A Dangerous Seduction

by Patricia Frances Rowell

  Morgan hated to admit how much the incident had frightened him. He sat alone in his library after dinner, Lalia having gone to her room early, and tried to read. Jeremy should count himself lucky that he was still able to sit. Morgan had been so scared and angry, he didn’t trust himself to administer the rod. The memory of the moment he had first seen them struggling against gravity and the surf chilled him to the bone. Egad! If he had not finished his work and wanted a few minutes of their company to round off the day, he would very likely have lost them.

  Both of them.

  The thought stopped him in his tracks. When had Eulalia Hayne become so important to him? Not a question he wanted to answer. Certainly not something he was ready to admit. Still, there it was. She had assumed a significant role in his life. And he hadn’t even had the pleasure of her company in his bed.

  He thrust the thought away and considered instead his nephew’s misconduct. Much more pleasant, he reflected wryly, than considering his own. Why had Jeremy disobeyed him to that extent? He had never done so before. Nor had he ever lied to escape retribution. The boy’s claim that someone had called to him bothered Morgan. Too many strange things had been happening at Merdinn. Perhaps he had been too hasty in accusing the lad of lying.

  And perhaps Lalia was right. After a chill dunking, a child needed food. Morgan didn’t want Jeremy becoming ill. And, too, perhaps his love for his sister’s son made him a bit foolish. Well, if he were, then so be it. Better safe than sorry. He put down his book and headed for the kitchen.

  A short while later, a saucer covered with a napkin in his hands, he nudged the door of Jeremy’s bedchamber open with his boot. “Jeremy?” Morgan looked around the door, gratified to find his nephew in bed where he was supposed to be. At least the lecture seemed to have had the desired effect. “Not asleep?”

  “No, sir. Not yet.” The boy sat up, looking suitably attentive.

  Morgan crossed the room and sat on the corner of the bed. “Not feeling ill?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. I want to speak with you further. Tell me…” He paused as his gaze fell on an empty plate and glass on the bedside table. He scowled. “What is that?”

  “Oh, that.” Jeremy followed his gaze. “Daj sent it. She said that disobedient children should have nothing to eat but bread and water. I hope she doesn’t mean forever.”

  “Bread and water, eh?” Morgan gave some thought to what was concealed by the napkin in his hand. Yes, he was becoming indulgent. But how the devil had the old woman gotten into this? “Does Daj talk to you?”

  Jeremy looked surprised. “Of course.”

  “In English?”

  “Well, yes.” The boy favored Morgan with the look reserved by children for unintelligent parents and guardians. Apparently, Morgan reflected, he was the only member of the household not to meet with Mrs. Veshengo’s approval. At that point, Morgan noticed something else. On the lower shelf of the table rested yet another plate.

  “And that?”

  “Miss Lalia came later. She said she was afraid I might get sick if I didn’t eat something hot. She brought me some stew.”

  Morgan raised an eyebrow. “I see.” So his nephew had dined on stew as well as bread and water. Damnation. He had specifically told Lalia not to interfere. And she surely had told her grandmother about his edict, otherwise the old lady would not have contributed the bread and water. And both of them had defied him and undermined his discipline. A serious discussion was called for.

  But in the meantime… “Here. You may as well have this, too.”

  “Blackberry tart! Thank you, Uncle Morgan.” Jeremy set to the task of consuming this offering with a will.

  Morgan shook his head. “Tell me, Jeremy, a little more about someone calling to you from the cove.”

  “I thought I heard someone, Uncle Morgan, I really did. They said, ‘Jeremy, bring your boat.’” At his uncle’s doubtful look, Jeremy reconsidered. “Well, I thought so, anyway. I didn’t hear it very well.”

  “Jeremy, I don’t want to believe that you would lie to me, but you don’t sound very sure about this.”

  Jeremy paused in his chewing for thought. “It just wasn’t very loud. The waves were making too much noise. Do you think it was my ’magination?”

  “That is a good possibility. We tend to imagine what we want to hear, and you wanted very much to sail your boat.”

