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  Drake’s Lair

  His hands soothed her gently, though she strained against them. His tanned skin smelled of musk salted with sweat, and sweetened with brandy drunk recently. It was a pleasant odor, very male, that went to her head and made her giddy. But surely not—that was from the shock.

  She gave a start. All that lay between her nakedness and the well-muscled body that had suddenly gone rigid against her was the thin nightgown. Her heart leapt, and her tiny fists defended against whatever the turgid pressure of him was doing to her private regions.

  “Let go of me, you great lout!” she shrilled, battering him severely. “I’m quite able to stand on my own.”

  His hands fell away, and she swayed. Her hopelessly trembling knees betrayed her. It was as though they had turned to jelly, but she was determined, and when he shot his arm out offering support again, she took a step back out of his reach.

  He didn’t pursue her. Instead, he froze staring, his hooded eyes raking her from head to toe. It was several moments before she glanced down toward what he was staring at so intently. Backlit by the fire, her nightgown had become transparent. He could see everything. Her breath caught in a strangled gasp, and she threw her arms across her body in a vain attempt to hide all her charms at once.

  Wings

  Drake’s Lair

  by

  Dawn Thompson

  A Wings ePress, Inc.

  Historical Romance Novel

  Wings ePress, Inc.

  Edited by: Leslie Hodges Copy Edited by: Sara V. Olds Senior Editor: Sara V. Olds Managing Editor: Leslie Hodges Executive Editor: Lorraine Stephens Cover Artist: Christine Poe

  All rights reserved Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Wings ePress Books http://www.wings-press.com Copyright © 2005 by Dawn Thompson ISBN 1-59088-369-9

  Published In the United States Of America May 2005

  Wings ePress Inc.

  403 Wallace Court

  Richmond, KY 40475

  Dedication

  In memory of my parents,

  George and Mae Thompson,

  whose love of books

  started me on this fascinating journey.

  One

  Cornwall, England, 1813

  “What the devil do you think you’re about?” the voice boomed from behind, spinning Melly around where she crouched in the tansy bed. It belonged to a dark man astride a darker horse poised on the grassy ledge above her. The image he presented was, in fact, so dark he appeared as a silhouette backlit by the morning sun.

  She was so engrossed in her chore he’d taken her totally by surprise. How had he managed that? The animal beneath him seemed gargantuan from her vantage—sleek, and muscular, the like of which she had never seen. Such a horse certainly hadn’t climbed that bracken-snarled ridge on tiptoe.

  “Get up out of there at once!” the voice demanded. Somber and deep, it suited his image, and though she took a sudden chill not bred of the damp June morning that had soaked the hem of her gray twill gathering frock, she stood her ground.

  “I beg your pardon?” she said haughtily.

  No one had ever objected to her herb gathering on the estate. Mrs. Laity, the housekeeper at Drake’s Lair, knew she picked there; so did all the servants. Mrs. Laity was one of her best customers, as were the butler, and most of the maids, come to that.

  She’d been picking along the beck that trickled through the valley since sunup, scarcely able to believe her luck in the find of that tansy bed, and she wasn’t about to go anywhere because some phantom demanded it. That’s what he seemed, materializing out of nowhere on such a beast—a fearsome, swarthy phantom.

  “Are you aware that you are trespassing on private property?” the cultured voice thundered.

  Melly shielded her eyes from the glare of bright sunlight streaming around him—through him—past him crazily in fractured flashes. It hurt her eyes, which had become accustomed to the misty shade of the tansy bed in lee of the hill.

  “Trespassing?” she said. “I’ve gathered here for nearly a year, sir, without being accosted.”

  “Well, you’ll gather here no more. This is Drake’s Lair land you’re on, and there’ll be no more ‘gathering’.” He looked around, glancing left and right. “How did you get out here?” he said. “Where’s your horse—your rig?”

  “I have no horse or rig. I walked.”

  “From St. Kevern?” he erupted.

  It was a distance, but she liked walking, especially on the brink of first light, when all the fragrances rode the dawn breeze as the land awoke, and Nature herself told her where the botanicals were.

  “What is your name?” he queried.

  “I might ask you the same,” she snapped at him.

  “Since I inquired first, and since this is my land you’re tearing up, I believe I have the advantage, ma’am.”

  Melly’s jaw fell slack, and she brushed a mass of tendrils from her forehead squinting her eyes for a clearer look at the man. Could it be that the mysterious earl had returned? There’d been no news of it in the village, no on-dits circulating through the parish—his parish; the man owned most of it, after all. Surely she would have heard of it from one of her patrons, most of whom were his cottagers. Well, she wasn’t one of them.

  “My name is Melly… Demelza, that is… Demelza Ahern.” Only her friends called her Melly, and he was certainly no friend, this rude, ungracious… phantom.

  “Well, Demelza Ahern, you will kindly climb out of that muck and be on your way,” he charged, controlling the anxious animal beneath him with taut reins in clenched fists.

  He made no move to introduce himself, but that didn’t matter. If it was his land, she knew who he was. Tristan Hannaford, Earl of Shelldrake, who’d disappeared one night nearly five years ago after his wife’s death, so went the tale. That was before she’d come to St. Kevern. It was all very hushed. The locals were a closed-mouthed lot when it came to the enigmatic earl, since they owed him fealty, as it were, being his tenants.

