Windswept Page 3

  He waited for her at the road. “If you could show me which way—”

  “Why do you wish to see Mrs. Price?” she blurted out.

  She cursed her quick tongue when interest sparked in his eyes. “I’m afraid that’s private.”

  “I see.” Her throat went dry. What private matter would entail his appearing on the doorstep of Plas Niwl without warning?

  He watched her with a steady gaze. “Do you know her well?”

  “Everyone knows Catrin Price.”

  “You said she was a recluse.”

  His suspicious words panicked her. “Until she grew infirm, she was quite sociable. But these days, she’s too ill to venture from her bed, and probably will refuse to see you.”

  Forgive me, Grandmother. Grandmother had prided herself on being stout and healthy until the day she died.

  “What sort of illness plagues her?”

  Tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, she said the first thing that came to mind. “Um . . . gout.” No, gout was for old men who drank too much. Besides, it wouldn’t keep her from having visitors. “And heart trouble . . . and weak lungs.”

  Her capacity for deception was appalling. But she couldn’t help it. If he’d come all the way from London to see her, it could only be for one reason.

  His suspicion seemed to increase. “The poor woman is in dire straits indeed. It’s a good thing I’ve come when I have, before she’s in the grave.”

  By heaven, she hadn’t discouraged him a whit.

  There was only one thing to do. “Let me direct you to Plas Niwl. It’s easy enough to find. Then I think I’ll return to having my swim.” There was another path from the lake up the hill, one that would put her at home long before he arrived, especially if he followed the directions she intended to give.

  Trying not to look at him, she pointed up the road. “You travel another hundred paces until you come to where the road forks. Take the left fork.”

  “They told me in town to take the right fork.”

  Her breath stuck in her throat. “That’s only if you want to go three miles out of your way. The best way is to the left.”

  His gaze on her was dark and intent, making her quake inside. Gone was the amiable companion of the road, ­replaced by a wary Welshman who looked as if he didn’t believe a word she said.

  “When you come to a bridge over a spring, you’re close. You’ll see a path, which will take you to the estate walls. Follow them around to the entrance.”

  That spot was on the far end from the manor house. He’d arrive at Plas Niwl a good half hour after she did, which should give her enough time to warn the servants to say she was unwell.

  “Can I convince you to forego your swim to accompany me? It doesn’t sound as if Plas Niwl is far.”

  Did she imagine his sarcasm? “Y-you really don’t need me to get there.”

  “But a few minutes ago, you said you would show me the way.”

  His suspicions had obviously been roused. She must escape him!

  Suddenly, a voice hailed them from down the road. In a panic, she looked to see a man headed toward them. She groaned. It was the pretentious Sir Reynald Jenkins, whose estate adjoined hers. He’d apparently returned from his annual sojourn to take stock of his many properties. No doubt he was coming to her with another enticement to make her sell Plas Niwl to him, even though she’d refused every offer.

  He’d surely tell the stranger who she was; she must get away before he reached them! With any luck, her wet hair and the distance would keep Sir Reynald from recognizing her.

  “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered as she edged toward the path. “I have to go.”

  Then she fled, not even stopping when the wind gusted up to take her shawl.

  “Wait!” cried the stranger, but she was already moving away as quickly as her skirt would allow.

  Evan narrowed his gaze as the young woman vanished. If he’d been superstitious, he’d have thought his first assessment correct, for the Lady of the Lake was said to have spoken at length with her merchant suitor the first time she’d appeared to him, only to disappear seconds later.

  But Evan wasn’t superstitious. He picked up the shawl that had fallen, fingering the intricate lacework. Spirits didn’t wear expensive shawls.

  Besides, no spirit would have made his blood race or his loins harden when she’d emerged from the lake. Her wet shift had been a second skin outlining her breasts so that even the faint rose of her nipples had shown through.

  He shouldn’t have stared, but how could he not? High and firm, her breasts had been those of a woman obviously still young, yet mature enough to know the pleasures of the bedchamber. For an instant, he’d wanted to experience those pleasures with her. Very badly.

