Smuggler's Lady (38 page)

Meredith, realizing with a sick horror that, between them, these two would have her dressed regardless of struggles and protest, knew that she could not bear the humiliation and capitulated the minute her head emerged from the folds of material. “Let me go. I will come with you if you insist.”

She was instantly set on her feet by a greatly relieved Damian. Shaking off Nan's assisting hands, she said, “I can manage myself.”

“Yes, I am sure you think you can,” Nan muttered, returning to her packing.

“I will wait for you downstairs.” Damian beat a hasty retreat, hoping by this withdrawal to lessen the effects of that regrettable show of force.

Meredith, when she joined him in a very few minutes, offered little reassurance that he need not regret it. The sloe eyes were coldly blank, her face set, her voice a monotone. She sat beside him in the curricle, hands folded in her lap, staring at the road ahead.

When they reached the house in Highgate, she walked into the parlor, turning to face him as he closed the door quietly. “Well, sir, what is it you wish to say to me?”

“What the devil is the matter?” he exclaimed in frustration. “Why are you behaving in this manner?”

“How can you ask such a question? After the way you have just treated me—that brutal, humilating—”

“Merrie, I beg your pardon. It was insufferable, but what else was I to do?”

“Accede to my wishes, of course,” she clipped. “But then, that is something you cannot bring yourself to do if they run counter to your own.”

Damian took a deep breath and went to the sherry decanter on the marquetry sideboard. “Do you care for a glass?”

“No, thank you,” she answered stiffly. “It is a little early for me.”

“Will you please tell me what precipitated this—this crisis?” he asked, taking a deep draft of the tawny wine. “The only fault which I am aware of having committed is in preventing you from making yourself the talk of the town.”

“You do not consider going behind my back to my brothers a fault then?” she inquired, one mobile eyebrow lifted. “You consider it perfectly acceptable to issue invitations to
my
wards without consulting me? You do not consider it in the least despicable to enlist the unwitting support of total innocents in your own interests—interests that run against mine and, therefore, against theirs?”

Rutherford's startled expression told her very clearly that he had not considered the matter in this light. He had, in fact, seen it as a perfectly legitimate move. Only now did he realize his mistake. It was a mistake based on the firm belief that Meredith's true interests did not run counter to his, quite the opposite. Unless she could be brought to believe this also, then his action was indeed despicably underhanded.

Meredith, seeing him for once at a loss for a reply, pressed her advantage. “I will no longer be compelled to run between your shafts, Rutherford. It is quite clear that you will use any method to obtain your way, including force. I can no longer continue with this masquerade, continue to deceive your mother and my host. Since you cannot see your way to accepting what I have to give, then I am returning by stage to Cornwall tomorrow.” The slight figure radiated resolution and a pride that could not be gainsaid. Dimly, Rutherford began to see that his tactics had been wrong from the start. In trying to overcome that damnable, proud independence, he had simply reinforced it. By trying to make her a part of his world, he had merely emphasized the chasm that lay between them. Certainly, he had demonstrated that she could bridge that chasm, but he had not shown that so could he also. Unless he did so, Meredith would remain convinced that the gap was not to be traversed.

“You will not return by stage,” he informed her crisply, putting his now empty glass back on the tray. “You will return home exactly as you came. At Okehampton, you may engage your own conveyance.”

If Meredith felt any satisfaction at this evidence of an instantaneous, effortless victory, it did not show on her face. “Thank you, but that will not be necessary.”

“It is necessary,” he said forcefully. “Do you think that I do not have
my
pride? You came here under my protection, you have lived here under that protection, and you will leave here under it. You cannot refuse to end this without a veneer of grace at least.”

“No,” Meredith said quietly. “I cannot and would not under any circumstances. I accept your offer, sir. May we now go back to Cavendish Square?”

Damian thought of the bedchamber upstairs under the thatched roof, the wide bed with its patchwork quilt. In that room there had been laughter, love, friendship between them, the glorious heights of ecstasy. Only once had there been anger, quickly dissipated by the passion that was, after all, only the reverse side of the coin. Would it work this time? Would the act of love dissipate the desolation of that anger? The bodily fusion cement the division of spirit? Looking at Meredith, so pale and set and unhappy in her resolution, he did not think so, and, if it did not work, the failure would tarnish the gold of a memory that they must both keep bright. It was not a risk he could afford to take.

