Killigrew Clay Read online

  The music of hurdy-gurdies and tambourines mingled with the shouting and laughter of the crowds. The bright coloured dresses of the bal maidens, traditionally turned out as loudly and colourfully as they could on Fair days, were like clusters of brilliant flowers among the more sober garb of the rest.

  Jude’s interest flickered for a moment, then his attention was caught by the Punch and Judy stall. In other parts of the fair, serious actors and actresses spoke tragic lines from makeshift stages. Monkeys dressed in tinselled clothes chattered on sticks. Exotic birds were on sale in gilded cages. Smells of humanity, of gaudy paints and powders, vied with the smells of the river nearby…

  ‘Are you taking up the play-acting as a change from shovelling clay, then?’

  Jude heard a cheeky female voice nearby. He turned quickly, to see the bright green skirt of Celia Penry swirl away from him as her friend Morwen Tremayne dragged at her arm. But Celia’s laughing face was all the spur he needed. He chased after the two bal maidens, easy to spot in their gay dresses. Morwen’s was daffodil yellow, and their long hair bounced beneath their bonnets. Jude felt a surge of excitement. Maybe the Tremayne girl would keep a fellow at arm’s length, but the other one…

  He caught up with them and spun Celia round to face him. In such crowds, any amount of impropriety could be forgiven, and in Jude’s opinion, jostling up to a pretty wench was one of the delights of the fair.

  ‘I remember you, my pretty! Will you come and take some sweet-drink with me—?’

  ‘Celia, you’d best stay with me,’ Morwen said at once. She didn’t like Jude Pascoe, nor the way he sidled up to her friend, far too close. Celia might enjoy it, but Morwen was sure Jude wasn’t to be trusted. No more was the sweet-drink, that delectable honeyed drink so innocent to the taste, so potent to the senses.

  Whether boiled merely with hops and a small measure of brandy to every mixture of honey and water, or with more reckless amounts of spirits, the effect was the same. The taste was often disguised by the delightful additions of cinnamon and mace and cloves, or such aromatic plants as the tops of sweet-briar or rosemary or thyme. Delicious, dangerous concoctions all, especially to a young girl coaxed into drinking more than was wise by an ardent young man…

  Celia turned on her. ‘Mind your business! If I want to take the sweet-drink with Jude, then so I will.’

  She flounced away, with Jude following her, laughing back at Morwen’s angry face.

  ‘I’ll take care of her, never fear! And if you’re looking for my cousin, he’s gone to see his lady-love.’

  Morwen hated him even more. How could Celia be attracted to him? It was clear to Morwen that she was, and she watched as the two of them were swallowed up in the crowds. She felt ridiculously alone, and knew it was because of Jude’s jeering words about Ben seeing his lady-love. That could only be Miss Jane Carrick, of course. Not until that moment did Morwen admit that her eyes had been searching for Ben’s tall, powerful figure… she turned blindly, calling herself a fool, and cannoned right into someone.

  ‘Are you going to make a habit of this, Miss Tremayne?’ She heard Ben Killigrew say mockingly, as she was held hard against his chest once more. Her heart pounded in sickening, excited beats as he made no attempt to let her go, as though he liked the feel of her in his arms. Ben had decided on that long ago, and although Fair days were bohemian days, she knew this was no way for a young gentleman to behave with a lady… but to him, Morwen Tremayne wasn’t a lady, she reminded herself.

  ‘Where’s Miss Carrick?’ she said stiffly. ‘You’d best get back to her before she sees you cavorting with a common bal maiden!’

  ‘Why are you so damn conscious of your status, Morwen?’ he countered. ‘I’ve worked at the kiln too. I know what clayworking’s about—’

  She was scornful. ‘For one day! I heard about you riding along with the marchers to support my Daddy too. Is that your claim to clayworking, Mr Killigrew? And don’t talk to me of my status. Beside you, I don’t have any, do I?’

  She ranted on, half appalled at the way she spoke to the owner’s son. She was angry because he made her aware of herself in her gaudy dress that had seemed so fine that morning, and which now seemed to shout loudly beside Ben’s tasteful clothes. She hated him and all he stood for, because he made her dissatisfied with her lot, and she had never realised it before.

