by Jane Feather
The strange prickling sensation increased, and Tamsyn decided that she was cold. Instinctively she turned back to the cozy room, away from the wet, dark day outside, Mr. Sawyer drew the cork on the wine bottle while a maidservant hurried to set the round table before the fire. Gabriel buried his nose in his tankard of rum with a grunt of satisfaction. It wasn't as good as the grog he'd become accustomed to on the Isabelle, but it still did a man good as it warmed his belly. He glanced at Josefa, sitting on the settle, her hands clasped around her own tankard. She looked a little less unhappy now she was out of the rain, and her eyes rested with eager anticipation on the platter of golden Cornish pasties keeping warm on the hob before the fire.
It was a generally silent meal. Tamsyn's one attempt to initiate a conversation met with a monosyllabic response, and she lapsed into her own thoughts. Somehow she had to soften the colonel's anger. It seemed to have deepened since they'd landed on English soil, as if their arrival in his homeland had finally convinced him that he had no way out of a detestable situation. But surely it didn't have to be detestable? Surely she could find a way to make it palatable for him? Her eyes rested on his face across the table. Firelight flickered over the strong features but did nothing to soften the harsh line of his mouth, the grim set of his jaw. She thought of how he was when he laughed with genuine amusement instead of that sardonic crack that was all she heard these days. She remembered his surprising tenderness when he'd looked after her on the Isabelle. There had to be something there that she could work with.
“If you're finished, I'd like to get on the road again.”
The colonel's voice broke hard and abrupt into the silence, and Tamsyn jumped, wondering if he'd been aware of her scrutiny. “I'll order the horses put to.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Come down as soon as you're ready.”
The door banged on his departure, and they heard his booted feet pounding the stairs with the surging energy that characterized all his movements. Gabriel and Josefa followed him while Tamsyn went in search of the privy. As she descended the stairs to the hall five minutes later, Julian's voice rose from below.
Tamsyn stopped on the stairs, listening. There was a quality to his voice that she hadn't heard before. An icy politeness that made her think of the frozen tundra. She took another step down, realizing that for some reason she was walking on tiptoe, almost holding her breath, although she had no idea why. She stopped again at the turn of the stair, where she had a clear view into the hall below. It was dark, heavily panelled, the gloom relieved only by an oil lamp hanging from the low-beamed ceiling.
Julian was talking to the man she'd seen from the window. Without his cloak he seemed even more massive. His belly pushed against his waistcoat, his thighs strained the buckskin britches, the shoulders in his ridding coat bulged. And yet, she thought, he didn't strike one as a fat man, merely a massive bulk exuding power. Even St. Simon seemed diminished by him, and Julian
I was no lightweight. But he was lean and muscular, not an ounce of spare flesh…
She squashed the images thrown up by such a reflection and leaned forward to catch what they were saying. As she did so, the gray-haired man looked up and saw her.
His black eyes seemed to shrink to pinpricks, and Tamsyn felt that same prickle on the back of her neck. She stood immobile, a fly in the spider's web as the spider stared at her.
Cedric Penhallan saw Celia on the stairs in the shadows. Silvery hair, huge dark eyes, the full, sensuous mouth, lips slightly parted, the graceful slenderness. But
Celia was dead. Celia had been dead these past twenty years.
Julian turned to the stairs, his eyes involuntarily following his companion's rapt gaze. Tamsyn stood in the shadows at the turn, one hand on the banister, the other holding her skirt clear of the step, foot poised as if to continue her descent. The air crackled, and he had the absurd fantasy that a lightning bolt had flown between Tamsyn and the man he was talking to.
It was, of course, absurd. Tamsyn, with her short hair and strangely exotic air was an unusual sight in such a country backwater, which must explain Lord Penhallan’s interest. Julian decided that an introduction was not necessary.
“Your servant, Penhallan,” he said curtly with a cold bow before turning to the door standing open to the inn yard.
“St. Simon.” Cedric tore his gaze from the apparition on the stairs. His face had lost some of its ruddiness. “I daresay we'll run across each other again if you're making an extended stay at Tregarthan.”