“By all means, ma'am.” Rutherford bowed her out of the room, out of the house and left her at the gate while he went to the inn to fetch the curricle.

Meredith looked back at the cottage, its garden now neat and dark with the onset of winter. She had imagined this moment after that first glorious summer night in the cave—the moment when they would both accept the parting of the ways. She had told herself then that she would give thanks for what she had had, would make the memories last a lifetime. Putting that resolution into practice was a deal harder than it had seemed then in the roseate dawn when this reality existed in a vague, indefinite future. But if she were to continue to live her life, to support her brothers and ensure their future, there was no time to mope over what had been and might have been.

It was a face quiet with determination and acceptance that she showed Lord Rutherford when he appeared with the curricle. It was the same face he saw the following morning as he handed her into the chaise in Cavendish Square. It fell to Nan to cradle Merrie's head against an ample bosom as the sobs racked the slight frame and the tears of loss fell.

“Jacques will not come tonight,' Meredith said with finality, turning to her companion as they huddled in the lee of the cliff. ”He'll not risk the reef in that sea.”

“Aye, reckon not,” Bart agreed. “This'll be the third put-off this month. We're all a-wearied of turning out in foul weather, cowering out of the wind like sheep on Bodmin moor, and all for nought. Why do we not forget the runs until these storms are over? Jacques'll not be sorry, I'll be bound. It's what we've always done in years past.”

“I know.” Merrie blew on her freezing hands before tucking them into her armpits. “But in past years, we were not out of business from September to December. We could afford to leave January and February fallow.”

Bart peered at her in the darkness. “There's more to it than that, I reckon.”

Meredith stamped her numb feet on the sand. “The revenue don't think we'd dare operate during the winter. They're off guard, Bart, even more so after the months of inactivity. It's too good an opportunity to miss.”

The burly fisherman grunted. “That's not the whole story, and you'll not bamboozle me into believing it is.” When he received no reply from his companion, Bart shrugged, whistling tunelessly through his teeth. “Shall we call it a night, then?” he asked eventually. “Try for next Wednesday?”

“Not much else we can do.” Meredith sighed. “Jacques's out there somewhere. It's so damnably infuriating!” Turning, she addressed the rest of the shivering group, keeping her voice low. “Another wasted night, I'm afraid, lads. Let's be off to our beds and try for this day next week.”

There were a few muttered grumbles as the group dispersed, and Meredith, as she made her own lonely way back to the cave beneath Pendennis, wondered if she were being selfish by refusing to call off the operation until the spring. The reasons she had given Bart for continuing were all good, but there was another one—a personal reason. Only when she was engaged in smuggling did she seem to come alive these days. Only then did her flight from London and Rutherford continue to make sense. When she was Merrie Trelawney, smuggler, she
knew
she could never be Lady Rutherford, let alone the Duchess of Keighley.

The boys had come home for the Christmas holidays, disgruntled and full of questions. She had answered them as honestly as she could, but their disappointment only increased her own wretchedness. It had not been a particulary happy holiday, for which Meredith, without reservation, blamed Damian. If he had not dangled the infinitely exciting prospect of Christmas at Rutherford Abbey before them, they would have been perfectly satisfied with their customary celebration. In an effort to make up for their disappointment, Meredith had been much more lavish with presents and entertainment than a tight budget could stand. As a result, she felt cross with herself for a piece of self-indulgence designed simply to allay a guilt that was not hers to bear. All in all, life these days was as gray as the sea and the sky, as barren as the bare trees, and as dull as ditchwater.

The outer cave was dark and empty as usual, and she nerved herself for the crawl through the narrow tunnel to the inner cavern where the lantern would be burning its welcome. Somehow, in winter, everything seemed so much more menacing. In summer, nothing was ever this dark and cheerless. Edging her way through the tunnel, she kept her eyes peeled for the first glimmer of light ahead. It did not come, however, and she found herself at the mouth of the cavern, staring into inky, disorienting darkness. Her palms began to sweat, her heart to thud. The damn lantern must have gone out although she was sure she had remembered to fill it with oil. The problem now lay in negotiating the vast cavern, finding the other passage that would take her up to the house. The dark, dank chill seemed to infiltrate the marrow of her bones, and she fancied she could hear the rapid beat of her heart in the eerie silence. Keeping one hand on the rough wall of the cavern, Merrie began to edge her way along, feeling for the gap that would indicate the tunnel's opening.

