Fire Raven (35 page)

“Nay,” he said quietly. After a moment’s hesitation, he rejoined her in the bed, slipping under the covers on the far edge of the bed. He lay back and slung an arm crosswise over his face.

Frustrated, Kat propped herself up on one elbow and tried to make out his expression. “What’s wrong?” she asked, moving to touch his cheek in a gesture of comfort.

Morgan flinched and rolled over on his side, away from her. She quelled the bitter pang of rejection and laid back beside him, staring at the lacy patterns of moonlight dancing upon the ceiling. Neither of them slept.

B
EFORE DAWN BROKE
, M
ORGAN
had already left the bedchamber. Kat heard nothing; she was startled by his stealth; he moved as swiftly and quietly as Ironbreaker on the wing.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she reluctantly faced a new day alone. She was Lady Katherine Trelane now, though clearly against Morgan’s wishes. What would he do? Her mood plummeted when she remembered Morgan’s violent reaction to her deceit. She was certain he loved her; there must be something, beyond his mother’s death, serving to keep them apart.

She rose and dressed in an elegant gown of straw-colored taffeta, with exquisite lace edging; one of Merry’s courtly cast-offs that had been lengthened by a sempster to fit her taller frame. The petticoats were embroidered in gold thread, as were the gartered hose.

As she moved to wash her hands in the pitcher on the stand, Kat’s gaze fell upon the simple gold band Morgan had slid onto her finger last night. She would treasure it always, even if their marriage was annulled.

She dashed cold water on her face, gasping as it brought her fully awake. A moment later, she grabbed a cloak of black silk grosgrain and left the house. The Trelane London residence, Hartshorn, was a modest but stately mansion on the Strand. It had been closed for years and was dusty from neglect and its owner’s disdain.

Kat knew Morgan rarely came to London. His father had been the last Trelane to entertain, and that was in King Hal’s time, judging by the period furniture and dated outfits she glimpsed in the wardrobe.

A small handful of staff had maintained Hartshorn over the years, but they seemed indifferent to its potential and to the new Lady Trelane, as well. Kat made a mental note to secure her sister’s advice on hiring competent staff and restoring Hartshorn to some semblance of its old glory — if she were allowed to remain Lady Trelane for more than a day, she mused.

Morgan had long since departed, but his man in the stables protested his ignorance as to where his master had gone. Kat demanded he drive her to St. Ethelburga’s in the rickety but serviceable coach. She did not doubt that Morgan was attempting to wrangle an annulment from the priest.

M
ORGAN WAS NOT AT
the cathedral, however. He still intended approaching Father Benedict about an annulment; surely the unusual circumstances warranted one. First, he went to Ambergate, in search of answers. He demanded an audience with Sir Christopher Tanner.

He was shown to a cozy parlor where Ambergate’s owner preferred to receive his visitors. Sir Christopher appeared shortly. He did not seem surprised to see Morgan.

“Good morn, milord,” Sir Christopher said cheerily. “May I offer my belated congratulations on your marriage?”

“What you may offer, sir, is your heartfelt apology,” Morgan thundered. He faced the other man without hesitation. He had bandaged his cheek to hide the hideous mark from view, and, had it not, Sir Christopher had doubtless already heard the tale of the Trelane family’s curse.

The other man appeared unruffled by Morgan’s rage. “If you wish an apology, you shall certainly have one, milord,” he mildly said. “Though I doubt my niece would take kindly to the notion she is regarded as a burden.”

“Kat, it seems, has many untoward notions about me,” Morgan retorted, “beginning with the assumption I wished to wed her.”

Sir Christopher’s auburn eyebrows rose. “Methinks Kat is wiser than you give her credit for, Trelane. At least wiser than your own heart.”

Morgan reddened at the polite insult. “’T’won’t work, I tell you. This marriage must be dissolved. Immediately!”

“Why?”

“Why? Come on, man, you must have heard what they call me, whether at Court or in the remote reaches of Wales: The Devil Baron! My God, you nearly sacrificed your own daughter to such gossip. Do not insult my intelligence by feigning ignorance of such tales now.”

“Fair enough. I shall not. I heard whispers long before I agreed to your betrothal with my Maggie. I’truth, I had to wonder. I am not given to be a superstitious fool, however, and I knew your father quite well. He spoke of you with great pride and affection, and Rhys Trelane was a modest man. I knew you would not hurt my Maggie. Once she came to know you better herself, I believed she would come to ignore the rumors and perhaps come to love you, in time.”

Morgan was silent a moment, looking at the man. Sir Christopher had great poise and an ample dose of common sense. It was hard not to hear the logic in his words. It was also, Morgan discovered, difficult to stay angry with this fellow. He was refreshingly frank.

“However,” Morgan continued, “you did not sacrifice your youngest daughter, but your niece. Why?”

“Because only an old fool who has been in love can recognize others destined for a similar estate. Like you, I lived in misery for years, milord. ’Twas not until dear Isobel ripped the blinders from my eyes and freed me from the shackles of my own making was I finally able to live, and love. ’Tis never too late, Trelane.”