“I daresay,” Julian said with the same ice. He paused and said softly over his shoulder, “Keep your nephews off my land, Penhallan. One straying toe and I'll not answer for the consequences.” And he was gone, without waiting for a response.
Indeed, Cedric hardly heard him. His gaze returned to the figure on the stairs. Then she moved. springing lightly to the hall, jumping the last two steps. She brushed past him, following St. Simon into the yard.
Cedric went to the door. He watched as St. Simon tossed her onto the back of a magnificent cream-white Arabian steed. Then he turned and went back into the inn.
Celia had returned to Cornwall. Or Celia's ghost. Tamsyn turned her head to look back at the inn as they rode out of the yard. There was no sign of her uncle, but her blood surged. Cedric Penhallan was still alive, and the battle lines were drawn.
Chapter Fifteen
TAMSYN AWOKE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING AND LAY UNDER her mound of quilts, for a moment bewildered. Her eyes were still closed, her body still half in sleep, but every sense told her that the world had changed. There was a buttery warmth against her eyelids, and almost afraid to believe what her senses were telling her, she opened her eyes.
The sun was shining. And not just a reluctant ray or two-the bedchamber was filled with a golden light. Dust motes danced in the beams pouring through the mullioned windows, and the cut-glass jars on the dressing table sparked blue and red diamonds.
Tamsyn kicked off the covers and jumped to the floor. She threw off her nightgown and stretched, revelling in the warmth of her naked body. Her skin was opening up to the fingering rays, and she felt as if she'd been hibernating in some dank, cold cave for months.
She ran to the window and flung it wide, gazing in breathless wonder at the panorama spread below her. They'd arrived in the dark the previous night, and she'd seen nothing of the outside of the house. They'd hurried in out of the rain, and she'd been aware of candlelight throwing shadows On dark panelling and beamed and plastered ceilings; of fires in massive fireplaces; of a graceful double staircase rising out of the vast Great Hall.
St. Simon had excused himself immediately after presenting his guest and her attendants to the housekeeper, and Tamsyn had found herself ensconced in a large corner apartment with a big canopied bed, tapestry-hung walls, embroidered carpets on the shining oak floor. She'd been brought hot water and a supper tray by clearly curious but uncommunicative servants while Josefa had bustled around unpacking the clothes they'd acquired in London. And she'd sought her bed early and with relief, enjoying, after nights in ill-kempt hostelries, the clean, crisp sheets smelling of dried lavender, the flicker of the fire on the molded ceiling, the deep comfort of the feather mattress.
Now she looked upon another world. Ahead of her stretched rolling green lawns, separated by parterres studded with flower beds, and beyond was the sea, sparkling blue under the early sun. The deeply indented coastline stretched to either side, the chalky headlands shining white against the brilliance of the sea and the sky.
She ran to the east window, flinging that wide too, and leaned out with her elbows resting on the deep stone sill. The view was as spectacular from this angle, the rising sun setting the waters of the River Fowey alight, glittering on the fleet of boats swinging gently at anchor in the estuary, glowing on the roofs of the little fishing village of Polruan on the far bank.
“How beautiful,” Tamsyn murmured in delight, breathing deeply as the scent of roses wafted up to her, mingling with th
e rich fragrance of golden wallflowers planted in a wide bed below the window. This was her mother's land, the soft, verdant countryside she'd described so lovingly to her daughter under the harsh glare of the Spanish sun.
She pulled on her britches and a shirt and ran barefoot from the room. The house was very quiet, although, from the light pouring in through the many mullioned, transomed windows, she guessed it was about five o'clock. But, then, it was Sunday, so perhaps the household slept late.
The bolts were heavy on the massive front door, and she hauled them back with an effort. The door swung open, and she stood blinking in the brilliant morning, her spirit unfurling to the warmth and the light. The forecourt faced east, toward Fowey, and Tamsyn made her way through a small arched gateway in the stone wall surrounding the court and into the main garden that swept down to the sea. She glanced up at her own window, realizing for the first time that it was set into a square ivy-covered tower.
