Fire Raven (9 page)

“It means ‘white sea’ in the old Cymric language. My father wanted me to have a strong name.”

“I favor it also.” Kate strained in vain for a glimpse of her savior. Despite her lingering hurt and anger, she longed to see Morgan. He had given her back her life, in more ways than one. How desperately she wanted to know him, touch his face again. She had already memorized the contours of his features and knew him to be handsome. Why wasn’t he wed? He was no stripling in short pants.

She decided to ask him in a roundabout way. “Do you live alone, Morgan? Winnie said your mother is gone, and you mentioned your father once, yet I’ve not heard him spoken of around the household.”

“He died five years ago. Aye, I live alone.”

“I’m sorry. How painful it must have been for you.”

Sensing Morgan’s mood had darkened for some reason, she added hastily, “At least you know who your family was. I’ve yet to remember mine. They must be frantic with worry.”

“I’ve sent several of my staff out to question the locals about any recent shipwrecks. We should hear word soon. I’ve also sent a missive to the Earl of Cardiff, requesting his assistance in contacting the Eastland Company. Surely if a ship is missing, they have some record of it.”

Kate nodded. She knew she was foolish to consider striking out on her own, blind and helpless as she was. Her cursed pride made her appear the fool, yet Morgan was kind enough not to remark upon it.

She realized he had gone to great efforts on her behalf. She found she could not resent him for his earlier deceit, anymore than she might despise him for helping her now. It in his nature to be generous and forgiving. Winnie and the other servants all spoke of Morgan with great respect; she owed him as much herself.

“Will you come back with me,
Faeilean
?”

She nodded at his question and slipped her arm through his. It was not so much surrender as a practical decision, Kate reasoned. He was looking out for her again; if there was anyone she trusted, it was Morgan. He had vowed to find her family for her. She knew he would. She wondered why she didn’t feel as enthusiastic as she should.

They started to walk back to Falcon’s Lair, Morgan leading both her and his mount. Suddenly he stopped and stiffened. Kate heard a bevy of young voices on the road ahead of them. Children. They were laughing and jesting with each other, no doubt deliberately veering through all the mud puddles on their way home. They sounded happy, heading in her and Morgan’s direction.

As the children neared, Kate sensed Morgan’s tense beside her. “What is it?” she asked him. “What’s wrong?”

She heard one of the little girls scream. Soon the rest of the children joined in. Their feet splashed noisily through puddles, as they dashed across the couple’s path and disappeared into a nearby copse, shrieking all the way. They sounded terrified.

Morgan grimaced. The timing for such an incident could not have been worse. One stout lad, older than the rest, decided to linger, in an obvious attempt to provoke him. The boy boldly eyed Morgan, then crossed himself just to be safe. The lad bent, snatched something from the ground, and hurled it at the adults, and ran.

Kate flinched when the stone glanced off her skirts. She recoiled and clutched at Morgan’s arm. “What was that?”

“One of the urchins just threw a rock at us,” he said.

“Why?” She was shocked. “They sounded so happy until they saw us here, then — ”

“Children are unpredictable little beasts sometimes.” Morgan cut her short. “Especially those of peasant stock. I’ve no end of trouble keeping them out of my fields.”

Kate frowned and looked confused. Morgan realized his harsh tone didn’t belong to the man she knew. He was always tender with her.

“Am I all covered with mud?” she asked.

“No. Why?”

“They screamed as if they’d seen the Devil himself crawl from a bog.” Kate shook her head and tried to laugh it off. “I fear there’s no other explanation. My muddy appearance must have frightened them, for some reason.”

“Nonsense,” Morgan said, hurrying her along the path back to the keep. “They’re merely base little wretches without any manners. Now, let’s get you inside. ’Tis starting to rain again.”

H
ENRY
L
AWRENCE FROWNED AS
he dismounted from the enclosed coach bearing his royal coat of arms. The Earl of Cardiff gave a dismissing wave to his driver. As the vehicle pulled ahead to the stables, Lawrence studied the ancient stone keep rising before him. He had been to Falcon’s Lair many times before Rhys Trelane’s death.

