“I would think so. But wait…what is this?”
He held up a cloak that had been flung across the table. It smelled of seawater and decay, and trailed a shower of drops across his feet. He held it out toward Lalia, a question in his face.
The hall spun around Lalia as blackness closed in.
The next moment she fainted at his feet.
Morgan hastily dropped the cloak and knelt beside Lalia, calling her name. Then he heard a thumping and turned to see her grandmother struggling up the stairs with her heavy stick. Not again. This time with Lalia wearing nothing but a filmy nightdress.
But the old woman didn’t give him a glance. She stood staring at the wet cape where it lay on the floor, poking at it with her cane. Morgan lifted it and held it out.
“Do you know what this—” As the cloak swung back toward him, the hem came within inches of Lalia.
“No!” Her grandmother snatched the garment out of his hands. “It must not touch her. It is his.” She bundled it and her stick into her arms and started back down the stairs, dragging the tail of the cape and clutching the handrail for support.
“Mrs. Veshengo! Wait.” Afraid she would fall, Morgan hurried toward her, stopped, looked at Lalia lying motionless on the floor, hesitated, then reached for the old woman, clasping her arm. “I’ll help you down. But I must see about Lalia first. Just sit down a moment.”
She paused, looking at him with fathomless black eyes. Then she nodded toward her granddaughter, and he went back to Lalia, scooping her up off the floor and carrying her to her bed. She felt cold to the touch, so he tucked the quilt around her tightly and glanced about for some brandy. There was none in her bedchamber, so he dashed into his own room and returned with the decanter and a glass. Lifting her head on one arm, Morgan dribbled a bit of the liquor onto her lips. At first he thought she would not respond, but then she moaned and turned her head away from the glass. He laid her against the pillows.
“Lalia. Lalia, can you hear me?” Her head moved and she opened her eyes. Morgan rubbed her hand with both of his. “Say something. Are you all right?”
She shook her head, but didn’t answer. He lifted her again and held the glass to her mouth. “Come, now. Drink a little. It will do the trick.”
Her lips parted and he eased a little brandy between them. She choked and gasped at the fiery liquid, but accepted a second sip. Tears began to leak from her eyes and run into her hair. Morgan set the glass aside and gathered her to him. Stroking her head, he murmured comforting nonsense. She shivered in his arms, sniffling quietly.
“Don’t cry. I’m here. Nothing can hurt you.”
“But how did it get there? It was his, and it was soaked with seawater, as if…”
“How it got here is a very good question—one for which I hope to soon have an answer. I do not believe in ghosts—nor in mulós. That cloak arrived here by none other than human agency.” He scowled. Someone was playing nasty tricks, tricks he would soon put a stop to. But right now Lalia still quivered in fear, her arms still held him with panicky strength.
“Were you so terrified of him when he was alive?”
“I suppose I must have been. I would not let myself feel it—I couldn’t. I had to deal with him, had to think, had to escape to my little room in the tower. Thank God he came here infrequently, and when he did he usually left shortly thereafter in the Seahawk. I don’t know what I would have done else.”
Morgan tightened his arms around her. “And he hurt you?”
“Usually, if I could not get away. And he treated me much as he treated your sister, except that he wasted no charm on me. I was his. He had a right to me. But he cursed me and reviled me, calling me clumsy and blaming me when he was too drunk to…to do as he wished.”
A growl rumbled in Morgan’s chest. “The bloody mongrel! I hope his soul is burning in hell.”
“I—I just hope it is not here—in this house.”
At last Morgan had been able to return to his room, firmly putting aside his desire to hold her throughout the night. He could not trust himself for that. In her need she would probably come to him, but he no longer wanted her that way. He wanted her when she was ready, wanted her to come joyfully to his arms. So he gritted his teeth and left her with her candle lit and the connecting door standing open.
He had never in his life achieved a greater victory.
