Secrets of Midnight (32 page)

Donovan didn't want to hear anymore either, and he
ducked outside the library, nearly colliding with Ellen Biddle, who was waiting
for him outside the door.

"Oh! Forgive me, my lord! I didn't know if I should
interrupt you so I waited—"

"What is it, woman?" He cut her off a bit too
sharply, so intent was he on rescuing Corisande from his sister-in-law. "I'm
sorry. Is supper ready?"

"No, not yet, but—well, Lady Donovan has retired,
my lord. She asked me to give her regrets to Her Grace, which I did, but your
wife looked so pale, I was worried for her and thought you should know—"

"Best go to her, old boy," Nigel interjected,
tipping his glass in a wry salute. "Damn, if you don't have all the luck.
Think there's any way we can get Charlotte to retire for the night?"

Donovan didn't answer, feeling truly sorry for his
brother at that moment as he left them and raced up the stairs. But he forgot
Nigel, forgot Charlotte, forgot everything as a moment later he knocked on
Corisande's door.

Then he cursed to himself. Why was he knocking? She was
his wife! He pushed open the door just in time to see Corisande fly across the
softly firelit room and dive into bed, throwing the covers over her head.

It made him chuckle, relief filling him, too, but he
sobered when he heard a small plaintive voice call to him brokenly from under
the bedclothes. "Go away!"

Good God, it almost sounded to him as if she'd been
crying. He drew closer, hearing muffled sniffles, and grew concerned all over
again.

"Corie?"

"Go away!"

"No, I'm not going away until you tell me what's
wrong—"

"Nothing's wrong! I'm just glad this whole bloody
thing is finally over!"

Her outburst striking him like a fierce punch in the
gut, Donovan couldn't help saying as vehemently, "Well, it's not over,
woman, I'm sorry to disappoint you. If you must know, my brother and his wife
merely came to Cornwall to welcome you into our family. It might be a couple
more weeks before the whole matter of my inheritance is settled, so it appears
we're still stuck with each other whether you like it or not!"

Corisande couldn't believe it, her heart hammering in
her throat. A couple more weeks? Nor could she believe the wild elation surging
through her, but she only had an instant to dwell upon the sheer ridiculousness
of her feeling so happy before the covers were suddenly wrenched away from her
head, and Donovan stood above her, a dark, looming silhouette beside the bed.

"Are you going to lie there, or will you accompany
me back downstairs to greet my brother and sister-in-law properly? They came
all this way—"

"I don't care if they just arrived from America!"
she spouted, indignant and shivering in her thin nightgown, too, as she tried
to tug the bedclothes away from him. "I already made my excuses, so go
away—oh!"

Donovan had lifted her bodily and set her with a
jarring thump on the floor; the next thing Corisande felt was a stinging slap
to her bottom as she shrieked in surprise.

"You've got two minutes to dress, Corie, or you'll
get another and harder too. Now move."

She did, so stunned that he had spanked her like a
child that she ran to the wardrobe and clutched about for her clothes in a
panic.

But it was even more unsettling that they were alone
and in the dark, just as they had been in the carriage. When he'd told her her
scar was a thing of beauty and he'd kissed her and touched her breast and run
his hands over her thighs and . . . and she wanted no part of it! She wanted no
part of him! God help her, a couple more weeks?

That thought made her dress faster than she ever had in
her life, more than eager to get back downstairs as she flew out of her room
and down the corridor, not waiting for Donovan.

Chapter 28

"Oh, dear, do you have to go in there? It's so
dreadfully stuffy in this carriage, and we've already been riding about for
hours now and—"

"Then get out, Charlotte, and take a nice walk
along the quay," Corisande suggested through clenched teeth as an Arundale
footman opened the carriage door and helped her to step down. "I won't be
but a moment, I promise."

"But it's growing so cloudy and windy, surely you
can see that. I just know the moment I step outside it would start to rain, and
then my hair would be ruined and my dress and my lovely new parasol, and, oh,
dear, should you go into that inn? It looks quite common and—and it might be
dangerous."

