A Dangerous Seduction

Afterward, he insisted on walking her to her bedchamber in spite of protests that she could walk the few yards alone quite safely. At the door he somehow succeeded in capturing her hand before she could escape into her room. With his gaze never leaving her eyes, he carried her hand to his lips. In spite of Lalia’s determination, her fingers trembled.

That look of satisfaction again in his hard green eyes, he reached past her to open the door. Lalia slipped hastily through the narrow space he allowed, her breasts brushing his chest slightly before she could get the door closed, sighing with relief.

That encounter had been a near run thing.

Morgan resisted the impulse to pace. He hated not being able to sleep. The level of brandy in his glass had sunk almost to the bottom. Perhaps he would have another. But, no. He had drunk too much already. His wits would soon be wandering. Besides, rather than dampening the feelings that persisted in tormenting his lower body, the wine seemed to increase them. He was ready and more than ready to crush his enemy’s wife in his embrace. And the lady was nothing loathe, he was sure.

He could hear her quick intake of breath when he touched her, could see the warmth kindle in her eyes. Ah, those eyes. So changeable. So expressive. What color would they become in the throes of passion? He would soon know. He could sense her weakening.

The thought of her lying in the next room in the big bed wanting him, needing him, made his mouth water and his groin ache unbearably. No, this state of affairs could not go on much longer.

Lalia had not been asleep. How could she sleep with the foundations of her life crumbling? Lalia had been staring at the faded canopy of her bed, wondering for the hundredth time—no, the millionth time—what sort of work she might do. And how to resist his disturbingly seductive lordship. The noise in the corridor had been so muffled that it almost failed to pierce her consciousness—a light thump, as though someone had collided with the chair outside her door. She sat up listening.

The sound did not repeat itself, but the furtive quality of it disturbed Lalia. Lord Carrick had come up to bed an hour ago and she had not heard the door of the adjoining room open since then. Perhaps Jeremy needed her and had lost himself in the dark.

Lalia swung her feet over the side of the bed and lit the candle. Pulling her wrapper over her cotton nightgown, she eased the door open and put her head out. Seeing no one, she slipped into the hall and held the candle high. Still no one. In her bare feet she padded silently to Jeremy’s room and peeked in. The boy lay lost in the slumber reserved for the just and the very young.

Puzzled, Lalia retreated to her own door, then glanced at his lordship’s. Should she alert him? She took two more steps, but hesitated as she reached the portal. Did she really want to wake him? An encounter in a darkened passage might be… Well, it would be too… But… If someone were prowling… Lalia lifted her hand to knock, but stood frozen by indecision. Was he awake or asleep? Cautiously she laid her ear against the panels.

Suddenly the door swept open, knocking her back against the wall. The candle fell to the floor and went out.

Hearing a startled squeak issue from behind the door, Morgan stepped into the hall and peered behind it. He beheld the object of his recent plotting leaning against the wall with her hands held up to ward off the collision. So she had come to his bedchamber!

“Good evening, Mrs. Hayne.” Smiling with satisfaction, Morgan leaned his hands against the wall, one on either side of her head. “Have you come to keep me company in my lonely room?”

“Uh…” Her voice sounded strangled and she cleared her throat. “N-no, my lord. I heard something in the corridor.” She still held her hands before her and now she pushed against his chest tentatively, as if to move him away.

Morgan didn’t budge. She heard something? Ha! “So why were you listening at my keyhole?”

“I—I didn’t know if you were sleeping… I didn’t want to…”

He shifted one hand to gather a handful of silky black hair, pinning it to the wall. She pushed again, harder. Morgan leaned into the pressure, bringing his face nearer to hers so that she could feel his breath on her lips. “You didn’t want to what?”

“I didn’t…” She stopped in midsentence and looked into his face. “My lord, why are you doing this?”

The question took Morgan by surprise. He moved back a bit. “Why? Because you are lovely, and I want you. And you want me.”

She shook her head. “That is not the real reason.” Her voice was now calm and certain. She did not push again, but seemed still and waiting. “You hate my husband. Why would you want me?”

Shrewd as well as beautiful. Well, then…she asked. “Because you are his. I want everything that is his—especially you. No man can stand the thought of another man taking his woman, holding her, touching all the places that are his alone.” He moved his lips nearer, brushing them against her face between words. “The way I want to hold you…touch you.”

