told Lauren to mind her own business. But that, as well as Burroughs's insistence on having his men protect her, seemed especially ominous now.
"I say Regina snabbled your governess," Matthew declared harshly, interrupting her thoughts. "And ye'll be next."
Lauren turned to him, her eyes pleading for reassurance he wouldn't give. Yet she knew he was right. Regina would kill her, too, if she stayed.
"Very well," she said at last, "I'll leave. But I must speak to Burroughs first. He will see that the impersonation must end."
Matthew snorted in disgust. "Are ye daft, lass? Do ye think he will let ye just walk away?"
"Matthew, he may not like me, but I can't believe he would want to see me killed."
" Aye, and he was supposed to protect your governess, too."
In the darkness, Lauren could almost see the aging smuggler's angry face. In better light, it would be as red as his hair. She laid a trembling hand on his arm. "Please, don't be angry with me, Matthew. I'll speak to Burroughs, and then I'll be free to go."
"Stubborn lass," he muttered under his breath. " Verra well, but I willna let ye stay long."
"I . . . I don't know where I can go."
" Dinna fash yerself . We'll think of a plan. Come, then," he said gruffly. "Ye must go back to the house before ye are missed."
She hesitated. "We shouldn't . . . just leave Miss Foster there."
" Yer guardian's men will find her, I've no doubt."
Choking back a sob, Lauren nodded mutely. She let Matthew guide her back up the cliff, agreeing with his advice to say nothing of what she had seen, and promising to be on her guard.
But after she had climbed the gnarled tree outside her window and was once again in her own bedroom, the horror reclaimed her and she started to tremble. She had never thought her impersonation would result in murder. And even though the Carlin ships would give her the independence she craved, she didn't want them at the price of a woman's life— or her own.
Hearing a plaintive yowl at her feet, Lauren bent to pick up the cat that was brushing against her skirts. The great, orange- furred creature had found his way into her bedroom several months ago and had adopted her. Lauren hugged him to her breast, needing the comfort of his warm body. Miss Foster had hated Ulysses and had regularly threatened to get rid of him. . . .
Reminded again of that twisted form lying so still on the rocks, Lauren desperately buried her face in the cat's fur. "Oh, Ulysses," she said in a choked whisper. "What have I done? What in God's name have I done?"
Sibyl Foster's funeral was held three days later, and the following week, George Burroughs arrived at Carlin House. Lauren paled when she was told he wished to see her in the study, but she resolutely smoothed the skirt of her black muslin gown and dried her tears. He would not be pleased, but she was determined to tell him of her decision to end the impersonation.
The study was her favorite room, even though she approached it now with reluctance. Innumerable paintings and replicas of ships crowded every wall and table, while hundreds of leather-bound volumes lined the bookshelves. Lauren had spent hours poring over tomes about the sea, learning about the brave men who challenged its power. She knew a good deal about sailing vessels as well, even though she had never set foot on one; her passion for ships was the one thing besides her height that she had inherited from her father.
Burroughs, a portly man with sagging jowls and a ruddy complexion, was standing beside the desk when she entered, looking drawn and weary after his long journey from London. His somber brown coat was wrinkled and his knee breeches were creased, indicating that he hadn't taken the time to change before summoning her. He, too, looked as if he had been crying, but Lauren knew his tears were the result of habitually watery eyes.
As she quietly shut the door behind her, Burroughs dabbed at his face with a handkerchief, fixing her with his rheumy gaze.