Desire and Deception

by Nicole Jordan

  "Aye, Cap'm."

  "No!" Lauren said wildly as she came up against the railing. Glancing desperately over her shoulder, she spied the gangport. "I'm sorry . . . to have troubled you."

  She saw Jason Stuart moving toward her again and choked back a cry of panic. Without waiting for him to reach her, she turned and fled down the gangway, praying that the shadows would swallow her up. Dear God, how had she managed to find one of the two men in London she wished most to avoid?

  Soon she was running again through the darkened streets of the city, this time driven by more than fear. She had been truly shocked to learn the captain's identity. It didn't seem possible that the fates could be so unkind.

  Three weeks ago the name of Jason Stuart had meant nothing to her; she hadn't even known of his existence. Neither had she realized how truly dangerous her situation was . . .

  An argument could have been made that she herself was to blame for her present predicament. Perhaps she should have known better than to agree when George Burroughs offered her a home at Carlin House. But she'd only been twelve years old at the time, and alone in the world. And the six months she'd spent at the parish workhouse—where she'd been taken after her mother's death—had been horrifying. It wasn't the cold and hunger or the backbreaking work she found so hard to bear; in truth, she had been used to little better. It wasn't even the beatings. It was the way she'd been punished for breaking rules she hadn't even been aware of. . . locked in the root cellar despite her pleas and screams . . . left there in that awful blackness till her terror was so great she'd lapsed into merciful unconsciousness . . . She would have done anything to escape that. And George Burroughs had offered her a way. In return, she was to help him save the shipping line her father, Jonathan Carlin, had built.

  She had never known her father, nor wanted to. She could never forgive him for what he'd done to her mother. Lauren hadn't been born on the wrong side of the blanket precisely; the blanket had slipped. Jonathan Carlin had married her beautiful, frail mother in a sham wedding ceremony—a common sport of wealthy young bucks at the time—and then abandoned Elizabeth DeVries, leaving her to face the shame of bearing an illegitimate child and the misery of constant and grinding poverty.

  How terrible those final days of her mother's life had been: the pale face ravaged by hardship and illness, the thin form wracked by fever and pain. Though only a child, Lauren had continued to take in washing and mending as her mother had done, but the pittance she earned couldn't pay for the medicine Elizabeth so desperately needed to ease her suffering.

  Lauren still clenched her fists whenever she remembered her helplessness; somehow that had been harder to bear than even grief and loneliness. Even as young as she'd been, she had vowed never to know such poverty again, and her time in the parish workhouse had only strengthened that vow. That was why she had been willing to listen to George Burroughs's strange proposition.

  He'd revealed that for some years he had been a partner in her father's shipping firm, and that Jonathan Carlin had married again shortly after abandoning her mother. Jonathan had wed Burroughs's sister, Mary—legitimately this time— and a child had been born to the couple, a daughter, scarcely six months after Lauren's birth to Elizabeth. The child had been named Andrea. But ten years later tragedy struck.

  Burroughs had not gone into detail, but he'd told Lauren that Jonathan and Mary had been murdered by pirates, and Andrea tortured and left for dead. Though the child recovered physically, she was never the same mentally. Still, as Jonathan Carlin's daughter, she had inherited his tremendous wealth.

  Burroughs, as her uncle, had taken over her guardianship and continued to run the Carlin Line. But the following year Andrea had succumbed to pneumonia, and so he had sought Lauren out.

  She would come to live at Carlin House, which overlooked the sea atop the craggy cliffs of Cornwall, and live in the manner that Jonathan Carlin's daughter ought . . . so long as she pretended to be Andrea. There should be no problem in getting away with the impersonation. There was only one person who might know the difference—Jonathan's sister, Regina Carlin, who stood to take over the Carlin Line should it become known that Andrea was dead. Regina had never liked Andrea; indeed, she had labeled her niece a lunatic and tried to have her committed to Bedlam. But Burroughs was determined to protect his ward, just as he was determined to keep control of the shipping line out of Regina's hands. He had forbidden Regina access to Carlin House and hired men to see that she was kept out—so there should be no problem with her, he said.

