The Defiant Lady Pencavel (15 page)

“Shhhh. Do you want the wrath of his lordship, or his dragon of a housekeeper down on us?” Melwyn hurried to where she stood, shining light over the maid who rubbed her nose, and a tall portrait of Henry VIII that hadn’t swung on the picture rail. “This seems solidly in place.”

Melwyn pushed on the frame and the picture slid to her left. “Oh, my, I think we’ve found it.” She shone the lamplight on a dark wood panel.

“How do we open it?” Clowenna sniffed loudly, still intent on her nose.

“Find a latch or lever.” Melwyn handed her maid the lamp, and felt along the panel’s grooves and carvings, her fingers dipping into every nook and cranny. Finally, something metallic under her fingertips. She lifted it, and the panel creaked open slowly.

Melwyn grabbed the lamp and shone the light inside a musty, tiny room. “It looks like a priest’s hole. There is even a cabinet where they hid the sacred vessels and vestments.”

“Hope there’s no dead priest in there.” Clowenna gripped her mistress’s shoulder.

“I thought you weren’t a superstitious ninny.” Melwyn stepped in, and soon discovered another latch. The far door squeaked open. The dank smell of earth swept in on her, almost dousing the lamp. “This must be the secret tunnel.”

“Great, we found it. Now we can go home and tell your father.” Clowenna tugged on Melwyn’s arm. “I’m tired; let’s go up to bed afore we’re murdered.”

“I remind you that this was your idea.” Melwyn shook her off and put one foot into the tunnel, her heart racing. She held up the lamp. “This could be a passageway built by a previous ancestor and have nothing to do with Lord Lambrick.”

“That be wishful thinking, m’lady.” The maid tapped her foot in irritation. “Now come back an’ don’t do no too-stupid-to-live act.”

“We need more proof,” Melwyn insisted. She chewed on her lower lip. “How will I take you to the continent if you’re going to be a nervous Nellie?”

The light barely reached down the tunnel with its crude shored-up walls, and the sound of water could be heard farther along. Melwyn shivered in the cooler air. A stack of crates sat a few yards away. She walked toward them, and reached out her hand to touch the top one’s scarred lid.

A shadow moved to her right. A hand grabbed her wrist and she gulped in astonishment, almost dropping the lamp.

Chapter Thirteen

Griffin wanted to jerk her arm from its socket. He’d waited around, hunkered down in his tunnel, suspicious of her reasons for visiting. “Too sick to share supper with me, my lady?” He pulled her close, her blue eyes wide in the lamplight. “Just what do you think you’re doing down here?”

“I’m snooping, exactly what it looks like I must admit, sir.” Miss Pencavel tilted up her nose in defiance, even as her pretty mouth trembled.

“And are you satisfied with what you’ve discovered?” He leaned even closer, until their noses almost touched. She smelled divine.

“You have an intriguing tunnel, and you’re aware I love digging.” She smiled, but it looked forced. The mellow light, despite the off-putting fishy scent, danced along her soft cheeks.

“There are no Roman ruins down here, my lady.” He gripped her arm harder then regretted it when she flinched. “Is this why you came here, to reveal my private business?”

“I intimated as much earlier.” She tugged at her arm. “You’re hurting my wrist, sir.”

“I’d like to hurt far more, most of which you wouldn’t understand if your claim at remaining virginal is true; but I demand to know your intentions.” He released her, his threat inexplicably warming him inside.

She rubbed her flesh. “I was under the idiotic misconception that if I could prove you a deviant of some sort, that my father would rue the betrothal and give me my inheritance.”

“Was this hare-brained scheme yours? I expected more from you.” He scowled, then followed her gaze to the maid who held back, acting nonchalant, whistling an off-key tune. “You’re here because your
maid
thought it was a bright idea to intrude on my affairs? I’ve already denounced the betrothal, so what madness is this?”

“I truly wanted to see your lovely home.” Miss Pencavel stared down the tunnel. Tendrils of her hair curled in the damp air around her delicate ear. “Very well, my curiosity and stubbornness got the best of me. Is this why you don’t wish to marry, because of your smuggling? Did you think I would disapprove and turn you in?”

“You have proof of nothing, other than I have a tunnel under my manor house. I appear to suffer from very large gophers.” He tried to relax his tense muscles, and not reach out to touch her ear. “You are trespassing, and I insist we return upstairs.”

