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  With the tip of his blade snagged in the material, Kat seized her chance. She launched a furious counter-attack that sent him stumbling back, and even in the shadows she saw flashing eyes and gritted teeth that showed her three emotions at once: shock, respect, and fear.

  She knew that he recognized the lunge flèche, and they both knew she opened herself to mortal injury from the mere attempt. The flying lunge gave her enough momentum to counter his greater strength and stronger sword arm, but the risk of losing a secure stance by leaving the ground was risky.

  Kat did not care. This man had killed her husband, her crew, and tried to murder her sister. There was no mercy in her heart, nor apparently her eyes, for she recognized the look in Lovelle’s right before her blade pierced his heart: Terror.

  MERRY FLED BACK INTO the castle to fetch Lucien, her nearly incoherent babbling dragging the captain from his contemplation of a pretty countess’ busom. All he could make out were the words Kat, sword, and fight, but it was enough to send up an alarm.

  “Stay here,” he ordered Merry, gripping her shoulders to impress the gravity of his command. Pale and shaking, she nodded, and managed to choke out the location of the duel. Lucien was gone before she finished the sentence.

  When he reached the gardens, he saw her at once: Kat, standing alone in the deep shadows, her sword hilt still clutched firmly in hand. At her feet, a man lay unmoving.

  “Merde,” Lucien muttered, running to her, further alarmed when she never glanced at him, not even when he pried the hilt from her cold, rigid hand. He did not need to ask what happened. He set the weapon aside and knelt to check the man on the ground for a pulse. There was none.

  At last Kat spoke. She sounded tired, numb. “It’s over.”

  “So I see, chère.”

  She shook her head. “Not the duel.”

  Quizzically, he looked up at her, but she did not speak again. She was gazing off into the distance, her green eyes unfocused.

  Lucien heard a murmur of curious voices in the distance. Having perhaps bore witness to Merry’s distress, a number of courtiers poured from Whitehall, quickly headed in their direction.

  Without hesitation, Lucien picked up her sword and rose. “Say nothing,” he commanded Kat, but he need not have worried. She did not speak again that night.

  “DID YOU DELIVER THE message first thing this morning?”

  The page nodded, looking a little frightened by the hollowness of Kat’s voice. Summoning his courage, he spoke up.

  “Aye, for all the good it did, Madam. Lord Trelane left his residence before dawn. There’s no word when he might return.”

  Kat stared at the lad, her knuckles turning white where they gripped the door to her and Merry’s apartment. “I see,” she said, her shoulders sagging with defeat. She gave the boy a coin and closed the door, leaning against it to stare into empty space.

  What had happened a week ago in the royal gardens? She had relived each moment over and over, observing everything from various angles, as if directing one of Shakespeare’s plays in her mind. She moved the characters in her head, recreating their actions so she might better understand Morgan’s behavior and her own. If she was at a loss to find any explanation or excuse for his actions, she was more mortified of her own.

  She had killed a man. Savagely, almost gleefully. She shuddered now as she remembered the blind rage coursing through her, giving her the raw courage to execute a swordplay move so dangerous it was banned from honorable duels. But Adrien Lovelle had no honor, she should not mourn a madman.

  It was this explanation Lucien offered the Court, albeit the circumstances slightly altered. He told them Count Saville was one of his fencing students, and in a drunken, belligerent mood, he had arrogantly challenged his more skilled instructor to a duel. Lucien tried to demur but Saville was insistent, attacking him by surprise. Ha las, he had no choice but to defend himself, much to his student’s misfortune.

  That Lucien uttered the lie so smoothly, with such Gallic aplomb, might have made Kat laugh on any other occasion; she knew he protected her without second thought, his calm yet stern responses to questions quickly allayed any suspicions. The incident, and Saville’s death, was accepted as an unfortunate occurrence and the Court moved on to other gossip.

  After Morgan’s abrupt departure from the garden that night, Kat had tried to find him once Merry was safely removed to Ambergate. There was no trace of him at Court, and when she finally located him at Hartshorn, his London residence, he refused to answer her plea for an audience.

  Pressing a hand to her throbbing temple, Kat tried to reason things out. Something had changed in Morgan before her duel with Lovelle. Had Morgan not believed her about Captain Navarre? She continued to go over and over the previous night’s events in her mind until she thought she would scream.

