Helen Dickson (6 page)

Laura swallowed and looked up at him in desperate appeal, his tall, muscular frame making her achingly aware of her own helplessness, and the futility of trying to resist him. ‘If you insist, then I will do my duty and submit to you.’

Lucas stared at her, stunned by her choice of words. ‘Submit?’ he repeated. ‘I am unable to believe that my wife should speak of the act of making love with her husband as some form of punishment. It isn’t as if you haven’t shared a bed with me before.’ When she flushed and averted her eyes he frowned with concern over the tension and anxiety he saw on her face. He moved closer and tipped her chin with his finger, forcing her to look at him. ‘Am I to understand you did not enjoy what I did to you that night, Laura?’

‘I— No, I didn’t like it—and you made me feel less than worthy of your attentions,’ she told him bluntly, with a trace of accusation. ‘I found the whole thing painful and undignified, and I can very well live without it. I made up my mind not to repeat it in a hurry.’ When he removed his finger from her chin and stepped back, unable to meet his steady gaze any longer she looked away in sheer embar
rassment, her cheeks as pink as the roses that clambered in profusion over the walls at Roslyn.

Lucas looked at her intently, as if he were seeing her for the first time. The things he had done to her on that one night they had lain together as man and wife paraded across his mind, bringing pain and regret. In his prison cell he had often found himself lost in that memory, and afterwards he was left with a lingering feeling of failure.

There had been no tenderness or regard in his treatment of her. His mind had been so preoccupied with the importance of his mission to France the following day that he had given little thought to the fears of his young wife. She had surrendered her virtue without a struggle, and he had coldly and deliberately taken her innocence as his due. He realised now that he must have scared the hell out of her.

She was standing an arm’s length away from him, and she looked flushed, extremely lovely, and terrified half to death. He was surprised that it gave him intense pleasure to contemplate taking her to bed and guiding her gently, tenderly, along the paths of love until she was moaning with rapture in his arms.

‘Laura, this marriage might not have been of our choosing, but it was done and we will have to find a way to live in harmony with it. I did you a great wrong on the night I took your virtue, and nothing I can say or do will change that,’ he said, speaking with great gentleness, firstly because he was dealing with an anxious and bewildered young woman, and secondly because he genuinely wished to make amends for any pain he had caused her.

‘I should have exercised more care and consideration for your youth and inexperience. I hurt you, and for that I implore your forgiveness. I promise not to treat you like that again. Please believe me when I tell you that the next time I make love to you it will be different from before.’ She looked so relieved that he smiled crookedly. ‘You needn’t
work yourself up into a fevered anguish. You are reprieved—for now, at least.’

‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I would be grateful if you would allow me a little time. I’m so glad you understand.’ Fixing his gaze on her lips, he smiled, a slow, lazy smile that made her heart leap. ‘Now what are you thinking?’

‘That the reprieve I grant you will be harder for me to bear than it will for you—so do not take too long.’ He lifted a brow in tender mockery. ‘I’m not cut out to be a monk.’

‘No?’ She laughed lightly, teasingly. ‘My mother always used to say restraint is good for the soul.’

‘I doubt your mother was referring to our making love,’ he countered, his gaze caressing her smiling face. The radiance of her smile heartened him.

‘No,’ she replied, pink-cheeked. ‘I don’t suppose she was.’

His eyes glowed warm and he grinned roguishly. ‘You are blushing—that’s charming. I don’t intend to spare your blushes. We know so little about each other, Laura, that we will find it interesting to discover more—and we have all the time in the world to make those discoveries.’

Picking his jacket off the bed, which Laura foolishly realised had been his true reason for crossing to the bed in the first place, and not because he’d had any designs on sharing it with her, he took two objects from the pocket and handed them to her—her sapphire necklace and the silver snuff box he had taken from Edward.

‘I think these belong to you.’

‘I could not understand why you took Edward’s snuff box and left the rest. Why did you?’

‘It was your betrothal gift to him, was it not?’

‘Yes, but I don’t see—’

‘I don’t like my wife presenting gifts to other men,’ he told her sharply.

‘How could you have known I had given it to him—or that he would have it on his person tonight, for that matter?’

‘I didn’t. I took a chance. It was John who told me you had given it to him.’

She frowned crossly. ‘I think I might have told John far too much. Why did you take my necklace?’

‘To make the robbery more convincing—and it pleased me to discover how reluctant you were to part with it.’

‘You took it all the same.’

‘And now I have returned it. And if you are ever accosted by a highwayman again, my pet,’ he chuckled, gently tweaking her cheek, ‘I expect you to guard it with your life.’ Collecting his pipe and tobacco pouch from the hearth, he strode towards the door.

