Patricia Frances Rowell - A Dangerous Seduction

“Tell me you wish to leave me. Tell me that while I take your breath away, while I make you moan. Come, make me believe it.”

He pulled her into his arms, bruising her lips under his. She collapsed against him, and Morgan thought the victory won.

But suddenly she pulled back, holding him off with her palms, her eyes the ominous gray of a lowering storm. She spoke quietly at first, but her voice rose steadily with growing emotion. “You say I want you. And I do.” She wiped angrily at her eyes. “You know it. And you are taking advantage of it, and…” She was shouting now, tears trailing down her face.

“I will not be your whore!”

A PERILOUS ATTRACTION

“…promising Regency-era debut…

a memorable heroine who succeeds in capturing

the hero’s heart as well as the reader’s.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Ms. Rowell has a nice touch for penning

likeable characters…a relaxing, romantic read.”

—Romantic Times

“…a promising first romance.”

—The Romance Reader

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In memory of my young friend Morgan Mitchell,

who left us at the age of nine

And for my grandchildren,

who are, happily, still with us—

Zachary Nathaniel, Eric Dean, Joseph Richmond,

Amber Nicole, Camille Elise, Joy Anna, Jillian Paige

and Andrew Houghton

And, of course, for Johnny

I would like to thank my friend Maria Budzenski

for her help with this story. She sent me literally

boxes of information in addition to her personal

observations of Cornwall. Thank you, Maria.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

London, England, 1808

P ain. Gripping, grinding, paralyzing pain. He lay on the grass in the pool of blood that leaked through his fingers. But how could he…?

Five, six, seven—three more steps and he would kill the bastard. But there had been no more steps. Eight… A flash of light, a blast, and he was falling. Falling forward, propelled by a blow that knocked him off his feet and onto his face.

Laughter. Shouts. Running feet. Shots. The blood stained his coat and dripped over the hand he pressed in vain against his chest.

The scurvy dog shot before the count! Shot you in the back.

And he laughed.

The laughter echoed through the darkness that was closing around him.

The bastard laughed!

Hoofbeats. The laughter trailing away.

He had thought he hated the man. Now he knew better.

In that moment was conceived a hatred as deep as his soul.

He tried to raise himself on one elbow, tried to lift the pistol still clutched in his hand. Too heavy. Too dark. Hands taking the pistol. Voices calling his name. The darkness wrapping around him in a smothering cloud. Gasping. Choking.

Breathe, damn you, breathe. A breath. Another breath. One more. Another. You can’t die. Not now. The dog must pay.

He will pay. He will pay with everything.

Everything.

Cornwall, England, 1816

T here it lay.

Morgan Pendaris, Earl of Carrick, drew rein at the top of the knoll, bringing the curricle to a stop. Before him over the rolling hills spread the woods, fields and meadows of his home, lush and green, neatly divided and stitched across by ancient hedges.

Nineteen years. Nineteen long years. Nineteen years dark with blood and hate. But, at last, Merdinn again belonged to him. His eyes narrowed with satisfaction, the words that had been his polestar ringing in his head, the words of Genghis Khan.

The greatest joy a man can have is to see his enemy in chains, to deprive him of his possessions, to ride his horses, to see tears on the faces of his loved ones, and to crush in your arms his wives and daughters.

He had at last deprived Cordell Hayne of every possession, including the estate that Hayne’s father had stolen from his. Chains were not far behind. The cur was firmly under the hatches, his only choice debtors prison or the transport ships.

“Why are we stopping, Uncle Morgan?”

“Because we have reached the Merdinn lands, Jeremy.” Morgan raked his dark curls out of his face with impatient fingers, a gesture that was the despair of Dagenham, his long-suffering valet. He smiled down at the boy seated beside him. “It has been a very long time since I have seen them.”

“But you lived here when you were my age?” Without waiting for an answer he already knew, Jeremy rushed on. “When will we see the castle?”

“Soon now.” Morgan flicked his reins and the curricle started down the hill. “It stands behind that bit of woods there.” He pointed with his whip.

The road wound between the fields, the summer sun of Cornwall hot on their heads and necks. A sliver of silver on their left marked the sea, placid at the moment, only the tiniest waves visible. As they neared the castle, the bridge across the old ditch rang hollow beneath the hooves of the horses and they plunged into the cool shade and dank greenery of the small forest that now covered the motte. The way rose steeply as they climbed the man-made hill, flickering through the shadows cast by the twisted trunks of the trees.

Jeremy bounced in his seat. “And there are real towers and real battlements?”

“Yes, as I have told you many times, there are two towers on the seaside wall.”

“But there is no drawbridge and it looks more like a big house now.” The boy’s voice clearly reflected his disapproval of another fact he had often been told.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Jeremy.” Morgan chuckled. He remembered how much, as a seven-year-old boy, he himself had wished that the crumbling walls still stood, that the bridges still lifted, that he might charge across them on a fiery steed. But alas, those deeds belonged to ages past. The towers, however, remained satisfyingly intact—or at least, mostly so. They shared with the rest of the manor the deterioration of two generations of neglect, the neglect that he intended to wipe away.

And when all had again been restored to stateliness and comfort, he would bring his mother home, back to her rightful place as mistress of Merdinn.

Suddenly the trees parted and Morgan’s heart swelled as his boyhood home stood before his eyes—somewhat battered perhaps, as he himself was, but still proud and strong.

Across the level ground of the bailey that had once lain inside a curtain wall, lay the gray stone of the manor itself, with the twin towers on the wall behind it standing proudly against the azure sky. Behind them, he knew, the cliff fell away over jagged rocks into the sea.