She looked startled. “Why, I am Eulalia Hayne. You asked for me?”
The sense of unreality that had been growing in Morgan reached a new height. This lovely but disheveled creature was the stylish Cordell Hayne’s wife? He had pictured a cold and haughty woman, lifting herself on the backs of others as Hayne himself did. And he had pictured her living in grandeur stolen from his family. He could only stare.
“You are Mrs. Hayne?” She nodded and he thought he glimpsed for a moment the slightest twinkle in those remarkable eyes. “Where is the rest of your staff?”
“There is no staff except me, my grandmother, James and Peggy.”
“And Hayne is content to live like this?”
For a moment the eyes darkened, as though a cloud had passed over the sun. Then a small smile curved the deep-rose lips. “My husband is very rarely here, except when he takes his sloop out. Did you wish to speak to him?”
The question of Hayne’s whereabouts began to disturb Morgan. “Is he in residence now?”
“No. He rode in yesterday, but only for a short while. He left again in the Seahawk, saying that he had a wager on a sailing race that would bring him about.” She shrugged. The movement brought the tops of two plump globes covered in pearly skin nearer to the rounded neckline of her dress. The train of the conversation again momentarily eluded Morgan. With an effort he pulled his gaze back to her face as she continued. “I don’t know what he meant, exactly, but he often races the Seahawk. He has been doing so a great deal of late. It’s very fast, and he likes to wager on the outcome.”
“He likes to wager on everything.” Morgan frowned. Apparently he had not succeeded in depriving Hayne of his boat. An oversight on his part. But perhaps not. Hayne would think nothing of taking out a boat that had already been foreclosed. Or of making a wager when he no longer had anything to back it.
Or of leaving Morgan to break the news to his wife that she no longer had a home.
Suddenly the shining prospect of that satisfying moment faded a trifle. He had believed that Hayne would have at least sent word to her that he had lost Merdinn, but obviously he had not. His wife sat before him with confusion in her eyes. As Morgan searched for the words that would at last avenge his mother and sister, Jeremy closed his book and edged forward to get a better look at the lady.
She turned in surprise, and the first real smile Morgan had seen bloomed in her face. “Well, who is this?”
Morgan motioned the boy forward. “This is my nephew, Jeremy Pendaris. He makes his home with me.”
Jeremy stepped closer and essayed a polite bow. “How do you do, Mrs. Hayne?”
She held out a welcoming hand and clasped Jeremy’s small one. “How nice to meet you, Jeremy.”
Seeing the warm response in his nephew’s face, Morgan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Things were not going as he had expected. “Jeremy, I need to speak with Mrs. Hayne privately. You may explore on this floor of the building, but on no account are you to climb the wall or the towers. Nor are you to go down the path to our cove alone—not now or at any other time. Do I make myself clear?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I promise.” Jeremy quickly dashed for the door before his uncle could change his mind.
When the door had banged shut behind him, Morgan turned back to Eulalia Hayne and hardened his heart. “Mrs. Hayne, apparently it falls to me to explain your situation to you.” Damnation! Where were the arrogant words he had rehearsed so many times in his dreams? “Are you aware that nineteen years ago your father-in-law came into possession of Merdinn, a property that had been in the Pendaris family for generations, as the result of a dishonorable business arrangement?”
Again her eyes seemed to darken to a light gray, like the sunless winter sea. “I know very little about the dealings of my husband’s family. At that time I would have been only five years old. My family lived nearby, but I would not have remembered anything like that.”
Morgan remembered. He remembered that day in every agonizing detail. His father’s impotent anger, his mother’s tears, his own pain as his beloved home was ripped away from him. His own anger. It welled in him again, and a muscle jumped in his tightened jaw. At the age of fifteen he had been dispossessed of his birthright. He spoke through clenched teeth. “Suffice to say that he did so—by defrauding my father. I have recently been able to regain what the Haynes stole from my family.”
A small pucker increased between the lady’s brows. “I am not sure I understand.”
