A Lady of His Own bc-3

by Stephanie Laurens

  Her hands rose to frame his face; she matched him kiss for kiss, then pulled back enough to gasp against his lips, “The other way.”

  She tried to shift sideways in his arms. He realized she wanted him to roll, to bring her beneath him.

  “Why?” Why was he asking? Every muscle in his body had cinched tight at the prospect.

  Penny closed her eyes. Because I like feeling you above me, surrounding me. Taking me. Because I enjoy the strength of you moving against me, into me, around me.

  Opening her eyes, she met his. “Because I like it that way.”

  He didn’t argue, but rolled, taking her with him; his weight pressed her into the soft mattress. He settled his hips between her thighs, and thrust deeply home again. She wrapped her arms about him, lifted her legs and draped them over his, gripping his flanks with her thighs, angling her hips beneath him. The reins snapped. All of them.

  He groaned, found her lips with his, and plunged into her. Rode her harder, faster, deeper than he ever had—even thirteen years ago.

  This time she was with him, urging him on, flagrantly taking as much as he would give. Glorying in his wildness. Meeting it with her own.

  She didn’t realize how far she’d gone until he sank one hand into her hair, drew her head back, changed the angle of the kiss to one even more plundering, and drove her straight into the fire.

  They burned. The dance consumed them, took every last gasp from their bodies, cindered every last sense.

  Until they were deaf, blind, far beyond thought.

  Until all that was left to them was a holocaust of feeling that burned every vestige of resistance away, that melded and forged them in the fires of passion unrestrained, and at the last gasp left them, wrung out yet replete, sunk, heart to heart, in each other’s arms.

  CHAPTER 13

  PENNY REACHED THE BREAKFAST PARLOR BEFORE CHARLES the next morning, rather surprised to find him so tardy.

  In the mornings, Ellie never came until she rang; she had rung eventually, once Charles had left, which had been after he’d demonstrated yet another way of reaching heaven. Heaven. For her money, it was still the sun; heaven was too mild and peaceful a concept to describe the reality of where they’d gone. Let alone how.

  She felt buoyed, wonderful, on top of her world. She’d never felt so physically glorious in her life. On the emotional front, she’d kept a close guard on her heart; she was managing perfectly well there. As in trusting Charles with her family’s secrets, she’d been right in letting him be her lover again; she could go forward without reservations.

  Sweeping into the parlor, she exchanged a nod and a good morning with Nicholas, already seated at the table’s head. Crossing to the sideboard, she made her selections; returning to the table, she sat, and from beneath her lashes considered Nicholas. He seemed less distressed, more focused today. Had he, perhaps, gone out last night?

  No. She and Charles would almost certainly have heard any hoofbeats on the gravel drive. Had someone called on him privately in the night?

  She pondered the possibility while attacking her ham and toast.

  “Ah—there you are, my dear.”

  She turned as Charles entered, met his eyes, and wondered what the message in them meant.

  Strolling toward her, he cocked his head. “I wondered if you’d care to ride this morning? I have business in Fowey.”

  He was now close enough for her to see the exasperated expression in his eyes. She realized. “Oh, yes! Good morning. Indeed—a wonderful idea.” She glanced at the sideboard. “I daresay you’ve breakfasted, but would you care for something more?”

  Looking back at him, she caught her breath at the unholy light dancing in his eyes; she replayed her words, didn’t dare breathe…but he merely smiled and inclined his head. “Thank you.”

  She exhaled and returned to her toast.

  Casting a surreptitious glance at Nicholas, she saw him not quite scowling at Charles’s back. Nicholas’s guarded greetings when Charles came to the table and took the chair beside hers suggested Nicholas had finally realized how consistently Charles was about.

  Although Nicholas shot her a disapproving glance, good manners prevailed, and he made no comment.

  Charles, apparently blissfully unaware, mentioned meeting Albert Carmichael at Lostwithiel market the day before.

  Nicholas professed never to have met Carmichael.

  Penny explained the Cranfields’ interest, then had to remind Nicholas who the Cranfields were.