  And after all, Lauren and Andrea had been half sisters . . . only six months apart . . . both with fair curling hair, green- gold eyes, and delicate features promising great beauty. The only remarkable difference was Andrea's mental instability .. . New servants would be brought in. No one but Lauren and himself and her governess would know the truth.

  Nor would the impersonation last forever, Burroughs promised. She could have her independence when she reached her majority, as well as a share in the Carlin Line. Burroughs had said that half the ships were rightfully hers, and in a way, Lauren agreed; had her parents' marriage been real, she would have legally inherited Jonathan Carlin's entire fortune.

  And Lauren had only to remember her last night in the root cellar to make up her mind. She agreed.

  Her new life at Carlin House wasn't quite what she had expected. She rarely saw Burroughs, since he resided in London, and she wasn't allowed to associate with the servants. There was only Miss Foster, who was cold and unfeeling, like the granite of the cliffs. She did see her father for the first time . . . in the portrait that hung in the gallery. She had studied that handsome face, searching for some trace of the cruelty that had hurt her mother so, and was surprised when she couldn't find it.

  But, except for the loneliness, her life wasn't a bad one. She was given an education befitting the heiress to the Carlin shipping empire, and all the material comforts even a princess could want. New gowns and shawls and slippers . . . Her half sister's jewel box was hers, the lovely lockets and pins, the ring Andrea had always worn. Miss Foster insisted that Lauren wear the ring, and also insisted on calling her "Andrea", even if they were alone, as did Burroughs.

  By far the most frustrating part of having assumed her half sister's identity, though, was that she was forbidden to go beyond the house grounds. Early on, Lauren had realized that the unsmiling men who were charged with protecting her from Regina were also there to keep her in.

  Yet it hadn't taken her long to devise ways to slip past her constant guards and escape to the wild, gorse-dotted cliffs with their rocky paths down to the sea. Miss Foster slept soundly, thank heaven, and whenever there was no telltale moon to reveal her presence to the patrols, Lauren would climb down the tree outside her window and set out for the cliffs and a few blessed hours of freedom.

  That was how she had met Matthew MacGregor. Three months before her sixteenth birthday, on one of her nightly ventures, she had caught him in the act of stashing contraband silk and brandy in the caves below Carlin House. By all rights, he should have slit her throat when he'd found her hiding among the rocks, since her knowledge could have sent him to the gallows. But he had befriended her instead, saying she reminded him of the daughter he had lost. And after living in seclusion for so long with only a grim governess for companionship, Lauren had latched on to him like a barnacle, gratefully welcoming their odd friendship, which had grown steadily over the next year.

  It had only been a month ago that she had gone out to meet him and heard voices above her on the clifftop—an indistinct murmur above the rumble of the surf.

  Warily, Lauren had crouched down among the shadows and pulled the hood of her woolen cloak well forward. She knew her hair would reflect the faintest light. "Bright as a beacon," Matthew always said about her golden tresses, warning her that in moonlight her hair glowed like a lantern.

  The voices above grew louder, filling Lauren with unease. An argument seemed to be taking place, and although t
he stiff seawind whipped away the exact words, one of the voices sounded oddly as if it belonged to a woman—a frightened woman. Lauren frowned. She could think of no female but herself who would venture so near the cliffs at night.

  Then her legs began to cramp from stooping for so long. She was cautiously trying to shift her tall frame into a more comfortable position when the quarrel above her suddenly erupted into a full-fledged scuffle. A muffled grunt was flung down by the wind, followed by a low curse and the rasp of dirt and pebbles falling over the cliffs edge. The next instant, a terrified scream rent the night air.

  Lauren jumped, turning her head in time to glimpse a giant fluttering bat plummet past her in the darkness. She froze, her skin crawling as the scream echoed eerily off the cliff rocks.

  It was a long while before she dared inch her way forward to scan the cliff above her head. Seeing nothing, she peered down. She couldn't make out anything on the rocks below, but she knew no one could have survived such a fall.

