Drake's Lair Read online

  “Now, how could I catch you doing evil things with my accounts if I did that, Jim?” the earl said playfully.

  “Well, you look sound,” Ellery observed. Holding him at arm’s distance, he took his measure. “A little thin, bigod, but sound, and brown as a berry—just like in the old days, eh? You always did look like a Greek god tanned. Were you wounded?”

  “I took a shoulder wound at Salamanca last year, and had to lag behind,” said Drake. “August and September on the Peninsula are the two most hellish months of the year. But I finally caught up with the regiment only to get wounded again for my pains. The worst was on the push to Vitoria. I was hit in the side. Nearly didn’t make it. There were over five thousand casualties in that battle. I was one of the lucky ones, but I couldn’t catch up that time. I missed the victory at Vitoria, and Wellington marched on into France without me. So they sent me back to England forthwith.”

  “Are you going back?”

  “Don’t know yet. I could, I suppose. I could always reinstate my commission; I haven’t sold it or anything yet, and I’m certainly sound enough now.”

  “Hail the conquering hero!”

  “I’d like to say I was a hero,” Drake replied, refuting the notion with a shake of his head, “but truth be told, I missed most of the action and all the glory getting shot. I was either the luckiest lieutenant in the ranks, or the most inept, depending upon how you look at it I suppose. I don’t think I’m quite cut out for warring.”

  “Come to think of it, you always were a better man with the lance than the pistol,” Ellery said tongue-in-cheek, with a wry arch of his brow.

  “If you want the truth,” Drake returned, ignoring the levity, “over and above the obvious—my loyalty to Crown and country—I think I ran off to war and put myself in harms way deliberately, hoping for a noble death. There was certainly no nobility in my life. No, that’s probably not the whole of it. After… what happened, sheer blood lust drove me. I needed to purge what couldn’t be purged elsewhere in the thick of battle, and I supposed at the time, that it might just as well have been on the field with the French as anywhere. I was half-mad, Jim. I had to get away. Damned reckless of me, eh? Hah! And it didn’t even work. All I got for my pains were the pains, and the scars. But I’m home now. I’m through seducing death. It’s high time I’ve courted life—made something of myself. How did you know I was back? I only arrived this morning,”

  “I was out at the Terrill’s… there’s a problem out there, Drake—”

  “I know—I know, Griggs filled me in. Go on,” he replied. Pouring two snifters of brandy from the decanter on the desk, he handed one to the steward.

  “Ahh,” said Ellery, clearly relieved. “A young woman you met today told me you’d returned.”

  “A young woman?”

  “Miss Demelza Ahern, an acquaintance of mine, actually,” Ellery explained. “She said she met you on the lane this morning.”

  “She said that, did she?” Drake mused, hiding behind his snifter.

  He hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind all day, and that had begun to annoy him. Now Ellery proclaims the gel an acquaintance. That could only mean one thing, knowing James Ellery—he was either diddling her, or about to do so. Why should that bother him? What did he care? She was nothing to him.

  “What else did she say?” he said guardedly.

  “Nothing else. See here, Drake, what happened between you two? You’ve got that look again.”

  “What ‘look’?

  “That God-awful thing you do with your eyes—drawing them back under your brow that way. When you do it they take on a positively evil glow. You look like a fire-breathing dragon. I always thought the name Drake’s Lair was your great-grandfather’s play on the Shelldrake title. Now, I’m not so sure, drake being another term for dragon. Your father had that same look, too—deep-set dragon eyes. Which is it?”

  “A little of both, I suppose. Father was a dragon if you recall—scales and all, but I have no idea to what ‘look’ you’re referring.”

  “Yes, you do! We’ve discussed it before. Why, the last time I saw you put on that face was—”

  “Stubble it,” Drake warned, gravel-voiced, before the steward could pursue the issue. He was getting angry now, for the second time since he’d come home, and the same little toffee-haired, amber-eyed gel, with pouty lips and an irresistible halo of twigs and leaves riding her saucy curls, was stoking the fire. “You were saying… about your ‘acquaintance’?” he prompted.

