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  If God was merciful, the ill-starred sailor was long dead. Even as he thought this, the lad stirred. Again Morgan heard a pained moan. A flicker of indecision gripped him.

  Damme! The tide was coming in. Slowly but surely, the advancing waves rolled up against the shore, this last one just reaching the tips of the boy’s boots. Morgan cursed again as he knelt and scooped a hand under the lad’s shoulders. Why, the stripling barely weighed anything. He rose, cradling the injured youth in his arms.

  His eyes widened. His burden’s hair unfurled to reach the sand. His surprised gaze dropped to the white shirt gaping at the sailor’s neck. He had an unobstructed view of two creamy-pale mounds rising and falling with each breath. No lad this!

  Framed between those enticing peaks, lay a magnificent golden amulet. It was a primitive, pagan thing, Morgan noted, etched with what appeared to be ancient symbols and a flying bird of some sort. The metal cast a warm hue on the young woman’s skin, painting it a rich red-gold beneath the sunlight.

  He was startled to find his traitorous body responding to the unfamiliar feel of a woman in his arms. He carried her a few more paces to the shelter of some nearby trees and knelt there, supporting her with one arm behind her shoulders as he unfastened his wool mandilion with the other. He wrapped it snugly about her.

  Her cracked lips moved. Dark crescents of lashes trembled upon her cheeks. Morgan gently lowered her head to the ground, felt the damp tendrils of her hair slide like watered silk through his fingers. He wondered how her mane might look, dry and spread out on the sand. Magnificent, no doubt, the hue of a raven’s wing, with the texture of spun silk.

  He grimaced and closed his eyes, banishing the forbidden image. When he looked at her again, he forced himself to concentrate more objectively upon her features. Her tanned face and arms perplexed him. Surely she had not been lying unconscious on his beach long enough to be browned by the sun. He rode here every day, and he was certain he would have seen her before this.

  He knew she would die without his help. Perchance too quickly, Morgan realized, if he left her much longer to the mercy of the cold wind and the incoming waves. There was no question about it — it was simply too dangerous to move her without a wagon. He must return to the keep, and send several of his staff back to bring her to shelter. He dare not take the chance of her awaking and seeing him instead.

  She moaned. Morgan stiffened, prepared to depart. Then he saw a single tear seep from beneath her closed lashes. This moved him more than the finding of her washed up, nearly dead, upon his shore.

  She never opened her eyes. Instead, she whispered something. He was forced to bend close to catch the word.

  “Uisce.”

  Morgan recognized the Gaelic word for water. She repeated it several times, and he felt helpless to console her.

  “Soon,” he said. The deep rumble of his voice seemed to comfort her. “Rest now.” He tugged the cloak higher about her face, shielding her eyes from sight of him if she should open them.

  “Rory?” she asked faintly, coining around now. She used the word as a proper name. “’Tis you?”

  “Nay.” Morgan laid a broad hand upon her glistening dark head and felt himself tremble at the action. Touching her at all distracted him. His breathing quickened when she spoke again.

  “Who, then?”

  “Morgan,” he said. He sounded hoarse. It occurred to him that he rarely offered his Christian name to anyone.

  “Oh.” The tiny word accepted him, as Morgan knew she never would, if she knew anything of the man behind the name. He rose to his feet, studying the woman curled in his cloak.

  Morgan’s fingers rose to touch the mark covering the left half of his face. The crescent moon on his face had labeled him doomed from birth, but in the ultimate jest, God had seen fit to make the other side perfect. Viewed from the right side alone, Morgan was handsome enough. He had inherited the lustrous, wavy black hair of his Spanish mother, though it was ironic she had taken one look at her infant son and hurled herself from Falcon’s Lair’s seaside precipice on the same midwinter night he was born.

  Morgan’s jaw clenched. Better he should have gone with his mother. Because of this damned devil’s mark, the locals dubbed him Satan’s Son. Oh, himself? He bears the devil’s mark, did ye nae ken? they eagerly informed those passing through the village. Mayhap Lady Elena had consorted with Satan and so produced this son; a man who was fair on the right side, tragically demonic on the left. Quite understandable, local gossips reasoned, that poor Lady Trelane had killed herself rather than live with such shame upon her mortal soul.

