick draperies.

  She stiffened.

  “What is it?” Wraith asked, his mouth still close to hers.

  “You must go.”

  “What? I thought we—”

  She shoved against his chest. “You must go. Now!”

  “Daughter of Nethercott Castle,” repeated the voice that belonged to the ghost.

  “Who said that?” he asked.

  She gasped. “You heard it?”

  “Aye. Why would I fail to hear words spoken right on the other side of the draperies? Who is there? Whom do ye wish me not to see?”

  “The list would be a mile long.”

  “But that is not a Cornish accent. Who is there?”

  Before she could halt him, he pulled aside the draperies. He swore vividly as the ghost glowed a few feet from them.

  She stepped between him and the ghost. Cold raised gooseflesh along her arms, and she realized she had never been so close to the spirit before.

  “This is not a good time,” she said to the ghost.

  “I must speak with you now, daughter of Nethercott Castle.” The mumbling voice took on an edge of surprise. “You are not alone.”

  “No. That is why it is not a good time.”

  “You are not alone in your own bedchamber. A man stands behind you.”

  Wraith stepped forward, putting his hand on her shoulder when she raised her arm to block his way. “Let me, sweetheart.”

  Hoping she was not making a huge mistake, she lowered her arm.

  “I am Wraith,” he said with a deference she had not expected. She knew he was not scared, just wary.

  “I am a guardian of Nethercott Castle, and I watch over this daughter of Nethercott Castle. You must leave now.”

  “Or. . .?”

  “You left two men near the ancient barrow along the shore.”

  “Yes. How do ye know that?”

  “I am a guardian.” The mumbling voice became agitated. “I am not the only one here. In fact, there are many, and they share with me what they know. What they know now is that your two men are about to walk into a trap. If they do, they will become guardians of the shore, too.”

  “Do ye mean they will die?” His fingers curled into fists at his side.

  “They will be captured by the wreckers. You know what they do to witnesses.”

  She put her hand on Wraith’s arm. “Go, and save them if you can.” She looked back at the ghost. “He can, can’t he?”

  “The time when saving them is possible quickly passes.”

  Wraith glared at the ghost. “If I learn ye are lying. . .”

  “I will never speak with you again, guardian,” Sian finished, wondering if even that threat would mean anything to a ghost. She was amazed to see the ghost start to lose its form. Had it been because of what she had said, or was its brief time being visible coming to an end?

  The voice from the dimming light said, “It is the truth.”

  Then the light was gone.

  She did not hesitate. “Go, Wraith! We will have another time.”

  “Aye, but not here where yer watch-dog haunts,” he growled, glancing around the room. With a kiss that sent tingles along her, he pushed back through the draperies.

  By the time she stood by the window, he was gone. She thought she saw him in the garden moments later, but it might have been only a trick when lamplight from the house splashed on the wet plants.

  She let the draperies fall back into place and went to her bed. It never had seemed so empty.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Only a thin sliver of a moon peeked through the mist four days later when Constantine crept along the shore. He no longer had to think twice about edging from one shadow to the next. With the thin moon hidden by the mist, plenty of pools of darkness concealed him. It did not take him long to reach the spot along the cliffs where he could observe without being seen. His task was easier because he had to travel only from Bannatyne Hall instead of St. Gundred where eyes watched every motion. His own eyes were focused on a ship sailing far beyond the rocks where the wreckers had trapped the other vessel at the new moon.

  No sign of the cargo of that wrecked ship remained on the shore which looked as pristine as if no human had ever trod on it. Now, even the ship was gone. Some of the wood had been salvaged and was stored in a barn just outside the village. He had discovered it there by following the wreckers to their cache. They had retrieved only a small portion of the wood because the storm had torn most of the ship apart and let the sea swallow it.

  Tonight, as he had hoped, there were people on the shore. Standing in a closed circle, their heads bent toward each other as they conspired. He knew the identity of each one, even though he could not see them clearly in the darkness. He suspected Gillis would be at the very center of the circle. Sian might believe someone else controlled Gillis, giving him orders to pass along to his wreckers, but Constantine had seen no sign of that.

  Would they guess tonight had been a test? While in Penzance, Constantine had made arrangements with some ship captains who knew the waters near St. Gundred well. He had exchanged the Regent’s gold for favors, and now several ships would look as if they were coming toward the wreckers’ lights before heading back to the normal shipping lanes. Each time, Constantine would be watching and, in that way, he could discover which villagers took the bait and which did not.

  He listened to the voices from below. It was difficult to hear them over the rumble of the waves upon the shingle. But he did not have to wait long. As he had expected, the voices quickly became raised in argument about the best way to lure another ship onto the rocks. When he heard Gillis’s drunken snarl, he could not keep from grinning.

