Dark Temptation

by CHASE, ALLISON

  ‘‘Wounds?’’

  ‘‘Farming, fishing . . . people injure themselves rather readily, I’m afraid.’’

  ‘‘Saint Brendan’s fickle favor?’’

  ‘‘Quite right. My herbs help dull the pain and prevent festering. I grow cooking herbs as well. Parsley, mint, sage. Perhaps you taste the mint in your tea?’’

  That seemed to demand that Chad venture a sip. Suppressing a sigh, he raised the cup to his lips. A pungent flavor filled his mouth. He forced himself to swallow, conjured an expression of appreciation and changed the subject. ‘‘Have you been at the parish long?’’

  ‘‘Some four years now.’’

  ‘‘You must have known my father.’’

  ‘‘Indeed, my lord. The late Lord Wycliffe often came by for tea and chess in the afternoons. We sometimes hunted together, though I confess he brought down far more fowl than I can boast.’’

  Remorse gave a sharp tug. Franklin had mentioned chess and hunting in his final letter, hoping to entice Chad to visit.

  ‘‘I only wish I hadn’t been away when he died,’’ the vicar said with a sigh. ‘‘Sorry too that I wasn’t on hand to be of service when you came to retrieve his body.’’

  ‘‘You needn’t apologize for what you could not have foreseen.’’ Yet how many times a day did Chad berate himself for just that—for not being here when he should have been, for not anticipating the disaster that occurred in his absence?

  ‘‘If it brings you any comfort, my lord, your father loved this part of the country. His last days were happy ones. Do you . . . ah . . . share his enthusiasm for rural life?’’

  Something in the man’s tone prompted Chad to ask, ‘‘Is that your way of asking how long I intend to stay?’’ When the vicar’s fair complexion reddened, Chad smiled to set him at ease. ‘‘I haven’t yet decided. I suppose until the Keatings drive me out.’’

  Hall didn’t return the smile; in fact he looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘‘You’ve been speaking to some of our locals.’’

  ‘‘Yes, and their warnings have set me wondering. My family has owned Edgecombe since I was a boy, and we have always been aware of the Keating legends. But I don’t remember this blatant fear of ghosts circulating among the villagers. This seems to have arisen much more recently. Can you enlighten me as to why?’’

  The vicar stirred his tea, clinking his spoon lightly against the porcelain. ‘‘These are tense times here in Penhollow. The funeral you mentioned . . .’’

  ‘‘Kellyn explained about tides bringing in wreckage and bodies.’’

  ‘‘Did she tell you how such occurrences have increased lately?’’

  ‘‘No, she didn’t mention that. Do you suspect foul play?’’

  The vicar hesitated, then shook his head. ‘‘There’s no proof of such. Storms hit year-round. Even in the best weather the currents surrounding the peninsula are fierce. Perhaps we see more mishaps now because there are more people than ever sailing these seas. But the rise in the death toll has frightened our villagers. They want a reason they can point to, something they can then vow to avoid.’’

  ‘‘Such as . . . ?’’

  ‘‘The lanterns of a phantom ship sailing the coastline in the dead of night.’’

  The hair on Chad’s nape spiked. Sophie’s approaching ship lights? But if sailors were dying, it could be no phantom ship attacking them, but a very real, very solid one.

  ‘‘Mr. Hall,’’ he said, ‘‘isn’t it possible such stories were concocted for the express purpose of frightening people into minding their own business?’’

  ‘‘Perhaps.’’ Hall avoided Chad’s gaze.

  He set his teacup on the table and pressed forward. ‘‘Let us speak plainly, vicar. I am talking about smuggling. Or more accurately, piracy. Not something that happened three hundred years ago, but right now.’’

  ‘‘I won’t deny that our sailors and fishermen have been known to slip goods past the customs cutters. These are poor, hardworking folk, my lord. One can hardly blame them for—’’

  Chad held up a hand. ‘‘I neither blame them nor begrudge them their tax-free brandy. But if such activities have turned violent, that does concern me. Very much.’’

  Hall squinted at him through his wire-rimmed spectacles. ‘‘I can’t help but wonder why a nobleman such as yourself would wish to involve himself in such unpleasantness.’’

