Morgan continued to observe him with one eyebrow raised. The old man looked back at him, puzzled at first and then indignant. “Here now, you don’t think I’ve took to robbing the dead, do you? I ain’t sunk that low—even if there are plenty who have.”
“No.” Morgan shook his head thoughtfully. “No, I’m sorry, James. I didn’t mean to accuse you of anything. Everyone helps themselves at a wreck.” Morgan patted him on the shoulder and James tied the locket back into his kerchief. “It’s just that there is something about that last one that bothers me. There should have been more goods washed up.”
James stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket. “Aye. Strange, that. A big disappointment. You ready to move that trunk?”
The next morning careful timing placed Morgan near the door just as Lalia and Jeremy came down the stairs, dressed for the seaside. He held the door for them and strolled along in their wake as they headed for the path. His nephew ran ahead gleefully, charging down the trail.
“Wait until I get there, Jeremy.” Lalia took the hand Morgan offered to help her make her way over a washout. “I told him he may wade today, if he remembers to take off his shoes. The weather is warm enough.”
“Yes, indeed. I may wade myself.” Morgan kept a wary eye on his nephew and an ear open for the expected shout. Jeremy disappeared around the next switchback. No shout arose. Damnation! Had someone beat them to the trunk?
A moment passed…then…
“Uncle Morgan! Miss Lalia! Come look. Look what I found.”
Ah. They hurried down the track and around the next bend. No trunk appeared where he and James had left it. Surely… As they turned the next corner, he heaved a sigh of relief. The tide must have been higher than he expected. It had washed the trunk downhill a few yards. He fervently hoped nothing had gotten soaked.
Jeremy bounced in excitement as they came into view. “Look! It’s a trunk. I found it myself. May I keep it? Maybe it has treasure in it.”
Hmm. Another unforeseen complication. However, considering the contents, Morgan didn’t think Jeremy would be that eager to lay claim to them. “Well, you certainly have salvage rights, but perhaps we should open it.”
“Yes, how does it work?” Jeremy tugged at the catches.
“Wait a minute.” Morgan knelt on one knee by the trunk. It had been turned upside-down by the waves. “Let me right it.”
He reached for one handle, and Lalia, leaning forward, reached for the other. This action brought her magnificent bosom disconcertingly close to his face, the scooped neckline right at his eye level. Frozen in place, Morgan stared. He couldn’t help himself. Egad!
“Come on, Uncle Morgan, hurry.”
Morgan gulped and tore his gaze away from Lalia’s breasts. Damnation! He was going to have to do something about this situation and soon. He didn’t want to think what might be revealed by his britches when he stood. Thank God he wore buckskin rather than knit.
To Jeremy’s excited encouragement, he and Lalia tugged on the trunk until they managed to set it upright across two boulders. Then Morgan went to work on the straps and buckles, at last flinging the lid up with a flourish.
“Aw-w.”
“O-oh!”
Morgan grinned. As expected, two distinctly different responses. Jeremy put his hands on his hips and looked disgusted. Lalia knelt by the chest, her face shining. “How beautiful!” She lifted a deep aqua gown of glowing silk a few inches, running her thumbs over the fabric. “So soft and smooth.”
No more so than her skin. Morgan’s mind flashed to an image of Lalia wearing the dress. Of him removing the dress. Of the dress in a puddle on the floor of his bedchamber. Of soft, smooth…
“Is there anything else in there?” Jeremy leaned into the trunk, rummaging. “Oh, look!” He emerged holding a roughly carved wooden sailboat with a tiny canvas sail.
Now how the devil had that gotten in there? Morgan scratched his head. James must have come back and done it later.
Jeremy dived back into the chest. “Is there more?”
“I don’t know. Here let me…” Lalia took over the search of the trunk before Jeremy could spill its contents on the wet ground. “I don’t see anything else except clothes, Jeremy, and…and these…” With an appreciative sigh she held up a necklace of silver and aquamarine, extending her hands to the boy. “Here…here is your treasure.”
