Dark Temptation

by CHASE, ALLISON

  Rippling thunder drew his gaze seaward. ‘‘I think it’s time I saw you home, if you’ll allow me a moment to don a proper shirt and find my coat.’’

  ‘‘It isn’t necessary. I made a mistake in coming here. After last night I believed you to be the sort of man who was willing to invest his time in the welfare of others. But I see my first impression of you has proved correct.’’ That day she had first come here, he had been so uninterested in greeting her that he had retreated into his house and pretended he hadn’t stared at her through the window.

  He was a stranger, after all. She had no right, really, to feel such weighty disappointment in him, yet the sentiment sat heavy on her shoulders. ‘‘Good day, Lord Wycliffe. I’ll not trespass here again.’’

  Chapter 5

  Feeling like a scoundrel, Chad watched Miss Sophie St. Clair stride down the steps and make her way to the postern gate. He actually took a step with the intention of apologizing for his abominable behavior and asking what she meant by first impressions. He reached the swift conclusion that it was better to let her go.

  Safer. For her. For him.

  If he let her into his life and something happened to her . . .

  The same question continued to batter about his brain: How many innocent victims had suffered as a direct result of his support of smuggling? By Christ, Sophie St. Clair wouldn’t be one of them, even if he had to threaten her to keep her away. He only hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  Her basket remained on the terrace wall, a mute, unassuming token that pierced him through. The carefully folded linen . . . the sprig of heather . . .

  If Henry Winthrop were standing here now, Chad would be sorely tempted to wrap his hands around the man’s throat and strangle the life out of him.

  Then again, Sir Henry might be a fraud and a villain, but what would Sophie think of Chad if she knew the crimes he had committed?

  Carefully he moved the heather aside, peeled open the linen and plucked a still-warm muffin from the pile. At the sweet aroma curling beneath his nose, his stomach growled. He sank his teeth into the muffin.

  And immediately spat a gooey lump of batter into the grass beyond the terrace. In spite of everything a smile tugged at his lips. Apparently Sophie should have checked with her aunt before plundering the oven.

  An hour later Penhollow’s thatched and slate rooftops rose into Chad’s view. As he turned Prince onto the village road, he noticed a small gathering in the far corner of the churchyard, in the shadow of the sanctuary. Freshly turned soil was mounded beside an open grave. A plain pine casket waited to be lowered into the earth.

  The preacher’s soft drone carried on the breeze. Odd, but Chad didn’t hear any sobbing, didn’t detect any tears. He watched over his shoulder as Prince took him past. As a few scattered raindrops fell, the preacher closed his prayer book. Quietly the somber group dispersed.

  Chad remembered from his previous ride through here that Penhollow boasted no mercantile or emporium. Most trade in rural villages still depended on weekly or monthly market days, when traveling merchants set up booths offering goods not otherwise available to the local inhabitants. But he needed supplies immediately, and headed for the only establishment where he would likely find them: the village tavern.

  Outside the two-story stone-and-timber building, a weathered sign creaked back and forth on its post. Chipped paint depicted a seagull flying on a background of black clouds above peaking whitecaps, mirroring the view beyond the nearby harbor.

  He left Prince in the care of the stable boy and stepped into a dim, cool interior. Murmured conversations sent a raspy hum floating beneath a raftered ceiling. As his eyes adjusted, he made out a handful of rough-clad men hunched over long plank tables. The guttering glow of oil lamps sharpened craggy features, leathery skin. Woolen shirtsleeves pushed to the elbows revealed forearms bulging from years of hauling lines and hoisting sails. No one looked his way as the door closed behind him.

  He walked between the tables, heading for the bar. A man sitting nearby happened to glance up, and the tankard in his hand halted several inches shy of his mouth. Almost immediately conversation dwindled to a blanketing silence. As Chad came to an uneasy halt, whispers hissed like wasps from a nest.

  ‘‘By Christ . . .’’

  ‘‘Can’t be . . .’’

  ‘‘Saints preserve us.’’

  ‘‘Wycliffe!’’

