At the sound of footsteps Morgan reluctantly tore his gaze from the shining hair and the hips beneath it. Jeremy rounded the far corner of the stable, a tall, thin man in his wake. “Look, Uncle Morgan, I found someone.”
“James!” Morgan hurried forward, his hand extended. “It’s good to see you.”
“Lord Morgan? Is it really you?” The old man grasped his hand and pumped it vigorously. “It’s a sight for sore eyes you are! What brings you here?”
“I’m home to stay, James. Merdinn is no longer in the hands of the Haynes.”
“Him!” James spat on the ground. “I’ll be glad to see the back of his head. He had his way he’d have turned me off long ago. Said I can’t do the work no more.” He patted his silvery locks. “Just because there’s a little snow on the roof… But the missus keeps me on. I handle everything just fine by myself.” He jerked his head toward the two resident horses. “Ain’t all that much to do. But let me see to your team. Beautiful bits of bone and blood they are, too. You and the little fellow go on up to the house. I’ll take care of ’em.”
Murmuring his thanks, Morgan herded Jeremy out into the bailey. As they strolled toward the main door of the house he glanced at the beds of plants that dotted the lawn. To his surprise he noted that they contained as many vegetables as flowers. The effect was odd, but strangely pleasing.
Not bothering to knock, he opened the door and Jeremy darted inside. They found themselves in a vaulted hall, before them a wide set of stairs leading up. “Where do they go, Uncle Morgan?”
“To the upper levels. Hold your horses but a little longer, Jeremy, and I will take you over the whole place. For now, come into the library and let us see if anyone is about.” He turned to a door on his left and led the way into a large room lined with books. He gave the bellpull an authoritative tug and sat down in the chair behind the desk. Jeremy immediately climbed the book ladder to the top and sat surveying his new domain.
While he waited, Morgan glanced at the papers on the desk. They seemed to be household books, but there were not enough of them to account for the running of the castle. He was going through the drawers when a frail young girl timidly opened the library door and poked her dull blond head into the room. When she saw him sitting at the desk and Jeremy perched like a gargoyle on the ladder, she squeaked and hastily withdrew.
“Wait!” Morgan sprang out of the chair and through the door barely in time to grasp her arm before she could disappear into the kitchen wing. Jeremy scampered down the ladder and peered around the door. “Here now. What’s the matter with you? Where is everyone?” The girl cringed away from him and hung her head, giving every evidence of terror. Morgan snorted in frustration. “Is your mistress at home?”
The girl nodded. At last! A response. “Then kindly tell her that the Earl of Carrick would like a moment of her time. I’ll be in the library.” She scurried away and disappeared. “Am I mad or is it everyone else?” Morgan stalked back into the library and sprawled into a chair. “One pensioner in the stable and one half-wit in the house. Perhaps Mrs. Hayne is almost ready to leave.”
At least she had ordered a good cleaning before going. The books looked dusted and the leather chair smelled of lemon oil. The stone floor was well polished, although the carpet was distinctly worn. It had been worn the last time Morgan had seen it. Too impatient to sit longer, he paced around the room. Where was the woman? He had been waiting for at least twenty minutes. Was she showing her disdain for him? His lip curled. If so, let her enjoy it while she may. If the curst woman would but show herself…
After another half hour his anger had grown to the point of explosion. Jeremy prudently busied himself with looking at the pictures in an old book, careful to avoid the avuncular displeasure. Morgan had almost decided to scour the castle for its soon-to-be-former mistress himself when the door opened and a woman stepped into the room. He recognized her immediately as the younger woman he had seen in the garden.
“Who the hell are you, and where the hell is Mrs. Hayne? I sent for her an hour ago. She has not yet done me the courtesy of responding.” He glared at the gardener. Her gown had green stains from the plants and there was a smudge of dirt on her nose. There was also a puzzled expression in her eyes—eyes, he noted, that were the calm, transparent aquamarine of the shallows on a sunny day.
“I’m sorry you had to wait, my lord.” She crossed the room to the chair opposite Morgan and sank into it gracefully. “Peggy did not tell me until a moment ago that you were here.”
Morgan stared in astonishment. This woman certainly had a lot of brass for a gardener. His scowl deepened. “What’s wrong with Peggy? Is she half-witted?”
“No, just fearful.” She wiped at the dirt on her face, smearing it and making matters worse.
“What the devil is she so afraid of?” Morgan’s eyes went to the streaked face and then to the skin beneath the dirt. It appeared to be flawless—as luminescent as a pearl. The tendrils of raven-black hair escaping from the kerchief framed softly rounded cheeks that glowed a slightly deeper rose. When she spoke he discovered that, for a moment, he had forgotten his own question. He jerked his attention back to her answer.
“Everything. Of you. Of me. Of making a mistake.”
Morgan shook his head, not completely understanding. If that were the case, the young girl deserved his pity, not his scorn. In fact, it came to his attention that the woman in the chair across from him did not deserve the anger he had generated toward the elusive Mrs. Hayne. He should not have cursed in her presence, whoever she was.
He moderated his tone. “You have still not told me who you are.”
She looked startled. “Why, I am Eulalia Hayne. You asked for me?”
The sense of unreality that had been growing in Morgan reached a new height. This lovely but disheveled creature was the stylish Cordell Hayne’s wife? He had pictured a cold and haughty woman, lifting herself on the backs of others as Hayne himself did. And he had pictured her living in grandeur stolen from his family. He could only stare.
“You are Mrs. Hayne?” She nodded and he thought he glimpsed for a moment the slightest twinkle in those remarkable eyes. “Where is the rest of your staff?”
“There is no staff except me, my grandmother, James and Peggy.”
“And Hayne is content to live like this?”
For a moment the eyes darkened, as though a cloud had passed over the sun. Then a small smile curved the deep-rose lips. “My husband is very rarely here, except when he takes his sloop out. Did you wish to speak to him?”
The question of Hayne’s whereabouts began to disturb Morgan. “Is he in residence now?”
“No. He rode in yesterday, but only for a short while. He left again in the Seahawk, saying that he had a wager on a sailing race that would bring him about.” She shrugged. The movement brought the tops of two plump globes covered in pearly skin nearer to the rounded neckline of her dress. The train of the conversation again momentarily eluded Morgan. With an effort he pulled his gaze back to her face as she continued. “I don’t know what he meant, exactly, but he often races the Seahawk. He has been doing so a great deal of late. It’s very fast, and he likes to wager on the outcome.”
“He likes to wager on everything.” Morgan frowned. Apparently he had not succeeded in depriving Hayne of his boat. An oversight