"It's not dangerous, Charlotte. I told you I've
good friends who live here." Doing her best to bridle her temper,
Corisande forced a smile at the sallow-faced, pinch-nosed young woman who
stared at her doubtfully from the dim interior of the carriage. "Truly, a
walk would be lovely. You could get some fresh air—"

"Oh, my, no, and smell all that horrible fish?"

That did it, Corisande had had enough. Without another
word, she spun and crossed the cobbled road, kicking herself that she had been
the one to suggest she and her sister-in-law take an afternoon drive instead of
waiting around the house for Donovan and Nigel to return from Arundale's
Kitchen.

She'd had her own motives, too, visiting Oliver
certainly one of them, but now she wished she'd risked going alone instead of
having to endure Charlotte's constant whining. She should have known, starting
with last night, that the woman had little good to say about
anything—complaining ceaselessly about being abandoned in the drawing room, the
rigors of the journey, the lateness of the supper. Then breakfast this morning
had been served much too early, and her bed had been lumpy, the fireplace
smoky, on and on and on . . .

Sighing, Corisande had to agree with Donovan as she
stepped inside the Trelawnys' inn. Charlotte, Duchess of Arundale, was a
fright, her fretful chatter about as pleasant as fingernails scraping across a
chalkboard and her breath almost unbearable although the woman couldn't
entirely help her bad teeth—

"Corie, dear, I was just thinking of 'ee! Come in,
come in!"

Corisande smiled at Rebecca Trelawny as the plump older
woman wound her way past trestle tables where a few patrons sat smoking pipes
and drinking home-brewed ale. But upon reaching her, Rebecca gave a nod to the
back room.

"I've something to tell 'ee, Corie, but not here,
eh?"

Corisande nodded and followed, wondering where Oliver
might be. The sea captain usually held forth in the inn, telling tall tales to
his customers. "Actually I can't stay long, Rebecca," she began as
the woman quietly closed the door to the back room. "I came to see Oliver—"

"He's not here, Corie, that's what I wanted to
tell 'ee. He asked me to have one of the men bring 'ee a note, but the
day's
slipped away from me. He sailed out to Brittany again
at mid-morning, he did, so pleased with the coin already coming in from that
fine brandy that he went to try and fetch some more. Said he knew there was a
chance for another shipment into Roscoff but he wouldn't know for sure until he
got there. Aw, that man of mine. Gone for days an' now gone again!"

Corisande was somewhat stunned; Oliver hadn't said a
word the other night about the chance of bringing back more of that brandy. She
was suddenly worried too.

She had wanted to tell him about the attack and how the
man had known their signal, but it wouldn't do any good to say anything now.
She didn't want to worry Rebecca; the poor woman already had been asking her
husband for months if he might cease his fair trading and enjoy sitting at home
with her in front of the fire.

"Well, I hope it doesn't take him as long to
return this time," Corisande murmured, and Rebecca nodded in agreement.

"Ais, I told him if that shipment wasn't there to
come back straightaway, an' he promised me, Corie. No ifs or
an's
about it! An' my Oliver holds to his word. So 'ee can look for the signal
tomorrow night, an' if it doesn't come, you'll know there was none of that good
brandy to be found." Rebecca's hand moved to the door. "Now, can I
give 'ee a nice hot drink before 'ee must be on your way? A piece of buttermilk
cake?"

Corisande shook her head as she stepped outside the
room, though buttermilk cake, especially Rebecca's, which she always served
with a dollop of sweet cream, did sound inviting. But by now Charlotte was
probably quite overcome by dreaded fish odors, so she'd best hurry. She gave
Rebecca a hug and then drew her cloak more snugly around her.

"Ais, a good idea, wrap
yourself
tight. A gale's brewing, I fear, a nor'westerly, so my Oliver should be well
clear of it, but I'll be praying hard tonight, all the same."

"I'll say a prayer too."

" 'Ee
do that, Corie
dear. A vicar's daughter's prayer is surely worth two of mine!"

Corisande smiled, turning to the door only to be bumped
suddenly out of the way as three men who'd just gotten up from their chairs
shouldered past her without even an apology.

