A Stranger's Secret Read online

  And all the while, her mind raced around the circular pendant like the letters of the Trelawny family motto. How could a stranger have such a trinket? Morwenna didn’t even know such a thing existed. Yet a man who didn’t look at all familiar, at least not in his current unconscious and half-drowned state, wore a representation of the family around his neck. To find out why, if not for reasons of simple kindness, she must get this man to warmth and safety and save his life, if it could be saved.

  Dead men didn’t give answers.

  Morwenna hit the cliff path and landed on her hands and knees. For the first few yards, she crawled up the steep incline, then she managed to get to her feet and race to the top of the sixty-foot cliff. To her left, a door led into her grandmother’s garden. If it was unlocked, she could get into the house in moments.

  She circumvented the garden and then the house, hoping neither grandparent was looking out the windows she passed, and charged for the stables. One or two of the grooms would help her. She had known them all her life, been friendlier with them than the daughter of the family who employed them should have been with servants. If they were part of the gang that had helped the ship to wreck and left the man to drown, she might be making another mistake in her relationship with the outdoor servants. She didn’t care at the moment.

  “Miss Morwenna—m’lady,” Henry, one of the grooms, called from the stable doorway. “You look half drowned.”

  “I am, and freezing too, but I need your help. There’s a man . . . on the beach.”

  Henry’s eyes widened until the whites shone around irises nearly as dark as Morwenna’s own. “He’s still alive?”

  “He is.” Morwenna narrowed her gaze at him but refrained from asking him why this news shocked him.

  Of course Henry had been with the wreckers. Who in the village hadn’t been? No matter. She needed his help and he would give it, trustworthy so long as she stayed with him and watched every move he made.

  Colder than ever, she stepped closer to him. “I need at least two of you to help me get him up to Penmara.”

  “Not here at Bastion Point, m’lady?” Henry was shaking his head as he spoke. “It ain’t right for you to have a man staying up there.”

  “You can’t carry him all the way here. The beach access is blocked by now. Now hurry.”

  “Aye, m’lady.” He ducked back into the stable and emerged with another groom. “Go on home, m’lady, and we’ll bring him up.”

  “I must come. The dogs are with him.”

  The grooms looked grim and gave no argument. They simply set out across country with Morwenna, a brisk trot over open land and then a copse of trees, to more open land above the Penmara cliff. Her path wasn’t as steep as the one at Bastion Point, nor as high as the way down to Halfmoon Cove. Chill and urgency lending her power, she managed to keep up with the youths’ long-legged strides, then surpassed them on the beach.

  She surpassed them because they slowed to drop behind her. When she glanced back, she saw them eyeing the dogs with apprehension as the enormous hounds rose to greet their mistress.

  “Good dogs.” Morwenna gave them each a scratch behind their ears and then crouched down beside the still unconscious man. She reached for the medallion to test whether or not he still breathed.

  But the medallion with the Trelawny family crest enameled upon it no longer hung around the stranger’s neck.

  CHAPTER 2

  ALL MAMA’S WATERCOLOR PAINTINGS WERE WRONG. She portrayed angels as possessing golden curls and sky-blue eyes, white robes and hands tucked up their sleeves or playing a musical instrument, rose-tinted complexions and smiling, soft mouths. But the being David Chastain saw when he opened his eyes to pale sunshine and drab bed hangings only resembled an angel in her slight stature and fine-boned features. Her complexion was as smooth as porcelain and creamy pale. Her hair resembled midnight rather than sunshine and had been anchored on the back of her head too firmly to show whether or not it curled. Likewise, her eyes shone with so deep a brown they were nearly black behind their ruffle of dark lashes, and though her mouth looked soft, even lush, the lips were not curved up, but drooped at the corners as though a smile would stretch them beyond their current ability.

  A man could get lost in thinking up ways to make those lips smile. The fullness of those lips, especially the lower one, could give a man notions Mama would scold even her grown sons for thinking. They certainly made him forget that every bone and sinew of his body ached, pounded as though someone had taken hammers to him or burned like a branding iron on the skin.