  “Maybe. I guess.” Jeremy finished his tart and handed Morgan the plate. “Thank you very much, Uncle Morgan.”

  “You’re welcome. Do you understand that even if someone you don’t know calls you, you are not to go to the beach? Nor to go anywhere with anyone you don’t know?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I’m sorry I didn’t mind you.”

  Morgan tousled his hair. “You still have to stay in bed. Hand me those other dishes. I’ll take them, too. Good night.”

  Morgan closed the door and headed down the hall.

  Thank goodness Morgan did not blame her for the day’s misadventure, Lalia thought later as she attempted to brushed the crinkles out of her hair.

  Her relief shocked and alarmed her, but it did not surprise her. She had been coming to want him and depend on him more and more every day. What foolishness! She could not afford to let herself fall in love with any man so far above her. Earls married young debutantes. They did not marry twenty-four-year-old widows. They certainly did not marry half-Gypsy nursemaids, let alone one who had been the wife of his sworn enemy.

  Yes, he found her attractive, perhaps even liked her company. And yes, widows had affairs at their pleasure, but those were seldom a matter of love. And Lalia did not want to find herself in the role of a mistress. It made her feel… She sighed. It was all so complicated.

  The knock brought her out of her reverie. She set the brush on the dresser and went to the door. “Yes?”

  “May I speak with you a moment?”

  Oh, dear. Another test of her willpower. “Of course.”

  She turned the key and stepped back, startled when Morgan thrust a stack of dishes into her hands. When she realized what they were, she flushed and guiltily ducked her head. His lordship leaned against the doorway, regarding her with narrow eyes.

  “Uh-hh…” Lalia cast about for something to say, but of course, there was nothing to say. She glanced hopefully at his face, but he continued to watch her without comment, arms folded across his chest. “My lord, I… Well…” She gave it up. “Would you like to come in?”

  She backed away, and after two heartbeats he came into the room and closed the door behind him. Lalia walked backward as he advanced on her, until the backs of her knees encountered the hearth chair. Losing her balance, she plunked down into the seat. Morgan loomed over her for another pair of seconds, then took the crockery away from her and wordlessly set it on the floor beside her.

  Lalia began to giggle. She covered her mouth and strove for decorum. Morgan put his fists on his hips. “Apparently you are well aware of the source of my displeasure.”

  Lalia nodded, not daring to move her hand from her lips.

  “It is my place to discipline my nephew.”

  She nodded enthusiastic agreement.

  “You think this funny? Have you nothing to say for yourself?”

  Lalia gulped back her laughter. “Forgive me, my lord. It is just that I believe I discern the remains of blackberry tart on the uppermost plate.”

  “Damnation!” A grin began to break through Morgan’s glare. “How is a man to be master in his own house when the women continue to order things as they see fit—not only you, but your grandmother?”

  “But, my lord, I have endeavored to do as you ask. I just was worried about Jeremy, and I didn’t think you’d mind…”

  “Ha!” Morgan sat in the chair across from hers. “What you thought is that I would not find you out.”

  “Well, nor would you have, except that you…”

  He held up a hand. “Except that I brought him the tart. I know. I
spoil the boy, just as I spoiled his mother. But he is my nephew. I may spoil him if I wish to.”

  “True. Perhaps I should not have…”

  “No, you should not, but I have quite given up hope of having things as I command in this house. And perhaps you are right. He needed food, and at least you did not bring him dessert.” He grinned ruefully. “I fear that I am not as hard a man as I like to fancy myself.”

  “No, my lord.” Lalia smiled. “I thought at first… Well, no, you are not a hard man, especially where Jeremy is concerned.” She just hoped that he had given up his hardness where she was concerned, that her heart was no longer in danger from his desire for revenge.

  Morgan stood and paced a turn around the room. “The thing is, Lalia, that I am not sure now that Jeremy lied. I think he either imagined what he wanted to hear or…”

  “Or that someone did call him?” A very disturbing thought. “But who could that have been? There was no one—” She broke off, the warmth draining from her face. No one of this earth.

