A Dangerous Seduction

by Patricia Frances Rowell

  She freed one of her hands and pushed the tousled curls off his forehead. “I missed you very much, my lord.”

  Something was wrong. She was not smiling. Morgan sat back on his heels, still firmly gripping her hand, and studied her. “What is it, Lalia?”

  She sighed, then took a long breath. “I need to speak with you.”

  Hmm. Not a good portent. “Very well.” Morgan stood and drew the other chair close enough that he could maintain his hold on her hand while he sat, leaning forward. “I’m listening.”

  She continued to sit in silence. Morgan waited. He was just about to nudge her into speech when she began. “I’m concerned, my lord, about what is happening between us. I—I don’t think it is in my best interests.”

  Definitely not a good sign. His brows drew together. “What do you fear, Lalia? I told you that you have no need to worry. I will see that you are taken care of.”

  “I do not doubt that, my lord, but…I… I am coming to care for you more than is wise.” She kept her gaze on her hands.

  Now what did that mean? Morgan felt too tired for riddles. He leaned back in the chair. “What is unwise about that? I care for you, also.”

  “Perhaps…but what I mean is… We know that this affair must come to an end in a few more weeks, and I must go away. I’m afraid, by then, it will be very painful for me to do that.”

  Ah. That could remedied. “But there is no need for your departure to be distressing. I have been thinking that I might perhaps find a pleasant cottage for you. Something nearby so that I may continue to see you. Wouldn’t you like that?”

  “I don’t know, my lord.”

  She didn’t know? Morgan frowned. “I thought you would like a place of your own—something with a garden to tend. Is there something else you want?”

  Lalia thought for a long time before answering. Morgan’s fatigue and irritation grew. Most women would jump at a chance like that. When she did speak, she surprised him.

  “My lord, you cannot understand what my life has been. Since I was born, I have been hidden away. I used to think that my father was ashamed of me. Now I understand that he was protecting me from snubs and slights. But my husband—he left me at Merdinn so that he would not have to trouble himself to show me how to go on in London—and so that others would not know he had taken a Gypsy to wife. And Roger wanted to rid himself of me for much the same reasons. I have been despised also by the local folk for my association with the two of them. Nor am I acceptable to the Roma.”

  “I am not ashamed of you, Lalia.”

  She gazed at him for a long, assessing moment before she nodded acceptance. “Thank you. I appreciate that.” She stared at the empty fireplace for several more heartbeats. “What you are offering—a home, a garden, a place for Daj—would be heaven for me if… If it were my own. If it were permanent. If I held a respectable place in the community. But a mistress kept by…”

  “I would not allow anyone to show you disrespect.”

  “You could not stop them. And what will happen to me later—a woman with no reputation? Another man? And another?”

  “No! Not that. I told you—I will not abandon you. There will be no need for other…” Morgan took a calming breath. “Besides, Lalia, what else will you do? Where will you go? How will you live?”

  “I don’t know.”

  This was becoming ridiculous. What other choice did she have? Couldn’t the woman see how much he was willing to give her just for the delight of being with her? How much he wanted her? He slid out of his chair onto one knee again, catching her around the waist and pulling her to him. “You are being absurd—flinging a secure future back in my teeth. I won’t listen to any more of this.”

  Morgan began to taste the skin of her throat, moving his lips lower as he spoke. “Come now, sweet torment. Tell me, if you can, that you do not want me. Tell me you wish to leave me. Tell me that while I take your breath away, while I make you moan. Come, make me believe it if you think you can.”

  He stood and pulled her into his arms, bruising her lips under his. She collapsed against him and Morgan thought the victory won.

  But suddenly she pulled back from him, holding him off with her palms, her eyes the ominous gray of a lowering storm. She spoke quietly at first, but her voice rose steadily with growing emotion. “You say I want you. And I do.” She wiped angrily at her eyes. “And you know it. And you are taking advantage of it, and…” She wrenched away from him. “And you are trying to make me…” She was shouting now, tears trailing down her face.