  At least he forgot the misery that had kept him from coming fully awake until he tried to sit up and address the beautiful young woman. Beauty aside, she shouldn’t be intimidating in her unangelic gown of grayish purple dotted with threads from the garment she was knitting. Too mundane a task. Hands of an angel should have been playing an instrument whose sweet notes would send him back to oblivion and away from physical anguish. Instead, they were red as though they recently had been plunged into scalding water.

  His back felt as though it still rested in scalding water. Pain or not, he remained awake, gaze fixed on the lady. He opened his mouth to speak, but a groan emerged rather than words.

  The knitting dropped to the floor as she sprang out of her chair. She rushed to the bedside and leaned over, surrounding him with the scents of lemon and fresh-baked bread. “You’re awake, sir.”

  Her voice was of a low register and husky. Sultry, like a summer night. The hand she laid on his brow was cool and smooth.

  “Would you like some water? Some laudanum?”

  “Yes.” His voice emerged like that of a frog with a putrid sore throat. “To both.”

  “He needs broth. Nourishment.” This was a speaker out of David’s line of sight, an older voice with a thick country accent. “Needs to build up his strength.”

  “Let him heal first, then worry about his strength.” She half turned away. Glass rattled, and she leaned over him again. “Can you lift yourself up, or do you need some assistance?”

  He was tempted to say he needed help so this exquisite creature might perhaps slip an arm beneath his shoulders and he could get close to her. But the thought of angels reminded him of his mother, the lady who painted them for the bedchambers of her children and grandchildren. That in turn reminded him of all the manners she insisted her sons practice with females, and he inclined his head to acknowledge that he could raise himself enough to take a few sips of water.

  Easier thought than done. He rose on one elbow and reached for the glass she held out to him. Agony shot across his back. A moan escaped his lips, and he collapsed back onto pillows that must have contained red-hot pokers.

  Lightning flashed through the lady’s dark eyes. “I said we should lay him on his front. The wounds on his back—” She broke off and slid a slim arm beneath his shoulders. “Let me help you.”

  She was so close her breath, scented with cinnamon, fanned across his mouth. That brought him warmth without the agony of fire, mere regret that such a lovely lady held him close and he wanted nothing more than to drink the elixir that would bring him relief from feeling anything.

  “I’ll lift you just a little.” With surprising strength, she did just that, enough so when she tilted the glass to his lips, the liquid entered his mouth instead of running down his chin. The medicine she gave him first was bitter on his tongue, tainting the freshness of the water that followed. He swallowed with an eagerness that bordered on greedy, hoping this moment of being cradled against softness would last.

  It didn’t last. All too soon, she eased him back onto the red-hot pokers. When he couldn’t stifle a throaty exclamation, she smoothed hair off his brow as though he were a child and murmured nonsense sounds that could have been a lullaby.

  “Let me call my manservant to turn you over so that your back can heal properly. You took quite a . . . beating in that shipwreck.”

  “Shipwreck. Yes. Where—?” He let her guess the
rest of the question.

  “Penmara.”

  “Pen—” He couldn’t wrap his brain around the unfamiliar name.

  “I am Morwenna, Lady Penvenan.”

  He stared up at her. “Am I in England?”

  “You are in Cornwall.”

  “Barely England.” He tried to smile. “Near Falmouth?”

  “We’re the north coast. Falmouth is in the south.”

  “I know.” Pain deeper than any physical wound shot through him. He tried to move. He clamped his teeth against a moan of pain instead.

  “Henwyn, fetch Nicca.”

  “But, m’lady, I can’t be leaving you here alone with a man now that he’s awake.”

  “Go and hasten back. Mihal is about to wake.”

  “All the more reason why—”

  “Henwyn, go.”

  “You know Sir Petrok and Lady Trelawny aren’t happy about you keeping him here.”

  “What my grandparents think is none of your concern. Now, go.”

