A Dangerous Seduction

by Patricia Frances Rowell

  His hands, his hard, clutching hands…groping…hot…

  The hand now had only three fingers.

  Lalia whirled. The blood drained from her face, leaving her cold to the core. She had to get away! She took one blind, running step and fetched up against a solid barrier. Lord Carrick grasped her shoulders to steady her. She looked into his frowning face and gasped, “It is he.”

  The next moment the world turned black and disappeared.

  It had been a difficult day. Still weak from her faint, Lalia had sat in the gig feeling dazed as she listened to his lordship give orders for a hasty and unceremonious burial of the noisome pile of flesh that had once been Cordell Hayne. She thought, perhaps, he had asked her preferences, but when she did not respond, he made the decisions without her. It was not until she had returned to the house that her head began to clear. She must remember to thank him.

  Her thoughts far away, Lalia jumped and almost dropped her brush when a light tap sounded at her bedchamber door. At her murmured, “Yes?” the door opened and one of the new maids put her head in the door.

  The girl dropped a quick curtsy. “Good evening, ma’am. I’m Sarah. His lordship sent me to ask if you would like your dinner brought to your room?”

  Good heavens. How comfortable her life was becoming. Lalia pondered the offer. Eating in her room would be quiet and undemanding, but…lonely. She did not want to be alone tonight. “No, thank you, Sarah. I’ll come down.”

  “Then let me help you dress.” Without waiting for agreement, the maid went to the wardrobe and opened it. Of course, it held but one gown acceptable for dinner with a lord—one that she had already worn several times. Sarah removed it without comment and placed it on the bed. “I do love to dress hair, and yours is so pretty…here, let me.” She picked up the comb from the table.

  Before she knew it, Lalia was suitably, if repetitiously, arrayed and on her way down to dinner. Lord Carrick met her at the door of the small dining room and, with the greatest formality, held out his hand. Hmm. Proper manners tonight. Lalia offered her own hand in an almost forgotten response, and he brought it to his lips. The warmth of his fingers tingled up her arm and his distinctive fragrance took her breath. The tingle somehow ended up in her lower body.

  How had that happened?

  Reluctantly she brought her gaze to his face and found the green eyes looking into hers. Tonight, rather than seeming cold, a slow fire flickered in their depths. Something in Lalia warmed in answer. Just before the extended silence required a comment, his lordship smoothly tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and led her to the table.

  “I didn’t know if you would feel up to having dinner. Have you recovered from your faint?” He pulled out her chair, hovering over her shoulder but for a few heartbeats. His lordship was being very thoughtful. He must be on his good behavior.

  “Thank you.” She nodded as he offered the sherry bottle. “A little wine would be welcome. I have never fainted before. Thank you so much for dealing with the burial. I…I just couldn’t seem to think.”

  “No great wonder in that.” He filled first her glass and then his own. “I thought, considering the condition of the body and the heat, it was best done quickly. But tell me how you are feeling now.”

  “I feel well enough now…just… I don’t know…shaken. It seemed that he would always be there, lurking somewhere out of sight, always my husband, and yet…not my husband. I can’t quite take in that he is gone.”

  “I’m sure. But he is gone.” Lord Carrick spoke gently. “Tell me…I have noticed… I’ve never heard you call him by name.”

  “Have I not?” Lalia turned the matter over in her mind. “No, I don’t. He has never really seemed like a person to me, more a…”

  “A problem?”

  “You might say that.” The word she had been thinking of was beast. “Nor have I ever thought of myself as really his wife, just…”

  His prisoner.

  “Do you object to being called Mrs. Hayne?”

  “I don’t object. I just don’t think of myself that way.”

  Carrick leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtful, waiting until the footman had brought in the first course and departed. When they were again alone he said, “I wonder, then, if I may ask a favor of you?”

  “Of course.” I think. Probably.

  “I notice that Jeremy addresses you as Miss Lalia. May I have the same privilege?”

  “Why…yes. If you prefer it.” Oh, dear. The comfortable barrier of formality between them had just crumbled a bit, leaving a sense of increased vulnerability. She did not ask him what she should call him.

