Violet

Chapter Fourteen

THE CARRIER JUST DELIVERED A LETTER, MY DEAR. IT looks like St. Simon's hand?” Sir Gareth Fortescue strolled into the breakfast parlor examining the letter in his hand with unusual interest. “Franked in London, by God! I thought your brother was in the Peninsula for the duration.”

He dropped the letter beside his wife's plate and stared with a jaundiced air at the dishes arrayed on the sideboard. “I don't know how many times I've told that damn cook I like my bacon crisp. Look at this.” He picked up a rasher on the serving fork. “It's as white and soggy as a pig's underbelly.”

Lucy Fortescue flushed and pushed back her chair with a little murmur of dismay. “I'm so sorry, Gareth, I didn't notice. Shall I ring for Webster and tell him to bring some more?”

“No, don't bother.” Her husband flung himself into his chair at the head of the table with an irritable grimace. “I'll make do with the sirloin.”

Lucy hesitated, anxious to read her brother's letter but equally anxious not to neglect her husband at this critical morning juncture. It was clear from his heavy eyes and less than, glowing complexion that Gareth was suffering this morning. She wasn't sure where he'd passed the previous evening, or even the night. It hadn't been in his own bed and certainly not in hers. She didn't enjoy what went on in the marriage bed, but it was essential to a marriage, and it couldn't be right that her husband was so often content to leave her to sleep alone.

She sighed and then flushed again, afraid that he would have heard the little sound. Gareth detested it when she moped. He read into her unhappiness unspoken criticism and dissatisfaction with her lot.

Both of which were true. But Lucy swiftly buried that rebellious acknowledgment; her mother had told her more times than she could remember that a wife's duty was to show her husband only unquestioning support and obedience and to accept cheerfully the life he chose to give her. And Julian, after her father's death the only man whose opinions she'd been aware of, obviously shared her mother's viewpoint. Besides, he'd been so much against the match in the first place, she couldn't possibly expect his sympathy because marriage to Sir Gareth Fortescue wasn't all that she'd dreamed it would be.

But it was very hard. Another little sigh escaped her.

It was very hard, at eighteen and after only ten months of marriage, to be left alone day and night after day and night while her husband pursued all his old activities and relationships as if he'd never stood at the altar with her.

“Well?”

She looked up guiltily at this sharp interrogatory.

Gareth was scowling, his hand circling a tankard of ale.

“I beg your pardon, Gareth?”

“Well, what does your brother have to say?” he demanded impatiently.

“Oh, I haven't read it yet.” She offered a timid little smile and slit the wafer sealing the missive.

“Oh,” she said again. The letter was as brief and succinct as all her brother's communications and it took but half a minute to make herself mistress of the contents.

“Well?”

“Julian says he's going to be in England for a few months. He has some work to do at Horseguards and at Westminster for the Duke of Wellington, and then he's going to Tregarthan for the summer.”

“Good God! Whatever for? Has he bought himself out of the army or something?”

“No, I don't think so,” Lucy said, frowning. “But he says he has someone with him… a… a Spanish lady.” She looked up in clear bewilderment. “He says he owed her father a favor, and when he was dying, he asked Julian to take his daughter under his protection and arrange for her introduction into English society. Apparently she has some Cornish connections that she hopes will acknowledge her.”

Her china-blue eyes widened as her bewilderment increased. “It doesn't sound at all like Julian, does it?”

Gareth gave a snort of laughter. “If it were anyone but St. Simon, I'd say he'd brought himself a light skirt back from the wars, but he's such a stickler for the proprieties, he'd never sully the precious turf of Tregarthan with an irregular liaison.”

Lucy blushed crimson and took a hasty gulp of her tea, choking as the liquid scalded her throat.

“Don't be such a ninny, Lucy,” Gareth said, not unkindly. “You know something of the facts of life, my dear. You're a married woman now, not a virginal chit. St. Simon's as red-blooded as the next man, he's just deuced strait-laced about where and when he indulges a man's natural urges.”

“Yes… yes, I suppose so.” Lucy pushed back her chair and stood up hastily. “If you'll excuse me, Gareth, I must talk with cook about the menus.”