When he had finally bethought himself of Mrs. Veshengo and went to look for her, she was, of course, gone. She had probably waited only for him to go into Lalia’s room before disappearing with the dripping cape. Only a few damp spots on the stone steps testified to her uncanny presence. How had the old lady known of the disturbance? There had been no noise this time, but as Lalia had said, she knew. Morgan shook off an uneasy shiver and headed to the breakfast parlor.
Lalia was there ahead of him, looking wan and subdued. Morgan stopped behind her chair and placed a hand on her shoulder. “How do you feel this morning?”
She shrugged. “Better than Daj, I suppose. I collect that she came upstairs last night, though I don’t remember that, and this morning she is in too much pain to rise from her bed. I don’t know how she even managed to get there. She is getting much worse.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I don’t know how she knew anything was amiss.” He ladled scrambled eggs from the buffet onto a plate and added a generous slice of ham.
“She always knows things.” Lalia toyed with a scone, crumbling it onto her plate.
“You, however, are the lady I am concerned about.” Morgan scowled at the scone. “You need to eat that, not play with it.”
A faint hint of mischief rekindled in her eyes. “Yes, Papa.”
“Humph.” A grin worked its way through Morgan’s scowl. “Just eat. Every bite. You need your strength.” He poured coffee for himself and refilled her cup. “We need to discover who is behind this prank. That garment did not walk itself in, nor did it rise from the sea in the hands of a ghost. You’re sure it belonged to Hayne?”
Lalia nodded. “It was such a strange color. I’ve seen it many times, lying wherever he left it.” She glanced down at her plate. “He often wore it sailing in the winter.”
“Where did you last see it?”
She pondered a moment. “I believe I put it back in his wardrobe.”
“Then it must have been in the lot that James took to the parson. That man does have a penchant for old clothes.” Morgan rubbed his chin. So, Nascawan had possession of the cape. Interesting. He wouldn’t be the first Cornish cleric with unsavory associations.
Lalia felt a glimmer of hope pushing through her fear. Morgan was so matter-of-fact, so calm. In the daylight, listening to his steady voice, last night’s fright seemed distant and out of proportion. She smiled at her next thought. “I don’t think either of us is in a position to ask him.”
Morgan laughed. “No, but James can. I’ll have him do so. Then I’ll decide how to proceed.” He finished his coffee and stood, nodding at her soft green, muslin gown. “I haven’t seen that dress before. Very becoming. Is it from the trunk?”
“Thank you. Yes, there quite a few gowns there, as well as…well, other things.” She blushed at the thought of the sheer batiste shifts and silk nightdresses. What a pleasure to have something different to wear. Most of the garments seemed to be quite new. Perhaps it had been a bride’s trousseau. That thought made her sad, wondering what had happened to the bride. But of course, the whole thing was probably a scheme of his lordship’s. She dismissed the sadness and gathered her thoughts.
At that moment Watford appeared in the doorway. “My lord, a young person who appears to be a preventive officer is asking for you.”
“Oh? Very well. Is he in the library?”
“Yes, my lord.”
Morgan excused himself to Lalia and headed toward the library. A new feeling of dread gripped her. She knew in the depths of herself that another terrible thing had occurred. She followed him and slipped into the book room b
ehind him. He looked startled, but motioned her to a chair and turned to the officer.
“Good morning. How may I be of service to you, Mr. Hastings?”
The man bowed. “My lord. Ma’am.” He added a bow in Lalia’s direction. “I thought you would want to know that there has been another wreck—just a short distance this side of the last one.”
Morgan’s brow furrowed. “Do you know what ship?”
“Yes, sir. It’s pretty broken up, but this time the name was on a piece of the flotsam. It’s the Swallow.”
Morgan’s tension flowed across the room and into Lalia. She held her breath.
“The Swallow.” His jaw tightened. “Yes, that’s mine. Are there any survivors?”
“We haven’t found any. I’m sorry, my lord.”
“I’ll come at once. Thank you for informing me.”
“I’ll be there, sir.” Hastings bowed again and hastily took his leave.
Lalia reached a comforting hand toward Morgan, but he had already cleared the door. Her hand dropped helplessly to her side.