  “And I would like for you to call me Morgan.”

  He had been thinking of her as Lalia for several days. He no longer wanted to think of her in connection with Cordell Hayne. Morgan poured himself his bedtime glass of brandy and leaned against the head of the bed. Cordell Hayne. His unworthy foe. Dead.

  Morgan didn’t know what to feel. Death, of course, must be the ultimate revenge. Beth was dead. Hayne was dead. It was fitting. But it seemed unsatisfying that the scoundrel would never know poverty or prison or that Morgan had taken his woman for himself.

  Assuming, of course, that he succeeded in doing the latter. That issue had yet to be resolved, but Morgan remained optimistic. She was attracted to him. He could tell that. And Hayne’s death at least removed the obstacle of the lady’s wedding vows. Widows had a great deal more freedom than either spinsters or married women. Yet, he must school himself to patience. She was in shock. This was no time to pounce on her.

  Patience? Damnation! He was rapidly running out of that commodity. He actually held her this afternoon—scooped her up into his arms when she fainted. As he had carried her to the gig, he had ached with the awareness of how tiny and soft she felt against his chest. Of her scent. Of her mantle of hair tumbling out of her bonnet as he laid her on the seat of the gig.

  And of her complete vulnerability when she opened confused eyes and looked helplessly into his.

  Hands. Two hands. Reaching out of the darkness. Pale, bloodless, seeking. She lay paralyzed, watching the hands approach. One of them brushed her cheek. She could see the bones where pieces of flesh had dropped away. They pinched her breast viciously, squeezed her throat, hovered over her eyes.

  And, one by one, the fingers began to drop off.

  One struck her chest, her shoulder, her face…

  The scream ripped through her, searing her throat. She fought her way up, tearing aside the bedclothes, knocking over the candle. She couldn’t see. Her eyes would not open. She screamed again.

  Pounding. Shouting. “Lalia, unlock this door!” Running footsteps. More pounding. More shouting. “Open, damn it!” Loud thumps. He was trying to get in. She mustn’t let him…a crash. Footsteps. Hands reaching for her. She screamed again—

  “Lalia, Lalia! Wake up.” The hands gripped her shoulders and shook her gently. Lord Carrick’s voice. His hands. But she couldn’t see. She fought to a sitting position and felt herself gathered into a pair of strong arms, held against a muscular chest. A hand stroked her hair.

  “You are all right now. Wake up, Lalia. You had a nightmare.”

  Consciousness gradually returned and Lalia started to cry. “It was his hands. They were all rotted, and they hurt me, and the fingers… Oh, my God.” She moaned softly against his chest. “The fingers fell off.”

  Morgan held her close and let her cry, smoothing her hair and murmuring comforting words. She had dreamt about the body. No wonder in that. It had been a gruesome sight. He was just grateful that he hadn’t dreamt about it himself. Her fragrance and softness teased his awareness, but this was no time to take advantage. She did not trust him overmuch as matters stood. A wrong move now and he would never get near her again.

  Suddenly a light appeared in the doorway. He looked up to find Lalia’s grandmother standing there, Jeremy peeping around her skirts. He would not have thought that the old woman could h
ave heard the commotion from her quarters near the kitchen, much less climbed the stairs so rapidly, but there she stood fixing him with a steely eye. What the hell was the lady’s name? He couldn’t call her Daj. And what was she thinking? He wore only hastily donned britches. This did look rather…

  But he couldn’t let Lalia go. She clung to him, her tears dampening his bare chest. Morgan cleared his throat awkwardly. “She…she had a nightmare.”

  Lalia sobbed. “It was his hands…”

  Her grandmother crossed the room and motioned for Morgan to move. “Muló,” she stated firmly.

  Morgan edged aside and she took his place, gathering her granddaughter into her arms and crooning what sounded like Romani endearments. Morgan beckoned to Jeremy and picked him up. The boy’s eyes were huge in his pale face.

  “Did someone hurt Miss Lalia?”