  “Now, stop that,” Morgan ordered, coming to a halt in front of her. “It was not a ghost. If someone called him, it was for some reason which at the moment escapes me. But I believe I will ask you to be even more diligent in your guardianship than before.” After a pensive moment he reached out and traced a scratch on the side of her neck. “I do not like the fact that you were hurt.”

  Lalia drew in a sudden breath. “Nothing to signify, my lord.”

  “It is significant to me.” He drew the lock of hair lying beside the cut into his hand, running his fingers through it to smooth it. Then he let it fall on the silk of her negligee, watching as it spread out across her breast. Pulling a tress from the other side of her face, he turned it around his finger. Her heart began to race and a treacherous heat spread through her lower body.

  Slowly he knelt on one knee before her and threaded the fingers of both hands through her hair. He held her face still while he gazed into her eyes for a long, silent moment. Then his lips descended on hers.

  Lalia felt her soul being drawn into that kiss. Her soul and her heart and… Now his arms were around her waist, pulling her close against him. In one motion he stood, lifting her out of the chair and locking her body against his. Of their own volition, it seemed, her arms closed around his neck. Her head fell back as his mouth moved to her throat, and she moaned when his warm hand clasped her taut breast.

  “Ah, Lalia.” Morgan’s tongue touched her ear. His fingers gently closed around her nipple, and she pressed her hips against him, feeling his growing hardness. He lifted her breast and lowered his tongue to taste it. Lalia’s knees buckled, and her mind swirled away, leaving nothing but an exquisite awareness of her body. His hand brushed away the silk at her shoulder.

  And a resounding crash smashed the silence.

  Morgan released her and spun around, searching for some possible menace. Without his support, Lalia collapsed into the chair. She clutched the armrests convulsively. Both of them held their breath, listening. A gust of wind howled into the room, whipping the draperies madly. She gasped and closed her eyes.

  “Damnation!” Morgan stalked to the window. “It’s naught but a squall blowing up. The shutter blew loose from the catch and slammed shut.” As if to confirm his words, a peal of thunder echoed through the room and lightning lit the sky. He closed the other shutter and latched them both.

  Lalia stood, her hands pressed to her pounding heart. “I—I best go see if Jeremy’s windows are open.”

  “Never mind. I’ll do it.” Morgan’s words were clipped short, but he stopped beside her and smoothed her hair. Then his hand tightened in it and he brought her lips to his. The kiss was brief, but searing. He gazed steadily into her face for another heartbeat, green eyes demanding.

  “Soon, Lalia.”

  And he left her standing there, breathless and bereft.

  That had been the narrowest of escapes, Lalia thought later as she climbed into bed. Without the interruption Lalia would have committed herself irrevocably to a course of action she knew would be unwise in the extreme. But her heart and her body were conspiring to betray her into his lordship’s warm, strong hands. Would it be so terrible to surrender—to him and to herself?

  Rebellion stirred in her soul. She was no longer married. If her husband’s angry ghost had slammed that shutter, so much the better! He could no longer imprison her unless she let him. She hoped, wherever his spirit was, that it was enraged and jealous. That seeing her with his enemy would add to the torment he so completely deserved. What harm to her was a dripping cloak? Or a whiff of cigar smoke?

  These sturdy thoughts fled in an instant when a soft thump sounded in the corridor outside her door. Lalia lay still as a stone and strained to listen. What came to her was the sound of Morgan’s door opening and closing softly. So he had also heard it. At the prospect of reinforcements, Lalia’s courage returned. She pulled on her wrapper and carefully opened her own door. Morgan stood just outside it, studying the floor by the light of his candle. A pistol glinted in his hand. Her gaze followed his.

  Footprints.

  Wet footprints. Lalia’s hand flew to her mouth to silence an exclamation. Heaven help her. Morgan put a finger to his lips and walked down the corridor to Jeremy’s bedchamber. He disappeared inside, but after a minute returned. He handed her the candle. “Keep your eye on Jeremy. I’ll be back shortly.” He slipped down the stairs, silent as a shadow.

