Smuggler's Lair (7 page)

He knelt down beside the tub and took the dice from his pocket. “The sponge is the stake. I throw the dice to establish a
main
point.” He rolled the dice. “The
main
point is seven. Now I throw again to establish a
chance
point. I'm out if I roll a two, three, or twelve.” He cast again. “I rolled a
nick,
so I win!”

He reached for the sponge.

She hung onto it. “A
nick
is when you roll eleven?”

“Only if the
main
point is a seven.”

She gave him the sponge. “I surrender. I warrant you make your own rules, Falcon Hawkhurst.”

“I reckon I do, Mistress Cocktease.” He held the sponge up high so that water trickled onto her breasts and formed droplets that clung to her nipples. He licked off the drops and laughed as the tips of her breasts hardened into tiny spears. “I believe I made my point.”

Tory reached out and ran her finger down the length of the bulge in his breeches. “So you did, and here's the evidence.”

He grabbed her and lifted her from the water. “Just the way I like you, wet and wild.”

She struggled in his arms, laughing as the water soaked his clothes. “You promised to teach me to play hazard. Put me down, I insist upon my turn casting the dice!”

Reluctantly, he set her feet to the carpet and watched her reach for her robe. “Games are supposed to be fun.”

“I'll come up to your chamber and be wet and wild,” she paused and licked her lips, “if I lose, of course.”

He made a grab for her and she danced away and ran upstairs. She sat cross-legged on the bed and he handed her the dice. “Explain this
nick
thing again. I understand how to get a
main
point.” She cast the dice and rolled an eight.

“You haven't set the stake.”

“I have. I shall reveal it only if I win.”

As Falcon removed his wet clothes, he explained that only a twelve or another eight would give her a
nick.

She shook the dice and cast them. “Double six. I win!”

Falcon, amused and completely naked, took a step toward her. “Now you must reveal your secret desire.”

She hesitated for only a heartbeat. “I want you to stay with me all night.... I don't want you to leave.”

He stood still and the amusement left his eyes. “I cannot,” he said quietly. Falcon selected black garments and began to dress.

Tory picked up the dice and flung them at him. “You bloody pirate. Don't you dare go roving!”

He took off his seal ring and put it on the desk as if he hadn't heard her.

She stood up on the bed. “If you go, I won't be here when you come back. And don't bother looking for me in the library!”

He ignored her completely and for a moment she wondered if she were invisible. Then she remembered what he'd once said:
Blackmail won't work, sweetheart, but I'm particularly vulnerable to bribery.
She realized with a sinking heart that tonight neither bribery nor all the blissful delights of Elysium would entice him to stay.

C
HAPTER
7

“Up anchor!” Hawkhurst waited for silence as the anchor chain was pulled up through the hawsehole. He knew he must court caution tonight. He was well aware that Captain Drudge and his militiamen would be on the lookout for a marauding ship in coastal waters.

“When we get to the mouth of the Rother, we'll drop anchor in the hidden cove. We'll take the longboat and row out to the
Boulogne.
I'll take only seven,” he pointed to the men he wanted. “The rest of the crew should be ready to run back up the river on the tide, whether we're here in time or not.”

Hawkhurst took the
Seacock's
wheel and guided her silently down the River Rother. When they got to Rye Bay he ordered, “Ready the longboat!” and turned the wheel over to the first mate.

The boat, fitted with grappling irons, was lowered into the water and Falcon was first down the rope ladder. He set his cutlass beside him and took his place at an oar along with the other seven. With the riding lights of the merchant vessel to guide them, they pulled alongside in less than an hour.

Hawkhurst was always first to swing across from the
Seacock
to the ship they were invading and tonight was no exception, as he flung his grappling hook, grabbed his cutlass, and shinnied up the thick rope. He swung his legs over the rail and before his boots hit the deck he got the surprise of his life.

“Fuck!” Hawkhurst saw the dark figure cross the deck with raised sword and knew it was Drudge. He parried the thrust hard, but as the weapon flew from his opponent's hand, he felt it slice into his cheek. Knowing his men would not be far behind, he alerted them to the danger. “Back! Retreat now!”