Her laugh almost startled him into releasing her. “For all your hate, you don’t know my husband very well, do you, my lord?”

This was not going well. Morgan increased the distance between them slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Let me tell you a story, my lord.” She made no further attempt to escape. “You must understand that my husband seldom came here. He could be very…unpleasant when he did appear, and I learned to avoid him. It angered him, but…well, he soon left again.” Her quiet manner had captured Morgan’s full attention. “One day he came bringing two other men with him. By evening they were all very drunk. I was on the way up to my room when I overheard their talk. He owed them gambling debts. I heard him propose that in place of the money he owed, they might…might…share me throughout the night.”

Morgan dropped his hands to his sides and stepped back. Good God! What was he doing? “What happened? Did they…?”

“No.” She stepped away from the wall. “I ran to my room to lock my doors, but when I looked for the keys, they had been removed.” She no longer looked at Morgan, but seemed lost in remembering. “I suppose he took them earlier. I could hear them coming up the stairs… They were laughing.” She glanced at his face. “Do you know about the hidden stair in my room?”

“Yes, a priest’s hole. It has been there for centuries—comes out above the path to the cove.”

She nodded. “I knew they would catch me if I used it. They were too close. So I opened it and hid in the wardrobe. I heard them make for the stair, laughing and shouting and hallooing as though they were hunting… Which I guess they were.”

Morgan winced at the image.

She continued calmly. “The panel can only be opened from inside my room, so I closed it and ran back the other way and hid in the tower guard room. You saw the condition of the steps there. I thought that, as drunk as they were…”

“That they would break their necks climbing them.”

“Well, I did not think they could come up, and they didn’t. They all went away the next day.” She smiled a sad little half-smile. “But you see, you will not harm my husband in this way.”

Morgan moved away from her a few more steps. “Mrs. Hayne, I find myself taken at fault. I beg you will forgive my boorish behavior.” He heard the coldness embarrassment injected into his voice and made an attempt to ameliorate it. “I assure you, however, that my actions were based more upon feelings engendered by you than on those I hold toward your husband. Nonetheless… I apologize.” He walked around her, picking up her candle as he passed. “I’ll have a look around for what you heard before I go back to bed.”

Opening her door, Morgan cursed himself for a cad and stood well back, giving her plenty of room to enter.

He should have known that he would not force himself on an hesitant woman, the crushing precept to the contrary notwithstanding. Convincing himself that she shared his desire was blatant wishful thinking. True, as the veteran of a number of affairs, Morgan knew encouraging signs when he saw them, and he felt sure he had seen them in Eulalia Hayne. That, however, brought him around to what should have been obvious to him by the second day of their acquaintance.

In spite of the fact that polite society condoned discreet affairs in married women, this lady did not. This lady would keep her vows, even when they trapped her in a hideous marriage. This lady, for all her soft, gentle manner, had courage, resilience and character. She made Morgan examine his own.

On reflection, he did not regret one moment of ruining Hayne. The man was a predator from which society needed protection. Had Morgan been able to kill him in a fair fight, he would gladly have done it. But subjecting Hayne’s wife to further abuse…

Unforgivable.

It put him firmly in the category with Hayne himself. That thought made Morgan want to take a bath. The devil was in it, though, in that he wanted the woman as much as—no, more than—ever. He couldn’t quite give up his determination to have her in his arms, to taste her sweetness.

But he could not do it as an act of revenge.

The pile of vegetables in the basket beside her grew steadily as Lalia’s sure hands picked them and plucked dead blossoms from their neighbors. A few feet away Jeremy, not so sure, attempted to master the mysteries of what constituted a weed. She smiled. The bed would be short a few flowers by the end of the day, but he seemed to enjoy the challenge if not the work.

Usually working with the plants lifted Lalia’s spirits, but today even the cheerful sun and soft ocean breeze did not help. Despite her optimistic nature, the future looked bleak. She had not realized how much her home meant to her. Now that she had only a few more weeks to spend in it, even the relentless drudgery and loneliness seemed dear. And she would greatly miss visiting the tenants. They accepted her—most of them, at least.