  If she’d revealed any more of her thinly clad body, who knew what he’d have done? Probably acted like a Welsh raider of old, thrown her over his shoulder and carried her off. Even after it became clear she wasn’t a seductive spirit, but a timid young woman, he’d desired her.

  It had been years since a woman had aroused him so thoroughly; London had no one to compare. The mass of rich, black hair curling up around her shoulders as it dried . . . the red, red lips . . . that fair skin upon which her maidenly blushes were stamped so plainly . . . it was enough to make him curse himself for not getting her name.

  And her eyes, which swallowed a man up! While she’d been in the water they’d been blue, but once she’d wandered near the purple heather, they’d turned periwinkle. Those and the trembling chin had given her the look of a startled elf.

  The fashionable in London would consider her odd-looking, for she lacked the round features of the reigning classical beauties. Yet he was drawn to her otherworldly appearance. He must learn more.

  With her shawl in hand, he strode back to where he’d left his horse and waited for the man who’d spooked his temptress.

  The fellow halted his prancing mare. “Good day, sir.” A heavy perfume clung to his dandyish clothing. “I say, didn’t I just see you in town?”

  “Yes. I stopped there to ask directions to Plas Niwl.”

  “You’re in luck then. I’m going that way myself. I’m Sir Reynald Jenkins, and my lands border that esteemed estate.”

  “My name’s Evan Newcome, and I’d be pleased if you’d show me the way. I was beginning to wonder if I’d find it at all.” He mounted his horse.

  Sir Reynald urged his mare into a walk. “Mrs. Price wasn’t willing to accompany you?”

  “What do you mean?” Evan asked as he followed. “I haven’t met Mrs. Price.”

  “No? Ah, then the distance must have deceived me. I could have sworn you were talking to her just now by the path to the lake.”

  A coldness stole over Evan. “Begging your pardon, sir, but you must be mistaken. That woman couldn’t have been more than twenty.”

  The man sniffed. “I believe Mrs. Price is closer to twenty-five. Black hair past her shoulders, blue eyes . . . much like the woman standing with you.”

  Clearly Sir Reynald didn’t think he’d been mistaken. The coldness spread throughout Evan’s body. “I don’t understand. I thought Mrs. Price was an elderly widow. I’ve heard all manner of stories about her. Isn’t she the one they call the Lady of the Mists?”

  A smile twisted Sir Reynald’s lips. “The women of Plas Niwl, including Catrin, have been called that for several generations. Catrin is a widow, as was her grandmother Bessie. In fact, it sounds as if you’re looking for Bessie, whose reputation was legendary. Unfortunately, she died two years ago, so you’re out of luck.”

  Evan stared ahead in stunned silence. No, it wasn’t the grandmother he sought. The Lady of the Mists he wanted must be the enchanting woman he’d just met. No wonder she’d acted so strangely when he’d mentioned her grandmother’s attributes. But why hadn’t she set him straight?

  Sir Reynald mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “I do hope you’re not one of those fools who come to Mrs. Price for knowledge of the
ancients. Some claim she practices the dark arts, but the woman is no more a conjurer than that consuriwr in town, with his potions and divining rod. She’s merely a chronicler of such practices.”

  Remembering how she’d looked coming out of the lake, Evan wasn’t so sure. Had she lured Justin to his doom? Was that why she’d lied about her grandmother, obviously trying to deflect him from his visit? Was that why she’d avoided his eyes during their conversation? He’d assumed she was shy, but now he reconsidered that.

  “Her writings about folk legends practically encourage the masses to continue with their absurd ideas.” Sir Reynald wrinkled his nose with distaste, though his gaze on Evan was keen. “I can’t believe they publish such nonsense, but her essays appear in journals. Don’t you think it unwise to put such fanciful ideas into print?”

  “Indeed.” Wait, hadn’t he recently read an article by a C. Price about the druidic origins of harvest traditions in South Wales? Druids—like the druid symbols on the chalice. A chill coursed down his spine. It had to be her.

