Lauren shook her head. How could she marry a man she didn't know? How could she draw someone else into a deception that had already resulted in murder? And in any case, she never intended to marry. She would never allow any man the power to hurt her the way her mother had been hurt.
"The Marquess of Effing is a wealthy man, my dear. The settlements he has promised are more than generous. You will never want for anything once you marry his son. The family is a noble one—"
"Do not pretend you are doing this for me," Lauren interjected.
Burroughs's expression turned coldly hostile. "I am doing it for the Carlin Line, since someone must take control when I am gone. And I am doing it to protect you from Regina. This marriage may be the only way to prevent her from locking you away in a madhouse—if she doesn't kill you first!"
Heedless of his warning tone, Lauren met his damp eyes directly. "You wouldn't care! You wouldn't care what Regina did to me, as long as you could prevent her from having the Carlin ships!"
Vivid flags of anger rose on Burroughs's cheeks as he glowered at Lauren. He pointed an accusing finger at her, grinding out his words. "I have always, always met my obligation as Jonathan's partner. Even when it came to providing for his bastard daughter!"
Lauren flinched. Burroughs had never called her a bastard before. He made the word sound like an accusation, as if he would like to punish her for her birth.
Then he sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead. "In spite of how it may seem to you, you will discover I have only your best interests at heart."
Lauren laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, truly? Then perhaps you can tell me what I stand to gain? For me, it will merely be exchanging one jailer for another."
"It will not be like that."
"No? How many men do you suppose my new husband will deem adequate to guard me? Ten? Twenty? Is he rich enough to afford the army under your command?"
"I have told you before . . . my men are only there for your protection."
"Protection? Miss Foster is dead!"
"That is enough," he snapped, his face darkening ominously. "You will go to your room where you will consider what I have said."
"No! You needed me for your grand schemes, but it has gone too far. I am through, do you hear? I cannot condone murder."
"You will cease these hysterical rantings at once, Andrea!"
Lauren realized she was courting disaster but was unable to stop herself. "Hysterical!" she cried, clenching her fists. "Yes, I may be. But I am not Andrea!"
Burroughs covered the distance between them with a stride that belied his age, rage mottling his face as he raised his hand and slapped her hard across the cheek. Lauren's head snapped sideways, loosening the pins in her hair and sending a golden lock tumbling down her back.
Her hand going to her stinging cheek, Lauren stared at him in fear and shock. Burroughs had never struck her before— but then she had never opposed him before.
As if he realized what he had done, his fierce expression crumbled abruptly. "I . . . I am sorry," he stammered. And then suddenly he gasped and began to claw at the neckcloth binding his throat.
Lauren watched him warily for a moment, then instinctively reached out to help him. But he waved her away. He sank weakly into a wing chair beside the desk, taking large gulps of air.
It was a moment before he could speak again, his voice still unsteady. "I would have prevented your governess's death had it been in my power to do. Please believe me. This marriage is for your protection. The doctors say I may live only a short time longer, and I would see you settled and . . . provided for, before I quit this life."
His normally florid expression had faded to a sickly gray, but even so, Lauren couldn't shake the suspicion that he was merely using his health as a means to gain her agreement. She felt her anger rising again, giving her the courage to defy him. She shook her head. "I will not marry anyone."
"You will. The marriage will take place in September as planned. You should have ample time to adjust to the idea."
"Never." Though September was still several months away, Lauren had no intention of adjusting to the idea.
"You have no choice. Don't force me to do something I have no wish to do. I imagine you wouldn't care to spend a night in the wine cellars."
Terror welled up in Lauren, making her take a step backward. Burroughs knew about her fear of confinement. He had discovered it when he visited her at the workhouse. And later, soon after she had come to Carlin House, Miss Foster had locked her in a nursery closet as punishment for some minor infraction. She had been found hours afterward, unconscious and cold as death. The experience had brought on a rash of nightmares that still haunted her. Lauren stood there now, her back pressed against the door, staring at Burroughs in fear.
