Sea Wraith

by Jocelyn Kelley

  “After our last conversation, I was not sure you would wish me to remain.” He sat next to her on the settee. “Not that I would suggest you were vindictive.”

  “I am glad to hear that.” She almost smiled, then realized he was as grim as a gravedigger.

  “I came to beg your forgiveness, Miss Nethercott.”

  “I have asked you many times to call me Sian. Could you please humor me and do as I request?”

  “Then I must beg your forgiveness doublefold.” He ran his hand through his hair which fell limply against his brow. “You would guess a man who teaches grammar and spelling would be more skilled with words, but I find all of them fail me now.”

  She smiled, wishing she could tell him to stop pretending. What a hoax he was perpetrating on the villagers and Lord Pitchford and Constantine!

  For a moment, her smile faltered. Constantine had been kind to her, helping her adjust to the ofttimes odd ways of the Cornish. She did not like the idea of him being embarrassed—no, humiliated by Arthyn’s double-dealing.

  “I find they fail me,” he continued, “when I want to tell you the truth.”

  “The truth?” At last! He was going to reveal he was Wraith, and the charade would be at an end. Together they would laugh, and then they would go to her room. . .together.

  “I have a great deal of affection for you.”

  “And I for you.”

  “Truly?” His eyes brightened, and his dreary posture vanished.

  “Let me show you.”

  She reached out to put her hands on his arms. He did not move toward her, and she guessed he was asking her to make a leap of faith. Again she almost laughed aloud. A leap of faith when he pretended to be a curate? That fit with Wraith’s sense of humor.

  She leaned into his lips, eager for another of the fiery kisses she had savored while he was disguised as Wraith. His hand reached up to cup the curve of her elbow as he returned the kiss.

  A pallid, lifeless kiss.

  What was wrong? From the first time Wraith had kissed her, rapture had rippled along her, thrilling her to the tips of her toes. Now his lips were dispassionate, as if kissing her were an obligation he must fulfill.

  Arthyn pulled back seconds after her lips found his. She looked hastily away, feeling puzzled. She had thought he was about to tell her the truth that he was Wraith. Had he changed his mind? Why? She could not guess, but the only reason he would kiss her like that was because he was trying to keep her from guessing the truth. Should she hint that she was aware of the truth? She opened her mouth, but closed it. He might see her discovery as proof that he had tipped his hand in some way, not only to her, but to Constantine and Lord Pitchford as well.

  “I think I know the answer to this,” he said, “but will you marry me, Miss Nethercott?”

  Shocked, she stared at him. Marry him? When he would not be square with her? Was this a test to ascertain if she had seen through his disguise? A thousand thoughts raced through her head, but two resonated the loudest: What if she said yes and then discovered Arthyn was Wraith? What if she said yes and then discovered Arthyn was not Wraith?

  “You overwhelm me,” she said. “Please allow me some time to consider your heartfelt offer.”

  “And it is heartfelt, which is why I am willing to give you all the time you need to consider it. A fortnight, even. But I hope you will say yes. You have made St. Gundred far more tolerable for me.”

  It was not a profession of undying love, but she let him embrace her. As briefly as he had kissed her, he released her and began talking about the wedding they could have in the church with Mr. Hallett presiding. He even would wait until after Jade’s baby was born and baptized, so both her sisters might attend the wedding.

  With every word, Sian felt more unsettled. She excused herself saying, quite honestly, that she needed some time to think about this amazing day and his offer. Leaving the room at a sedate walk, she hurried up the stairs and into her room. She locked the door and went to the window that should be repaired in a few days. As rain spilled onto the sill, she gazed out at the night.

  No answer waited there.

  * * * *

  Sian let Helen help her into her nightclothes, but did not climb into bed. How could she sleep in the wake of the day’s events? Helen had asked questions that suggested everyone in the house knew about Arthyn’s proposal. Sian avoided answering them.

  But that solved nothing. She wished her sisters were here. They would help her sort out this shocking mull.

