Violet

Chapter Fifteen

TAMSYN AWOKE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING AND LAY UNDER her mound of quilts, for a moment bewildered. Her eyes were still closed, her body still half in sleep, but every sense told her that the world had changed. There was a buttery warmth against her eyelids, and almost afraid to believe what her senses were telling her, she opened her eyes.

The sun was shining. And not just a reluctant ray or two-the bedchamber was filled with a golden light. Dust motes danced in the beams pouring through the mullioned windows, and the cut-glass jars on the dressing table sparked blue and red diamonds.

Tamsyn kicked off the covers and jumped to the floor. She threw off her nightgown and stretched, revelling in the warmth of her naked body. Her skin was opening up to the fingering rays, and she felt as if she'd been hibernating in some dank, cold cave for months.

She ran to the window and flung it wide, gazing in breathless wonder at the panorama spread below her. They'd arrived in the dark the previous night, and she'd seen nothing of the outside of the house. They'd hurried in out of the rain, and she'd been aware of candlelight throwing shadows On dark panelling and beamed and plastered ceilings; of fires in massive fireplaces; of a graceful double staircase rising out of the vast Great Hall.

St. Simon had excused himself immediately after presenting his guest and her attendants to the housekeeper, and Tamsyn had found herself ensconced in a large corner apartment with a big canopied bed, tapestry-hung walls, embroidered carpets on the shining oak floor. She'd been brought hot water and a supper tray by clearly curious but uncommunicative servants while Josefa had bustled around unpacking the clothes they'd acquired in London. And she'd sought her bed early and with relief, enjoying, after nights in ill-kempt hostelries, the clean, crisp sheets smelling of dried lavender, the flicker of the fire on the molded ceiling, the deep comfort of the feather mattress.

Now she looked upon another world. Ahead of her stretched rolling green lawns, separated by parterres studded with flower beds, and beyond was the sea, sparkling blue under the early sun. The deeply indented coastline stretched to either side, the chalky headlands shining white against the brilliance of the sea and the sky.

She ran to the east window, flinging that wide too, and leaned out with her elbows resting on the deep stone sill. The view was as spectacular from this angle, the rising sun setting the waters of the River Fowey alight, glittering on the fleet of boats swinging gently at anchor in the estuary, glowing on the roofs of the little fishing village of Polruan on the far bank.

“How beautiful,” Tamsyn murmured in delight, breathing deeply as the scent of roses wafted up to her, mingling with the rich fragrance of golden wallflowers planted in a wide bed below the window. This was her mother's land, the soft, verdant countryside she'd described so lovingly to her daughter under the harsh glare of the Spanish sun.

She pulled on her britches and a shirt and ran barefoot from the room. The house was very quiet, although, from the light pouring in through the many mullioned, transomed windows, she guessed it was about five o'clock. But, then, it was Sunday, so perhaps the household slept late.

The bolts were heavy on the massive front door, and she hauled them back with an effort. The door swung open, and she stood blinking in the brilliant morning, her spirit unfurling to the warmth and the light. The forecourt faced east, toward Fowey, and Tamsyn made her way through a small arched gateway in the stone wall surrounding the court and into the main garden that swept down to the sea. She glanced up at her own window, realizing for the first time that it was set into a square ivy-covered tower.

Colonel, Lord St. Simon's house was magnificent, she thought appreciatively. It must represent a fair degree of wealth and power. Wealth and power in the wandering life of a mountain brigand had not been evinced by the ownership of bricks, mortar, and land, but Cecile had told her about how Englishmen viewed the importance of such acquisitions.

Cedric Penhallan was a kingmaker, a power broker, and Cecile had explained that his vast, landed wealth made it possible for him to wield his far-reaching political influence. Without that, not even a man of Lord Penhallan's merciless ambition could have achieved his covert pinnacle of power. And pride of lineage informed the personal power he wielded over every individual who could claim Penhallan blood, however diluted. A power that had rolled over his rebellious sister like a juggernaut.