He rubbed his forehead wearily, an infinite sadness in his eyes. "Must I resort to force, my dear?"
Despising herself for her cowardice, Lauren turned and fled, yet she waited till she reached the privacy of her own bedchamber before flinging herself on the bed and giving license to her grief in a torrent of tears. She didn't doubt Burroughs would carry out his threat. He was obsessed with keeping the Carlin Line from Regina and clearly meant to have his way.
Remembering his abrupt announcement of her arranged marriage, Lauren wondered what kind of man would agree to marry a half-mad girl he had never seen. Had he been bribed with the Carlin ships? Or did Burroughs hold some other kind of threat over his head? Perhaps he didn't even know about Andrea's condition.
But whatever his reasons, he didn't deserve to be embroiled in such danger. Miss Foster had already been caught in the middle of the deadly battle between George Burroughs and Regina Carlin, and she had been killed.
Lauren was still sobbing when Ulysses leapt up on the bed, but his contented purring helped her realize the futility of tears. She wiped her cheeks and drew the huge feline into the curve of her body as she tried to consider her situation unemotionally.
Even if she went to the authorities, no one would believe her; she was supposed to be half mad. And if they did believe her story, she would go to prison for fraud, and might even hang. Prison! The very word struck terror in her heart. To be locked away, in a cold dark cell . . .
Matthew had been right. She had to leave Carlin House at once. She would put what few things she needed in a bundle and wait till everyone was asleep, then slip out to meet him.
"But I cannot take you with me, Ulysses," Lauren whispered.
The cat blinked his wide almond-shaped eyes and yawned, while Lauren stared at the canopy overhead. Matthew would help her, as he had said. Once they managed to make the nearest seaport, they could find a ship and leave England. . . .
But now, in the damp darkness of the Thames waterfront, her knee paining her fiercely, Lauren was close to panic as she recalled how disastrously their escape had gone awry. Matthew had insisted on going to London where they could more easily elude Burroughs's men, but they had made it only as far as
Reading before Matthew had nearly been killed. Then he had abandoned her, intentionally making himself a target and giving her a chance to flee. Afterward, her flight had taken her to London where she waited fruitlessly for Matthew to arrive; then to the waterfront where Burroughs's men were still searching for her; then to the London Dock where she boarded the Leucothea and met Captain Jason Stuart.
And that was the final blow. As incredible as it seemed, she had stumbled directly into the path of one of the men she wished most to avoid.
Jason Stuart, the man she was contracted to marry.
Chapter Two
Jason reached the gunwale in time to see his cloaked visitor flee up the stone steps from the quay. Watching her stumble through the cargo on the dimly lit wharf, he frowned, puzzled by her strange behavior.
The entire day had been rather uncommon, Jason reflected as he stared after her. When the Leucothea had docked that morning, he had been met with the disturbing news that the United States had declared war on England.
That intelligence immediately raised the question of whether his American first mate, Kyle Ramsey, would continue to sail with the brig. Then later that day, when Jason responded to his father's injunction for a personal appearance, he had learned something else equally disturbing.
He had been too busy to consider the implications of either event until he had seen to his ship. But when Kyle finally joined him in his cabin, the two of them spent the remainder of the evening drinking Jason's best brandy and discussing the problem Kyle's citizenship posed. Years before, the Ramsey family had moved from England to a plantation on the Mississippi River, and though Kyle hadn't lived in America for long before he took to the sea, he felt a certain loyalty toward his new country.
Wanting his friend to make the choice, Jason had refrained from using his considerable talents of persuasion, but he was pleased and relieved by Kyle's decision to stay with the Leucothea. Only when the problem was satisfactorily resolved, did Jason mention his own quandary. "There is one more thing," he said, pausing to choose his words. "The summons from my father . . ."
