Desire and Deception (4 page)

Lauren fixed her frightened gaze on Matthew's face. "You mean . . . someone was trying to kill
me?"

"Kill
Andrea.
Damme
, lass, this impersonation of
yers
has gone far enough."

Only recently, in a vulnerable moment, Lauren had confessed to Matthew that she was really Lauren
DeVries
and only pretending to be her half sister Andrea, and he'd refused to let it rest until she had told him the entire story of the deception George Burroughs had staged. The revelations had not set well with him.

"Are ye a fool, lass?" he had scolded. "What made ye agree to such a thing?
Dinna
ye ken ye can hang?"

Not until then had she realized her impersonation was a criminal offense—punishable by imprisonment and possibly hanging. It had been the idea of prison, though, not hanging, which had frightened her most. The very thought of such confinement made her cringe.

Matthew had tried to talk her into leaving Carlin House afterward, for he'd done some cautious questioning in the village and unearthed an ugly rumor that Regina had been an accomplice in the
Carlins
' murders. But Lauren had no place to go. Besides, she had given George Burroughs her word.

But that was before Miss Foster had been killed. Lauren stared at Matthew now, trying to absorb the shock of his grim suspicions.

"Ye
canna
stay here longer, lass," Matthew said adamantly. "Regina Carlin is after
yer
father's blunt, and she
willna
jib at murder to get
it.Ye
must be gone from this place before 'tis too late."

Lauren shivered, despite the warmth of the June night. Matthew's accusations reminded her of a slip Miss Foster had once made—something about Regina challenging Andrea's right to the inheritance since Jonathan Carlin had lacked a will. The governess had tried to cover up what she'd said at once, and told Lauren to mind her own business. But that, as well as Burroughs's insistence on having his men protect her, seemed especially ominous now.

"I say Regina
snabbled
your governess," Matthew declared harshly, interrupting her thoughts. "And
ye'll
be next."

Lauren turned to him, her eyes pleading for reassurance he wouldn't give. Yet she knew he was right. Regina would kill her, too, if she stayed.

"Very well," she said at last, "I'll leave. But I must speak to Burroughs first. He will see that the impersonation must end."

Matthew snorted in disgust. "Are ye daft, lass? Do ye think he will let ye just walk away?"

"Matthew, he may not like me, but I can't believe he would want to see me killed."

"
Aye,
and he was supposed to protect your governess, too."

In the darkness, Lauren could almost see the aging smuggler's angry face. In better light, it would be as red as his hair. She laid a trembling hand on his arm. "Please, don't be angry with me, Matthew. I'll speak to Burroughs, and then I'll be free to go."

"Stubborn lass," he muttered under his breath. "
Verra
well, but I
willna
let ye stay long."

"I . . . I don't know where I can go."

"
Dinna
fash
yerself
.
We'll think of a plan. Come, then," he said gruffly. "Ye must go back to the house before ye are missed."

She hesitated. "We shouldn't . . . just leave Miss Foster there."

"
Yer
guardian's men will find her, I've no doubt."

Choking back a sob, Lauren nodded mutely. She let Matthew guide her back up the cliff, agreeing with his advice to say nothing of what she had seen, and promising to be on her guard.

But after she had climbed the gnarled tree outside her window and was once again in her own bedroom, the horror reclaimed her and she started to tremble. She had never thought her impersonation would result in murder. And even though the Carlin ships would give her the independence she craved, she didn't want them at the price of a woman's life— or her own.

Hearing a plaintive yowl at her feet, Lauren bent to pick up the cat that was brushing against her skirts. The great, orange- furred creature had found his way into her bedroom several months ago and had adopted her. Lauren hugged him to her breast, needing the comfort of his warm body. Miss Foster had hated Ulysses and had regularly threatened to get rid of him. . . .

Reminded again of that twisted form lying so still on the rocks, Lauren desperately buried her face in the cat's fur. "Oh, Ulysses," she said in a choked whisper. "What have I done? What in God's name have I done?"

Sibyl Foster's funeral was held three days later, and the following week, George Burroughs arrived at Carlin House. Lauren paled when she was told he wished to see her in the study, but she resolutely smoothed the skirt of her black muslin gown and dried her tears. He would not be pleased, but she was determined to tell him of her decision to end the impersonation.

The study was her favorite room, even though she approached it now with reluctance. Innumerable paintings and replicas of ships crowded every wall and table, while hundreds of leather-bound volumes lined the bookshelves. Lauren had spent hours poring over tomes about the sea, learning about the brave men who challenged its power. She knew a good deal about sailing vessels as well, even though she had never set foot on one; her passion for ships was the one thing besides her height that she had inherited from her father.