But it wouldn't roll over this Penhallan, Tamsyn thought with a grim little smile as she set off across the lawn toward the beckoning sea, disdaining the neat gravel path, choosing instead to curl her toes in the still rain-wet grass. This Penhallan was going to bring down the kingmaker, hoist him with his own petard. Yet even as she thought this, the image of her uncle rose in her mind's eye. The extraordinary force she'd felt emanating from him, a menacing avalanching energy that would cut down all in its path. He'd seen her on the stairs. And what he'd seen had brought him up short. Astounded, disbelieving recognition had flashed across his eyes… recognition and for the briefest instant something she would have sworn was fear.

But he didn't know who she was. And he wouldn't know the truth until she chose to announce herself public announcement-Cecile's ghost come for restitution and vengeance, her advent swift and sure as a dagger thrust. And until then he'd be tormented with a half-formed familiarity whenever he saw her, apparently no more than an innocent young visitor to a strange land.

But how much contact would she have with the Penhallans while she was under St. Simon's roof? Tamsyn paused in her dancing progress across the rolling lawns. She'd sensed animosity between St. Simon and Cedric Penhallan. A deep animosity, if the ice in Julian’s voice had been any indication. And what had he meant with that warning about Cedric's nephews? Keep your nephews off my land, Penhallan, or I'll not answer for the consequences. And who were these nephews? Her cousins, presumably.

There were puzzles here, but they could be solved.

Gabriel could do some investigating in the local taverns. He was always at home in such places and was a skilled spy, as skilled at planting information as he was at gleaning it. The important thing was: the game had begun.

With a little nod of satisfaction Tamsyn pranced lightly over the grass toward a low stone wall at the edge of the lawn. Then she stopped, her mouth opening on an O of delight. The ground fell away, a long, curving sweep cut into the cliffs rising on either side, dropping to a small sandy cove; but what stunned Tamsyn was the brilliant mass of color filling her eyes as she gazed down. She paused for a second, then with a little cry of pleasure plunged into the glorious swaying field.

From the sweeping windows of his own apartments Julian watched her dancing progress across the wet grass. He'd been in the process of dressing when he'd been drawn· to the window by some unarticulated urge and now stood shirtless, thumbs hitched into the waistband of his britches, regarding the sprite below with a frown of annoyance. She'd broken the rules, going abroad in those clothes. It was one thing to discard female attire on the deck of a man-of-war in the midst of battle, but in the peaceful and conventional Cornish countryside it was quite different.

There was going to be enough gossip about her presence as it was, without giving the servants fuel for the bonfires. She certainly wouldn't achieve acceptance in local society, let alone in the upper echelons of the ton, if she made herself notorious in such a shameless costume.

But, then, if she didn't choose to cooperate, he was well within his rights to call a halt to the exercise.

He strode from the room, passing a sleepy-eyed maidservant hurrying from her attic bed to rake the kitchen fires before cook and the upper servants appeared. She bobbed a curtsy, blushing at his lordship's bare chest. Julian accorded her a brief nod. She was unknown to him, and he made a mental note to discuss with the housekeeper the servants who'd been taken on in his absence.

He let himself out of a side door and made his way across the lawns, following in Tamsyn's footprints, still visible in the wet grass. His irritation lifted somewhat in the soft air of the new morning, the carpet of raindrops glittering in the sun, the fresh-washed fragrances rising from the parterres as he stepped down toward the stone wall.

Reaching it, he stopped, gazing down toward the cove. For the moment he couldn't see Tamsyn anywhere, and yet she had to be there, unless she'd climbed one of the steep cliffs on either side of the narrow valley. Then he caught a glimpse of silvery hair halfway down the slope, the rest of her lost in a rioting mass of purple-red foxgloves and lilac rhododendron.

He jumped lightly over the wall and made his way down toward the bobbing head. “Tamsyn!”

She turned and waved, her face alight with pleasure, her violet eyes blending with the armful of blooms she held.

“Aren't they so beautiful? I've never seen such an incredible sight,” she called, beginning to wade through the waist-high field of color toward him.

“Judging by your clothes, I assume you're no longer interested in this contract you insisted upon,” he declared, his mouth close-gripped, as she reached him.

If Tamsyn heard, she chose to ignore it. She buried her nose in the flowers she held. “What are they called?

