“That is a ludicrous tale. Why would anyone swallow such a clanker?”
“Because it is a tale of their own making, and if something is repeated often enough, people begin to believe it is true. Like the tales that King Arthur was conceived at a castle on the headland of Tintagel. Please do not think that I equate myself with that glorious king. I am only using the legends around him as an example of how simple events can become amazing with retelling.”
She smiled, realizing anew how much she had enjoyed their previous conversations and his self-deprecatory sense of humor. “I am glad I need not start addressing you as your majesty. With a king and a Prince Regent, we have no need for another monarch.”
“Quite.” He chuckled. “I assure you, Miss Nethercott, all I ever said was that I had left a complicated situation in London. The rest was created by the lascivious minds of the good people of St. Gundred.”
“And the bad?”
“I have been trying to learn how they think so I may stop them before they strike again.”
Sian hesitated. Should she reveal to him what had happened last night? Then she wondered why she thought the stopping of her carriage would remain a secret. The staff of Bannatyne Hall knew of it, as did Wraith and his men, who must live in St. Gundred or nearby.
When she told Lord Lastingham, she watched his face harden. She omitted any mention of Wraith’s shockingly sensual kiss, even though it might already be the talk of the village. She finished with, “The man who calls himself Wraith must be the one you seek.”
“Wraith?” His forehead furrowed. “I know less about him than I would like if I am to bring him to justice.”
“Is he the man you seek?”
“One of two. As appalling as it is to think of one group of wreckers working along this shore, the truth is there are two different groups. Not only do they prey on hapless ships, but their rivalry has threatened to become open warfare in St. Gundred. The constable wisely stays behind his door because his two predecessors vanished.”
“Killed?”
“Nobody knows. Their families left the parish soon after the constables’ disappearances, so there was no one to request the justice of the peace to find answers.”
“So you have taken on that task?”
He nodded. “Not directly, but if these wreckers can be halted, others will not suffer. The situation changed when Wraith arrived here a year or so ago.”
“So recently? But you said he is a leader.”
“He is.” He stared at the sky as if he expected answers to be written there. Lowering his gaze toward her, he said, “You should not linger here. Now that you have learned about the danger, you must understand my concern for your safety.”
She put her hand on his proffered arm once more. “I am afraid I do not, Lord Lastingham. The wreckers do their work at night on the beaches below the cliffs. If I remain up here and sketch the sea and shore—”
“They might believe you are spying on them. I am being square with you, Miss Nethercott. Unlike the moors where you know the dangers, here you face completely different peril.”
She nodded, this time because she did not want to get into a brangle with him. Telling him that he was overly fretful about her safety would vex him. Instead she would concur. . .for now. She would be cautious while she did the preliminary sketches, but she would not be imprisoned in Bannatyne Hall because of “maybes” and “what ifs.”
“I regret that I must frighten you, Miss Nethercott, but you should see what happened last night as an omen that you cannot be so careless again.” He put his other hand over hers on his arm.
Her breath quickened at his strong, gentle touch. Instantly she was transported to the only time she had danced with him. Like now, his touch, as they had followed the intricate pattern of the dance, delighted her with its tenderness and restraint. He was a gentleman.
Unlike Wraith.
She gasped at the unbidden thought.
“Is something amiss, Miss Nethercott?” asked Lord Lastingham.
How could she tell him she was comparing him to a criminal, the very man he sought to bring to justice? There were no words that would not be misconstrued. Not even the truth.
As she raised her eyes to meet his, she saw emotions tangling in his narrowed eyes. Strong emotions, as powerful as the muscles coiled beneath his coat, tempered by the same restraint she had sensed in him. For a moment—the most fleeting moment possible—the powerful gaze seemed familiar. Not from London, but from the shore road last night.
What was she thinking? That Lord Lastingham, who had given up his comfortable life in London to come to Cornwall, was Wraith? She might have laughed, but then she would have had to explain to him what she found absurd.
