you don’t love me. A betrothal can be broken more easily than a marriage.’
Edward noticed that she was measuring her words, and he began to realise she was not hysterical but perfectly sane, and that she meant what she was saying. His face darkening with anger, his fists so tightly clenched that the knuckles became bloodless, he looked at her hard, resenting her rejection as a personal insult. ‘Have you forgotten that it is what your brother wants—what he expects of you?’
‘My brother will be the first to understand,’ she returned with cool civility. ‘Of course, I will write to your mother and explain.’
‘Now, Laura, be sensible,’ Edward said, trying to gentle his tone to coax her out of this madness. ‘You know the situation.’
‘Yes, I think I do,’ she replied quietly, meeting his gaze squarely. ‘I can understand how disappointed you must be that you won’t be getting the land you have always coveted. In fact, of late, I have come to realise that the land—particularly that adjoining Roslyn Cove—means more to you than I do. I also know why. But you needn’t worry. I shall continue to turn a blind eye to your nocturnal activities, if that’s what’s worrying you.’
His gaze pinned hers. ‘It’s not.’
‘No, I didn’t think so,’ Laura replied, feeling an atmosphere of menace creep into the coach.
‘I do not merely want the land,’ Edward went on impatiently, his wrath growing by the second. ‘Of course I want you, too. You have so much common sense, which is something I have always admired about you. What we have cannot be dismissed in a moment—or, perhaps I should say, by a foolish fancy in a very attractive head. You won’t get a better offer than mine—certainly not here in Cornwall.’
‘I have no wish to marry anyone else.’
Realising he was losing the battle of persuasion, Edward glared across at her. Without warning his attitude changed and he seized her wrist in a painful grasp. He was like a man possessed, simmering with an inner rage he could barely contain, refusing to even contemplate relinquishing the prize he believed he had won. ‘I will not give up,’ he remarked fiercely. ‘I will not be made a fool of by you. I will not be made a laughing stock. You hadn’t even the courage to confess your doubts before tonight. The whole evening was farcical—a pretence.’
‘Please, try to understand, Edward. I have said all I have to say. Our engagement is at an end, and that is my final word,’ she said, wrenching her wrist from his grip, wanting only one thing now and that was to leave him. Removing the betrothal ring from her finger, she gave it to him. ‘I won’t change my mind.’
‘It will not end here, Laura. I will not let it. I am not so easy to be got rid of, as you will find out.’
Laura climbed out of the coach, and Edward took his leave of her in bitter silence, curtly ordering Amos to drive on, with neither a backward glance nor a word of farewell.
As he decided how best to deal with this new turn of events Edward’s senses were heightened sharply by his growing awareness of this menace to his future plans. He cursed Laura Mawgan and every one of her late husband’s ancestors. His hatred of that family was deep-rooted, with festering memories of what he considered to be the stealing of valuable land from the Carlyles by the Mawgans that called aloud for vengeance upon the perpetrators. He would not be swayed from murder if necessary—were it family or friend. He would never allow such compunction or allow any such weakness to deflect him from his purpose.
Shattered by the night’s events, Laura felt an inexplicable heaviness weigh on her heart as she entered Roslyn Manor. When would she see Lucas again? she wondered. Where had he been for the past two years? What had he been doing, and why was it so important that no one should know he was alive and in Cornwall? And why had he taken to the road as a highwayman? She sighed wearily. It was all very confusing. None of it made sense.
The door was opened for her by John Treneer, an aged manservant who had worked for the Mawgans for most of his life. His wife, who was a quiet woman with an air of authority, who made her own rules and to whom Laura had grown close, was the housekeeper at Roslyn Manor and would have been in bed long since.
John was sixty years old, always solemn, inscrutable and silent, and he was finding it increasingly difficult doing his work. But Laura had become extremely fond of him. He had become her friend, a man she could trust implicitly, and she would no more have thought of dispensing with him than she would have thought of burning the house down. When she had lost the man dear to her heart, John had made sure that heart did not turn to stone.
‘You had a pleasant evening, I trust, my lady?’ he asked as she removed her cloak and handed it to him.
‘Very pleasant. Thank you for waiting up for me, John. I hope I’m not too late. Is Mrs Treneer in bed?’
His eyes rested on her throat. ‘Long since. You seem to have misplaced your necklace, my lady.’
Fingering her bare neck, she smiled somewhat cynically. ‘You might say that, John. But I am quite certain it will be returned to me very soon.’
‘Is there anything you might be a-wanting before you retire?’ he asked, thinking that the mistress looked none too happy. Her brow was puckered in a frown, and there was a sadness about her.
Laura shook her head. ‘No, thank you. I’m very tired and can think of nothing more inviting than going to bed. I hope Susan didn’t wait up. I told her not to—that I am quite capable of putting myself to bed.’
‘She did as you instructed.’
‘Goodnight, John.’
Wearily she began to climb the stairs, thinking of everything that had happened that night—thinking of Lucas. With her hand resting on the banister she paused halfway up and wrinkled her nose. A strange, harshly sweet smell permeated the air, drowning out the usual smell of beeswax and drying herbs. It was a scent she had first noticed several days ago—not strong, but it had lingered. However, she had been so busy helping Edward’s mother with the arrangements for the betrothal celebrations that she had ignored it. But now she breathed deeply, baffled and a little intrigued as to where it was coming from. It was tobacco she could smell, but as far as she was aware none of the servants smoked it. She turned and looked back, her curiosity sharp.
‘John.’
‘Yes, my lady?’
‘Have you taken up smoking?’
‘Nay, my lady. Why do you ask?’
‘I’m sure I can smell tobacco.’ She considered his face for a moment, but could read nothing in his impassive features. But she felt there was something he knew that she didn’t. Too tired to go into it now, and telling herself it was none of her business anyway if one of the servants had taken to smoking tobacco, she proceeded up the stairs, knowing John continued to watch her, and aware that the smell was growing stronger.
By the light of a few candles burning in sconces she trailed her way along the shadowy passage to her bedchamber, feeling extremely tired but knowing she would not sleep that night. Too much had happened, and there were too many disturbing thoughts filling her head. On entering her room she closed the door and kicked off her shoes. She reached behind her to unfasten her dress, but on glimpsing a pair of booted feet from the corner of her eye she froze, momentary panic seizing her.
‘Don’t