I've never seen anything like them, just growing wild like this.”

“Foxgloves,” Julian said.

“And the sun's shining, and the sea's sparkling. It's all so lovely, I would never have believed England could look like this,” Tamsyn continued, her head thrown back to catch the sunlight, her neck curving gracefully from the open collar of her shirt, her eyelashes thick half-moons on her sun-tipped cheekbones. “Cecile used to describe Cornish summers, but after the last few days, I'd decided absence must have distorted her memory.” She laughed, a happy, chiming chuckle.

She was radiating a deep, sensual delight and Julian was moved despite every effort he made to resist-a buttercup lifting its golden head to the sun. Vigorously, he dismissed such whimsy and said sharply, “Have you any idea the talk you're going to cause in those clothes? Give me one good reason why I should persist with my side of this ridiculous scheme of yours when you won't even follow the most elementary rules.”

“Oh.” Her eyelashes swept up, and her almond shaped eyes gazed at him with their habitually quizzical air. “I don't mind not wearing them in the least, milord colonel.”

Before he could react, she flung her arms wide, tossing the red and purple armful over him so he dripped foxgloves, and with a deft movement stripped away her shirt, kicked off her britches, and stood naked in the purple sea, grinning wickedly at him. “This better, sir?”

“Sweet heaven,” he murmured, his disordered senses tumbling in a maelstrom, all reason and resistance slipping from him like a boat loosed from its mooring at high tide.

She was a creature of the sun and the sea breeze and the rich wildflower fragrances, and her hands were on his waist, nimble with the buttons, her tongue peeping from between her lips, her eyes intent as she bared his belly, traced the thin dark line of hair running from his navel, down over the muscled concavity to disappear into the shadows of his body. Slowly she pushed his britches down over his hips, releasing the erect shaft of flesh. She stepped closer, pressing her belly against the hard, pulsing warmth, sliding a hand between his thighs; then she raised her eyes and laughed up at him, reaching up to brush a broken velvety purple glove from his chest.

“Better, milord colonel?”

He didn't understand why he couldn't stop this. Why he couldn't put her away from him, drag his britches up again, subdue his errant flesh, and walk away from her, back to the house. She'd broken the rules, he could legitimately refuse to be manipulated for another moment.

Instead, he stood looking down at her, lost in her eyes, his loins heavy with longing at the press of her smooth, bare belly against him. His hands moved to span her waist and her breasts trembled, her nipples rising hard against his chest.

Slowly, she sank down into the purple mattress, her hands sliding over his hips, down his thighs, as she slipped to her knees. She bent her head to take his aching stem into her mouth, teeth grazing lightly, tongue caressing in long, sweeping movements that brought a groan of joy to his lips. His fingers twisted in the silky cap of her hair; he gazed down at her bent head, the exposed nape of her neck, the sharp shoulder blades, the curve of her spine, the flare of her backside, the grass-stained soles of her feet, as she knelt to pleasure him.

He hauled himself back from the brink with a shuddering breath and came down on his knees beside her, cupping her face, taking her warm, busy mouth with his; the salty taste of his flesh was on her tongue, her skin was infused with the scents of her own arousal.

He pressed her back into the purple waves around her, and her body was pink and cream against the flower mattress. Her thighs parted for his own grazing exploration, and little murmuring cries of pleasure. bubbled from her, her fingers tangling in his hair, her hips lifting in ecstasy as his breath was hot and then cool on her petaled flesh and his tongue burned within her.

Smiling, his eyes hooded, molten with passion, he came up her body, drawing his tongue upward between her breasts, darting into the hollow of her throat, licking a little bead of sweat from her skin, his mouth once more fastening upon her lips as his hands moved beneath her to cup her buttocks, lifting her now to meet his surging entry into the silken sheath that tightened and closed around him, sending ripples of delight along his flesh so that he was moving in an exquisite world of sensation, bounded by the sweet flesh beneath him and around him.

He heard as if from a great distance her softly jubilant cries as she neared the pool of glorious extinction where she would lose herself, the shape of herself dissolved into the cool void of pure sensation. And with a supreme effort he clung to reality just long enough to withdraw from her body the instant he joined her, sinking into the ever-expanding space of eternal pleasure.