  “I will not be your whore!”

  She ran for the door as Morgan stood stunned. “Lalia! Wait!”

  The door slammed and he heard light footsteps flying down the stairs. He started after her, then remembered his bare feet and torso.

  “Damnation!”

  By the time he had tugged on boots and found a shirt, Lalia had already disappeared into the tower. Morgan had run out without bringing a candle, so he dared not try the stairs alone. Confounded woman! Once again, he climbed the wall and made his way around the outside of the tower to the watch platform, only to be disappointed to see the door to the old guard room closed. He pulled on the handle, but it refused to budge.

  “Damnation!”

  Morgan threw his weight against the door. Nothing happened. Of course not. That bar had been designed to forbid an invading army. Confound her! “Lalia! Open the door.” Silence from within. Morgan lowered his voice. “Please open it, Lalia. I only want to talk to you. You don’t understand.”

  He waited while the silence stretched.

  And stretched.

  He heard not a sound from within. Not one word.

  She wasn’t going to open it.

  “Damnation!”

  Bloody hell!

  He’d be damned if he would beg. Morgan climbed down the tower and stomped into the house. The brandy decanter in the library needed refilling, so he stalked to the family dining room. Luckily there were several bottles of wine on the sideboard. This evening was going to require a generous supply.

  Morgan sprawled in his chair and poured himself a glass of port. He had eschewed his after-dinner port because he was tired and he wanted to be in good condition to make love to Lalia. Bah! That had been a waste of restraint. He gulped down two swallows and refilled the glass. Propping one boot on the adjacent chair, he made himself comfortable to brood.

  What did the woman want? He refused to believe that she didn’t want him. Nor did she deny it. She said she wanted respectability. He could understand that. Look at what the lack of it had done to Beth. Perhaps Lalia wanted marriage. Morgan pondered that thought for a moment. But she knew how he felt about Jeremy. Morgan loved him as though he were his own—had always thought of him as his heir.

  But if he married and had children, would he want to put Jeremy ahead of his own son? That gave him pause. He had never felt inclined to marry, so it had not seemed to be a problem. But did he want some obscure and distant relative to become the next earl of Carrick? Never before encountering a lady to whom he was willing to be married for life, he had not given the matter much thought. Perhaps it was time to think about it.

  These reflections were interrupted by the thump of a walking stick on the flagstones of the hall. What the devil was Mrs. Veshengo doing abroad at his time of night? Well, it was hardly a wonder that she had heard so much slamming of doors and running up and down of stairs. She undoubtedly intended to ring a peal over his head. As he turned toward the door, the old woman hobbled into the room. Without a word she approached and sat down across the table from him. In no mood for a scolding, Morgan raised a questioning eyebrow and waited silently.

  From out of her voluminous skirts she produced a deck of cards and handed them to Morgan. He glanced at them. Tarot cards. So—he was about to be treated to some Gypsy fortune-telling. He almost dismissed her, but curiosity got the better of him. He shuffled the cards several times and handed them back to her. If she had stacked th
e deck, that should disrupt her plot—whatever it was.

  She cut the cards again and turned the topmost face up. A dark-haired, stern-faced man holding a sword with arms crossed on his chest peered back at him.

  The woman spoke at last. “The King of Swords. You.”

  Morgan considered. A reasonable likeness. The picture conveyed strength of will, determination, and a good bit of anger. He shrugged. She turned over another card.

  A grinning skeleton with a scythe greeted him. The Death card. She was trying to frighten him. She must have contrived to control the cards, after all. A sneer threatened to curl his lip, but she surprised him by nodding sagely, but calmly.

  “Yes. You have brought about great change. The old is swept away, the new is forming.”

  Morgan raised both eyebrows. He certainly couldn’t deny that. A promising beginning.

  The next card showed an older woman in the robes of a priestess. “The influence of your distant past. A strong, wise woman.”