"Ah, yes," his inebriated first mate interjected. "The urgent message which was waiting when we dropped anchor. Let me guess—Lord Effing ripped up at you for disgracing the family honor. Or was it merely that you didn't jump when he said jump?" Kyle snorted as he replenished his glass from the crystal decanter on Jason's desk. "You get such summons regularly, Jase. What d'you do to twig the old man's nose this time? It can't be those investments you made in the East India Company—that was last time. You should have taken me with you. I would have recommended an indulgence in spirits for my Lord Effing. Easier to stomach a rebellious son, you know." Kyle took a large swig of brandy and grinned. "On second thought, that wouldn't do. His lordship might drown in the stuff."
"He had something else in mind, however," Jason said before Kyle's loosened tongue took him off on another tangent. "My father has arranged a marriage for me."
Kyle gaped at his friend and captain, staring as if a two-tailed sea dragon had suddenly stepped into Jason's highly polished boots. "The devil, you say!" he breathed at last.
Jason wore a contemplative expression as he leaned back in his chair and drew an imaginary pattern on the desktop with a lean forefinger. "I've agreed to meet the lady."
Kyle drained his glass, then refilled it slowly. "Skulduggery must run in your family," he said, his tone remarkably sober. "The marquess is the only man I know who has more schemes up his sleeve than you do. Only he favors blackmail. Seriously, Jase, whatever possessed you to agree to such a thing? You know what he means to do, don't you? Wants you to settle down and have a passel of brats. Don't see the reason for it, myself. Your brother already has a boy of his own—succession secure and all that."
"I'm afraid my father doesn't quite see it that way— insecurity and all that," Jason returned dryly. "But what would you do if you were offered the Carlin Line for a dowry?"
Kyle's jaw dropped once more. "The Carlin ships?" When he realized Jason wasn't joking, he whistled softly through his teeth. "Why, that clever, clever bastard. He knew that would hook you, if anything would. I take back what I said. You're a rank amateur compared to your father."
Jason chuckled and raised a hand. "Hold, man, I haven't agreed to do anything except pay a call on the heiress. You already have me leg-shackled."
"Why not? Even a bracket-faced harridan would be worth the Carlin fleet. Who's the bride, anyway?"
"Carlin's daughter. And she's supposed to be a beauty, though still somewhat young."
Kyle's brows drew together in a frown as he searched his memory. "But that's rather . . . There was a rumor some years back about a kid. Said to be touched in the head or something. Locked up in Bedlam."
Jason shook his head. "No truth to it, or so my father assures me. I am, however, to be given an opportunity to judge for myself when I pay her a visit. I thought I would set out for Cornwall in the morning. If I make haste, I could be back before repairs are completed on the Leucothea."
Kyle continued to frown. "I don't like it, Jase. Smells odd. My advice is to forget it. You already have a tidy pile, in spite of His Lordship's efforts to keep you a gentleman. What you ought to do is turn those brains of yours to shady dealings. That'll spike the old man's guns and make you rich at the same time. Besides, a wife won't take kindly to you fighting a war and traipsing all over the world."
Jason directed a penetrating glance at his foxed first mate. "I had thought to put the Leucothea under your command."
Looking down, Kyle scowled into his glass. "Damn it, Jason, I've already agreed to stay. There's no need for you to offer a bribe like that."
Jason's blue eyes filled with amusement. "You wound me, mate. I hadn't even considered bribing you. You've earned command of a ship. It was part of the deal."
"But you can't be thinking of leaving the Leucothea yet."
"Not immediately, but I will someday. You know I never meant to make a career of the sea. You've taught me all I wanted to know and more about sailing. Besides, if I do decide to marry Carlin's daughter, I'll have an entire merchant fleet at my disposal. It won't be the same, of course . . ."
Jason's voice trailed off as he let his gaze wander about the sparsely furnished captain's cabin. It seemed small when occupied by the two of them. Both were tall men, with powerful, well-muscled bodies and broad shoulders—although "massive" was probably a more appropriate term for Kyle. But regardless of the cabin's lack of comfort, it had been a home to Jason for nearly two years. He was as familiar with every inch of its oak-paneled bulkheads and gleaming brass fixtures as he was with the rest of the brig, and he had enjoyed every moment of being the Leucothea's captain. He would miss her.