  Chad opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. How could he possibly explain that he didn’t wish to involve himself; he already was involved. He had provided both the funds and the means for smugglers to ply their trade. He’d helped brigands who ran goods past the customs authorities, yes. But had he also helped those who scuttled ships and murdered innocent passengers? How could he explain that his future depended on finding the information that would put those murderers out of business once and for all?

  ‘‘I feel an obligation toward Penhollow,’’ he said, resorting to a particle of the truth. ‘‘And to my father, who made his home here in his last years. If some unpleasantness, as you call it, has attached itself to this village, I intend to uncover it.’’

  ‘‘My lord, you venture on dangerous ground.’’ A current of warning resonated beneath Hall’s well-mannered tone.

  Did the vicar mean to imply that Chad would regret his inquisitiveness? Such an admonition might work on a man with something to lose. As it was, Chad stood to lose much more by not taking action.

  ‘‘Understand this, Mr. Hall: I do not frighten easily, and I will not be complacent.’’

  A veil seemed to fall away from the vicar’s face, revealing a cunning that again reminded Chad of a ferret. ‘‘I believe there is something you should see,’’ the man said. ‘‘It may prove . . . enlightening.’’

  As Sophie closed the front door and turned, a shadow fell across her path.

  ‘‘Where in the world have you been?’’ With a frightened look Rachel grabbed her hand and cornered her against the wall of the small foyer.

  Her urgency took Sophie aback. Four years her junior, Rachel rarely questioned anyone about anything, much less initiated a confrontation. In fact the girl’s gentle nature seemed an anomaly in this family. Even Aunt Louisa, though not nearly as coarse as her husband and son, had lost much of the gentility Sophie remembered.

  At present there was nothing genteel or placid in Rachel’s demeanor. And that raised Sophie’s apprehensions. Had the man in the boat this morning told tales in the village? Tales that had found their way to her relatives’ ears?

  Unblinking, she met her cousin’s gaze. ‘‘I walked to the village. And then I—’’

  ‘‘Shh!’’ Rachel cast a glance over her shoulder into the dusky parlor doorway. ‘‘No, you didn’t. That’s what we all assumed when you were nowhere to be found after breakfast. But Father had errands in the village this morning. He asked after you, and not a soul remembered seeing you. He’s in the kitchen now, waiting to speak to you.’’

  Sophie’s involuntary step backward brought her shoulders up against the wall. ‘‘Simply because no one noticed me doesn’t mean I wasn’t there.’’

  ‘‘Please, Sophie, you mustn’t lie. Father is angry enough.’’

  ‘‘Why should he be angry? What difference does it make where I go or what I do?’’

  At the approach of booted footsteps her confidence plummeted.

  ‘‘The difference, girl, is I’ll not have a chit under my roof wandering the countryside like a common strumpet.’’

  She and Rachel both flinched at her uncle’s harsh indictment. He filled the parlor doorway, his black hair and beard an unkempt tangle about his scowling face. ‘‘Where were ye this morn?’’

  Beside her Rachel froze, her features washed pale. Sophie felt a surprising urge to hold out an arm to protect the girl, to shrink with her further into the corner.

  Instead she mustered every ounce of false bravado she possessed and squared her slightly trembling shoulders. ‘‘With all due respect, Uncl
e Barnaby, I am no child.’’ Eyes as black as sulfur snapped but she hurried on, altering her story in accordance with Rachel’s warning. ‘‘However, if you want to know, I strolled the beach as far as I could, then climbed to the headland and circled back here.’’

  ‘‘Ye were gone for hours.’’

  She schooled her features carefully. If Uncle Barnaby guessed even a morsel of the truth . . . The memory of Chad’s chiseled features, his splendidly carved body and strong hands flooded her, even now, with an astonishing sense of yearning, even if they had parted with an awkward, uncomfortable silence hovering between them.

  She compressed her lips and again summoned a partial truth. ‘‘The countryside is breathtaking. As long as I am here I mean to enjoy it. Besides, I’m working on a piece about Penhollow for my grandfather’s newspaper.’’