Colonel, Lord St. Simon's house was magnificent, she thought appreciatively. It must represent a fair degree of wealth and power. Wealth and power in the wandering life of a mountain brigand had not been evinced by the ownership of bricks, mortar, and land, but Cecile had told her about how Englishmen viewed the importance of such acquisitions.
Cedric Penhallan was a kingmaker, a power broker, and Cecile had explained that his vast, landed wealth made it possible for him to wield his far-reaching political influence. Without that, not even a man of Lord Penhallan's merciless ambition could have achieved his covert pinnacle of power. And pride of lineage informed the personal power he wielded over every individual who could claim Penhallan blood, however diluted. A power that had rolled over his rebellious sister like a juggernaut.
But it wouldn't roll over this Penhallan, Tamsyn thought with a grim little smile as she set off across the lawn toward the beckoning sea, disdaining the neat gravel path, choosing instead to curl her toes in the still rain-wet grass. This Penhallan was going to bring down the kingmaker, hoist him with his own petard. Yet even as she thought this, the image of her uncle rose in her mind's eye. The extraordinary force she'd felt emanating from him, a menacing avalanching energy that would cut down all in its path. He'd seen her on the stairs. And what he'd seen had brought him up short. Astounded, disbelieving recognition had flashed across his eyes… recognition and for the briefest instant something she would have sworn was fear.
But he didn't know who she was. And he wouldn't know the truth until she chose to announce herself public announcement-Cecile's ghost come for restitution and vengeance, her advent swift and sure as a dagger thrust. And until then he'd be tormented with a half-formed familiarity whenever he saw her, apparently no more than an innocent young visitor to a strange land.
But how much contact would she have with the Penhallans while she was under St. Simon's roof? Tamsyn paused in her dancing progress across the rolling lawns. She'd sensed animosity between St. Simon and Cedric Penhallan. A deep animosity, if the ice in Julian’s voice had been any indication. And what had he meant with that warning about Cedric's nephews? Keep your nephews off my land, Penhallan, or I'll not answer for the consequences. And who were these nephews? Her cousins, presumably.
There were puzzles here, but they could be solved.
Gabriel could do some investigating in the local taverns. He was always at home in such places and was a skilled spy, as skilled at planting information as he was at gleaning it. The important thing was: the game had begun.
With a little nod of satisfaction Tamsyn pranced lightly over the grass toward a low stone wall at the edge of the lawn. Then she stopped, her mouth opening on an O of delight. The ground fell away, a long, curving sweep cut into the cliffs rising on either side, dropping to a small sandy cove; but what stunned Tamsyn was the brilliant mass of color filling her eyes as she gazed down. She paused for a second, then with a little cry of pleasure plunged into the glorious swaying field.
From the sweeping windows of his own apartments Julian watched her dancing progress across the wet grass. He'd been in the process of dressing when he'd been drawn· to the window by some unarticulated urge and now stood shirtless, thumbs hitched into the waistband of his britches, regarding the sprite below with a frown of annoyance. She'd broken the rules, going abroad in those clothes. It was one thing to discard female attire on the deck of a man-of-war in the midst of battle, but in the peaceful and conventional Cornish countryside it was quite different.
There was going to be enough gossip about her presence as it was, without giving the servants fuel for the bonfires. She certainly wouldn't achieve acceptance in local society, let alone in the upper echelons of the ton, if she made herself notorious in such a shameless costume.
But, then, if she didn't choose to cooperate, he was well within his rights to call a halt to the exercise.
He strode from the room, passing a sleepy-eyed maidservant hurrying from her attic bed to rake the kitchen fires before cook and the upper servants appeared. She bobbed a curtsy, blushing at his lordship's bare chest. Julian accorded her a brief nod. She was unknown to him, and he made a mental note to discuss with the housekeeper the servants who'd been taken on in his absence.
He let himself out of a side door and made his way across the lawns, following in Tamsyn's footprints, still visible in the wet grass. His irritation lifted somewhat in the soft air of the new morning, the carpet of raindrops glittering in the sun, the fresh-washed fragrances rising from the parterres as he stepped down toward the stone wall.