  On and on the stories went. As a lad, Morgan came to resent his father, as well. Rhys Trelane ignored the stares and whispers whenever they rode through the village. Rhys had accepted his son. But in Morgan’s opinion, his father went too far. Rhys had acted as if his son’s blemished face didn’t exist, daring others to remark upon it. Lord Trelane had boasted of the fact that his only child excelled at hawking, horsemanship, and running the estate.

  All those things were important, of course, for they served to occupy Morgan’s mind during those painful, early years. His father was dead now; Falcon’s Lair was his sole burden and responsibility. The ancient keep took a great deal of time and effort on his part to maintain. By absorbing himself in his inheritance, Morgan sometimes forgot the jarring reality of his face.

  Seeing another person, a stranger, brought all the memories flooding back with a painful rush. How the village girls shrieked and scattered whenever he rode through town. The children’s mocking, sing-song taunts. The way their parents hastily crossed themselves, making the sign of the Evil Eye whenever they saw or spoke about Lord Trelane.

  Morgan rarely went to town anymore. He sent his servants instead: a small, handpicked lot who had been loyal to his father and asked to stay on. He treated them generously, feeling somehow obliged to pay more by virtue of the fact that they must look at him each day.

  He turned from the young woman and went to retrieve Idris. It was a long journey back to Falcon’s Lair, and he wanted to arrive at the keep before dusk.

  “DUW! HAD YOU NO more sense than to leave the mite out for so long?” Wynne Carey scolded Morgan as she exited the guest chamber, banging it shut in its frame.

  “Why, the poor thing is frozen clear through. ’Tis a blessing, it is, she survived the day at all. And a righteous miracle, indeed, she’s no broken bones to show for it.”

  As his housekeeper shook her head, cinnamon-colored curls bouncing around her freckled face, Morgan couldn’t help but smile.

  “Is she awake yet, Mrs. Carey?”

  “Hardly, with the bump the size of a goose egg she’s got on her head. Pumped half a keg of seawater from her lungs, too.” Winnie clucked her tongue like a mother hen as she bustled past him, her wide fustian skirts sweeping the Turkish carpet. She paused on the landing above the stairs to look back at him, hands planted on her ample hips.

  “Mind you, milord, give the girl half a chance to come ’round before you boot her out the door.”

  Morgan started, feeling guilty. He demanded, “How did you know ’twas what I intended to do?”

  Winnie sniffed. “Did I not wet-nurse you myself when Lady Elena left us?” Winnie never referred to the suicide; she always made it sound as if Morgan’s mother had merely gone out for a pleasant jaunt in the countryside and never returned.

  “Faith, milord, you can’t toss the poor moppet out without so much as a by-your-leave. There’s her kin to be found, and mark my words, they’ll be having some questions for us, too.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to avoid,” Morgan said as he studied the door shielding the young woman from his view. “Perhaps I should have left her for the sea to reclaim instead.”

  Winnie pressed a freckled hand to her heart. “La! You can’t be serious, milord. I’ve never known you to turn your back on those in need, and this wee one needs you right now.”

  “This is different, Mrs. Carey.”


  “How so? You slip your tenants food from time to time and wipe out their debts so they can care for their families. Does this poor dear deserve any less?”

  “You forget those in my demesne know not where those little kindnesses come from. If they did, you and I both know they would refuse such aid. I am Lord Satan to them, nothing more and nothing less.”

  Morgan’s knew his words sounded bitter as wormwood. He saw Winnie’s bright blue eyes glistened with emotion. She lifted a corner of her apron to dab at them. “They don’t know you as I do.”

  “Nor do they wish to,” he said dryly, but at her hurt look, he walked over to pat her plump shoulder. “Why don’t you go check on Cook. See about the evening meal?”

  Winnie stopped sniffling at the mention of food, reminded of how much she enjoyed experimenting in the larder and planning their daily repasts. She brightened as she turned for the stairs.

