A Dangerous Seduction

by Patricia Frances Rowell

  “Watford, send someone to the cove immediately. Find out if anyone has tried to use the escape tunnel tonight. And take these away.” Morgan scooped the fingers up in his handkerchief and thrust them at the startled Watford. “Sarah, your mistress needs a dose of harts-horn. Quickly. And send Joseph to help Eric.”

  Having dispatched his forces, Morgan turned back and knelt before Lalia. She had slumped forward with her head on her knees. “Lalia?”

  She lifted her head and leaned back into the chair, weakly muttering. “I will not…faint…again.”

  Morgan eyed her pale countenance closely. “That remains to be seen. Ah. Here is Sarah.” He took the glass from the maid and held it to Lalia’s lips. She sipped and turned away with a wry face. “Oh, no, you don’t. You must drink it—all of it.”

  Lalia did as she was bid, her color returning slightly. She tried to give him a brave smile. “Alas, I have fallen back in my determination not to be frightened. I may be courageous in the face of dripping water and puffs of smoke—even a soaked wardrobe—but disembodied fingers…” She shuddered. “I just can’t…”

  “No.” Morgan pulled her to him in spite of the presence of her maid. It was highly unlikely that the girl remained in ignorance of their liaison, in any event. “Severed digits are another matter. I’m sorry, Lalia. I didn’t even think to look at the bed. But rest assured, those fingers came from the body of George Breney—not the hand of Cordell Hayne. We also found that injury on Breney’s corpse. Damnation! This is a direct threat. The pirates are involved in this.”

  “But how could they possibly know that I dreamt of his hands and the fingers falling…” Lalia leaned back in the chair and covered her mouth with one hand. “And why would they care?”

  “Another of those very persistent but unanswered questions.” Morgan rubbed his chin, his eyes narrow. “Servants’ gossip, very likely. But… I wonder if your brother saw Hayne’s body.”

  “My half brother,” Lalia corrected automatically, her eyes dark gray with distress. “But even if Roger did intend to make away with me, why would he do something like this?”

  “Why would anyone do something like this? When I find the answer to that question, I suspect I’ll find the answer to several more. In the meantime Joseph will also watch in the corridor. I want someone outside this door every minute, as well as in the tunnel.” He strode to the priest’s hole and confirmed that the door was fast. “Until now I have thought that the target of these mysterious occurrences was Jeremy—that the rest was diversion. Now I begin to doubt that. I wish I could have someone in the room with you when I am at sea, but that is a privilege I intend to reserve to myself—even if I must trust the pirate hunting to the captain of the Sea Witch for a time.”

  Lalia’s head still swirled with images of rotting flesh and disintegrating corpses. Her stomach clenched and bile threatened to rise into her mouth. Shaking, she covered her eyes with one hand. “Oh, Morgan! Who hates me so?”

  He returned to her and pulled her to her feet so that he could hold her close. “Hush, now. No one could hate you. They are choosing to torment you for some reason of their own—one that a sane person cannot fathom.”

  “But I must have made an enemy.” Lalia shook her head. She could feel the aura of hatred twining around her. “Do you think that Reverend Nascawan could be so angry at me that…”

  “I don’t know. Jealousy can bring about some very strange actions, and he did have the cloak. But this studied cruelty…it is hard to know who would be capable of it. He might be.”

  “I never thought of him as cruel—just unpleasant—although I must admit I don’t know him very well. And Roger has never been cruel to me.”

  “Except when he married a young girl to an animal like Hayne.”

  “Well… Perhaps he didn’t know how it would be. My husband, of course…” Lalia let the comment trail away. She didn’t want to remember life at her husband’s hands.

  “Is gone now. Mercifully. Do not think of him. I am here now, and I will keep you safe, Lalia. And I will find out who is doing this to you. And he will regret it.”

  Morgan had held her in his arms throughout the night—at first simply to stem her terror, but slowly they began to respond to the ever-present spark of desire between them. The passion, riding on the crest of the wave of fear broke over them both, submerging them in a whirlpool of emotion that swept them almost to dawn. He left her sleeping later that morning and rode out to find her uncle.