“Miss Nethercott?” he prompted again. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine.” She hated lying, but she could not speak of her thoughts. He would be offended or amused or perhaps both. But maybe she could speak enough of the truth to keep her answer from being a falsehood. “I was thinking of last night, and I fear it has unsettled me more than I guessed.”
He patted her hand gently. “Lady Bannatyne and her husband should have warned you.”
“Jade told me to take care on the journey, but I never guessed she meant that.”
He chuckled. “I have no doubts that, if you assumed such a grimly wry tone last night, you put fear into Wraith.”
“Wraith!” came another voice, as resonant as Lord Lastingham’s. “The man would have been captured by now if the fools in St. Gundred were not protecting him, calling him a modern-day Robin Hood.”
Sian looked toward the voice. A man rose from where he sat in the shade of the hedgerow. For a moment, she thought he might be Lord Lastingham’s brother, save his hair was black. He was taller than the earl, but he did not have the stance of a soldier, for his shoulders were stooped. Spectacles saddled his nose, and their dusty lenses nearly obscured his eyes that were more brown than green.
“Robbing from the rich and giving to the poor?” asked Lord Lastingham. “I daresay few sailors would be considered wealthy.”
“But the ship owners are viewed as such by these fisherfolk who have turned to crime.” The other man folded his arms and tapped his foot. “Fools! Short-sighted fools, who cannot see they are being used by these wreckers. They are sent in to confront anyone who survives the shipwreck, and if they die along with the sailors, the wreckers know they can get other fools as greedy and careless.”
The earl started to reply, then glanced at Sian. “Allow me, Miss Nethercott, to introduce you to this gentleman who is curate in St. Gundred. Mr. Arthyn Trembeth, Miss Nethercott’s sister is Lady Bannatyne, and she is calling here.”
“I did not know the viscount and his wife were in residence.” Mr. Trembeth pulled at his light blue waistcoat, but the wrinkles in it and his coat suggested he had sat by the hedgerow for a long time. Had he been taking a nap or did he have another reason for sitting where he had a clear view of the shore? He was a well-favored man, save for those dusty spectacles. Had he intended to meet someone else here along the hedgerow? That Lord Lastingham and she had intruded on what might have been a tryst, which a churchman could not enjoy in the village with so many eyes watching his every move, could explain the vitriol in his voice.
“They are not,” Sian replied, wishing she could ask why he had been loitering there. “I arrived early in order to prepare a gift for them.”
“I see.” It was clear by how his gaze quickly shifted away from hers that he did not, but he was too polite to pry. Despite his fiery words about Wraith, he showed every sign of being a proper gentleman. . .who was beset with curiosity.
“I am painting a mural,” she said, taking pity on the curate.
“Painting? Ah, a skill I have never mastered.”
“So you do not teach art at your school?” asked Lord Lastingham.
Mr. Trembeth gave a sharp laugh. “What use would the village boys have for painting? I teach them Lat
in, which they will never use. I teach them grammar, which they will never use. I teach them to respect others and the laws of Great Britain, more lessons they will never use. Why attempt to fill their heads with something else they have no use for?”
“You teach in the village?” Sian asked, even though it was obvious that he did.
“Aye. Mr. Hallett has the living in the St. Gundred parish, but he is close to retirement,” Mr. Trembeth replied, giving her a smile that startled her because it transformed his lean face. “Lord Bannatyne arranged for me to come to assist the vicar in preparation for his retirement. In addition to my other duties, I teach the local boys in the hope that one of them will prove to have some interest.” His mouth turned down into another frown. “What can I teach that will compete with the excitement of another shipwreck or that their hero Wraith has been sighted ambling along a beach?”
Neither Sian nor Lord Lastingham spoke. She had no idea how to answer Mr. Trembeth, and the earl must have been at as much of a loss for words.