  He had been certain that Gillis was the leader of one group of wreckers, but now he had confirmation. Next time one of the ships passed by as he had arranged, he would have Pitchford and the constable in tow. A quick sweep of the beach, and the justice of the peace would execute his duty along with the wreckers.

  Sitting back on his haunches, he watched tonight’s ship pass beyond the rocks and the wreckers scatter to their homes. None of them came toward him, for he had selected his observation spot well. He rested his elbows on his knees. He waited until the ship vanished into the mist slipping outward from the shore.

  Only then did he heave himself to his feet. Every muscle ached, a legacy of too many nights with too few hours of sleep. But if he succeeded, every sacrifice was worth it.

  Almost every sacrifice, he amended as he looked toward where lights marked Bannatyne Hall. So many things he had planned down to the smallest detail before he came to Cornwall, but he could never have imagined that Sian Nethercott would complicate his work. He could not blame her. He had known she was an extraordinary woman, but he had not guessed she would be
interested in matters that seldom intrigued women. Matters like the capture of the wreckers. Then, again, she was not a Bannatyne, for that family, through many generations, had let the wreckers ply their trade in exchange for a share of the stolen goods. Gideon Bannatyne, who showed every sign of being a man of honor, had assured him that he had no intention of letting that tradition continue, but too many of the landed peers in Cornwall said that and then treated their guests to feasts of “found” food.

  He rubbed his brow. Why was he questioning Bannatyne’s intentions? The last time they had spoken, Bannatyne had encouraged his work here. Constantine was seeing evil from every direction. That had to stop or he could miss the real villain right under his nose.

  But even that was not the problem. Sian Nethercott was the real problem. Too often she intruded on his thoughts. When she was near, he needed every ounce of self-control not to pull her into his arms and kiss her until she begged him to make love with her. Avoiding her had been, as she told him, easy in the maze of rooms in Bannatyne Hall. Yet he had not escaped his yearning for her. It accompanied him wherever he went.

  “Now it can accompany me back to Bannatyne Hall,” he said with a sigh. It was time to seek his bed where sleep would elude him again as he wished she was there beside him.

  * * * *

  “I never guessed you were a late riser,” Arthyn said as he saw Lastingham pass by the library door. Then he wished he had remained silent, because, beside him, Miss Nethercott’s eyes rose and focused on Lastingham.

  The earl, with the stern bearing of a former military man, paused, then entered the library. “It seems I have learned to conform to Town hours where no member of the ton is seen before the middle of the day. What are you two doing?”

  “Sorting books.” She smiled, her eyes sparkling as she gazed at the handsome earl.

  “So I see. Is there a reason?”

  Arthyn answered before she could, “The viscount’s library is in complete disorder, and I offered to arrange the books in a usable manner. Miss Nethercott agreed to help me when she is not busy painting.”

  “Sian, if you please, Arthyn,” she said, then turned to Lastingham. “You are welcome to join us, if you do not mind dust.”

  When the earl laughed and gave a charming answer, Arthyn seethed. How could he be such a block? He should have let Lastingham walk past, and she would not be smiling as the earl flirted with her. There was no way a country curate could match a man with Town bon ton. He envied Lastingham’s suave ability to bring a smile to her lips, and he hated himself for that weakness. Not for the first time did he wish Lastingham’s cottage had survived the fire. Then Arthyn would have no competition for her attention.

  When Lastingham asked them to excuse him because he was taking luncheon with Lord Pitchford, as he did each week, Arthyn did not feel jealous. He usually did, because he hated the idea of Lastingham gaining more of the marquess’s esteem. But today, Arthyn cheered. Silently, of course, for he would never allow his rival for Miss Nethercott to know how much he had Arthyn on the defensive.

  His unvoiced cheers shriveled when she rose and said she would walk Lastingham to the door because she wished to partake of some fresh air. She asked if Arthyn wanted to go with them, but he could not stomach seeing how she radiated happiness in the earl’s company. It made him sick.

  Then they were gone, talking with an ease Arthyn had never managed with her. It was the same as it always was. The military men with their scars and their stories of valiant battle had women swarming around them, while a man who never had the funds to buy a commission was left to stand and watch.

  He picked up a pile of books and set them on the table. He clenched a fist, ready to send them flying to the floor. No, he could not do that. It would be unseemly for a country curate to show such pique, and no one must guess he was anything except the curate who endured the taunts of stupid boys and the indifference of the villagers until they needed something. If the truth was discovered. . .He kept that thought from forming as Miss Nethercott came back into the library. She was no longer smiling, he noted. Had Lastingham said something to disturb her? If he had, Arthyn should reprimand him. He took pleasure in that thought until he remembered the rumors that the true reason Lastingham was in the village had nothing to do with the wreckers. He hid in St. Gundred because he had killed a man in a duel and now wanted to avoid putting his head in a hempen necktie.