  He could only hope that his presence had reassured her and his lovemaking had distracted her. It certainly distracted him. But in spite of his distracting memories, he could not get the anxiety for Lalia’s safety out of his mind. And he could see her own fear in her haunted eyes every time he looked at her. The sight created a wrenching ache in his heart and the fire of anger in his gut. His fury toward the author of this anguish was perhaps greater than that he had held toward Hayne.

  Morgan found the Gypsy camp with little trouble. He reined Demon in at a respectful distance from the brightly painted wagons and waited. A few moments later Yoska Veshengo came around the side of a bright red vehicle with wheels and scrollwork picked out in green. He raised a hand in welcome and came to stand by Morgan’s stirrup. Morgan dismounted.

  “Good day to you, Veshengo.” He extended a hand.

  Lalia’s uncle shook his hand, but not before he bowed politely. “My lord. How may I serve you?”

  Morgan glanced at him with narrowed eyes. “Perhaps you have already done me a service.”

  “I can only hope that this is so.”

  Hmm. Why I did I think he would volunteer anything? Morgan smiled ruefully and decided to abandon subtlety. The Rom was definitely better at it than he was. “Did your people extinguish that misleading fire night before last? Or did you build it?”

  Demon sidled a bit, and Veshengo stroked his nose with the practiced skill of his kind, calming him. He smiled at Morgan. “That would be a very poor place for a camp, my lord. Indeed, it was a very poor place for any fire.”

  As elusive an answer as usual. “Well, I thought it was. I almost lost another ship.” Morgan considered for a moment before asking his next question. He was never sure whether Lalia’s uncle was being honest with him, dishonest, or merely evasive. He decided to ask. “We had another threatening episode at Merdinn last night.” Morgan related the incident in detail, watching the man’s reaction. “Did your people observe anyone about?”

  For once Veshengo’s answer was direct. “No, my lord.” His brows drew together thoughtfully. “I thought that you have men watching the house.”

  “I do, but someone eluded them.”

  “I fear, my lord, that your men are looking in the wrong world.” The Gypsy sighed and shook his head. “But I cannot convince you of that.”

  “No, those fingers definitely came from this side of the grave. They belonged to George Breney.” He sprang into his saddle. “In any event, accept my thanks for any services you may or may not have rendered.”

  Veshengo grinned and saluted. Morgan put his heels to his mount’s side and cantered away. He rode back along the cliffs, deep in thought. He found it hard to believe that Veshengo would do anything to hurt Lalia, yet he wished he could be completely sure. The Gypsy could certainly get into the house, and he was rarely anything but indirect.

  As he approached Merdinn, Morgan would not have seen the two people emerging from the small copse had one of them not suddenly pulled away and started running. He slowed his horse and turned to look. The running figure was a young girl, vaguely familiar. Even at a distance Morgan recognized the muscular man as Killigrew, the tavern keeper. He took several steps after the girl, saw Morgan, and abruptly retreated into the trees.

  The girl ran agilely down the side of the defile leading to the cove, and Morgan watched as she reappeared on the other side and hurried toward the house. At that point he realized who she was. He had seen her the day he came to Merdinn.

  “What
is the name of the young woman who was working here when I first arrived? Penny…? Polly…?” Morgan asked, turning to Lalia.

  “Peggy.” Lalia forked a bite of asparagus. “Why?”

  “Is she still employed here? I haven’t seen her.”

  “Yes. You don’t see her because she is so afraid of most people. She works in the scullery and tries to keep out of everyone’s way.”

  “I saw her today talking to Killigrew. Or possibly running from him.” Morgan looked at her questioningly.

  “Oh, dear. That is quite possible. He is her father.” An angry scowl puckered her face. “The cause of her fearfulness lies at his door. He abused her terribly—both mentally and physically—and she is terrified of him.”

