It mattered little, he supposed.
He’d come here to find Aislin, and he would now remain a while longer to investigate Gideon’s disappearance. A brother resurrected and immediately lost again.
If Worthington continued to act suspiciously, he’d ask the innkeepers more about him.
The renewed silence unsettled him.
Suddenly, he heard the creak of a door in the direction of the servant’s quarters. He turned just as Maisie popped her head in the taproom, candle in hand.
She giggled. “Were ye lookin’ for me, m’lord?”
She came toward him, wearing only a thin nightrail that hid very little of her full figure. The linen was sheer, revealing the dusky coloring around her nipples and the dark patch at the junction of her legs. One sleeve had slipped off her shoulder so that the fabric was held up only by the lushness of her breasts.
“Sit with me a moment, will you Maisie?”
“On yer lap?” She seemed eager to oblige.
“No, I only wish to talk to you.” Perhaps he was being an idiot for not taking the girl up on her sexual advances. He wanted answers, and she was the sort of girl who seemed willing to supply them if he obliged by pleasuring her in return.
“What shall we talk about?” She rubbed her breasts against his arm again and purred like a cat licking cream out of a bowl.
To touch this girl felt like a betrayal of Aislin.
Blessed saints. When had he turned into a monk?
She took his hand and guided it between her legs.
“I only wish to talk,” he repeated, easing out of her grasp.
She frowned. “Do ye not like women, m’lord? My cousin Collin will gladly service ye.”
“I don’t require servicing, Maisie.”
She tossed him a practiced pout. “It’s that Aislin, isn’t it? We heard ye’d met her at the castle.”
“What do you know of her?” Yes, to touch this girl when he only wished to touch Aislin, was betrayal. Aislin was real and had meant something to him three years ago…just what, he did not know.
Something special, for he’d remembered her while all else was forgotten.
She meant something to him still. Despite the warnings received from Musgrove and Worthington, she was in his heart, and he could not keep away from her.
But he wanted to know more about her. Needed to know more. Where to start? He had so many questions to ask this silly girl.
Musgrove said Aislin was dangerous, and he ought to keep away.
As for Worthington, he did not trust anything the man said.
He repeated the question. “Tell me, Maisie. What do you know of Aislin?”
Her eyes rounded in fear. “I don’t know nothing about ’er. Men die around ’er is all I know, so ye’d be best keepin’ yer distance from that one.”
She turned and fled back into the servant quarters.
Damn it.
Was he the only fool who trusted Aislin? Well, he wanted to trust her…it wasn’t quite the same thing.
Shrugging, he decided to venture into Boscastle. Perhaps he’d pick up some local gossip that would prove more useful, especially about Gideon. Since there was no further conversation to be had here, he slipped quietly through the inn’s kitchen door and made his way into the village.
He wasn’t certain where to head first, but his instincts had led him to Aislin, so he was going to trust those same instincts to lead him somewhere interesting now. He dismissed his botched encounter with Maisie for the moment.
And Musgrove’s warning.
And Worthington’s lies.
The moon stood out against the star-filled sky like a giant silver ball as he made his way silently through the streets. Moonlight cast enough of a glow to illuminate the town square and the quaint row of houses surrounding it.
A few homes had fires lit. He could smell the smoke wafting from their chimneys toward him on the cool breeze.
He hurried down a main road that cut through the heart of town. The respectable shops were shut at this hour. He noticed a lone torchlight emanating from a tavern at the very end of the street.
He debated whether or not to enter, but his instincts were on alert again, warning him not to go in. However, he had no intention of returning to the inn. He decided to stand in the shadows and observe who walked in and out of the tavern.
He would enter later, if someone or something caught his interest.
Despite his boredom, he kept his attention trained on the tavern door. He overheard several conversations as men were leaving and entering. Mostly, it was local farmers discussing this year’s crops.
He took notice of two finely dressed gentlemen walking in.
He edged closer, for this was not the sort of place frequented by the better classes. Why were these men here? For purposes of smuggling? After all, even smugglers were businessmen of a sort and would have to make plans with their shady contacts somewhere. This tavern was as good a place as any.
Who were they? A wealthy landowner? A magistrate? One of the local military commanders out of uniform to hide his nefarious purpose?
Perhaps one of them was Gideon.
No. Even though the torchlight distorted their faces, casting them half in shadow and half in glaring firelight, he’d still know his brother anywhere. Neither man had Gideon’s features. Their bodies were not shaped like Gideon’s either.
These were smaller men.
He and Gideon were big and broad shouldered.
The night wore on, and the tavern owner finally closed up. William returned to his room at the Pendragon Inn, irritated that he had nothing to show for this night’s prowling.
Well, it had only been one night.
Luck had been on his side when finding Aislin.
But neither smugglers nor pirates, nor even one’s brother, appeared with the snap of one’s fingers merely because one wished them to. Unfortunately, it would likely be weeks before anyone did anything suspicious.
Or helpful to his investigation.
He opened his chamber door and instantly felt a shiver run up his spine.