  Chairs screeched as the whiskered fellows pushed to their feet—all but one, who watched silently from the corner, his calculating expression a sharp contrast to the bewilderment of the others. Chad exchanged one inquisitive glance with the man, then found himself inching backward from the gawping circle fast closing around him. Who were these men, and why on earth were they so thunderstruck at his arrival? Could they possibly know of his guilt?

  Or . . . could whoever had summoned him to Penhollow be among them?

  ‘‘I am Lord Wycliffe,’’ he said, half in explanation, half in challenge. If his unknown adversary stood facing him, Chad would just as soon have their confrontation here and now, and have it done.

  A towering figure filled an inner doorway, a giant bear of a man with a pate as smooth as an egg. He carried a tray of tankards, and as he moved behind the bar his gaze flitted over the tense crowd. Then he spotted Chad. The tray nearly upended in his hands. ‘‘Jesus!’’

  Chad waited for something more to happen, for someone to spring forward and shove a dagger between his ribs, to fire a bullet into his gut. At least to signal to him, with a look or a hand motion, that his days on earth were limited for having turned in fellow smugglers to the authorities.

  No one moved. Nothing changed. Through the stares and pulsing silence, he stepped around the men blocking his way and approached the bar. ‘‘Are you the proprietor?’’

  ‘‘Jesus,’’ the man repeated. He swept a hand over his bald head. ‘‘You’re the spittin’ image, ain’t ye?’’

  Understanding dawned. ‘‘You’re remembering my father.’’

  ‘‘Aye.’’ The word was a barely audible grind in his throat.

  Weak daylight framed Chad’s shadow on the floor as the street door opened. ‘‘What the devil’s got everyone clutched in such a bloody tight knot?’’ Heads swiveled toward the source of a feminine voice. ‘‘I’ll tell you now, gentlemen, there’d best be no brawling in my pub today.’’

  The door closed, once more sealing the tavern in gloom. From every direction fingers shot out, all converging on Chad.

  ‘‘It’s him, Kel.’’

  ‘‘He’s come back.’’

  ‘‘Returned from the grave, he is.’’

  The man behind the bar blew a short, sharp whistle between his teeth. The men fell silent and one by one faded into the shadows as they resumed their seats.

  Holding striped skirts aloft to reveal the sheen of heavy black boots, the woman strolled closer, then came to an abrupt halt. Her eyes snapped wide. ‘‘My word! You are like him.’’ Recovering quickly, she extended her hand as a man would. ‘‘I’m Kellyn Quincy. Welcome to the Stormy Gull, Lord Wycliffe.’’

  He hesitated, taken aback at the bold way she offered her hand, as if his rank were of no consequence here. Her eyebrow cocked as her pale eyes assessed him, as an emerging smile good-naturedly mocked him.

  He shook the proffered hand. ‘‘Miss Quincy.’’ ‘‘Mrs. I’m a widow.’’ She returned his shake with confident pressure.

  ‘‘I’m sorry. . . .’’

  ‘‘It’s been several years now.’’ She dismissed his condolences with a wave of her hand.

  ‘‘I take it you are the proprietress, Mrs. Quincy?’’

  ‘‘I am. Kellyn will do. Please have a seat.’’ With a toss of her long, loose hair, so rich a shade of auburn it seemed the flames from the lanterns had gone astray, she gestured toward the closest table. ‘‘Reese,’’ she called with the ease of someone used to wielding authority, ‘‘a bottle of brandy. Our best.’’

 
Chad was about to point out that the chairs at the table she’d indicated were taken when the patrons practically tripped over one another in their haste to vacate their seats.

  ‘‘Impressive,’’ he couldn’t help commenting.

  She raised a half-bared shoulder. ‘‘It helps to be the only source of good ale and decent grub for miles.’’

  Was it merely the food that sent them scrambling to obey? Or a lingering fear that Chad was, in fact, his father’s ghost returned to haunt them?

  Or more likely their compliance stemmed from a shared infatuation with a woman whose sheer brazen-ness held an enticing allure.

  Chad couldn’t deny it. Under normal circumstances he would have considered Kellyn Quincy an agreeable challenge, and not for her physical attributes alone. He hadn’t needed more than a few seconds in her presence to recognize a tough mettle and a fiery spirit. Ordinarily he might have pursued such a woman for the pure sport of it.