He came to himself with the sensation of the sun hot on his back. He was still clasping the small body tightly against him, and with a groan he rolled over, bringing her with him, so she lay beached on his length, her head drooping into the curve of his shoulder. She felt formless and weightless, her skin damply melding with his, and he was filled with a euphoria he'd never known before. None of his sexual adventuring had brought him this glorious satiation, this sense of fusion and peace.

Gently he patted her bottom, and Tamsyn raised her head with visible effort. “How did that happen… whatever it was?” She smiled dreamily, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“I don't know,” he said, kneading the curve of her backside. “You aren't real.”

Tamsyn chuckled weakly. “Oh, yes, I am, milord colonel. I'm flesh and blood to the very tips of my toes.” She pushed upward on his chest and sat astride his thighs. “And just to show you how real I am, I'm going to swim.”

“It's freezing,” he protested. “But, then, it's probably not as cold as the Guadiana in March.”

“Precisely.” She swung off him with an agility that belied her earlier dissolution. “Are you coming?”

“Maybe… in a minute.”

Tamsyn ran off and Julian remained on his back, one arm over his forehead shielding his eyes from the sun, facing facts. He'd succumbed again. And for as long as this brigand sprite was in his vicinity, he was going to continue to succumb-particularly if she continued this habit of stripping naked in. the most unlikely places and without so much as a word of warning. Maybe he should simply accept the pleasures of her body as just and well deserved recompense. She was using him, so he might as well exact a price. It was one she was more than willing to pay.

He stood up, watching as Tamsyn ran into the gently lapping surf on the small sandy beach. She didn't pause, simply plunged headlong into the waves that he knew must be frigid, coming up for air, then striking out with a strong overarm stroke across the cove, presumably testing the strength of the undercurrent.

She seemed as at home in the water as she was on horseback, but that was hardly surprising, given her rugged upbringing. He strode down to the cove and walked into the water, shivering as the cold water crept up his thighs. A wave curled toward him and he dived into it, the icy cold a cleansing knife along his sweat slick skin. When he broke the surface, he saw Tamsyn's sleek head to his right. She raised a hand and waved, then rolled onto her back, floating on the waves as they swelled beneath her.

The sun warmed the surface of her body, and the gentle rocking motion insinuated itself into her bodily currents, reminding her of the earlier moments of ecstasy. She barely noticed the cold water now; her eyes were closed and the sun was hot and growing hotter by the minute, creating a warm red glow behind her eyelids.

Julian swam strongly toward her, then trod water beside her. “Come in now, Tamsyn, it's colder than you think.”

She murmured assent but didn't immediately move.

He turned and swam in, running up the beach, shaking water off his skin, clapping his arms around his chest as he jumped on the sand, watching her. She had rolled over now and was stroking inward, using the waves to carry her to shore.

Yes, love play was certainly some compensation for the months of inaction lying ahead, Julian reflected, finding his britches and stepping into them. Not that inaction was precisely the right word for the task that lay ahead of him. He couldn't begin to imagine how local society was going to react to this extraordinary newcomer. She was bound to have to make some social forays before he'd managed to smooth her rough edges, and the prospect of Tamsyn drinking tea at the vicarage under the eagle eye of Mrs. Thornton made him shudder. Unfortunately, it also made him laugh. Of course, the sooner they could discover her Cornish antecedents, the clearer his path would be, but the fact remained that she couldn't be presented to her long-lost family until she was presentable.

He sighed. He had his work cut out for him, and his charge was going to have to cooperate. He didn't think she understood quite what a large mouthful she'd bitten off, but she was going to have to swallow it.

Tamsyn ran up the beach toward him, shivering but laughing. “Wonderful. I love swimming in salt water.” She grabbed up her shirt and used it to dry herself, rubbing herself vigorously, her teeth chattering, her lips blue, but her eyes shining.

Julian watched her, hands resting lightly on his hips.

His voice was deliberately cool and clipped, disguising the pleasure he was taking in the sight of her body and her uninhibited movements as she dried between her legs. “One thing you need to understand. If you wish to continue with this charade, this is the last time you'll behave in this fashion while you're under my roof. Do I make myself clear?”