  Exhausted from her sleepless night, she went to the window and gazed at the serene vision of Ambergate in the distance. The sight of the Tanner family mansion smoothed a comforting balm over Kat’s troubled thoughts. She decided to retreat to the country for some peace. There she might also question Merry and their cousin Maggie in her quest for answers.

  “I WOULD KNOW OF Lord Trelane.”

  Kat noticed Merry and Maggie exchanging glances when she asked them about Morgan. She didn’t miss the unspoken tension at the mere mention of his name.

  “Well?” she demanded, facing the two redheads in the relative privacy of Ambergate’s conservatory. Uncle Kit, Aunt Isobel, and the boys were gone. Just as well, Kat thought. She intended to badger her sister and cousin until she had some acceptable answers.

  Merry spoke up first. “Please, Kat, I’m too distraught by what happened last week to go over it again.” She passed a hand over her brow with visible agitation. Her gray-green eyes held a plea for understanding. “I was nearly murdered, y’know.”

  “But for my timely intervention,” Kat reminded her sister. She turned to pace the Turkish carpet. “Both of you listen to me. I owe Morgan my life. He was the man who saved me after Lovelle destroyed my ship. Morgan nursed me back to health at Falcon’s Lair, without knowing who I was or what I had done in the past. As time passed, I fell in love with him.” Her gaze found and locked with Merry’s. She heard both women gasp.

  “Aye, you heard me aright. I feel no need to defend my feelings for Morgan.”

  Cousin Maggie released a soft wail. “Alack, Kat — him of all men.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with dismay.

  “I know ’tis wrong to covet another woman’s intended. I regret any pain my honesty causes you, Maggie.”

  Maggie shook her head. “I care not for Trelane,” she murmured. “Would I had the freedom to refuse his suit.”

  “What do you mean by that remark, coz?” Kat demanded.

  Again the redheads exchanged furtive looks. Kat became more agitated by the moment. “Speak up, curse you!”

  “Kat!” Merry protested.

  “Oh, dear,” Maggie wailed in unison.

  “Sweet Jesu! Spare me your ladylike outrage,” Kat cried, waving her arms for emphasis. “Are you two such a pair of addle pated goose brains you must sit in judgment upon me? Look at yourself, Merry. Toying with a fake French count all season long, letting him sample you as he would.” She swung on Maggie. “And you, cousin. I’faith, don’t deny you’ve dabbled in love yourself, after the courtly tales I’ve heard of you and young Will Scone.”

  “Will was my betrothed,” Maggie exclaimed.

  “Aye, as is Lord Trelane now.” Kat regarded her cousin levelly. Maggie wouldn’t, or couldn’t, meet her accusing gaze.

  Merry spoke up again. She sounded weary. “What do you want of us, Kat?”

  “Merely the truth. I have a feeling you two know something I don’t. It must concern Morgan. Therefore ’tis something critical. I’ve a right to know what that is.”

  After a brief, tense silence, Maggie spoke up.

  “You’ve heard me call him a monster,” she said. />
  At Kat’s furious look, she added hastily, “’Twas the sum, all told, of the tales others told me. Trelane’s never been wed, y’see, and has kept to himself since birth. There’s rumor of some strange deformity upon his person.”

  Morgan, deformed? Kat nearly laughed. He had the most beautiful male body she was ever privy to feel. Even Rory, God rest his soul, could not compare. Besides, she had explored Morgan inch by inch when she was blind, and knew her hands had not betrayed her.

  She regarded her cousin coldly. “Go on.”

  “Alas, there’s the story of his mother, as well.”

  When Maggie trailed off, Merry chimed in reluctantly, “Aye, Kat. The story goes Lady Trelane committed suicide after her son was born. ’Tis said she could not face her husband after Morgan appeared.”

  “Cruel rumor hardly constitutes fact.”

  “Too many know the tale,” Merry said. “There must be a kernel of truth somewhere.”

  “What is it, then?”

  The other two shrugged in unison. Maggie finally ventured, “Mayhap the deformity.”