What would she do with herself, aside from caring for Jeremy, for the next three months? Already Lord Carrick had taken away most of her duties. He himself had greeted the crew of workers who had appeared earlier in the morning, explaining to the overseer what he wanted done first. He had made it very clear to her that he did not want her help.

Another in a long line of people who did not want her. She didn’t know whether to welcome his apology of the night before or to regret it. At least he seemed for a moment to want her. But Lalia knew from bleak experience that Carrick’s approaches did not count as wanting her. The future looked lonely indeed.

Lost in these melancholy thoughts, she jumped when the subject of her thoughts spoke right behind her.

“You two are busy to a purpose this morning.”

“Oh! Good morning, your lordship. You startled me. Have you… No, Jeremy, not that one. That’s a delphinium.” Lalia turned back to smile up at Lord Carrick from her spot seated beside the flower bed.

He knelt on one knee and examined the bed, pulling out what was obviously a dandelion. “Do you always plant vegetables in your flower beds?”

Lalia nodded. “We need them. I considered putting the whole bed to them, but I can’t bear to give up all the flowers.”

“Can’t you just buy some of the local produce?”

“We could, of course, but…” She paused and turned her head back to her work. “But the tenants need what they grow for their families, and it…it is more economical to grow them myself.”

“Well, soon you will not have that necessity. The new gardeners start next week, and I have hired enough help to reopen the home farm.”

Lalia swallowed around a lump that had suddenly appeared in her throat. So… Soon she would not even be allowed to garden. Unless… A ray of light appeared. Perhaps she could hire herself out as a gardener. To work all day at what she loved—at last, a heartening thought.

Lord Carrick stood and brushed the dirt from his knee. “Jeremy has been plaguing me to take him down to the cove. The cleaning in the great hall seems to be well under way, and the tide is out. I thought this would be a good time.”

“Hooray!” Jeremy bounced to his feet. “Come on, Miss Lalia. I’m tired of being a farmer.”

Lalia smiled, shaking her head. “I must take these to the kitchen and help Daj. I will see you when you return.”

“Unnecessary.” Carrick bent and scooped up the basket. “Another local woman has been hired to help in the kitchen. We will take these in before we explore the cove.”

Lalia sighed. Another role removed.

Morgan extended his hand to help Lalia down a rough portion of the path. He knew she didn’t really need the help, but it gave him an excuse to touch her. Exulting in the crackle of awareness between them, he clasped her fingers and rested his hand lightly on the small of her back as she passed him. No, the lady was by no means as cool as she would have him think. Perhaps there was hope for him. She kept her gaze carefully on the path, avoiding puddles left by the tide, while Morgan enjoyed his view of the dainty curve of her neck.

Jeremy scrambled down the rocky track easily. A small stream had cut a narrow defile through the cliff. The old trail ran beside it, switching back and forth across the width of the cleft in the steeper spots and around a few twisted trees, dipping and rising with the broken ledges. Above them loomed the precipice, crowned by the towers of Merdinn. The cove boasted very little in the way of sand, but Morgan knew that the spaces between the guarding boulders allowed a medium-size vessel to come through and shelter there. Jeremy immediately made a dash for the water, quickly wetting himself to the knees.

“Don’t step out very far,” Lalia called, hurrying toward him. “The currents are not safe.”

“Yes, ma’am. I want to see what’s up there, anyway.” The boy pointed at a small dam of stones holding a tidal pool. He sprinted away.

“He will be well enough. I’ll keep my eye on him.” Morgan strolled along the waterline examining and discarding shells. It had been nineteen years since he had lived by the ocean. He looked forward to having a personal sailing craft close by again—when he found Hayne’s. If he didn’t find it soon, he would have his own sloop brought in. He turned to Hayne’s lady.

She was investigating another tidal pool, waving at his nephew. “Look, Jeremy. There are crabs.”

Morgan moved closer to observe the crabs—and the lady. Careless of her threadbare gown, she knelt beside the puddle, turning stones on the bottom with a piece of driftwood. He hunkered down beside her, and she smiled, her usual wariness dissolved in her enjoyment of her discovery. Her face glowed with pleasure.