With a fine disregard for a small fortune in jewelry and ladies’ wear, Jeremy turned toward the beach. “You may have them, Miss Lalia, and all the girl stuff. I want to sail the boat.”
Lalia laughed. “Thank you, Jeremy. That is very generous of you.” She turned her smile on Morgan, holding out the necklace. “Properly, these belong to you—it’s your cove.”
He took them from her, turning them in his hands, as if seeing them for the first time—which, in fact, he was. They—and the dress—were exactly the color of her eyes, just as he had ordered. Morgan held them up to his chin. “I don’t think they suit me.” Grinning, he stepped behind her and fastened them around her neck. “You may as well have them. They match your eyes.”
“Oh. Oh, my lord. I couldn’t! They are much too dear to give away.” She reached to unfasten the clasp.
Morgan, still standing behind her, quickly caught both her hands in his. Ignoring her gentle tug, he bent over her head, drawing in the scent of sun on her hair. He let his outward breath ruffle her hair. From this vantage point the aquamarines were perfect against her skin. When he spoke, his voice sounded husky. “They need you…”
The words hung in his throat. She stilled, and he could sense a warming flowing from her, a melting. Then she stiffened and tried to step away. Reluctantly, he let her go, clearing his throat and lightening his tone. “Besides, they are not mine. They are yours. Jeremy gave them to you, and they were his by right of discovery.” He grinned. “In Cornwall, finders are keepers.”
She gave him a long, searching look. He decided not to give her time to reply—or to think. “You stay with Jeremy. I’ll go get help to retrieve the booty.”
Lalia watched him for a moment as his long, strong legs carried him effortlessly up the path, listening to the scrunch of his boots on the stones. Then she turned and followed Jeremy down to the sand. Perhaps she was unduly suspicious where his lordship was concerned, but she again had the distinct impression that he was up to something. She smiled to herself. The same something as always. The rascal knew that she would not let him give her clothing—certainly not jewelry. But would he contrive so elaborate a scheme when he could not claim credit for the gifts?
Yes.
Yes, he might, counting on her to deduce the truth. She smiled again as she worked her way down to the beach. At least, it was a tribute to her intelligence. And to his generosity. Even if he had no interest in her, he might have arranged for a few dresses for a dependent in need. But not jewelry. No, he wouldn’t go that far out of charity. Out of desire…?
A moment ago, with his breath in her hair and the heat of his body wrapping around her, she had been all but unable to breathe. Her breasts had tingled under his gaze and her legs threatened to drop her to the ground. How long could she continue to resist him, living in the same house, sleeping in adjoining rooms? Wearing his silk gowns? What would it be like to simply give in, to lie with a man she wanted, who wanted her—her, Lalia, not just a convenient female to rut?
And was that man Morgan Pendaris?
She feared she might never be sure.
A feral smile on his face, he stood over the girl and slowly fastened his britches. She lay as he had left her, her skirts rucked up around her waist, her breasts already showing bruises through the ripped bodice. Blood stained her thighs. She turned her face away, refusing to look at him, whimpering softly deep in her throat. Very satisfying. Thrilling in fact. But the greater thrill was yet to come. He lifted the belaying pin and struck. And struck again. And again. The whimpering stopped.
Chapter Nine
The look on his lord
ship’s face as Lalia swept into the dining room that evening brought a hot blush to hers. She wore the aquamarine gown with the jewels, and Lalia felt—for the moment—like a very grand lady. The alacrity with which he hastened to hold her chair gave her a rush of a feeling—a heady combination of power and desire that almost caused her knees to buckle.
Lucky the chair was behind her.
Without asking, he poured two glasses of sherry and handed one of them to her. His gaze never left her eyes as he raised his glass toward hers. “To you, beautiful lady. You quite take my breath away.”
Flustered, Lalia looked down at her lap. She murmured her thanks and quickly took a sip. She could still feel Morgan looking at her, could feel the hunger on his face. She cast about in vain for a way to change the subject as he seated himself. Then he spoke, removing the necessity. “The gown seems to fit you well.”