  Well, he couldn’t argue with that, either. That would be his mother, always steadier and more perceptive than his father. He waited with increased interest for the next card.

  “The more recent past.” The card revealed a jeering thief, stealing the swords of men who stood with their backs to him.

  Morgan scowled. He had no trouble identifying the trickster. And that man with his back turned and his eyes closed was certainly his father. An old rancor stirred in him, taking him unaware. How could the man have been so blind? How could he have permitted the shipping interests to deteriorate to the point that he must allow the entail to expire and mortgage the land? And let himself be gulled by the damned Haynes? Morgan’s fist clenched convulsively.

  The old Gypsy said nothing more on that head, but turned up the next image. “The Devil. You are barred from reaching your next goal.”

  That was a masterpiece of understatement! Barred, shut out, furious and frustrated. And, if he admitted it, hurting. Lalia had run away from him to hide in the safety of her retreat, just as she had run from her drunken, abusive husband. Morgan gritted his teeth. Damn it. He did not deserve that. How could she do that to him?

  “Your present goal.”

  Morgan leaned forward. The new card showed a naked man and woman, arms entwined. The Lovers. He looked up, startled, at his companion. She gazed steadily back at him with canny black eyes. Morgan flushed.

  She said nothing, laying another card on the table. “As the world sees you.”

  A man leading a triumphal procession. He had felt like that man only a few hours before—exultant, all his goals attained. But now… A harsh laugh escaped him when he saw the next card. A man holding three gold cups grasped unavailingly for a fourth just out of his reach, his face discontented. Morgan sent the lady a questioning glance.

  “As you see yourself.”

  How true. Morgan grimaced and leaned back in his chair as she showed him the next picture, puzzled at the representation of a wolf and a dog howling at the moon.

  She fingered the card for a moment. “The Moon card. In this place it stands for your emotions. You will not trust. You will not give your heart.”

  Morgan glared. That struck a little too close to home. Was that indeed the case with him? Was he refusing to trust? Reluctant to love? Was that why he had never wanted to marry—never even had a long affair? He would have to think about that.

  “Your last card, the outcome of your present course of action—if you choose not to change it.” Ignoring his troubled expression, she turned over another card. “The Falling Tower.”

  Morgan picked up the drawing. Bodies fell from a flaming tower into the sea. He looked into the old woman’s face. “You mean I will lose everything I have worked for—all I desire.”

  She shrugged. “Only you know what the cards mean for you in your present situation. I do not tell the future. I only advise.”

  Morgan digested that information in silence for several heartbeats, sipping his wine. Then another thought occurred to him. “What about your granddaughter? What does this situation auger for her?”

  Lalia’s grandmother turned over one more card and silently laid it before him.

  It showed a heart, pierced through by three swords.

  There seemed to be an actual ache in Lalia’s heart. For the next few days she went through her daily routine blindly. She knew that Morgan had gone out on the Sea Witch, but did not know exactly when and did not ask anyone. She had done the best thing for herself, Lalia knew. Her love for his lordship had already caused her more pain than she felt she could bear. If only the agony would abate, she might be able to think about her future. As it was now, she could think only of the next heartbeat, the next minute, the next task.

  She cared for Jeremy mechanically until he complained that she was no longer any fun. At that Lalia rallied herself and tried to throw off her depressed spirits for his sake. She was not being fair to the boy. Together they enticed James into whittling a new boat. They chose a suitable scrap of cloth and Lalia made a sail while Zachary painted the craft for them.

  After much debate Jeremy, settled on Wave Witch as a name. “For she’s cutter-rigged, Miss Lalia, just like Uncle Morgan’s ship.”

  Ignoring this considerable exaggeration, they set off late one afternoon, with Zachary and Andrew on guard, taking advantage of the low tide to christen their masterpiece. A stout cord ensured that the Wave Witch would not depart for the open sea and that her master would not plunge into the depths after her.

