Helen Dickson (21 page)

Laura gazed into his seductive silver eyes that held hers captive while his hand left her chin to explore further afield, sending glowing waves of pleasure spreading like quicksilver throughout her body.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ he murmured, drawing a long, steadying breath and fighting to hold himself in check as his fingers cupped and caressed the fullness of her breasts, feeling her nipples rise up proudly against his palms.

The deep, husky timbre of his voice, combined with his slow exploration of her body, was quickly working its spell on Laura. Closing her eyes, she relaxed, unable to fight back the waves of desire, allowing herself to yield to the exquisite pleasure his mouth and his intimate, unfamiliar caresses were giving her, moving from the swelling fullness of her breasts to her flat stomach, then lower. With exquisite slowness he trailed kisses along her flesh, scorching it with his lips, and she sensed instinctively the care he was taking with her, lavishing equal attention on every part of her, that he was using all his expertise to make her burn with a desire unbeknown to her.

Pulling her against his full length, clasping her against his rigid thighs, Lucas placed tender kisses on her ear, her lips, tantalisingly urging them to part and plunging his tongue inside to taste the honeyed sweetness within. She returned his kisses with an eager passion that amazed him, becoming a magnificent, exciting creature driving him almost mad with desire, and he realised he was in danger of becoming the seduced rather than the seducer.

Laura was slowly sinking into a deep sensual spell, but in some distant part of her mind an image of Edward Car
lyle intruded to scorn and mock her. Above the pounding of her heart she could hear the rain driving mercilessly at the windows, and she tried to blot from her mind what would be happening down in the cove later, of the boat from France shedding its cargo, and the men scrambling among the rocks, wading into the white, surging breakers, snatching at barrels and packages, dragging them up the shore before strapping them onto packhorses and piling wagons high, and speeding them on their way across Mawgan land and up onto the high moor.

Her outraged conscience rose up to tell her that her deceit was both sinful and traitorous, but as her husband’s lips seared hers with a kiss as devastating as the one before, sending passion raging through every pore of her body, kindling a fire within her blood that set her whole being aflame with a need unbeknown to her, her conscience was silenced.

His breathing harsh and rapid, his mouth against hers, sensing a change in her expression and the way her body had lost its rigidity and relaxed against his, Lucas raised his head and gazed into her melting eyes, feeling a surge of tenderness for the temptress beneath him, humbled by her sweetness. ‘Say you want me, Laura. Say you’re impatient for me. Say it,’ he said in a throbbing whisper, between kisses.

‘Yes,’ she breathed, the husky reply almost dragged from her innermost self. Pressed against the full length of his big, splendid body, feeling his hard male contours, his heat, she was ready to give herself to him without reservation. Feeling as if her body were on fire, melting and flowing, she opened her eyes and saw him poised over her. His eyes were intent, his face hard and dark with passion, and a pulse was throbbing in his temple. Sliding her hands over his broad chest and curving shoulder and around his nape, she tangled her fingers in his hair and pulled his head down to
hers, all her senses having flown. ‘Though I may be damned tomorrow, I do want you.’

Her words washed through Lucas’s fogged mind, and just for a moment he thought it was a strange thing for her to say, but the time for conversation was long past as he rolled her onto her back and lifted her hips to receive him, laying siege to her proud beauty, intent on giving pleasure as well as taking.

Dawn was breaking and peeking through chinks in the curtains when Lucas awoke the following morning. He lay sated and unmoving, still weak from the violence of his brutal release, exhausted from that glorifying climax, his thoughts lethargic and centred around the young woman cradled against him. Her leg was thrown over his, her skin warm and the texture of the finest silk. She stretched languidly beneath the covers, but did not wake.

Resting his weight on his elbow, he gazed down at her with aching tenderness, unable to believe the beauty of her, that she was real. Her tousled dark head was turned towards him, her long, curving lashes casting a dusting of shadows on her flushed cheeks. Her lips were slightly swollen from his kisses, dewy soft and gently parted, through which her breath sighed, deep and even, rippling over his skin and rousing his desire with a speed he hadn’t thought physically possible. It amazed him that even now he was not immune to her tantalising attractions.

His mind was still dazed by how this shy and captivating young creature had turned into the bold, writhing temptress who had arched sweetly to meet him, clasping him with her long legs as she clutched the flexing muscles of his back to bring him closer still as senses soared. After that first time, encouraged by her smooth, agile body, her mouth filling his with fragrance, her hunger matching his, there had been more splendid lovemaking, lazy and lethargic,
loving and leisurely. He had lingered over her endlessly, until, sated, they had fallen to sleep in each other’s arms.