Again Morgan looked down from the cliff at the scene of chaos in the cove. As before, he could see bodies sprawled on the shale and wedged between the rocks. And as before, he saw very little in the way of cargo. Dismounting, he led his black stallion nearer the row of bodies lying in the grass. He tied the horse to a bush and knelt by the first corpse. A stranger—perhaps a passenger. He moved on to the next. At the sight of this one his heart began to beat harder and his stomach clenched.
His first mate, a promising young sailor whom Morgan had hoped to develop into a captain. Gripped with sorrow, Morgan covered his face with one hand. What a waste. What a damnable waste!
He began to make his way down the cliff. A few of the swarm of people nodded to him, but continued the business of scavenging for anything of value. He ignored them and started examining the bodies. Some of them could hardly be recognized, the faces bruised and battered. Another fair-haired girl. Several sailors that he recognized. Good men—or, perhaps, some of them not so good, but all of them his people.
Surely someone had survived. He searched on in vain, his heart growing heavier at each new identification. All dead. The cargo or the cost of the ship never entered his mind. It was the people—people who had depended on him and on whom he had depended—lying dead and tattered on the strand, that brought tears to his eyes and a lump to his throat.
A hail from behind a pile of boulders claimed his attention. He looked up to see Hastings beckoning to him. “My lord, come have a look at this.”
Morgan crossed the strand and climbed into the rocks. Hastings and a pair of his men were tugging at the husky body of a man that had lodged between two boulders. Even from a little distance Morgan recognized the captain of his ship. Stainton, a sturdy seaman from Northumberland, had been with Morgan since he’d taken over the shipping. Had been his confidant for fifteen years. Kneeling, Morgan gripped the flaccid arm and gazed into the face of his friend.
“Angus.” The word escaped with something very like a sob. Morgan cleared his throat and drew a sustaining breath. He felt the hand of the preventive officer against his shoulder.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but I’m afraid there is worse.” Hastings rolled the body onto its face.
The hands were bound behind its back.
Morgan stared for an uncomprehending moment. Then the significance of that unbelievable fact struck him with the force of a fist in his gut.
“Bloody hell!” He sprang to his feet, rage flooding his being, washing away the grief. “Someone did this! Some godforsaken, scurvy bilge rat killed him. Wrecked my ship. Killed all of them!”
The preventive crew stepped back from him warily. He knew what they saw in his face. He must look like a madman. Angus. They had killed Angus.
And they had done it deliberately.
He hadn’t felt so much hatred since Hayne had shot him in the back. He clenched his fists and ground his teeth. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to breathe, to calm down. When he felt less dangerous, he turned to Hastings. “You know what this means?”
The officer nodded grimly.
“Piracy.”
Chapter Ten
It was a somber dinner. Lalia had donned a gown of some soft gray material that reflected her troubled eyes and Morgan’s mood. The pearls hung between her breasts, drawing his eyes but not his thoughts. Startled, he glanced up at her face when she spoke.
“I’m so sorry, my lord. I wish I could say something to ease your pain. It is very difficult when one friend dies, let alone a shipload of them.”
“Thank you. It is hard, but this evening my grief is so laced with anger I can hardly speak. Angus Stainton. They killed Angus Stainton. A better man has never lived, and they let him drown—nay, caused him to drown.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “When he saw the clubs falling on the others, he alone had the courage to leap into the sea with his hands bound and thus let the world know what had happened.”
“It has been many years since we’ve had pirates in this area. Now we know why so few goods washed ashore in the last wreck. They must have unloaded them first before guiding the ship onto the rocks.” Lalia toyed with a bit of fish, finally putting it into her mouth. “What is being said in the village?”
Morgan broke off a piece of his own fish, but left it on his plate. Neither of them had any appetite. His chef would be insulted. “I think most of the people are shocked—and more than a little frightened. Salvaging from shipwrecks is a time-honored practice here, and above half the men engage in a little smuggling, but piracy is different. One never knows where pirates will strike.”
