Smuggler's Glory (7 page)

Today is getting stranger and stranger,
Simon thought, following Francesca across the kitchen toward
the sitting room. The kitchen was warm and well-scrubbed, and led
to a room that was lavishly furnished but in a homely way. Plush
chairs sat before the roaring fire alongside several ornately
carved pieces of furniture that were at odds with the size of the
room.

“
These are the pieces of furniture rescued from the fire,”
Francesca explained, sensing his curiosity. She was pleased he
didn’t ask any questions, and seemed to be happy to accept the
simple explanation. Taking a seat beside the fire, she tried to
ignore his towering masculinity as he stood before the warmth of
the hearth.

Sensing
his scrutiny her eyes met and held his. “Tell me something,
Francesca?” Simon murmured, watching Madeline place the heavily
laden tray on the small table beside them. “What would happen to
your hair if you got it wet?”

Francesca’s heart flipped and she fought the urge to look at
Madeline, who stood frozen in place in the doorway. Keeping her
face impassive was the most difficult thing she had ever had to do.
She fought the urge to fidget beneath his steady gaze.

“
Tea?” She didn’t wait for his nod, but could feel his gaze
studying her as she poured the fragrant brew into delicate cups on
the tray Madeline deposited on a small table.

“
It’s a very big house,” Simon murmured, sipping his proffered
tea while seemingly content to accept her lack of an answer about
her hair.

“
Yes, it is,” she replied obliquely, ignoring Madeline’s
irritated shuffling beside her. She knew she was silently asking
Francesca to look at her, but refused to bow to the woman’s
dictates. She wasn’t entirely comfortable with asking the man to
stay, although knew she would.

“
Plenty of rooms,” he added, clearly waiting.

Madeline
sighed deeply, glaring at Francesca accusingly. “Do you have any
bags with you, Mr Marlbrook? There is no problem with you staying
here with us. I’ll prepare a room for you, of course.”

“
My bag is with my cloak,” Simon replied, nodding his head in
thanks to the older woman. “Thank you for your kind generosity.” He
half expected Francesca to object to the offer, and wondered why
she chose to remain quiet when she hadn’t offered the accommodation
herself.

Instead,
she settled deeper into the chair with a sigh and stared into the
fire while sipping her tea. The silence that fell between them was
almost companionable and, at first, Simon refused to be lulled into
a false sense of security but, after several moments when she made
no attempt at conversation, he relented and moved to sit on the
chaise opposite her.

For her
part, Francesca wasn’t entirely sure they were doing the right
thing by asking him to remain with them. Although Madeline was
right in that someone of his size and stature would be an added
deterrent, especially if Tom and Charlie chose to pay her a house
call, he brought her so many problems she wasn’t sure where to
start. She didn’t want him in the house, but it would be rude of
her to ask him to leave, and her conscience wouldn’t allow her to
simply throw him out, especially when he had nowhere else to
stay.

“
Tell me, Francesca, do you have a second name?”

“
I’m sorry,” Francesca murmured, feeling somewhat mollified by
the warmth of the tea and the familiar comfort of her uncle’s
favourite chair. “With everything that has happened this afternoon,
I really didn’t think about it. Please forgive my rudeness. My name
is Francesca Hillier.”

Simon
nodded and studied the fire for several moments, his mind racing
frantically. He had heard of the Hillier name before but couldn’t
quite place where. Over the course of the past several years he had
been up and down the country more times than he cared to count, it
was inevitable that at some point he would come across someone else
with the same, or similar, surname but, for some reason this name
stood out as different from the rest. He made a mental note to
check into it as soon as practically possible, but until then
decided not to give the woman seated opposite any reason to put up
any barriers against him. If he was to tap into her local
knowledge, he needed to garner her trust.

He tried
not to stare at her as he sipped, but found his curiosity building.
Why would someone who was so intrinsically beautiful be living in a
half burnt-out house in the middle of such bleak surroundings as
Bodmin Moor? Especially knowing she was risking life and limb by
simply going to buy some provisions from the nearest
village.

Even
more importantly, why she felt the need to be disguised as someone
twice her age? What was she hiding, and why? Was she involved with
spy smugglers? Was she the next link in the chain he was looking
for? He wasn’t certain, but he definitely wasn’t going anywhere
until he had the answers he needed.

Simon
waited, watching carefully as she tried her hardest to avoid
looking at him. His patience was rewarded when curiosity won
through and she flicked a glance at him. It was a glance he met and
held. She looked like a terrified rabbit caught at the wrong end of
a hunter’s gun; knowing her fate and very aware that there was very
little she could do about the outcome.

“
Tell me about what has been going on in the village,” he
asked, watching wariness immediately cloud her beautiful eyes. He
didn’t need to hear her speak to know she was going to lie and be
as evasive as possible. Leaning forward suddenly, he felt a brief
flicker of satisfaction as she immediately leaned back in her
chair. He wanted her to feel on edge and, for both of their sakes,
keep as wary distance from him as possible. She was far too
tempting; far too beautiful; and had far too much mystery about her
for him to be completely comfortable alone with her. He was a man
after all, and she was a beautiful
young
woman.

“
Everything, Francesca,” his voice held a hint of warning that
he wasn’t going to be fobbed off with anything less than the
truth.

Francesca felt her heart flip and struggled not to fidget
under the intensity in his beautiful blue eyes. They really were
the most captivating colour. At first glance they were dark grey;
until you got close and realised they were the most startling
blue-grey that could be cold and direct one moment, and somnolent
the next.

Silence
settled between them while she contemplated just how much to tell
him. She wasn’t sure quite what was happening herself, and didn’t
know where to start. Mulling over the possibilities, she jumped
when his voice broke the silence.

“
Are the two thugs who attacked you local?”