Breathing in the scent of sunshine and woman, he resisted the desire to touch her again. Her caution would certainly return, and he liked the way she looked now, happy and carefree, her petite figure almost childlike. Far be it from him to spoil her mood. Besides, the sea and the sun made him feel young and carefree himself. And perhaps a little foolish. He reached into the pool and drew out a small but indignant crab.

Turning suddenly he thrust waving pinchers toward Lalia’s face. She shrieked very satisfactorily and jerked away. Overbalancing, she tumbled backward onto sand, skirts flying. Morgan caught a glimpse of beautifully shaped leg before she sat up, laughing, and subdued the unruly garment.

“My lord! What a wicked prank! You will be teaching Jeremy bad tricks.”

Tossing the crab back into the puddle, he held out his hand and grinned. “No one needs to teach boys that sort of mischief. They come by it quite naturally.” He pulled her to her feet. “Forgive me. I forgot the dignity of my years.”

“Humph.” She straightened her clothes and brushed at the sand clinging to them, twinkling eyes denying her stern tone. “I do not see one particle of penitence in your countenance, my lord.”

“I’m hopelessly corrupt.” He favored her with his most winning smile. “Here, let me help you.” He limited his assistance to whisking the dirt off her shoulders, regretfully restraining himself from more interesting areas. Bethinking himself of his nephew, Morgan looked around for the whereabouts of that fearless young man. He was discovered to be tugging vigorously at something jammed between two rocks a few yards away.

Morgan sauntered in his direction. “What do you have there, lad?”

“I think it’s part of a boat. Maybe the one that got wrecked.” A final wrench freed the object and Jeremy sprawled backward, following Lalia’s undignified example. “Ow!” He got up sucking his finger.

“Oh, dear. Let me see.” Lalia took his hand in hers. “Yes. It’s a splinter.” She grasped the sliver and pulled before Jeremy could object and withdraw his hand.

“Ouch! Don’t!” He stuck his finger back in his mouth, mumbling, “Did you get it out?”

“I think so. Let me see. Stay still a minute. How can I…?”

Ignoring the tussle with the splinter, Morgan stood, brow furrowed, studying the battered lettering on the length of wood Jeremy had retrieved. He turned to Lalia. “What did you call Hayne’s vessel?”

“The Seahawk. Why?” She glanced at what he held, then froze. “Oh, my.”

Chapter Five

M organ knew that the wreck of the day before had not been the Seahawk. That had been a much bigger vessel than Hayne’s private yacht. A ride along the cliff tops revealed several more pieces of flotsam the color of Hayne’s boat lodged against the rocks, but no sign of Hayne. Inquiries in the village brought no further enlightenment. All declared that no one had seen him since he sailed away several days before. Nor did anyone seem very interested in searching for him.

Possibly because they already knew where he was. A man of Hayne’s caliber must surely have friends among the rogues who plied the smuggling trade in the district. It defied belief that the Seahawk had never carried a cargo of run brandy. Hayne always needed money. But if his yacht had come to grief, and no body was to be found, where was Hayne? He returned home with the question unanswered to find his library occupied.

He studied the man sitting across from the desk with a carefully neutral expression. Morgan did not like Roger Poleven. He surveyed his guest with as much courtesy as he could muster. The family resemblance between Lalia Hayne and her half brother did not extend beyond the blue-green eyes. His did not even show the brilliant clarity of hers, but looked bloodshot and murky. Neither did the dark brown hair shine as her black braid did. He certainly did not demonstrate any of her gentle nature.

Poleven lounged carelessly in the chair, brandy in hand. “I found it expedient to rusticate for a time, so I thought I would call and greet my sister. How long have you been in Cornwall?”

Morgan took his time in pouring his own brandy and seating himself behind the desk. From what Lalia said, the man had not troubled himself to greet her in years. What, then, was this show of brotherly affection? “I’m afraid you have missed Mrs. Hayne. She has driven out with my nephew. I don’t expect them back for another hour.”

“Ah, well. Another time.” Poleven waved a disinterested hand. “Your nephew, eh?” A knowing smirk appeared on his face, but he quickly removed it as Morgan directed a cold look at him. Poleven hastily changed the subject. “The talk is that you have bought up Hayne’s mortgages?”

Morgan nodded silently.

