“Drake is likely still in the West Indies. Elizabeth is in Virginia, and my parents?” Morwenna shrugged and spun away with the candle, trailing flame and smoke behind her. “I’ve accepted that they are probably dead.”
“Why?”
“They’ve never been away so long without at least writing, war or not. I wanted them to know of their grandson—” She jammed the candle into its holder, then stood facing the mantel as though studying the frieze of vines and flowers across the front of the piece. Her shoulders shook ever so slightly.
“My lady?” David rose, needing one hand on the desktop to do so, and paced across the room to join her. He rested one hand on her shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“Oh, of course. I’m simply in alt.” Sarcasm dripped from each word, and her lip curled. “My husband is dead, my son’s inheritance is tumbling down around our ears, and my friends and family are vanishing one after the other. And now I’ve been arrested for wrecking, which could turn into an arrest for murder.”
“It was a stupid question, wasn’t it?”
Her shoulders heaved and a bark of laughter emerged. “A man who recognizes his lack of wisdom. How refreshing.”
“I would never lay claim to wisdom. I don’t lay claim to much knowledge except when it comes to boats and wood. I’m not very well educated except in maths. I need math to do my work. But I haven’t read philosophers or even much literature that is supposed to enlighten the mind. I’m just a simple laborer.”
She looked up at him, and he wanted to add, “A simple laborer who can scarcely bear not to kiss you right now.” He wouldn’t. That would disrespect her and his host. But those unsmiling corners of her mouth had softened, increasing the lushness of her lips, and she looked on the verge of smiling. He settled on smoothing his fingers over a strand of her hair tumbling from her chignon. Silky hair that urged the most self-controlled man to tug it from its pins and send it spilling through his fingers.
He wasn’t the most self-controlled man. Nor was he wise. He had enough of both wisdom and self-control to pull his hand away from her and shove it into the pocket of his coat. “I was writing to my brother to see how the yard is doing without me.”
“Are you vital to the works?”
“I was. I hope to be so again.”
His tongue burned with the need to tell someone of his father’s peculiar behavior, perhaps something as serious as treachery against the family, as hard as he found believing that to be true, a way to release the anguish inside him. But he would be telling the very person who might somehow be connected to that theft.
He took a step back, carrying himself out of touching range. “So your cousin smuggled with your husband, your parents are explorers, and your other cousin married a foreigner. I can’t imagine a family scattering like that.”
“In this family, staying in one place is the unusual.”
“Your grandparents have.”
“They didn’t in their youth. My grandfather was a bit of a pirate.”
“Indeed, a lawless family.”
“Which condemns me.” Her chin quivered. “I was the one who stayed here and lived a law-abiding life.” She lifted a china ornament from the mantelshelf, a delicate figurine of exquisite detail and delicate color, but only a shepherdess for all its artistry in the design. “Grandfather may have persuaded that revenue officer that anyone could have placed those barrels in the caves or even hidden that smuggler’s lantern in my son’s room, but did you notice no one was surprised to learn of their existence?”
“I was more concerned about you than the reactions of others.”
“And Grandfather was concerned about preserving the family reputation.”
“I think he cares—”
She shot the hand holding the figurine into the air. “No, no, don’t deny lack of defense of my innocence. Nor did anyone else.” She began to twirl the statuette between her palms. “They’ve all been waiting for me to succumb to the allure of easy wealth.” The shepherdess shook in Morwenna’s hand enough to make the porcelain folds of the girl’s skirt appear as though they moved in a stiff breeze. “I’m a Trelawny who was once the black sheep, so now I must be guilty. So much for the safety of giving up my independence to come here under Grandfather’s thumb.”
David rested his hand on her wrist, felt the tension. “I believe that thumb protected you tonight.”
“It’s not worth it. He thinks me guilty as well. I’ll never get my investors now.” With that pronouncement she hurled the figurine across the room.
It struck the edge of a bookshelf and shattered. Fragments of ruined china tinkled to the floor like pattering rain. Morwenna followed the figurine across the room and beyond to the door, the corridor, somewhere out of David’s sight, then his hearing. He caught the rumble of laughter from the drawing room on the floor above, but no nearby whisper of silk. Yet he did not move. He kept his gaze on the fragments of china, feeling the residual anger behind the destruction, his heart torn between certainty that her ladyship was innocent after all, and wondering if his certainty stemmed from feelings that had nothing to do with wisdom, with her innocence or guilt, but wholly focused on a new apprehension in his life.
His interest in Morwenna, Lady Penvenan, cut far more deeply than a need to learn how her family was involved with his family.
If he wasn’t careful, he would tumble head over heels for her ladyship.
The thought was enough to keep him awake most of the night. With the coverlet wrapped around him like some kind of oversized mantle, David sat by the window facing the sea. Waves higher than he was tall swooped in and crashed upon the sand below, their roar reaching through distance and glass. Wind rattled the windows in buffeting blasts, and the only light shimmered from the white crests of the surf. Somewhere out to sea, a storm raged, heading their way.