When a hand closed over her mouth and an arm circled her waist from behind, lifting her off her feet, Meredith reacted with blind, automatic self-defense. Her teeth bit deeply into the palm, her feet flailed, kicking backward against her captor's shins, her elbows drove hard into the ribs at her back.

The grip didn't slacken, but a familiar voice exclaimed in the darkness, “Damn you, Meredith! Stop it!” She went limp suddenly and then, feeling the ground beneath her feet again, sank slowly down on her rear, keeping the wall at her back. A flint scraped on a tinderbox, and the soft yellow of the oil lamp glowed.

Meredith, still speechless, stared over her drawn-up knees at Damian, who was examining his bitten palm with a rueful grimace. “I forgot what a tigress you were,” he said. “My ribs and shins will be black and blue.”

“I hope you don't expect me to apologize.” Merrie found her voice at last. “That was a
dastardly
thing to do.”

“I hoped to bring a little adventure and excitement into your otherwise dull existence,” he replied with a grin. “Take off that cap, will you? You look just like a pixie, sitting like that.”

Meredith obliged, her gaze roaming around the cavern in some amazement. In the three hours since she had been here, the place was transformed back to their playhouse of last summer. As she watched, Rutherford again struck a flint, setting a light to a fire of neatly laid driftwood set in a circle of flat stones.

“I am hoping there is sufficient ventilation to avoid suffocating us,” he remarked prosaically. “Will you take a glass of champagne, my lady?”

“Please.” Meredith found herself in that familiar, dreamlike state so often engenderd by her companion when, as now, he took complete control over the situation.

“Come over by the fire then. You can lean against me rather than the wall if you are still in need of support.” Sitting down on a bright cushion, Damian patted one beside him. Meredith complied, stretching her hands to the comforting blaze, leaning against his knees at her back. She took the glass of champagne, sipping appreciatively. It was a fine wine.

“Hungry?” asked Damian, unfastening the pins in her hair, shaking free the rich burnished mass. “I have Cornish pasties. A little crude with the champagne, but quite appropriate for a healthy, outdoor appetite.”

“Actually, I find that I am,” Meredith said in some surprise. “I cannot imagine why. We have had little enough exercise this night, just standing shivering on the beach, watching for a phantom boat.”

“The weather?” he questioned, opening a wicker hamper and passing her a warm, cloth-wrapped pasty.

“Mmm.” Merrie mumbled through a satisfying mouthful. “Surf's too high and the riptide's running like the devil.”

What on earth were they doing, sitting in this cave, talking so easily, so naturally? As if London had never happened, as if they were back in the carefree days of last summer when Rutherford had stopped mentioning marriage and they had loved gloriously and illicitly.

“Why are you here?” The question was so bald it could have been interpreted as hostile except that her body was warm and pliant against his knees, and her head rested trustingly beneath his stroking fingers.

“I missed you,” he said frankly. “I thought I would come and pay you a short visit.”

“How short?”

“Two weeks. I have to be back in London by the end of January for a wedding.”

“Oh.” She didn't ask whose wedding. It was hardly her business although she would probably know the celebrants. “Two weeks is a long time.”

“Yes,” he agreed, reaching a hand round, slipping inside her shirt to cup one round breast. “Take off your clothes.”

Meredith quivered. “Will you not take them off yourself, my lord?”

“No,” he said. “Not this time. This time I want to watch you become naked for me.” Slowly she began to unbutton her shirt until he softly insisted. “Stand up. I cannot see you properly.”

Standing in the glow of the fire, feeling its warmth lap her skin, Meredith bared herself before the unmoving gray eyes that burned their desirous message into her very self. Afterward, with hands and mouth, he seared her body, branding her as his own for this one night, in this magic kingdom where all things were possible.

 

 

For the next few days, Meredith walked on air. Rutherford had informed her that they would not meet socially on this visit because he did not think he could again stand by while she played the socially inept nincompoop. This suited Merrie very well, and the only sufferers were Patience Barrat and her like, who found their illustrious neighbor had become sadly reclusive. The lovers rode and walked together, well off the beaten track and away from curious eyes, and enjoyed each other with gay abandon in the cave. Not a word of dissension came between them. It was as if, knowing this was borrowed time, they were determined to drain it to the last drop of joy.