  No words came after the sharp order, but a door slammed, speaking volumes of disapproving remarks. And just as the bang resounded through the chamber, a child’s wail rose with it.

  Muttering something uncomplimentary, presumably about the woman who had slammed the door, the lady spun away from the bed and strode across the room, heels clicking on a bare floor. Instantly, the crying ceased. The throaty voice did not. It spoke in soothing accents too low for David to understand the words, yet he understood the sentiment of the gentle tones of a mother reassuring her child. He had heard it enough with his sister and her offspring.

  She had a child, and she had called herself Lady Penvenan. Alas, his dark angel was somebody’s wife. Of course, the good ones always were.

  He closed his eyes and allowed the medicine to carry him into a state of not caring so much about the pain—or much of anything. Vaguely he thought of the questions he needed to ask, like the precise location of Penmara, how long he had been unconscious, how he had come to be unconscious in a strange house, and why he hurt everywhere, but especially his back. When the lady returned to his side, he would force the words out.

  The next time she came to his side, however, she was with a man, someone with large, strong hands and a soft voice. With the assistance of the two females, this newcomer helped David to sit halfway up and roll onto his chest. The last thing he remembered as his head flopped back onto the pillow was her ladyship exclaiming, then blackness descended.

  It ended all too soon, for the pain remained. It was slightly better, and a pang in his belly suggested hunger. Darkness surrounded him save for a lamp to one side. He turned his head in that direction and there she sat, flame drawing blue highlights from the glossy darkness of her hair and gilding one delicate cheekbone. A needle flashed in and out of a bit of wool, and the aroma of coffee permeated the chamber.

  “Do you not sleep?” he asked.

  She rose. “Sometimes.” After setting the sewing on a table, she moved to the side of the bed. “We haven’t been certain you would survive each night, so have taken turns sitting up with you.”

  “How long?”

  “A week.”

  His chest constricted. “Too long.”

  “It’s why we have been worrying about you. It’s dawn now and you are still with us, I’m glad to see.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” He raised one hand to his face. His fingers rasped on a week’s growth of beard. “Why would you stay here?”

  “I found you on my beach more dead than alive. Do you remember why you were there?”

  “The ship went aground in the storm.” He closed his eyes, trying to recall more. “Then I was here. What happened in between?”

  “If you can raise yourself up a bit, I will get you some broth. You must be starved.”

  “I am, but why—?”

  “Try to drink this first.” She crossed the room. Metal rattled. Liquid splashed. Her gown rustled as she returned to his side. “Can you push yourself up just a little?”

  He rolled onto his side. The pokers returned to abusing his back, but they had cooled some. Ignoring the discomfort, he reached for the tankard she held out to him. “Beef tea?”

  “With a little port mixed in. I’m sorry if you’re abstemious, but there’s nothing better for restoring the blood.”

  “My blood needs restored?” That would explain the weakness.

  “You seem to have lost a quantity.”

  “How?”

  She clasped her hands at her collarbone. “Your back was cut to ribbons.”

  He choked on the rich broth. “How? Rocks? Seems all I’ve seen growing in this county are rocks.”

  “We grow things well enough. It’s still early in spring after all.”

  A little defensiveness about her land.

  David half smiled. “But you do have a surplus of rocks.”

  She shrugged.

  “Was it rocks that hurt me?” he pressed.

  “In the hands of men, perhaps it was rocks.” If warm custard could hold an edge, then her voice did, perhaps even anger.

  David balanced the tankard on the arm that held him half upright and met her gaze. “What are you saying?”

  She didn’t flinch from his direct gaze. “I’m saying someone beat you. It looks worse than what even a horsewhip can do. Perhaps a truncheon of some sort.”

  His innards flipped around and over themselves. He sipped more broth, hoping the warmth would settle the activity. He had nothing to fear. He was on his way back to Falmouth to find answers regarding his father’s death.

  “Why couldn’t the battering be just from the sea?” It was a logical question.

