Fire Raven (14 page)

H
ENRY
L
AWRENCE HEARD ABOUT
Morgan’s injury by accident. The earl had not gone directly home as planned. Upon leaving Falcon’s Lair, he made a roundabout course through Birmingham, where he visited a number of his cronies and shared in the latest Tudor gossip.

Always a staunch supporter of the queen, Lawrence was disturbed to hear about the latest development in Trelane’s household during his fortnight away. Even in rural Wales, news of such shocking incidents spread rapidly, and Lawrence could not quell his earlier suspicions. They returned to the fore, insistent as ever.

In his mind, there was no coincidence between Morgan almost being killed, and the odd circumstances of the young woman washed up on the beach. None at all. He believed there to be a papist plot underway and was determined to see it brought up short.

What if the wench charmed Trelane into marrying her on his deathbed? Lawrence hadn’t heard any details about the stabbing, but he was certain the girl had co-conspirators hiding somewhere, just waiting for the opportunity to weasel her way into the Tudor court. A baron’s wife, even a lowly Welsh one, had right, by title, to petition the queen.

Suppose the jade was clever enough to get a ring on her finger and prettily beg Elizabeth Tudor for an audience. Lawrence knew his queen was just; Bess would not refuse to see a widow, especially one so recently bereaved. Assassination would therefore be easy. Given Spain’s irrational behavior of late, it was not unlikely. What better way to usurp the English throne?

It gave Lawrence stomach pains to consider the possibilities. He was further concerned, recalling young Trelane’s heritage. Though it was kept mum, the fact that Morgan was half-Spanish must not be overlooked now. Perhaps Trelane, too, was somehow involved. It could not be denied, the man was a recluse given to strange behavior and suspicious company.

However he looked at it, Lawrence saw his duty was clear. It included alerting the royal council, and if need be, Queen Elizabeth herself. He ordered Tibbs to pack his trunks. When asked by his cronies, he said he was headed by way of London to give his annual regards to Dear Bess.

Chapter Eight

“M
ORGAN, YOU MUST LISTEN
to reason. ’Tis too early for you to be walking about. If I must have Lloyd Carey tie you down in bed, so be it.”

Morgan listened with a faint smile to the threats Kat hurled down at him. He wasn’t about to be hobbled in bed for another two weeks. He was a man who craved fresh air and exercise; a fortnight of mollycoddling from his various caretakers was quite enough.

“Winnie assured me the wound has sealed shut,” he said when Kat finished her lecture. “There’s no excuse for me to lie abed when there’s so much work to be done.”

Kat controlled her temper with effort. Though she made out only a badly blurred visage of Morgan now, she knew him to be amused by her mothering instincts. “I don’t care. You’re not getting up. That’s final, sirrah.” She yanked the covers up over him with a flourish and froze in place when he captured her hand.

“Sit and stay awhile,
cariad
.”

Morgan’s deep voice held a plea. She stood there in indecision. This fortnight had been pure agony for her, because she loved him so. Morgan almost made love to her several times, yet for reasons unbeknownst to her, he always stopped. She assumed it was because of her blindness, or her lowly status. Neither reason was soothing to her fragile ego.

“I’ll stay, on one condition,” she said. “You’ll remain abed the rest of the week without arguing.”

“There’s my Kat.” She heard amusement in his voice. “Do whatever you can to win the day. Sit, then, and I’ll read some more to you.”

When she started to pull up a chair, Morgan corrected her. “Here.”

He patted the ample space in the bed beside him. Her brow furrowed, but she obediently sat down to listen to a passage from
The Winter’s Tale
:

When daffodils begin to peer,

With heigh! the doxy over the dale

Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year;

For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale.

Kat shivered at the mention of blood. Sensing her distress, Morgan chose some merry ditties and short limericks instead, eliciting a grudging smile from her lips. Then he read more serious prose, including an ancient love ballad. As the romantic words flowed into the room, she felt her cheeks grow hot.

“I must get some air,” she murmured, and started to rise.

“You’ll never find the window.” Morgan’s hand grasped her forearm. “Stay and hear the rest. It means a great deal to me.”

Kat was hurt and a little angered by the request. She knew her heart was breaking. Morgan must know she loved him. Hearing him read words of love and promise aloud only made her ache all the more. Apparently, she meant nothing more to him than another lost, injured animal. Why didn’t she accept her fate?

“As you wish, milord,” she said, pointedly reminding them both of their difference in status. She heard the book slam shut.

“I’ll endure no more of this churlish behavior,” Morgan said, sounding grim. “We must talk, Kat.”

“If you wish.”

“Aye, milady, I do.” She felt his fingers lift her chin, forcing her to face him. “Tell me about your anger.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Yea, you are. I see it flashing in your sea-green eyes, Kat, as a summer squall appears on the horizon. What have I done to displease you?”

“Nothing,” she said, attempting to rise. Morgan restrained her again, and brought her back down beside him.

“Then why are you trying to escape me?”

“I’m not,” she muttered. “I’m trying to leave so you can get some rest.”

“Y’are a poor liar, Kat, and a worse martyr. Nay, there is something powerful troubling you, and I vow I shall not rest till you tell me what it is.”

“All right,” she burst out, her pride pricked by his remorseless stance. “I shall tell you, then. Nigh a fortnight ago, I foolishly confessed my love for you, Morgan Trelane. Since then naught has been the same between us.”