  They had been uneventfully engaged in their sailing for some half hour when the real cutter rounded the adjacent headland. Jeremy danced in excitement as she reefed her sails outside the rocks of the cove and put the ship’s boat over the side. Lalia’s heart constricted so hard that she could scarcely get her breath as Morgan climbed over the rail and down the ladder into the small craft. He was coming ashore.

  She could not retreat. Jeremy skipped back and forth in happy anticipation, and the footmen stood to welcome their employer. How could Lalia turn her back on him? She reached deep into herself and somehow found enough calm to don her serene manner. As the dinghy reached the shallows, Morgan, with a casual salute to his crew, vaulted over the side and splashed ashore. Lalia stepped back and waited with folded hands as Jeremy ran to his uncle.

  “Look, look, Uncle Morgan. I have a new cutter. Her name is Wave Witch.”

  “And a fine one she is, too.” Morgan lifted the boy into his arms and peered at the toy. “Have you been behaving yourself while I have been away?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Haven’t I, Miss Lalia?” Jeremy sought corroboration as Morgan set him back on his feet.

  Nodding to the footmen, Morgan turned his attention to Lalia, uncertain as to what to say.

  She gave him an equally uncertain smile. “He has been a veritable paragon of virtue, my lord.”

  Morgan stopped beside her and looked into her face—a face altogether too pale and hollow-cheeked for his liking. Especially as he felt sure that the cause of those conditions lay squarely at his own door. Her wonderful eyes were tinged with red at the corners. Had she been crying the whole time that he had been gone? He barely contained his impulse to reach out to her, remembering just in time their audience. He took a step back.

  “I am delighted to hear that.” How the devil was he to make things right between them? He couldn’t stand this separation much longer. He ached for her even as she stood staring at his feet.

  “Your boots are wet.” She glanced up at him for a second.

  Morgan chuckled to himself. Apparently she knew no more what to say to him than he did to her. “They are old ones.”

  Jeremy broke the awkward moment. “May I go out in the Sea Witch? May I? Please?”

  “Another day, Jer. Now she must move away before the tide comes in, as we should also do.” Morgan took his nephew’s hand and started up the trail. Jeremy accompanied him, chattering, while the footmen followed a much too quiet Lalia. Morgan looked back j
ust in time to see Andrew take her hand to help her up a small incline. Morgan’s hackles rose. How dare that insolent…

  Stopping himself just in time to prevent violence, he broke off the thought and called himself to order. The footman was only doing his job. But did he have to enjoy it? The sight of another man’s hand on her was almost more than Morgan could stand.

  He could not allow her to leave Merdinn without his protection. She would be too vulnerable to… No! He would never allow her to sink into the demimonde. But she might marry someone else. He ground his teeth, shocked at his next thought.

  Over my dead body!

  Chapter Fifteen

  Now what? Morgan propped his feet on the desk and sipped his brandy. Rather than appearing for supper, Lalia had sent regrets, claiming a headache. He had knocked on the door of her bedchamber, only to discover that she wasn’t in it. A trip up the tower had revealed the door again shut. He hadn’t bothered to knock on it. He would think of something else.

  No need to repeat that scene. At the thought of her fleeing from him, locking him out, the hurt and anger welled up in him. How could she fear him? Granted, his behavior early in their acquaintance had left something to be desired… Well, a great deal to be desired, if he were honest, but he had apologized and he had not forced her into anything. Seduced her, perhaps.

  Maybe that was what she feared.

  The house lay shrouded in quiet darkness, everyone else having sought their bed. He must find his own soon. Pirate hunting was exhausting work. He swallowed the last of the brandy and was about to rise from his chair when something in the doorway caught his eye.

  A man stood there.

  “What…?” Morgan jerked open the drawer of his desk and grasped the pistol within. “Who the devil are you?”

  The man held up both hands in a placating gesture. Middle-aged and of medium height, he wore a wide felt hat over dark curling hair and a red scarf around his neck. “Do not be alarmed, my lord. I am Yoska Veshengo. I came to visit my mother, but I would like to speak with you.”