  Uncle Barnaby made a noise ominously like a growl. A morsel of fear skittered through her. With his hulking frame, nearly feral features and the temper she had witnessed several times since her arrival, she believed he might be capable of anything. Of course, those displays of ire had usually come in short, admittedly harmless bursts typically directed at Dominic for minor annoyances. Still, she had no desire to test her uncle’s limits.

  He spared a brief glance at his daughter. ‘‘Rachel, go.’’

  The girl didn’t hesitate in ducking behind him and disappearing into the next room. Uncle Barnaby stepped closer, and Sophie smacked her shoulder blades against the wall in a vain attempt to escape him.

  Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight streaming through St. Brendan’s narrow windows. Chad blinked against the contrasting brightness and shadow until his eyes adjusted.

  ‘‘I’ll just be a moment.’’ The vicar preceded him up the aisle and disappeared through a doorway behind the altar. He returned holding a lighted lantern. He set it on the floor and gripped the pulpit with both hands. Digging in his heels, he pushed against the oak podium.

  Chad stepped onto the dais. ‘‘What are you doing?’’

  ‘‘My lord,’’ Hall said with a grunt, ‘‘if you wouldn’t mind stepping aside.’’

  As he did, a grinding sound issued from the floor. The vicar gave a forceful shove and, to Chad’s astonishment, the entire pulpit slid sideways. Within moments he saw that the base had been built upon two wooden tracks fitted with grooves on either side of an opening in the floor.

  ‘‘What the devil?’’

  Hall retrieved the lantern. Crouching, he dangled it over the hole. ‘‘Have a look, my lord.’’

  Chad hunkered down, peering to make out a wooden stepladder that disappeared into shadow. The vicar lowered his lantern, and a natural bedrock floor some ten feet down came into view.

  ‘‘A tunnel?’’

  ‘‘Yes, and a storeroom.’’

  ‘‘With access to the harbor?’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’

  ‘‘Beneath the church?’’ The question required no reply. This revelation changed everything about Chad’s perspective on Penhollow. It meant no one was above suspicion, no one ignorant of the truth. Not the local cleric. Not even . . . Franklin Rutherford, whose money had built this church.

  Chad lowered himself to the floor and swung his legs into the opening. ‘‘My father knew of this?’’

  The vicar nodded. ‘‘But you mustn’t think ill of him, my lord. While he might not have approved of this entirely, he understood the often dire needs of these villagers. He simply turned a blind, benevolent eye.’’

  ‘‘And what of you? Does fair trading have your blessing?’’

  ‘‘My church has expenses, repairs the parish funding cannot cover, not to mention poor families who rely on St. Brendan’s largesse.’’ The defensive gleam faded from the vicar’s eyes. ‘‘But that is not the point I wished to make in bringing you here.’’

  ‘‘I don’t understand.’’

  Hall gestured to the vault. ‘‘See for yourself.’’

  Puzzled, Chad gripped the ladder and climbed down. A salt-tinged draft fluttered his sleeves and cooled the perspiration that had gathered across his brow. Opposite the ladder murky blackness filled a narrow opening framed in timber beams. A tunnel angled out of view, he presumed toward the harbor.

  The vault itself lay empty. No crates, casks, not so much as a crumb to be found. Chad climbed back up to the dais. ‘‘There’s nothing to learn from an empty storeroom,’’ he said.

  ‘‘Isn’t there? I should think its very lack of stores would speak volumes.’’

  ‘‘Do not talk in riddles, Mr. Hall.’’

  ‘‘My lord, since time out of memory, unfair taxes have been levied against the people most unable to pay them, and impoverished families learned clever ways to stave off hunger through unlawful means. Without those means many would not last through a single winter.’’ The man removed his spectacles, peered at them in the light, polished the lenses against his sleeve and set them on his nose again.

  Chad’s impatience neared its limit. ‘‘Your meaning, sir.’’

  ‘‘Despite this village’s desperate needs, our people are forced to pay full price, taxes and all, or go without. Virtually all smuggling has stopped. Our sailors no longer bring in illicit goods.’’

  ‘‘Why would that be?’’

  ‘‘Because in recent years nearly every ship that has attempted to run goods into Penhollow has either disappeared or washed up—in pieces.’’

  Chad felt the blood drain from his face. ‘‘The authorities?’’