  “N-nothing,” Ellery replied around a nervous laugh.

  Another dead giveaway; he was diddling her, sure as check. But what did that matter? What was it to him anyway? Zeus, but this was turning out to be an impossible day. Maybe she was a witch. Maybe she’d cast a spell on him for interrupting her thievery—for confiscating her deuced gathering basket and tools. Who knew but that the locals’ tales were true?

  Now he was being ridiculous. Of course they weren’t true.

  His conscience was bothering him. Why, he couldn’t imagine. She had been trespassing on his land hadn’t she—taking his property—defying him?

  Why, then, did he feel like such a cad? That was easy. He had Mrs. Laity, the counsel for the defense, to thank for that.

  He wouldn’t pursue it. There was no reason for Ellery to know what had transpired between them—have it bruited about all over the parish that he’d deprived his steward’s little ladybird of her livelihood. For some unfathomable reason, she hadn’t taken herself straight off to tell all. Neither would he, and he opened the ledger on the blotter before him and steered the awkward conversation deftly around to the business at hand.

  Three

  Melly woke at first light with the bird music, just as she always did. But this day was different. She wasn’t going to gather herbs by the beck at Drake’s Lair, or the in the meadow that spilled down to it, where rosemary, yarrow, and Gypsy rose grew wild, or even in the fields along the lane closer to the manor, burgeoning with marigold, sweet lavender, and chamomile, as they always did in summer. She had nothing to collect them in, and no tools to work with even if she had.

  Instead, she carefully placed bunches of fresh mallow stems, bottles of garlic tonic and rue salve, mint pennyroyal, and parchment paper cones of candied angelica for the Tinker children in her marketing bag. It should be enough to trade for a new basket and tools. The mallow stems alone should be enough. She hated to part with them, not knowing when she would ever find more. She hadn’t found mallow anywhere but Drake’s Lair, and the Tinkers greatly prized it. They would chew the stems, mixing it well with saliva then apply it straight from the mouth to swellings, sores, and abrasions, which their rugged lifestyle awarded them daily.

  It would have to be enough, and she put a shawl over her soiled gray twill gathering frock—it was long enough to cover most of the hopeless stains—and opened the door of her neat little cottage only to pull up short.

  “Oh!” she cried in surprise. Her breath caught as she stared down at her gathering basket on the cobblestone step, her tools and gloves tucked neatly inside.

  She set the marketing bag down and fingered the basket, her sharp eyes darting in all directions, but there was no sign of anyone lurking in the drifting dawn mist ghosting over the hedgerows.

  The phantom had been and gone.

  When she lifted the gloves from the basket, something stiff inside one of them crunched in her fingers. Drawing it out, she found it to be a missive sealed with red wax—an embossed ‘S’ in the shape of a dragon. Breaking the seal quickly, even though she hated spoiling it, it was so fine, she read: This does not mean that you may gather on Drake’s Lair.

  Shelldrake She quickly put her marketing bag back inside—all but the paper cones of candied angelica—and latched the cottage door. Tristan Hannaford, Earl of Shelldrake had to leave Drake’s Lair sometime. Then she would just see about that. Meanwhile, she straightened her straw bonnet, and marched off in the opposite direction in search of new, less troublesome gathering grounds to plunder.

  On her way, she stopped at the Tinker’s camp with the candied angelica for the children. They knew her well. While the Tinkers were skilled with herbs themselves, they spared none of their yield for such luxuries, and the candy was a welcome treat. They did not hunt for their fresh botanicals locally, but scoured the meadows and fields farther north, between Tregidden, and Laddenvean whenever they camped in the wood, since they had horses and wagons and could make the trip there and back in a day. Mostly, they used dried herbs, however—mysterious herbs gathered from all over the Continent during their travels—herbs with exotic names, such as cinquefoil, found on wastelands and roadsides, adder’s tongue, gleaned from uncultivated fields, and devil’s bit scabious, from wild European meadows and woodlands. The stories of their gathering had always fascinated her.

