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Patricia Frances Rowell

A DANGEROUS SEDUCTION

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Pain. Gripping, grinding, paralyzing pain. He lay in the grass in the pool of blood which leaked through his fingers. But how could he...?

Five, six, seven--three more steps and he would kill the bastard. But there had been no more steps. Eight.... A flash of light, a blast, and he was falling. Falling forward propelled by a blow that knocked him off his feet and onto his face.

Laughter. Shouts. Running feet. Shots. The blood stained his coat and dripped over the hand he pressed in vain against his chest.

He tried to raise himself on one elbow, tried to lift the pistol still clutched in his hand. Too heavy. Too dark. Hands taking the pistol. Voices calling his name. The darkness wrapping around him in a smothering cloud. Gasping. Choking.

Breathe, damn you, breathe. A breath. Another breath. One more. Another. You can't die. Not now. The dog must pay.

Morgan Pendaris, Earl of Carrick, drew rein at the top of the knoll, bringing the curricle to a stop.

Before him over the rolling hills spread the woods, fields, and meadows of his home, lush and green, neatly divided and stitched across by ancient hedges.

Nineteen years. Nineteen long years. Nineteen years dark with blood and hate. But, at last, Merdinn again belonged to him. His eyes narrowed with satisfaction, the words which had been his polestar ringing in his head, the words of Ghengis Khan.

The greatest joy a man can have is to see his enemy in chains, to deprive him of his possessions, to ride his horses, to see tears on the faces of his loved ones, and to crush in your arms his wives and daughters.

He had at last deprived Cordell Hayne of every possession, including the estate which Hayne's father had stolen from his. Chains were not far behind. The cur was firmly under the hatches, his only choice debtors' prison or the transport ships.

"Because we have reached the Merdinn lands, Jeremy." Morgan raked his dark curls out of his face with impatient fingers, a gesture which was the despair of his long-suffering valet. He smiled down at the boy seated beside him. "It has been a very long time since I have seen them."

"But you lived here when you were my age?" Without waiting for an answer he already knew, Jeremy rushed on. "When will we see the castle?"

"Soon now." Morgan flicked his reins, and the curricle started down the hill. "It stands behind that bit of woods there." He pointed with his whip.

The road wound between the fields, the summer sun of Cornwall hot on their heads and necks. A sliver of silver on their left marked the sea, placid at the moment, only the tiniest waves visible. As they neared the castle, the bridge across the old ditch rang hollow beneath the hooves of the horses, and they plunged into the cool shade and dank greenery of the small forest which now covered the motte. The way rose steeply as they climbed the man-made hill, flickering through the shadows cast by the twisted trunks of the trees.

Jeremy bounced in his seat. "And there are real towers and real battlements?"

"Yes, as I have told you many times, there are two towers on the seaside wall."

"But there is no drawbridge, and it looks more like a big house now." The boy's voice clearly reflected his disapproval of another fact he had often been told.

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, Jeremy." Morgan chuckled. He remembered how much, as a seven-year-old boy, he himself had wished that the crumbling walls still stood, that the bridges still lifted, that he might charge across them on a fiery steed. But alas, those deeds belonged to ages past. The towers, however, remained satisfyingly intact--or at least, mostly so. They shared with the rest of the manor the deterioration of two generations of neglect, the neglect which he intended to wipe away.

And when all had again been restored to stateliness and comfort, he would bring his mother home, back to her rightful place as mistress of Merdinn.

Suddenly the trees parted, and Morgan's heart swelled as his boyhood home stood before his eyes--somewhat battered perhaps, as he himself was, but still proud and strong.

Across the level ground of the bailey which had once lain inside a curtain wall, lay the gray stone of the manor itself, with the twin towers on the wall behind it standing proudly against the azure sky. Behind them, he knew, the cliff fell away over jagged rocks into the sea.

He heard beside him a small sigh of satisfaction. "There really are towers."

"Did you doubt my word?" Morgan lifted one eyebrow as he guided his blacks around the curving drive.

"Oh, no!" A touch of dismay sounded in the boy's voice. "I wouldn't question your honor, Uncle Morgan." He glanced speculatively up at his uncle. "You aren't going to call me out, are you?"

Morgan couldn't decide whether he heard relief or disappointment. "Are you so eager to engage in an affair of honor?"