  ‘Don’t fight me, Morwen,’ Ben said quietly. ‘That’s not what I want for us.’

  She looked up into his face, her cheeks flushed with anger, her eyes that incredible blue, so beautiful they made him draw in his breath. No eyes were ever like Morwen Tremayne’s…

  ‘What you want for us?’ she echoed, a catch in her voice. ‘There is no “us”, Mr Ben. You have your Miss finelady, and I – I shall probably marry John Penry, as befits a bal maiden who shouldn’t aspire to anyone above her class. Where is she today, anyway?’

  She changed the conversation while Ben was still registering the fact that there was a young man in Morwen’s life, and noting the spurt of jealousy it gave him. He was tempted to shock her by saying he had delivered Jane to her lover’s attic rooms, where they were probably oblivious to anything but each other by now. He managed not to say the words, partly because he didn’t know how far Jane’s attachment to Tom Askhew had gone, and partly because he would never betray a confidence.

  Morwen knew none of this. She saw the brief blank look on Ben’s handsome face, and assumed he would rather not speak of Jane to her. They weren’t to be spoken of in the same breath, she thought bitterly. She wrenched herself out of his arms and away into the crowds. It was a gloriously warm, fun-packed day, but for Morwen the sun had suddenly grown cold.

  * * *

  Celia giggled. Her head swam as though a shoal of pilchards swam there. She had taken too much sweet-drink, and Jude still offered her more. Tucked away in a secluded corner of the quay with the tang of salt in the air and the brawny fishermen setting up stalls with their catch only yards away, Jude Pascoe was finding a raw pleasure in sporting with the willing little bal maiden.

  She was soft and pliant beneath him, although she still resisted too many demands of his seeking hands, and teased him that if he tried force, she’d cry rape and have the constables on him in a trice. He believed her. No matter. There would be other times, and meanwhile there were other delights. One rough hand cupped her breast and he tasted its rosy peak with his tongue.

  Celia ached to give in totally… but she still had enough control of her senses to be wary of this masterful rogue with the fine line in seduction, and the thrillingly wicked words he breathed against her flesh.

  ‘You’ve a fine pair here, my wench,’ he said thickly. ‘A man could sink into ’em and lose himself for ever—’

  ‘What a waste!’ Celia burbled. Her hands clasped the tangled hair at the back of his nape, and wanted more… ‘I wouldn’t want to lose ’ee, Jude—’

  ‘I’d lose myself in more than these mounds, if you’d let me.’ He raised himself up to kiss the soft parted mouth, and probed its sweetness with his tongue, letting her know just how he’d like to lose himself.

  Sounds of people approaching made Celia take sudden fright. She wriggled from under him, her head rocking as she did so. Jude’s face was a hazy shape, and dear God, but she would have to sleep this off, Celia thought desperately. Nowhere near Jude though, or he’d have the maidenhead off her in no time, and if it was going to happen, then she was going to enjoy it!

  ‘Course, it ’ould be different if you was my intended,’ she said, a silly grin sliding over her face at the thought. Jude grinned. He had no intention of wedding anyone, least of all a wench who worked with the clay. But she needn’t be aware of that.

  ‘Would that make a difference, then?’ He ran a practised finger around her lips and let her small white teeth take a nip at it.

  ‘O’ course it ’ould! Mebbe I’ll find out if that’s what you have in mind in a week or so, when Morwen and me take the potion to the Larnie
stone.’

  Her thoughts were muddled as the words ran on. Celia pooh-poohed old Zillah and her charms, but it would be dearly agreeable if it was Jude’s face she saw through the stone…

  ‘What potion?’ he said softly. ‘Tell me about it. If it’s a charm, it can’t be as charming as you!’

  She giggled. His skin tasted salty, and the scent of him excited her. What harm would it do to tell him? It was all nonsense, and it was only Morwen who was really taken in by old Zillah… without thinking too much, Celia rattled on about the visit to the old woman, and what they intended to do with the potion. And Jude listened with a mounting interest.

  This damn shed was no place for lying with a wench. He’d known it would probably come to nothing. But away over the moors by moonlight, when this ready wench was filled with a wise woman’s potion to dull her senses… Jude’s eyes gleamed at the tantalising prospect. He hauled Celia to her feet, pretending no interest.