“I'm not sure,” Tamsyn said thoughtfully, pulling on her britches. “What behavior are you talking about, exactly, milord colonel?” She shrugged into her now soaked shirt, shivering as the material clung to her skin.

“Wearing these clothes; swimming; or what we've just been doing amid the flowers?”

She buttoned the shirt, regarding him with her head to one side, a slightly sardonic gleam in her eye as she posed the question that would force him to admit that he wanted their love play to continue.

“Public indiscretion, buttercup,” he said deliberately.

“That's what I'm talking about.” He turned and walked back up the slope toward the garden, whistling carelessly, hands thrust into his pockets.

Tamsyn grinned appreciatively. He'd managed to wriggle out of that one without admitting anything, while leaving private indiscretion wide-open for further interpretation. She scrambled up the valley after him.

Julian paused as he reached the wall, waiting for her to catch up with him. The small, firm swell of her breasts was clearly outlined beneath the wet shirt, the nipples dark points.

“You'd better stay here while I fetch you a cloak,” he said. “You can't enter the house looking like that, it'll be all over the countryside within the hour. But be warned, this is the last time I shall cover up your… your…” His eyes rested in leisurely fashion on her breasts; then he put a hand on the top of her head and turned her like a spinning top. His free hand moved in a pointed caress over the indentation of her waist and the curve of her backside. “You understand me, I'm sure.”

“It would be hard to misunderstand you, sir.” There had been something faintly insulting about the strokes, something a little vengeful. Tamsyn twitched away from him, crossed her arms over her chest, and sat on the wall. “I will await you here.”

She sat facing the sea, kicking her feet against the stone. She may have overcome his resistance to lovemaking this morning, but she hadn't won over his attitude.

She shrugged, trying to convince herself that his attitude didn't matter so long as she had his cooperation. But she didn't want to be at odds with him. They were too alike; they had shared so many experiences, the brutality and the triumphs of war; they enjoyed each other too much, and not just in love play. Tamsyn had the sense of a whole country of pleasure, of talk and laughter and shared opinions, just around the corner, but the border was patrolled by his resentment and her own purpose.

She glanced idly up at the cliff top toward Fowey and frowned, squinting against the sun. Two figures on horseback were outlined against the cloudless blue sky. They were too far away to see anything clearly, except that they were men, their horses had the elegant lines of good pedigree, and she thought she could see shotguns across their saddles. Tamsyn wondered without much concern how long they'd been there and how much they could have seen of the goings-on in the cove. They wouldn't have witnessed that lusty tumble in the foxgloves-the flowers had formed a perfect privacy screen -but two naked figures running into and out of the sea would have been hard to miss.

As she watched, they turned their horses and galloped out of sight over the cliff, and when Julian returned with her cloak, she didn't mention their possible audience, reasoning that it would only add fuel to his annoyance.

“Wrap this around you and don't talk to anyone as you go to your room,” Julian directed crisply. He was wearing shirt and boots now and looked perfectly respectable. “The household is barely awake, so with luck you won't meet anyone anyway. After breakfast come to the library, and we'll get started. Wear one of the morning gowns you bought in London-I want to work on your posture.”

“My posture?” Tamsyn demanded with more than a touch of indignation, but he'd already started back to the house, striding swiftly, making it clear he didn't wish for her company.

Posture? What on earth could he mean? Tamsyn scrambled after him, following him through the side door into the house, but he turned aside into the breakfast parlor, leaving her to make her own way upstairs in disgruntled puzzlement.

The door to Tamsyn's bedchamber stood ajar, and she could hear Josefa engaged in a somewhat one-sided exchange with a maidservant, who had brought a morning tray of chocolate and sweet biscuits for his lordship's guest.

Tamsyn wrapped the cloak securely around her so her unorthodox costume was fully hidden and entered the room with a cheerful, “Buenos dias, Josefa.”

“Oh, miss.” The girl turned with visible relief before Josefa could return the greeting. “I was trying to explain to your maid here that breakfast is served in the small parlor behind the library, but she doesn't seem to understand.”