  “Then why would she meet him in a lonely place? She should be avoiding him at all costs.”

  “That’s why, of course.” Lalia gave him one of those looks that women had been giving him since Beth had been about ten years old. “If he sent for her, she would be afraid not to obey.”

  “Ah. I see.” Well, maybe he saw. He, at least, saw that women had many more fears than men. Justifiable fears, it seemed. And he also saw that the innkeeper must be more than capable of deliberate cruelty. “So it is likely that she might be giving him information about what occurs here.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m afraid it is. But what could he possibly want to know?”

  “Now that is another interesting question. We seem to have no end of them.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The girl sat in the chair, trembling, and looked down at the hands clenched tightly together in her lap. Morgan could see the whiteness of her knuckles from where he sat behind the desk. He would get nowhere this way. She was much too frightened. When he stood and walked around desk, she cringed back in her chair.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Peggy.” God! What had the man done to her to terrorize her so? Morgan sat in the chair opposite her and leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees. Now his face was level with hers. She still kept her gaze on her hands. He made his voice as gentle as he could. “You have my word, Peggy. I only want to ask you a few questions. Will you look at me, please?”

  Her head remained bowed, but she lifted her eyes enough to see him. Well, that was a little progress. Morgan would have taken her hands in his, but he feared she would panic if he touched her. He smiled what he hoped was a soothing smile.

  “First, Peggy, I want you to know that I will not let your father hurt you anymore. As my employee, you are now under my protection. I will not allow him to come here. I shall tell Mrs. Carthew and Watford that he is not to be admitted to the house. Neither will I allow anyone in the house to harm you. If anyone does so, I want you to tell me immediately, and I will put a stop to it. Do you understand?”

  Peggy nodded, but didn’t look very reassured. Well, it would probably be a long time before she felt safe. Her fear was obviously ingrained in every fiber of her being. Now for the difficult part. “Now, Peggy, please pay close attention. I do not want you to see your father again for any reason.” The girl’s head came up, but she did not reply. “I mean that, Peggy. If he sends for you, you are not to go. Is that plain?”

  She nodded and looked again at her clasped hands. Would she obey him? Morgan had his doubts. She was still too afraid of Killigrew. He made his voice firmer. “If I find you have gone to him, I will be very annoyed.” Damned angry, in fact, but he didn’t want to alarm her further. Peggy leaned as far away from him as her chair would allow. Morgan sighed in frustration and changed his tack. “Has he asked you questions about what happens in Merdinn?”

  Peggy’s gaze shifted away from him, moved to the door as if seeking escape, veered back to him. Morgan nodded. “Very well, Peggy, I know you are afraid to answer. I am not going to punish you for anything you may have done at his behest in the past, but understand me clearly—you are not to tell him anything more, and under no circumstance are you to open the hidden passage into Mrs. Hayne’s bedchamber.”

  Peggy flashed him a startled look, but continued to sit silently, guilt in every line of her body. Morgan looked sternly at her for a moment before continuing. “I want you to think carefully about this—if you are not under my roof, I cannot protect you. Also, if your father is in gaol, he cannot abuse you again. If you know anything about him that will help me put him there, you need to tell me.”

  He stood. “You may go now.”

  Peggy sprang to her feet and darted to the door. Morgan watched, shaking his head. Her actions would boil down to a question of whom she feared most, him or her father. What a pity.

  He was going back to his desk when she stopped in the doorway and turned toward him. Her murmur was so soft he had to strain to hear her. “He takes things to the parson.”

  Morgan’s attention focused fully on her. “What things, Peggy?”

  “Things he gets from the man on the beach.”

  “What man?” She shook her head.

  “I don’t know. A mean man. My father is scared of him.” Her tone reflected utter amazement that anyone could frighten so terrible a being as her father. Morgan was impressed by that himself.

  “He transports these things to Reverend Nascawan’s house?”

  She nodded, inching toward the door.

  “Wait, Peggy. What beach?”

