Three Heroes (61 page)

She saw lines and angles that had not been there before, and two white slashes up near his hairline that hinted at danger narrowly missed. He’d been a soldier for ten years.

And yet, he was still Con.

His rebellious, overlong hair was now trimmed severely short. She’d run fingers through that long hair, sticky with sweat....

His eyes were the same steady gray. She’d thought they were as changeable as the sea, but she’d never dreamed of seeing them so stormily cold.

He was earl. In theory at least, he ruled this part of England. In practice, the smugglers took the free in Freetraders very seriously. He looked like the sort of man who might try to stop the smuggling, and that could get him killed.

She was suddenly as afraid for him as of him. Lieutenant Perch had come to a bloody “accidental” end.

That could happen to anyone who got in the way of the Freetrade. She didn’t think David would kill to save himself and his men, but these days she wasn’t sure.

David would kill to save her. She was sure of that.

“What are you going to do?” she asked, not even sure if she meant about the smuggling, herself, or everything.

Con was looking at her with an unnervingly steady gaze. He probably didn’t approve of the jacket and breeches, but was there something more personal in his scrutiny? Was he contrasting her with the fifteen-year-old, as she was him?

“What am I going to do?” he echoed softly, silver eyes still resting on her. “Having ridden hard for far too long, I plan to eat, have a bath, then go to bed. The servants seem to be in short supply, however, and my housekeeper is also missing.”

There was no choice but to admit it. “I am your housekeeper.”

His eyes widened and it was wryly pleasant to shock him. “I was told my new housekeeper was a Mrs.

Kerslake.”

“Told? Told by who?”

“Don’t pretend to be stupid, Susan. It won’t wash. Swann has been sending me regular reports ever since I inherited.”

Of course. Of course. She felt stupid. Not a spy, but Swann, the earldom’s lawyer, who rode out from Honiton every fortnight to check his client’s property.

“I am Mrs. Kerslake,” she said.

He shook his head. “One day when I’m less tired and hungry, you must tell me how this all came about.”

“People change.” Belatedly she added, “My lord,” desperate for distance and protection. “And a housekeeper doesn’t actually scrub the grates and bake the cakes, you know. You will find everything in order.”

She seized the lamp to lead the way out of the constricting room.

“But I didn’t find everything in order.”

She turned back sharply, alerted by his tone.

He was still angry. After all these years he was still angry. Fear surged through her in a sickening wave.

This was a man to fear when he was angry.

He frowned. “Are you all right?”

She’d probably gone sheet white. “Like you, I am tired. If you expected a better reception, my lord, you should have sent warning. Come along and I will see to your needs.”

She opened the door, wishing she hadn’t used quite those words. What was she going to do if he wanted her in his bed? She didn’t want to kill him. She didn’t want anyone else to kill him. She didn’t want to stir anymore trouble around here than they already had.

She didn’t want to bed him.

A slight but deep ache said that perhaps she lied....

Aware of stillness behind, she turned.

He was giving that excellent impression of a stone statue. “If I choose to act on impulse, Mrs. Kerslake, it is for my household, my servants, to accommodate me.”

“You inherited the earldom two months ago and haven’t seen fit to visit here until today. Were we to stand in readiness, just in case?”

“Since I am paying you, yes.”

She raised her chin. “Then you should have made it clear that you wanted to waste money. I would have had a banquet prepared every night!”

His eyes narrowed and danger prickled through the room. From fear as much as anything, she whirled and marched out into the corridor. “This way, my lord. We can produce simple food quickly, and a bath for you within the hour.”

She kept on walking. If he chose not to follow, so be it. Better so. She needed time away from him to regroup.

Alas, she heard his footsteps behind.

“Are you alone, my lord, or have you brought servants with you?”

“Of course I’ve brought servants. My valet, my secretary, and two manservants.”

She grimaced. She must be sounding like an idiot. But she kept thinking of him as Con, the ordinary young man she’d met on the headland and on the beach, exploring, teasing, and talking, talking, talking as if they’d make a world out of words and hide in it forever. They’d crawled into caves and waded tidal pools without stockings. Then one day they’d gone swimming in scanty clothing, and that had been their undoing.