Francesca looked into the fire. “I think so, yes. I don’t
really know much about the area except that the village is small,
as you know.” Her eyes met and held his sympathetically when he
snorted and nodded emphatically. “Most people know each other.
Their families have been here for generations. I have only recently
moved her permanently. Well, since the demise of my uncle,” she
broke off, when her voice trembled with grief.

“
I’m sorry for your loss, Francesca,” Simon muttered, wondering
where the softness was coming from. His life to date had been
anything but soft. He was a pragmatic man, not used to flights of
fancy, romance or comforting softness. Over the past few years he
had become far too adept at appearing, getting on with the job at
hand, doing whatever was necessary to get the outcome he desired,
before moving on to the next job. There had been little, or no
chance of softness, gentleness or commiseration, but something
about this house, the young woman sitting opposite, brought forth
emotions he couldn’t define and it made him feel
amiable.

Shifting
uncomfortably in his seat, he reluctantly set aside his wayward
thoughts, abruptly closing off the burgeoning compassion for her
grief and once more turned his mind to the task at hand.

“
If I am not being too presumptuous?” he shifted, frowning at
her thoughtfully. “What on earth made you move to somewhere so
remote?” He glanced around the room as though searching for
someone. “Is there no husband in attendance?”

Francesca stared at him, a small flurry of alarm flickering
through her. She could see no reason to lie to him. If he was
working for the man harassing her, they already knew she had no
husband.

“
I am not married. I come from a family of six daughters. My
parents weren’t able to afford coming out balls for us all and,
coming from a small village very similar to this one, the
opportunities weren’t forthcoming to find a suitable husband.” It
was the truth. Sort of. She saw no reason to admit that the
potential husbands her parents had pushed at her, sometimes quite
forcefully, had somehow not met the ideal she had formed as to what
her husband would be like. They had all seemed insipid, bland,
false and far too – well, something. Something she couldn’t define
had prevented her from accepting their offers for her, leaving her
to face the increasing wrath of her parents until news of her
uncle’s demise had arrived, along with the news of sudden wealth
and fortune, giving her the perfect opportunity to forge a future
of her own, without their blessing.

“
I take it you are the youngest of the six?”

“
Yes,” Francesca replied hesitantly, lapsing into silence
rather than expanding.

“
So, your uncle died in the fire here. You inherited this
house?”

Francesca nodded.

“
Were you the sole beneficiary?”

“
Yes, much to my family’s disgust.” Memories of her sisters’
ire at Francesca’s sudden good fortune still rang in her ears,
filling her gaze with sadness at the ill feeling that now lay
between them. Nodding slowly, she stared blankly at the fire. “The
house and the estates, as well as a reasonable fortune,” she
replied softly and sighed, glancing around the cheerful but shabby
room. “Although at the moment, I am not sure if it is more of a
curse than a blessing.”

Simon
nodded in sympathy, well aware of the task that lay before her if
she intended to make the house habitable again. It was a mammoth
task for anyone to undertake, let alone a single, unmarried lady;
even one of reasonable fortune and incredible beauty.

“
So I take it you aren’t looking for a husband to assist you in
turning this place into a home?”

Francesca shook her head. “No, definitely not.” Her voice was
cold and crisp.

Simon
frowned a little as he studied her. He wasn’t privy to most young
ladies’ wants or thoughts toward matrimony, but he was fairly
certain that most young women entered adulthood with the intention
of finding a husband and having children. Why was Francesca so
different? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her, but at the
last moment, something warned him to keep his mouth shut. It really
was none of his business why she chose not to find a husband, as
long as she didn’t look in his direction for one, he was fine. He
had to be careful. If he showed too much interest in her
matrimonial status or intentions, she could misinterpret his
interest as intent and that was the last thing he wanted – or
needed.

“
So, back to the men on the path, do you know much about
them?”

“
I know they were released from Bodmin jail not long ago, but I
don’t know what they were sent to jail for. In the past, when the
family came to visit my uncle, we rarely spent time in the village
except when we were walking through on the way to the moor. I don’t
really know much about who is who, and who are the influential
people and the like. Bertie should be able to tell you
more.”

“
Where is Bertie?”

“
Oh, he has been ill with flu and has been sent to his bed for
a while to recuperate,” Francesca gushed, feeling a pang of guilt
that she hadn’t sent her wishes to him today.

“
Bertie and Madeline are husband and wife, I take
it?”

“
Oh no,” Francesca replied hastily. “Bertie is seventy if he is
a day. Far too old for Madeline.”

“
So, where is Bertie from?”

Francesca frowned, feeling as though she was being
interviewed by something, but willing to go along with his
questions for now.

“
Bertie was my uncle’s butler, and had been for as long as I
can remember. Although my uncle awarded him a stipend for his years
of service, Bertie looked after the house when the rest of the
staff were laid off after the fire. He asked to remain at the house
when I moved in and I could really see no reason to refuse him.
This is his home; all that he has known for decades. It didn’t seem
fair or right that I turn him away. Besides, it is nice to have a
man about the house, even if it is one of advanced years,”
Francesca added, smiling gently at Simon, whose own lips twitched
automatically in reply.

“
Madeline? She must be in her fifties, at least. Does she not
have a husband?”

Francesca frowned, and studied Simon closely. “I think that
is something you should be asking Madeline, not me.”

“
But you have had a long acquaintance with her,”

“
Oh yes, years and years. She was our nursemaid when I was a
child and, although she left while I was considerably younger, has
continued to keep in contact. I corresponded with her when my uncle
passed, and informed her that I was to move here. She insisted on
coming with me as my chaperone.” Francesca could see nothing wrong
with the information she had imparted, but also had no intention of
expanding. “Anything else, you need to ask her.”