And why have I been dreaming of you?
Her lips were full and delicately shaped, but pinched in a thin, straight line as she shook her head. “No. You’ll get no more from me today. I’ll meet you here tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? Why not now?” He searched her face as though wondering whether she could be trusted or not.
“Because I must go.”
“Where? How will I find you if I need to get word to you?”
She frowned. “You won’t. I’ll seek you out. Promise you will not follow me.”
“Only if you promise you’ll return here tomorrow.”
“I will, my lord. I’ll try my best.” She looked around, wondering whether her own father had ordered her followed. “If not tomorrow, then the day after. I am not always free to come and go as I wish.”
She glanced around again.
“Aislin, are you afraid you are being watched?”
“No, not anymore. I was at first, but that was years ago. They all trust me now.”
“Who is they?”
She ignored the question, knowing it was up to Gideon to tell him. Where was Gideon? And how could his own brother not know he was alive?
“Will you be harmed if we’re found together?” he asked, catching her by surprise for the sincerity of his concern. “Who will harm you?”
She purposely frowned at him, hoping to dissuade him from doing anything foolish. “Just do not come south. You may not have a care for your own life, but if you value mine at all, then do as I say. Even the towns north of here may not be safe for you. Keep to yourself. Try not to draw any notice. You’ll have to trust me.”
She’d been riding here for at least a year before William’s brother had ever attempted to contact her. And three years since William was believed drowned. Her father had long ago stopped worrying about her comings and goings. He was not about to waste a man to follow her around when he believed she was half mad and running off to be alone with her wild thoughts.
Nor did he trust his men to keep their hands off her.
She knew she was pleasing to a man’s eye. Many had called her beautiful, but she did not feel beautiful inside.
She felt ashamed for all those years of doing nothing while her father destroyed lives.
He’d been quite secretive about it, at first.
Now, he was bold as brass about his ‘privateering’ as he called it.
If any good had come out of her acceptance of his business, it was that her father now trusted her. After three years…three long years of playing the role of docile daughter, he was convinced she would never betray him.
A shiver ran through her.
Perhaps he knew her better than she knew herself.
Yes, she was determined to help put an end to the piracy rampant in the area. It was one thing to smuggle goods and to allow those ships and their crewmen to sail away in peace. But to mercilessly sink a ship and watch all those helpless souls aboard drown?
The thought was too horrible to contemplate.
Yet, did she have the strength of will to betray her father? To point a finger at him? Testify against him? Allow him to be hanged?
He deserved far worse.
Still, he was the one who’d sired her and raised her. Could she be the one to send him to the gallows?
“Very well, Aislin. I’ll trust you.”
She nodded, silently hoping his faith in her was not misplaced.
She returned to her mare, about to climb onto the saddle when she felt William’s hands at her waist once more, this time to help her up.
He released her as soon as she was settled, and then gave her mare a friendly stroke along her neck. “Safe travels, Aislin.”
“Thank you.”
He cast her a wry smile. “I don’t think you needed my help getting into the saddle, but…”
“I know.” He needed this last touch to be certain she was real. “I’ll wake tomorrow wondering whether I dreamed you up, too.”
The Pendragon Inn at Boscastle was a pleasant surprise, much nicer than William had expected. Mr. Musgrove, his jovial driver, had gone on and on about the place, assuring him it was one of the finer establishments in the area. He’d dismissed the man’s rambling, but he had to admit, Mr. Musgrove had not been exaggerating.
The inn more resembled a country manor. It was sturdily built of local stone, had attractively painted blue shutters, several chimney stacks, and red roses lining its garden path to a front door that was also painted blue.
Beyond it and off to the side was a well maintained stable and carriage house.
Indeed, the place appeared quite charming.
Mr. Musgrove’s sister and her husband welcomed him inside, giving him a bit of history as he entered. “They’ve run the inn for the past twenty years, m’lord,” Mr. Musgrove said.
William nodded politely as he was introduced to John Sloane and his wife, Anne, an older woman who bore a striking family resemblance to his driver, down to the same amiable smile and barrel-shaped body.
“M’father ran the inn before me,” John Sloane said with an obvious ring of pride, “and m’grandfather before that.”
The aroma of roasted game hen and bread fresh out of the oven penetrated William’s senses as he was shown to the common room. “We serve our guests their meals here,” Mrs. Sloane said. “M’lord, would ye care to relax by the hearth with a tankard of ale while my brother brings yer bags up to yer chamber?”
He accepted the offer. “However, I would rather dine alone this evening.”
The woman bobbed her head. “I’ll have yer supper brought up to yer chamber as soon as it’s ready. Ye’re to have our finest, m’lord.”
The ale was just what he needed to slake his thirst. He’d just drained his tankard when Mrs. Sloane returned to lead him upstairs. He followed her as she lumbered up the creaking steps.
Mr. Musgrove followed with the last of his bags.
William usually traveled light. However, not this time. He wasn’t certain how long he’d be required to remain in the area, so he’d brought perhaps too much. He had come here determined not to leave until he’d found Aislin.
