“I will.” Morwenna spoke in a voice slurred with exhaustion. “Grateful . . .” Her voice trailed off. Her breathing grew even.
For a quarter hour, the cave lay quiet save for the distant rumble of the sea. Rowan and Elizabeth perched on the bench against one wall saying nothing, afraid to wake Morwenna. Another contraction did that soon enough and began a pattern that seemed to go on for an entire night, but was likely less than two hours. Then she half sat up and cried out louder than her previous whimpers and gasps.
Rowan and Elizabeth rose as one and crossed the cave to Morwenna’s side. She was doubled up and clutching at her belly.
“Let me fetch Grandmama. She’s borne children. She knows what to do. Even Miss Pross must know something. Please, Morwenna. Anyone but me.”
“Too . . . late.” Morwenna gasped out the two words between gritted teeth. “Pains are closer.”
“Then there’s time to fetch someone still, isn’t there?” Elizabeth’s complexion held a greenish hue.
Morwenna clawed at Elizabeth’s arm. “Don’t leave me. I think . . . soon.”
Not soon enough for Rowan’s comfort. The pains grew closer together, but what felt like an eternity passed before Morwenna cried, “Now!”
“Now?” Elizabeth’s voice squeaked. “I don’t think . . . I cannot . . .” She crossed her arms over her chest.
Rowan smoothed her hair back from her face. “Of course you can. Remember who you are.”
On the cot, Morwenna laughed through another contraction. “He knows the family motto.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m a miracle worker.” Elizabeth dropped her arms to her sides. “Even Trelawnys have limits.”
“Helping a baby into the world is not one, I’ve no doubt.” He kissed her cheek. “Especially when it’s another Trelawny and the offspring of a friend.”
“For Conan,” Morwenna said in more of a whimper, “if not me.”
“For you.” Elizabeth took a deep breath and sank to her knees beside the low cot and began to murmur, “Remember who you are. Remember who you are.”
Rowan wanted to embrace her, take all her burdens from her.
Morwenna let out a low chuckle that rose into a shrieking crescendo.
Elizabeth flipped back the blanket, and Rowan turned his gaze away to study the striations in the stone walls of the cave—gray with flecks of gold from particles of copper.
“I think,” Elizabeth said in a voice as cold as the sea roaring at the distant mouth of the cave, “I see the head.”
“Can you push, Miss Morwenna?” Rowan dropped to his knees beside the younger Trelawny. He took out his handkerchief and wiped beads of perspiration from her brow. “Just hang on to me as hard as you need to and push.”
She clutched his hands like a drowning person caught in a whirlpool and pushed. At the end of the cot, Elizabeth kept up a steady flow of nonsense talk like, “Time to face the world, little one,” and, “You’re a wee bit lazy, are you not, Coz. Get this over with.” She delivered each word in her coolest, crispest voice, a lifetime of training, generations of breeding, taking over her apprehension.
Rowan smiled and kept his eyes fixed on Morwenna’s face contorted with pain, wet with tears and sweat. “You can do it, Miss Morwenna. The sooner you get this done, the better you’ll feel.” He wiped her face, then took her hands. “Hang on to me. You can’t hurt me.”
Which wasn’t quite true. Her grip would surely crush his fingers. Her cries would surely deafen them in the confines of the chamber, echoing off the stone and panels nailed up to disguise the openings, as they did.
Elizabeth’s own cry added to the hubbub. Rowan glanced her way to see a wrinkled, red baby slide into Elizabeth’s hands.
“What do I do with him?” Panic widened her eyes, darkened her pupils.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” Morwenna demanded.
“Get him to breathe.” Rowan tried to remember. “A little smack, I think.”
“Smack something this little?” Elizabeth stared at the baby as though he were a new species, but she tapped him on his backside.
The baby released a mewling wail.
“Let me have him,” Morwenna commanded. “Please.”
“Cut the cord.” Rowan produced his knife. “Wait. I think we tie it first. I don’t know what—”
Elizabeth tossed aside her cloak and drew the drawstring from her gown. “Will this work?”