Lalia sighed in relief. “Yes, it was a bit too long, but Sarah and I shortened it. I hope you don’t mind my taking advantage of her offer to help. She arranged my hair, too.”
“Not at all. I would like for you to consider her your personal maid.”
“That is very generous of you, but I really don’t need a…”
He waved a dismissive hand. “All ladies need a maid, and I like looking at her handiwork.”
“Well, thank you, anyway.” She might as well enjoy the luxury while she had it. “My lord, I do appreciate your generosity, and I love wearing these fine things, but can’t feel right about accepting them. Especially the jewelry.”
Morgan’s eyebrows drew together. “I told you, they are not mine. The sea washed them up. I have no use for them, in any event.”
“But couldn’t your mother…”
“I have given my mother more jewelry than she wants.”
“What about your brother’s wife? Is she still living?”
His expression darkened. “I have no brother.”
“You don’t?” Lalia looked up from her dinner, startled. “But I thought Jeremy was your brother’s son. His name is Pendaris…” She stumbled to a halt, realizing that she had blundered into dangerous territory. A glance at his expression confirmed her fears.
“Jeremy is my sister’s child.” He tossed down a swallow of wine.
“I—I’m sorry, my lord. I seem to have been less than tactful.”
He sat silently for an awkward moment, twirling his glass in his fingers. At last, he sighed and looked up at her. “No, it is not your fault. Everyone in London knows the story. I might as well tell you.”
Lalia waited quietly. Morgan poured himself another glass of claret. Finally, drawing a long breath, he spoke. “Beth was only eighteen—in her first Season. A lovely girl—as fair as I am dark. She was so young—only twelve—when my father died. I tried to take his place. She was…” Another long pause ensued. “She became my child…the apple of my eye.”
“My lord, this is painful for you. You don’t have to tell me…”
“No, but I want to. There is no reason to keep you from knowing what everyone else does. Even less.” Morgan waited for the footman to set a fresh plate before them and leave the room. “Beth went with my mother to a ball, and while my mother was in the retiring room, Beth’s dance partner coaxed her into a walk in the garden. It was foolish of her to go so deeply into the grounds, but he was older and polished and capable of great charm.” He fortified himself with another sip of wine. “To make a long story short, he flattered her into allowing him to kiss her, and then raped her, telling her the while that she invited him with her kiss—that it was her own doing, that she was a slut. She believed him.” His hand clenched on the table, his fist beating a soundless tattoo on the wood.
Lalia waited, spellbound by his grief and anger. He seemed to thrust them away with an effort and took up the tale again. “When he finished with her, he left her there in the garden, bleeding and sobbing. My mother found her after a prolonged search and brought her home. I confronted him, of course, beat him with my fists until his friends interfered. Then he laughed and said vile things about her.” His eyes sought hers again. “Jeered that he could not marry her because he was already married.”
Understanding crashed down on Lalia. She covered her face with her hands. “My husband.”
“Yes.”
Lalia could only stare at him dumbly. No wonder he had been so hostile to her when he first arrived. She listened with rapt attention as he continued.
“I challenged him, but I did not succeed in killing him. He shot before the count.” His hand moved to his chest, rubbing it absentmindedly. “I understood then the depth of his hatred. Why he did that to Beth. It was his hatred and envy of me.”
“But why did he hate you so? He had possession of your land.”
“I think that was why. He knew Merdinn was not rightfully his. He would never be the earl of Carrick, only a ne’er-do-well and a usurper, hanging on the fringes of society.” Morgan leaned back and sipped his wine, apparently lost for the moment in the past.
“Had he always hated you so?”
Morgan took a deep breath. “Not at first. I can see now that his hatred had been growing for years. But during those years I could not spare a thought for him. My father had just died. I became the head of my family, responsible for the support of my mother and little sister—and with almost no money left in the family coffer. My whole attention was taken with providing for them. I worked unceasingly for six years. I did everything my father had neglected to do, to bring our shipping interests back to profitability. I captained ships, kept the books— I even loaded and unloaded cargo myself—anything that needed doing. I had no time to think about Cordell Hayne.”