  Kat tried to reason things out. “There are other possibilities. Mayhap Morgan was the result of another man’s throw. ’Tis common enough in any class. Lady Trelane would have felt ashamed if her son did not resemble his father.”

  “’Tis rumored Trelane favors his true sire,” Maggie whispered. “Lord Satan himself.”

  “What nonsense.” Nevertheless Kat felt an unbidden chill at her cousin’s words. Morgan’s behavior that night had been so strange, she was at a loss to explain his actions to herself or anyone else. Something troubled him deeply, something she was half-determined, half-afraid to discover.

  “You can see why I would not wed Trelane willingly,” Maggie said. “I can but pray he has given up this mad notion of marrying me.”

  Poor Maggie was proven wrong. A messenger arrived at Ambergate while Kat was there, bearing a missive for Sir Christopher. The message flatly demanded Mistress Margaret Elizabeth Tanner be present at St. Ethelburga’s by the time the bells sounded the midnight hour. He would wait no longer.

  As Maggie read the note aloud and started to tremble and weep, Kat grew increasingly furious and hurt. So Morgan intended to proceed with the marriage to her cousin. Why?

  Kat knew he still harbored feelings for her, despite his actions. She sensed he was on the verge of confessing something to her before the incident in the garden with Merry and Lovelle. There was not one whit of logic in this whole affair, and she was determined to know why.

  Answers were forced to wait, however, until Kit and his family returned from town to deal with the matter of Maggie’s sudden marriage. After reading the missive himself and digesting its tone, Kit Tanner grimly regarded his daughter.

  “I fear there is nothing I can do, Maggie.”

  Maggie gave a sharp cry, turned and ran across the room. There she hurled herself into her stepmother’s arms and wept. Lady Tanner’s embrace closed protectively around the younger woman. Physically, Lady Tanner was accounted plain, yet she possessed beautiful poise and such a serene countenance that everyone adored her on sight, including Kat.

  Garbed in soft yellow satin this evening, Isobel was radiant as she appealed to her husband. “There must be something we can do, Kit. Delay the wedding, if nothing else. Mayhap the queen would reconsider the match.”

  Kit considered his wife’s words, then shook his head. “Bess is determined to settle Maggie for us, ever since Will Scone’s untimely death. She believes any unmarried female of such advanced age lives in an unnatural state.”

  “Now, there is great logic coming from a Virgin Queen,” Kat acidly remarked.

  Her uncle did not rise to the bait, but Kat fancied the corners of his mouth twitched. “I warrant, Bess approves of Trelane as much as any man. There is no help but to proceed with the wedding, despite Trelane’s unconventional request.”

  “I trow, even Her Majesty would scold him for such insensitivity,” Merry put in, bristling. “Why, there has not been time enough to finish the bridal trousseau.”

  “You would think of gowns and gewgaws when our cousin’s happiness is at stake,” Kat snapped. When the others cast her startled looks, she realized how waspish she sounded. With good cause. She was jealous, green with envy, because Morgan intended to marry another — her own cousin.

  Isobel still held the sobbing Maggie. Her large gray eyes pleaded for her husband to intercede, however he might. “Is there nothing we can do, dear heart?”

  Clutched in an agony of indecision, Kit studied his weeping daughter for a moment. Then he looked at Kat, his gaze equally assessing. It was obvious, the wheels were turning in his head.

  “Mayhap,” he mused at last, then motioned for his wife to see Maggie removed upstairs before she became hysterical.

  Chapter Seventeen

  MORGAN STIFFENED AS THE cathedral bells clanged — once, twice, thrice. The deafening peals echoed throughout the small nave, where he stood awaiting his bride. He set his jaw and tried not to think of the last time he saw Kat; of her honest hurt and confusion when he refused her heart; of the agony and searing pain in his own breast when he denied her.

  It was for the best, he reasoned. He would not shame the Tanner family or risk enraging the queen by refusing the match at this late date; this practical marriage would also free Kat to accept the care of Captain Navarre, whose angelic face was better suited to Kat than his own would ever be.

  Kat claimed she had not loved her first husband, yet Morgan feared she was mistaken. He could not compete with Navarre, much less a ghost; Rory would always haunt them both, he knew. He had made love to a woman whose fragile mind had denied her memory to prevent the pain of loss. Nay, Mistress Margaret Tanner did not need to hate him; he despised himself enough for both of them.