  “Oh, Mrs. Carey,” Morgan called out as if by casual afterthought. “I request that you and the others not reveal my true identity to our unexpected guest. Not yet, anyhow. ’Twould only serve to frighten and confuse her further. I am simply ‘Morgan’ to her now. I prefer it remain so.”

  “Very well, milord.” Winnie glanced back at him, disapproving but willing to let it pass for now.

  “Another thing: You must not address me as ‘milord’ in the young lady’s presence. Please instruct the other staff to remember I am to be addressed as ‘Morgan’ from now on.”

  Winnie sighed, then nodded. “As you wish, milord … Morgan. Mind you, I won’t have any more talk about sending the girl away for another week,” she called out over her shoulder, as she descended to the first floor and disappeared around a corner.

  Morgan turned and eyed the closed door again. It mocked his weakness. He’d been unable to get the young woman out of his mind. It was as if by saving her life, he had created a bond of some sort he was helpless to deny.

  He wanted to. Jesu knew he wanted nothing more than to see her immediately removed from Falcon’s Lair and from his life. He didn’t need this complication. Mrs. Carey was right: the girl’s kin would demand to know what role he had played in their daughter’s rescue. How honorable a gentleman he had been.

  Honor was the last thing on Morgan’s mind when he caught an inadvertent glimpse of those firm, rosy-peaked breasts beneath the white linen shirt she wore. He’d been startled by the frank stirring in his loins. At eight and twenty, he’d all but given up hope of ever finding a woman who might endure his touch. She had felt so good in his arms. Good and … and right.

  Sweet Jesu, there must be a storm coming in, Morgan thought, as he rubbed his jaw. Sudden changes in weather always made him fanciful; now was no exception. The mysterious wench, whoever she was, must be carted away from Falcon’s Lair the minute her health was restored.

  Morgan had assumed by her darkness she might be Spanish or French, but her Gaelic tongue betrayed her. An Irish beauty would be even deadlier to his already wounded pride. All the Celts had sharp tongues, God knew. Once she caught a glimpse of his face, this one would doubtless be seized by shrill hysterics.

  Morgan started to move past her door. Then he saw a sudden flash of lightning through the east hall window and heard the low rumble of thunder rolling through the Welsh hills. A moment later, he heard the scream.

  “Morgan!”

  She was screaming his name, over and over, a litany to the heavens above. After a brief hesitation, Morgan burst into the room, just in time to see the candle on the nightstand sputter out. The bedchamber was plunged into darkness. He fumbled his way down the bed to the sobbing invalid, and managed to capture her flailing hands in the darkness.

  “I’m here. ’Tis Morgan. Ssh, you’re safe now.”

  His own heart thumped when she threw herself against his chest, frantically clutching at him.

  “A dream! Fire. Water. Blood … ” She shivered and moaned, looking like a white wraith. Morgan closed his arms around her, inhaling the fresh scent of lavender from the nightrail she wore. Mrs. Carey had gotten rid of her patient’s mannish clothes at once, and the young woman felt clean and warm to the touch.

  A moment later he pried her away from him.

  “Hush,” he said. Morgan found he could not bring himself to be any harsher with her. “’Twas just a bad dream. The storm has upset you. Granted, they are wild here on the Welsh coast. Falcon’s Lair is a veritable fortress, though. You are safe here.”

  “Morgan?” Her curious hands found and molded his face in the darkness. He flinched, then remembered the room was pitch-dark. She could not see him.

  As her cool, calloused fingers traced his jaw, nose, and lips, Morgan steeled himself against the bittersweet emotions slamming through his tense figure.

  “Who are you?” she whispered, her hands falling at last to her sides.

  “My full name is Morgan Trelane.”

  She went rigid and recoiled against the pillows. Had a flash of lightning revealed his grotesque birthmark?

  “Is’t a French name?”

  Morgan was puzzled by her sudden terror. He knew she could not see him. Lacking knowledge of his face or family history, what had she to fear?

  “Nay. ’Tis Welsh. I’m a Welshman born and bred, I assure you. Why?”

  “I don’t know why. It just frightened me to think of you as French for some reason,” she murmured. By another flash of lightning, he saw her hands raise to tentatively touch her bandaged face. “I’ve been hurt, haven’t I?”