That he’d come upon her already had caught him by surprise. He hadn’t expected the search to be so easy, certainly not to meet with success on his first visit to Tintagel Castle.
That she was real had also surprised him.
He was more than a little relieved to know he was not going mad. Yet, there were still so many questions left to be answered.
Aislin was clearly the cornerstone.
But how? Why? And did he dare trust her?
He sank onto the bed in order to remove his boots, but Mr. Musgrove took it upon himself to assist him. He knelt in front of William. “Let me do that fer ye, m’lord.”
William made no protest, for his mind was still awhirl. Aislin was real, and he’d found her, he thought for the hundredth time since they’d run into each other.
However, finding her had not restored his memory. Quite the opposite, it left him more befogged than ever, raising more questions, and not providing the answers he sought.
However, the girl had proved to be soft flesh and warm blood. The tug to his heart was even stronger now.
Painful, in truth.
This is what the romantic poets wrote about, the ache that tore at a man’s soul.
He shook out of the thought to consider what Aislin had told him about Gideon. Could he trust what she’d said about his being alive?
How could it be true?
And yet, he wanted so desperately to believe her.
As Mr. Musgrove continued to fuss about the room, William rose to stare out the window onto the street below. At this twilight hour, there were few people on the streets. Boscastle was a quiet town with none of the bustle of London. There was no smart set here, no haute ton who amused themselves with idle entertainments well into the night.
Aislin had mentioned she would often meet Gideon at Tintagel Castle. Since
she’d also warned it was dangerous for him to go to Port Isaac or Polzeath, he expected she’d issued the same warning to Gideon.
If so, was it possible Gideon hid out here? Or used Boscastle as an occasional safe harbor for his operations, or whatever he was supposedly doing on behalf of the Crown? If so, he would be known in Boscastle.
More important, someone here might know how to get word to him.
He’d question the Sloanes and their staff.
However, he did not expect they would offer promising leads. He and Gideon were brothers and resembled each other. But there had been no sign of recognition, no curious looks that he could discern beyond what is a baron doing here?
It also stood to reason that if Gideon was using Boscastle for his operations, he would not be staying in the fanciest inn or involving himself with reputable people.
Which meant William had to get himself to the disreputable part of town.
He’d do it this evening, slip out to investigate once all had quieted. If there was something sinister going on, it would happen under cover of darkness.
His door had been left slightly ajar. He was just about to stride across the room to close it when he heard a clomping on the stairs. Mr. Musgrove did not appear to pay any notice to the person whose footsteps had suddenly stilled in the hallway immediately outside his door. William reached for his pistol and crossed his chamber to swing it open, his weapon at the ready but held out of sight.
“Good day, Baron Whitpool.” Standing before him was the white-haired gentleman he’d seen earlier at Tintagel Castle.
“Good day to you, sir.” William tightened his grasp on the weapon discretely hidden behind his back.
He didn’t like coincidences.
“This is your room?” the man asked, suddenly looking about as if addled.
“It is. Forgive me, sir. But you have me at a disadvantage. You know my name.”
“Ah, but you are all the young maids are talking about.” He shook his head and gave a wheezing chuckle. “Mr. Worthington, at your service. Reginald Worthington. You’re new to the area, I hear. Seems to me, you know your way around quite well. I saw you with that dark-haired girl earlier today. Aislin is her name.”
William ignored the comment.
Worthington’s smile disappeared and he leaned closer. “Watch out for her, my lord. She’s dangerous, that one is. You’d best keep away from her.”
“Why?”
“Well, it isn’t for me to gossip. Have a good evening, Baron Whitpool.” The man turned and walked with shuffling footsteps to his door.
William watched the fellow, waited to hear the click of his latch, and for him to enter the room directly across the hall.
He rubbed his neck, for the short hairs were standing on end.
He didn’t like this Worthington fellow. Who was he? And why the pretense of frail health? He’d heard him on the stairs. Solid footsteps. No weak shuffle. He’d also climbed the steps at Tintagel Castle, no easy feat for anyone in ill health.
He’d have to watch him, William decided, tucking his pistol away.
Mr. Musgrove quirked an eyebrow upon noticing William’s continued frown. “M’lord, is something amiss?”
“No.” He paused a moment. “What do you know of the girl I met at the castle ruins?”
“A pretty lass, ain’t she?” His chortle resonated deep within his chest. “She’s Jack Farnsworth’s daughter. I’d stay away from her if ye know what’s healthy for ye.”
“Why?”
“It ain’t m’place to say, m’lord.”
“Say it anyway.” He needed to learn all he could about Aislin, for she was important to him.
“I’ve heard trouble follows her. I wouldn’t get too close if I were ye.”
He asked a few more questions, then changed the topic in the hope of learning more about his brother. But he quickly realized Mr. Musgrove had said all he intended to say. No matter. He’d ask the innkeeper and his wife. He’d also ask the staff a few discreet questions, mostly about Gideon.
He expected that quizzing them about Aislin would yield the same responses he’d just received. Two warnings. Worthington and Musgrove. Still, he had to ask. Their comments had left him troubled. Did any of the maids know her? What did the staff think of her?