  And Rhys had said something about her essays. Evan straightened in his saddle. Rhys and Juliana had met ­Catrin Price. Why hadn’t they corrected him when he’d spoken of her as old?

  Then he remembered Rhys’s reaction when Evan mentioned the Lady of the Mists’ advanced age. And how ­Juliana had sung Catrin’s praises.

  He groaned. This was Juliana’s doing. She’d been matchmaking again. That was what he got for not telling her the truth about his suspicions.

  He remembered the night Justin died. Evan had met his friend just as Justin was leaving their favorite tavern. Justin had explained he was late for a meeting with a woman about a chalice she wanted to buy. He’d even shown Evan the letter from the woman, as well as the monstrous bronze drinking vessel with druidic symbols that had been in his family for years.

  Justin had wanted money to pay his gambling debts, and he’d felt that the woman’s offer was decent. He’d invited Evan to go with him, but Evan had declined, since he was meeting his publisher for dinner. But when his publisher hadn’t shown up and Evan had decided to join his friend after all, he’d found Justin in an alley outside the Green Goat inn, stabbed to death.

  Stricken with horror, Evan had called for the watch. They’d examined the body and discovered that the chalice and all Justin’s money were gone. That had led to the constable’s decision that the murder had been a simple case of footpads trying to rob a noble, then killing the man when he wouldn’t cooperate.

  Evan would have agreed, if not for one thing. The letter written by the Lady of the Mists was missing. She’d been the last person to see him and the one most interested in the chalice. Besides, it didn’t seem likely that thieves would have bothered carrying off a box of such large size when the watch was about. Surely the money Justin had been carrying would have been sufficient to make the ­average thief happy.

  Although Evan had pointed that out, the constable had scoffed at the possibility that an elderly woman would have come from Wales to plot Lord Mansfield’s murder. But now that Evan knew that the Lady of the Mists was a young, devious Welshwoman, he wondered if the constable might reconsider.

  The more he remembered her nervousness, the more his suspicions about her grew. When he and Sir Reynald reached the fork in the road and the man struck off in the opposite direction from the one Catrin Price had designated, Evan knew for certain she’d been trying to misdirect him.

  If that didn’t prove she had something to hide, he didn’t know what did. He’d obviously alarmed her, even though she hadn’t known who he was or why he was here.

  Thus he wasn’t surprised when they arrived at Plas Niwl and an elderly butler named Mr. Bos announced they couldn’t see Mrs. Price because “the mistress is indisposed and unable to accept callers today.”

  Indisposed indeed. The chit was worried.

  Evan had to resist the urge to stalk up the stairs to ferret the lying woman out. But this situation called for more finesse. He had no evidence that Mrs. Price had been involved in Justin’s death. Without the letter Justin had been carrying, Evan couldn’t even prove she’d gone to meet him. Since her real name had never been mentioned, she could easily claim that someone else pretending to be the Lady of the Mists had been there.

  Before he could go to the authorities he needed proof, and to get that, he must lay her fears to rest. Otherwise, she’d never let him close enough to speak to her.

  His eyes narrowed. Why not use Mrs. Price’s interest in scholarly matters to flush her out? For once, his name and reputation could garner him more than a line of print in a dusty book.

  Evan smiled at the servant. “I’m disappointed to hear of Mrs. Price’s illness. My name is Evan Newcome. I’ve come from Cambridge to research a book about Welsh folklore. I thought I’d pay Mrs. Price a visit, since her essays deal with the same subject. I wish I could stay in Llanddeusant longer, but pressing matters compel me to return to London. You will tell her that I called, won’t you? I’m staying at the Red Dragon if she should recover before I leave.”

  Sir Reynald was staring at him now, but all Evan cared about was making sure the servant noted his name. If the woman knew Welsh scholarship, she’d recognize it, and with any luck, she’d be interested enough to seek him out. Let her come to him. It was more effective than storming her defenses.

  “I will inform madam of your visit.” Mr. Bos cast a cursory glance at Sir Reynald. “And yours as well.” Clearly the servant thought little of Sir Reynald.

  With a sniff, Sir Reynald turned for the door. “Make sure you do.”