“Love, we must dismantle our home.” It was the following Tuesday when Meredith gestured expressively around the cozy, firelit, lamplit scene.

“You are going to work again, then?” Damian, refilling their glasses with a rich, ruby burgundy and nibbling on a hunk of cheese, asked his question carelessly.

“Tomorrow night,” she told him. “Jacques will try again to make landfall if conditions are fair. Bart thinks there will be little problem for once. The fish are biting apparently.” She scrunched into a crisp, green apple. “I do not know quite why that should promise good weather, but Bart is rarely mistaken. We will store the goods here as usual and leave the ponies in the cave overnight. It reduces the risk of drawing undue attention, you understand, if we make our way home on foot. The following morning, no one will remark a man and his pony on the road.”

“Quite,” he concurred. “Very sensible.”

Meredith looked at him sharply. “Are you mocking me, Damian?”

“What an idea!” he protested. “To make mock of such a daring, experienced, skillful little adventuress—” Laughing, he held up his hands to shield himself from the attack, rolling with her onto the cushions.

There was no laughter the following evening when Meredith joined her fellow smugglers on the beach. The ponies were dark shapes, huddled against the cliff, the wind cut an ice-tipped swath from the sea across the cove, the surf gleamed white as the breakers rose, curled, and crashed onto the sand. But there was nothing about this sea, wild though it appeared, that Jacques and his men could not handle. The fishermen had been out beyond the headland earlier in the evening and pronounced the rip navigable. The beacon at Devil's Point had flashed its intermittent, unmistakable message, and the coastguard, it was to be hoped and assumed, were tucked up in their beds.

Merrie cast an eye over the group. There was an air of suppressed excitement, the sense that this night would make up for all the wasted ones. Someone chuckled softly, a pipe glowed redly as the smoker drew on the stem, feet stamped, and breath rose. Suddenly, Merrie froze. Something was wrong, badly wrong. What was it? She looked again at the dark, cloaked figures. All as familiar shapes to her as her own brothers. There was Luke, Tod, Jess. Matt, Dan, Bart, of course, and—and—that figure by the ponies on the outskirts of the circle, a part of the group, yet not a part. As familiar as the rest, yet not belonging. Her mouth opened to give the alarm as her hand closed over the shaft of the knife in her belt. Then her mouth shut on a shuddering breath. She walked across the sand toward him.

“Are you run quite mad?”

Rutherford smiled in the darkness. “Only as mad as you, my love. A smuggler can surely wed a smuggler? ”

“Who's this?” Bart's voice hissed urgently behind her where he stood, cutlass in hand.

“A fellow traveler, Bart,” Merrie said quietly. “You need have no fear. He is here to help, not hinder.”

The fisherman peered at the cloaked figure, shook his head in disbelief. “It's that fancy lord what's inherited old Mallory's place!”

“True enough,” Damian replied, “but I hope to prove worthy of this enterprise.”

“Worthy?” Merrie gasped.

“Yes, you stubborn little adventuress! Worthy of the Trelawneys, as you have proved yourself worthy of the Keighleys.”

“Here she comes!” A voice spoke sharply and Merrie swung round. The French boat had rounded the headland, riding high on the surf under minimum sail.

“I do not understand what you have said,” she spoke swiftly to Damian, “but we cannot take the time now. If you will join with me in this, I shall be right glad of your partnership.”

“You have it, now and for always.” For a moment, their hands touched, and then Merrie was off and running down the beach, Rutherford behind her.

“Dear God!” At the shoreline, she stopped with the others, staring in horror at the second boat rounding the headland. “Coastguard!” As if in confirmation, a musket bellowed, fire sparking in the night sky. Jacques's boat was still out of range and on the open sea could probably remain so. In the confines of the bay, with the riptide and his pursuers behind, only the shore ahead, he was as trapped as any rat in a burning barn.

“We gotta get out of here,” Luke whispered hoarsely, “before they land.” He turned to the cliff path, then found a slight figure barring his way, a knife in her hand.

“Understand this, Luke! No one is going anywhere!” Merrie said savagely. “Jacques is ahead by five minutes. It's a start. We use the trail and take them with us to the cave.” Her eyes ran around the group, daring any one of them to object.