“But he was thinking about you.”
Morgan nodded. “When he could still squander the income from my land while I toiled, he could feel superior, could scoff at me—a gentleman working with my hands. But he was piling up debt faster than the rents were paid. When at last I became successful enough to enjoy the fruits of my labor a bit, he envied me my affluence. He called me the spoiled son of an earl. He blamed his own situation on bad luck, of course. His hatred grew until he at last punished me through Beth.”
“What happened to her?”
“She was with child, of course. After Jeremy was born, she took ill. The doctors said that she might have lived had she wanted to.”
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry, Morgan. What can I say? The man was a monster—I know that myself. But this means that Jeremy is…might be thought of as my stepson.”
“No!”
Lalia gasped as his fist made the dishes jump on the table.
“I will not have him thought of as Cordell Hayne’s get. He is all I have left of Beth. I have spent the last seven years trying to make the world think of him as my heir, to regain his inheritance. I would like for him to be the next earl of Carrick, of course, but my legal advisers tell me that is not possible, considering his illegitimate birth. The land is not entailed nor attached to the title by patent, so I can leave it to him through a settlement, although right now he is more interested in the shipping. I expect that to change in time.”
“You will probably have a son of your own one day. Wouldn’t you want him to have the estate?”
He gazed at her thoughtfully for several heartbeats. “That’s possible, I suppose. But I am not expecting it.”
Lalia found herself pondering the significance of that statement until she finally blew out her candle for sleep later that night.
Lalia lay in her bed in the dark and shook. No matter how much she willed herself not to be foolish, she was afraid. Someone—or something—had scratched at her door. Perhaps a thump had waked her, but then—very clearly—she heard the scratching, the rasp of fingernails on wood.
“Morgan?…Jeremy?” No reply. “Is someone there?” No answer. She would have to get up. She would have to go to the door and listen. She would have to look.
She couldn’t. Everything in Lalia’s being rebelled. Perhaps she
could brave an ordinary ghost—a wavering shadow in the hall, a chill breeze. Perhaps even a mournful moan. But the muló of her dead husband—the rotting vestiges of his flesh, his bared teeth. His hands. His dead, decaying hands. Oh, God! She yanked the covers up to her face. She just couldn’t.
And then she began to hear another sound.
Dripping. Water dripping just outside her door.
Lalia’s breath almost stopped. Water… Oh, heaven. Water. She tried to call out. “M-m…?” Her throat almost choked off the sound of her whisper. She would have to get up, knock on his door. Panic welled up in her. She couldn’t move. “My lord?” A little louder this time. Again. “Morgan?”
The handle of her door rattled. Lalia stifled a shriek.
“Lalia, are you calling me? Open up.” Morgan’s voice. He was shaking the handle of the connecting door.
“C-coming.” She flung back the sheet and raced for the door. Her shaking fingers fumbled with the key. At last, she flung the door open and fell into his startled arms.
“What?” He steadied her with hands on her arms and looked down into her face. “What’s the matter, Lalia?”
She pointed to the door to the corridor. “Out there. Something is out there.”
“Something… Wait a minute.” He went back into his room and returned with the night candle.
The sight of his strong arms and shoulders heartened Lalia. She took a deep breath. “Can’t you hear it? Water dripping? Someone scratched at my door, and then I heard the water.”
Morgan strode across the room and opened the door to the hall. Holding the candle high, he scanned the darkness for signs of life. Against the wall to his right stood a table with a vase of flowers. The vase had been knocked over, the water running onto the floor. “Aha! Here is your dripping water, and unless I miss my guess, that was the scratching culprit that just disappeared into Jeremy’s bedchamber.”
Lalia edged into the hall. “Smoke?”
A Dangerous Seduction Page 10