“’Tis for me,” Morgan murmured and passed a hand wearily over his eyes. He had not slept a wink last night with Kat lying beside him. He watched her stretch luxuriously upon dawn’s first kiss. It had been difficult, nay torturous, watching the watered green silk rippling over her sweet, full breasts, then concaving at her belly.

His instincts cried to make her his again; his sense of dignity refused to let him resort to such base behavior. She was newly widowed, for heaven’s sake. Their marriage was not only highly improper, but hardly short of indecent. Sir Christopher must know it as well, but the man’s expression was benign, almost satisfied.

Another realization dawned. “Elizabeth Tudor will be furious,” Morgan warned the other man. To his surprise, Sir Christopher chuckled.

“Aye, when is she not? Our righteous queen first suggested the match herself. Bess is inordinately fond of dabbling in others’ affairs. She knew we sought another title for Maggie after young Scone’s death; she also knew we dared not refuse any suggestion she made. A baron is quite a catch, milord — even a Welsh one.”

Morgan gave a grudging smile. “I heard your brother wed a Welsh woman some years ago.”

“He did, and it caused quite a scandal, too. George is your equal in rank. Lady Tanner is a busy little whirlwind and was quite delighted by the notion of your wedding our Kat. Dilys is a distant cousin of yours, I believe.”

Morgan shook his head. “Do all of you conspire against me?”

“Only for your own good. Now, as we are family, I must insist you call me Kit. Pray, share some port wine with me, Morgan. I vow, I can convince you of the wisdom in staying wedded to Kat, at least until the child is born.”

Morgan stared at the redheaded man.

Kit noted Morgan’s shocked expression and sighed. “I doubt my niece knows it herself yet. When we received word of your latest demand to marry Maggie, and Kat heard my agreement, she swooned. It did not take my wife long to figure out the true cause.

“I believe every man has a right to know his issue. If you would still set my niece aside, Trelane, at least give the babe a name first. That innocent has done you no wrong.”

Morgan found he had to sit down. His knees would scarce support him.

“Sweet Jesu,” he whispered.

“Precisely. Now do you see the depth of my predicament? I do not ask you to pretend that nothing is amiss; just give our Kat a chance. She loves you, milord, without regard for your rumored deformity or anything else.”

Morgan drew another shaky breath. “A babe? Are you sure?”

Kit regarded him with twinkling green eyes, too similar to Kat’s for comfort. “Reasonably so. Mayhap you wonder why my niece has no issue from her first marriage. ’Twas assumed by all the family that Kat was barren. I wager, the fault lay with young Rory, not her — a scandalous theory on my part, I trow. Yet my brother Slade noted young Rory had lain with a dozen wenches in his wilder days, before settling down with Kat. None bore bastards.”

Morgan was silent a moment. “Does she know?”

Kit shook his head. “Not yet. Isobel thought it prudent not to upset her any more than necessary. I concur with my wife’s decision. Besides, there is no point enraging Bess further if ’tis not true.”

“Let’s assume ’tis so. When is the child due?”

“Christmas. Be advised, twins run on both sides of the family. You would do well to keep her abed after the fifth month.”

“Of course,” Morgan muttered, still dazed. “Of course.” He rubbed absently at the bandage on his cheek, and, to his chagrin it came completely off. He winced as Kit’s gaze encountered his secret.

“Set it aside, milord. There’s no need for pretense any longer. Kat deserves the truth.”

Morgan nodded. “Aye, I suppose you’re right … Kit.” The other man smiled broadly, though whether at the use of his familiar name or at the success of his plot, Morgan did not care to guess.

Chapter Eighteen

K
AT LEFT
S
T
. E
THELBURGA’S
with mixed emotions. Morgan had not sought an annulment yet. Then where was he? She paused outside the little cathedral to gather her thoughts. She had annoyed the priest by demanding an audience at this early hour, especially after their hasty midnight service.

Father Benedict was loath to assist Kat in finding her missing husband. A proper wife, he informed her righteously, did not question her lord and master’s whereabouts or interfere in his business. Kat stifled a burst of disrespectful laughter during the priest’s not-so-subtle reprimand. Father Benedict obviously assumed Morgan had sought out another’s bed on his own wedding night, and, as usual, the poor abandoned wife must needs shoulder the blame and burden of it!

Kat sighed. She didn’t know what to do about her predicament. She wandered the slumbering streets of London for a time, digging into the pockets of her skirts for coins. She purchased a bag of hot chestnuts and a hunk of cheese to break her morning fast. One by one, the stalls came to life, each vendor declaring their fish the freshest, their fruit the sweetest.

After she finished the nuts and cheese, Kat was seduced in turn by a basket of bright oranges and bought one from a little orange girl with a mass of honey-colored, corkscrew curls who spoke with a charming lisp. The price was dear; the reward was heavenly.

While Kat peeled the orange and let the sticky juices run down her chin, she perused other stalls and their offerings. It had been so long since she strolled a marketplace. A pang of something — a flash of memory — came to her. Hadn’t she and Rory once shopped for bargains in Dublin?