  Her thoughts raced. It was too dark to paint, but maybe she could read and distract herself. She had brought the first volume of a novel from the library, one that she had heard discussed in Town. Curling her legs beneath her on the chaise longue, she opened the book. The Milesian Chief by Charles Robert Maturin. She began to read, then put it down as soon as she encountered the first ghost in the story that had begun in Italy but soon changed its setting to Ireland. She had no interest in reading about specters or secret plans to defeat the government. She had hoped this book would take her mind off Arthyn’s offer of marriage.

  Selecting another book, she began to read again. It was not an exciting story, but she doggedly read. She found herself nodding off in the chair, but if she fell asleep, she would dream of being in Wraith’s arms. Every thought led her back to one or another of the men in her life.

  Sian started when a knock was set on her door. “Who is it at this hour?”

  “Constantine. I need to speak with you, Sian.”

  Jumping to her feet, she drew on her dressing gown. She buttoned it to her chin as she opened the door. “What are you doing here?”

  “Shh!” He motioned for her to step away from the door. His dark coat was part of a military uniform. It had been stripped of its trim, and he wore a simple knitted cap. Spots of damp along his sleeves and across his boots revealed that he had been tramping across the wet fields. As he entered, leaving the door open, sandy bootprints marked his steps across the carpet.

  “You should not be here,” she said.

  “I know, and I will not stay long. Get your maid, if you feel you cannot trust me while I say what I must.”

  “And what is that?” she asked quickly, not wanting to own, even to herself, that she had welcomed Wraith into her room when both doors were locked.

  “First, I wanted to say I was sorry when I flew out at you earlier today. If I had not had to meet with Pitchford, I would never have left you alone when Trembeth was ready to propose marriage to you.”

  She sat on the chaise longue. “You knew?”

  He nodded. “Do you think Arthyn Trembeth could hide the truth from anyone?”

  “He hid it from me.”

  “Probably because you did not expect him to speak to you of a betrothal.”

  “And you did?” she asked, incredulous.

  A tight smile brightened his eyes. “Yes. His face is like one of the books he uses with his students—open for anyone who cares to read it and know his every thought.”

  “Are you sure of that?” She wanted to take back the words as soon as they slipped past her lips. When was she going to learn to think before she spoke? If she had wanted to share with Constantine her suspicions that Arthyn was Wraith, she should have done it long ago.

  “I judge by what I have seen from not-so-close observation. However, I must accede to your far greater knowledge of the man.” A taint of sarcasm sifted into his voice. “You have spent considerably more time in his company than I have.”

  She raised her chin. “There is no need for caustic remarks.”

  He opened his mouth to retort, then paused. When he spoke again, fatigue laced through his words. “Forgive me, Sian. I am exhausted, and I am not thinking clearly. I should be telling you congratulations on your upcoming nuptials. I know you will be happy living closer to your sister and Bannatyne.”

  “Congratulations are not yet necessary.”

  “You told him no?” His eyes widened.

  “I
told him that I needed time to give his offer some thought. I will not make the same mistake I did when I accepted a gentleman’s offer in Yorkshire.”

  “Then allow me to congratulate you for showing such good sense.” He smiled.

  She tried to do so, too, but it was impossible. “I hope you will not say such things in Arthyn’s hearing.”

  “I will try to curb my tongue, but it makes me happy you did not accept his offer. You deserve a better man than Trembeth. He is a pale version of the man you should wed, a man who shall make you laugh and challenge you and be there for you in good times and bad. You will find a man like that, Sian.”

  She bit back her answer, for once thinking before she spoke. She could never speak of how her heart longed to be Wraith’s. If she revealed that to Constantine, she could ruin all their lives. He was proud of his duty on behalf of the king and Prince Regent. And if she owned that she often found Constantine’s company more comfortable than Arthyn’s, she could do even more damage. Constantine would not want his life complicated with a wife, because once he rooted out the wreckers and brought their leaders to the local justice of the peace, he would go on to his next mission.