Burroughs, a portly man with sagging jowls and a ruddy complexion, was standing beside the desk when she entered, looking drawn and weary after his long journey from London. His somber brown coat was wrinkled and his knee breeches were creased, indicating that he hadn't taken the time to change before summoning her. He, too, looked as if he had been crying, but Lauren knew his tears were the result of habitually watery eyes.

As she quietly shut the door behind her, Burroughs dabbed at his face with a handkerchief, fixing her with his rheumy gaze. "I have made the arrangements for your marriage," he said tersely. "The wedding is to take place shortly after your seventeenth birthday."

Stunned, Lauren stared at him. She had expected some expression of regret over Miss Foster's death.
Perhaps even some effort to explain away the entire thing.
But she had certainly not been prepared for this.
"Marriage?"
she stammered. "But what about Miss Foster?"

"A sad accident," he admitted.

"It was not!" Lauren replied in a hoarse voice. "I will not be a part of this deception any longer. It has gone too far."

Burroughs eyed her coldly, his lips tightening with displeasure. "I realize that you are disturbed, Andrea, so I will overlook this insubordination."

"You told me Regina wanted the Carlin Line, but you never said she would resort to murder. I won't continue—"

"That will be quite enough!" The sharpness of his tone silenced Lauren for a moment. Burroughs lowered his voice and went on as if she hadn't spoken, relating the details of her planned marriage. Nobility . . . protect . . . younger son . . . Lord
Effing
. . . .

A tightness
in Lauren's throat nearly choked her. How she wished that she had never become involved in Burroughs's lies and deceptions. She could stand that droning voice no longer. "You promised I would be free when I was twenty-one," she challenged unwisely.

A muscle in his jaw hardened, but he ignored her comment. "I had no difficulty finding suitors for your hand—not with the Carlin Line for a dowry. Few men scruple about what sort of bride they are getting when a fortune in ships is at stake. They are even willing to overlook insanity, it seems. Yet I wanted to attract the right kind of man. I am pleased with my choice."

Lauren shook her head. How could she marry a man she didn't know? How could she draw someone else into a deception that had already resulted in murder? And in any case, she never intended to marry. She would never allow any man the power to hurt her the way her mother had been hurt.

"The
Marquess
of
Effing
is a wealthy man, my dear. The settlements he has promised are more than generous. You will never want for anything once you marry his son. The family is a noble one—"

"Do not pretend you are doing this for me," Lauren interjected.

Burroughs's expression turned coldly hostile. "I am doing it for the Carlin Line, since someone must take control when I am gone. And I am doing it to protect you from Regina. This marriage may be the only way to prevent her from locking you away in a madhouse—if she doesn't kill you first!"

Heedless of his warning tone, Lauren met his damp eyes directly. "You wouldn't care! You wouldn't care what Regina did to me, as long as you could prevent her from having the Carlin ships!"

Vivid flags of anger rose on Burroughs's cheeks as he glowered at Lauren. He pointed an accusing finger at her, grinding out his words. "I have
always, always
met my obligation as Jonathan's partner.
Even when it came to providing for his bastard daughter!"

Lauren flinched. Burroughs had never called her a bastard before. He made the word sound like an accusation, as if he would like to punish her for her birth.

Then he sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead. "In spite of how it may seem to you, you will discover I have only your best interests at heart."

Lauren laughed mirthlessly.
"Oh, truly?
Then perhaps you can tell me what I stand to gain? For me, it will merely be exchanging one jailer for another."

"It will not be like that."

"No? How many men do you suppose my new husband will deem adequate to guard me?
Ten?
Twenty?
Is he rich enough to afford the army under your command?"

"I have told you before . . . my men are only there for your protection."

"Protection?
Miss Foster is dead!"

"That is enough," he snapped, his face darkening ominously. "You will go to your room where you will consider what I have said."

"No! You needed me for your grand schemes, but it has gone too far. I am through, do you hear? I cannot condone murder."

"You will cease these hysterical
rantings
at once, Andrea!"

Lauren realized she was courting disaster but was unable to stop herself. "Hysterical!" she cried, clenching her fists. "Yes, I may be. But I am not
Andrea!"

Burroughs covered the distance between them with a stride that belied his age, rage mottling his face as he raised his hand and slapped her hard across the cheek. Lauren's head snapped sideways, loosening the pins in her hair and sending a golden lock tumbling down her back.

Her hand going to her stinging cheek, Lauren stared at him in fear and shock. Burroughs had never struck her before— but then she had never opposed him before.

As if he realized what he had done, his fierce expression crumbled
abruptly. "I
. . .
I am sorry," he stammered. And then suddenly he gasped and began to claw at the
neckcloth
binding his throat.

Lauren watched him warily for a moment,
then
instinctively reached out to help him. But he waved her away. He sank weakly into a wing chair beside the desk, taking large gulps of air.