  “No, not at all.” Morgan wished he could be more sure of that. She had been terribly frightened. What would have made her so afraid of her husband’s hands? Was it just the decay, or…? Morgan didn’t want to think too much about that. “She just had a bad dream.” He turned to her grandmother. “You’ll stay with her?” The old woman nodded.

  “Then I’ll put Jeremy to bed.”

  He must remember to have someone repair the broken lock tomorrow. She would not feel safe without it.

  The next morning Morgan found Lalia harvesting, with Jeremy’s energetic if not enthusiastic help, yet more peas. He covered his eyes for a moment and sighed. Apparently the job of feeding the hungry of the estate would continue to be the purview of Merdinn’s most recent former mistress for some time to come. Very well. Enough argumentation. His mother could resume her former duties when she came to stay. At the moment he was more concerned with whether Lalia had recovered from her fright of the night before.

  She straightened as he approached and picked up her basket, her smile a bit wan. He took the basket from her and held it out for Jeremy to add his last contribution. Having done so, the boy dashed across the lawn after a butterfly, and Morgan, smiling down at her, strolled with Lalia in the direction of the kitchen. “You seem to be determined to feed every tenant on the estate.”

  She returned the smile. “Not all of them. We will dry these for use this winter.”

  “Very provident of you. But I’ll warrant that the tenants will still see a fair number of them. How are you this morning?”

  “Feeling rather stupid.” Lalia grimaced. “To have been so completely undone by a dream…” She shuddered. “But it was horribly real. I—I hadn’t realized how I felt about his… I thought…” She gave up the explanation and shrugged. “Daj says it was his muló—his ghost. The Roma view all the dead as malicious, even people who were good in life. They believe the goodness passes on and the mean parts remain. She says my seeing his corpse attracted him to me.” She bent to pluck a withered blossom from the bed they were passing, hiding her face.

  “She…she says he is jealous of you.”

  Morgan laughed. So far, much to his chagrin, jealousy, human or spirit, hardly seemed appropriate. His Khanian revenge was definitely not living up to his expectations—no chains, no deprivation, no horses, not even a boat, and so far absolutely no crushing. “His envy is a bit premature.”

  He allowed himself the luxury of tucking in a lock of glossy hair that had escaped from her braid. She suddenly stumbled and Morgan caught her arm. Yes, she was as aware of him as he was of her. Perhaps his future held a little crushing after all. He diplomatically released her arm. Don’t push. “Do you agree with your grandmother’s beliefs?”

  “Well, no, not really.” Lalia dealt with several more dead flowers. “My father discouraged most of her customs, so I don’t really believe in all of them. Still, he did not forbid them, and I have been influenced a great deal by her. I know there are no such things as ghosts, and yet…I find it hard to discount them, especially when…” She stopped speaking and looked out toward the sea.

  “When one visits your dreams?”

  She nodded, but made no further answer.

  Morgan took her elbow and steered her toward the house. “Understandable. I realized last night that I do not even know your grandmother’s name. I gather that Daj has a Romani meaning?”

  “Yes, it simply means mother. Her name is Carolina Veshengo.”

  “Ah. Does she speak English?”

  Lalia gave him a startled glance. “Of course. Why?”

  Morgan shrugged. “I don’t remember her ever saying anything directly to me. I thought perhaps…” He grinned. “Now I suspect that she just doesn’t like me much.”

  Lalia flushed a little, but didn’t contradict him. “She feels unsettled—as do I. I have been meaning to ask you… Do you know of anyone who might be in need of a gardener? That is something both of us can do, and often an estate has a cottage for the gardener. She and I could then…”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Hardly a position for a lady.”

  “I know.” She sighed. “Perhaps that is wishful thinking, but I don’t how, otherwise, to…”

  “I will give it some thought.” Morgan opened the door for her and called to Jeremy.

  Actually, he would give it a lot of thought. It might be a long time before he could find a suitable place for Eulalia Hayne and Carolina Veshengo. At least until the end of summer.

  It didn’t look right. No matter from which angle he looked, it just didn’t produce the effect he had hoped to achieve. Morgan had instructed his captain to personally select the rug from the bazaar in Turkey. The colors were exactly as he had specified, the design magnificently complex. The silk glowed with a warmth all its own.