The two men had been of the same era, and were great friends in their youth. Lawrence had visited less often since Rhys was gone. Young Trelane was not known for his hospitality.

“’Tis understandable, though not excusable,” Lawrence groused under his breath, as he hobbled across the yard. Trelane might favor the life of a recluse, but a baron had social duties, just the same.

Lawrence knew he commanded great respect in both his peers and lessers. His only misfortune was that time had not been kind to his legs. He leaned more heavily on his ivory-handled staff than usual. Nasty spring weather always made his old bones ache.

As always, however, he was impeccably dressed, his tawny velvet breeches and matching doublet slashed and pinked, in tune with the latest court fashions. He was proud of the fact he still had a full head of beautiful white hair, and he took pains to cut an impressive figure. Even here in godforsaken Wales, Lawrence was determined to preserve a shred of his English dignity. And others’ as well, if need be. Such was the reason he was here.

Before he was forced to pound upon the great iron-chased doors, the entrance opened to expose a surprised face.

“Milord Lawrence,” Winnie murmured, curtseying. Her tone was properly deferential. Lawrence studied the housekeeper as she rose. Winnie’s ginger-colored hair, a source of fascination to him when he was much younger, was neatly tucked up under a broad lace cap. A few stray tendrils softened her round face, now liberally streaked with silver. Her complexion was smooth and unblemished as ever. Lawrence knew it must have been seven years or more since he had seen her last.

“By the rood, ’tis Wynne Carey. Nothing changes ’round here,” he said by way of a compliment. “Ne’er the keep, nor the lovely ladies within.”

Winnie blushed girlishly. “Won’t you come in, milord? Lord Trelane is returning from the fields soon.”

“Aye, lambing season, is it not?” Lawrence remarked, stepping past Winnie as she closed the double doors behind him. He studied the place, pleased to note young Trelane had not changed the decor overmuch.

There were still several suits of armor in the great hall, polished to a high shine and standing along the right wall. On the left, beautiful old tapestries of rich claret and forest green graced the cold stone walls; Morgan’s paternal grandmother, Matilda, had woven them. Lawrence remembered her fondly, a spirited beauty with great blue eyes. A true lady. She had hosted plenty of revelries at Falcon’s Lair in her day.

Winnie took the earl’s cloak and cap from him, and ushered him into the library.

“You’ll be more comfortable waiting here, milord,” she suggested, moving to the sideboard to pour their guest a goblet of hot mulled cider. “This will take the chill from your bones. ’Tis uncommon cold out today.”

“Aye, I believe another storm will soon be upon us,” Lawrence agreed, as he accepted the drink and set his walking staff aside. Reclining in a red damask chair and stretching out his arthritic legs, he nursed the spiced cider and studied the room while Winnie chattered inanely about any number of things.

Trelane men had always been a bookish lot, Lawrence mused, eying the leather-bound volumes stacked from floor to ceiling. There was no doubt of their masculinity, however. The dark wood and leather library was dotted with hunting trophies and various art works depicting the hunts and hawking outings Trelane males so enthusiastically enjoyed.

Shortly the library doors opened and Morgan appeared. His attire was more conservative than the earl’s: black breeches and a crisp white cambric shirt embroidered with black-work at the neck and wrists. He greeted Lawrence warmly.

“Milord Lawrence. You do us all a distinct honor. No, Henry, don’t get up. You’ve come many a league today. I see Mrs. Carey has already seen to your creature comforts.”

As Morgan spoke, he felt the Earl of Cardiff’s hawk-sharp gaze studying him. He crossed the room to clasp hands with the older man. He wondered if Lawrence was repulsed by his birthmark. It had correspondingly grown over the years along with Morgan; if Henry was taken aback, however, he was gracious enough not to say anything.

“Morgan, my boy, I can scarcely believe it. The last time I saw you, I trow you were still in short pants. You look the spitting image of your father when he was younger.”

