That portion of his revenge was not going well, either. Aside from his own team of blacks, he saw only one horse—the cob, of course, being busy elsewhere. Even counting that functional if unglamorous animal, a stable of two horses did not provide much scope for revenge. Even the lone mount on which Hayne had ridden lacked quality.
Oh, well. Perhaps he should place Hayne’s sloop in the horse-riding category. He had no doubt that the small yacht would be better kept than the stable. It represented the only passion, greater than gambling and seducing women, that Hayne had. In place of the horse riding, sailing Hayne’s boat should pain his enemy even more. If he could find it. But Morgan, after all, owned numerous shipping vessels.
He would find it.
Horses and boats were a minor matter, in any case. His larger problem lay in deciding just how to bring about the desired crushing in his arms of Hayne’s wife. She would not hold him off for long. He could see that in her eyes, in the way she stepped away from him when he crowded her, in the way her breath quickened. She felt the tug of desire, just as he did. Hayne had obviously neglected her, leaving her hungry for the touch of a man. Yes, Morgan judged that he would soon prevail.
But he must not let her think that she would ever again be the mistress of his home. His mistress perhaps, but not the lady of the manor. Yet, upon reflection, he felt a grudging appreciation for her desire to see to the welfare of his people. At least they had had someone to turn to in his absence. The lady appeared to have a caring heart behind those delectable breasts. But as soon as Merdinn was again livable, he would bring his mother home to assume those tasks. Mrs. Hayne must learn her new place.
She would soon have other duties.
“Uncle Morgan, Uncle Morgan!” Jeremy slammed through the main door and raced into the library. “There’s a shipwreck! There are pieces of ship and dead people lying all over the cove!”
“Dead people?” Morgan scowled at his nephew’s caretaker as she followed her charge through the door at a more sedate pace.
His nephew glanced at him uncertainly. “Well, I think they were dead, because Miss Lalia would not let me go down to see.”
Morgan looked inquiringly at the lady. She nodded as she removed her frayed bonnet and smoothed her hair. “I fear so, my lord. The wreck occurred in Sad Day Cove, just this side of the lighthouse, some distance from our cove. The currents there are very strong and the rocks are vicious. I spoke with Old Tom where we met him on the road. He said that no one seems to have survived. I brought Jeremy straight away.”
“We did not get to see the lighthouse,” Jeremy rushed on, still excited, “because Mr. Tom was going to look at the wreck. But just think…I saw a real shipwreck!”
“No doubt a high treat, but I’m sure you’ll forgive me if, as a ship owner, I don’t share your enthusiasm,” Morgan responded dryly. He turned back to Mrs. Hayne. “Is there any indication as to who owned the vessel?”
“Tom thought it was a French ship—perhaps carrying passengers only. There seems to have been little cargo washed up.”
Morgan lifted an eyebrow. “Stranded goods rarely stay in evidence for long.”
“True, but from what I heard, there was not much to be seen when fishermen first noticed the debris just after dawn. Everyone was very disappointed.”
Morgan’s mouth quirked at this matter-of-fact assessment, but it bothered him that there had been so much loss of life. Unfortunately, when the booty looked rich, more than one struggling survivor had been known to die after reaching the safety of the beach. He got to his feet. “I’ll ride over and have a look.”
From the top of the cliff the rocks looked to be covered with ants. Two-legged ants. Both men and women swarmed over the rocks below him, searching in every cranny for anything valuable, or even useful. Breakers, crashing over the boulders as the tide advanced, wet everyone and threatened the bravest who teetered on the outlying stones. Several men climbed a rocky cleft, straining to keep hold of a rope attached to a grim burden. As they neared the top of the cliff, Morgan stepped forward and grasped the rope, adding his strength to pull the body onto level ground. While the other men caught their breath, he knelt and lifted away the covering sheet and studied the bruised face.
It had belonged to a young woman. About Beth’s age. The age Beth had been. Morgan winced at the thought of the tender body being pounded against the cruel rocks. What fear had gripped her as she fought the clutching breakers in the black darkness? He could only hope she had drowned before encountering the jagged stone teeth. He rose and stood looking thoughtfully at her, the questions in his mind still unanswered.
“It’s a sad day, me lord.”
Morgan started at the familiar voice. “Well, hello, James. I didn’t see you.”
James nodded at a second body, wiping his face. “I been doing my possible to help bring ’em up, but that ain’t as much as I’d like anymore. Good thing that’s the last one.”
“I’ll lend a hand. I’d have come sooner if I had known.” Morgan clapped his henchman on the shoulder. “You bring my horse.”
Morgan took James’s place and, encouraged by fresh help, the bearers resumed their burdens and carried them away from the edge of the precipice. They arrived shortly at a small, level spot where several bodies were laid out. A fair-haired young man in the uniform of the preventive services stood looking glumly at the corpses, casting an occasional glance toward the ocean.
Morgan approached him. “Good afternoon. I’m Carrick. Nothing to salvage, Mr….?”
The officer touched his hat respectfully. “Hastings. Nay, my lord. Not worth the battle with that lot.” He nodded toward the cliff. “Even most of them will go home empty-handed—unless the tide brings something in.”
“Do you know what happened to her?”
“No, my lord. The wind wasn’t all that high last night. I can’t see why…” The man shrugged. “You invest in shipping?”
Morgan nodded. “I have shipping interests, yes.”
“I see. Well, if I learn something I’ll send you word. Good day, sir.” The officer bowed and walked off toward the cliff.
Morgan strolled to where the village doctor knelt examining the dead, his white hair and side whiskers shining in the sun. Morgan extended his hand. “Dr. Lanreath.”
The doctor turned in surprise. “Lord Morgan! Or I guess I should say ‘Lord Carrick’ now. I heard you were back. It’s good to see you.”
“Thank you. Have you found anything of interest to a sailor here?”
The doctor narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “Do you mean, have I found evidence of foul play?” He shook his head. “Not that I can see. Looks like the sea did the work, but it’s impossible to tell for sure. I’ll tell you this, though. None of them have anything valuable on them.”
Morgan looked around at the men still hovering near the cliff top. None of them returned his gaze. Well, that didn’t surprise him. Lanreath straightened from his work, coming stiffly to his feet. “Nothing more I can do here. They may as well bury them. Join me for a tankard at the Pilchard?”
“With