"Well," Jeremy pondered, "not with you. But I think it would be famous to have a duel."

"Believe me, it is not." Morgan pulled his horses in before the double doors of the house. "I hope you never have occasion to find that out for yourself."

As he waited for a groom to come take his horses, a surge of excitement coursed through Morgan. The success of another of his goals would be achieved within minutes. He did not expect to find Hayne at Merdinn. The bastard would be in London, trying desperately to find a way to recoup. But his wife... Ah. Hayne's mysterious, never-seen wife, the usurper of his mother's place, the cause of his sister's disgrace.

Let her go to her rotten husband. Let her go with him to whatever hole claimed him. Let her beg on the streets for all he cared. No longer would she be a barrier to decent women, to the women he loved. Enough time had elapsed. She should already be preparing for departure.

Several minutes passed without the appearance of a groom. Hm. Had Hayne already dismissed his staff? Was the place deserted? No. The windows were open on the second floor. "Well, then, Jeremy. It seems that we will have to take the horses to the stable ourselves."

"I can take them, Uncle Morgan, while you go inside." Jeremy looked hopefully at his uncle.

Morgan tousled his nephew's hair as he once again gave his mettlesome horses the office to start. "All in good time, ambitious one."

Another heavy sigh. Shaking his head in amusement, Morgan directed his pair through the stable door and climbed down. Jeremy scrambled down after him and dashed past him to the back door of the building. Morgan sauntered after him, his critical eye appraising the lone riding mount and the sturdy cob which appeared to be the only occupants of the stalls. Hardly an impressive selection.

Perhaps Hayne had contrived to depose of his stable before Morgan could take possession of it. He scowled. Much good it would do him. Morgan now owned the paper on every debt that Hayne had incurred in a long and profligate career. Even the sale of his horses would not save him. Morgan rubbed at his chest absently. Nothing would save the cad now.

He followed Jeremy out into the sunshine behind the dark stable. Behind the stable and the kitchen wing of the house, a large kitchen garden tumbled down the motte. Morgan frowned thoughtfully. It looked to be a great deal larger than he remembered. And now that he thought about it, there were more flower beds in the lawn of the bailey. He wouldn't have thought that Hayne would have spent money on gardens. Perhaps it was the wife.

Two women, their hair covered with kerchiefs, worked far down the slope. They apparently did not hear him, or perhaps considered the arrival of guests none of their concern. One of them stepped with the slow movements of age, and gray hair peeped from under her scarf. The other looked young and possibly shapely under her heavy skirts. A midnight-black braid of hair as thick as her wrist dropped from beneath her head-covering to her hips. It gleamed prettily in the sun.

At the sound of footsteps Morgan reluctantly tore his gaze from the shining hair and the hips beneath it. Jeremy rounded the far corner of the stable, a tall, thin elderly man in his wake. "Look, Uncle Morgan, I found someone."

"Lord Morgan? Is it really you?" The old man grasped his hand and pumped it vigorously. "It's a sight for sore eyes you are! What brings you here?"

"Him!" James spat on the ground. "I'll be glad to see the back of his head. He had his way he'd have turned me off long ago. Said I can't do the work no more." He patted his silvery locks. "Just because there's a little snow on the roof... But the missus keeps me on. I handle everything just fine by myself." He jerked his head toward the two resident horses. "Ain't all that much to do. But let me see to your team. Beautiful bits of bone and blood they are, too. You and the little fellow go on up the house. I'll take care of 'em."

Murmuring his thanks, Morgan herded Jeremy out into the bailey. As they strolled toward the main door of the house he glanced at the beds of plants which dotted the lawn. To his surprise he noted that they contained as many vegetables as flowers. The effect was odd, but strangely pleasing.

Not bothering to knock, he opened the door, and Jeremy darted inside. They found themselves in a vaulted hall, before them a wide set of stairs leading up. "Where do they go, Uncle Morgan?"

"To the upper levels. Hold your horses but a little longer, Jeremy, and I will take you over the whole place. For now, come into the library, and let us see if anyone is about." He turned to a door on his left and led the way into a large room lined with books. He gave the bell-pull an authoritative tug and sat down in the chair behind the desk. Jeremy immediately climbed the book-ladder to the top and sat surveying his new domain.