“I now own Merdinn.”
He watched in silence as the significance of the statement sank in. She sat very still in her chair, her hands lying motionless in her lap. At last she nodded. “I see. My husband has sold it to you?”
“No.” The word was stark, harsh. Morgan waited a heartbeat before continuing. “Your husband had mortgaged everything he owned—and he was far in arrears on even the interest, let alone the principal. I have bought up all his notes—on the land, his wagers, his cattle—everything. He now owns nothing.”
“I see.” She continued to sit like a statue, but he could see a pulse beating frantically in her throat. “My only income derives from a small portion of the tenant rents.”
“Unfortunately, any arrangement that Hayne made is no longer worth the ink in which it was signed. All the rents are now payable to me.”
She stood and lifted her small chin. The gray of her eyes now approached the dark color of the sea in storm. “I understand. My grandmother and I will leave as quickly as we can. Will three days be soon enough?”
“You may wait for your husband’s return. You will no doubt want to go with him.”
An expression he could not read flitted over her face. “I do not believe that it will be useful to wait.”
She left the room with a dignified tread. Morgan blew out an angry breath and slumped in his chair. He did this for his mother, and even more for his poor deceived, disgraced little sister. For Beth. Especially for her. God rest her unhappy soul.
But the triumph suddenly left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Chapter Two
Lalia carefully laid the hairbrush on the dressing table, forbidding herself to throw it, and dropped her face into her hands. Her thoughts spun ’round and ’round and back and forth like the unattended wheel of a ship in a gale. What was she to do? Where in the world could she go? And what about Daj? She was no longer young, and her bones hurt her so. She could do very little work. Lalia would have to earn their bread for both herself and her grandmother. She had almost no money to provide for them until she could find employment. She could not afford to go to London or even Bath. And what was she trained to do?
Manage a home she no longer had.
What? Where? How? When? How? Where…?
Dizziness threatened to overcome her. She jumped up from the dressing stool and began to pace. A flicker of lightning brightened the window for an instant and she paused to look out on the dark sea. The clouds had already defeated the moon. She could see nothing until the approaching storm hurled another bolt.
One thing was certain. Her husband would not rescue her.
Rain began to patter against the glass, and the wind rattled the casement, reflecting the storm that raged inside Lalia. Her feelings changed with every wave, battering her against the rocks of indecision. Fear. Anger. Grief. Her usual serenity had long since disappeared into the depths. She had become the storm.
She couldn’t stand it another minute.
Snatching her wrapper from the bed, she flung it over her shoulders and raced out of the room.
Morgan threw open the wardrobe and took stock of its contents. They didn’t amount to much. Apparently, as Mrs. Hayne had said, her husband spent very little time at Merdinn. But even a single cravat, a pair of stockings, an unmatched glove was too much. He began to pull shirts and coats and trousers out of the wardrobe and throw them on the floor.
Boots, small clothes… When the wardrobe was empty, he attacked the dressing room. Brushes, razors a
nd shaving mug joined the heap on the floor. When not a solitary item belonging to Hayne remained in place in the master suite, Morgan gathered up the pile and dumped it in the hallway. Tomorrow James could take the lot to the vicar to give to the poor. He wanted no trace of the man to remain in his home.
Morgan walked to the window to watch the storm. As he stood there, a distant thump vibrated its way through the house. A door slamming. Now who would be going out into this weather? As he pondered the question, a flicker of movement on the ground below him, caught in a flash of lightning, captured his attention. Someone was abroad.
The next bolt of lightning revealed someone leaning against the parapet at the top of the east tower. As he watched, the wind blew a sail of hair back from the figure. So much hair. Eulalia Hayne.
Alarm shot through Morgan. Good God! She intended to jump! He whirled and dashed into the hallway and ran for the stairs. Taking them two at a time, he gained the lower floor and found the door behind the main staircase unfastened. Looking up, he could still see her leaning into the gale, the rain beating down on her lifted face. He ducked his own head against the rain and made for the tower.