Something was amiss.
After giving the room a quick inspection, he stepped in. His eyes had become accustomed to the darkness hours ago, allowing him to prowl like a cat about town. So, he had no trouble making out the shapes and shadows now. His tension eased after a search revealed no intruder was hiding in wait for him.
The room appeared to be untouched, the tray of food exactly where he’d left it on the small table by the window. The half empty bottle of wine still stood beside his goblet. He lit a candle and set it on the small night table beside the bed. He was about to sink onto the mattress when he noticed why he continued to feel unease.
The covers and the pillows he’d stuffed beneath them to mimic the shape of a man were torn.
Not merely torn, he realized, feeling along the linen.
They were slashed with a knife.
Slashed as if someone had stabbed the pillows repeatedly.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
Someone had come into his chamber intending to kill him.
But who?
Blessed saints.
Was it Aislin?
Chapter Five
William slept fitfully through the night.
He’d placed his table against the door and set his wash basin and ewer so that they were precariously balanced on the edge of it. All would come toppling down with a clatter if anyone attempted to nudge open his door.
He’d also placed the wine bottle, goblet, and tray of food immediately under the window so that anyone climbing in would step on them, causing them to fall and shatter.
With all access duly secured, no one could surprise him.
Still, he slept lightly and woke constantly. That someone had attempted to kill him was obviously troublesome.
What bothered him most was that it might have been Aislin.
Who else knew he was here?
Well, in truth
, it could have been anyone. Even one of the seemingly harmless visitors to Tintagel Castle yesterday.
Worthington.
Prime suspect.
But what was his motive?
Anyone in Boscastle could have done it, for that matter. Gossip traveled fast, and this was a small town. Everyone would know of his arrival by now, for he was a baron, and that in itself was news.
Maisie would tattle for certain.
The girl could not keep her legs or her mouth shut.
Bah! He was out of sorts and passing judgement on the poor maid. What right did he have? He was an oddity in this place. And he certainly was no saint. Nor had he slipped into town quietly. No, indeed. He’d arrived in a carriage and brought along bags enough to last him through an entire season.
Anyone could have spread the word. The ostler, the blacksmith, or one of the inn’s servants. Maisie came to mind again, not in any good way.
He chided himself for even bothering to question her.
In truth, she puzzled him. This was a respectable establishment, and yet she hadn’t hesitated to offer her ‘services’ to him. Perhaps it was harmless, but what if she’d offered herself up as a means to pry information out of him?
If so, who had paid her to do it?
What had he said to the girl? Nothing. He’d been too busy rebuffing her advances.
He’d mentioned Aislin.
“Aislin,” he muttered, recalling how the mere mention of her name frightened everyone. He half expected Maisie to make the sign of the cross and toss holy water at him when next they met.
Perfect. The last thing he needed was an entire community believing he was possessed by a witch.
His thoughts returned to the attempt to take his life…or on his pillows if one wanted to be precise about it. Who meant to do him harm? Someone who did not wish him to leave Cornwall alive.
William rose at cock’s crow to wash and shave but waited until the servants had begun to stir before dressing and heading downstairs.
“Good mornin’, m’lord,” Mrs. Sloane said, greeting him with a merry smile. “Going to be another fine day, it appears.”
He nodded. “It does seem so.”
He watched as she bustled about the common room, readying the tables for the breakfast offered to their guests. All meals were provided by the innkeepers, for there was nowhere else in town to dine other than the local tavern he’d been scouting last night. It drew a less fashionable crowd, and no lady would ever step foot in there.
“Mrs. Sloane, who has access to the rooms upstairs?”
She set down the stack of plates in her arms and turned to him. “Why, just my staff and the guests who let rooms here.” She frowned thoughtfully. “Is there a problem, m’lord? Is something of yours missing?”
“No, nothing’s been taken. However, someone entered my room last night.”
Her expression noticeably eased. “Well, it could have been one of the maids to turn down your bed.”
“No, Mrs. Sloane. Nothing as innocent as that. Someone entered who meant to kill me.” He ought to have spoken to her husband about it, or mentioned it to Mr. Musgrove first, but she’d struck him as an honest woman, and he was curious to see her expression when he told her.
He felt badly about it now, for she’d turned pale and her expression was one of utter and complete shock. It was not well done of him, but he’d learned something from her response. Neither she nor her husband had a hand in this. “Will you summon Mr. Sloane and Mr. Musgrove for me?”
She nodded and scurried out.
It did not take long before both men stood before him in the common room. Mr. Sloane was wringing his hands and his pallor was ashen. “My lord, nothing like this has ever happened here before. Whatever you want. Whatever you need. We are at your service.”
“Your staff, Mr. Sloane. How well do you know them?”
“Why, all of them since birth. The maids are nieces of mine.”
Oh, lord. Maisie is his niece?
“Our cook is my sister. As for our taproom, either I do the serving or my brother does. His boys, Collin and Ethan, help out with the bags and any repairs or heavy chores that need to be done. We are a family establishment of the highest repute.”