He’s the earl now, she told herself. Remember it. Earl of Wyvern, with all the strange things that implies.

“You have two footmen?” she asked to fill the silence as she began to climb the stairs. “That will be useful. The old earl didn’t like male household servants, and I haven’t engaged any since.”

“They’re not footmen, no. Consider them grooms.”

Consider them? Then what were they? Soldiers? Spies? She wished she could slip away to warn David, but it would be pointless. There was nothing to be done tonight. Was there anything to be done at all?

They couldn’t attack an earl without bringing the wrath of the nation down on them.

But someone could push him off a cliff....

She realized that she’d thoughtlessly chosen one of the simple servants’ staircases that riddled the house.

So be it. If it was beneath his dignity, then he could go the longer way to find steps more suited to his noble feet. Her soft boots made no sound on the plain wood, but his riding boots rapped hard with each step.

Having him behind her began to unnerve her. She didn’t really think he’d attack her, but her neck prickled. He’d thrown her down and unarmed her so easily.

She was a tall, strong woman, and she’d fooled herself that she was a match for most men. Perhaps she was, but more likely no man had ever seriously attacked her before.

Born Captain Drake’s daughter. Now Captain Drake’s sister. She was close to untouchable on this stretch of coast, but she understood the message of that attack. Anyone who threatened the new earl would be instantly and effectively contested, no matter who they were.

She opened the door into the south corridor, her lamp glowing on walls painted to look like rough stone.

He spoke behind her. “The dear old place hasn’t changed, I see.”

She turned and some trick of the lamplight made his eyes seem paler and more intense. “Oh, it has. You probably didn’t notice the gargoyles outside in the dark. We have a torture chamber now, too.”

She answered his unspoken, startled question. “No, he didn’t use it, except to scare the occasional guest.

But he commissioned waxworks of victims from Madame Tussaud.”

“Good God.” She expected some comment, perhaps an instruction to rip the place apart, but he merely said, “Food and a bath, Mrs. Kerslake?”

She turned, stung by his indifference. What had she expected?

So much time had passed, and he must have known many women. She’d given her body to two other men, but they hadn’t erased a moment of the memory of Con, clumsy and imperfect as it had been.

She’d wanted them to, but they hadn’t.

As they walked along the gloomy corridor she said, “You won’t want to use the earl’s chambers, my lord. The Chinese rooms are the next grandest. Everything is tolerably well maintained, though I cannot guarantee that the mattress will not be damp. Not having been given notice to prepare.”

“I’ve endured worse than a damp mattress. Why don’t I want to use the earl’s chambers?”

‘Trust me, Con, you don’t.“

She froze. She’d called him Con, and he was probably laughing at the idea of trusting her. She couldn’t help it. She turned.

He looked more weary than amused, but like a man who could fight and even kill when weary.

She was suddenly aware of the sweeping curve of his dark brows above his dark-lashed pale eyes. She’

d always thought his eyes the most beautiful she’d ever seen.

“Who is your husband?” he asked.

She blinked, puzzled for a moment. “I’m not married.”

“Mrs. Kerslake?”

Absurdly, she felt her cheeks heat, as if she were caught in a lie. “It’s convention for a housekeeper to be addressed that way.”

“Ah, so it is. But I find your domestic incarnation surprising. How did it come about?”

“I thought you were hungry, my lord.”

“I’ve known hunger before. Well? How?”

Buffeted by his will, she explained. “When the old earl died, Mrs. Lane wanted to retire. No one else suitable wanted the job, so I offered to take care of things for a while. Despite tonight, my lord, I am well trained in domestic economy.”

“And your brother, David? Is he my butler?”

Susan suppressed a twitch, as if the truth would flare out. “Don’t you know he’s your estate manager?”

“Swann must have neglected to mention it. How very cozy, to be sure.” He gestured. “Lead on to the Chinese rooms, Mrs. Kerslake. I remember them as being all barbaric splendor, but I suppose I will become accustomed.”