  ‘I’d best get you some food to counteract the sweet-drink, Celia,’ he said, knowing now that he could bide his time. ‘Hold on to me, and I’ll take care of you.’

  She clung to him gratefully, her flushed face alive with pleasure at this young gentleman’s solicitude. Like a lamb to the slaughter, Jude thought jubilantly. Like a lamb to the bloody slaughter.

  * * *

  By the time Jude left for home that night, Celia Penry’s charms were still on his mind. He saw a familiar figure ahead of him in the twilight.

  ‘Hold on for me, Ben!’ he called. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. He wouldn’t readily seek out his cousin, but company was always preferable to riding through the darkness alone at night. Truro Fair would be riddled with ruffians and pickpockets ready to relieve honest folk of their money.

  Ben was ruffled at being kept waiting so long for Jane to appear from Tom Askhew’s rooms. He had waited outside the house, his imagination seeing the two of them upstairs together. He imagined Jane in Tom’s arms, flesh on flesh, bodies warm and glistening, limbs intertwined. He imagined the culmination of love, the exquisite, almost painful sensation of a man’s seed flowing into a woman. He imagined every moment… and what he imagined most of all was the interpretation of love by himself and Morwen Tremayne…

  When Jane finally appeared, he was highly sensitive to the warm musky scent of her, the scent of love. Frustration swept through him, making him curt with her.

  ‘Ben, I’m sorry I kept you waiting,’ Jane said in embarrassment. ‘Please don’t be cross—’

  ‘I’m not,’ he said shortly. ‘Jealous, perhaps—’

  At the look on her face, he elaborated.

  ‘Not on your account, never fear! Merely jealous of an afternoon such as yours, while mine was just – commonplace.’

  ‘Poor Ben,’ Jane said sympathetically. ‘I hope you’ll find someone of your own very soon.’

  Ben wondered for the hundredth time if he had already found her…

  * * *

  Now he waited for his coarse cousin to join him on the ride home, and the reek of spirits preceded Jude as he drew near.

  ‘Did you have a good fair, cuz?’ Jude drawled, his very demeanour irritating Ben as always.

  What right did this cur have to enjoy the day, when until this week he’d done little to earn the Killigrew money he squandered? Ben’s own homecoming had made Charles Killigrew realise how idle his nephew had become, and a good thing too.

  ‘You enjoyed it, I see,’ Ben snapped in reply. ‘You’ve drunk enough spirits to drown an ox by the look of you—’

  ‘And then some,’ Jude laughed in agreement. ‘I had a fair companion to help me, see? A pretty maid wi’ long dark hair and a way of melting into a man’s arms—’

  Ben jerked his horse to a halt as his temper flared.

  ‘Keep away from Morwen Tremayne, d’you hear? She’s the daughter of my father’s pit captain, and he’ll not thank you for sporting with her—’

  Jude laughed again, his voice oozing triumph at catching his cousin out.

  ‘You give yourself away, Ben! ’Tis the wench herself that’s on your mind, not your father nor hers! I’ve seen the way you’ve looked at her, and Jane Carrick had best think how to keep you in her bed at night once you’re wed. If your body’s with her, ’tis clear that your thoughts will be with the other one—’

  He ducked quickly as Ben’s fist slashed towards him, striking him on the shoulder instead of connecting with his jaw.

  ‘Keep your filthy thoughts to yourself,’ he ground out. ‘But if you’ve been dallying with Morwen—’

  ‘I never said ’twas her, did I?’ Jude rubbed tenderly at his bruised shoulder. ‘If you must know, ’twas her friend, Celia, and a pretty tale she told me about the two of ’em—’

  He dug his heels in his horse’s flanks and sped away, knowing Ben’s curiosity would be roused. It was a mile further on before Ben caught him up and grasped at Jude’s reins, pulling him to a stop. Both panted from the exertion of the gallop.

  ‘Now then, scum, what’s this tale that Morwen’s friend told you?’ he snapped. ‘The truth, mind, or I’ll wring your neck and enjoy doing it!’

  ‘’Tis the truth all right,’ Jude snarled. ‘Two of ’em have got some love potion from the old crone on the moors, and intend testing it on the first full moonlit night. What say we give them their moneys’ worth, cuz?’