He nodded. “The inn’s guests then?”
Mr. Sloane did not hesitate to show him the register.
No one stood out as suspicious, not even Mr. Worthington who was registered in the room across from his, and whose heavy footfalls had caught his notice last night. He appeared to be a regular visitor to the inn, his name appearing often in the register. Still, he had to ask. “Oh, m’lord, Mr. Worthington’s been coming here for years to take the cure. But he took ill last night, and Maisie had to sit up with him for much of the night. She doesn’t mind. He pays her extra for it.”
William smothered his groan. He didn’t think Maisie sat up with the man as much as lay flat on her back for him.
“You say he takes the cure? I would think Bath would be the place for him.”
Mr. Sloane shook his head. “We are not quite as well known, but it is said the waters around Tintagel Castle are good for one’s bones. Poor Mr. Worthington. He isn’t a well man. He comes regularly to drink the waters and seek treatment from Dr. Jones.”
“Jones?”
“Yes, m’lord. He’s the best doctor for miles around. You’ll find him in Trevena, only a stone’s throw from the castle.”
Mr. Musgrove stood beside him, scratching his thick head of gray hair. “I can’t imagine who would do this. I’ll ask around, m’lord. The locals may not open up to you, but they’ll speak freely to me. We’ll get to the bottom of this nasty business.”
Mr. Sloane nodded. “We keep the doors securely latched at night. Anyone coming in after hours has to ring the bell. If this villain had run off after doing the wicked deed, something would have been left open or unlatched. A door. A window.”
William had crept out the kitchen door and come back in that way. He’d made certain to secure that access once he’d returned. But someone could have seen him leave and used that unlatched kitchen door. There would be no trace because William had latched it again himself upon returning.
If his assailant had seen him leave, then why bother to enter his bedchamber and stab an empty bed?
More questions raised and none answered.
Still, it could not hurt to ask about other possible routes of access. “Is there a secret panel or door leading out?” This area was rife with smuggling. He expected almost every structure in this town had hidden tunnels or passageways used to haul goods in and out without being seen.
That moment’s hesitation told William all he needed to know.
To most people in these parts, smuggling was a necessity, not a crime. The taxes imposed on their everyday goods and small luxuries were too high. Since the war with France had been going on for years with all French products banned until quite recently, they’d had to make their way to England somehow. Women wanted their perfumes and lace. Men wanted their fine wines.
Someone had to provide it.
Why not the good citizens of Cornwall?
He sighed and shook his head. “Yes, Mr. Musgrove, do ask around town. See if you can turn up anything about last night’s business.”
“Aye, m’lord.”
As for him, he was returning to Tintagel Castle. Since Mr. Sloane kept several handsome horses in his stable, William chose to borrow a sturdy stallion by the name of Destiny. He was a beast with an ebony coat and obsidian eyes that were so dark and evil-looking, Devil might have been a more appropriate name for him.
It was still morning by the time he rode from Boscastle to the Tintagel Castle ruins. Mr. Musgrove went off as well, but to gather whatever information he could from the locals who trusted him as they would never trust William.
He urged Destiny to a gallop, for he was eager to see Aislin again, even if she proved to be the assailant who intended to kill him.
What would he do the
n?
He couldn’t simply shrug off her possible involvement, not even if his instincts told him the girl did not have a violent bone in her body.
However, she kept secrets.
That alone ought to have made him wary of her. What did he know of Aislin? She’d only appeared to him in his dreams.
His heartbeat quickened as he rode past the hamlet of Trevena, and Tintagel Castle came into view. Although the castle was nothing more than piles of rock and rubble surrounded by sheep grazing in the nearby meadows, there was still something exquisitely majestic about its archways and crumbling towers and the turquoise sea that flowed beneath it.
He tethered Destiny at the spot where Aislin had left her mare yesterday, and then strode to the cliff edge to gaze out upon the water while waiting for the girl. The sight of Tintagel’s dark stone walls thrust out on an outcropping, as though daring the tide waters to swallow it up, quite moved him.
The castle was a ruin, yet life abounded around this place.
Shepherds drove their sheep to the flower-dotted meadows. Coachmen drove curious travelers to the castle and then back to whichever inn they were staying for the night. A local pieman had set up a stall nearby to sell his pasties and Cornwall’s special cream tea for those who were thirsty.
The quaint village of Trevena could be seen in the distance.
Life in these parts was simple, to be sure.
All who lived around here, shepherds and coachmen, blacksmiths and tailors, thatchers and bakers and millers, seemed not to care that kings and knights of legend were reputed to have crossed these meadows and marched up these timeless steps.
“Lord Whitpool,” came a soft voice from behind him.
He turned to find Aislin smiling at him.
Despite his misgivings about the girl, he could not help but return her smile. “Good morning, Aislin.”
“A lovely day, isn’t it, my lord?” She did not hide her delight in seeing him. In truth, her expression was a ray of sunlight that filled the darkest recesses of his heart.
The Midnight Hour: All-Hallows’ Brides Page 9