His momentary silence was not reassuring. “What do you mean, Kat? I thought nothing amiss.”

“Aye, I trow you did not.” She unleashed her rising agitation. “I speak of our future together. Something you have yet to mention.”

“I attempted to explain to you once,
Faeilean
, why it cannot be.” Morgan’s words were calm, carefully spoken. His poise infuriated her for some reason.

“You explained
nothing
. All I know is that you are a baron, while I am quite likely a nobody. If it cheapens our love in your eyes, as it seems to, then I do us both further harm by remaining here.”

“Kat, little Kat, I would not hurt you for the world.” Morgan’s voice was both hoarse and firm, coaxing and kind. It only made her suffer more. “Please try to understand, ’tis for your own good I take this stance. You would be grievously disappointed ...”

He stopped, and she felt his hand tighten about her arm. “There is no future for us,” he finished at last.

“Why not?”

“There are reasons. Trust me in this.”

“We are speaking of two lives!” she cried. “Our lives, no less, and love.”

“Aye. How well I know it.”

Morgan sounded sad. Kat wondered what the real source of his misery was. “Please be honest with me, Morgan,” she pleaded. “Tell me why we cannot wed. Is it because you are a lord, and I am but a lowborn peasant?”

“No, Kat. ’Twould never stop me. I care not one fig what others may think about our respective stations in life. There are other reasons.”

“I see. Then I would know them, too. I can think of none sufficient to keep us apart.” She drew a deep breath and heard the trepidation in her own tone. “Tell me true. Are you betrothed or married?”

“Nay.”

Morgan would have gladly offered up his life than see such an expression of mingled hurt and suspicion upon her face again.

“For heaven’s sake, why?” Kat whispered. Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks; she visibly struggled to compose herself. “I thought we were well-suited. I thought ’twas mutual, these feelings between us.”

“Aye,” Morgan confirmed. He saw Kat’s lips tremble. Ever so gently he framed her precious face between his hands, and wiped the wetness away from her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs.

“What one hopes and dreams for is not always possible,
Faeilean
. I wish there to be no misunderstandings between us.”

“Be assured there are none, milord.” Kat withdrew and rose, brushing aside his concern and his touch. “I will take my leave now. You may rest, or not, as you will.”

She turned and blundered into a chair. Morgan started to rise and offer assistance, but she squared her shoulders and proudly drew herself up.

“Nay, milord,” Kat said when she heard him swing his legs over the side of the bed. “Do not come near me. Since my blindness revolts you so, I shall not impose upon your good nature again.”

“Sweet Jesu, ’tis not that — ”

“Please, no more lies.” Kat was pleased to discover her voice did not shake, though her heart was shattered inside. She left the room before he might respond.

Morgan remained where he was, berating himself for letting Kat assume the worst, yet also relieved that it saved her heart in the end. Had she continued loving him, she would have been truly devastated if she ever regained her sight.

Suppose she doesn’t?
a tiny voice in his head argued. Then you have just surrendered the only woman you ever wanted for a wife.
Bloody fool!
he heard the ghostly voice of his father exclaim in the silence of the room.
You are letting your one chance for happiness walk out the door.

I
N THE WEEK THAT
followed Kat did not go to Morgan. She occupied herself instead with thoughts of where she would go and what she might do. The frightening, bleak prospect of her future loomed ahead of her, a black abyss. What might a blind girl hope to find in the way of work or mercy?

Nothing, Kat realized. Perhaps the nearby abbey would shelter her, but they would reasonably expect some sort of recompense, and she was useless when it came to chores such as tending animals or cooking.

Kat spent several nights weeping, and her eyes burned anew from the salty tears. When Winnie checked them later, the housekeeper lectured her.

“How d’you ever hope to heal if you won’t follow my advice?” Winnie scolded. “Now, I’ll put the medicine in again. If you cry again I’ll wash my hands of you.”

The gruff threat wasn’t serious. Kat was in such a state of mind she didn’t think to smile.

“You wouldn’t be remiss, Winnie,” she said instead, recalling Morgan’s rejection. Perhaps he only desired a brief dalliance, knowing Kat would not be thus inclined unless she was promised something more. A baron would not seek a marital entanglement with a female of the lower class.

Kat considered the possibility. Aye, it made sense. Morgan had used her. As cleverly as he played a game of chess, he had moved Kat into position and started his careful siege. Well, two could play the game!

“Winnie,” she said that evening before the other woman left. “I wish to look especially fetching tonight.”

Winnie was dismayed but did not let her chagrin enter her voice. “Aye, dear. I’d recommend the plum velvet.”

“Please be so kind as to have it pressed and brought up. I won’t require Gwynneth’s services, however. My hair shall be worn loose.”

“As you wish. D’you favor a bath first?”

“Aye. A soak in hot water sounds heavenly right now. Would it be too much trouble?”

“I’ll have a pair of lads bring up the tub. If you like, I’ll help you wash your hair.”

“Thank you, Winnie.”

Several hours later, Kat carefully carried Morgan’s supper tray into his chamber, her head held high. She heard his exclamation of surprise and pleasure before he rose and crossed the room to meet her.

“There’s too much furniture strewn about, I fear. Let me take the tray from you.”

She nodded, waiting until he set it aside and returned to face her.