“I know. My father told some terrible tales of the predations of pirates during his youth.”
“As did mine. At one time they even took children from homesteads and villages to sell as slaves in Africa. This is not the first time I have been their victim, but if I have my way, it will be the last. They have struck too close to my heart.” Morgan slammed his fork down and reached for his wine. “I will find them, Lalia.”
“Do you believe it is someone in the area?” She gave up the pretense of eating and also sipped her wine.
Morgan narrowed his eyes in thought. “Yes, I’m inclined to think so. Hastings and I discussed that, and whoever it is, they are familiar with this coast. They know where the worst barriers are and how the currents move. It takes skill to send a ship into a cove like that and make sure it breaks up—and to arrange for the bodies to end up on the beach—a diabolical touch.” His lips hardened into a line. “Clubbing my people into insensibility and giving them to the sea with no chance at all. Someone will pay for that. I am well practiced in revenge.”
“Yes.” Lalia gazed at her hands for a moment without speaking before returning her attention to him. “Do you suspect anyone?”
Morgan considered. “I suspect everyone at the moment. I went into the Pilchard after I finished with Hastings, to hear what I might. Of course, everyone was talking about the wreck and the possibility of pirates, but I heard nothing to the purpose.” He shrugged. “No great wonder. I have been away too long for people to be open with me. I was, however, surprised to see your brother drinking with the Reverend Nascawan and Old Tom. That seems an unlikely trio.”
“My half brother,” Lalia corrected. “Yes, that’s odd. I certainly have never known Roger to cast his shadow on the door of a church. The only interest I know of that they share is brandy, and of course, Old Tom is well-known to be foxed more often than sober.”
Morgan smiled wryly, giving up on his dinner and leaning back in his chair. “Typical lighthouse keeper. In any event, they share that interest with most of Cornwall. Most likely they were chance met. The new taverner—what is his name, Killigrew?—had his head together with theirs. Perhaps they are good customers.”
“I would not have thought that Roger was in residence enough to be that good a customer. Like my husband, he preferred the excitement of London. I cannot fathom why
he has remained in Cornwall for several weeks.” Lalia pushed her plate away.
“Hmm. Perhaps I should make some inquiries into his activities. Now, who do we have on staff that knows the area?” Morgan paused in chagrin. “And whom I can trust not to be in league with the villains?”
“A harder question.” Lalia smiled ruefully. “But surely some of the new stable hands, or perhaps one of the footmen, are trustworthy. Several were hired locally.”
“I’ll give it some thought. There is bound to be someone.” Morgan would like to set James to the task, but the image of the gold locket forced itself, unbidden, into his mind. Surely the old man would not involve himself with pirates. Morgan had known him for all of his thirty-four years, and he had never known him to be cruel. Nor had he had any reason to suspect him of anything worse than receiving smuggled goods—a practice common throughout the duchy. Still… He must think about it.
He thrust the subject away and let himself take a long look at Lalia and her pearls. With such a beautiful dinner companion, it was a pity to waste the opportunity on painful and vengeful thoughts. He didn’t want to let himself become completely distracted from his wooing.
Lalia was tired. Even though no preternatural occurrences had marred the last several nights, she found herself too tense to sleep soundly. In the past when she felt restless, she would seek out her retreat in the tower, leaning against the parapet outside the former guard room with the wind or rain in her face. When she felt relaxed, she would fall asleep in the bed in the room itself. She had always felt sheltered there.
But while decaying stairs and a sturdy bar might stop a drunken husband, it would prove no deterrent to his muló. What did the dead care for a bad fall? If they might rise from the grave, what barrier was a mere door?
During each day, Lalia scolded herself for being silly and resolved to visit her sanctuary that evening. But when the slow, warm darkness of summer fell, she could not make herself go up alone. What would happen if Morgan could not hear her? Could not come to drive the specter away? Would it drag her down the stairs or, perhaps, fling her into the sea below?
A Dangerous Seduction Page 11