David shivered despite the covering and blazing fire, and prayed for those ships to stay away from the shore in the event the wreckers took a chance on luring another vessel to its doom upon the rocky sands below. Surely they wouldn’t, and yet . . .
He tossed off the coverlet and reclaimed his shoes. No harm came from looking, from assuring himself no one else would suffer, or worse, die. And while he was below stairs, he could collect foolscap and ink, perhaps even find a pencil or two, and bring them to his room. He needed to work, to put the designs in his head to paper. When he returned home, perhaps he could build the pleasure craft he saw by his mind’s eye.
If Chastain’s still existed. If his brother had been unable to procure more commissions and credit, or if his other brother hadn’t come home successful from his last trading voyage, David’s designs would never be built.
What would he do without his work? How would the family support itself?
The Bible said God would provide all their needs, but David didn’t see how. Maybe he could work for someone else . . .
Despair washed through him. He gripped the door handle so hard his hand shook. He leaned his head against the panels and took several deep breaths, welcoming the pain in his ribs and back that accompanied each inhalation.
I will not blame my father. I. Will. Not. blame him without proof of betrayal.
No matter what Papa had done. He needed to have Mama’s loyalty and belief in his father’s goodness. But he wasn’t sure he would ever again believe in anyone’s goodness and loyalty.
He opened the door. It moved silently on its hinges and his leather-soled shoes made no sound on the polished floorboards of the corridor, nor the thick carpet runner down the center. Still, a figure detached itself from a niche down the way and glided toward him.
“May I assist you, sir?” The voice and form, dim by the light of a candle in a glass globe, belonged to one of the footmen who had come to Penmara.
David closed the door with a decisive click that echoed off plastered walls. “Why are you lurking outside my bedchamber door?” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded harsh.
The footman bowed
. “Not lurking, sir. I or another footman are always here when we have guests or family in this wing.”
“Then when do you sleep?” Now David was merely curious, not accustomed to such service.
“I will be relieved at two of the clock and allowed to sleep later.” He bowed. “The Trelawnys are most generous employers.”
And hosts—unless this man’s job was to guard David. A quick look noted a horse pistol in the man’s belt. To keep potential intruders out, or keep David in?
Time to test it.
“I am headed for the library.” David started forward.
The footman fell into step beside him. “I can fetch what you need.”
At which time, David could escape—if he intended to do so.
“No need.” He increased his stride, but the effort cost him. By the time they reached the head of the steps, his ribs ached anew.
And the footman hadn’t left his side.
David gripped the top of the banister. “On second thought, I would like you to fetch me some foolscap, as large as available, and pencils, if you have them.”
“Sir Petrok will have them.” The man sounded offended that David would suggest the Trelawnys were not in possession of something.
David grinned. “Very good then. I need larger sheets for design, if possible. I didn’t see any in the library, so perhaps Sir Petrok doesn’t have anything larger, but perhaps you know of somewhere—”
“I can find some as yet uncut.” The footman stalked down the steps, his shoes also silent without a step creaking.
David waited until the man was around the corner and into the library before he sped down the steps with as much haste as he could manage and moved in the opposite direction. The night before, he had noticed small parlors and anterooms along this way. After procuring a candle from one of the wall sconces, he ducked into one of these rooms and found his way to long, multipaned windows so tall and low-set that they served as doors. A convenient design onto the terrace beyond. Perhaps he could make such a change to Mama’s sitting room, so she could walk directly into her garden instead of having to walk around. She could sit inside that way and watch the grandchildren playing in the garden while she worked at her needlework.
If they could keep the house and she had a garden come later in the spring.
The thought shot him into action. He unlatched one of the windows and stepped over the low sill onto flagstones. The wind wasn’t so high here, not like the sight of the waves had suggested. When he had crossed the terrace, he realized why. He was in the walled garden his room overlooked, but nothing paltry of mere yards in width like Mama’s. This was almost the size of the boatyard and contained at least a score of trees.
Difficult not to be envious of such opulence. Mama would adore this. If he could build a truly seaworthy vessel, one capable of crossing the ocean, and his brother could captain it for higher profits instead of having to serve other men as mate, they could one day purchase such a family home.
If . . . The enormous if in their lives.
Heartsick, David began to pace along the nearest path in search of an exit. He heard the surf pounding the cliff. The sea couldn’t be far.
He found a door at the far end of the garden. An iron bar served as the lock, a barricade easily lifted and set aside. He did so and stepped onto the cliff beyond.
The wind nearly knocked him back into the garden. His candle extinguished, yet enough light shone from the surf below and flashes of lightning in the distance to limn the diminutive figure of a woman at the top of the cliff.
Morwenna, Lady Penvenan, of course. Who else would it be standing there in the wind and the first splashes of rain, her shawl and hair whipping out behind her.
David closed the distance between them and rested one hand on her shoulder. She screamed and jerked away from him, spinning with one fist aiming for his face.