Morgan smiled politely, though both he and Lawrence knew quite well whom he favored. Rhys had been fair in coloring and half a head shorter, as well. Morgan resembled his Spanish ancestors: tall and swarthy with intense dark eyes.

“’Tis good of you to come,” was all he said. “What brings you all the way here in such foul weather?”

Winnie had slipped from the room and closed the double doors again, so the earl did not hesitate to speak his mind.

“Your message, of course. I must confess, I’m damme curious about this girl you found. You said she was washed up on the shore?”

“Aye.” Morgan nodded. “She was in bad shape, of course, though fortunately not seriously injured. She’s recovering at present.”

“I like it not,” Lawrence said. At Morgan’s quizzical look, he elaborated. “D’you know there are still Spanish ships lurking in these waters? Aye, my boy, the bloody papists still plot Elizabeth Tudor’s downfall. The loss of Mary Stuart did not slow their ambitions one bit. Now, there’s James the Scot to contend with. I wouldn’t put it past the Catholics to send one of their spies ashore here, where she might have a safe haven and act as their eyes and ears.”

Morgan was shocked by the notion. “Milord, I must protest such an assumption. The young woman in question is not Spanish, but Irish.”

“Almost as bad,” Lawrence muttered.

Morgan ignored the comment, in consideration of the earl’s age. “Moreover, she was grievously hurt. Her eyes are damaged and her memory gone.”

“Most convenient, wouldn’t you agree, for a spy seeking to infiltrate Her Majesty’s realm?”

Morgan shook his head and made an exasperated noise as he moved to refill the earl’s goblet. He also filled one for himself. He sensed he was going to need it. He hadn’t imagined a simple request for assistance in finding Kate’s family might lead to this. He told Lawrence firmly:

“I insist you trust me in this matter, milord. I sent the missive to you because I hoped you might help me locate the woman’s kin. Your connections in London are more powerful than mine. I assume you still deal with the Eastland Company yourself upon occasion.”

“Aye, I do. A finer trade service is yet to be found. As for the girl, Morgan, I pray you take heed of my warning. If not for your sake, then for hers. Even if her tale is true, she risks a great deal by remaining here at Falcon’s Lair any longer than necessary. ’Tis well known you live alone, and if word gets out, tongues will wag.”

“Let them,” Morgan declared, pausing to take a long, deep draught of the spiced cider. He set aside the goblet and fixed his steady gaze on Lawrence again. “I no longer care what people think of me. As you well know, Henry, they have maligned my name for years.”

“Wrongly so, from what I gather,” Lawrence said on a kindly note. “’Tis not what worries me, Morgan. Think of the girl. If she truly be some shipwrecked wretch, her family will demand satisfaction of their honor. If they be local folk or, heaven forbid, gentry, they will already know of your … ah, reputation.”

“Satan’s Son,” Morgan said with a bitter laugh. “I pray they might be more creative. But I see your point, milord.”

“Exactly so.” Lawrence obviously assumed he had won his case, and heaved a sigh of relief. “I might speak with the Mother Superior at Aberystwyth Abbey, suggest she shelter your guest at your cost until further information is found. Despite their pious airs, I’ve learned the papists ain’t adverse to little bribes now and again.”

Offended by the remark, Morgan shook his head. “Thank you, Henry, but I must decline,” he said. “I have decided she will remain here until she is sufficiently recovered to travel. At such time, I will see her removed to London, where I will begin further inquiries into her true identity. In the while, I trust you will keep this matter in strictest confidence.”

“Of course. I beg you to reconsider your position, my boy. The life of our queen might be at stake.”

“Be that as it may, I will not see Kate questioned by any save myself. Her health is still precarious; such farfetched accusations could bring on complications.”

“Kate? She remembers her name, then?”

Morgan hesitated. “’Tis what we call her for lack of a proper Christian one.” He saw the earl’s suspicions were still strong, and immediately devised a plan. “You’ll stay the night, of course. ’Tis too long a trip to Cardiff in this dastardly weather. With your permission, I’ll bring Kate down to share our evening meal. I want you to meet her yourself, Henry.”