She hastened from the room, leaving her husband to reflect that if St. Simon had been less strait-laced, Lucy might have been a more lively partner, both in bed and out of it. Her brother, ten years older than herself, had been her guardian for the seven years before her marriage, and his notions of propriety when it came to the behavior of a St. Simon were devilish strict.

It was a pity, really. Gareth refilled his ale tankard, noting with relief that his hangover was dissipating with each gulp. Lucy was a pretty little thing, and he found her soft, feminine roundness quite appealing, but she didn't know the first thing about pleasing a man. It was no wonder he continued to take his pleasures where he'd always taken them.

His scowl returned abruptly as some memory of the previous evening dimly surfaced through the brandy haze in which he'd spent the majority of the night. Marjorie had been nagging him again. She was always wanting something more. The diamond bracelet he'd given her hadn't been of the first water… the new dressmaker didn't know what she was doing, it was absolutely imperative she patronize Lutece instead. The money was nothing… nothing… not if he truly cared for her… and didn't she make him happy? Happier than a man deserved to be?

Gareth shifted in his chair, remembering with the familiar ache how very happy Marjorie could make a man. But her price was too damn high-and getting higher by the day.

He looked around the elegant parlor of the gracious Sussex mansion, out through the windows to the smooth expanse of lush green lawn. His family home had been going to rack and ruin when he'd married Lucy St. Simon. Her dowry had put it to rights, and it was her dowry that was financing Marjorie's expensive tastes… or, rather, his own expensive habits.

A faint waft of distaste disturbed the normally unruffled surface of his self-assurance, and the astonishing thought presented itself that he might try to break some of those habits. He was a married man, when all was said and done.

And the pile of bills from his creditors was growing ever larger… tailors and wine merchants and shoemakers and hatters. Tattersall's had to be settled, of course, on settlement day, and his debts of honor couldn't wait either. Fortunately, the tradesmen weren't pressing too hard for payment as yet; his marriage was recent enough to give him fairly extended credit, but he didn't care for the idea of having to apply to his brother in-law for a loan to settle his debts. St. Simon had already cleared a mountain as part of the marriage settlements.

Not that St. Simon would refuse him, or even pass comment on his brother-in-Iaw's profligacy, but he'd raise one of those bushy red-gold eyebrows and look as mildly incredulous as good breeding permitted.

No, it wasn't to be countenanced, if it could be avoided. Gareth pushed back his chair and stretched, frowning as an idea percolated through the gradually clearing fog of his hangover. Why not pay St. Simon a visit in the ancestral home? Rustication would be tedious, of course, but it would take him away from the temptations of Marjorie and the racetrack and the gamming tables, not to mention provide respite from his creditors' billets-doux. And maybe it wouldn't be that tedious. It might be amusing to see this Spanish lady St. Simon had under his wing. There was something rum there… very rum.

And besides, a little Cornish air would do Lucy the world of good. Quite peaky she'd been looking just recently. She loved Cornwall and all her childhood haunts and would be overjoyed at the prospect of spending a few weeks of the summer there with all her old girlhood friends.

Firmly convinced that he was acting entirely in his wife's best interests, Gareth Fortescue strolled out of the breakfast parlor to inform Lucy of his brilliant and noble decision.

“But, Gareth, Julian hasn't invited us.” Lucy turned from the secretaire in her parlor, dropping her pen to the carpet in her dismay. “We can't arrive uninvited.”

“Oh, nonsense!” Gareth dismissed this with an airy wave. “He's your brother, he'll be delighted to see you. Why, you haven't seen him since the wedding, and even that was only a fleeting visit, he was in such a hurry to get back to his regiment.”

“Yes… but… but, Gareth, what of this Spanish lady? If he'd wished me to come, he'd have asked me.”

“He didn't like to ask you to give top your summer to help him with this obligation, depend upon it,” Gareth declared comfortably. “After all, we're still barely home from our honeymoon.”

He smiled and chucked her beneath the chin. “Depend upon it, Lucy, he'll be grateful to have your help in entertaining this guest. Besides, he should have a hostess if he's entertaining a single lady, even if he is in some fashion her guardian. Your arrival will make everything all right and tight.”

Bending, he kissed her lightly. “Now, be a good girl and arrange everything, so we may leave by the end of next week. We'll journey by slow stages, so you won’t become fatigued.”