Trying to shrug off his dispirited mood, Jason picked up the nearly empty decanter. "So, then," he said, refilling both glasses. "Shall we drink to our new partnership? And to the hope that the Carlin heiress is all I've been promised?"
"Jase, are you certain about this? Just think of what you'll miss if you marry."
"The Carlin Line should provide me adequate entertainment, at least for a few years."
"Well . . . what about all the hearts you'll be breaking? There must be a dozen women on the catch for you here in London, not to mention Lisbon and Gibraltar and—"
"Not one I would consider marrying. Don't worry, my friend. I don't intend to lower my standards entirely."
Kyle hesitated, before suddenly grinning. "Hell, why not? If you're fool enough to marry Carlin's brat for her money, who am I to stop you?" He raised his glass in salute. "To the Carlin heiress. May she be comely and sweet-tempered and own a thousand ships.
"And to the Leucothea," he added, after drinking deeply. "The best goddamned mistress a man ever had. You know, Jase, I'm getting the better end of the deal. I'd rather have the Leucothea than all the heiresses in Europe. Remind me to thank you sometime. Come to think of it, you'd best be on your guard till I sober up. I may very well end up kissing you before your bride does."
Remembering their conversation now as he stood on deck, Jason wondered if he should have gotten drunk, as Kyle had. Ordinarily they celebrated their victories their first night in port with a bottle and some female companionship, but for a reason Jason couldn't even name, he had postponed his departure from the ship. Yet all the liquor on board might not have been enough to dispel his heavy mood. His usual cheerful spirits had been steadily diminishing all evening—and he had no idea why. It was true that while Kyle had been mulling over loyalties, he had been giving more thought to his own future than he had in a great while. But his prospects didn't really concern him.
It wasn't even his father's autocratic arrangement of a marriage contract, since this actually wasn't the marquess's first attempt at getting him to settle down. In fact, Jason could admire his father's skillful manipulations, even when he himself was the victim.
For some years now, avoiding Lord Effing's machinations had been something of a game to Jason. Even though he had never been
opposed to marriage, he preferred to choose his own bride and had no intention of rushing the business. He was willing to admit, however, that negotiating for the Carlin heiress had been a masterful stroke by the marquess.
During their discussion that morning, there had been no dissimulation between them; there had been no need, for father and son understood each other quite well. Lord Effing had known it wouldn't be the Carlin fortune itself that attracted Jason, but the appeal of controlling a vast shipping enterprise. And Jason had realized the concessions his father was making. Indeed, Jason had been rather amused to hear his sire advocating a union that had such distinct disadvantages: his future bride had not a drop of noble blood in her veins, and she was rumored to be of unsound mind at that.
Jason had accepted his father's assurances that the stories concerning the girl's insanity were without foundation. While the marquess might favor blue blood, he would draw the line at the possibility of either madness or imbecility in his descendants. But the shroud of secrecy itself intrigued Jason, just as his father had known it would. That, and lure of the Carlin ships, were strong enough inducements for him to consider the match.
He would have been a fool to do otherwise. And perhaps, Jason mused, it was possible that he and the Carlin heiress would suit. And if he would have to give up his own admittedly romantic ideal of the woman who would one day be his wife, the Carlin ships should be adequate compensation.
But that wasn't the source of the disquiet that had been disturbing him all evening. Rather, it was his odd presentiment. For the past few hours he had known that once he left the ship, his life would somehow change. And seeing the cloaked woman had only strengthened that feeling.
A balmy breeze ruffled Jason's gilded chestnut hair as he stood watching her vanish into the night, his strong, well- shaped hands lightly gripping the railing. Behind him, he could sense Tim Sutter's presence, could feel the boy's questioning gaze on his back.
Desire and Deception Page 3