It worked well enough. While Elizabeth assisted Morwenna with the no-doubt bloody aftermath of childbirth, taking wet cloths to her and ignoring Morwenna’s complaints about cold water, Rowan tied the string around the umbilical cord and severed the connection with his knife. “Now we wash him, except the water is likely too cold.”
“Let me have him.” Morwenna’s tone had become imperious.
“In a minute,” Elizabeth snapped in return. “He’s too messy.”
“He? It is a he?” Morwenna began to laugh and cry and murmur something like, “I did it, Conan, just for you.” Then aloud, she said, “I don’t care how messy he is.”
Childbirth was messier than most men realized, Rowan suspected. Few were given the “luxury” of taking part in the experience. If so, many fewer children might be born. Or perhaps not. Once they rubbed the infant dry and wrapped it in soft cloths, the sight of Elizabeth holding the child, her face aglow with wonder and tenderness, expanded his heart to a soul-deep ache. He wanted to see her holding their baby like that, every vestige of the ice princess warmed by maternal adoration.
“I want my baby.” Morwenna sounded surprisingly strong considering what she’d endured.
Slowly, with obvious reluctance, Elizabeth relinquished hold of the infant into his mother’s hands. “He’s perfect.”
He was, in truth, rather ugly with his wrinkled face and pointy head covered in dark, matted fuzz. But he was whole and his cries, more like a kitten mewing, were healthy enough.
“He is perfect.” Morwenna peeked beneath the wrappings, then cuddled him close. “Don’t let me fall asleep and drop him.”
“We’ll stay with you.” Elizabeth sat on the stone floor and slid her arm beneath her cousin’s shoulders. “I need to tell the grandparents so we can get you upstairs, but you can’t be moved now.”
“Should I feed him, or try?” For all the fatigue bruises beneath her eyes, Morwenna’s face glowed.
Elizabeth laughed. “You’re asking me? But I do know the calves do it.”
Rowan walked away, certain if . . . if the tide would have receded yet, he would have gone through the outer door and wended his way through the tunnels and gotten as far away from these scents and sounds and sights. Except it would have done him no good. Forever he would recall that image of Elizabeth holding a newborn close to her heart.
If only it were theirs.
He rested his brow against the cool paneling and took several long, deep breaths. He must not think that way. She’d made herself clear. Bastion Point came first. Her family came first. He understood her attachment to the land. It was where she’d been happy and carefree. He understood not wanting to abandon her grandparents. Family was important. If he had put his family first, or what was left of it, his life would have become far different. He wouldn’t have ended up in England and wouldn’t have met Elizabeth. But he had let anger and disdain rule him and now paid the consequences.
For being out of your will, Lord?
Apparently so. He’d accomplished too little that glorified God. Freeing four score of men and women did too little to shift the scales in the direction of freedom for all. In return, he had made enemies that gave him fewer avenues to travel in serving the Lord.
He could leave in the morning, return to South Carolina, and repair as much damage as he possibly could. He was no longer needed in Cornwall. Elizabeth could wed Penvenan or go about her way, whichever would please her grandparents enough to have them give her Bastion Point. Morwenna would be returned to the arms of her family now that the child had been born,
especially if she revealed its paternity and let them help her. Penvenan said he needed no help from Rowan. A man couldn’t ask for a clearer message from the Lord.
Head and heart clear, he realized how loudly he heard the sea. He must be leaning against the door panel.
Elizabeth was talking to her cousin in low murmurs he couldn’t hear. The baby had long since ceased his newborn cries, and eventually, the voices stopped. A glance showed that Morwenna slept and Elizabeth sat cross-legged on the floor, heedless of the cold stone or showing her ankles, in order to hold the baby in her arms. Her head bowed over the infant, her hair a satin curtain around him.
Rowan opened his mouth to speak, but his throat closed on the words, and he simply watched.
Elizabeth must have sensed the intensity of his gaze, for she glanced up and smiled. “I’ve never held a baby before. He is so . . . alive.”