“Oh, dear,” Lucy murmured as the door closed on her husband's confident departure. While it was wonderful to have Gareth so cheerful and attentive, she knew her brother and knew that an unheralded arrival would not be appreciated. He didn't approve of Gareth, and sometimes Lucy had the sneaking suspicion that he didn't particularly like him, either. Her brother's bright-blue eyes would go cool and flat when he was talking to Gareth or even mentioning him in conversation. And he was always impeccably polite to him, as if to some very distant acquaintance.

Lucy had seen and heard her brother with his friends, and she knew how he despised what he called Society’s fribbles-men who wasted their time and energies in the clubs of St. James's and dancing attendance on the Season's belles and heiresses. Even from her own prejudiced viewpoint, Gareth came into that category. Unlike Julian, he was not a man of action and fierce opinion. But he was hardly unusual in that. It was Julian who was the strange one, according to Society’s lights.

She sighed and turned back to her secretaire, drawing toward her a piece of hot-pressed paper in her favorite pale blue, nibbling the end of her quill as she tried to think of a tactful way of announcing to her brother their imminent arrival at Tregarthan.

And what of this Spanish lady? What could she be like? Was she young? Presumably, if her father had left her to Julian's protection. It was not at all like Julian to take on such a task, but, then, he did have a very honed sense of duty and obligation. Perhaps the lady's father had saved his life, or something equally desperate.

Was she beautiful?

And what in the world would Cornish society make of someone sounding so exotic? They were plain, insular folk who had little truck with the world outside their own Cornish land. Maybe the Spanish orphan didn't even speak English.

It was all most extraordinary. Fired by curiosity now, Lucy began to write rapidly, following Gareth's suggestion that her brother might wish for a hostess if he was entertaining guests. She'd be happy to take on the duty for her dear brother and was looking forward to seeing him again after such a long time. She trusted he was well and sent her…

Here she paused. What did she send him? Her love?

No, that sounded contrived. Julian was always pleasant to her, but he'd always been somewhat distant and hadn't hesitated to exercise his authority as brother and guardian on the rare occasions when she'd been tempted to balk at the restrictions he and her mother considered necessary for a daughter of the house of St. Simon.

She settled for warm regards, sanded the sheet, folded and sealed it, then went in search of Gareth to frank it for her. Julian should be almost in Cornwall by now, since his letter had been dated a week previously, so this missive should arrive at Tregarthan a few days after his own arrival. Too late for him to write back and tell them not to come, and he was far too courteous to send them away once they arrived.

He could be very chilly, though. Lucy pushed this aside, finding herself eager for the change the journey promised. And Gareth would be with her for the next few weeks. There'd be no more nights spent with… with whomever he spent them. And maybe she could learn to please him a little… or at least to appear as if she didn't find that unpleasant tangling of bodies completely distasteful.

Feeling much more cheerful, she went into her bedchamber to examine her wardrobe and decide what she should take with her for a summer in Cornwall.

Did it ever stop raining in this ghastly gray country? Tamsyn leaned out of the window of the inn at Launceston, gazing across the jumble of slate roofs glistening and slippery with rain. It hadn't stopped since they'd landed at Portsmouth two weeks previously. It wasn't fierce and tumultuous, like Spanish rain; it was just a continuous wet mizzle, and the cold was so damp, it seemed to seep into the marrow of her bones.

Behind her in the small bedchamber, Josefa muttered to herself as she repacked the belongings they'd used overnight. She was not enjoying this sojourn in the cold, gray land where the sun never shone, but El Baron's daughter had said it had to be, a decree that for Josefa was as powerful as if it had come from the baron's own lips.

There was a brisk rap at the door, and Gabriel entered, ducking beneath the low lintel. Rain dripped off his heavy cloak. “You ready with that portmanteau, woman?”

“Ay de mi,” Josefa muttered, struggling with the stiff straps and buckles. “I'll be glad when we get where we're going.”

“Won't we all?” Gabriel said dourly. His big hand rested for a moment on her arm in a rare gesture of sympathy. At least he'd been born in this land, but it was an alien shore for a peasant woman from the barren mountains of northern Spain. She gave him a rather shy smile, then bobbed her head, basking in the surprising gentleness of his sudden smile. Gabriel was her man, the sun to her earth; she always walked two steps behind him, and his word was law.