The Chinese rooms were on the far side of the house, and since Crag Wyvern was built like a monastery around a large central courtyard, the walk there was long. A continuous narrow corridor ran along the outside walls, leaving the rooms facing inward, overlooking the courtyard garden. The only windows into the corridor were the narrow glazed arrow slits.

The effect was gloomy on a sunny day. At past midnight it was cavernous, especially with the trompe l’

oeil stone walls and floor and the ornamental weaponry hanging on them. Susan was accustomed to it.

She was not accustomed to a dark presence at her back.

The weaponry was not, in fact, completely ornamental, and he could seize a sword or ax and decapitate her. She knew he wouldn’t, but she walked between shining blades, nerves twitching.

“Old Yorrick’s still here,” he remarked as they turned the corner that held a skeleton hanging in chains.

He touched the chains, setting the whole thing clattering and clanging. Susan did the same childish thing herself sometimes, but now the lingering rattle behind them raised the hairs on her neck.

Dear God, but she’d thought she was accustomed to this place, but tonight it seemed newly horrid—an outward sign of the traditional madness of the earls of Wyvern. The last one had certainly been insane.

Thank heavens Con came from a different branch of the family.

The walk seemed endless, and she flung open the door of the bedroom of the Chinese suite with relief.

Golden dragons snarled in the lamplight, fangs bared against bright red walls framed in black-lacquered woodwork.

“Zeus,” he said with a short laugh. “My memory had faded somewhat. I remember wishing I had this room. It’s obviously wise to be careful what you wish for.”

He swung his heavy riding cloak off and spread it over a chair. Beneath, he was neatly dressed in brown and buff. “Are there servants’ rooms attached?”

“There’s a dressing room, which includes a bed for a valet.”

“The Norse rooms are next door, aren’t they? I remember that my father had this room and Fred and I were in the Norse suite. To begin with.”

A memory sparked like a falling star. She ignored it. “Yes.”

“Put my secretary in there. His name is Racecombe de Vere and he’s a rascal. My valet is Diego Sarmiento. His English is excellent and he will use it to complain about the climate and to try to seduce the maids. My other two servants, Pearce and White, are down in the stables in the village. The stables that are strangely lacking grooms and horses.”

She didn’t respond. He had to know that the Crag’s horses were on loan to the smugglers tonight, along with most other horses in the area. What would he do when he discovered that Crag Wyvern had supported ten horses for years when the old earl never left the place? It would be an inconvenience to the Horde not to have those excellent, sturdy horses available.

Perhaps he sighed. “Light the candle and go about your housekeeping duties, Mrs. Kerslake. Any sustenance will do, but I want that bath within the hour, regardless of any other business taking place.”

For some reason, Susan found herself reluctant to leave, and seeking words to bridge the gap that lay deep and wide between them. Did the words exist to make sense of their situation, past and present?

Probably not. She lit the solitary candle by his bed and left, closing the door on all the dragons within.

Con sucked in what felt like his first clear breath since that figure had walked up to him on the headland and he’d realized who it was.

Eleven years.

It shouldn’t be hitting him so hard. There’d been other women.

They lay in his mind like ghosts, however, when Susan had always lived there in vibrant flesh.

Being rejected in the crudest, harshest way was like a brand, it would seem. Something a man never got rid of.

Like a tattoo. He rubbed absentmindedly at his right chest. Another permanent mark.

He wandered the room, idly opening drawers that were, of course, empty. Everywhere he looked, the dragons writhed and snarled. He glared at one and snarled back.

Damn the mad Earl of Wyvern. Damn the whole line of them, and the last one for dying far too soon. If not for that, he would be in the peace of Somerford Court in Sussex.

The curtains and bed hangings were a glorious black silk with more dragons embroidered on them. The frame of the bed was black lacquer, as was all the furniture. The carpet covered nearly the whole floor with thick silk in paler, gentle shades, but still containing a picture of a coiled dragon. He hated to be walking on it in his boots, but he couldn’t get them off without a jack or Diego.

His army boots had been more practical, but he’d thought he should be fashionable now he was done with all that. Thus, he’d ended up with boots too snug to drag off himself.