  “Aye. You were in a shipwreck of some sort. Surely you remember it?”

  She thought a moment and shook her head. “I remember nothing.” Her tone turned timorous, frightened. “I don’t even remember my name.”

  Morgan’s soothing murmur cut off her mounting panic. “’Twas the blow on the head you took. I wager you drank your share of seawater, too. No matter, it shall come back to you by and by. In the meanwhile, you are safe here.”

  “Morgan.” Her terrified whisper echoed off the stone walls at him. “D’you know who I am?”

  He hesitated, remembering the amulet Mrs. Carey had removed from her patient’s neck and given to him earlier. He had examined it in the privacy of his library for some time. It was a beautiful, old, and valuable thing, but it held few clues to her identity. He had decided to set it aside for now and worry about it later.

  “Nay,” he answered her at last. “I found you on the beach. You were unconscious. But I believe you might be Irish. You spoke a few Gaelic words.”

  “What were they?”

  “Uisce. The Gaelic word for water. You asked for someone named Rory.” He didn’t mention the amulet. He thought that might only confuse her further at this point. Although his curiosity was piqued by the strange object, he was far more so by the beautiful invalid occupying his guest room.

  She shook her head, upset by his words. “I don’t remember anything.” He heard tears starting when her voice caught. “Oh, Jesu, how my eyes burn!”

  “The saltwater injured the tissues.” He grasped her arm in an attempt to make her lie down again. “You need to rest and keep them closed. I’ll have Mrs. Carey examine them in the morning.”

  “Mrs. Carey?” she repeated sleepily. Instead of lying back on the pillows, she propped herself against Morgan instead. “The lady who was here earlier?”

  “The same one. She’s the housekeeper here, known far and wide for her hospitality. Now get some sleep, or she’ll scold us both quite soundly. In the morning we’ll worry about who you are and how you got here.”

  Moments later Morgan heard her even breathing and realized she had fallen asleep from sheer exhaustion. He lowered her to the bed, tucking the covers up over her still form. He bent and tentatively touched his lips to her brow. He left the room, wondering why he had felt the compelling need to kiss her.

  IN THE WELCOME SECLUSION of his library, Morgan poured himself a generous goblet of warm golden brandy and watched the violent storm at the windo
w. The flashes of white and blue lightning and the drumming roll of thunder suited his mood. On just such a night as this he had been born, or so the old legend went.

  The brandy went untouched as he contemplated the ironies of his life. Descended of Rhodri Mawr, the Great, and Hywel Dda, the Good, his prominence in Wales as a Trelane had been assured from the moment of his birth. Heir to half the lands in Cardiganshire, and three private residences, and acting as overlord of several villages, he was unlike the other land-poor barons who populated the Tudor Court. Only because his father favored a quiet, countrified existence had he been spared the humiliation of mixing with his peers in London. Morgan was also aware of the fact that Rhys Trelane had not avoided Court so assiduously before his son’s birth.

  Yet he did not blame his father for his secret shame and disappointment. Rhys Trelane’s heir was imperfect, with something much more damning than a simple scar or limp. One might be had by honorable battle, the other obtained through unfortunate illness. This hideous birthmark was attributable to neither. It had not helped, of course, when Lady Trelane felt obliged to take her own life so soon after her son’s birth.

  Morgan often wondered why his father had not remarried and thus secured a line of more promising — and unblemished — boys. He had never asked Rhys, sensing somehow the topic was forbidden. Perhaps his father had feared the taint of the terrible birthmark would be passed on to other sons or daughters through his blood. Although the scourge might have issued from Elena’s bloodlines instead, such uncertainty was enough to assure Rhys Trelane would never father another child. Morgan well understood such caution. He himself had sworn never to wed, never to force upon any hapless female the same tragic fate that had befallen his own mother.

  SHE AWOKE WITH A start, the muslin gown in twisted, sweat-soaked folds about her thrashing figure. For a terrifying moment she remembered nothing at all. The panic mounted when she saw nothing but a shifting field of black.