“No, I'm afraid she won't,” Tamsyn said, smiling.

“But I can translate, and if there's a problem below stairs, Gabriel will translate.”

“That's that big bloke, is it, miss?” The girl's eyes were very round in a very round face.

“An accurate description,” Tamsyn agreed with a grin. “He's her husband.” It seemed simplest to tell the conventional fib.

“Right. Then I'll tell Mr. and Mrs. Hibbert-they're the butler and housekeeper,” she added. “We wasn't sure about how things stood, miss. You arriving so sudden like, and his lordship not being a great one for explanations.” She blushed in sudden confusion, clearly feeling she might have spoken out of turn, and bobbed a swift curtsy, backing out of the room muttering about fetching hot water.

“Ay… ay, I'll never understand my man's tongue,” Josefa declared. “Such a jabber. I told that girl three times that you'd be wanting hot water, and she just stared at me like an idiot.”

“She doesn't understand you, querida, any more than you understand her,” Tamsyn said, chuckling, as she threw off her cloak and the britches and shirt beneath. “But Gabriel or the colonel or myself will translate for you. Now, which of those stupid dresses shall I wear?”

Naked, she wandered to the armoire, taking the cup of chocolate on the way. She stood frowning in front of the wardrobe's contents, sipping chocolate, nibbling on a biscuit.

They'd spent five days in London, putting up at Grillon's hotel. The colonel had vanished once he'd seen them installed and hadn't reappeared until it was time to begin the journey to Cornwall. He'd given her a list of dressmakers and milliners, together with what he considered minimum requirements for a would-be debutante’s wardrobe, and left her to make shift as she could.

Tamsyn had found it tedious work putting together such a wardrobe, but she'd tackled the task with the grim determination she would have brought to any piece of necessary preparation for some serious venture. The colonel had inspected the fruits of her shopping the night before they'd begun their journey and had pronounced himself satisfied. Any other necessities or forgotten accessories could be purchased in St. Austell or Lostwithiel.

She heard the bustle behind her as Mary reappeared with a heavy copper jug of steaming water but didn't turn around, idly flicking through the garments. She disliked them all, reserving her greatest distaste for a sprig muslin that the colonel had particularly approved. She drew the dress out and held it up to the light. It was very pretty, pale lilac with a pattern of darker flowers and a cream sash.

“Ugh!” she muttered, tossing the despised gown onto the bed. “It had best be this.”

“Such a pretty dress, miss,” Mary said, fingering the material admiringly. “It'll suit your coloring.”

“I suppose so,” Tamsyn agreed half-heartedly, turning to the washstand where Josefa was filling the basin with hot water.

She scrubbed the salt from her skin with a soapy washcloth, enjoying the glow that her rough attentions left in their wake, then set about the tedious task of donning stockings, drawers, and chemise. So many clothes, and so unnecessary when the sun was as warm as it was today. She scrambled into a lawn petticoat, kicking at the folds with a grimace.

Josefa dropped the gown over her head, and she thrust her arms into the little puff sleeves with a roughly impatient movement that caused the other woman to tut reproachfully at the possible damage to the delicate material. The gown was hooked, the sash tied beneath her bosom, and she examined herself in the mirror. She really didn't look like herself

“My hair's getting long, Josefa, you must cut it for me.” She brushed her fingers through the smooth, fair cap. “It's straggling on my neck and the fringe is getting in my eyes.”

As satisfied as she was likely to be in such a costume, Tamsyn went downstairs to the breakfast parlor. The colonel had clearly been and gone, and only one place was laid at the round table in the bay window overlooking a side garden. The morning's activities had given her a good appetite, and she greeted with enthusiasm a footman's arrival with a dish of eggs, bacon, and mushrooms.

“Coffee or tea, miss?”

“Coffee, please.”

“Your manservant wishes a word with you, miss. Should I tell him to wait until you've breakfasted?”

“Ye'll no be telling me anything, laddie.” Gabriel spoke from the doorway. “And I'll thank ye to bring me another dish of the same. Good morning, little girl.”