  Now the very idea aroused nothing but thoughts of Sophie, and as he mentally compared the two women he found himself far preferring earnest gray eyes to frosty blue, rich brown hair to garish red, and a trim, petite figure to the curvaceous one all but spilling from the neckline of her chemise.

  He shook thoughts of Sophie away, and with them his fears and regrets concerning her. As long as she stayed out of his life, she’d be safe.

  From across the table Kellyn rested her chin in her hand and studied him unabashedly. ‘‘You’re the mirror image of your father, exactly as he might have been twenty or so years ago.’’

  ‘‘Did you know him well?’’

  ‘‘After a fashion, yes.’’ She smiled as if at a memory. ‘‘I came to Penhollow and purchased the Gull only some three years ago, but your father was a faithful customer. One who never shrank from bumping elbows with farmers and fishermen.’’

  Reese, the barkeep, set two hammered pewter cups and a bottle on the table, then treated Chad to a look of lingering mistrust before shuffling away.

  Kellyn poured out measures of deep russet brandy and held hers aloft. ‘‘To the late Lord Wycliffe.’’

  Chad tapped his cup to hers, feeling a sudden and surprising affinity for the woman. He drew courage from the fiery liquor and asked, ‘‘Did my father tell you much about his life? Away from Penhollow, I mean. About the family, perhaps?’’

  ‘‘I’ll admit owning the local tavern often places me on a par with a priest in the confessional.’’ She flashed a cunning smile, but not an unkind one. ‘‘Liquor loosens a man’s tongue as nothing else can. But like a priest, I never betray a confidence, not even that of a man gone to his grave.’’ Her expression sobered. ‘‘I can tell you how proud he was of you, and what high hopes he had for your future.’’

  ‘‘Hope devoured by flames,’’ Chad murmured. He raised his cup and swirled the brandy.

  ‘‘Aye.’’

  ‘‘I suppose you know why those flames failed to rouse him from slumber.’’

  His father had been drinking that night. Heavily, from what Chad had been told. Franklin’s valet had been the first to smell the fire devouring the library two years ago. While he and the other servants had been able to douse the flames in time to save the house, there had been nothing they could do for Franklin, who had likely suffocated from the smoke before the blaze engulfed his body.

  Without drinking, Chad set his brandy back on the table as images from his last visit to Penhollow assaulted him. He could still smell the charred remains, feel the sting of lingering soot in his throat.

  Kellyn’s expression held sympathy, but no trace of pity. ‘‘One of the last things he told me was how much he looked forward to your visiting him that summer.’’

  Chad’s heart gave a sickened twist. Why hadn’t he come at the time of his father’s request?

  Because he had still viewed life with a young man’s unthinking enthusiasm. With high-spirited impatience and the certainty that he alone ruled his world, his life, his fate. How categorically wrong he had been.

  He cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair. ‘‘The reason I came in was to arrange for provisions for my stay in Penhollow. Can you help me?’’

  She smiled her acknowledgment of his brusque change of subject. ‘‘Whatever you need.’’

  ‘‘The basics. Bear in mind that I have no servants to cook for me.’’

  ‘‘No servants? Perhaps I can remedy that. In the meantime you’ll want meat, baked goods and tea, yes?’’

  ‘‘Perhaps coffee instead? I loathe tea.’’

  ‘‘I believe I have some I can spare.’’

  ‘‘Hay and oats for my horse.’’

  ‘‘And a cartload of coal and firewood.’’

  ‘‘Yes. Can you send over a few bottles of brandy?’’

  Her mouth pulled as she considered. ‘‘We’re running low on brandy just now. Prices have gone up. Perhaps when the next shipment arrives. . . .’’

  He made mental note to leave ample coin to pay for the brandy she’d served him. ‘‘Wine, then?’’

  ‘‘You won’t need it.’’

  ‘‘The hell I won’t.’’

  ‘‘What I mean,’’ she said with a throaty laugh, ‘‘is that your father kept the wine cellar stocked. It should all still be there. The Cornish might be known for smuggling, but out-and-out thieves we are not. Especially when it comes to one of our own.’’