  And it did not look right in his library.

  Morgan shoved his hair off his forehead impatiently. Damnation! What was wrong with it? He stood, arms folded across his chest, glowering at the offending carpet, nudging the fringe with a booted toe. The effect did not improve. A quiet step sounded behind him. He turned and directed his glower at the intruder.

  “My lord, Jeremy wants…” Lalia paused hesitantly in the doorway. “Oh, excuse me. Did I interrupt?”

  “What? No. I am merely viewing my latest acquisition.” Morgan motioned her into the room irritably. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come in.”

  “I see.” Eyeing him cautiously, she stepped into the room and glanced about for the source of his annoyance. “What a nice rug,” she offered carefully.

  Distinctly lukewarm praise. Morgan’s glare deepened. “It is a very fine carpet.”

  “Oh, yes,” she added hastily. “It really is. Quite beautiful.”

  She didn’t sound convinced. He rounded on her. “Please do not be so dashed polite. What’s wrong with it?”

  “Nothing, my lord. Nothing at all. It is a lovely piece.” She edged toward the door. “I’ll return later, when…”

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” Morgan stepped quickly into the doorway, blocking it with his arm. “You don’t like it, either. Why not?”

  She stopped abruptly, almost colliding with him, then backed away a step. “I think, my lord, that you should ask your mother’s opinion about that. Now if you’ll excuse me, Jeremy…”

  So that was it. He was being reminded of his earlier edict. Confound it! Couldn’t the woman understand when to mind her own business and when to… Morgan checked himself. When to what? He had told her to stay out of the redecorating. And she had done so since then. But now he wanted… Why couldn’t she just do what he wanted her to do when he wanted her to do it? Was that too much to ask?

  Suddenly the absurdity of that notion hit Morgan full-force. He was being ridiculous. His ill humor lightened and he chuckled. He would have to give ground, but he did not intend to do it without extracting at least a small reward for being forced to be reasonable.

  He lounged against the door facing, arms folded, a wry grimace on his lips. “Must you insist on throwing my words in my teeth?”

  “No, my lord. I just think it better that you ask your mo
ther. You are completely in the right about that. It is her home and I no long—” Lalia raised a protesting hand, and he captured it, planting a kiss on her fingers.

  “Yes, I know what I said, but now I am asking for your opinion.” He touched his lips to her wrist.

  Lalia tugged discreetly. His lordship grinned at her, but did not relinquish his grip. He drew her toward him. Both his large hands now enveloped her small one. Strong hands. Long and lean, well-muscled. Warm. So different…

  She forced her gaze to his face and saw, in the green eyes fixed so intently on hers, laughter and a growing heat. He cupped her cheek and stroked her chin with his thumb. Lalia shivered. Apparently time had expired on the good behavior.

  She essayed a stern expression. “Come, my lord, give over.”

  “Not until you give me either your opinion or a kiss.”

  The rascal was teasing her. The last week had done much to relax the strain between them. She gave him another reproving glance and his grasp loosened. Lalia turned to consider the carpet. “It truly is handsome, my lord.” She stepped back into the room, and this time he let her go. “I don’t think the carpet is the problem.”

  “Then what is?” He followed to the center of the room where she stood surveying the furnishings.

  “The chairs and the drapes. They have faded badly, and that russet would have never complimented the carpet.”

  Morgan squinted at the chair. “I think you are right. I need to have them redone. But in what fabric?”

  Lalia shook her head. “That decision…”

  Morgan shook his finger at her, laughing. “Remember the forfeit. Your opinion or a kiss.”

  Lalia looked at him out of the corner of her eye and, in spite of herself, giggled. She had always liked that room. How she would love to redo it. She really shouldn’t, but… “A deep Turkey red, I believe, like that in the carpet. Perhaps have the drapes the same with a royal blue stripe…” She could see it in her mind’s eye. The glowing jewel colors of the rug setting off the rich, dark paneling and bookshelves. “Or, if you would prefer…”