“I would not turn you over to the law if I was—and thank goodness I’m not—your wife. I’d only worry that you’d be sent to gaol.” She faced him again, her mouth obstinate, but looking so soft and sensuous, like rose petals. “Now what will you do to me?”

“I should beat you, but we’re not married as you stated.” He chuckled dryly but couldn’t resist tracing his fingers along her smooth cheeks and jaw. His body hardened in places he wished it wouldn’t. Why did she stir him so? It could only be unrequited lust.

“Usually when you accost me, you kiss me, roughly and thoroughly—as insulting as that is.” She narrowed her eyes, but made no move to leave.

“I’d rather kiss my pipe-puffing bailiff.” Of course, that was a lie. He wanted more than anything to kiss her, but refused to give in to the emotion, furious at finding her down here. He pulled back his hands and waved one toward the door. “After you, my lady. I think you and your reprobate of a maid should depart for Langoron House tomorrow.”

“I might need longer to rest; I don’t yet know. We women are prone to the vapors.” She still didn’t move, her gaze questioning. “Did you send Sir Arthur Seworgan to me?”

Griffin sighed in vexation. He nudged the nosey maid into the priest’s hole and shut the door, leaving him alone in the tunnel with Miss Pencavel. Dark shadows draped like a cloak around them. “I’ve changed my mind. I will kiss you, and meticulously.”

He jerked her against his chest, his lips seeking hers in hot abandon. Desire thrummed through his loins as her lips responded in kind. She tasted like honey. She set aside the lamp, or he did, and trailed her fingers through his hair. He roamed his hands along her hip, up her back and deliciously close to her breasts. She moaned and wiggled into his hips.

Then he groaned and pulled away, ever so reluctantly. His heart pounded like a drum roll. Never before had he wanted a woman so badly. “Am I still correct in assuming you continue to refuse to spend the night with me?”

“Of course I still refuse,” she gasped and fanned herself with her hand, “I’m a decent woman, in that aspect at least.”

Griffin snatched her up and tossed her over his shoulder. She was light, but wriggled fervently. He strode past the maid, through the library and up the stairs. In the guest chamber he dropped her on the bed.

“You ghastly beast,” she sputtered. “You’ve upset my equilibrium, and my stomach.”

“If I were a beast, I’d take you right here, and as rough as possible.” He hovered over her, tempted to do just that, but he needed no more complications in his feelings for this hoyden. “Don’t move, or I’ll rip off your bodice and teach you things that would astound you.”

“You wouldn’t dare! This is imported silk.” She scooted up higher on the mattress, her hands flying to her inviting neckline, her cheeks flushed. “Why
do
you keep kissing me like a man hopelessly enamored?”

“How many others have kissed you in such a way?” he growled, struggling to restrain his pulsing loins. He hated to ponder the truth of her statement.

“Not a one; but I have read a few novels on the subject, when I wished to waste my time on frivolous pursuits.” She brushed a finger over her swollen lips and eyed him slyly.

Griffin stifled another groan and went to the door. He had to get her away from him, out of his hair and out of his blood. “
I’ll
give you the money to travel to Italy, along with this Sir Arthur person who I’ve never heard of before. Pack and head for Plymouth in the morning. You can take a boat from there to Dover, then on to Lisbon, and Italy after that.”

“You believe I’ll refuse, don’t you?” She knotted the counterpane—the punctured silk quilt his mother had lovingly sewn—in her fist. “But I won’t. By the time I reach Pompeii, I will be one and twenty. I accept your offer.”

“Good. And I hope you grow up while you’re tramping about in the heat.” Her resolve made his heart do an odd twitch. “Wear sensible shoes and a wide-brimmed hat, my lady.”

“If growing up means giving in to the bullying tactics of men, then you wait in vain, sir.” She said it softly. “A strong woman is always viewed as hysterical or unladylike,” she spouted as he shut her door.

Griffin rushed to his own chamber, shed his frock coat, waist coat and shirt. Pouring water into the bowl at his wash stand, he splashed the tepid liquid on his heated face and chest. Water ran in rivulets down his muscled abdomen.

“Can I be of assistance, sir?” Kenver rushed in wearing his nightshirt and nightcap. “Are you all right? I heard sighs of morose discontent.”

“I’m fine as can be managed at this interval, my good man; go back to bed.” Griffin ran both hands through his damp hair.

With Miss Pencavel out of England, he could go back to his normal life, raising sheep, and enjoying his brandy—and maybe just one more time smuggling artifacts. He’d search for a pasty-faced, dim-witted heiress as soon as possible to beget his needed successor.