  All at once, Arthyn knew he could not remain silent about his feelings any longer. His good intentions had paved him a road to his own private hell. Sian Nethercott was so beautiful and so kindhearted, and he could no longer be satisfied with what they had shared until now. But that might mean revealing his own secrets, and he could not do that. Not yet.

  “It looks as if more rain is headed our way,” she said as she began to open the cover of a book on another stack. “The wind is already beginning to pick up.”

  “Miss Nethercott—”

  “Sian, if you please.”

  “—I think it is time that you made a decision.”

  “A decision?” Her lovely brown eyes widened. “About what, Arthyn?”

  “About which one of us you want.”

  Her face became a sickly ashen gray. “What do you mean?”

  “You made your intentions quite clear when you invited me to stay at Bannatyne Hall.”

  “Intentions? My only intention in inviting you to stay here was because your house had burned to the ground.”

  “You asked me before you knew that.”

  She closed the book’s cover and gripped it so tightly that her fingers pressed into the leather. “I said if you needed a home, you were welcome here.”

  “Aye, you did, and I understood it to mean that you wished to spend more time with me.”

  “Which I have. I have been helping you here in the library.”

  “That is not what I meant. First you invited me, then Lord Lastingham. I thought you might have invited both of us here so you could become better acquainted and make your choice of one of us for your husband. Naturally, since you invited me first, I assumed you would choose me before this.”

  Sian stared at Arthyn Trembeth as if she had never seen him before. Did he expect her to speak of her heart when he still hid the truth from her? “How—? I never—!” She could not get out more than a pair of words before her shock choked her. Putting the book back onto the stack, she said, “Please. Excuse me.”

  She rushed out of the library. If he called after her, she did not hear it. Her pulse throbbed too loudly in her skull to hear anything.

  How could he have made such an assumption? Bother all men! Why did Arthyn act as if she belonged to him when he would not be honest with her? How had he mistaken a common courtesy of offering him a roof over his head for anything else? Yes, she delighted in his kisses when he wore his mask as Wraith, but she was not ready to marry, most certainly not a man who would not speak the truth of his exploits.

  I thought you might have invited both of us here so you could become better acquainted and make your choice for your husband.

  She grit her teeth as his words echoed through her head. She had come to Cornwall to paint a mural for Jade’s baby, not to make a match. Why did men think she was desperate for a husband?

  And Constantine was no better. He had interrogated her—there was no other description of it—to find out how the window had broken in her bedchamber. The simple explanation of a wind gust destroying it did not satisfy him, even though it was the truth. He warned her again not to wander away from the house.

  She had kept from flying up into the boughs, but she was not sure how much longer she could hold back her temper. Especially when he suggested she might wish to return to Nethercott Castle or go to London to be with her sisters and their husbands. He never spoke the words, but he made it quite clear that he believed she was incapable of being left on her own.

  Forget Constantine! Why could Arthyn not be more like he was as Wraith? When he wore that dom
ino, he acted as if he believed she might want more than a life married to the most convenient man and then settling down to oversee his household and their family. He never suggested she needed someone to take care of her, because they both knew he would never fill that role. When she was with him, there was only that moment where passion connected them, drawing them closer until they were one. So why was he putting pressure on her now to marry?

  What if he were not Wraith? The thought shook her to the core. He might be no more than a country curate, who had fallen in love with a baron’s youngest daughter, a not-impossible match.

  No! There were too many signs that he was the man who wore the domino. After all, Arthyn’s touch was sweet. . .but so was Constantine’s.

  She groaned. Had she lost any sense she once possessed? Maybe Sir Henry, and now Constantine, were correct. She needed someone to watch over her, because she had fallen under the spell of a criminal, ready to forsake everything she believed for the chance to be with him.

  Paint.

  She needed to paint.

  She would gather her confused thoughts and line up them up as she did her paints. She would fit each thought into the place where it belonged, just as she did when she joined two sections of the mural.

  Painting. It might be her only salvation now.

  * * * *

  Hours later, Sian opened and closed her fingers, stretching them as she gazed out the solar’s tall windows at the wind driving rain ahead of it through the garden. She had spent the entire afternoon and most of the evening, painting. She had not paused for luncheon or tea. When Helen had come to see if she wanted something to eat, she had sent her away. She wanted to be alone with her painting and her thoughts.

  A whole section of the wall was completed, the cliffs looking more like the real ones. She was pleased about that. Unfortunately, she had been far less successful sorting out her thoughts.

  At the sound of a throat clearing, she looked up to see Arthyn walking into the solar. “May I come in?” he asked.

  “Of course. Bannatyne Hall is your home now, too.”