  She squatted down again, gathered the herbs she’d picked, and put them into her basket. She took her time so as not to bruise the delicate leaves, still wet with the morning dew. Then tucking her little rake, trowel, and gloves in alongside, she surged to her feet and faced him.

  “Leave those,” he said, gesturing toward the basket. “Empty it.”

  She stared, resisting the urge to stamp her foot. Her breath caught in a grunt of disbelief. It had taken her hours to collect those herbs, buried under all manner of weed and ground-creeping vines in that wild, unkempt place that had bloomed like a jungle from neglect in his absence. What possible harm could there be in letting her keep them? It was too much, and she tossed her curls defiantly.

  “You would begrudge me this scant basket full?” she cried, incredulous.

  “Empty it,” he pronounced.

  The command was unequivocal, and with as much dignity as she could muster, she removed her gloves and tools from the basket, raised it in mock tribute, and spilled its contents over the ground at her feet.

  As the herbs sifted down, the earl offered a crisp nod, wheeled his magnificent mount around, and galloped off.

  She waited arms-akimbo until the sound of his horse’s hoof beats grew distant, then quickly scooped up the herbs she had disperse
d there, and tucked them back into her basket. No high-flown earl was going to begrudge her a few measly greens going to waste and to seed for lack of tending, not when her livelihood depended upon them—when her very life depended upon them.

  There was no path from the beck to the ridge above it. Leaving the murmuring stream behind, she climbed back up as she had come, through the furze and bracken overrunning the slope. That was the reason she’d chosen to wear her heavy gray twill frock and leather ankle boots. It wasn’t her most fetching outfit by any means, but muslin would have been torn to tatters by the spiny, grasping evergreens, snarled with thistle and briar and her soft kid slippers wouldn’t have given her much traction on that steep incline.

  Her straw hat had fallen down her back, and she tugged it around by its blue ribbons tied in front, and slapped it on her head. Then, squaring her posture, she marched down the lane toward St. Kevern. No born-to-the-purple churl was going to take her day’s gleanings. Why, you would have thought she’d broken into the very coffers at Drake’s Lair for the to-do over a handful of plants. She was leaving now, but she would be back—the minute the earl left Drake’s Lair. Those herbs weren’t going to go to waste. She would have a word with Mrs. Laity about that.

  She hadn’t gone ten yards, when the earl rode out of the thicket at the edge of the wood and ranged his mount alongside her. She’d named him rightly—phantom, indeed. He seemed to have materialized out of thin air. His horse was more magnificent than she imagined, sleek, black, and well bred, certainly not anything he’d acquired locally. The earl’s face was visible now, struck by the sun. His hair was dark, not jet black as she supposed from his silhouette earlier, but rather a warmer color, closer to mahogany, what was visible, since he hadn’t doffed his beaver like a gentleman on either occasion. He wore it long, pulled back behind the collar of his greatcoat in an outdated queue, and his angular features might have been considered handsome but for the scowl that spoiled them. His eyes were blue, as pale and clear as seawater, wreathed around with a darker hue that gave them a piercing look, scowling down from beneath the ledge of a broad, tanned brow. He wasn’t dressed for a pleasant morning ride, not in that caped coat and heavy boots on the cusp of summer. Could he be just come home? He must be. That would account for her not having heard news of his return.

  “Just as I’d thought,” he said, blocking her path. Before she could react, he snatched the basket from her arm. “I’ll take this,” he snapped.

  “That basket is mine,” she shrilled, reaching for it. “And the gardening tools as well. How dare you? Give them back!”

  “Oh, I dare, ma’am,” he returned, holding the basket well out of her reach. “I’ll just keep these, Demelza Ahern, since you obviously cannot be trusted to comply with my wishes. My herbs are off limits to you and anyone else who fancies them. Don’t come here again, unless you want the constable to run you off. I hope I’ve made myself plain?” He raised the basket in salute. “Good day, then,” he said. And without a backward glance, he wheeled the remarkable horse around and disappeared into the wood.

  *

  Zeus! He hadn’t even gotten to the Lair, and already there were reminders. He scowled at the basket, realizing that he must look ridiculous galloping along at breakneck speed toting such an object, but thought better of tossing it. Who knew but that the cheeky, little toffee-haired gel might just decide to come looking for it. She might do that in any case, of course, but she wasn’t going to find it, bigod. What had been going on at the estate in his absence? He’d have a word with the staff about this, sure as check, the minute he arrived. Meanwhile, he jammed her tools and gloves—the tiniest he’d ever seen on a grown woman—into the pocket of his greatcoat, dumped the herbs, and plunged headlong onto the winding drive that led to Drake’s Lair—gathering basket and all.

  The minute he rode up to the stables, he realized he’d been away too long. Old Fry, the stable master, went white and dropped his jaw at sight of him. His reception at the house was no less startling. Prowse, the butler, couldn’t get an intelligible word out. Griggs, the balding, straight-backed valet he’d left behind when he’d fled five years ago, looked as though he was about to expire, and Mrs. Laity couldn’t stop staring at the gathering basket in his hand. Was that what had struck them all dumb, or had he suddenly grown two heads? Well, of course it was. Why did they all look as guilty as gallows dancers? He decided to begin with the housekeeper.