While he waited, Morgan glanced at the papers on the desk. They seemed to be household books, but there were not enough of them to account for the running of the castle. He was going through the drawers when a frail young girl timidly opened the library door and put a dull blonde head into the room. When she saw him sitting at the desk and Jeremy perched like a gargoyle on the ladder, she squeaked and hastily withdrew.

"Wait!" Morgan sprang out of the chair and through the door barely in time to grasp her arm before she could disappear into the kitchen wing. Jeremy scampered down the ladder and peered around the door. "Here now. What's the matter with you? Where is everyone?" The girl hung her head, giving every evidence of terror. Morgan snorted in frustration. "Is your mistress at home?"

The girl nodded. At last! A response. "Then kindly tell her that the Earl of Carrick would like a moment of her time. I'll be in the library." She scurried away and disappeared. "Am I mad, or is it everyone else?" Morgan stalked back into the library and sprawled into a wing-chair." One old graybeard in the stable and one half-wit in the house. Perhaps Mrs. Hayne is almost ready to leave."

At least she had ordered a good cleaning before going. The books looked dusted and the leather chair smelled of lemon oil. The stone floor was well polished, although the carpet was distinctly worn. It had been worn the last time Morgan had seen it. Too impatient to sit longer, he paced around the room. Where was the woman? He had been waiting for at least twenty minutes. Was she showing her disdain for him? His lip curled. If so, let her enjoy it while she may. If the curst woman would but show herself...

After another half-hour his anger had grown to the point of explosion. Jeremy prudently busied himself with looking at the pictures in an old book, careful to avoid the avuncular displeasure. Morgan had almost decided to scour the castle for its soon-to-be-former mistress himself, when the door opened and a woman stepped into the room. He recognized her immediately as the younger woman he had seen in the garden.

"Who the hell are you, and where the hell is Mrs. Hayne? I sent for her an hour ago. She has not yet done me the courtesy of responding." He glared at the gardener. Her gown had green stains from the plants, and there was a smudge of dirt on her nose. There was also a puzzled expression in her eyes--eyes, he noted that were the calm, transparent aquamarine of the shallows on a sunny day.

"I'm sorry you had to wait, my lord." She crossed the room to the wing chair opposite Morgan and sunk into it gracefully. "Peggy did not tell me until a moment ago that you were here."

Morgan stared in astonishment. This woman certainly had a lot of brass for a gardener. His scowl deepened. "What's wrong with Peggy? Is she half-witted?"

"No, just fearful." She wiped at the dirt on her face, smearing it and making matters worse.

"What the devil is she so afraid of?" Morgan eyes went to the streaked face, and then, to the skin beneath the dirt. It appeared to be flawless--as luminescent as a pearl. The tendrils of raven-black hair escaping from the kerchief framed softly rounded cheeks which glowed a slightly deeper rose. When she spoke he discovered that, for a moment, he had forgotten his own question. He jerked his attention back to her answer.

Morgan shook his head, not completely understanding. If that was the case, the young girl deserved his pity, not his scorn. In fact, it came to his attention that the woman in the chair across from him did not deserve the anger he had generated toward the elusive Mrs. Hayne. He should not have cursed in her presence, whoever she was.

The sense of unreality which had been growing in Morgan reached a new height. This lovely, but disheveled, creature was the stylish Cordell Hayne's wife? He had pictured a cold and haughty woman, lifting herself on the backs of others as Hayne himself did. And he had pictured her living in grandeur stolen from his family. He could only stare.

"You are Mrs. Hayne?" She nodded, and he thought he glimpsed for a moment the slightest twinkle in those remarkable eyes. "Where is the rest of your staff?"

For a moment the eyes darkened, as though a cloud had passed over the sun. Then a small smile curved the deep-rose lips. "My husband is very rarely here. Did you wish to speak to him?"

The question of Hayne's whereabouts began to disturb Morgan. "Is he in residence now?"

"No. He rode in yesterday, but only for a short while. He left again in the Seahawk, saying that he had a wager on a sailing race that would bring him about." She shrugged. The movement brought the tops of two plump globes covered in pearly skin nearer to the rounded neckline of her dress. The train of the conversation again momentarily eluded Morgan. With an effort he pulled his gaze back to her face as she continued. "I don't know what he meant, exactly, but he often races the Seahawk. It's very fast, and he likes to wager on the outcome."