  Rosen, the elder’s daughter, welcomed her. It was she who kept a close watch on all the children in the band, and though she accepted the sweets gratefully, she insisted that Melly accept something in return. While this was decided upon, Melly took a cup of Rosen’s chamomile tea by the open campfire as she often did when she visited.

  “The earl is come home,” Rosen observed, joining her. The children gathered around, jumping and prancing impatiently in anticipation of their treats, and she meted out the confections sparingly and shooed them away.

  “How did you know?” Melly queried, genuinely surprised, since they were quite a distance from Drake’s Lair—from St. Kevern, come to that.

  The Gypsy flashed a smug smile in reply. She was auburn-haired, with huge brown eyes, and flawless skin with an olive cast. She was about the same age as Bessie Terrill, and Melly marveled at the difference. Rosen looked much younger, though she had born six children, by her husband, Pascoe. He was not at the camp, neither were many of the other Tinker men, which was unusual at that hour.

  “Where is everyone?” she inquired, changing the subject, since she evidently wasn’t going to get an answer to her previous question.

  “Another flaw comes,” Rosen replied. “They make ready a new place deep in the wood for us, not so in the open. Is safer. Soon now you taste it on the wind. You lick your lips and taste the salt. Then the sea birds come—great clouds of them riding the little wind that comes before. Then you take shelter.”

  How well Melly knew, she’d weathered many a storm in the year she’d lived in St. Kevern. Only a year, so much had happened to her in only a year. Before that she had never heard of a flaw, or foraged in the fields and bogs. But she did have a way with herbs and flowers. She had always possessed that talent. It was inherent.

  “I don’t want anything in return for the sweets, Rosen,” she said. “They are my gift. I’ll tell you the truth. I was coming here with them earlier, because I… lost my gathering basket, and I hoped to trade for a new one. But then my basket was returned to me, see—” she displayed it proudly “—and I was so happy, I decided to bring the sweets just the same… for the children, since I’m gathering nearby today.”

  “No herbs nearby to gather,” Rosen said. “Why you come this way now? You gather by the dragon’s house usually.”

  “No longer,” Melly replied. “The earl is opposed to it.”

  “Ahhhhhh,” the Tinker intoned. “Finish your tea and give me the cup.”

  “Why?”

  “I tell your fortune for the sweets.”

  “I don’t believe in fortune-telling, Rosen,” Melly scoffed through a lighthearted laugh, “and I told you, I don’t want anything for the sweets, they are my gift—a happy gift.”

  Rosen held out her hand and nodded toward the cup. It was clear that there was nothing for it but to comply, and Melly drank the tea to the leaves at the bottom and passed it over.

  Rosen deftly drained the few drops remaining in the cup without losing the leaves, inverted it, and spun it around slowly three times in her hands. Then turning it right side up again, she gazed into it and studied the pattern the chamomile leaves had formed inside.

  “You have an enemy,” she said solemnly, “—someone who does not seem so.” She reached inside the cup, removed a straight stalk from the leaves at the top, and bit into it. “A man,” she said, discarding the stalk.

  “How can you tell?”

  “The man is hard to bite, the woman, soft, like in nature. The flaw will bring him. He has a secret. You need to discover this secret… but there is danger… much danger.”

  “Rosen? You’re frightening me!”

  “You bring me sweets, and I frighten you. Not such a fair exchange, eh? I’m sorry, little friend, that the tea leaves are not kinder. Give me your hand.”

  “My hand?”

  “Your palm. Let me see.”

  Melly extended her palm, and the Tinker took it in both her hands and studied it.

  This was foolishness. Melly didn’t believe in cryptic augur, but the Gypsy had no reason to lie—to frighten her, they had always gotten on well. A sudden shiver raced along her spine as a fugitive gust snaked through the clearing teasing the open fire and ruffling the hem of her soiled gray twill frock.

  “It is the same,” said Rosen finally. “I see nothing more.”

  “What must I do?”

  “Nothing. It will find you, the danger. There is nothing to be done but take care and choose wisely. One is not what he seems.”

  Melly looked into the teacup the tinker had set aside, examining the pattern the gray-green lump of chamomile leaves had formed in the bottom.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” she said. “It doesn’t look like anything to me, but a lump of green mud.”