‘I will. I promise. There is just one more thing, Lucas.’ He turned and looked back, waiting for her to go on. ‘Who was your accomplice tonight?’

He didn’t deign to reply, but cocked a brow and looked at her with ill-concealed amusement.

Laura moved closer, determined to find out. ‘Who was it, Lucas? Tell me.’

‘Don’t you know?’

She stared at him through eyes huge with horror and disbelief. She recalled how his accomplice had moved and mounted his horse with less agility than his companion, and with sudden clarity all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place, presenting the whole picture. ‘That was John, wasn’t it? Oh—Lucas, how could you? To take him, as old as he is, on such a dangerous mission—why, the poor man might have had a seizure.’

‘John may be sixty, Laura,’ Lucas said, opening the door, ‘but a doddering old man he is not. He’s as tough as old boots. Besides,’ he said, chuckling softly and with a gleam in his eyes, ‘he enjoyed himself.’

‘Did he, now?’ she said crossly, thinking that master and servant must have slipped into the house unnoticed while she had been telling Edward she wasn’t going to marry him. ‘Well, I shall have plenty to say when I see him in the morning. You see if I don’t.’

O
nce alone, Laura stripped off her clothes and slipped into a deep-pink silk robe, tying the sash about her waist. Sitting at the dressing table, she studied her face in the mirror. She was almost twenty-one years old, and little of the girl who had come to Roslyn remained. The fresh glow of innocence had been replaced by a patina of cool sophistication. Two years of hard work and living in Cornwall had given her maturity, had transformed the girl Laura into a woman.

When Lucas had brought her to Roslyn, after he had done his duty she’d had no doubt that her husband of three days would eventually return to London to his former pleasures and leave her buried in Cornwall without family or friends. It had never entered her head that he would disappear out of her life altogether—permanently, she had thought. And now…now he was back.

It was inevitable that prison had changed him in several ways, as it must change many once carefree men. His time spent in that French prison must have been like a malevolent humour festering inside him, destroying hope of survival, faith and self-respect. But all humours of the flesh could be healed—now the prison walls had fallen away, and, though the healing process might take time, time was the greatest healer.

But how did she feel about him?

The truth hit her. Physically she was no more immune to Lucas Mawgan now than she had been when he had dazzled her in London, blinding her to every other man. She could withstand his anger but not his smile—the smile that had shattered her heart two years ago. When she had lain with him she had almost swooned as he had taken her into his arms, convinced that something glorious was going to happen to her. Despite what had followed and her searing disappointment regarding that intimate side of marriage, despite everything that had happened in between, he could still twist her entire being into exquisite knots of yearning, just as he had done then.

The following morning, in possession of an unfamiliar exhilaration, and feeling vibrantly, gloriously alive, Laura rose and went downstairs, inwardly convinced that her mood would stay that way from now on. The house was quiet, the sun streaming in through the latticed windows set beneath Norman arches. She paused and gazed fondly at the familiar surroundings, elated that she would not be leaving it to marry Edward.

Roslyn Manor had at one time been a castle, built in Norman times. Over the centuries a certain amount of conversion and rebuilding had taken place, but parts still remained of the original castle, the most prominent being the square, battlemented tower at the opposite end of the house to the hall. From the hall a wide stone staircase rose to the long gallery on the first floor, built during the Tudor period to connect the hall with the tower, offering a splendid view of the sloping gardens and the sea beyond.

Laura had come to love the Mawgans’ ancestral home. As she moved about its rooms she could feel the past and the people who had inhabited the house closing in on her, and Lucas was an essential part of it. With the rooms beneath the long gallery not in use, she kept few servants—
just John and his wife, her maid, Susan, Martha, two gardeners who lived in Roslyn village, George, the groom—a huge, strong figure of a man with muscles like a bear’s and fists like a prize fighter—and his son, Joss, who helped his father with the work in the stables.

Seeing no one, humming a little tune, Laura passed through the hall and stepped into the kitchen, finding John alone. He was preparing a breakfast tray for her and looked up when she entered, his face wearing its usual impassive, solemn expression. She breathed in the delicious smell of fried bacon and toast.

‘Good morning, John. Is there something to eat? I’m absolutely starving.’

‘Good morning, my lady. I knew you would be, so I prepared your favourite—bacon, eggs, steamed mushrooms and buttered toast. You’ll want tea, too, I suppose.’

‘At least two cups.’

John always addressed her as ‘my lady’. At first she had felt uncomfortable with it and asked him not to, but he had slipped back into it and she had got used to it. She picked up a piece of toast to munch on as she went into the dining room. Seating herself at the table that commanded a splendid view of the sea and coastline, she found herself confronted with a huge vase of flowers—blue delphiniums and huge white roses, their petals like soft velvet and still moist with early-morning dew. ‘Why, John, you’re spoiling me. They’re lovely.’