The heavy wooden door into the tower opened easily enough, but the moment it closed, he was in total darkness. Feeling his way up the steps, Morgan had climbed only three when his foot encountered not the fourth, but open air. He caught himself on the next stair up, banging his elbow and painfully scraping his shin. Damnation!
The place had deteriorated badly since he had been here. How the devil did she get up there? Rubbing his elbow, he backed down to the floor and considered. As a boy he had known everything there was to know about Merdinn. Including the flight of unprotected steps that led from the wall around the outside of the tower to the watch platform where his quarry stood. Not a route to pursue in this kind of weather, however.
But a life was at stake. The thought gave him pause. Was it a life that he was willing to risk his own to save? Or was he willing to drive Cordell Hayne’s wife to her death as Hayne had driven Beth to hers? Had it been Hayne on the parapet, he would have watched him fall without lifting a finger. But his hapless wife? Could he stand by and watch Eulalia Hayne die, even to avenge his little sister’s death?
He swore under his breath and started for the wall.
Lalia closed her eyes and let the rain mingle with her tears. It poured over her, washing away her agitation and confusion. The wind swirled around her, blowing her mantle of hair first toward her and then out behind. She didn’t feel the chill. She didn’t want to feel. Didn’t want to remember the resolve she saw in Lord Carrick’s hard, glass-green eyes. Didn’t want to think anymore.
Not thinking—the very thing that had kept her in this situation. Allowing herself to drift, to accept. Think she must, but she would do it tomorrow. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow.
Now Lalia only wanted the rain.
Suddenly she heard the scrape of leather on stone and before she could spin around, a large, authoritative hand grasped her upper arm and pulled her away from the parapet. Stifling a shriek, she put up her other hand to fend off whomever had taken hold of her. Her hand encountered something very warm and very hard. A flash of light revealed the something to be Lord Carrick’s chest. He only tightened his hold when she tried to step away.
“My lord! What are you doing?”
“What am I doing? I am stopping you from leaping onto the rocks. What are you doing? Surely your situation cannot be that bad.”
“You have no…” Before she could finish the sentence a gust blew her curtain of hair across her face, covering both her eyes and her mouth. She fumbled ineffectively with her free hand to clear it away. Before she could gain control of the errant tresses, a second large hand gathered them together and lifted them over her head, holding them firmly at the nape of her neck. The wrist rested heavily on her shoulder.
“Think, Mrs. Hayne. Is any misfortune worth your life?”
Lalia looked up into the stern face with the dark curls plastered to the broad forehead. It was too dark to see the green of his eyes, but they glittered wildly in the intermittent light. She pressed her hand against her chest where her startled heart still pounded loudly and tried to gather her composure. He seemed to expect a response.
“I… You… I’m sorry, my lord. I did not mean to alarm you. I have no intention of jumping to my death.”
His lordship looked skeptical. “Then what, pray tell me, are you doing up here in the midst of a storm? Are you hoping to be stuck by lightning?”
A blinding flash and a deafening crack of thunder punctuated this question. Lord Carrick jerked her against himself as if to shield her. Lalia ducked her head, hiding her face against his shirt. After a cautious moment she decided that she was still alive and tried to draw back a step. His lordship hesitated for a second, looking deeply into her eyes, then loosened his hold slightly.
The warmth of his muscular body enveloped her. Lalia vainly willed her racing heart to slow. She could hear it banging in her ears. “I am not seeking death, my lord. I simply wanted the rain.”
“You wanted… You wanted the rain?” His lordship still looked unconvinced.
“Yes. It calms me.”
“I see.” He did not let go of her. He lifted one eyebrow. “You are telling me that I have come out into a storm, risked my health to an inflammation of the lungs, risked my neck climbing a crumbling wall and an open stair slick with rain, and you tell me you simply wanted to be calmed?”