  Her heart pounding as violently as the surf below, Lauren left her hiding place to scramble over the slippery granite, her breath coming harder as she negotiated the treacherous cliff path mainly by feel. When she reached the bottom, she unconsciously slowed, dreading what she would find. She climbed over the last rocky barrier, then halted abruptly, staring in horror.

  Her governess Miss Foster lay there, her body twisted at an awkward angle, her mouth open in a silent scream. A heavy woolen shawl was draped over one shoulder, while spray from the crashing waves had wet her skin, making her mannish face shine in the darkness.

  Lauren swayed, feeling sick. There was something vaguely obscene about the way Miss Foster's black bombazine skirts were spread over the rocks, as if she had neatly arranged them before sitting down to the tea table.

  Nausea churning in her stomach, Lauren turned away, stumbling blindly over the rocks, desperately needing to get away.

  When a shadow rose up before her, she screamed—and would have screamed again, except that a broad, calloused hand clamped over her mouth, preventing her from uttering a second.

  "Hush, lass," Matthew hissed in her ear. "Do ye mean to bring all yer guardian's culls down on us?"

  Hearing that familiar brogue, Lauren flung herself into Matthew's arms and sobbed against his shoulder. "Matthew . . . she . . . she . . ."

  "Aye, I heard the scream." After a moment, he gently disengaged himself from Lauren's deathlike grip. "Stay here, lass. I must look."

  In a moment he was back, his mouth set in a grim line.

  "Matthew," Lauren said hoarsely, the normal huskiness of her voice deepened by horror, "Miss Foster's fall . . . it wasn't an accident. Someone pushed her. I heard voices up on the cliff just before it happened."

  "Aye," he growled, "someone pushed her. And I wouldna doubt that ye were the mark."

  Lauren fixed her frightened gaze on Matthew's face. "You mean . . . someone was trying to kill me?"

  "Kill Andrea. Damme, lass, this impersonation of yers has gone far enough."

  Only recently, in a vulnerable moment, Lauren had confessed to Matthew that she was really Lauren DeVries and only pretending to be her half sister Andrea, and he'd refused to let it rest until she had told him the entire story of the deception George Burroughs had staged. The revelations had not set well with him.

  "Are ye a fool, lass?" he had scolded. "What made ye agree to such a thing? Dinna ye ken ye can hang?"

  Not until then had she realized her impersonation was a criminal offense—punishable by imprisonment and possibly hanging. It had been the idea of prison, though, not hanging, which had frightened her most. The very thought of such confinement made her cringe.

  Matthew had tried to talk her into leaving Carlin House afterward, for he'd done some cautious questioning in the village and unearthed an ugly rumor that Regina had been an accomplice in the Carlins' murders. But Lauren had no place to go. Besides, she had given George Burroughs her word.

  But that was before Miss Foster had been killed. Lauren stared at Matthew now, trying to absorb the shock of his grim suspicions.

  "Ye canna stay here longer, lass," Matthew said adamantly. "Regina Carlin is after yer father's blunt, and she willna jib at murder to get it.Ye must be gone from this place before 'tis too late."

  Lauren shivered, despite the warmth of the June night. Matthew's accusations reminded her of a slip Miss Foster had once made—something about Regina challenging Andrea's right to the inheritance since Jonathan Carlin had lacked a will. The governess had tried to cover up what she'd said at once, and told Lauren to mind her own business. But that, as well as Burroughs's insistence on having his men protect her, seemed especially ominous now.

  "I say Regina snabbled your governess," Matthew declared harshly, interrupting her thoughts. "And ye'll be next."

  Lauren turned to him, her eyes pleading for reassurance he wouldn't give. Yet she knew he was right. Regina would kill her, too, if she stayed.

  "Very well," she said at last, "I'll leave. But I must speak to Burroughs first. He will see that the impersonation must end."

  Matthew snorted in disgust. "Are ye daft, lass? Do ye think he will let ye just walk away?"

  "Matthew, he may not like me, but I can't believe he would want to see me killed."

  "Aye, and he was supposed to protect your governess, too."

  In the darkness, Lauren could almost see the aging smuggler's angry face. In better light, it would be as red as his hair. She laid a trembling hand on his arm. "Please, don't be angry with me, Matthew. I'll speak to Burroughs, and then I'll be free to go."