"Ais, those dockhands!" Rebecca snorted with
exasperation as the door slammed behind them. "Rude as can be and not getting
any better! Been here almost two weeks now an' haven't left an extra pence for
me cleaning their rooms an' cooking them meals, an' nary a thank you either.
Pah! Foreigners! Oh, dear, no slight upon your dear mother, though. But these
fellows—come here to find work when there's barely enough for our own? Pah!"

Corisande shrugged. "Everyone has a right to earn
bread, Rebecca. It's no matter."

She gave the still-grumbling woman another hug and then
stepped outside. The whistling wind had picked up tremendously in the few
moments since she'd entered the inn, so strong now that her skirt whipped
around her legs. And obviously Charlotte had noticed, too, the duchess waving
to her frantically to hurry.

"Oh, dear, oh, dear, we're going to be blown into
the sea! We'll never make it back to the house, I know it! We'll tip over, the
horses will stumble in the mud,
we'll
drown!"

"Drown in what? The heath?" Corisande
muttered to herself as she ducked her head to the wind and went to the
carriage, a footman waiting to assist her. But she waved him away, saying to an
incredulous Charlotte, "I was hoping we might stop first to meet my family
but—"

"Oh, no, oh, no, we must get back to the house!"
the frenzied duchess interrupted before Corisande could finish. "Climb
into the carriage before you're blown away!"

"I'm not going to be blown away and I'm not
getting into the carriage," she shouted, beyond all patience now. "You
go
ahead,
I'll get home somehow later. Either that, or
have Donovan come for me. I'll be at my father's house—I haven't seen him and
my three sisters for several days. Are you sure you wouldn't like to come with
me and—"

Again Corisande didn't get to finish as a powerful gust
of wind suddenly tore the carriage door away from the footman and slammed it shut
with a bang, while Charlotte shrieked in terror for the coachman to drive on at
once. Corisande barely had time to step out of the way as the black ducal coach
jerked into motion, and the hapless footman had to run after to swing himself
up onto the back platform.

"Yes, hurry, you don't want to be blown into the
sea," Corisande said with a wryness that would have matched Donovan's if
he'd just seen this ridiculous little episode.

Oh, Lord, Donovan.

She began to walk quickly toward the parsonage, trying
not to think of how angry he might be once he discovered she'd stayed behind in
Porthleven. Of course, she had no intention at all of journeying across the
heath alone; if the storm proved too bad and Donovan couldn't come for her, she
would just spend the night in her own bed, her narrow single bed, not anything
like the huge bed she'd shared those two nights with Donovan . . .

Corisande shivered, not wanting to think of that
either. Nor how he'd stared at her so strangely all through supper last night,
looking at her almost as if he'd never really seen her before. Of course, it
could have been because her hair was mussed and her dress askew; she'd pulled
on her clothing in the dark after all. And certainly she didn't want to think
about how vastly disappointed he must be to have to wait longer for his
inheritance—Oh, for heaven's sake! Why think of Donovan at all?

So she tried not to, wondering instead when she was
going to be able to write down all the figures of Tuesday's landing in the
ledger she kept hidden in the church. She supposed after she visited her family
she might have some time, that is, if the gale grew worse and there was no
chance of Donovan coming to fetch her—

"Donovan again, always Donovan," she said
aloud, resignedly, grateful that the parsonage was only another few houses
away. A blast of wind, laced now with cold rain, hit her with tremendous force
and so suddenly that she half spun, looking back down the darkening street as
she braced herself against a cottage wall.

Villagers were rushing outside to close banging
shutters and shoo their children indoors while dogs barked at the low, heavy
clouds scudding across the sky. And the harbor was alive with activity as boats
were lashed to the docks, a few larger vessels anchored farther out bobbing
upon the angry, steely-looking waves, their masts dipping and swaying. Other
than that, the streets were nearly empty where she stood, well, except for
those three men huddled as if talking among themselves down the hill.

Corisande turned and kept walking, then slowed down.

Three men? Strange. She glanced over her shoulder to
see that they were no longer huddled but coming up the street at her pace,
their capped heads lowered against the
wind
and
shoulders hunched. She'd scarcely thought twice about it at the inn, but could
they be the same ones who'd bumped into . . . ?