Gabriel hefted the portmanteau. “Little girl, you're to travel inside the carriage today. Colonel's orders.”

“Since when has he been giving orders?” Tamsyn snapped irritably to Gabriel's retreating back. It seemed the last straw on this dismal morning. “I've no intention of being swayed and jolted in that chaise. It makes me feel sick.”

She followed Gabriel down the creaky wooden staircase, across the lamplit stone-flagged hall, and out into 'the gloomy inn yard, where stood the postchaise that had brought them from London, ostlers putting the horses to, one of them tethering Cesar behind.

Colonel, Lord St. Simon stood watching. His cloak was black with the drizzle, and a steady stream ran from the brim of his beaver hat, but he seemed oblivious of the weather.

“Good morning.” He greeted Tamsyn briskly. “I trust you slept well?”

“I always do,” she replied. “Even when the sheets are damp. Will it ever stop raining?”

He laughed shortly. “Yes, one day it will. One morning you'll wake up to bright-blue sky and sunshine and birdsong, and you'll forget all about the rain. It's one of England's tricks.”

Tamsyn grimaced, disbelieving, and huddled into her cloak, her hair already plastered to her head.

It was no weather for a buttercup, Julian caught himself thinking with a ripple of amusement. She looked shrunken and doleful, her bright hair rain-dark, her small body hunched into the heavy cloak, all her challenging, impudent sparkle vanquished by the dreary climate. Then he began to wonder what his brigade was doing, and his amusement died. If she didn't like the weather in her adopted country, she had only herself to blame.

How long had it had taken Tim to whip the men into shape after the excesses of Badajos? Where were they on the long march to Campo Mayor? Who was still alive? The questions as always roiled in his brain, and he had to force himself to come back to the rain-soaked yard of the inn at Launceston and his present preoccupations.

“I want you to travel inside the chaise with Josefa this morning,” he said curtly.

“So Gabriel said, but I don't wish to. I'd rather be wet than nauseated in that smelly, jolting box.” She turned to release her horse from the rear of the chaise.

Julian caught her arm. “I need you inside, Tamsyn.” “Why?”

“We're crossing Bodmin Moor,” he stated as if that were answer enough.

Tamsyn frowned. They'd arrived at Launceston early the previous afternoon, and the colonel had insisted they go no farther that day, citing in much the same tone as now the crossing of Bodmin Moor. “So, milord colonel?” She dashed rain from her face as she regarded him with raised eyebrows.

“So, buttercup,” he replied deliberately, “I need you to ride with your damned treasure. Gabriel and I will be outside as a first defense, and you will be armed and ready within.”

“Oh. Are there bandits on this Bodmin Moor then?” Her expression livened considerably. '

“We call them highwaymen,” he said with an arid smile. “But they're as savage and ruthless a breed as any mountain brigand or robber baron.”

Tamsyn decided to let that pass. “Gabriel has my weapons. I'll fetch them.” She went off immediately, her step much crisper at the prospect of a little excitement to enliven this dreary journey.

Julian stamped his feet on the cobbles and turned up the collar of his cloak, running a mental check over his own weapons. “Into Bodmin and out of this world” was what the locals said when preparing to cross the bleak, windswept moor. Apart from his school years he d grown up at Tregarthan, the St. Simon family estate overlooking the River Fowey, and considered himself as much a Cornishman as the landlord of this Launceston inn, steeped in the lores and customs of the county. And he loved every blade of grass, every flower of the hedgerow. He took pleasure in the thought of getting his hands on the reins of his estate again, of walking around his house, riding over his lands. If he was truly honest, there would be some compensation for this enforced rustication.

He'd made some progress on Wellington's account in London, presenting to the lords of Westminster the Duke's urgent need for more men and money. They'd listened to him with flattering attention and suggested he return in a month to answer further questions once they'd had a chance to mull over the duke's request. The wheels of government turned very slowly, and Julian had not expected any immediate decisions. He'd written to Wellington with what news he had and was resigned to returning to London in July, when he hoped there'd be more concrete results to impart. He knew this politicking was vital work, but it was dull work, nevertheless, for a man who thrived on the smell and sound of gunfire, the challenges and privations of forced marches, and the quirks and vulgarities, the courage and the foolishness, of the common soldier. Not even the prospect of his own house and land could truly compensate for that loss.