John gave her one of his rare grins. ‘Only the best, my lady.’

Spreading a napkin over her lap, she waited as he placed a heaped plate in front of her and proceeded to pour the tea. ‘You look pleased with yourself this morning,’ she remarked casually, knowing he was waiting for her to mention the previous night’s events, and the part he had played, but she enjoyed teasing him so delayed the moment.

He cocked a quizzical brow. ‘Pleased?’

‘Mm. Maybe it’s the weather. It does look an exceptionally fine morning.’

John made a pretence of glancing out of the window. ‘Aye, so it does.’

‘I must say I’m surprised.’

His eyes were upon her as he placed a cup of tea in front of her. ‘You are?’

‘Mm,’ she murmured, taking a forkful of egg and placing it in her mouth. ‘I fully expected you to be still in bed—following your extraordinary exertions last night.’ She glanced up at him obliquely. ‘I congratulate you. You are a consummate actor. It was quite a performance you put on—in fact, you were very convincing. You fooled me completely, and poor Sir Edward was all at sea.’

‘That was the idea, my lady.’ He shrugged. ‘What could I do? ’Twas an emergency.’

‘And your master is a bully and quite unscrupulous, I know,’ she stated, with a smile on her lips.

‘I fear that be so, my lady—but ’twas exciting.’

‘I gathered that,’ she quipped, spearing a piece of bacon. ‘With a pair of pistols levelled at Sir Edward and poor old Amos—whom you scared half to death, I might add—you seemed to be enjoying yourself. Although I visualised someone a mite younger in the part.’

‘A man’s as young as he feels, I always say, my lady.’

‘Of course,’ she agreed amiably.

‘Shocked, are you?’

With a mushroom halfway to her mouth, she paused and glanced up at him. ‘Shocked? A little—and surprised. But you should have told me we have a guest,’ she said, popping the mushroom between her lips.

‘Guest, my lady?’

‘Yes, John. And where is our guest? Still abed, I expect. Where does he sleep, by the way?’

‘In the turret room, and he was up and out at first light.’

‘Was he? Where did he go?’

She followed John’s gaze out of the window and along the coast to Stennack’s engine house with its tall chimney in the far-off distance, built precariously on the edge of the cliff. The mine, closed now for a good many years, was owned by the Mawgans. It was the deepest and richest mine in the area, with tin and copper brought up from its deepest workings—from the southern reaches beneath the sea itself—until tragedy had struck and the sea broke in, claiming the lives of twenty men and boys. Their bodies were still down there. No one had been able to get them out. After that the deep workings had been abandoned to the sea.

John had told Laura that the mine was always dear to Lucas’s heart. Before he had left for France he was seriously considering reopening it, and had employed mining experts to give him advice.

Savouring the knowledge of having Lucas back at Roslyn where he belonged, Laura finished her breakfast. Then, with a happy spring in her step, an apron tied around her trim waist and a need to do something constructive with her day, Laura went to the part of the house that had not been used in two years. Perhaps it was time to take a look and see what needed to be done.

Entering the passageway beneath the long gallery, she closed the heavy door behind her. It squeaked loudly on its hinges, and she made a mental note to ask John to oil them. The passageway was dark and eerily shadowed, with doorways leading to several rooms. At the end a large window outlined a smaller doorway where a stairway led down to the cellars. This entrance was never used, since the cellars could be reached from the kitchen. Seeing that the door was ajar, she went towards it. As she peered down into the dark the silence was tomblike, the mournful wail of the rising wind intruding upon the stillness. A cold, dank draught wafting up from below invaded her clothing, and with a shiver Laura pulled the door closed.

Going from room to room, she assessed what had to be done, pulling the dust covers from furniture and artefacts. Becoming warm from her labours, she loosened the neck of her wool dress and rolled up the sleeves. Working her way back to the first room along the passageway, upon entering she paused to catch her breath. Dust clung to her apron, resisting her efforts to brush it away. Wiping the perspiration from her brow with the back of her hand, she inadvertently smeared the black smudge that was there into a long streak.

The room, with ghostly shapes of furniture spread with dust covers, was wanly lit by the faint October light. With her hands on her hips she paused in the centre and looked about her. Bookshelves lined the walls and a handsome, heavily carved desk made in the reign of the Stuarts stood near the window. Picking up a small carving of a horse from its surface, she studied it. Even to her inexperienced eye she could see it wasn’t a particularly fine piece of craftsmanship, but it had been lovingly carved by someone.