  ‘‘No, my lord. Most definitely not the authorities.’’

  ‘‘Then . . . who?’’

  Hall tipped his head. ‘‘According to these villagers, the Keatings’ Ebony Rose.’’

  Chapter 10

  ‘‘It’s just you and me now, lass. You had best listen, and listen good.’’

  Sophie flinched as Uncle Barnaby’s finger jabbed at the air near her face. Cliff climbing suddenly didn’t seem quite so dangerous. If she could only wish herself back to the headland. Or better yet, to Edgecombe, and into the sheltering strength of Chad’s arms.

  But then she remembered how those arms had trapped her fast against the mattress while his censure had rained down on her. His warning that she stay out of danger had carried sure notes of anger. Her lips still bore the sting of that reprimand; beneath her bodice her breast burned with the imprint of his demand.

  More than ever she felt alone, cut off from all that was familiar and comforting and . . . safe.

  ‘‘I won’t be made out a fool,’’ her uncle was saying, ‘‘nor have folk prattling that Barnaby Gordon can’t control his own family.’’ His hovering hand fell away, only to become a fist that tapped against his thigh. ‘‘What would that high-flown grandfather of yours have to say if he learned of your ramblings?’’

  Oh, Sophie knew exactly what Grandfather—and her parents—would say about her recent escapades. Her gaze dropped to the floor.

  ‘‘Then from now on, my pet, ye’ll abide by my rules. Ye’ll be where I say, when and as I say. We’ll have no more mischief out of ye.’’

  A surge of indignation sent her hands, however ill-advisedly, to her hips. ‘‘Perhaps therein lies the problem, Uncle. No one has asked for my assistance other than to shell the peas for supper. You can hardly blame me for attempting to fill my days with activity more engaging than staring out the parlor windows. Provide me some gainful employment and I shall set myself to it happily enough.’’

  The man’s seething silence made her feel jostled, despite his never lifting a hand to touch her. Despite a frantic little voice urging caution, she returned his glare unblinking, though her chin felt no steadier than a butterfly’s wing.

  ‘‘God’s teeth,’’ he murmured at length, ‘‘ye make a valid point. Though I can’t imagine ye’re good for much.’’

  ‘‘Give me a chance to prove my worth.’’

  His ironic smirk could not, in fact, be termed cordial, but it was the closest thing to a smil
e she had yet seen on him. ‘‘Ever milked a cow? Collected eggs? Mucked a barn? Pulled thistles from a lamb’s coat? I’ll wager you can neither card wool nor spin it into yarn.’’

  Sophie’s eyes narrowed. She raised her chin. ‘‘What do you wish me to do, Uncle Barnaby? I’m more than willing to learn. I might even make you proud of your high-flown London relation.’’

  Tossing his own words back at him produced an unexpected result: a slight easing of his typically harsh expression. The change lent a startling hint of youthfulness to his face, and Sophie thought perhaps she had just glimpsed the ghost of the man who stole Aunt Louisa away all those years ago.

  She longed to know what had happened to that man, how he became such an ill-tempered brute. Were the trials of a difficult life responsible, or the burden of his own conscience? How she wished to fire off a barrage of questions concerning his life here in Penhollow, and what he knew of errant harbor lights.

  ‘‘You want employment, lass?’’ The cool mockery in his tone reminded her that they were not suddenly friends. ‘‘I’ll put ye in Rachel’s keeping. Lord knows my wife has made a blasted sorry job of keeping track of ye.’’

  With that he exited through the front door, leaving her regretting the past moments and mourning the loss of her freedom. Instead of holding her tongue, she had given in to pride. Now her days would be regimented and supervised. She would have no choice but to acquiesce to Chad’s plea and allow him to be her eyes and ears while she remained safely under her cousin’s wing.

  Part of her missed Chad already, missed his courage, his tenderness and his ability to talk her through impossible feats. She missed his rare smiles and his dashing good looks and the anticipation that fluttered through her whenever he was near.

  But another part of her conceded that the man she had met in the chapel, who patiently urged her up a cliff this morning and later roused such unimaginable passion in her, possessed another, darker side. One he had quite deliberately allowed her to glimpse; she was sure of it. To protect her, or to hide the secrets he harbored?