Ignoring the footman's indignantly indrawn breath, he pulled out a chair and sat down. The footman was puffing up like a rooster, and Tamsyn said swiftly, “Gabriel isn't my manservant. He's more of a bodyguard. I'm sure Lord St. Simon will explain the situation to you.”

“Yes, miss.” The man sniffed and shot Gabriel a fulminating glance.

Gabriel's benign expression didn't change, but he pushed back his chair a fraction, his massive hands resting on the edge of the table. “And I'll have a tankard of ale with my breakfast, if you please.”

The footman paused, then beat a hasty retreat with as much dignity as he could muster. Gabriel's booming chuckle filled the small room as he reached for a crusty roll and slathered it with rich golden butter.

“I'll be needing to set a few things straight,” he observed. “Don't seem to know what to make of me in this house. I'd best have a word with the colonel.”

“Yes,” Tamsyn agreed absently. “I saw Cedric Penhallan yesterday.”

Gabriel's eyes sharpened. “Where?”

“In the inn at Bodmin. I couldn't say anything to you on the ride back because of the colonel.”

“Aye,” Gabriel agreed, falling silent as the footman returned with a tankard of ale that he placed beside him with an emphatic thump before turning to take a laden platter from the kitchen boy who'd followed him in.

“My thanks, laddie,” Gabriel said blandly, burying his nose in the tankard. The footman looked as if he would burst, and the boy stifled a grin, scuttling from the room before Tom took his fury out on him with a clout around the ear.

“You didn't speak with him?” Gabriel speared a mushroom and dipped it in his egg yolk.

“No, but the colonel did. They seem to know each other.”

“Most folks do in these parts.”

“I daresay, but they don't like each other, Gabriel. In fact I suspect that's an understatement.” She gave him her impressions, relating the snatch of conversation she'd heard.

“I'd best look into it, then,” Gabriel said comfortably. “Ask around in the taverns. They'll be cousins of yours, then, these nephews?”

“So it would seem. The children of Cecile's younger brother, I suppose. I can't remember his name-she did tell me once, but I've forgotten. She didn't consider him to be important in the family setup.”

“Seems like only Cedric's important in that setup,” Gabriel observed, burying his nose in his tankard.

“Up to now, Gabriel,” Tamsyn said with a small smile. “Up to now.”

“Well, well, I'll be damned. Did we really see St. Simon sporting in the waves with a doxy?” Charles Penhallan sighted, aimed, and his gun cracked. A crow plunged to the cliff top.

David grinned at his brother as he took aim himself Scaring crows was dull work but better than taking pot-shots at rabbits, and it was all the legitimate sport available at this time of year.

“I'd recognize that red head anywhere,” he said.

“And he doesn't get any smaller does he?”

“No, but clearly less of a prude these days.” Charles rested his shotgun on his saddle bow. “Either that or he's a hypocrite. Didn't think much of the whore, though. Scrawny little thing.”

“Looked more like a lad to me,” David observed, bringing his own gun down. “Perhaps the army's given him different tastes.”

They both laughed. Two men with lean, pointed faces, mouths a mere slash, small, deep-set brown eyes, hard as pebbles. They were thin, sharp-shouldered, narrrow-chested, but what they lacked in physique they made up for in the general air of malevolence that surrounded them like an aura. Men tended to cross the street when the Penhallan twins approached. They rarely appeared singly, and conversed together in oblique sentences, presenting an intimidating front to the world, with which not even their few intimates were comfortable.

“I wonder if the governor knows St. Simon's at Tregarthan?” David said, frowning now. “He's probably back from Bodmin by now.”

“If he doesn't know now, he'll know soon enough. We'd best get off St. Simon land,” Charles said reluctantly. “We don't want anyone seeing us here and carrying tales.”

“Can't think why St. Simon made such a fuss,” David declared with a curl of his lip. “The girl was nothing, just some whore's daughter.”

“She was his tenant and it was on his land.” Charles spurred his horse, turning him to the boundary of Tregarthan land, and his brother followed, his expression sullen.

“He's a prude and a hypocrite,” he declared. “One of these days I'll see that damnable St. Simon pride in the dust.”

“Oh, yes,” Charles promised softly. “One of these days we both shall.”