  "Stubborn lass," he muttered under his breath. "Verra well, but I willna let ye stay long."

  "I . . . I don't know where I can go."

  "Dinna fash yerself. We'll think of a plan. Come, then," he said gruffly. "Ye must go back to the house before ye are missed."

  She hesitated. "We shouldn't . . . just leave Miss Foster there."

  "Yer guardian's men will find her, I've no doubt."

  Choking back a sob, Lauren nodded mutely. She let Matthew guide her back up the cliff, agreeing with his advice to say nothing of what she had seen, and promising to be on her guard.

  But after she had climbed the gnarled tree outside her window and was once again in her own bedroom, the horror reclaimed her and she started to tremble. She had never thought her impersonation would result in murder. And even though the Carlin ships would give her the independence she craved, she didn't want them at the price of a woman's life— or her own.

  Hearing a plaintive yowl at her feet, Lauren bent to pick up the cat that was brushing against her skirts. The great, orange- furred creature had found his way into her bedroom several months ago and had adopted her. Lauren hugged him to her breast, needing the comfort of his warm body. Miss Foster had hated Ulysses and had regularly threatened to get rid of him. . . .

  Reminded again of that twisted form lying so still on the rocks, Lauren desperately buried her face in the cat's fur. "Oh, Ulysses," she said in a choked whisper. "What have I done? What in God's name have I done?"

  Sibyl Foster's funeral was held three days later, and the following week, George Burroughs arrived at Carlin House. Lauren paled when she was told he wished to see her in the study, but she resolutely smoothed the skirt of her black muslin gown and dried her tears. He would not be pleased, but she was determined to tell him of her decision to end the impersonation.

  The study was her favorite room, even though she approached it now with reluctance. Innumerable paintings and replicas of ships crowded every wall and table, while hundreds of leather-bound volumes lined the bookshelves. Lauren had spent hours poring over tomes about the sea, learning about the brave men who challenged its power. She knew a good deal about sailing vessels as well, even though she had never set foot on one; her passion for ships was the one thing besides her height that she had inherited from her father.

  Burroughs, a portly man with sagging jowls and a ruddy complexion, was standi
ng beside the desk when she entered, looking drawn and weary after his long journey from London. His somber brown coat was wrinkled and his knee breeches were creased, indicating that he hadn't taken the time to change before summoning her. He, too, looked as if he had been crying, but Lauren knew his tears were the result of habitually watery eyes.

  As she quietly shut the door behind her, Burroughs dabbed at his face with a handkerchief, fixing her with his rheumy gaze. "I have made the arrangements for your marriage," he said tersely. "The wedding is to take place shortly after your seventeenth birthday."

  Stunned, Lauren stared at him. She had expected some expression of regret over Miss Foster's death. Perhaps even some effort to explain away the entire thing. But she had certainly not been prepared for this. "Marriage?" she stammered. "But what about Miss Foster?"

  "A sad accident," he admitted.

  "It was not!" Lauren replied in a hoarse voice. "I will not be a part of this deception any longer. It has gone too far."

  Burroughs eyed her coldly, his lips tightening with displeasure. "I realize that you are disturbed, Andrea, so I will overlook this insubordination."

  "You told me Regina wanted the Carlin Line, but you never said she would resort to murder. I won't continue—"

  "That will be quite enough!" The sharpness of his tone silenced Lauren for a moment. Burroughs lowered his voice and went on as if she hadn't spoken, relating the details of her planned marriage. Nobility . . . protect . . . younger son . . . Lord Effing. . . .

  A tightness in Lauren's throat nearly choked her. How she wished that she had never become involved in Burroughs's lies and deceptions. She could stand that droning voice no longer. "You promised I would be free when I was twenty-one," she challenged unwisely.

  A muscle in his jaw hardened, but he ignored her comment. "I had no difficulty finding suitors for your hand—not with the Carlin Line for a dowry. Few men scruple about what sort of bride they are getting when a fortune in ships is at stake. They are even willing to overlook insanity, it seems. Yet I wanted to attract the right kind of man. I am pleased with my choice."