And if it weren't for the bastard spawn of a Spanish robber, he would still be with the army. Wellington would never have sent him on this diplomatic mission if the opportunity hadn't presented itself so forcefully.

Tamsyn was blithely unaware of his reflections as she installed herself in the coach with the shivering Josefa and ran her eye over the chests of gold and jewelry stashed beneath the seats. Their presence made the inside of the vehicle very cramped. Normally this wouldn't trouble anyone, since until today only Josefa had been traveling inside. But Tamsyn couldn't fault the colonel's defensive measures if they were really about to cross wild and dangerous country, so she curled herself into a corner, leaving as much room for the larger figure of Josefa as she could, and checked that her two pistols were primed. Josefa would reload for her if they were attacked.

Gabriel stuck his head through the window. “We'll be off now. You all right in here?”

“How far is it across this moor?” Tamsyn asked. “Don't know.” He withdrew his head. “Colonel, the bairn wants to know how far she needs to travel in the coach.”

“It's twenty-one miles to Bodmin,” Julian said, swinging onto his horse. “After that she can ride if she wishes. It's but twelve miles to Tregarthan from there.”

Tamsyn nodded, satisfied. It was only just past dawn, and they should accomplish thirty-three miles easily by nightfall; they'd been managing forty a day from London along the paved stagecoach roads with frequent changes.

However, as they left the ruined keep and tower of Launceston Castle behind, it became clear that the narrow, rutted track across Bodmin Moor was no stage road. It was an ancient road, known as the Tinners Way, used to carry tin and clay from the mines from Fowey through Bodmin and across the moor into southern England. On either side the dark, rainy land stretched to the horizon, scrawny trees bent double with the force of the gusting wind, stumpy clumps of broom and gorse clinging to the peaty earth. The coachman kept his horses at an easy trot as the track crested steep hills and plunged down again into the flat moorland. The iron wheels churned the wet earth into a sea of mud, and every now and again the chaise would lurch almost to a halt as the wheels became enmired.

When that happened, the coachman cursed and whipped up his horses, glancing anxiously around, his blunderbuss across his knees. On either side of the coach rode Gabriel and Julian, muskets across their saddlebows, pistols at their belts, hat brims down and collars turned up as they faced into the stinging, wind-hurled rain.

They rode in grim silence, ever watchful, but finally came off the moor after a tense five hours, having seen neither hide nor hair of a potential highwayman, or, indeed, of any fellow travelers on this raw day of early summer.

The horses trotted wearily down the steep hill into the center of Bodmin. Tamsyn leaped from the coach with a sigh of relief as they came to a halt in the inn yard. She was feeling queasy from the motion, and there was an ominous tightening around her temples. She looked around through the continuing drizzle at the town, a patchwork of slate-gray roofs and gray stonework climbing up the steep hillside.

The colonel dismounted and came over to her. His eyes were sharp as they rested on her face, noticing the pallor beneath the suntan and the shadows below the almond-shaped eyes.

“Tired?”

“Not really. I feel as if I'm going to puke. It's that coach-I can't abide traveling in that fashion.”

“It was necessary.”

She shrugged. “I didn't see any of your highway robbers, Colonel.”

“The precaution was necessary,” he responded indifferently. “Go into the inn and bespeak a private parlor for us and a luncheon. I'll see about fresh horses.”

“Yes, milord colonel.” She touched her forelock in mock salute.

“You must learn to curtsy, buttercup,” he responded with the nonchalance of before. “Tugging forelocks is appropriate only for grooms, ostlers, and farm laborers. Serving maids curtsy.”

“I am not a maid.”

“No,” he agreed. “Not in any sense of the word.”

He turned from her, ignoring the dangerous flash in her eyes.

Tamsyn chewed her lip in frustration, staring at his departing back, before she turned into the welcome warmth and lamplight of the inn.

The innkeeper made no attempt to hide his astonishment at these new arrivals. The rotund Spanish lady huddled in her shawls and mantillas poured forth a stream of incomprehensible laments that were as incomprehensibly responded to by the giant oak of a man who carried a massive broadsword thrust into the crimson sash at his waist. The diminutive figure of their companion, to his relief, spoke in the king's English with a perfectly ordinary request for a parlor and refreshment. But there was something exotic about her, too. He didn't know whether it was the short hair or the way she walked with an easy, swinging stride quite unlike a woman's walk. Her riding habit seemed conventional enough, but there was something about the way she wore it that was not ordinary, although he couldn't for the life of him pinpoint what it was.