  ‘What kind of test?’ Ben hated the thought of sharing anything with this lout, but he wanted to know more…

  Jude told him the tale, thinking privately that the girls would be so tipsy with the potion and the circling, they’d be ready to imagine anything. In fact, Jude was counting on it.

  ‘And you plan to ride to the moors every night around midnight to play a game with them, do you?’ Ben said grimly.

  ‘Why not?’ Jude challenged him. ‘If ’tis Morwen or Celia who sees my face through the stone, it makes no difference to me. One wench is as good as another on a dark night—’

  His throat was suddenly seized in Ben’s powerful grip as Ben leapt at him, sliding off his own horse and pulling Jude to the ground with him.

  ‘Get off me, bastard!’ Jude croaked as stars danced in front of his eyes. ‘You won’t stop me, with your bloody inheritance and your Killigrew money! I’ve as fine a load in my breeches as you—’

  He bellowed with pain as Ben’s hands left his throat and made a fist into his groin. The full impact was lost as Jude slithered backwards, but it still winded him and made him fear for his wenching tackle.

  ‘I’ll be there, if you intend going through with this,’ Ben said furiously. ‘I’ll not see one of those girls touched by you. I’ll stay so close, you’ll think I’m your shadow, you bastard. Now get on your horse, and get home. I’m sick of the sight of you.’

  Jude smiled faintly as he climbed painfully on to his horse. He’d got his way, whether Ben realised it or not. What did Jude want with two bal maidens on the moors? One would be enough, and while Ben took care of Morwen, he’d be more than ready to have a high old time with the other one.

  * * *

  And Ben was asking himself bitterly just who he thought he was fooling, as the two of them rode silently home towards St Austell. Such noble talk to be safeguarding the honour of two bal maidens, when they might be no better than many of their kind. And what in hell’s name was he contemplating, to be taking part in some heathen ritual on the moors, as though all the expensive college education his father had given him was as nothing compared to the mystic beliefs and potions of a Cornish witch.

  Theirs were ancient ways… believed by the majority of the truly Cornish, such as Morwen Tremayne. And such as Ben Killigrew… he drew a deep shuddering breath, knowing that his real reason for trysting with her at the Larnie standing stone was to make sure it was Ben Killigrew’s face that Morwen Tremayne glimpsed through the stone. Whatever the consequences…

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Tonight!’ Celia whispered as she and Morwen parted company afte
r their day’s shift. ‘I’ll be waiting for you, Morwen, and don’t forget the potion!’

  ‘Of course not.’ Morwen tried not to betray how her palms sweated at the thought. The time was here, the moon would be full that night, and she palpitated with nerves. Were they tampering with fate…? Would there be other, more human dangers waiting for them on the dark and mysterious moors…?

  She smothered the thought. They knew the moors, and the moonlight would guide them. Zillah’s potion would do the rest. Despite her fears, Morwen still tingled when she thought ahead to the magical moment when she looked through the Lamie Stone. Whose face would she see…?

  * * *

  ‘You’re pensive tonight, Morwen,’ Bess commented. ‘Are you ailing? Perhaps an early night would serve you well—’ Morwen tried to smile naturally at her mother, hunched over her sewing by the oil-lamp. The last thing she wanted was for Bess to fuss over her now, though she could perhaps turn the query to her advantage. She yawned, rubbing her hand lightly over her brow.

  ‘Just a slight head-ache, Mammie,’ she murmured. ‘Nothing that a night’s sleep won’t cure.’

  ‘Aye, ’twill do us all good,’ Bess decided, starting to fold up her work. ‘We’ll have a hot drink and I’ll shoo these others off to bed, and you can rest undisturbed, my lamb.’

  ‘I don’t want to drive you all away—’ She was immediately guilty.

  ‘There’s been plenty excitement this last week,’ Hal put in. ‘An early night won’t come amiss, and once Matthew’s indoors, we’ll all be as snug as bugs in our beds.’

  Hal frowned as he spoke, more anxious about his son Matthew than he admitted. Something troubled Matt lately – troubled or enervated – in a way Hal didn’t understand. He was a simple man who disliked undercurrents, at work or at home, and there were definite undercurrents in Matt’s attitude of late.