He was over the side in a flash and jumped from the rope into the rocking boat. He held it steady until the four men who were climbing grappling ropes made it back down. “Man the oars!”
Thank Christ I had the presence of mind to keep the
Seacock
hidden. They were expecting a ship and had the cannon ready to blow us out of the water. Our longboat surprised them as much as Drudge surprised me.
“God rot the bastard!”

* * *

“Go and rot, Falcon Hawkhurst!” Victoria paced the chamber. As she passed the mirror, she caught a glimpse of her worried face and knew that her anger paled beside her fear for Falcon's safety.

She went to the window, hoping against hope that she would see the
Seacock
moored in the river. The brigantine was gone and her heart filled with dread that Falcon was off marauding another vessel. She heard the echo of his words when they'd taken Pandora into the forest to hunt:
Make no mistake; smuggling is a blood sport.
Tory knew a pirate risked a hundredfold more danger than a smuggler.

She wished she could take back the angry words she'd thrown at him. Her threats were empty; she would never leave Falcon of her own volition. The hours until he returned would drag endlessly and Tory knew she must do something to keep her imagination from running riot. She picked up a book and began to read, but when she reached the end of the chapter, she realized she had not comprehended one word. She forced her mind to think of something pleasant and thought of the upcoming party. Then she remembered that she hadn't finished sewing her dress.

She went to her own chamber to retrieve the material and the needles and thread that Mr. Burke had provided. She took them upstairs, knowing she would feel more comforted in Falcon's tower room. Handling the exquisite jade silk brought a soothing sense of serenity. As she focused on the needle, sewing the hem with tiny stitches, a peaceful calm descended.

Victoria finished the gown and couldn't wait to try it on to gauge its effect. She heard footsteps on the tower stairs and her hope soared because Falcon had returned early. Her eyes widened with alarm as she watched him drag himself through the door. She quickly set aside the dress she'd been sewing and ran toward him.

Mr. Burke hovered behind him, ready to catch him if he fell. The look of grave concern on his face told her that Falcon had been injured. Then she saw the blood on his cheek and saw him stagger. She dragged a chair forward and Falcon sank down on it. “Mr. Burke, fetch me hot water to cleanse his wound.”

Burke hurried off to do her bidding and she dropped to her knees before Falcon to examine his face. The blood was welling from the slash wound and dripping onto his black shirt. When Tory helped him remove it, she became aware that the shirt was soaked with his blood. He had lost far more than she first realized.

His mouth curved. “You're still here.”

“Of course I'm here. Where the hell else would I be?” Her heart hammered as she ran to the bed and grabbed a bolster case. She wiped his chest, which was dripping with blood. She was terrified that she would find another wound. “Press this to your face.”

As the white cloth turned red, he assured her he had no other injuries. “It's just a scratch, Tory. Don't be upset.”

Mr. Burke arrived with hot water and towels.

“I'm thirsty. Get me some ale, Mr. Burke.”

Tory washed the blood from Falcon's neck and his ear, then she tenderly bathed the wound as he drained the tankard of ale. She sat back on her heels, alarm marring her delicate features. “It won't stop on its own. I'm going to have to stitch it.”

“I'm so glad you can sew, sweetheart.”

“Pour him some brandy, Mr. Burke.” Victoria picked up a needle and, in spite of her shaking hands, managed to thread it. She came back and waited until he drained the glass. “Get him some more.”

She handed Falcon a clean linen towel. “I'll start at the top. Press this firmly to your cheek.” As she pushed the needle through the gaping flap of flesh she felt the pain in her heart. Falcon barely flinched as she proceeded to stitch his skin together from his temple, down in front of his ear, all the way to his jaw. The minute she was finished, she fed him the brandy.

She stared at her handiwork and shook her head in despair. “You'll have a scar.”

“That won't bother an ugly devil like me.” He tried to smile, but it hurt too much.

Tory pulled off his boots. “Can you make it to the bed?”

He nodded and carefully got to his feet. “My knees are as weak as wet linen.” He walked slowly to the bed and sank down gratefully. “Thank you, Mr. Burke. I appreciate your help.”

Burke picked up the bloody shirt, towels, and water. “Good night, my lord. I leave you in good hands.”