Brushing a stray curl from her brow, he leaned over and gently placed a kiss where the curl had been, before easing himself out of bed, trying not to wake her. Hastily dressing and carrying his boots, he left the room and went down to the hall, calling for John as he sat and pulled them on. John appeared from the direction of the kitchen, where sounds of domesticity could be heard above the noise of the wind.

‘You’re up early, sir,’ John remarked.

‘I know. It’s a little early to go to the mine, so I thought I might take a ride—clear my head a bit before breakfast.’

‘Good idea, if I might say so. You had a mystery visitor last night.’

Lucas glanced at him sharply. ‘Who was it?’

‘Can’t tell you that. Never seen him before, but he said it was urgent.’

‘Why didn’t you come and fetch me?’

‘Because you said you didn’t want to be disturbed, as I remember,’ John reminded him, with a meaningful twinkle in his eyes. ‘Anyway, ’twouldn’t have done any good because he said he was in a hurry and couldn’t wait.’ He frowned. ‘Looked agitated, though, I thought.’

‘Ah, well,’ Lucas remarked, standing up. ‘If it was urgent no doubt whoever it was will come back.’

‘Aye, I’m sure you’re right.’

Soon Lucas was riding along the top of the cliffs in the direction of Roslyn, listening to the wind as it went moaning and searching in the hollows and crevices of the land, a loud, impatient wind, whipping up the sea so that the mighty waves crashed mercilessly onto the shore. Thankfully the rain had ceased with the dawn. He noticed how the whole world that day seemed etched in black and grey—like a widow in mourning.

He was tempted to turn back to the manor, the moaning wind reminding him so acutely of the lost souls which some
said haunted Roslyn Cove—those unfortunates who had spilled onto the shore when their ships had run aground in a storm, or been lured onto the rocks by the false light of the wreckers. His thoughts turned to Edward Carlyle, knowing he would know no peace until he had rid Cornwall of his vile presence. That time would soon come. He was sure of it.

He was about to turn back when he saw small groups of men coming towards him, strung out like black ants along the cliff path, clutching their pathetic clothes about their bodies to keep out the invading wind. They were tinners making for Wheal Rose to begin their shift.

Flexing his shoulder to relieve the perpetual ache from his wound, Lucas greeted each one of them, about to ride on, but paused when one young man, who walked alone, indicated with a slight gesture of his hand and a furtive glance around to make sure no one was within earshot, that he wanted a word with him.

‘What is it?’ Lucas asked.

‘Ye don’t know me, sir, but me name’s Seth Watkins,’ the man said, dragging his hat from his head as a mark of respect for his superior, ‘from Trethlyn.’

Lucas nodded. He knew the name. Seth Watkins was employed in the engine house at the Wheal Rose mine. He was also the brother of the excise man who had been found dead on the beach a month back. Lucas had a distinct feeling that it was Seth Watkins who had come to the manor last night.

‘What is it you wish to speak to me about—and did you come to the manor to see me last night, by any chance?’

‘Aye, that I did, sir,’ Seth replied, speaking in a strong Cornish accent, keeping his voice low lest it carried on the wind. ‘I wanted to speak to you about the landin’.’

Lucas felt the hairs at the back of his neck bristle. His hard, silver gaze never moved from the man’s face. ‘Land
ing? What landing?’ he demanded sharply. ‘I know nothing about this. When is it to be?’

‘It be last night, sir. I came to tell ee—but I couldn’t stay. Thought I wa’ bein’ followed, see. Too many folk watchin’. More’n me life’s worth for ’em to ’spect I’ve been talkin’.’

‘You’re Jed Watkins’s brother, aren’t you?’

‘Aye, that I am, sir.’

Recalling what Walter had told him about Seth seeing his brother shot, Lucas asked pointedly, ‘Were you there that night, Seth—when Jed was shot?’ Seth fidgeted with his hat, his eyes shifting nervously from side to side. ‘Is it because you were…that you actually saw the man who shot him,’ Lucas went on when Seth didn’t reply, ‘that you decided to inform on the smugglers last night?’

‘Aye,’ he cried, with a fierceness of spirit that surprised Lucas. ‘It was Carlyle that shot Jed. I know. I was there.’

‘And you seek revenge.’