  “I have said too much, both tonight and earlier today.” He bent to place a kiss on her cheek. “Please accept my sincere apologies.”

  His kiss had been nothing but a chaste salute, yet it stirred her more than Arthyn’s kiss had.

  “I do.”

  “Words I hope I do not hear you speak soon.”

  She laughed. “You need not worry.”

  “Then I shall leave you to your book. Good night, Sian. I hope you sleep well.”

  As he walked to the door, she stood and asked, “Why were you out on the beach tonight? The moon is bright, and there is no mist to confuse a ship’s captain into following the wreckers’ lights.”

  “Beach?” He looked down at the footprints he had left. “Your eyes are too keen, and I can see you have learned a lot about wreckers since you arrived here.”

  “How can anyone live in Cornwall for more than a few minutes without knowing about them?”

  “True.” He pulled off a woolen cap that could have belonged to any sailor or fisherman. Stuffing it beneath his coat, he said, “I had arranged to meet someone. That person never came, so it was a worthless errand.”

  “Who were you meeting?”

  “It is better you do not know. If the wreckers believe I confide in you, you would become their next target.”

  “Gillis maybe, but Wraith is different. He—”

  “Can be just as ruthless as Gillis. Do not forget that, Sian. Not ever.” His brows lowered. “I hope your defense of him does not suggest that you see him as some sort of folk hero. What did Trembeth call him? Oh, yes. A modern-day Robin Hood. I can tell you, with every bit of confidence, he is not that.”

  “I never suggested such a thing.”

  “But I heard a change in your voice. I had thought you too sensible to act like the insipid young misses who twitter like magpies about any handsome man sentenced to the gallows.”

  “Handsome? How would anyone know if Wraith is well-favored or if he is as ugly as bull-beef? He always wears that mask.”

  “Not always.”

  Her breath caught. “You have seen him without it?”

  He took her by the shoulders. “Sian, what is wrong with you tonight? Is it because you are overmastered by Trembeth’s proposal? You are acting oddly.”

  “I do not. . .Oh, no!” she gasped as she looked past him to see mist taking on a human form.

  Sian stepped away from Constantine. He released her, then slowly turned to watch her walk toward the congealing light.

  “What is it?” he asked in a strained voice.

  She looked back at him. “You can see it?”

  “Can’t you?”

  “It is a ghost,” she whispered.

  His brow furrowed. “I can see that. What is it doing here?”

  She closed her eyes as she felt as if she had lived this conversation before. She had. With Wraith. Why was the ghost from Nethercott Castle suddenly appearing whenever she was not alone?

  “Greetings, daughter of Nethercott Castle,” the ghost said, his words indistinct as always.

  “What do you want of me, guardian?”

  “To warn you. Both of you.”

  “Warn us how?” Constantine asked. She put her hand on his arm. After his initial astonishment, he was handling this bizarre meeting with an aplomb that suggested he talked to ghosts twice a week.

  “The time is coming when you must decide who is your ally and who is your enemy.”

  “I know both quite well,” Constantine said.

  “And you, daughter of Nethercott Castle?”

  She wanted to reply as Constantine had, but she could not. Was Wraith her ally as he claimed, or was he using his seductive wiles to keep her from turning him over to the authorities?

  “I am trying to learn,” she replied. Feeling Constantine glance at her, she kept her eyes focused on the ghost.

  “Much of what you believe may prove to be untrue. Beware of treachery,” the ghost murmured, his voice growing even more indistinct. “It is closer than you imagine.”

  He was gone.

  Constantine walked over to where the ghost had appeared, then faced her. “What do you think he meant?”

  “Just what he said.” She shrugged. Or tried to, because her shoulders were rigid with fear. “Treachery is near. Someone we trust will betray us.”

  “I need to give this some thought. Will you be all right here, Sian?”