"He likes to wager on everything." Morgan's brows drew together in a frown. Apparently he had not succeeded in depriving Hayne of his boat. An oversight on his part. But perhaps not. Hayne would think nothing of taking out a boat which had already been foreclosed. Or of making a wager when he no longer had anything to back it.

Or of leaving Morgan to break the news to his wife that she no longer had a home.

Suddenly the shining prospect of that satisfying moment faded a trifle. He had believed that Hayne would have at least sent word to her that he had lost Merdinn, but obviously he had not. His wife sat before him with confusion in her eyes and dirt on her daintily rounded face. As Morgan searched for the words that would at last avenge his mother and sister, Jeremy closed his book and edged forward to get a better look at the lady.

She turned in surprise, and the first real smile Morgan had seen bloomed in her face. "Well, who is this?"

Morgan motioned the boy forward. "This is my nephew, Jeremy Pendaris. He makes his home with me."

Jeremy stepped closer and essayed a polite bow. "How do you do, Mrs. Hayne?"

She held out a welcoming hand and clasped Jeremy's small one. "How nice to meet you, Jeremy."

Seeing the warm response in his nephew's face, Morgan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Things were not going as he had expected. "Jeremy, I need to speak with Mrs. Hayne privately. You may explore on this floor of the building, but on no account are you to climb the wall or the towers. Nor are you to go down the path to our cove alone--not now or at any other time. Do I make myself clear?"

"Oh, yes sir. I promise." Jeremy quickly dashed for the door before his uncle could change his mind.

When the door had banged shut behind him, Morgan turned back to Eulalia Hayne and hardened his heart. "Mrs. Hayne, apparently it falls to me to explain your situation to you." Damnation! Where were the arrogant words he had rehearsed so many times in his dreams? "Are you aware that nineteen years ago your father-in-law came into possession of Merdinn, a property that had been in the Pendaris family for generations, as the result of a dishonorable business arrangement?"

Again her eyes seemed to darken to a light gray, like the sunless winter sea. "I know very little about the dealings of my husband's family. At that time I would have been only seven years old. My family lived nearby, but I would not have remembered anything like that."

Morgan remembered. He remembered that day in every agonizing detail. His father's impotent anger, his mother's tears, his own pain as his beloved home was ripped away from him. His own anger. It welled in him again, and a muscle jumped in his tightened jaw. At the age of fifteen he had been dispossessed of his birthright. He spoke through clenched teeth. "Suffice to say that he did so--by defrauding my father. I have recently been able to regain what the Haynes stole from my family."

A small pucker increased between the lady's brows. "I am not sure I understand."

He watched in silence as the significance of the statement sank in. She sat very still in her chair, her hands lying motionless in her lap. At last she nodded. "I see. My husband has sold it to you?"

"No." The word was stark, harsh. Morgan waited a heartbeat before continuing. "Your husband had mortgaged everything he owned--and he was far in arrears on even the interest, let alone the principal. I have bought up all his notes--on the land, his wagers, his cattle--everything. He now owns nothing."

"I see." She continued to sit like a statue, but he could see a pulse beating frantically in her throat. "My only income derives from a percentage of the tenant rents. That was made as my allowance in my marriage contract."

"Unfortunately, any contract which Hayne made is no longer worth the ink in which it was signed. All the rents are now payable to me."

She stood and lifted her small chin. The gray of her eyes now approached the dark color of the sea in storm. "I understand. My grandmother and I will leave as quickly as we can. Will three days be soon enough?"

"You may wait for your husband's return. You will no doubt want to go with him."

An expression he could not read flitted over her face. "I do not believe that it will be useful to wait."

She left the room with a dignified tread. Morgan blew out an angry breath and slumped in his chair. He did this for his mother, and even more for his poor deceived, disgraced little sister. For Beth. Especially for her. God rest her unhappy soul.

Lalia carefully laid the hairbrush on the dressing table, forbidding herself to throw it, and dropped her face into her hands. Her thoughts spun round and round and back and forth like the unattended wheel of a ship in a gale. What was she to do? Where in the world could she go? And what about Daj? She was no longer young, and her bones hurt her so. She could do very little work. Lalia would have to earn their bread for both herself and her grandmother. But how? And where? She had almost no money to provide for them until she could find employment. She could not afford to go to London or even Bath. And what was she trained to do?