  Evan drew out Mrs. Price’s shawl. “If you’d be so good as to give this to Mrs. Price. It’s a small gift from one scholar to another.”

  “Certainly, sir,” said Mr. Bos, taking the shawl with a frown that said he didn’t know what to make of scholars bearing gifts.

  The estimable Mrs. Price would know exactly what to make of it—that Evan had seen through her subterfuge. Along with the knowledge of his substantial reputation, it might prod her into meeting with him, if only out of guilt for having lied to a scholar paying a friendly visit.

  Of course, she might choose to bury her head in the sand and stay away. If so, he’d find another way to approach her. But he wouldn’t leave Llanddeusant until his questions were answered.

  3

  Catrin glanced up from her knitting as Bos entered. He crossed to the hearth to stoke up the fire with stiff movements that betrayed his pain.

  “Is your arthritis causing trouble again?” she asked.

  He straightened. “When the air is damp, I do find it more troublesome, but it’s nothing for you to worry about, madam.”

  His haughty demeanor intimidated others, but Catrin knew better. Bos had been an upper butler for the Earl of Pembroke until his arthritis had made it difficult for him to perform his duties, and the tightfisted earl had cruelly turned him off without a pension. When her own butler had left in search of a more grandiose position, Bos had applied for the vacant post. And Catrin had given it to him, touched by the sad circumstances of his past employment.

  What a wise decision. Bos maintained the household regimens that Catrin’s late grandmother had established, relieving Catrin of the responsibility. Thank heaven, since she had always been dreadfully lax about discipline.

  It was ironic, for if Bos had come to Plas Niwl a few years earlier Grandmother would have turned him away, pointing out the impracticality of taking on an arthritic servant who’d soon be too old for anything but a pension.

  Of course, Grandmother had never needed anyone to maintain discipline. She had always possessed the iron will that made servants quake in their boots, whereas Catrin bent over backward to accommodate her servants.

  She couldn’t help it. Unlike Grandmother, widow of a viscount and a stern believer in class distinctions, Catrin couldn’t bear to treat her servants as lackeys. They’d been her companions from childhood, her only family, since she had no other to speak of. She c
ouldn’t chastise them for petty infractions or condescend to them as if they were children.

  So without Bos, the household would most certainly have gone on in a lackadaisical fashion, everyone doing as they thought best. Bos, however, made sure that the servants listened to him, if not always to her. Everything went smoothly, the work was always done, and Catrin even had the occasional rare moment to bury herself in another tome about ancient bardic rites and customs.

  “May I fetch anything for you, madam?” Bos asked. “Perhaps you would like your shawl.”

  That reminded her of the afternoon’s embarrassing events. “No. But sit down and stay for a bit, will you? The work can wait.”

  Without a flicker of expression, Bos did so, although the faintest “Ahhh” escaped his lips when he settled into the comfortable armchair by the fire.

  “Tell me again what the stranger said.”

  “Mr. Evan Newcome, you mean. From Cambridge.”

  Yes. That had been where she’d made her first error—assuming he was from London because he’d come on the ship from there. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t even really from Cambridge. “He was raised in Carmarthen, you know.”

  Bos raised one white eyebrow. “Am I to assume you came by that bit of knowledge at the same time you bestowed your shawl upon the man?”

  Catrin began to knit with a vengeance. “I didn’t give it to him. I . . . I left it behind after he saw me swimming at Llyn y Fan Fach.”

  “Ah, yes.” Bos’s stern expression radiated disapproval. He probably knew that she swam in her shift, for Bos knew everything in the household, and Catrin had never found a way to hide her wet shifts from her maid.

  Catrin’s cheeks burned. “Although we spoke to each other at the lake, we did not . . . er . . . exchange names.”

  “I imagine not. Introducing oneself to a stranger when one is dressed in undergarments can be a trifle awkward.”

  Bos’s bland reproof brought a small smile to Catrin’s lips. “Yes, a trifle. But that’s why I didn’t know he was Evan Newcome.” The Evan Newcome.