  It seemed that she stood in the doorway for an age before he returned. “I can find no one, but someone has been in this house. Ghosts do not leave wet footprints, even in a rainstorm.”

  The rain! Of course. Lalia first felt foolish that she had imagined seawater, then alarmed that an unknown stalked the halls. “But who can it be?”

  Morgan shook his head. “I have no idea. The house is too large to search tonight, but I believe I shall spend the rest of the night in Jeremy’s room. Be sure your doors are locked, and do not come out unless I call you.”

  Lalia nodded.

  There was little danger of that!

  The skull cracked under the blow, the sharp report echoing in the small room. That one should have done the final work. The others had simply been for the pleasure of it, just to hear the music of bones breaking, the song of pleas for mercy. A treat to make up in part for the failure of yesterday’s plan.

  He licked his lips, savoring the fading satisfaction. That would do—for a while.

  Chapter Twelve

  “If I provide you with a pistol, will you promise not to shoot me during one of our midnight alarms?” Morgan seated himself across from Lalia at the breakfast table and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  “A pistol?” Lalia frowned at him across her plate. “Then you think a real person has been coming into the house?”

  He grinned at her. “A pistol would hardly be useful against a muló.”

  “No, I suppose not. But why would anyone be invading the house? Nothing has been stolen, has it?”

  “Not to my knowledge. I don’t have an answer to the other question, though it has occurred to me that someone may be using these episodes as a ruse to get into the house—perhaps to search for something.”

  “But what?”

  “Another question for which I have no answer, and when I have questions without answers, I am not pleased.” Morgan frowned. And I am also not pleased to have my lovemaking interrupted just as I am achieving a long-desired success. Had that damned shutter not broken loose he would soon have had the torment of his dreams out of those dreams and safe in his bed. Still, he felt reasonably cheerful this morning. Her response last night confirmed that his desires would soon become reality.

  Morgan viewed the subject of those dreams over the rim of his coffee cup. She looked none the less desirable for the fact that she was a bit pale. The pallor served only to set off her delectable skin. But he didn’t like knowing that it had probably come about from lack of sleep. She was still frightened, and anger
grew in him that, for reasons unknown to him, someone was apparently causing her fright deliberately. One of those unanswered questions that so displeased him. “Have you had this sort of occurrence here in the past?”

  Lalia shook her head. “No, nothing mysterious. Of course, there were only a few of us in the house. Do you think it might be one of the staff?”

  “That’s a possibility.” A nasty one. Why would any of his new employees be the agent of these visitations? Unless someone with an ominous purpose had enlisted them. “I am concerned that, if someone did, in fact, call to Jeremy yesterday, that he might have been their objective last night, also. Perhaps the hauntings have been intended to throw us off the track and allow them to scout the house.”

  “A kidnapping attempt?”

  “Possibly. There are pirates at work, and the size of my fortune is well known. But that does not explain why someone has chosen to terrorize you.” Lalia’s paleness increased, and Morgan scowled. “And I do not accept the muló conjecture for one minute, so remove that notion from your mind. Have you ever fired a pistol?”

  “No, but I am willing to learn. I would feel safer if I had one in my bedchamber at night—even though it will avail nothing against a ghost.” She set down her cup resolutely. “I have decided that I will not be so cowardly. If my late husband wishes to afflict me from beyond the grave, he will have to do better than a puff of smoke or dripping all over my floors!”

  A crack of laughter erupted from Morgan. “Good girl. I suspected that your soft exterior hid sterner stuff. We will have some lessons this afternoon.”

  “Very well. By the way, I told Mrs. Carthew that it would be satisfactory to set dinner a little early. Most of the staff want to go to the Midsummer Night bonfire. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Ah, the fire. I had almost forgotten.” Morgan grinned. “I imagine that I have no more say about that than about anything else around this house.”