‘Nay—I’m not a vengeful man, sir. ’Tis justice I seek. I want him to stand trial and would not cheat the hangman of his neck. But if the judges don’t send him to his death, then I swear I’ll kill him meself—even if I die in the attempt.’

‘Then you are a brave man, Seth Watkins.’

‘Nay, not brave. I would ’ave come forward afore now, but ’twas a risk. I feared for me family—me children, see. That prevented me.’

‘Then why now?’

He shrugged. ‘Conscience, I suppose—and seeing Jed’s fatherless young uns day after day. Keepin’ it to meself became too heavy a burden to bear.’

‘Then why didn’t you go and see Squire Ainsworth? He’s the local magistrate.’

‘I did—afore I went to the manor last night—but his housekeeper told me he’s been in Truro for the past two
days and isn’t due back until later today. That was when I thought of you.’

‘I’m glad you did, Seth. I only wish you’d waited to speak to me last night. Setting aside the fact that Carlyle killed your brother, you know the extent of his other, illegal, activities?’

‘That I do, sir.’

‘And when he is finally apprehended, will you be prepared to give evidence against him?’

‘Aye, I will. He’s bad and dangerous, and while ever he’s pullin’ the strings everyone runs scared of him. But when he’s under lock and key there will be others willin’ enough to speak out. I know that for a fact.’

Caught up by his fellow tinners, replacing his hat, he moved on, leaving Lucas staring after him. But he wasn’t seeing the man at all. Something terrible was taking shape inside his mind, and as he turned and rode back to Roslyn Cove, taking the path down, it was something dark and hideous, like some super-being who communicated an absolute malevolence—like death itself—that drove him on.

The smugglers had done their work well. Nothing was left in the caves or littered about the sands. Nothing to indicate that anything untoward had taken place during the dark hours he had lain with his wife. Nothing, that was, until he left the cove and stood at the side of the deep black lagoon. Deep indentations of hooves belonging to the packhorses disturbed the sand, and along the path following the course of the stream leading up onto his land there were deep twisted ruts made by wagon wheels on the rain-sodden ground, proof indeed as to how heavily they were laden.

His eyes looked into the distance, imagining Carlyle standing arrogant on the high moor, smug, self-satisfied and mocking—and laughing triumphantly.

‘So, Carlyle,’ Lucas hissed through clenched teeth, his eyes, unwavering, glacial, fixed on the rippling surface of the black water. ‘Again you show your hand, and with all
your fiendish luck. Again you get away with it, but it will be for the last time. I swear it. You sail too close to the wind, you swine. Too close.’

He rode his horse up to the manor, back to Laura—his wife. A feeling of inexplicable dread was roaring in his ears, tearing at his heart, as something black and formless was beginning to take shape. He shook his head, as if to clear it of the monstrous thought his intellect was already beginning to suspect, but it clung on with the tenacity of a limpet on a rock.

The mere thought that Carlyle had made Laura his pawn in the evil games he liked to play almost sent him over the edge. The words she had uttered before they had made love came back to torment him, echoing through his brain—‘Though I may be damned tomorrow, I do want you.’

They had puzzled him at the time, but he had been so enamoured of her he had given them little thought. Now they came leaping back to haunt him with full force, damning her. He played out her performance last night like an act in a play, recalling how delighted he had been to find she had removed all his things to the master bedroom, O how she had been waiting for him, the beauty of her washed in candle-glow. And he had been too overwhelmed by the desire that had engulfed them both to take in the full meaning of what she was doing. But now, in the cold, clear light of day, he realised the calculating significance of her actions.

He wanted to be wrong, to have her tell him he was mistaken, but he didn’t think so. Parading before his eyes were visions of Laura, Laura as she had looked last night, alluring in her rose-pink gown, lying naked in his arms, the exquisite sweetness of her, with her hair of midnight-black spilling over his chest—innocent, smiling.

The memory of how it had been between them, how she had purposely and with all the practised arts of a woman
of the world, set out to seduce him, purposely preventing him from seeing what was happening beneath his very nose, paraded in all its derisive mockery through his mind, and his hand clenched into a fist with the savage urge to smash something. He remembered how soft, how slender her arms had been when they had twined themselves about him, how she had used all her witchery to captivate him, making him her pliant, willing slave. He also remembered how she had looked—a raven-haired angel with laughing blue eyes, magnificent, alluring, achingly lovely—and as wanton as sin.