Then Lord St. Simon entered the inn, and the landlord immediately ceased his speculation. He hurried to greet one of the largest landowners in the county, bowing and offering an effusive welcome.

Julian stripped off his gloves, responding to the landlord’s greeting with patient courtesy.

“Show us to a parlor, Sawyer,” he interrupted finally. “It's been the devil of a drive across the moor, and we're famished.”

“Yes, of course, my lord.” The landlord bustled ahead. “And I'll have a bottle of burgundy brought up straightway. I've a fine Aloxe Corton from the Gentlemen’s last run. Would the… the ladies…,” he said resolutely, “care for a dish of tea, perhaps?”

“I'll have a tankard of rum,” Gabriel declared before Julian could reply. “And the woman, too. I've a hole in my gullet the size of a cannon ball. What of you, little girl?”

“Tea,” Tamsyn said. “And perhaps I'll take a glass of the colonel's wine, if he has no objection.” She offered the bewildered landlord a sweet smile as he opened the door onto a cheerful parlor overlooking the street. “It might settle my stomach, I feel as sick as a dog. That's a poxy road across your godforsaken moor.”

The landlord's jaw dropped to his knees, and his eyes slid, scandalized, toward Lord St. Simon, who said brusquely, “We're sharp set, Sawyer. Bring us a dish of pasties with the drink.”

“Yes, my lord. Right away, my lord.” The landlord bowed himself out of the parlor, his eyes round as buttons in the rosy folds of his face.

“Congratulations, Tamsyn. You've certainly managed to set Sawyer on his heels,” Julian said with a sardonic twist of his lips. “If you intended to make yourself conspicuous and give rise to a firestorm of gossip, you've succeeded beyond your wildest dreams.”

“I suppose English ladies don't say things like that,” Tamsyn admitted in clear chagrin.

“On the whole, they do not,” Julian agreed, tossing his gloves onto a wooden settle beside the fire and shrugging out of his cloak. “But, then, as my mother always said, you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.”

“Oh!” Tamsyn exclaimed, indignation chasing away her chagrin. “I am not a sow's ear.”

Gabriel was warming his backside before the fire, listening to this exchange with an expression of mild interest. He'd decided many days ago that he had no need to jump to the bairn's defense when it came to the colonel's frequently acid tongue. Besides, he could see the colonel's point of view. If one wasn't bound body and soul to the family of El Baron, one might legitimately object to being compelled to partake in this venture.

“You're a long way from being a silk purse,” Julian responded coolly.

“Well, that's your job, isn't it?” she fired back.

He responded with a careless nod. “It's my job to try. I've never guaranteed success, if you recall.”

The landlord came back at this juncture, saving Tamsyn from the need to reply. She retreated to the window seat and sat glaring through the befogged mullioned windowpane, watching the people in the narrow street below. They seemed unaffected by the rain, but then, she supposed one would learn to be so, since it appeared to be a constant fact of life.

While she watched, a horseman rode up before the inn's front door, a large man wrapped in a heavy cloak. He was obviously well-known at the inn, because two liveried footmen ran out into the rain to hold his horse even before he had time to dismount. He stood for a moment in the rain, glancing up and down the street, and Tamsyn felt a curious prickle on the back of her neck. An unmistakable aura of power and authority clung to the man. Then he turned and strode into the inn, pulling off his dripping beaver hat to reveal a luxuriant mane of iron-gray hair the minute before he disappeared from sight.

The strange prickling sensation increased, and Tamsyn decided that she was cold. Instinctively she turned back to the cozy room, away from the wet, dark day outside, Mr. Sawyer drew the cork on the wine bottle while a maidservant hurried to set the round table before the fire. Gabriel buried his nose in his tankard of rum with a grunt of satisfaction. It wasn't as good as the grog he'd become accustomed to on the Isabelle, but it still did a man good as it warmed his belly. He glanced at Josefa, sitting on the settle, her hands clasped around her own tankard. She looked a little less unhappy now she was out of the rain, and her eyes rested with eager anticipation on the platter of golden Cornish pasties keeping warm on the hob before the fire.