  Her blatant mention of smuggling jarred him. But of course she would be familiar with this particular Cornish tradition. As a tavern owner, she would have benefited, even profited, from the tax-free wine and brandy smuggled in from France, the whiskey from Ireland and the tobacco carried across the ocean from the Americas.

  He wondered if she understood the cost attached to such commodities.

  ‘‘I can arrange the first delivery by tomorrow morning,’’ she said. When he voiced his agreement, she called out the barkeep’s name.

  Deep creases formed across Reese’s shiny forehead as Kellyn explained. ‘‘Edgecombe?’’ His gaze flicked to Chad and narrowed. ‘‘Why, in Lucifer’s name? Don’t ye know the place is haunted?’’

  A week ago Chad would have laughed at the claim. Now the hair on his arms bristled. He darted a look to Kellyn, expecting—hoping—to see a rueful shrug, a roll of the eyes. As the barkeep sauntered away, she met his gaze and nodded. ‘‘That’s what folks here-about believe. That Meg Keating haunts the house, while her husband haunts the seas in a phantom ship off our coast. Have you heard of them?’’

  ‘‘The pirate couple, yes. But no one has ever proven the link between the Keatings and Edgecombe. I tried myself as a boy, but other than an old sword which may or may not have belonged to Lady Margaret, I found no conclusive evidence.’’

  But the sword had gone missing, and he wondered briefly if that fact held any significance in more recent events. Smuggling, ghosts and a missing rapier . . .

  two, actually, if one considered the sword that had supposedly belonged to Jack Keating, missing now for centuries.

  ‘‘People believe their violent ends forced their spirits to roam the earth,’’ Kellyn said, breaking in on his thoughts, ‘‘crying out for retribution.’’

  ‘‘Retribution? Good God, their deaths were more than deserved, considering the brutal acts they committed.’’ According to the legends he’d heard, the pair hadn’t balked at unnecessary cruelty, sometimes even lashing injured sailors together and tossing them into the sea to drown. Jack eventually went down in one of their ships, the Ebony Rose, during a skirmish with a naval galleon. That set Lady Meg and the remainder of their band on a murderous quest for revenge, until she was caught and hanged.

  ‘‘Thus far,’’ he concluded, ‘‘I’ve seen no sign of either of them.’’

  And he hoped it stayed that way, that his conscience conjured no more accusing specters like the one he had imagined on the moor last night. The little apparition had seemed so real. . . .

  He regarded the woman sitting opposite him and
took a chance that she wouldn’t think him daft. ‘‘Do you believe in ghosts, Kellyn?’’

  Again he expected amusement or surprise at the question. Her brows gathered. ‘‘I believe such tales reflect the strength of the human spirit, the lasting desire to redress the wrongs experienced in life. That is a powerful force indeed. Not one to be dismissed out of hand.’’

  He pondered that statement. With her bold demeanor and flirtatious appearance, Kellyn embodied what one would expect of a tavern wench. Yet he detected in her a keen intelligence, a quality at odds with her circumstances.

  Outside, figures in black hurried past the rain-splattered windows overlooking the road. Remembering the gathering at the church, he said, ‘‘I passed a funeral on my way here. A quiet affair, not many mourners. Did you know the deceased?’’

  Kellyn shook her head. ‘‘A mariner, by all appearances. Perhaps off one of the merchant schooners.’’

  ‘‘What of the rest of the crew? The ship itself?’’ As he asked his questions, his gaze traveled the room—and locked with that of the man who had sat staring at him earlier. By all appearances he seemed no different from the other men here, with his plaid wool shirt and whiskered chin. But there was something. . . .

  Several seconds passed as Chad took in lined features, a nose that curved with a slight hook, and colorless lips that held a disquieting air of speculation. Something in his posture, his movements, even the way he wore his clothes—as if he weren’t quite comfortable in them—hinted at a measure of refinement that was lacking in the other men.

  Or was Chad imagining it?

  Finally he looked away, filled with a conviction that the individual had been studying him for some time. Irrational suspicion, or an instinct he should heed? He ventured another glance, in time to see the man’s dark, close-set eyes flick in another direction.

  He returned his attention to Kellyn and the matter of the deceased mariner. ‘‘Were there no clues as to his origin?’’