  The Tinker cast her a knowing smile. “You have other gifts, little friend—” she reclaimed the teacup “—and you do not believe, but because you do not, you must not be the one to disturb the reading. Is not good luck for your hand to alter what cannot be changed. But soon you see Rosen’s gift. Soon you believe… very soon, and then you know Rosen speaks truth.”

  *

  When the work crew arrived at the Terrill croft that morning, Drake was with them. Shed of his blue morning coat, white waistcoat, and neckcloth, with his shirt open at the neck and his sleeves rolled back to the biceps, he scaled the rickety ladder braced against the Terrill’s roof with the rest of them and attacked the chore with the same passion he had summoned against the French at Salamanca.

  How well he understood the Terrill’s loss. How deeply he felt their pain. This was something he had to do. It was a purging he hoped would slake the demons that had driven him since that night five years ago, when his whole life had come crashing down around him, just as Will Terrill’s roof had done.

  Jim Ellery made no such contribution. Since he was hopelessly inept with tools, Drake appointed him overseer, sending him into St. Kevern village for materials when necessity dictated, thus keeping him out of the workmen’s way as much as possible.

  There was no room for error, no margin for delay. Once the morning mist burned off it revealed a sallow, jaundiced sky bearing down out of the southwest. The winds were calm now—too calm. Only the faintest breath of a breeze disturbed the chestnut, ash, and rowan leaves. But what did blow revealed their underside—the silver side. Another flaw was on the make.

  Twilight came early, called by the storm, and by the time they lit the lamps, the roof was all but finished. Drake was exhausted. He hadn’t really exerted himself physically since Spain, and overexertion always charged his libido, which was the last thing he needed then. He hadn’t satisfied those urges since Spain either. Had it been that long? A cold, purging bath was definitely in order.

  Demelza Ahern was still on his mind. Just for an instant, when he’d snatched the basket from her, his hand had grazed her arm, then her hands when she tried to hold onto it. Incensed though he’d been at the time, the touch of that soft, tender skin, those tiny fingers against his roughened fist, had shot him through with longing. He’d done the right thing in returning the basket. It felt right. Why, then, couldn’t he stop thinking about golden-brown ringlets, and eyes with the look of a doe’s that had just been flushed from a thicket to face the hunter’s musket? Those eyes haunted him. He had put that look in them. He’d put the fire of anger in them, too. She had pluck, this cheeky little witch, bigod. Jim Ellery always favored women with spunk. Where the deuce did that thought come from, and why did it sting like a burr he couldn’t shed? Climbing down the ladder, he scowled at the steward approaching.

  “You look exhausted, Drake,” Ellery said. “I can finish up here. Why don’t you go back to the Lair and get some rest. The bank solicitors are coming tomorrow, remember? You’ll want a good night’s sleep if you’re going to be up to that.”

  Drake considered it. He didn’t want to be in Ellery’s company then. He wanted a stiff drink to exorcise the image of Demelza Ahern’s lithe body in his best friend’s arms, and a cold tub to loosen the tightness that had gripped his loins like a fist. But there was something he must do first—something that wouldn’t wait. Something he wouldn’t share.

  “You’re sure?” he said.

  “Of course, I’m sure. How do you suppose I managed here without you for the last five years, eh? Granted, I’m hopeless when it comes to carpentry, but I can certainly check a roof for leaks. Go home and get some sleep.”

  Drake clapped him on the shoulder and moved on. Once he’d said goodnight to the Terrills, he mounted the black Andalusianer stallion he’d brought from Spain and rode north of the village to a tidy little cottage nestled in the valley outside the village proper.

  Dr. Edwin Hale took a step back when he opened the door. Drake frowned. Perhaps he should have sent a missive first. The man looked as though he’d seen a ghost. He’d aged in his absence, seeming older than his sixty years. His hair was sparse and gray now, and he’d grown portly. The steely eyes were the same, however. Sharp and articulate. They often spoke when his lips did not, Drake recalled, just as they did now, though he wasn’t always able to read them. Was that dread, or relief gaping at him… or a strange marriage of both?