Mr. Trembeth seemed to take no note of their silence, because he continued on with the same fervor, “I heard Lord Lastingham warn you to avoid the sea cliffs and anywhere else the wreckers wander with impunity. Heed him well, Miss Nethercott. There are hazards that a lovely woman such as you cannot even imagine.” He held her eyes with his gaze.
Her breath caught. No, she must be mistaken! He could not be looking at her with the same intensity Wraith had. . . could he? Was the man behind the domino a man of the church, a schoolteacher who spoke of offering the boys of St. Gundred a better future than what they might otherwise have? His smooth, cultured voice was unlike Wraith’s lower class accent. But, she had to argue with herself, that could be a guise.
Stop it She could not jump to conclusions. Both the earl and the curate were close in height to Wraith. Both were relative newcomers to St. Gundred. That was true, but it was also true both hated wreckers. The last should have been the clue that she was misguided.
“Thank you for your concern, Mr. Trembeth,” Sian said when she realized he awaited her response. “I will consider what you and Lord Lastingham have said before I walk alone again beyond the gardens of Bannatyne Hall.”
The curate smiled, and she was amazed anew how his lips seemed to mirror the motion of Wraith’s last night.
Bother! Lips moved into a smile the same way on almost everyone. If she kept thinking outrageous thoughts, she would soon include Tibbet and several other tall men at Bannatyne Hall on her list of possible identities for Wraith. But she could not ignore the intensity in his words and in the glances he fired in her direction. There was more to Mr. Trembeth than he seemed willing to reveal. Was it that he rode through the night as Wraith or something as simple as a ruined rendez-vous with a willing miss from the village?
“I am escorting her home,” Lord Lastingham said, “so she is assured of arriving without inviting further danger.”
Mr. Trembeth’s smile wavered as he bid them a good day. As Sian walked away beside the earl, she could sense the curate’s gaze following them. Tempted to look back to see his expression, she refused to act so out of hand. He could interpret her motion as a flirtation, which she had no intention of beginning.
“He is a good man,” said Lord Lastingham as soon as they were out of earshot. “I fear he is engaged in a losing battle.”
“That is a shame, but I am sure all children would find the escapades of masked wreckers far more interesting than conjugating Latin verbs and doing their sums.”
“As you do.”
“Don’t you?” she fired back, not annoyed with him. She was irritated at her own inability to push Wraith out of her mind. “He may not be Robin Hood, but he is a riveting figure to children who have so few opportunities for excitement in their lives.”
“That is true.”
“You did not answer my question.”
He smiled as he paused by the hedgerow gate. “I had hoped you would fail to note that, but I see my attempt to avoid your question is futile. I hate to own to the truth, but I agree that the wreckers are far more fascinating than any Latin verb.”
She nodded, grinning herself. “You would not leave Town because of a Latin conjugation.”
“Quite so.”
She had planned to continue to jest with him, but as he continued to smile at her, she found her teasing retort melting away. Had the day grown warmer, or was the heat coming from his eyes as they focused on her lips?
When he cupped her right hand, he bowed over it again. His gaze never shifted from her face as he raised her hand to his mouth. She drew in a breath and held it. His lips brushed her hand lightly, then he tilted her fingers so he could sprinkle kisses across each one. Her heart beat in tempo with the quick, moist caresses. She wished she had more fingers so he could kiss those as well. That made no sense, she knew, but so little had since she arrived in Cornwall.
“Is your work here the reason you never wrote to me?” she whispered as he raised his head so their eyes were even.
“I wish I had written to you, for I would have cautioned you not to come here.” He opened the gate in the towering hedge. “Please heed the warning I have given you, Miss Nethercott. Your family has every reason to rejoice in the weeks ahead. You do not want to ruin this jubilant time by giving them cause to mourn.”
He walked away, the sun glistening on his hair as his long strides took him around a bend in the road.
She lowered her hand, touching the skin his lips had delighted. His chaste salute was everything she had imagined. No, it was far more thrilling. As she walked through the open gate and into the garden, she halted in midstep.