  “If your injuries were caused by nature, not man, then so was the wreck.” She removed the broth from his hand. “I suppose it’s possible, but rocks don’t usually bruise and bloody a body in a symmetrical pattern.”

  His ears growing red, David asked, “And how do you know my wounds are symmetrical?”

  “Someone needed to tend you, and blood makes Henwyn ill, and Nicca is too ham-handed for treating wounds.”

  “And your husband allowed it?”

  “My husband is . . . gone.” Her lush lower lip quivered. “Some wounds are too bad to survive.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  No wonder she looked sad.

  “Why would someone beat me?” His eyelids drooped, and he forced them up again. “I was merely a passenger on a vessel bound for—for Falmouth.”

  “From where?” Lady Penvenan asked as she removed the drooping cup from his hand. “If you give me your direction, I’ll notify your family.”

  “Bristol.” He could scarcely remember his name, his brain felt so stuffed with lamb’s wool. “The Chastain boatyard. Mrs. Chastain.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Mother. Poor Mama.” He gave up on his lids and his attempt to keep himself propped upright. “Did you pour laudanum into the broth?”

  “No. I will only drug you with your permission, now that you are in your right senses. Your weariness stems from the warmth of the soup and your need for rest.”

  He didn’t believe her. This felt like the dragging fatigue caused by laudanum. Yet doubting her word seemed unkind after all her care of him, so he gave her no challenge.

  She drew up the coverlet to beneath his chin, a maternal gesture. Her fingers rasped on his beard stubble.

  He flinched. “So sorry for the unkempt state.”

  “Nicca can help you with that.”

  “Odd name, that.” He swallowed a yawn.

  “It’s Cornish for Nicholas. We all have odd names to the English.”

  That made him laugh. Laughing hurt, so he decided to sleep.

  Waking again, he found an older woman gazing down at him. “Where’s the angel?”

  “Lady Penvenan is overseeing the estate—what’s left of it.” The woman’s accent was pure west country and a little harsh. “She’s spent too much time nursing you at risk to her reputation.”<
br />
  “Loyalty to one’s employer is a fine character to have.” He wouldn’t rise to the woman’s rudeness with his own.

  But the word loyalty reminded him of something important.

  With the pain receding to a dull throbbing except when he moved too quickly, his mind grew clearer. Loyalty to one’s employer . . .

  Or loyalty to one’s family.

  Pain, sharper than any dealt him by those who had attacked him, pierced his heart. He did not understand how a loving father and husband could suddenly remove most of the money from the business and family coffers, then disappear in the opposite direction he intended to go. David would swear in a court of law that Father was the most honest man who lived. Who had lived. David wanted to be like dear, sweet Mama, still Father’s stalwart supporter even with the sketchy facts laid out before her.

  “Return to Cornwall and learn what this is all about,” Mama had told him.

  With his longing to believe in Father’s innocence, David had done so, and someone had tried to kill him. He doubted he was out of danger yet.

  Morwenna walked to church alone. Her grandparents would have taken her up in their carriage, or met her on the way if they chose to walk on a fine morning, but Morwenna refused that courtesy from them just as she would refuse to take a farthing of their money. They had shunned her, sent her away from the hallowed halls of Bastion Point when she needed protection. Now they could not bask in the dubious honor of having their younger granddaughter, the widow of a peer of the realm, in their company.

  “Your stiff-necked pride is going to catch you a chill and land you in the churchyard,” Henwyn predicted as Morwenna kissed Mihal good-bye. The maid preferred to stay behind with the baby on Sunday mornings and attend a gathering of Methodist dissenters during the week. “Then those grandparents of yours will be raisin’ him like they raised you.”

  With a lot of rules and not a lot of affection.

  “A little rain won’t hurt me.” Morwenna flung on her woolen cloak and drew an umbrella from a stand in the entryway.

  The former was still stiff from salt water after she had used it to cover Mr. Chastain on the beach, and the latter was so old the shaft was more rust than steel. Together, however, they would keep her warm and dry enough in the light rain.