Dizziness threatened to overcome her. She jumped up from the dressing stool and began to pace. A flicker of lightning brightened the window for an instant, and she paused to look out on the dark sea. The clouds had already defeated the moon. She could see nothing until the approaching storm hurled another bolt.

Rain began to patter against the glass, and the wind rattled the casement, reflecting the storm which raged inside Lalia. Her feelings changed with every wave, battering her against the rocks of indecision. Fear. Anger. Grief. Her usual serenity had long since disappeared into the depths. She had become the storm.

Snatching her wrapper from the bed, she flung it over her shoulders and raced out of the room.

Morgan threw open the wardrobe and took stock of its contents. They didn't amount to much. Apparently, as Mrs. Hayne had said, her husband spent very little time at Merdinn. But anything was too much. A single cravat, a pair of stockings, an unmatched glove--even one of those things was too much. He began to pull shirts and coats and trousers out of the wardrobe and throw them on the floor.

Boots, small clothes... When the wardrobe was empty, he attacked the dressing room. Brushes, razors, and shaving mug joined the heap on the floor. When not a solitary item belonging to Hayne remained in place in the master suite, Morgan gathered up the pile and dumped it in the hallway. Tomorrow James could take the lot to the vicar to give to the poor--or perhaps he would burn it. He wanted no trace of the man to remain in his home.

Morgan walked to the window to watch the approaching storm. As he stood there, a distant thump vibrated its way through the house. A door slamming. Now who would be going out into this weather? As he pondered the question, a flicker of movement on the ground below him, caught in a flash of lightning, captured his attention. Someone was abroad. A small someone. Hm. Perhaps he should check on his adventurous nephew.

He slipped quietly into Jeremy's room and stepped softly to the bed. The little figure on the bed lay still and relaxed, breathing softly. Morgan smiled. The lad had had an exciting day. He pulled the cover up and tucked it in more snugly around the sleeping boy.

So...Jeremy was not the nocturnal wanderer. Morgan again crossed to the window and looked out. This time the lightening revealed someone leaning against the parapet at the top of the east tower. As he watched, the wind blew a sail of hair back from the figure. So much hair. Eulalia Hayne.

Alarm shot through Morgan. Good God! She intended to jump! He whirled and dashed into the hallway and ran for the stairs at the east end. Taking them two at a time, he gained the lower floor and tried the door which gave onto the passage that led from the house to the tower. It was locked, and he could see no key.

He reversed his direction at a run and found the door behind the main staircase unfastened. Looking up, he could still see her leaning into the gale, the rain beating down on her lifted face. He ducked his own head against the rain and made for the tower. The heavy wooden door into the tower opened easily enough, but the moment it closed, he was in total darkness. Feeling his way up the steps, Morgan had climbed only three when his foot encountered not the fourth, but open air. He caught himself on the next stair up, banging his elbow and painfully scraping his shin. Damnation!

The place had deteriorated badly since he had been here. How the devil did she get up there? Rubbing his elbow, he backed down to the floor and considered. As a boy he had known everything there was to know about Merdinn. Including the flight of unprotected steps which led from the wall around the outside of the tower to the watch platform where his quarry stood. Not a route to pursue in this kind of weather, however.

But a life was at stake. The thought gave him pause. Was it a life that he was willing to risk his own to save? Or was he willing to drive Cordell Hayne's wife to her death as Hayne had driven Beth to hers? Had it been Hayne on the parapet, he would have watched him fall without lifting a finger. But his hapless wife? Could he stand by and watch Eulalia Hayne die, even to avenge his little sister's death?

Lalia closed her eyes and let the rain mingle with her tears. It poured over her, washing away her agitation and confusion. The wind swirled around her, blowing her mantle of hair first toward her and then out behind. She didn't feel the chill. She didn't want to feel. Didn't want to remember the resolve she saw in Lord Carrick's hard, glass-green eyes. Didn't want to think anymore.

Not thinking--the very thing that had kept her in this situation. Allowing herself to drift, to accept. Think she must, but she would do it tomorrow. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow.

