Fire Raven (42 page)

Fate was damned capricious. At last he had decided to confront Kat, come what may — and she was nowhere to be found. Furthermore, the servants acted uncommonly subdued in his presence. Even Ailis was not her old bantering self. Morgan wondered what prompted their silence. Did they disapprove of his choice of bride? All seemed to have held Kat in great affection and high esteem before the marriage. All but Gwynneth, if Kat was to be believed.

Morgan recalled Kat’s claim that Gwynneth had betrayed her to the soldiers who came to Falcon’s Lair on Henry Lawrence’s order. He felt shame at the memory of his brief relationship with the maid servant. It was not that he found Gwynneth irresistible, nor even particularly attractive. He had turned to the girl in a moment of supreme agony, a mistake he deeply and profoundly regretted. He was relieved to learn Winnie had dismissed and sent the wench packing whilst he was away in London. Nothing must destroy the precious chance for hope and healing this marriage portended for him and Kat.

“M
ILADY
, I
WAS GETTING
worried. ’Twas nigh two hours. ’Tis getting right dark.”

“I know,” Kat apologized as she swung down from the gray’s saddle and faced the stable boy. “I’m sorry, Evan. I lost track of time.” Her gaze encountered the stamping roan in the nearest stall, and she looked at Evan with surprise.

“Aye, the Master returned today. He rode in whilst I was off helping Perry load a wagon. Lloyd said the Master seems in dark spirits.”

Kat self-consciously smoothed back tendrils of loose hair and wiped at her grimy face. She knew she was filthy, head to toe; Evan was too tactful to say anything, but Winnie surely would.

Drawing a deep breath for courage, she thanked Evan and returned to the keep. Thankfully, the long shadows and rising mist from the sea concealed her approach. Were Morgan to watch from the ramparts above, she doubted he would recognize her in such humble garb, her hair and breasts bound from view.

Just to be safe, she chose the rear entrance through the servant’s passage and slipped past Ailis before she had time or opportunity to sense Kat’s presence. Within minutes, Kat was safely in her bedchamber, leaning against the closed door with a pounding heart.

So Morgan had returned home in dark spirits. Why? Because he must needs present her in person with an annulment, mayhap a royal command to leave his domain? Kat’s hands shook as she unlaced her shirt and shrugged out of the dirty outfit. She thrust the soiled clothing into the bottom of her wardrobe and extracted a gown of flame-colored silk with blush velvet sleeves. Merry had insisted she wear it at her first formal ceremony as Lady Trelane; what better opportunity than before her lord and husband?

Kat hastily bathed in the cold water left in the basin, then struggled for nearly an hour to dress herself. She had not realized how much she had come to depend upon Merry or her tiring woman, Jane. Merry’s nimble fingers secured hooks and laces in seconds; Kat’s trembled, and she almost gave up altogether in a fit of exasperation and anxiety. She so wanted to impress Morgan with her transformation into a dignified lady. It difficult to feign dignity, however, when her bodice was unevenly laced and her petticoats refused to hang straight.

Kat cursed her own pride. She wished she had agreed to Merry finding her a lady’s maid before she left for London. Alack, her stubborn nature assured her defeat when it came to refinement. She tugged at her crooked décolletage and batted at her windblown hair one last time. There was no help for it now. She must find Morgan and plead her cause before he retired for the night.

Suddenly Kat felt nauseous and light-headed, caused by the babe or fear of what was to come. She forced herself to take several deep breaths, then turned from the pier glass and her disheveled image reflected there. It served nobody’s interests if she dissolved into a whimpering lump of feminine ails now. Somehow she must endure.

K
AT INSTINCTIVELY KNEW WHERE
Morgan would be found. She was drawn toward Falcon Lair’s library as if in a dream, her silk skirts whispering over the plush Turkish carpets. Her hand came to rest upon the door latch. She hesitated before turning the latch and stepping into the library.

Warmth greeted her in the guise of a crackling fire. Autumn had come early to Falcon’s Lair; already Madoc’s Craig sported a mantle of fresh snow. She glimpsed a man in the chair before the hearth, his profile bent over a tome, as the fire reflected burnished mahogany highlights in his hair. Morgan shifted in the chair upon her entrance, but his attention remained focused on the book, and he made no move to turn around.

“Has Lady Katherine returned from her ride?” he idly inquired.

“Aye, milord.” Kat’s soft reply gave him pause. Morgan’s head rose with a jolt. She saw his broad shoulders stiffen beneath the white shirt and dark blue velvet doublet he wore. She would have approached him then, yet his formal words held her at bay.

“Kat. I trust you’re in good health.”

“Yea, thank you.” She strained in the gloom for any glimpse of Morgan’s expression. His measured speech left no clue as to his thoughts. She saw his hands tighten on the book he held, as if he would fain use it as a shield of sorts. She lingered in the doorway, uncertain of her role. Until he invited her into his private domain of his own free will, she would not presume to go where she was not wanted.

The book slammed shut. Kat jumped at the sound; her resolve shattered in one fell swoop.
Sweet Mother and Mary, Morgan is furious
. Infuriated by her deceit, doubtless angrier still she had boldly returned to Falcon’s Lair without his permission. Thus his mild remark startled her.

“I understand you are with child.”

Kat swallowed. To her surprise, she detected no hint of emotion in his remark, not even rage. “Aye, milord. I fear ’tis true.”

“As well you might.” Bewildered by his cryptic remark, Kat saw Morgan tense as if to rise. Instead, he set the book aside and gripped the chair’s armrests as if they might lend him strength. He drummed his fingers on the wine-colored leather. “I told you in London we must talk. ’Tis past due such time.”