Still holding the carving, she moved towards the stone fireplace, recalling the first time she had wandered through these rooms. How captivated she had been by the many aspects of the manor, and the many fine objects and personal effects of Lucas’s forebears that it housed. A portrait of a woman hung above the mantel, and the resemblance she bore to Lucas was unmistakable. The lady was his mother.

Suddenly, feeling a presence and that someone’s eyes were boring holes into her back, she turned. Her heart gave a leap of surprise and a certain excitement. Lucas was standing in the open doorway, one shoulder resting negligently against the door frame and his arms folded across his chest, casually watching her, still and patient, staring at her with a brooding, sombre gaze. Dressed for the outdoors, from the jacket to the high, trim boots he wore, with his unruly locks of raven-black hair tumbling wildly over his
forehead, he looked impossibly handsome, she thought, feeling her heart quicken at the sight.

‘Good heavens! You almost scared the wits out of me!’ she exclaimed, experiencing a rush of emotions, among them pleasure and surprise, wondering how he had managed to appear without being seen or heard, there being no stairway to the upper storey and no outside door in this part of the house. A tingling that she could not explain crept up her spine. ‘Have you got unnatural powers that you can appear unobserved? John said you were out.’

‘Why,’ he said, relinquishing his stance in the doorway and approaching her slowly, his eyes sweeping over her dishevelled, rather soiled appearance, and her shining hair that was escaping the confines of its pins, ‘were you looking for me?’

‘No. I was curious, that was all,’ she said. He seemed extraordinarily tall as he came nearer. He paused within reach and stood looking down at her, his eyes on her face. He was studying her with those strongly marked eyebrows slightly raised. His clear gaze was penetrating, and Laura felt uncomfortable beneath it.

‘I didn’t mean to startle you,’ he said, ‘nor did I expect to find my wife looking as if she’d just crept out of a dustbin.’

Vaguely irritated by the intensity of his inspection, Laura glanced down at her soiled apron. ‘I suppose I do look a sight, don’t I?’

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, casting a casual glance about the room.

‘These rooms have hardly been touched in two years, and I thought that now you’re back you might want them reopening.’

‘Why close them in the first place? Did you take exception to cleaning them?’

Stung by what she mistakenly took to be a reprimand, Laura bristled. ‘Not at all. Why not close them? I didn’t
need them. The house is enormous, and with just myself living here it hardly seemed worth keeping servants to clean empty rooms. Every now and then I see to it that a superficial cleaning is done, and fires lit during winter months to keep them aired.’

With a look that betrayed a mild degree of amusement he nodded. ‘Since when did ladies of the manor start doing menial chores themselves? We are not exactly in the position where we’re too poor to employ extra servants.’

‘I know, but I’m not above or averse to doing housework—or scrubbing floors, even, if I have to. Do you want these rooms reopened?’

‘Yes, but from what I’ve seen, you’re going to have your work cut out. Are you sure you’re up to the challenge?’ Lucas asked, but she seemed so eager, and her smile so disarming, that he really believed she was looking forward to the task. He noticed the carving of the horse she held and reached out to take it from her. His long, lean fingers traced its lines. ‘This was a keepsake of my mother’s,’ he murmured distantly. ‘When her horse died, my father carved its likeness and gave it to her one Christmas.’

‘It—it’s beautiful. Your father must have been extremely talented,’ Laura remarked generously.

‘No, he wasn’t,’ Lucas countered. ‘You’re being too kind. He would be the first to tell you that he was no craftsman. It’s a poor likeness, but Mother loved it.’

After placing the carving on the mantel beneath the portrait he turned, folding his hands behind his back and looking thoughtfully about the room with deceptively lazy eyes.

‘This is one room in particular I would like to make use of. It was my father’s study. We spent many an hour discussing matters that were of import at the time—issues from as far afield as India and America, to what was happening here at Roslyn. Sometimes Mother would be seated by the fire, quietly occupied with her sewing—listening.’

‘Why did you go away?’ Laura found herself asking, for
it puzzled her, when he had so much here in Cornwall, why he would want to leave it.

Lucas shrugged absently. ‘That is a question I have asked myself countless times during my imprisonment. My parents didn’t want me to leave Roslyn, but they didn’t try to dissuade me, either. I was young and restless, with a sense of adventure and a yearning to see foreign places. I wanted more than what Cornwall had to offer, so I went to work for the government. I suddenly found myself surrounded by intrigue—danger. It appealed to me. But in the end I always knew I would come back to what I know and understand. My father knew it, too. Roslyn is my home—my life,’ he finished quietly, as if speaking his private thoughts aloud.