Suddenly she heard the scrape of leather on stone, and before she could spin around, a large, authoritative hand grasped her upper arm and pulled her away from the parapet. Stifling a shriek, she put up her other hand to fend off whomever had taken hold of her. Her hand encountered something very warm and very hard. A flash of light revealed the something to be Lord Carrick's chest. He only tightened his hold when she tried to step away.

"What am I doing? I am stopping you from leaping onto the rocks. What are you doing? Surely your situation cannot be that bad."

"You have no...." Before she could finish the sentence, a gust blew her curtain of hair across her face, covering both her eyes and her mouth. She fumbled ineffectively with her free hand to clear it away. Before she could gain control of the errant tresses, a second large hand gathered them together and lifted them over her head, holding them firmly at the nape of her neck. The wrist rested heavily on her shoulder.

Lalia looked up into the stern face with the dark curls plastered to the broad forehead. It was too dark to see the green of his eyes, but they glittered wildly in the intermittent light. She pressed her hand against her chest where her startled heart still pounded loudly and tried to gather her composure. He seemed to expect a response.

"I... You... I'm sorry, my lord. I did not mean to alarm you. I have no intention of jumping to my death."

His lordship looked skeptical. "Then what, pray tell me, are you doing up here in the midst of a storm? Are you hoping to be stuck by lightning?"

A blinding flash and a deafening crack of thunder punctuated this question. Lord Carrick jerked her against himself as if to shield her. Lalia ducked her head, hiding her face against his shirt. After a cautious moment she decided that she was still alive and tried to draw back a step. His lordship hesitated for a second, looking deeply into her eyes, then loosened his hold slightly.

The warmth of his muscular body enveloped her. Lalia vainly willed her racing heart to slow. She could hear it banging in her ears. "I am not seeking death, my lord. I simply wanted the rain."

"I see." He did not let go of her. One eyebrow lifted. "You are telling me that I have come out into a storm, risked my health to an inflamation of the lungs, risked my neck climbing a crumbling wall and an open stair slick with rain, and you tell me you simply wanted to be calmed?"

In spite of herself Lalia chuckled. "Apparently so. But thank you for your concern."

Lord Carrick did not chuckle. The next flash of light revealed an intimidating crease between his eyebrows. At last he spoke. "If you say so. Nevertheless, I am unwilling to put the matter to the test. How the devil did you come up? Surely you did not climb the outer stairs."

"I came through the old guard room, my lord. I am familiar with the broken steps."

"Very well. You can lead me back down." He paused for another frowning moment, then asked abruptly, "Have you anywhere to go?"

Lalia dropped her gaze to the stone floor. She knew that would never happen. Looking once more into his face, she drew a deep breath. "I consider that very unlikely."

Lord Carrick sighed. "Then we will continue this discussion tomorrow--without the danger of being incinerated by lightning."

With every evidence of reluctance, he released her hair and ushered her toward the door of the tower room.

Having divested himself of his wet clothes, Morgan poured himself a brandy and leaned back against the headboard of the bed, pulling the blanket over his legs. He rubbed at the spot on his chest that always ached in damp weather. A fire would have been nice, but Mrs. Hayne informed him that they did not purchase wood for the bedchambers at Merdinn in the summer.

He was realizing that, if the woman truly had nowhere to go, if her husband had abandoned her, he would have a very hard time making himself send her into the streets. After all, was his desire to avenge Beth on Hayne's woman any better than what Hayne had done to Beth? Morgan was beginning to feel a bit like a cad and a bully in his own right. Not the way he wanted to view himself. Besides--another idea had taken strong hold of his mind.

What better revenge on your enemy than to take his woman from him, to take her to your bed? No man could stand that. A cold smile lit Morgan's eyes.

He felt himself getting hard. He had been hard off and on ever since he had grasped Eulalia Hayne's arm on the tower. Her soaked nightclothes clinging to every inch of her body clearly revealed the curves whose presence he had hitherto only deduced. Lovely, plump curves covered in flawless, translucent skin. And all that hair. Black satin spread out beneath him, lying beneath those succulently rounded hips, covering those soft, generous breasts.

Morgan rolled the brandy over his tongue. He couldn't wait to get his mouth on her. He must have been mad to even consider sending away such a delicious morsel.