“And my sister is still in residence? I would have thought you would have remedied that by now.”

Morgan’s continued silence slowed Poleven a bit, but didn’t daunt him.

The man’s face took on a sly expression. “Well, I can’t blame you. She’s a pretty enough chit. In any case, that’s Hayne’s problem, not mine. Can you imagine? My father left not one shilling for her maintenance.”

Morgan raised one eyebrow. “No doubt he expected that you would provide a home for her.”

“Me? Keep a thieving Gypsy in my house? No thank you. He was touched in his upper works. At least I found a suitable match for her. Cost me a pretty penny and so I’ll tell you.”

Good God! The man was every bit as despicable as Hayne. “Perhaps you know where your sister’s husband is to be found?”

“Not I. No one’s seen him this age. Probably with someone else’s wife somewhere.” Poleven tossed off the rest of his brandy and looked hopefully toward the decanter.

Morgan stood. “I’ll tell your sister you called.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” Poleven got reluctantly to his feet, one eye still on the decanter. “I say, Carrick, I was just wondering as I rode up…I’m a bit embarrassed at the moment. Perhaps you might help me out with a few pounds until I come about?”

So that was it. The rascal wanted money. Obviously he already knew he would find Morgan at Merdinn. Perhaps he fancied that he had some leverage. Morgan gave him a flint-hard look. “I’m afraid it will not be possible for me to oblige you.”

Poleven shrugged. “No matter. I’ll stop in again sometime.” He collected his hat and gloves and ambled out the door.

When Watford arrived, Morgan’s first instruction to his butler would be that Roger Poleven should never again set foot within the walls of Merdinn. The man’s attitude toward his sister was vile—unpardonable. One did not abandon one’s relatives because of some irregularity of birth. If he ever heard Roger Poleven call Eulalia Hayne a “thieving Gypsy” again, he would probably plant him a facer.

“Beg pardon, ma’am.” Gwennap, the foreman of the renovation crew, stuck his head through the door. “Where might I find his lordship?”

Lalia looked up from trying to find a place for more vegetables in the cool of the cellar. His lordship’s chef had arrived the day after their discovery in the cove, along with the rest of the staff, but while she had become unwelcome in the kitchen, no one had yet driven her out of the garden. “He is not here. He took his nephew down to the village. May I help you?”

Gwennap looked perplexed. “Well, I can’t rightly say. We’ve finished cleaning the great hall, and I don’t know what he wants done next.”

“Have you asked Mrs. Carthew?”

“The new housekeeper? She’s gone to the market, ma’am.”

“Very well, I’ll go with you to look. I’m sure the large dining room needs a great deal of work.” She led the workman up the stairs to the ground floor.

At the door of the room formerly used for large dinners, she paused and waved a hand. She had long wanted to turn it out for a good cleaning. “Everything needs work—the floor stones need scrubbing, the paneling must be cleaned and polished… And the furniture…well, it is probably still usable if scrubbed and the chairs recovered, but… You will have to ask Lord Carrick if he wants the draperies cleaned or discarded. In any case, they must be taken down. Here…”

Within a few minutes the work force had invaded the room, and Lalia dived into supervising, lending a hand here and there. She was happily engaged in bundling up the old draperies when his lordship sauntered through the door. Lalia sneezed.

“Oh, excuse me, my lord. These are very dusty.” A quick glance suddenly informed her that he did not look best pleased. She dabbed at her nose with her handkerchief. “Is something wrong?” She sneezed again.

“What are you doing in here?”

“They have finished in the…” Another sneeze interrupted her response. “Oh dear, I’m sorry.” She fished for her handkerchief again. “They finished cleaning the hall and did not know what to do next. I thought they could spend their time…”

Carrick scowled. “I thought we had agreed that you need not concern yourself any further with their work.”

“But I don’t mind. I hadn’t anything else…” Yet another sneeze burst forth. Her small handkerchief had become too damp to be useful, so Lalia sniffed behind her finger as quietly as she could.

Morgan took her firmly by the arm and led her out of the dust into the corridor. How the devil could he express his displeasure to a woman who kept sneezing? And sniffling. He handed her his handkerchief. “Now…why are you involving yourself in this? You now have other duties.”