  “Ah, I see.” Nicholas took a long sip of coffee, then shifted his gaze to Charles. “Has there been any advance in your investigation, Lostwithiel? Any suggestion over who is responsible for that luckless young fisherman’s death?”

  She had to hand it to Charles; he didn’t so much as bat an eyelid or pause in cutting his roast beef.

  “Yes, and no.” His tone was cheery, as if discussing the latest price for fish. “For various reasons, it seems unlikely the killer was anyone normally resident in the area.”

  Nicholas blinked. “Why is that?”

  Charles sat back, reached for his coffee cup. “Gimby wasn’t killed—he was interrogated, then executed. It was a professional piece of work.”

  Nicholas looked like he was going to turn green again. Looking down, he picked up his fork and pushed a small mound of kedgeree across the porcelain. “So…no one local…”

  “No. Which is why I’ve been assessing all visitors to the area.”

  “Vagabonds?” Nicholas’s brows rose. “Could it be just…no, you said professional.”

  “True, but there’s no reason a professional might not have appeared as a vagabond, but if killing Gimby was his only purpose, he’ll be long gone by now. Still”—Charles shrugged—“I might draw a bead on him.”

  Penny kept her head down and her tongue still, for which he was grateful. He didn’t want Nicholas distracted.

  After a long moment, Nicholas asked, still not meeting his eyes, “Only purpose…what other purpose do you imagine this villain might have?”

  Gallic shrugs were so useful. “Who knows? But it could, for instance, be someone who didn’t want me to be able to question Gimby, not, as one might suppose, to protect whoever Gimby might have betrayed, but because he, this professional, is on the same quest as I am, and he doesn’t want me getting to the Holy Grail first.”

  He was feeling his way, gauging how best to pressure Nicholas. Despite their antipathy, he was starting to get a feel for the man; he wasn’t a coward, but was possessed of an extremely cautious nature. Probably a good thing for someone high in the Foreign Office; equally a good thing in a traitor.

  Nicholas had blanched at his words, but, this time, had himself well in hand. Lips thinning, he nodded, effectively ending the discussion; Charles got the impression that he’d been fishing for confirmation, having already followed much the same line of thinking.

  Penny finished her breakfast; he quickly downed the last pieces of his roast beef, stood, and drew back her chair.

  Rising, she glanced at her gown. “I’ll have to change.” Her back to Nicholas, she looked up and raised her brows. “I’ll meet you in the hall.”

  “In the forecourt—I’ll have the horses saddled and brought there. I need to be in Fowey by half past ten.”

  Her eyes asked Why? and Why didn’t you tell me earlier? but she nodded, threw a quick farewell Nicholas’s way, and left.

  Nicholas rose as he turned to make his own farewell, joining him as he left the parlor. “Do you conduct a lot of business in the area personally?”

  Charles glanced at him, wondering. “No. My steward and agent handle almost everything.”

  “Ah, I see. I thought the trip to Fowey…”

  “That’s part of the investigation.” Halting, he faced Nicholas. “It’s Gimby’s funeral. There’s an old saw that murderers often turn up to watch their victims go into the ground—to witness their final end, so to speak. I’m hoping our professional might not be so pro
fessional and turn up.”

  Nicholas drew a not-quite-steady breath, tightly said, “In that case, I wish it might be so. Anything that removes such a cold-blooded murderer from among the innocent is greatly to be desired.”

  With a nod, he headed for the library.

  Charles watched him go, intrigued; of all the words Nicholas had uttered in his hearing, those last had been unquestionably the most sincere.

  He was waiting with their horses in the forecourt when Penny came hurrying out. She came down the front steps; a smile of anticipation lighting her face, she walked quickly to him.

  She halted before him, waiting to be lifted to her saddle.

  He took a moment to slap down his demons; kissing her witless in the forecourt in full view of the library windows wouldn’t be a clever thing to do.

  Reaching for her, he lifted her up. He informed her of their reason for hying to Fowey as he held her stirrup for her.

  He was mounting Domino when the thud of approaching hooves reached them. They both shortened their reins; holding their horses steady, they watched a dusty rider come galloping in along the drive.

  The rider saw them, drew rein, and trotted the last way.