It was a generally silent meal. Tamsyn's one attempt to initiate a conversation met with a monosyllabic response, and she lapsed into her own thoughts. Somehow she had to soften the colonel's anger. It seemed to have deepened since they'd landed on English soil, as if their arrival in his homeland had finally convinced him that he had no way out of a detestable situation. But surely it didn't have to be detestable? Surely she could find a way to make it palatable for him? Her eyes rested on his face across the table. Firelight flickered over the strong features but did nothing to soften the harsh line of his mouth, the grim set of his jaw. She thought of how he was when he laughed with genuine amusement instead of that sardonic crack that was all she heard these days. She remembered his surprising tenderness when he'd looked after her on the Isabelle. There had to be something there that she could work with.

“If you're finished, I'd like to get on the road again.”

The colonel's voice broke hard and abrupt into the silence, and Tamsyn jumped, wondering if he'd been aware of her scrutiny. “I'll order the horses put to.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Come down as soon as you're ready.”

The door banged on his departure, and they heard his booted feet pounding the stairs with the surging energy that characterized all his movements. Gabriel and Josefa followed him while Tamsyn went in search of the privy. As she descended the stairs to the hall five minutes later, Julian's voice rose from below.

Tamsyn stopped on the stairs, listening. There was a quality to his voice that she hadn't heard before. An icy politeness that made her think of the frozen tundra. She took another step down, realizing that for some reason she was walking on tiptoe, almost holding her breath, although she had no idea why. She stopped again at the turn of the stair, where she had a clear view into the hall below. It was dark, heavily panelled, the gloom relieved only by an oil lamp hanging from the low-beamed ceiling.

Julian was talking to the man she'd seen from the window. Without his cloak he seemed even more massive. His belly pushed against his waistcoat, his thighs strained the buckskin britches, the shoulders in his ridding coat bulged. And yet, she thought, he didn't strike one as a fat man, merely a massive bulk exuding power. Even St. Simon seemed diminished by him, and Julian

I was no lightweight. But he was lean and muscular, not an ounce of spare flesh…

She squashed the images thrown up by such a reflection and leaned forward to catch what they were saying. As she did so, the gray-haired man looked up and saw her.

His black eyes seemed to shrink to pinpricks, and Tamsyn felt that same prickle on the back of her neck. She stood immobile, a fly in the spider's web as the spider stared at her.

Cedric Penhallan saw Celia on the stairs in the shadows. Silvery hair, huge dark eyes, the full, sensuous mouth, lips slightly parted, the graceful slenderness. But

Celia was dead. Celia had been dead these past twenty years.

Julian turned to the stairs, his eyes involuntarily following his companion's rapt gaze. Tamsyn stood in the shadows at the turn, one hand on the banister, the other holding her skirt clear of the step, foot poised as if to continue her descent. The air crackled, and he had the absurd fantasy that a lightning bolt had flown between Tamsyn and the man he was talking to.

It was, of course, absurd. Tamsyn, with her short hair and strangely exotic air was an unusual sight in such a country backwater, which must explain Lord Penhallan’s interest. Julian decided that an introduction was not necessary.

“Your servant, Penhallan,” he said curtly with a cold bow before turning to the door standing open to the inn yard.

“St. Simon.” Cedric tore his gaze from the apparition on the stairs. His face had lost some of its ruddiness. “I daresay we'll run across each other again if you're making an extended stay at Tregarthan.”

“I daresay,” Julian said with the same ice. He paused and said softly over his shoulder, “Keep your nephews off my land, Penhallan. One straying toe and I'll not answer for the consequences.” And he was gone, without waiting for a response.

Indeed, Cedric hardly heard him. His gaze returned to the figure on the stairs. Then she moved. springing lightly to the hall, jumping the last two steps. She brushed past him, following St. Simon into the yard.

Cedric went to the door. He watched as St. Simon tossed her onto the back of a magnificent cream-white Arabian steed. Then he turned and went back into the inn.

Celia had returned to Cornwall. Or Celia's ghost. Tamsyn turned her head to look back at the inn as they rode out of the yard. There was no sign of her uncle, but her blood surged. Cedric Penhallan was still alive, and the battle lines were drawn.