Highwayman Husband. Helen Dickson
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was inevitable that prison had changed him in several ways, as it must change many once carefree men. His time spent in that French prison must have been like a malevolent humour festering inside him, destroying hope of survival, faith and self-respect. But all humours of the flesh could be healed—now the prison walls had fallen away, and, though the healing process might take time, time was the greatest healer.
But how did she feel about him?
The truth hit her. Physically she was no more immune to Lucas Mawgan now than she had been when he had dazzled her in London, blinding her to every other man. She could withstand his anger but not his smile—the smile that had shattered her heart two years ago. When she had lain with him she had almost swooned as he had taken her into his arms, convinced that something glorious was going to happen to her. Despite what had followed and her searing disappointment regarding that intimate side of marriage, despite everything that had happened in between, he could still twist her entire being into exquisite knots of yearning, just as he had done then.
The following morning, in possession of an unfamiliar exhilaration, and feeling vibrantly, gloriously alive, Laura rose and went downstairs, inwardly convinced that her mood would stay that way from now on. The house was quiet, the sun streaming in through the latticed windows set beneath Norman arches. She paused and gazed fondly at the familiar surroundings, elated that she would not be leaving it to marry Edward.
Roslyn Manor had at one time been a castle, built in Norman times. Over the centuries a certain amount of conversion and rebuilding had taken place, but parts still remained of the original castle, the most prominent being the square, battlemented tower at the opposite end of the house to the hall. From the hall a wide stone staircase rose to the long gallery on the first floor, built during the Tudor period to connect the hall with the tower, offering a splendid view of the sloping gardens and the sea beyond.
Laura had come to love the Mawgans’ ancestral home. As she moved about its rooms she could feel the past and the people who had inhabited the house closing in on her, and Lucas was an essential part of it. With the rooms beneath the long gallery not in use, she kept few servants—just John and his wife, her maid, Susan, Martha, two gardeners who lived in Roslyn village, George, the groom—a huge, strong figure of a man with muscles like a bear’s and fists like a prize fighter—and his son, Joss, who helped his father with the work in the stables.
Seeing no one, humming a little tune, Laura passed through the hall and stepped into the kitchen, finding John alone. He was preparing a breakfast tray for her and looked up when she entered, his face wearing its usual impassive, solemn expression. She breathed in the delicious smell of fried bacon and toast.
‘Good morning, John. Is there something to eat? I’m absolutely starving.’
‘Good morning, my lady. I knew you would be, so I prepared your favourite—bacon, eggs, steamed mushrooms and buttered toast. You’ll want tea, too, I suppose.’
‘At least two cups.’
John always addressed her as ‘my lady’. At first she had felt uncomfortable with it and asked him not to, but he had slipped back into it and she had got used to it. She picked up a piece of toast to munch on as she went into the dining room. Seating herself at the table that commanded a splendid view of the sea and coastline, she found herself confronted with a huge vase of flowers—blue delphiniums and huge white roses, their petals like soft velvet and still moist with early-morning dew. ‘Why, John, you’re spoiling me. They’re lovely.’
John gave her one of his rare grins. ‘Only the best, my lady.’
Spreading a napkin over her lap, she waited as he placed a heaped plate in front of her and proceeded to pour the tea. ‘You look pleased with yourself this morning,’ she remarked casually, knowing he was waiting for her to mention the previous night’s events, and the part he had played, but she enjoyed teasing him so delayed the moment.
He cocked a quizzical brow. ‘Pleased?’
‘Mm. Maybe it’s the weather. It does look an exceptionally fine morning.’
John made a pretence of glancing out of the window. ‘Aye, so it does.’
‘I must say I’m surprised.’
His eyes were upon her as he placed a cup of tea in front of her. ‘You are?’
‘Mm,’ she murmured, taking a forkful of egg and placing it in her mouth. ‘I fully expected you to be still in bed—following your extraordinary exertions last night.’ She glanced up at him obliquely. ‘I congratulate you. You are a consummate actor. It was quite a performance you put on—in fact, you were very convincing. You fooled me completely, and poor Sir Edward was all at sea.’
‘That was the idea, my lady.’ He shrugged. ‘What could I do? ’Twas an emergency.’
‘And your master is a bully and quite unscrupulous, I know,’ she stated, with a smile on her lips.
‘I fear that be so, my lady—but ’twas exciting.’
‘I gathered that,’ she quipped, spearing a piece of bacon. ‘With a pair of pistols levelled at Sir Edward and poor old Amos—whom you scared half to death, I might add—you seemed to be enjoying yourself. Although I visualised someone a mite younger in the part.’
‘A man’s as young as he feels, I always say, my lady.’
‘Of course,’ she agreed amiably.
‘Shocked, are you?’
With a mushroom halfway to her mouth, she paused and glanced up at him. ‘Shocked? A little—and surprised. But you should have told me we have a guest,’ she said, popping the mushroom between her lips.
‘Guest, my lady?’
‘Yes, John. And where is our guest? Still abed, I expect. Where does he sleep, by the way?’
‘In the turret room, and he was up and out at first light.’
‘Was he? Where did he go?’
She followed John’s gaze out of the window and along the coast to Stennack’s engine house with its tall chimney in the far-off distance, built precariously on the edge of the cliff. The mine, closed now for a good many years, was owned by the Mawgans. It was the deepest and richest mine in the area, with tin and copper brought up from its deepest workings—from the southern reaches beneath the sea itself—until tragedy had struck and the sea broke in, claiming the lives of twenty men and boys. Their bodies were still down there. No one had been able to get them out. After that the deep workings had been abandoned to the sea.
John had told Laura that the mine was always dear to Lucas’s heart. Before he had left for France he was seriously considering reopening it, and had employed mining experts to give him advice.
Savouring the knowledge of having Lucas back at Roslyn where he belonged, Laura finished her breakfast. Then, with a happy spring in her step, an apron tied around her trim waist and a need to do something constructive with her day, Laura went to the part of the house that had not been used in two years. Perhaps it was time to take a look and see what needed to be done.
Entering the passageway beneath the long gallery, she closed the heavy door behind her. It squeaked loudly on its hinges, and she made a mental note to ask John to oil them. The passageway was dark and eerily shadowed, with doorways leading to several rooms. At the end a large window outlined a smaller doorway where a stairway led down to the cellars. This entrance was never used, since the cellars could be reached from the kitchen. Seeing that the door was ajar, she went towards it. As she peered down into the dark the silence was tomblike, the mournful wail of the rising wind intruding upon the stillness. A cold, dank draught wafting up from below invaded her clothing, and with a shiver Laura pulled the door closed.
Going from room to room, she assessed what had to be done, pulling the dust covers from furniture and artefacts. Becoming warm from her labours, she loosened the neck of her wool dress and rolled up the sleeves. Working her way back to the first room along the passageway, upon entering