The Foundling Bride. Helen Dickson

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      ‘What do you want?’

      ‘You,’ he answered smoothly, moving closer. ‘Come, Lowena, why so hostile? I have done nothing to justify it. As lovely as you are, you know how much I like you.’

      Words fell from his gilded tongue effortlessly, as if they carried no weight or conviction.

      Lowena’s face flushed hotly with indignation. ‘Please—do not speak to me in this manner, sir. It is not proper. I am nothing to you.’

      ‘You will be. You are a servant in my house—or you were until my brother whisked you away to wait on his mother. However, since I pay your wages it means I have certain rights.’

      Lowena’s eyes blazed with anger. How dared he treat her in this manner, as if she were nothing at all? ‘Where I am concerned you have no rights. I do the work I am paid for and nothing more.’

      Her remark made him laugh, throwing back his head and letting his laughter ring round the cove and echo through the caves beneath the cliff. ‘You are so lovely, Lowena, and delightful when you are angry. At least you are not indifferent to me.’

      Before Lowena could react, his hands shot out and he drew her towards him. Too late she realised that he had succeeded in slipping through her guard and arousing her to an expression of her personal feelings, forcing her to a trembling awareness of him when all she wanted was to avoid him and put him from her mind.

      Raising her hands, she tried to fend him off, to escape this nightmare she had fallen into. She began to fight him, blindly thrashing in his iron grip, but his arms became bonds. His mouth ground down onto hers, silencing her cries of outrage. Inwardly she seethed, finding his assault disgusting. His mouth was wet, hot and hard, and she hated it. It revolted her senses. She struggled and fought but he held her easily.

      He was behaving like a depraved beast, intent on ravishment, without tenderness or decency. He must be aware of the force he was inflicting on her. He wanted power over her, but she would resist to her dying breath. She struggled fiercely, convinced that this sexually excited man had but one objective.

      ‘Let me go...’

      ‘Don’t fight me,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t like it and I am in no mood to play games.’

      He fastened his mouth on hers once more and Lenora’s fear turned to cold fury.

      Not until she bit down sharply on his lower lip did he relinquish her mouth.

      Angry about her lack of submission, and too aroused to let anything get in the way of what his body wanted, Edward lifted his head and looked down into her angry, upturned face. A faint line of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, which he casually wiped away with the back of his hand.

      ‘I’ve thought of this moment many times, and I mean to enjoy every moment of it. Indeed, Lowena, I would heartily like to hear you plead for mercy.’

      ‘Never!’ she bit out. ‘You will never hear that from me.’

      Edward’s eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘Ah, such defiance. Such spirit. Don’t fight me. Don’t resist me. It will be better for you if you don’t.’

      ‘Let go of me. You may be an important man in these parts, but there are better men than you in Cornwall.’

      His eyes narrowed dangerously. ‘I warn you, Lowena, do not mock me. Have a care lest I turn you out without a penny piece.’

      ‘I do mock you,’ she flung back at him tauntingly, uncaring that he was Lord Carberry of Tregarrick as she found the strength to extricate herself from his hold. ‘And turn me out if you so wish, but do not touch me again. Ever.’

      Edward reached out to capture her again, and without giving her next action any thought, other than to save herself from his assault, she raised her hand to fend him off. He caught it and flung it back at her in anger. He was not accustomed to having anyone stand up to him—let alone a female servant—and certainly no one who would dare raise her hand to him in anger.

      ‘You little hellion! I’ll teach you not to use your hands on me,’ he snarled. ‘How dare you—?’

      ‘I do dare, your lordship. Don’t you ever touch me again!’ she flared defensively, too incensed to realise the implications of what she might have done had he not stayed her hand.

      Unbeknown to her, she came from a long line of proud ancestors who had endurance and courage running through their veins—ancestors who would allow nothing to stand in their way and certainly not a man like Edward Carberry, who was the epitome of all Lowena deplored.

      When Edward recovered his equilibrium he almost retaliated in kind, for he was outraged that this girl would not submit to his will, but Lowena was looking beyond him, an expression of shock having replaced the fury on her face.

      A flash of scarlet had caught her eye, and then her gaze became riveted as she saw it was a man—a soldier. Marcus Carberry. She stood perfectly still, her face drained of all colour. Feeling cold shock run through her, she realised how what had happened must have looked to him.

      He stood unmoving on the edge of the cliff, looking down at the cove, watching them. Suddenly she came alive. The distance between them was too great for her to see his features, but she could imagine his anger.

      Edward saw the change in her and turned, following the direction of her gaze. His face froze on seeing the scarlet-clad figure who had interrupted his dalliance. His smug reaction on seeing his half-brother was in his eyes and in his arrogantly curling mouth.

      ‘It—it’s Mr Marcus,’ Lowena said quietly.

      For once Edward’s bland, inscrutable face dropped its guard, and it was as though a mask had been stripped from it. He made no other perceptible movement but, watching him intently, Lowena was aware of an indefinable change in him.

      A hardness settled on his face, and then he was striding off across the sand in the direction of the cliff and his brother.

      As if recollecting himself, he glanced back at the girl he had assaulted. ‘You will be sorry for this, I promise you,’ he ground out. ‘No woman gets the better of me—especially not a servant—so I advise you to have a care, Lowena Trevanion. Have a care...’

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