He had not answered her question about why he had failed to write. With the skill of a politician at Whitehall, he had evaded giving her an answer by beguiling her with his kisses and anxiety about her safety.
Her mouth tightened in a frown. There was no reason for him to avoid telling her why he had not written. Unless he hid something from her. He had been so honest about his work here, so why would he shy away from a simple question? She intended to get an answer to that question the next time they spoke.
Chapter Five
Constantine Lassiter, Lord Lastingham, wiped soap off his face and splashed water from the bowl. The cold droplets swept aside his exhaustion. He could not remember the last time he had slept for more than a few hours. He spent his days trying to be seen in St. Gundred and in the area fields and beaches. He spent his nights trying to avoid eyes as he patrolled the same areas.
How many months had he been on this assignment? Or was it years? Maybe decades. He had lost count.
He grimaced at his face in the glass. He had lived a rougher life while serving on the Continent. Was he getting too old for such work? He could not claim thirty years yet, but he had lived several lifetimes in the past ten years. Lines etched on his brow provided a map to his experiences.
He sat to tug on his boots. As always, they were in need of a polish. That was one habit from the army he had been loath to set aside. He pushed his foot into the boot, then paused. A shine on his boots was not the only aspect of his recent life he had not wanted to shunt away.
Why had Sian Nethercott chosen this time to come to Cornwall? Bannatyne should have had her wait until he and his wife were in residence before allowing her to come to Bannatyne Hall. That she had handled herself without panic when encountering Wraith and his men along the sea road did not change anything. If the wreckers discovered he found Sian attractive, they would try to use her against him.
“Blast and thunder,” he muttered as he slammed his other foot into its boot. He had dared to believe he was close to completing his work, but Sian’s arrival was a complication he could not have prepared for. Since he had met her in London, not a day had gone past when he wished he could see her again. Now he must keep both wreckers and Sian from discovering that truth.
“Blast and thunder!”
Repeating the oath did nothing to make him feel in con
trol of a barely controllable situation. Maybe the thought that he had gained an upper hand had been a delusion all along, and her arrival forced him to acknowledge that.
As he pulled on his light green waistcoat and buttoned it closed, he heard a knock on the door of his small cottage which was not far from the church at the edge of St. Gundred village. He shrugged on his black coat while he went down the stairs. The stairwell was too narrow, so he had gotten only his right arm into a sleeve before he reached the bottom. He shoved his other arm in as he wove between the worn trestle table and the pair of chairs in front of the huge hearth. With the ease of habit and too many headaches, he ducked beneath the low rafters. These ancient thatched cottages in St. Gundred must have been built for piskies.
He opened the door. “You are early today, sir.” Going to the table, he poured two cups of coffee from the pot he had made as he did every morning before he shaved. He held one out, knowing his guest would be eager for one. “Shall we sit?”
“You look fagged, Con.” His commander on this mission, Colonel Daniel Pitchford, looked like a soldier, even when he wore a simple black coat over buckskin breeches. The marquess stood as straight as if he marched on parade, and his boots glistened with the bright polish Constantine had despaired of keeping on his own again. Each movement he made was measured while his keen eyes took note of everything around him. “If you continue at this pace, you will be spent before the wreckers and Wraith are finally brought to face justice.”
“I have a bit of stamina left.” He waited for Pitchford to choose a chair, then sat facing the gray-haired man.
“You hide it well.”
Constantine chuckled because he knew it was what his colonel expected him to do. A yawn tickled the back of his throat. He was exhausted. Or, to own the truth, he had been before he discovered Sian Nethercott had come to Bannatyne Hall. When he saw her in the meadow, he had half-expected her to spit at him like a cat and storm away. He had promised to write to her, but he never should have made such a pledge. His assignment in Cornwall had already been underway, and he had been in London to confer with Lord Sidmouth of the Home Office, discussions that had sent him back to Cornwall with instructions to stamp out the wreckers and put an end to their deadly forays without delay.
Sea Wraith Page 5