In spite of herself Lalia chuckled. “Apparently so. But thank you for your concern.”
Lord Carrick did not chuckle. The next flash of light revealed an intimidating crease between his eyebrows. At last he spoke. “If you say so. Nevertheless, I am unwilling to put the matter to the test. How the devil did you come up? Surely you did not climb the outer stairs.”
“I came through the old guard room, my lord. I am familiar with the broken steps in the tower.”
“Very well. You can lead me back down.” He paused for another frowning moment, then asked abruptly, “Have you anywhere to go?”
Lalia shook her head. “No, my lord.”
“Hayne will certainly return for you.”
Lalia dropped her gaze to the stone floor. She knew that would never happen. Looking once more into his face, she drew a deep breath. “I consider that very unlikely.”
Lord Carrick sighed. “Then we will continue this discussion tomorrow—without the danger of being incinerated by lightning.”
With every evidence of reluctance, he released her hair and ushered her toward the door of the tower room.
Having divested himself of his wet clothes, Morgan poured himself a brandy and leaned back against the headboard of the bed, pulling the quilt over his legs. He rubbed at the spot on his chest that always ached in damp weather. A fire would have been nice, but Mrs. Hayne informed him that they did not purchase wood for the bedchambers at Merdinn in the summer.
Hellfire and damnation! What had he got himself into now?
He was realizing that, if the woman truly had nowhere to go, if her husband had abandoned her, he would have a very hard time making himself send her into the streets. After all, was his desire to avenge Beth on Hayne’s woman any better than what Hayne had done to Beth? Morgan was beginning to feel a bit like a cad and a bully in his own right. Not the way he wanted to view himself. Besides—another idea had taken strong hold of his mind.
…to crush in your arms his wives and daughters.
Perhaps it was time for him to do a little crushing.
What better revenge on your enemy than to take his woman from him, to take her to your bed? No man could stand that. A cold smile lit Morgan’s eyes.
He felt himself getting hard. He had been hard off and on ever since he had grasped Eulalia Hayne’s arm on the tower. Her soaked nightclothes clinging to every inch of her body clearly revealed the curves whose presence he had hitherto only deduced. Lovely, plump curves covered in flawless, translucent s
kin. And all that hair. Black satin spread out beneath him, lying beneath those succulently rounded hips, covering those soft, generous breasts.
Morgan rolled the brandy over his tongue. He couldn’t wait to get his mouth on her. He must have been mad to even consider sending away such a delicious morsel.
Lord Carrick had asked her to join him for dinner in the family dining room—one of the rooms she and her grandmother usually allowed to go uncleaned. Lalia had more than enough work, and her pride, such as it was, did not prevent her eating in the kitchen with the rest of her small household. It did, however, prevent her from serving his lordship in a dirty room. She buffed the table, her hands busy while her mind worried the problem of what she should do.
Lalia pushed her hair out of her face with a wrist that smelled of beeswax. She sensed that Lord Carrick intended to give her a reprieve, that he would tell her that she need not leave immediately. But was that the best decision for her? Certainly it was the easiest.
The question of what she would do here loomed almost as large as that of what she would do if she left. Even with her grandmother as chaperone, living here with his lordship in residence would really be not at all the thing. The memory of the heat of his body and the hardness of his chest washed over her, causing her to tremble. No, indeed. Not the thing at all!
Daj, as always, counseled patience.
“Wait and see, Lalia.”
Wait and see, wait and see, always wait, wait, wait.
Apparently a small miracle had occurred. When Morgan had looked into the family dining room earlier in the day, he had resigned himself to a dinner eaten alongside the dust that had covered everything. But now the cobwebs were no more and the surface of the table reflected the fine, gleaming china and crystal his mother had not been able to take to London with her. The heir-loom silver had even been polished, glinting softly in the candlelight. Another miracle that Hayne had not sold it all. Likely he never visited the pantries. Morgan leaned back in his chair with satisfaction.
A Dangerous Seduction Page 2