Yes, they would know her.
She was exceptionally pretty.
Men did not ever forget a face such as hers.
He certainly hadn’t, despite forgetting everything else.
There was something special about this girl.
She had a way of looking at him, as though able to see straight into his soul. She did not appear evil. Quite the opposite, she seemed warm and genuine. He wanted to believe she was. After all, what reason would she have to lie to him about herself or Gideon?
And yet, more to the point and a reminder for caution, what reason would she have to tell him the truth?
Chapter Four
“M’lord, do ye need anything more?” Mr. Musgrove asked, interrupting his thoughts.
“No, thank you. Enjoy your time with your sister. I won’t have need of you for the rest of the evening.”
William waited for the man to leave his chamber before stretching out on the bed and closing his eyes. He meant to do more thinking, but a feeling he could only describe as relief suddenly washed over him like a crushing wave.
He sat up and buried his face in his trembling hands. What was happening to him? Tears began to fall. My little brother is alive.
For three years, he’d believed Gideon dead. But he was alive. Aislin had told him so. He dared not trust the news, but the hope of it overwhelmed him. He could not hold back his tears of joy. That he had any tears left to spill surprised him.
After all these years and all he’d been through.
Until this very moment, he did not think he had the capacity ever to hope or feel again.
Gideon. He wanted to see him and hug him fiercely.
Then he wanted to pummel the thoughtless idiot to the ground for leaving their sister to fend for herself. All those years struggling on her own, poor Abby. She thought she’d lost three brothers. Thomas, Gideon, and himself. As if it weren’t bad enough, their youngest brother had returned home from war a battered and broken man.
Why hadn’t Gideon come forward then?
Abby had been in desperate straits and needed help to deal with Peter.
Why didn’t you claim the title, Gideon?
Gideon would have been next in line after him to become Baron Whitpool. If he was truly alive, then why hadn’t he come forward to claim his birthright? Even if he hadn’t wanted the elevated status—which still made no sense—he should have sent word to the family. Something. A consoling letter to Abby upon learning of his drowning.
Why hadn’t Gideon reached out to her back then?
And what of their youngest brother? It had been cruel to allow Peter to believe he was the last surviving brother and had come into the title. Of course, he now knew the truth. But back then, the responsibility had weighed on him like Atlas shouldering the world. Gideon ought to have known how difficult it would be for Peter, who was too sick in body and soul to manage anything.
“Blast it,” he said in a strained whisper. “Gideon, where are you?”
There had to be good reason for his abandoning the family.
But William could not think of a single excuse.
Fortunately, Abby had landed on her feet. She’d met her husband, Tynan Brayden, Earl of Westcliff, when he’d come to her rescue and helped her out with Peter. They might never have met, if not for her struggles.
But it still did not absolve Gideon from the pummeling he deserved.
William had just used his sleeve to wipe away the last of his tears when he heard a gentle knock at the door. His hand immediately went to the pistol he kept tucked in his jacket.
“Enter,” he called and stood to watch as the innkeeper and his staff traipsed in. Mr. Sloane and one of his assistants h
auled the tub into his chamber. Two maids came in behind him, toting pails of hot water. He smiled. He hated bathing in cold water.
One of the maids misunderstood his smile and cast him a hungry look.
Mrs. Sloane came in soon after, carrying his supper tray. Game hen and leeks. And a bottle of wine with which to wash them down. “Maisie, don’t dawdle.”
Ah, that was the girl’s name.
He’d question Maisie later, for she had an accommodating look about her.
He sank into his chair and casually poured himself a glass of wine, smuggled in from France no doubt.
It was these niceties that kept the local pirates safe from arrest. Indeed, William knew he’d have to be careful when dealing with the local magistrates and military commanders. Most of them were likely among the first corrupted by promises of French lace and fine wines, Irish glassware, Italian silks and velvets, and other luxuries looted from merchant vessels sailing along the coast.
“Let me know if you need anything more, m’lord,” Maisie said, leaning over as she poured her pail of water into his tub to give him a clear view down her bodice. Her meaning was unmistakable, for the girl did not seem to understand subtlety.
She ambled past him, bending over to wipe at an imaginary spot of dust on the table beside his glass of wine.
Her breasts rubbed against his shoulder.
When he was once more left alone, he quickly washed and ate, then donned fresh clothes. It was late now, well past ten o’clock and the soft, golden light had given way to a starry night. He plumped his pillows and laid them out under his bedcovers to make it appear he was sleeping should anyone look in.
He went downstairs to the inn’s taproom, intending to ask questions there first. Next, he would move on to one of the local taverns.
But the Sloanes had closed up early. All was quiet. The other guests must have retired to their own quarters, for no one was moving about. Not a single floorboard creaked, other than those under his boots.
The inn was frequented mostly by well-heeled guests coming from outside Cornwall. Few were Londoners who were used to keeping late hours. Then he heard a creaking overhead. Mr. Worthington’s room…into the hall…pause…back into his room. Where was this gentleman from? He hadn’t mentioned it in conversation.
The Midnight Hour: All-Hallows’ Brides Page 8
