Patricia Rowell - A Dangerous Seduction

Manage a home she no longer had.

What? Where? How? When? How? Where…?

Dizziness threatened to overcome her. She jumped up from the dressing stool and began to pace. A flicker of lightning brightened the window for an instant and she paused to look out on the dark sea. The clouds had already defeated the moon. She could see nothing until the approaching storm hurled another bolt.

One thing was certain. Her husband would not rescue her.

Rain began to patter against the glass, and the wind rattled the casement, reflecting the storm that raged inside Lalia. Her feelings changed with every wave, battering her against the rocks of indecision. Fear. Anger. Grief. Her usual serenity had long since disappeared into the depths. She had become the storm.

She couldn’t stand it another minute.

Snatching her wrapper from the bed, she flung it over her shoulders and raced out of the room.

Morgan threw open the wardrobe and took stock of its contents. They didn’t amount to much. Apparently, as Mrs. Hayne had said, her husband spent very little time at Merdinn. But even a single cravat, a pair of stockings, an unmatched glove was too much. He began to pull shirts and coats and trousers out of the wardrobe and throw them on the floor.

Boots, small clothes… When the wardrobe was empty, he attacked the dressing room. Brushes, razors and shaving mug joined the heap on the floor. When not a solitary item belonging to Hayne remained in place in the master suite, Morgan gathered up the pile and dumped it in the hallway. Tomorrow James could take the lot to the vicar to give to the poor. He wanted no trace of the man to remain in his home.

Morgan walked to the window to watch the storm. As he stood there, a distant thump vibrated its way through the house. A door slamming. Now who would be going out into this weather? As he pondered the question, a flicker of movement on the ground below him, caught in a flash of lightning, captured his attention. Someone was abroad.

The next bolt of lightning revealed someone leaning against the parapet at the top of the east tower. As he watched, the wind blew a sail of hair back from the figure. So much hair. Eulalia Hayne.

Alarm shot through Morgan. Good God! She intended to jump! He whirled and dashed into the hallway and ran for the stairs. Taking them two at a time, he gained the lower floor and found the door behind the main staircase unfastened. Looking up, he could still see her leaning into the gale, the rain beating down on her lifted face. He ducked his own head against the rain and made for the tower.

The heavy wooden door into the tower opened easily enough, but the moment it closed, he was in total darkness. Feeling his way up the steps, Morgan had climbed only three when his foot encountered not the fourth, but open air. He caught himself on the next stair up, banging his elbow and painfully scraping his shin. Damnation!

The place had deteriorated badly since he had been here. How the devil did she get up there? Rubbing his elbow, he backed down to the floor and considered. As a boy he had known everything there was to know about Merdinn. Including the flight of unprotected steps that led from the wall around the outside of the tower to the watch platform where his quarry stood. Not a route to pursue in this kind of weather, however.

But a life was at stake. The thought gave him pause. Was it a life that he was willing to risk his own to save? Or was he willing to drive Cordell Hayne’s wife to her death as Hayne had driven Beth to hers? Had it been Hayne on the parapet, he would have watched him fall without lifting a finger. But his hapless wife? Could he stand by and watch Eulalia Hayne die, even to avenge his little sister’s death?

He swore under his breath and started for the wall.

Lalia closed her eyes and let the rain mingle with her tears. It poured over her, washing away her agitation and confusion. The wind swirled around her, blowing her mantle of hair first toward her and then out behind. She didn’t feel the chill. She didn’t want to feel. Didn’t want to remember the resolve she saw in Lord Carrick’s hard, glass-green eyes. Didn’t want to think anymore.

Not thinking—the very thing that had kept her in this situation. Allowing herself to drift, to accept. Think she must, but she would do it tomorrow. Tomorrow. Always tomorrow.

Now Lalia only wanted the rain.

Suddenly she heard the scrape of leather on stone and before she could spin around, a large, authoritative hand grasped her upper arm and pulled her away from the parapet. Stifling a shriek, she put up her other hand to fend off whomever had taken hold of her. Her hand encountered something very warm and very hard. A flash of light revealed the something to be Lord Carrick’s chest. He only tightened his hold when she tried to step away.

“My lord! What are you doing?”

“What am I doing? I am stopping you from leaping onto the rocks. What are you doing? Surely your situation cannot be that bad.”

“You have no…” Before she could finish the sentence a gust blew her curtain of hair across her face, covering both her eyes and her mouth. She fumbled ineffectively with her free hand to clear it away. Before she could gain control of the errant tresses, a second large hand gathered them together and lifted them over her head, holding them firmly at the nape of her neck. The wrist rested heavily on her shoulder.

“Think, Mrs. Hayne. Is any misfortune worth your life?”

Lalia looked up into the stern face with the dark curls plastered to the broad forehead. It was too dark to see the green of his eyes, but they glittered wildly in the intermittent light. She pressed her hand against her chest where her startled heart still pounded loudly and tried to gather her composure. He seemed to expect a response.

“I… You… I’m sorry, my lord. I did not mean to alarm you. I have no intention of jumping to my death.”

His lordship looked skeptical. “Then what, pray tell me, are you doing up here in the midst of a storm? Are you hoping to be stuck by lightning?”

A blinding flash and a deafening crack of thunder punctuated this question. Lord Carrick jerked her against himself as if to shield her. Lalia ducked her head, hiding her face against his shirt. After a cautious moment she decided that she was still alive and tried to draw back a step. His lordship hesitated for a second, looking deeply into her eyes, then loosened his hold slightly.

The warmth of his muscular body enveloped her. Lalia vainly willed her racing heart to slow. She could hear it banging in her ears. “I am not seeking death, my lord. I simply wanted the rain.”

“You wanted… You wanted the rain?” His lordship still looked unconvinced.

“Yes. It calms me.”

“I see.” He did not let go of her. He lifted one eyebrow. “You are telling me that I have come out into a storm, risked my health to an inflammation of the lungs, risked my neck climbing a crumbling wall and an open stair slick with rain, and you tell me you simply wanted to be calmed?”

In spite of herself Lalia chuckled. “Apparently so. But thank you for your concern.”

Lord Carrick did not chuckle. The next flash of light revealed an intimidating crease between his eyebrows. At last he spoke. “If you say so. Nevertheless, I am unwilling to put the matter to the test. How the devil did you come up? Surely you did not climb the outer stairs.”

“I came through the old guard room, my lord. I am familiar with the broken steps in the tower.”

“Very well. You can lead me back down.” He paused for another frowning moment, then asked abruptly, “Have you anywhere to go?”

Lalia shook her head. “No, my lord.”

“Hayne will certainly return for you.”

Lalia dropped her gaze to the stone floor. She knew that would never happen. Looking once more into his face, she drew a deep breath. “I consider that very unlikely.”