Reaching it, he stopped, gazing down toward the cove. For the moment he couldn't see Tamsyn anywhere, and yet she had to be there, unless she'd climbed one of the steep cliffs on either side of the narrow valley. Then he caught a glimpse of silvery hair halfway down the slope, the rest of her lost in a rioting mass of purple-red foxgloves and lilac rhododendron.
He jumped lightly over the wall and made his way down toward the bobbing head. “Tamsyn!”
She turned and waved, her face alight with pleasure, her violet eyes blending with the armful of blooms she held.
“Aren't they so beautiful? I've never seen such an incredible sight,” she called, beginning to wade through the waist-high field of color toward him.
“Judging by your clothes, I assume you're no longer interested in this contract you insisted upon,” he declared, his mouth close-gripped, as she reached him.
If Tamsyn heard, she chose to ignore it. She buried her nose in the flowers she held. “What are they called?
I've never seen anything like them, just growing wild like this.”
“Foxgloves,” Julian said.
“And the sun's shining, and the sea's sparkling. It's all so lovely, I would never have believed England could look like this,” Tamsyn continued, her head thrown back to catch the sunlight, her neck curving gracefully from the open collar of her shirt, her eyelashes thick half-moons on her sun-tipped cheekbones. “Cecile used to describe Cornish summers, but after the last few days, I'd decided absence must have distorted her memory.” She laughed, a happy, chiming chuckle.
She was radiating a deep, sensual delight and Julian was moved despite every effort he made to resist-a buttercup lifting its golden head to the sun. Vigorously, he dismissed such whimsy and said sharply, “Have you any idea the talk you're going to cause in those clothes? Give me one good reason why I should persist with my side of this ridiculous scheme of yours when you won't even follow the most elementary rules.”
“Oh.” Her eyelashes swept up, and her almond shaped eyes gazed at him with their habitually quizzical air. “I don't mind not wearing them in the least, milord colonel.”
Before he could react, she flung her arms wide, tossing the red and purple armful over him so he dripped foxgloves, and with a deft movement stripped away her shirt, kicked off her britches, and stood naked in the purple sea, grinning wickedly at him. “This better, sir?”
“Sweet heaven,” he murmured, his disordered senses tumbling in a maelstrom, all reason and res
istance slipping from him like a boat loosed from its mooring at high tide.
She was a creature of the sun and the sea breeze and the rich wildflower fragrances, and her hands were on his waist, nimble with the buttons, her tongue peeping from between her lips, her eyes intent as she bared his belly, traced the thin dark line of hair running from his navel, down over the muscled concavity to disappear into the shadows of his body. Slowly she pushed his britches down over his hips, releasing the erect shaft of flesh. She stepped closer, pressing her belly against the hard, pulsing warmth, sliding a hand between his thighs; then she raised her eyes and laughed up at him, reaching up to brush a broken velvety purple glove from his chest.
“Better, milord colonel?”
He didn't understand why he couldn't stop this. Why he couldn't put her away from him, drag his britches up again, subdue his errant flesh, and walk away from her, back to the house. She'd broken the rules, he could legitimately refuse to be manipulated for another moment.
Instead, he stood looking down at her, lost in her eyes, his loins heavy with longing at the press of her smooth, bare belly against him. His hands moved to span her waist and her breasts trembled, her nipples rising hard against his chest.
Slowly, she sank down into the purple mattress, her hands sliding over his hips, down his thighs, as she slipped to her knees. She bent her head to take his aching stem into her mouth, teeth grazing lightly, tongue caressing in long, sweeping movements that brought a groan of joy to his lips. His fingers twisted in the silky cap of her hair; he gazed down at her bent head, the exposed nape of her neck, the sharp shoulder blades, the curve of her spine, the flare of her backside, the grass-stained soles of her feet, as she knelt to pleasure him.
He hauled himself back from the brink with a shuddering breath and came down on his knees beside her, cupping her face, taking her warm, busy mouth with his; the salty taste of his flesh was on her tongue, her skin was infused with the scents of her own arousal.