  The girl again shook her head. “Sometimes the one just the other side of the lighthouse. Sometimes—I don’t know—other places. And sometimes he takes the things back to the beach.”

  “Thank you, Peggy. You have helped me very much.”

  Peggy turned and dashed away down the corridor toward the kitchen.

  Morgan rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. Now he knew where the booty was stored until it was reloaded to be sold. It was time for him to have a talk with Officer Hastings.

  True to his word, Morgan had written to Horsham, his man of business, and at length a reply was received from that worthy. Lalia did, indeed, still have a trust. Horsham had held a conference with the bankers, and they were shocked to learn that she had never been paid the allowance her father had intended for her. As soon as they could write to Sir Roger and receive his reply, she might expect a payment from them. Lalia would soon be able to establish a suitable home for herself and Daj.

  Morgan, of course, would not even discuss the thought of her moving away from Merdinn while so much danger threatened, but she could at least make plans.

  In the watchful company of Joseph and Eric—and Morgan, as often as he could leave his duties—she traveled the neighborhood until she had found the perfect spot—a comfortable cottage situated near a wide creek, with the large garden flowing down to the willows along the bank. The previous occupant, an elderly spinster, had died, leaving behind enough furniture for her to begin housekeeping. She could add to it later. Having reached an agreement with the executor as to the rent, Lalia looked forward with anticipation to the day she could move in.

  Excitement, sorrow and fear mingled in her heart. How could she leave the only home she had known for eight years? How could she remove herself from Morgan’s protection? How could she bear to be so far away from him?

  The pain of the impending separation gave way from time to time when she reminded herself that she needed to know that the love she felt for him was real, not just a product of her need for love and protection. And she needed to know if his feelings for her went further than desire, that they were of a lasting nature, that they were not based on her all too convenient presence and his need for a new goal.

  But, oh! How her heart ached at the thought of losing him, even temporarily.

  At the same time, the thought of having no one to answer to, to be responsible for, of having a home that was truly her own, with her own garden, her own furnishings, brought joy to her step. At last, something that belonged to her, not just a place granted her by some man who held authority over her. The joy made it possible to look forward to the day she might claim them.

  And for now,
she still had Morgan.

  A few nights after his talk with Peggy they had an unexpected guest for dinner. In fact, Lalia reflected, for many years any guest at Merdinn had been unexpected. But that was changing. Since Lord Carrick was again in residence, she suspected that visits from neighbors and perhaps even dinner parties would again become commonplace.

  The visitor of the evening was Dr. Lanreath, explaining in his gruff way that he had delivered a baby nearby earlier in the evening, and thought he might presume on old acquaintance to drop in and eat his mutton with them. How pleasant it was, Lalia thought as she listened to the men’s conversation, occasionally adding a comment, to again preside at an elegant table.

  True, she was not really a suitable lady to act as Morgan’s hostess. In fact, her continued presence in his house was nothing short of scandalous. Happily, if the doctor had any suspicions of impropriety, he kept them to himself and treated her with all the courtesy he would extend to a real countess.

  When the covers were removed and the port brought in, she excused herself and left the gentlemen to their wine and their talk. She went to the library and searched out a book with which she had been meaning to reacquaint herself, thinking that Jeremy might enjoy looking through it with her some afternoon. Lalia remembered it as a huge volume of maps and pictures drawn by travelers to exotic climes. If her recollections were correct, the boy would be entranced by it.

  She carried the unwieldy tome up the stairs clasped in both arms. Intending to read in her bedchamber on the morrow, she would leave the book there and carry her sewing into the drawing room to await the gentlemen and the tea tray. Joseph and Eric, on guard in the corridor, came to their feet, and Eric opened the door for her. Lalia thanked him with a smile and stepped into her room. He had only closed it behind her when she realized something was wrong.

  The room was dark.

  Why hadn’t Sarah lit the night candle? A gust of wind blew in from the casement, ruffling her hair. Perhaps it had blown the candle out. Still, she wanted to be sure immediately that the escape tunnel was latched.