  “Mornin’, ma’am, sir. I’m looking for Lord Arbry.”

  Penny waved to the house. “If you’ll just ring the bell…”

  Norris had heard the hoofbeats; he appeared on the porch.

  A step behind him came Nicholas. “I’m Arbry. Is that the dispatch from the Foreign Office?”

  “Yes, m’lord.” The courier dismounted and unbuckled a satchel from his saddle. He handed it to Nicholas, who’d come down the steps to take it.

  “Good.” Nicholas examined the bag, checking the seals, then nodded at the man. “If you take your horse to the stable, then come up to the house, Norris here will take care of you.”

  “Thank you, m’lord.” With a bow to Nicholas and another to Penny and Charles, the man led his horse away around the house.

  Nicholas tucked the bag under his arm.

  Leaning on his saddle, Charles said, “I didn’t realize you were working down here.”

  Penny picked up the silky, dangerous note in his voice; she wondered if Nicholas had. He seemed faintly flustered.

  “Just a few things they want my opinion on.” With a weak smile and a nod, he went indoors.

  Charles watched him go, then met her eyes. “Let’s go.”

  They rode out. Not, this time, like a pair of giddy reckless children. Being responsible adults, they cantered down the lane.

  And came upon Julian Fothergill. He was climbing over a stile as they turned into the lane to Fowey. Seeing them, he sat on the top of the stile; as they neared, he saluted.

  “Good morning!”

  Reining in, Penny smiled. “Good morning. Have you been out bird-watching?”

  Two spyglasses on cords hung around Fothergill’s neck. “Indeed.” He gestured across the lane to where the footpath he was on continued toward the estuary. “I’m on my way to have a look around the river mouth to see if there’s any good vantage spots there. I heard there’s a stretch of marsh—that’s always good for spotting.”

  Charles nodded in greeting. “There’s fair cover along the banks—the marsh extends out from them, but is underwater at high tide. Be careful.”

  Fothergill smiled. “I will.”

  “Have you had much luck?” Penny asked, wondering what questions might lead Fothergill to reveal more. He was a sunnily personable gentleman; she couldn’t see him as a murderer, but they ought to be logical and investigate all five visitors.

  “Oh, yes! Just yesterday I spotted a pied gull, and…” Fothergill’s countenance glowed with a zealot’s fire as he recounted numerous species he’d seen.

  “You’ve covered quite a stretch of territory,” Charles said. “You must have been down along the cliffs to spot those gulls.”

  Fothergill nodded. “Until now I’ve spent most of my days closer to the cliffs. I’m gradually working my way to the estuary and plan to move slowly upriver. Actually,” he continued, “I’m glad to have run into you—you both know the area so well. I’m also something of a student of architecture, and I wondered what the best places to visit hereabouts were?”

  “Restormel Castle,” Penny answered without hesitation. “Its ruins are not to be missed if only for their history, but its structure is informative and there’s quite a bit left to see. After that…” She glanced at Charles.

  “The Abbey—Restormel Abbey, my house—is across the river from the castle. Filchett, my butler, will be happy to show you around. He knows the history as well as I do, and the architecture rather better.”

  “And you can always stop in at Wallingham Hall,” Penny said. “I’m sure Lord Arbry won’t mind. There’s a very fine Adam fireplace in the drawing room, and the music room is considered notable.” She paused, then added, “Looe House is the other house of architectural note, but you’ll need to ride to reach it—it’s on the road to Polperro, but the owners, the Richardses, are always happy to show people with an interest around.”

  “Thank you!” Fothergill beamed at them, his expression open, his gaze equally so. “You’ve been a great help.”

  Domino sidled. Charles tightened his reins. “I’m afraid we must leave you—we have an appointment in Fowey.”

  “Yes.” Penny sobered. “And we’ll have to walk to the chapel by the cemetery—it’s the funeral of that poor young fisherman who was murdered.”

  “Oh?” Fothergill looked blank. “Did you know him, then?”

  “No,” Charles said, swinging Domino down the lane. “We’re attending as representatives of the local families.”

  “Ah.” Fothergill nodded. “Of course.”

  He saluted them; they both nodded in reply and rode on.