He caught her wrist, his fingers encircling the delicate bones without having to place any pressure on them. “It’s me, my lady.”
She didn’t relax. “What are you doing here?”
“Watching the storm.” He released her wrist then leaned down so he spoke into her ear. “Watching the cliff like you.” His breath stirred her hair. It tickled his nose with the scent of lemons.
She started and turned her head so her damp hair slapped across his cheek. Her right arm shot out to the west where a headland jutted into the sea. “Then look your fill and see my fate.”
He followed her pointing finger. At first he saw nothing but lightning streaking and magnified through approaching sheets of rain. Then the lightning vanished, and in the ensuing darkness, he caught a flash, two flashes, three of light reflecting off the rainy curtain.
CHAPTER 9
DAVID’S HANDS CAME DOWN ON MORWENNA’S SHOULDERS, gripping them hard enough to hold her near, gentle enough to feel like comfort. “Is that Penmara?”
“It is.” Morwenna resisted the urge to lean back against his broad chest. Earlier in the evening, his strength had sheltered her from the horror of what the lieutenant had told them all. She had wished away everyone in the room so she could be held.
No one had held her with such tenderness in far too long.
You’re frightened, vulnerable, lonely. You. Do. Not. Care. About. Him.
But that was a lie, the part about not caring. She liked him, but how much was because of the person he was, and how much was her empty heart and arms, she didn’t know. What she did know was that caring was dangerous. Yet she didn’t move away from him.
“How long will the wreckers stay there?” David asked.
She shrugged. “Until morning. Until—until a ship wrecks.” She shuddered with a violence that knocked her teeth together.
He moved his hands from her shoulders to her waist and drew her back against his chest. “You’re cold. We need to go in.”
“I need to watch.”
Not until the words flew from her lips did she realize how they could be understood. And he understood them that way. She felt it in the sudden tension of his body.
No sense in denying it. Denial would make her sound defensive, as though she did have something to hide. Now she must go inside where she could not see across the headland to the cliffs above Penmara.
She stepped out of David’s hold, instantly freezing to her marrow, and turned toward the house. “Let us be on our way before we catch our death.” Because the night was so dark between flashes of lightning, she took his hand and led him back to the garden. “How did you find your way out here?”
“I had a candle.” He lifted the iron bar into place to secure the door.
“Then why did you come out here?”
“Perhaps the same reason as you.”
Morwenna gritted her teeth. “Do you mean if my coming out here is innocent, you came out for the same reason?” Her hands fisted around the edges of her shawl. “But you say ‘perhaps’ in the event I have other reasons for being out here, as in waiting to see if my gang is successful this time?”
“I haven’t made any accusations, my lady.” He took her hand this time, as they traversed the path toward the house. “I was concerned.”
And wanted to stop her or anyone else?
Weakened from his wounds or not, he was a powerful man. The hand holding hers was surely broad enough and long enough of fingers to capture both her wrists at once. The roughness of calluses told a tale of labor that explained his strength.
Conan’s hands had been callused as well, but not so much. They weren’t nearly as strong. David’s were more like Sam Carn’s, honed in the mines.
Dear Sam, her first flirtation, then her friend, now a married man who wouldn’t so much as look at her for fear of enraging his wife. Another abandonment, another loss. In days, perhaps as long as weeks, David would leave. Everyone went away, leaving her with the broken pieces to try to fit back together again. Each time, another sliver went missing, leaving an aching hole.
She removed her hand from David�
�s and gathered anger around her like a half dozen shields. “You may as well outright accuse me of being in league with these men. The lieutenant didn’t hesitate to do so.”
“And it got him nowhere. His evidence was poor at best.”
“He could get a conviction from a jury at the assizes, men who don’t know me.”
“But they know your grandfather, which seems to be enough.”
They reached the steps to the terrace, and Morwenna slammed her booted foot onto the bottom tread. “Of course. Think badly of the widow with the tarnished reputation, but don’t dare offend the richest man in Cornwall. I tell you, if I’d been alone at Penmara, I’d be in chains right now.”
“Like as not your grandfather would have gotten you freed by now.” Was that a hint of contempt in his voice? Perhaps mere scorn?
“He might think me legitimately innocent.” Her tone lacked conviction.
Grandfather knew she wanted to save Penmara on her own. She wanted Mihal to have a mother he could be proud of when he grew old enough to hear the tales of her past and perhaps even be taunted about them despite his rank. If he wasn’t proud of her then, he, too, might despise her for her misbehavior as a youth and remove her from his home and life.
Her throat closed, but she mustn’t drown in self-pity. She couldn’t change the past. She could only work hard to change the future. She would do so on her own instead of relying on those who never believed her capable of anything good and right.
She stomped up the next two steps and swept across the terrace. “Don’t follow me in right away. The footmen will think we had a rendezvous.” She closed the window behind her, resisted the urge to latch it so he had to find another way in. He was barely out of his sickbed and the rain had come ashore in earnest.
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