  “I am fine.” Her smile was genuine, but unsteady. “The ghost means me no harm. Nor does he mean you any harm, because he has warned you to be cautious.”

  “Someone we trust will betray us.” He repeated her words as he went to the door. He closed it after him.

  She sank to the chaise longue and hung her head over her clasped hands. She feared she knew exactly who was going to betray her. Wraith. But she was certain who had already betrayed Constantine by not telling him about conversations with Wraith.

  Sian Nethercott.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Help! Help!”

  Constantine heard the shout as he slowed his horse at the edge of the village. He had been on his way to meet with Pitchford to discuss a possible new trap for the wreckers. He was going to be late. Slapping the reins against his mount’s neck, he raced toward the hysterical voice. A woman’s scream rose above the man’s call for help.

  He reined in by The Last Hope and wrapped the reins around a nearby bush. A crowd had gathered beyond the lights from the tavern. Forgetting propriety, he elbowed his way through to see a man and a woman on their knees by a prone form.

  A corpse, he guessed by the amount of blood flowing into the dirt.

  “Get a lantern,” he ordered.

  No one moved.

  He seized a young man’s arm. “Get a lantern. Now!”

  Constantine edged around the corpse’s feet. The man was face down, warning he had been struck from behind. The act of a frightened or a desperate killer.

  “Lastingham?”

  He looked at the man kneeling by the slight body. “Trembeth?”

  The curate nodded. “Thank God, you are here. Can you do something?”

  “Doubtful. No man can lose that much blood and live.” He did not add that he recognized the raw odors of death.

  Light flooded over them. Thanking the man who had brought the lantern, Constantine told him to hold it high while he and Trembeth rolled the body over to see who had been attacked.

  There was a hush of expectation as they carefully moved the body. Constantine knew the caution was only for the benefit of the witnesses around them. The dead man had no more use for his body.

  A shriek rose, then another as the light from the lantern revealed the corpse’s face. Beneath the cacophony, Constantine snarled a curse as he recognized Yestin Gillis.

  The curate continued to s
tare at the corpse.

  Constantine shoved himself to his feet. No one else moved. Taking the lantern, he shone it around the crowd.

  “Who found Gillis?” he asked.

  No one answered, but he heard soft tears from his right. Two women were weeping. For the first time, he wondered if Gillis was married or had a family. He had not let himself think of such personal matters while hunting the leader of St. Gundred’s wreckers.

  “He was murdered!” cried one of the women. “Someone wants to take his place.”

  He noted that, even in their grief, they were careful not to say too much. Had the woman meant someone would take Gillis’s place as leader of the wreckers? Or as the supposed leader? Sian’s suspicions may not have been completely wrong. If Gillis had been the undisputed leader of the wreckers, who would have dared to slay him when retribution would be swift in coming? But no one spoke of anyone suffering vengeance, only of Gillis’s death.

  The other crying woman glanced at him, then hushed the woman who had spoken. No one else would reveal anything while he stood there.

  Sending someone to bring the coroner, Constantine grasped Trembeth’s shoulder. The curate looked up, his face almost as gray as the dead man’s.

  “Once the coroner is done, you should arrange for the body to be taken to the church.” Constantine spoke with slow, measured words, hoping to break through the curate’s shock.

  “Aye.” Trembeth shuddered. “I found him, Lastingham.”

  Constantine hunkered down beside him again. “Did you see anyone else?”

  “No. The street was empty. Oddly empty.”

  Not wanting to disagree publicly with him, Constantine knew the curate had not been the first to discover the dead man. Others had seen the corpse, then sought a place to hide until someone was brave enough—or foolish enough—to raise a hue and cry. That was why the street was empty. Someone must have gotten rid of Gillis because he no longer was useful. Everything had changed, and all of Constantine’s plans might now have been for naught.

  * * * *

  Sian picked up a shell that had not been broken by being tossed upon the stony beach. She set it into her basket. A few more, and she would have enough for the project she planned for the nursery.