  “Mrs. Laity, once I’ve had a bath, I’ll want you in the study,” he said, nodding a silent command to Griggs, who hurried off. Then, without another word to any of them, he streaked through the Great Hall and up the wide staircase that divided the house in two—his caped coat spread out wide—and went directly to his rooms.

  Two chambermaids exiting his suite laden down with Holland covers curtsied to him with lowered eyes as he passed them by in the corridor. He’d forgotten how fast word traveled at Drake’s Lair, though on one occasion, not fast enough, he recalled bitterly. But he wasn’t going to think about that now. He’d promised himself not to think about that—it was all in the past, dead and buried. Literally. And might have stayed that way but for a certain young toffee-haired gel with eyes to match, picking herbs by the beck on his first day back.

  Inside, another maid had just finished making his bed. He acknowledged her with a grunt and a nod, though he had no recollection of her, and moved on to his dressing room, where footmen were already carrying water for his tub under Griggs’s supervision. He peeled off his coat, tossed it down on the lounge with the gathering basket, and sank into the boot chair extending his foot.

  “Get me out of these,” he said to the valet, “I’ve been in them forever.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Griggs replied, straddling his outstretched leg, while the earl planted his other foot squarely on the man’s narrow behind, and pushed.

  “I’m surprised you’re still here,” the earl mused, around a grunt as the first boot gave, “—pleasantly surprised. Have I paid you?”

  “Yes, my lord. I’ve served Mr. Ellery in your absence.”

  “Ahh, good. Sorry about leaving you like that, old boy, but you wouldn’t have wanted to go where I’ve been, unless of course you’re fond of the stink of blood and death and warring.”

  “No, my lord.”

  “Same old Griggs,” the earl observed. A wry smile creased his lips. “The one constant in my life. Just as eloquent as ever, I see. I don’t know how I got on without you at Salamanca. You’d have made the perfect batman.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the valet responded. “Will you be staying… long, my lord?”

  “I haven’t decided yet,” he replied. “That will depend on how well Jim Ellery has been running things in my absence. Where is my illustrious steward, by the way? I missed him in the lineup downstairs. Isn’t he in residence?”

  “Mr. Ellery has gone to St. Kevern for the day, my lord,” the valet gritted, pulling off the other boot at last along with what remained of a tattered stocking. “Things are in sixes and sevens at the Terrill croft, since the last flaw damaged the roof.”

  “Ummm, I’ll want to see him as soon as he returns—pass the word.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The earl had forgotten about the flaws—the great, howling maelstroms that plagued the Cornish coast wreaking havoc on the land whenever the prevailing wind stirred them.

  “How long ago was that storm?” he queried, since the terrain showed no evidence of it now, none of the usual fallen limbs, broken glass and wounded outbuildings synonymous with Cornish flaws. It hadn’t seemed as though the beck had overflowed its banks recently, either.

  “‘Twas last month, my lord.”

  “And the roof’s still not repaired?”

  “‘Twas more than just the thatch, ‘twas the old plum tree that came down and staved the roof in, my lord… and more.”

  Something in the sound of the last that the valet had spoken through a dark mutter sent shivers down the earl’s spine—s
omething in what Griggs hadn’t said—something that perhaps he was afraid to say, and he honed in on that with all the finesse of a pig sniffing for truffles.

  “What ‘more’? Was someone injured?”

  “Y-yes, my lord.”

  “Come—come, man, out with it! If someone was injured at the Terrills, I need to know.”

  “‘Twas more than an injury, my lord, there was a… death,” the valet said low-voiced.

  “A death? Whose death? Don’t make me drag it out of you, man. I haven’t the patience for parlor games just now.”

  “‘Twas one of the wee ones… little Will,” the valet said awkwardly.

  The earl groaned. Now he understood Griggs’s hesitation. Little Will was scarcely five, the same age his own son would have been if… no. He wasn’t going to think about that—not now. Sorrow and anger did battle for his voice. Anger won.

  “Griggs, let us get something straight from the outset,” he said. “You needn’t tread on eggs around me. Pass that on as well. I’ll not have you all whispering and clucking in corners trying to spare me. I’m hardly made of glass. People die. Children… die. ‘Tis a plain and simple fact of life.” They were the right words, but they had a hollow ring to them. It was still too soon.

  “Y-yes, my lord,” the valet murmured awkwardly.

  “All right, then,” the earl responded, softening. “I don’t mean to fly at you. I’ve had a rather… difficult morning.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Has anything else untoward happened in my absence… anything else I should know about?”

  Griggs hesitated. “N-no, my lord.”

  The earl couldn’t decide whether the valet was wracking his brain to be sure, or hiding something. He wasn’t going to labor over it. The footmen had readied his bath, and every inch of his body ached for it.

  “Let’s get me into that, then,” he said, nodding toward the steaming tub. “I’ve dreamed of nothing else since I left Spain.”