“Yes.” It was a mere croak.
“I never thought about wanting children. I knew they would come with marriage, most likely, but it was more a philosophy than a reality to me. But now that I’ve turned Penvenan down I don’t know when or if I’ll wed and that will deny me this.” She stroked one finger along the baby’s smooth cheek.
Rowan held his breath against an onslaught of need for her in his life. “I still want to marry you, Elys. I love you.”
“Will you stay in Cornwall?”
“When you and everyone else would think I wed you for your money?”
She bit her lip and turned away.
“If you have any doubts about it, then, no, I can’t stay. You need to come to me empty-handed.”
“To someone else who is empty-handed? I’ve seen how poverty stifles any love that might be there.”
“My dear, I’m not—” He stopped. She would come to him as he was or not at all.
He looked around the chamber for something they could use as a bed for the child. A small crate stood in one corner. He carried it to the side of the cot and lined it with a blanket and soft cloths. It wasn’t the worst place an infant had spent his first few hours of life. Above in the house, no doubt a cradle with satin cushions awaited the next Trelawny offspring. He would enjoy fine clothes and a good education, the opportunity to travel if the war with France ever ended, and the ability to stay on the land or buy his way into a diplomatic or Parliamentary position if he chose that route.
The makeshift bed complete, he returned to the door and leaned his head against it to listen. “The tide has gone out. We should get you home before anyone worries about you.”
“Can we leave Morwenna alone?” Elizabeth rose to her knees to set the infant in the box. “She’s so worn to a thread.”
“I expect your grandparents will send someone down to carry her and the baby up. She’ll be all right until then.”
“Yes, I’ll . . .” Morwenna yawned. “Where is Baby Conan? And may I’ve some water? I’d give my left arm for some hot tea, but water will do.”
Elizabeth hastened to help Morwenna sit and take the baby. Rowan brought her water. For a moment, he rested his hand on her fragile-feeling shoulder.
She reached up and covered his hand with hers. “Thank you, Mr. Curnow. You have been a true friend.”
“I’ll always be a friend. If your grandparents won’t help, I’ll find someplace safe for you to go.”
“Perhaps America.” Elizabeth sounded a bit too sharp. “Her baby needs a father, after all.”
Morwenna looked at her cousin and laughed. “Not him. He’s yours.”
“Don’t be a ninnyhammer.” Elizabeth spoke more harshly than necessary. “He’s no one’s.” She strode to the outer door. “It’s too late for me to go up the inside steps. A maid might be in the study. Shall we go, Mr. Curnow?”
Morwenna made shooing motions. “I doubt I’ll be here alone for long, and you need your rest before you return to your work, Mr. Curnow.”
“Thank you.” Rowan bowed over her hand and kissed it. “But I have no more work.” He followed Elizabeth to the door.
Once outside, she turned to him in the flickering light from her candle. “Why do you have no more work?”
“I’ve been dismissed.”
She startled. “Because of yesterday?”
“Mostly. Partly. It’s been coming for a long time.”
“I’m sorry for any part I played.” She started along the first stretch of the maze of tunnels, her back straight, her gait firm and even, her demeanor frosty.
“That’s all you have to say for yourself? You’ve never told me you love me, but I have reason to believe you do.”
“I—You’ve been clear. Our futures go in different directions.”
“Is that so?” He closed his hand over her shoulder, halting her forward momentum.
She swung to face him, a protest on her lips, and he snatched her candle out of her hand and tossed it against a rock wall. Brass clanged. The flame died.
He didn’t need to see to draw her against him and kiss her. He held her until she relaxed against him and leaned into him. He kissed her until her lips softened and opened. He kissed her until both of them gasped for air and they trembled with response to the closeness.
“I cannot.” She wrenched herself free and blundered into the darkness, her boots clattering.
Rowan followed at a more cautious pace, his hands before him to protect his face and head. He shouldn’t have extinguished the light. He didn’t know his way that well to manage in the dark. Elizabeth’s clattering heels acted as a guide as to which way to turn at each junction until a miscalculation smacked his head against an outcropping of stone, sending him reeling back, pain searing through him, blood trickling down his temple. When he recovered, he no longer heard her ahead of him.