“Agreed, milord.”

“Morgan.” Absently he reminded her to use his Christian name. Kat felt a flicker of hope just the same.

“I would be honest with you, Kat,” he continued. To Kat’s chagrin, Morgan addressed the fire in the hearth. “I know not whether this marriage can or ever will work between us, but the queen has offered her blessing. There is no chance of annulment now, not with a child due midwinter.”

“You spoke with Her Majesty?”

“Aye, at Whitehall. I was summoned before Elizabeth and therein lectured quite thoroughly.” A trace of mirth entered his sober tone. “Although, I must admit, I admire her blunt approach. In this arena, Elizabeth Tudor could challenge many a man.”

“Her Grace is formidable,” Kat agreed. She glanced at the leaping flames Morgan found so fascinating and quelled a tic of irritation. Must needs he address her as a servant who scarcely merited a glance? Devil take him, she was his wife, deserving of more than a cursory comment or two.

Kat expected Morgan to dismiss her at any second, resigned to his dismal marital fate as he seemed, but he rose at last and braced himself with one hand curled upon the fireplace mantel. Surely she only imagined his fingers trembled where they gripped the marble. It was a trick of the firelight, she vowed.

“Kat.” Morgan’s voice shook. She detected a strange desperation and terrible effort in that simple word, and stepped forward. He bade her remain where she was with a curt motion of his other hand. “Nay, I would continue. Pray do not interrupt me, whatever follows. If I do not face my demons now, perchance I never shall.” Morgan drew a breath, and continued in a low voice:

“You know a little of my history, of my mother’s death. What you do not understand is why she committed suicide.” He was silent a second, absorbed in the past.

“’Twas shortly after my birth. The tale goes that Lady Elena had me summoned from the nursery and when the midwife placed me in her arms, she screamed, unable to accept the cruel jest God — or Lord Satan — had dealt her household.”

Kat wanted to assure Morgan his mother’s mental weakness was not a reflection upon his worth, but she honored his request to hear him out. While she ached to go to him, she held her ground.

“Within minutes, Elena threw herself from the battlements. Would to God she had taken me with her.” He expelled a harsh breath at the sentiment. His fingers turned white where they gripped the mantel.

“Jesu forgive you both,” Kat whispered, shaken by the story but, more so, by the agony in Morgan’s wish. She was glad she had removed Lady Trelane’s picture from her room; she vowed she would banish Elena’s countenance altogether from this household on the morrow. What manner of mother burdened her child with blame — Worse yet, blame for a tragic death in which an innocent had no part?

“You’ll appreciate her reasoning soon enough.” Morgan turned to face her. Firelight glinted on his beautiful ebony hair, shadows caressed his finely sculpted jaw and cheeks — one darker than the rest, curiously shaped like a crescent moon. Yet it did not flee with the other shadows when he moved.

Despite her vow of silence, Kat gasped. It was a gasp of sudden understanding, rather than of fear or disgust, but she saw Morgan’s eyes darken to glittering jet and knew it too late to remedy her reaction.

“The Trelane Curse,” Morgan announced, with a mocking flourish, as he stroked the blemish on his left cheek. He confronted her with his level gaze.
“Wilt thou not flee?”
he taunted her in a Shakespearean vein.

Kat shook her head. “I would fain stay.”

“More fool, then. Or mayhap courage lends you foolish ideals. Be warned, Kat. I will not accept pity; nay, not even from you.”

She felt her temper flare, and snapped, “I do not offer it. What I would offer, Morgan, is my love and faith. I better understand your past actions now, yet I am no less wounded by your assumption. S’blood, you obviously reckon me too shallow to accept a flawed mate.

“We are — each and every one of us — imperfect in some way. Especially me: I play at being a great lady, when nothing is further from the truth. Y’see here, I cannot lace my
damme
gown properly.” She gestured half laughing, half weeping at the unevenly laced bodice.

“I never noticed.”

“As I hardly notice your sole shortcoming,” she said, approaching Morgan before he might withdraw. She took his left hand in hers, pressed it against her own wet cheek. At this heartfelt gesture, Morgan closed his eyes in pain or denial — perhaps both.

“There is risk for the child,” he murmured.

“Our son or daughter will always be perfect in my sight. Fear not, my love.”

Morgan shook his head. “’Tis difficult,” he rasped, “too difficult to bear, Kat, the notion of this devil’s taint being passed from generation to generation. Although I know of no other ancestors thus cursed, I am not sure.”

“Your mother’s family — ”

“Never acknowledged my existence,” he bitterly interrupted. “They blamed my father for Elena’s death. I know my grandfather still lives somewhere in Castile; Don Miguel Arruz de Rojas was formerly the Spanish ambassador. He came to London to negotiate with Elizabeth in the days before the Armada. There he met my grandfather, Griffith Trelane. The two old goats schemed to unite the families. Soon Elena was sent to Falcon’s Lair, a virtual child fresh from the convent.”

Kat felt a pang of sympathy for the sloe-eyed Spanish beauty. “Consider this, Morgan: Your mother found herself far from sunny Spain and her beloved family, isolated in dreary Wales in an ancient keep, married to an older man who was probably kind but often preoccupied with other matters. Is’t any wonder she was unhappy?”

She noticed Morgan’s dark eyes gleamed with emotion.

“Mayhap you’re right,
Faeilean
. For years, I hated Elena, without consideration for her plight. The convent was all my mother knew before she came. She arrived with her duenna, Donna Inez. I understand the woman was sent back to Castile after Elena wed my father. Elena spoke little English and no Welsh at all.”