  Morgan impassively watched as the elderly priest approached the altar, ready to perform the ceremony linking man and wife for a lifetime. The cleric wore formal white robes and a tall mitered cap, but looked put-out at being called upon to perform the service at such an ungodly hour. He peered a moment at the tall, black-clad figure through his rheumy eyes, then moved to light more candles in the nave.

  “Nay.” Morgan stilled the man with a quiet request. “I prefer the dark.”

  Thus might he remain safely shadowed throughout the long ceremony. Since he could not wear a mask in a house of God, Morgan preferred the shield of darkness. Sooner or later, Mistress Margaret would be bound to catch an unbidden glimpse of him — hopefully, after the marriage was already consummated, when she had no possible avenue of escape.

  The bells finished pealing. All was silent. Morgan frowned when he realized his bride had not appeared, as ordered. Had she dared defy him again?

  The groaning of the cathedral doors heralded the late arrival of a third party. Father Benedict moved to greet the newcomers. Morgan turned and saw Sir Christopher enter the tiny chapel, steadying a young woman on his arm. The rest of the Tanner family was noticeably absent. Fine by him.

  His virgin bride was exquisitely gowned in pearl satin and cloth-of-gold, with a train nearly a yard long. Her face was obscured by the heavy gauze veil, but Morgan glimpsed several bright red locks dangling about her shoulders. He also saw that she trembled. Suddenly he despised himself for forcing the poor, innocent creature to heel. Too late to make amends now. He had made his choice.

  Sir Christopher spoke softly to his daughter, chiding her, perhaps, for her obvious reluctance. Afterward, it seemed she straightened her shoulders as she approached the altar. Mayhap her sire had reminded her of her duty or the family honor. Either way, it had worked. Mistress Margaret reached his side and continued to gaze steadfastly ahead.

  Apparently sensing nothing amiss, the priest started the ceremony without preamble. Father Benedict rattled on and on about marital responsibilities and the prescribed duties of man and wife. Morgan grew restless and darted a glance at his bride.

  Margaret had neither moved
nor spoken during the interim. He wondered what she was thinking. He caught a glimpse of her white-gloved hands, nervously twisting together, and felt a disconcerting pang of pity. God’s blood, ’tis not my problem if the chit does not favor her lot, he told himself. Likely she had been outrageously spoiled by her family and was brought up short by this unexpected turn of events. Once she held their first son in her arms, she would accept her fate. Still, Morgan would ensure that she was never left alone with the child, just in case the madness that had seized his own mother might somehow overcome this delicate English wench, as well.

  Morgan’s mind wandered farther afield. He suddenly realized the priest was waiting for his reply. “Aye,” he said, and he saw his bride stiffen. He repeated his vows in Latin, following Father Benedict’s lead.

  When it was her turn, the new Lady Trelane barely managed a meek whisper. What a spiritless creature she is, Morgan thought. Mistress Margaret will never throw the sons and daughters my Kat would have!

  Nor would this Margaret ever capture his heart. He would be kind, he would be tolerant, but he would never love her. It was Kat’s bright green eyes he imagined when the time came for the nuptial kiss. He longed to lift the heavy veil and gaze into the eyes of the only woman he wanted. Yet he knew the eyes awaiting him beneath the veil were blue, not green.

  To his chagrin, his lady wife recoiled and stepped back, refusing his gesture. Margaret’s veil fell back in place as she tugged it free of his grip and hurried back to Sir Christopher’s side. He thought he heard soft weeping issue from beneath the veil.

  Anger seized Morgan. Kat never refused your kisses, an inner voice mocked him. He stared after his retreating bride as she fled to the safety of her father’s arms. She was weeping, damme her, like a woman condemned to the stake.

  Morgan did not hear what Sir Christopher said to his daughter, as the priest droned meaningless congratulations at him, muffling the other man’s words. Margaret was obviously pleading with her father about something. Morgan saw the other man shake his head firmly. At least Sir Christopher was an honorable fellow; he would stick by his word. By this time tomorrow, Lady Margaret Trelane would be Morgan’s wife, in every sense of the word.