He paused at the junction, certain he heard the sea more in one direction than the other, but both remained as black as a moonless night.
Slowly, he headed the way in which the sea hissed and rumbled more loudly. He didn’t take more than a pace or two before a scream billowed up the other tunnel.
He spun on his heel and chased down the other passage, hands upraised until his shoulder careened off a bend in the wall. He staggered around the corner to where daylight spilled through the opening. He raced toward it to find Elizabeth.
She stood around the edge of the headland point, gasping and sobbing a yard away from a body stretched out on the sand just above the tide—a body of a man with dark, silver-streaked hair and a knife in his back.
Rowan would have bellowed “Noooo” if he could have breathed, if his knees hadn’t turned to boneless lumps.
He dropped beside the man and reached out his hand for a wrist, a pulse, a sign of life. Though the hand still held some human warmth, his spirit had left his body.
“No.” Rowan bowed forward under a burden too great to remain upright. He pressed his hands to his face, willing himself to stay calm, to think, to take the right action. He wanted to run before the pain inside him exploded into rage. And anguish. He remained motionless, forcing stillness upon himself.
“Rowan?” Elizabeth pressed her hand against his cheek. “Are you all right?”
“All right? Of course I’m not all right.” His face had grown hot and wet with tears beneath her caressing fingers. “How could you think I’m all right with Austell Penvenan lying here dead?”
“Of course. You knew him and worked for him for a long time.” She brushed his hair off his brow. “It must be difficult to lose someone who—”
“Elizabeth.” He caught her hand and pressed it against his cheek. “Austell Penvenan was my father.”
CHAPTER 27
ELIZABETH HAD NEVER SEEN A MAN WEEP. SHE COULDN’T imagine the depth of pain and anguish that drove a self-contained man like Rowan Curnow to release his tears over a man who may have fathered him, but often seemed to be more an adversary than a parent. They hadn’t much liked one another. Yet Rowan must have cared deeply to know nothing in their relationship could ever be right.
; Tears of her own swelled, and she sank to her knees and slipped her arm around Rowan’s shoulders. “I am so sorry.”
What inadequate words.
She pressed her cheek against his arm, a hundred questions whirling through her head like why Penvenan had never married Rowan’s mother, why Penvenan never acknowledged his relationship to Rowan, or why he treated his own son only a little better than a slave.
She flicked her gaze to the supine body and shuddered. “Who? Why? What’s he doing here?”
The clipped queries seemed to snap Rowan out of his silent paralysis. He shot to his feet and drew her up with him. “I don’t know what he’d be doing here. You’d think with Conan’s murder, he’d have the sense not to come to the beach at night. I told him to be careful. I told him—” His face contorted. He scrubbed his hands over his features, leaving them smoothed out, impassive. “As to who, I saw Romsford heading toward the house last night before I learned of Morwenna’s whereabouts.”
“Romsford? You think Romsford killed your—Lord Penvenan?” Elizabeth’s stomach rolled. “For the land? For courting me? Rowan, you must tell Grandpapa about seeing Romsford.”
“I will, but I could get into a great deal of trouble if he doesn’t believe me.”
“And he won’t, will he? Romsford’s a peer. Oh no. Oh no.” Elizabeth hugged herself and rocked on her knees. “I need to tell my grandfather about Mor—”
He pressed a finger to his lips. “No, do not. If you can get food and water down to her, do, but she and the baby especially may be in danger.”
“But if the grandparents know, they can help protect her.”
“Your grandfather is the justice of the peace. He’s going to be preoccupied with this, and if anyone learns of the baby’s father—What is it?”
The blood drained from Elizabeth’s head, and she clung to Rowan for support. “Any number of people may know by now. I told the grandparents last night on the terrace.”
The look he gave her was not friendly.
“It wasn’t intentional. I was overset . . .” She trailed off under the intensity of his blue eyes.
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