Page 8 of The Cornish Mermaid

A what?

Kit shrugged his shoulders again. “Miss Lucas is clearly a lady, Uncle, and not a king’s spy. She’s here by chance. As I already said, it was pure luck that I cast my net one last time and caught her in it. I don’t think even the king’s spies are so desperate they’d have young ladies doing their dirty work by lurking on the bottom of the sea on the off chance I might happen along and sweep one up.”

What was he talking about? Dirty work? King’s spies? Morvoren frowned. Why were they both talking in riddles? And how overly polite was it for Kit to persist in calling her Miss Lucas? “Please,” she interrupted. “I’d prefer it if you would both call me Morvoren. Miss Lucas makes me feel like I’m about fifty. And I can assure you, I’m definitely not any kind of spy.” She held up her hand, and the blanket slipped sideways to reveal her damp T-shirt and jeans.

Oops.

Jago’s already angry eyes widened, and he spluttered into his brandy. “What in the name of God is she wearing? Did the waves strip her of her clothes?” His eyes travelled south to her jean-clad legs. “And what on earth does she have on her legs? Men’s britches? I can see the girl’s legs!”

Guilt swept over Morvoren, although not for a reason she understood, and her cheeks flamed. She snatched the treacherous blanket closer, conscious of the fact that the sight of her legs seemed to have mortally offended Kit’s uncle in some inexplicable way. Shrinking down into the chair, in an effort to appear less noticeable and offensive, she tucked the blanket tighter over her knees. At least she wasn’t cold anymore.

“She came out of the sea like that,” Kit said, apology in his tone. “I think the current must have stolen her clothes.”

Morvoren opened her mouth to explain, then shut it again. Best to keep quiet and listen.

“Well, she can’t stay like that.” Uncle Jago stomped to the stairs door and flung it open. Heaving a deep breath, he bellowed up the stairs. “Jenifry! Where are you, woman? Get down here now. I know you’re a-kippin’ on my bed instead o’ workin’. You’re needed.”

A snort of laughter emerged from Kit, and to Morvoren’s surprise his dark eyes danced. So, he could let that severe exterior slip. Once more, her not-far-from-the-surface hysteria prompted the urge to laugh, but her nerves kept her silent in this apparent madhouse.

From somewhere upstairs came a loud thud, then heavy footsteps sounded on the spiral staircase. A moment later a woman bustled through the door and halted on the threshold, staring.

Of middle age and less than average height, the newcomer made up for her small stature by her presence. An air of animal fecundity hung about her, as though she were some female equivalent of Bacchus, about to dish out horns of plenty in every direction.

She beamed a five-hundred-watt, irrepressible smile at the man who’d summoned her as though oblivious to his tone of voice. Curious, Morvoren took a sideways peep at Jago and caught his austere face softening for a moment in what must, for him, have been a rare smile in return.

“You wanted somethin’, surr?” Jenifry asked, her vowels rolling and the R on the end of the sir stretching out. Her gaze flicked from Morvoren to Kit and back again. “What’s this you’ve brought home wi’ you today, me ’ansum? A maid, it do seem. An’ a wet one at that.”

A maid? Morvoren bristled. Did this woman think she was a servant?

For an instant, the shadow of a smile lit Kit’s face, and she had that feeling again of having seen him somewhere recently. But, as the smile was replaced by a troubled frown, the elusive memory drifted away like a snatch of mist.

Anyway, what sort of a place had servants, nowadays? She dearly wanted to ask lots of questions, but caution kept her tongue in her head lest she put her foot in it. A feeling had been growing that there was a lot going on here that they didn’t want her to know about. Saying the wrong thing might turn out to be more dangerous than she anticipated.

Kit’s gaze returned to Morvoren, serious again. “A very lucky young lady. Not at all what I thought I’d catch in my net for you to fry for our dinner. A mermaid… of sorts. Miss Morvoren Lucas, of…” His voice trailed off and he raised a dark eyebrow at her.

For a moment Morvoren didn’t realize what he wanted. Then understanding dawned. “Of… Reading,” she said in a hurry.

Jenifry’s brow furrowed. “Be that in Cornwall? If so, I’ve never heard mention of it.”

Jago shook his head with a look of impatience. “O’ course it ain’t, Woman. She’ll be from up country t’other side o’ the Tamar, in England, I’ll wager. A foreigner.”

Jenifry scowled. “How’d she come to be called after a Cornish mermaid then?”

Before anyone could answer this question, Morvoren butted in. “My mother named me after her Cornish grandmother, if you must know. And I really wish she hadn’t, because I’ve got a phobia about water.” She paused. “And Reading is in Berkshire.”

Surely, they’d know where that was.

“She don’t look like no mermaid to me,” Jenifry said, ignoring Morvoren’s words and tilting her head to one side as though to better weigh up any claim to a watery origin. “She do have legs.”

Jago banged his pewter mug down on the table. “’Nuff o’ that now. Mermaid or not, she ain’t rightly dressed for going back where she come from. To this Reading, wherever that might be. You tek her up they stairs and find her some o’ my sister’s old clothes from that chest in the box room. She do look about the same size as Elestren were when she wore ’em. Make her decent to be seen. Then we can send her on her way.” He turned back, fixing Morvoren with a no-arguments stare. “And you, Missy, you’ll hop up they stairs right smart now and let Jenifry dress you proper.”

What? They were going to make her change her clothes? Well, they were still damp, so dry ones might be nice. Jeans and a sweatshirt, maybe, and some dry socks. But Jago’s sister’s old clothes? Ew. Did she want to wear someone’s castoffs?

Deciding she’d rather stay damp, Morvoren gestured at her jeans and T-shirt. “It’s quite all right. My own clothes are nearly dry now.” Not quite true, but getting there.

Jago threw her the briefest of glances, as though he couldn’t bring himself to look at her for more than a fraction of a second. “She can’t stay in them things,” he grunted, still not talking directly to her. “T’aint proper.”

That did it. Now she most certainly didn’t want to put on any clothes they might provide. Who did they think they were? More to the point, who did this rather odious old man think he was, as Kit had shown no inclination to make her change until his uncle turned up.