****

The stark white cliffs loomed up out their inn window. Melwyn stared out at the shingle beach where little boats were drawn up, and larger ships anchored farther away bobbed in the channel. Her tormented thoughts bobbed about as well. “We’re finally here, at the edge of England. So close yet so far, as I’m philosophically expounding.”

“Do as ‘ee will, but this bed be full o’ vermin, m’lady,” Clowenna said as she swiped aside dingy sheets. “We’ll need to get some oil o’ tansy. Even the common likes o’ me won’t sleep in ‘em.”

“I wrote Sir Arthur. I hope he arrives soon.” Melwyn turned back to the shabby little room. She fought a disappointed moan. “The air is fetid in here. Let’s walk out into the town and make that purchase of tansy.”

She wore a plain, closed-robe, dull brown dress. She’d pretend to be a widow as previously stated, her husband killed in the war. The two women pinned on their straw hats with small ribbons and left the inn.

The sharp wind off the channel cut into her and Melwyn pulled her cloak close. Dover was a jumble of narrow, winding lanes, crowded with overhanging buildings and stinking cow pens. They passed numerous leering sailors as they made their way to the market square.

“How do we know we won’t be killed by blood-thirsty rebel French soldiers?” Clowenna asked.

“We don’t. I suppose that’s part of the adventure.” Melwyn spotted an apothecary shop and they entered to the tinkle of a bell. She should be excited that her journey was beginning, but she missed the livid voice and chastising eyes of Lord Lambrick. She tried not to dwell on the fact she’d taken his money for this expedition. She’d find a way to pay him back.

The shop’s spicy smells was a relief from the stink of sea and seamen.

A woman strolled toward them slowly. She was tall and slender, with a vaguely familiar face. Her yellow, low-cut gown sans scarf seemed out of place in this establishment, the style incongruous for the middle-aged clerk. “Good afternoon. May I help you ladies?”

The elegant—and bored—voice struck an uncomfortable chord in Melwyn’s memory. “Pardon me, as I am outspoken, but I seem to have met you be—”

“Oh, triple la!” Clowenna’s hand flew to her throat. “It be your mam, in the unholy flesh, as I live an’ choke on the shock.”

“Don’t be impertinent, Clowie,” Melwyn scolded, stunned, unbelieving, even slightly disgusted. “This is a terrible mistake, obviously.”

“Melwyn?” The woman narrowed her eyes a little—as if surveying undercooked mutton. Her eyes were the same azure blue as Melwyn’s. Her tone remained languid. “Can it possibly be you? How very perplexing.” 

“Since that is my name, and it’s unusual, it
must
be me.” Melwyn’s heart clenched as her fingers shook. This woman before her, an older, more drawn, version of herself, was actually her errant mother? She could barely form the next words. “Have you lived in Dover all this time? With that wretch of a second under-butler?”

“In one way or another. Such a tedious city, but here I am.” The former Lady Pencavel raised her chin. “Nonetheless, men come and they go, in the grand scheme of life.”

“Still shameless, ess? My, not-so-much a lady.” Clowenna stared from her to Melwyn. “Bold as brass, like your daughter; though
she’s
kept her virtue, far as I know.”

“I’m nothing like my mother. Go and look among the bottles for what we need.” Melwyn pushed her abigail—none too gently—toward the shelves of jars and bottles along the wall to distract her repugnance.

“How is your father? Is he still alive?” her mother asked in a voice devoid of emotion. She made no move to embrace her only child, and Melwyn was strangely grateful there wouldn’t be a false scene of a happy reunion.

“He was devastated by your departure.” Melwyn paced about the shop, repressing her anger. She inspected the fluted blue bottles and ceramic jars of the apothecary trade. “But I’m certain that was secondary to your desires.”

“You had no idea what I endured in my marriage.” The woman averted her gaze, trailing a hand along her salaciously revealed cleavage.

“But what about me? Didn’t I deserve a letter now and then? A gift at New Year?” Despite herself, Melwyn’s throat thickened. She hadn’t expected to confront her mother, ever, and had no armor—or spear—for this unexpected meeting.

“I thought you better left alone.” Madam Pencavel shrugged a shoulder. “What I did was scandalous by the standards of the day, and you should be grateful that the stain of it didn’t fall upon you.”

“You’re wrong, it did.” Melwyn’s reply came out staccato sharp. “Papa pretends you’re dead, but many know the truth.”