  Penny would have liked to discuss Fothergill, but Charles set a pace that precluded conversation. She let her thoughts spin and rode beside him. They went straight to the Pelican, left the horses there, then walked briskly along the High Street. Rather than descend to the quays, then climb up the opposite hill, they followed the High Street along the ridge and out onto the cliff in the lee of which Fowey huddled.

  The cemetery was built on the highest and last stretch of land before the cliff fell away to the rocks against which the Channel’s waves broke. Today, the waves sent up a murmurous chant, a dirge for a fisherman lost.

  They reached the small chapel beside the cemetery; Charles took her elbow and ushered her in. They were just in time. The plain wooden coffin stood on bare trestles before the stone altar. Someone had placed a spray of white lilies on the unpolished wood. There were few there to hear the short service, few who had known Gimby at all, but there were some “mourners.” All were known to Charles and Penny; all were inhabitants of Fowey.

  Together with the rest, they followed the coffin to the graveside and watched it lowered into the earth. Each person threw a handful of soil upon the lid, then one and all, exchanging nods and glances, turned away and left the gravediggers to their task.

  Charles paused to speak to the vicar, then joined Penny where she waited with Mother Gibbs, both hanging on to their hats as the wind, brisker here on the point, tried to whisk them from their heads.

  Mother Gibbs bobbed a curtsy as Charles came up.

  He took Penny’s arm, and the three of them started back to the town. “Have you heard anything?”

  “Wish I could say I have, but nay—there’s nary a whisper, and you may be sure I’ve put the word out good and proper.”

  “Any advance on Arbry or Granville, or any related subjects?”

  Pursing her lips, Mother Gibbs shook her head. “All quiet, it’s been.”

  They turned onto the steep path that led down to the harbor; soon they were in the lee of the cliff, out of the wind.

  Charles went on, “What about men passing through—gypsies, tinkers, vagabonds, men looking for work?”

  “Wrong time of year for most su
ch, but there was a tinker family came through. Near as me and the boys could work out, though, they was camped here, by Fowey town, days before poor Gimby met his end, and though they did head off just before he was found, they said they was heading to St. Austell. Dennis checked with the fishermen thereabouts, and the tinkers did appear there just when you’d expect, so they couldn’t’ve spared time to head the other way and murder Gimby, least not any ways we can see.”

  “Thank you.” Charles fished in his pocket and drew out a sovereign; he offered it, but Mother Gibbs shook her head.

  “Nay, not for this.” She fluffed her knitted shawl about her old shoulders and looked down at the fleet, bobbing at the quay. “Me and the boys don’t hold with this—Gimby might’ve been a blessed hermit, but he was one of ours. Whatever we can do to help you catch the beggar who killed him, we’ll do it and gladly. Dennis said as to tell ye he and the Gallants are at your disposal should you need extra hands.”

  Charles nodded, returning the sovereign to his pocket. “Warn Dennis and the others to be extracareful all around. It’s possible the murderer’s already left the area, but something tells me he hasn’t.”

  “Aye.” Mother Gibbs nodded. “I’ll do that.”

  They parted from her at the lower end of the steep passageway leading to her door and strolled on along the quay.

  Penny glanced at Charles’s face, often expressive, presently uninformative. “What are you thinking?”

  He glanced at her, almost as if he’d forgotten she was on his arm. She narrowed her eyes on his. “Or should that be what are you planning?”

  His swift grin broke across his face; he looked ahead. “Given that Nicholas is receiving dispatches, I was wondering if it was possible to arrange for him to receive the sort of information that would spur him to make contact with the French again. Assuming, of course, that simple treason is what we’re dealing with, a fact of which I’m still not convinced.”

  “You think he might not have been passing secrets, but receiving them?”

  “That’s one possibility we can’t as yet discount, certainly, but…” He shook his head. “It’s a feeling that the picture isn’t properly taking shape. Like a jigsaw with pieces that simply won’t fit. No matter what else we learn, at the back of my mind is the nagging fact that despite the assurances we received that there was a traitor working out of the Foreign Office, Dalziel never unearthed the slightest evidence that any information from the F.O. had actually turned up on the other side.