With Falcon's help, Tory managed to divest him of his breeches. She spread a clean linen towel over his pillow and he laid the left, uninjured side of his face against it, then closed his eyes.

Victoria snuffed some of the candles. She undressed and slipped beneath the covers, trying not to jostle the bed.

Falcon reached out for her hands and held them possessively. “I love you, Tory.”

A lump came into her throat. She knew his words were not prompted by gratitude; they came from his heart.

They both had a restless night. Whenever he dozed off and turned on his right side, the pain awakened him. Tory checked his wound often and brought him drinks to quench his raging thirst. By morning he had regained most of his strength. When he kissed her, she placed her hand against his other cheek and was relieved that he hadn't developed a fever.

“We'll have to cancel the party. It was Captain Drudge's blade that did this. If he sees my wound he'll immediately suspect me. Though calling off the entertainment could also arouse suspicion.”

“Don't cancel it—just send word that it is to be a masquerade. Everyone will wear a mask and none will be the wiser.”

“Ingenious!”

“No, it's simply expedient.”

“The ladies will love the idea of wearing costumes and masks, but what about the men?”

“They'll voice a token grumble, but privately enjoy indulging a fantasy. We'd all like to be someone else for a few hours.”

“Delusions of grandeur—there'll be a plethora of royalty.”

“And you should be no exception. I suggest you go as King Charles II, since you have an abundance of long black hair. We could curl it into lovelocks that fall forward across your cheeks. With a mustache and an eye mask, most of your face would be hidden.”

“Your suggestion has possibilities. Charles always charmed the ladies. Of course you'll wear your Grecian gown and be a goddess.”

“Not just any goddess. I shall be
Diana,
Goddess of the Hunt.”

Diana was a Roman goddess, but I won't spoil her fun.
“They'll be so busy looking at you, they won't notice me.”

Tory slipped from the bed and bowed. “I shall make certain of it,
Your Majesty
.”

“I should breakfast with the men to let them know I survived,” he said dryly and threw back the covers.

“Was anyone else wounded?”

“No, I ordered a quick retreat.”

Tory refrained from asking further questions. She didn't want to know the grisly details of what he and his crew had been up to. “I'll go to the woods and gather some of our most common Sussex herb, tormentil. It helps heal wounds and fade scars.”

Falcon sat up and winced. “The very name makes me shudder.”

She gave him a saucy wink. “I'll make you shudder.”

* * *

Late the following afternoon, Victoria sat Falcon at her dressing table to examine his wound. “I don't dare remove your stitches. It's too soon—the last thing we want is blood everywhere. I'll cover it with maquillage.”

He cocked his left eyebrow. “Aren't you the wench who objects to men wearing powder?”

“Guilty as charged, but a masquerade is an exception.” With gentle fingers she applied a liberal amount of tinted paste over the stitched wound. When she was satisfied that both cheeks looked almost the same, she stuck the curling iron into the fire. “I'm going to do your hair. We won't need the services of Claude. I've read all about Charles Stuart's lovelocks.”

She had to heat the iron more than once. When she was done, Falcon stared at his reflection. “Good God, even Claude wouldn't give me ringlets!”

“Lovelocks,” she corrected. “Don't complain about them being uneven; the right side is supposed to be longer than the left.” Tory took a pair of scissors and cut a long strand from her own black hair. “This is for your mustache, but I won't attach it until just before you go down tonight. Do you have your costume?”

“I have a lace shirt, black satin knee breeches, tall leather boots, and a wide-brimmed hat. I have many brocade coats and vests; since you're the expert, what color do you suggest?”

“Charles preferred dark colors to add to his majesty. Now I must see to my own costume. I need silver ribbon and I believe there's a hideous gown in the wardrobe that will supply my needs.”

Two hours later, Victoria went up to Falcon's chamber, wearing her jade silk gown that draped across one shoulder. She had crisscrossed silver ribbon about her breasts and waist à la Grecian style. With the curling iron she had fashioned her dark hair into a myriad of curls and tendrils and allowed them to cascade over silver ribbon. She had sewn an eye mask from the green silk material and she was wearing her carved jade earbobs.

“You look regal as a goddess and ethereal as a wood nymph at the same time, my beauty. The way your toga clings to your curves will guarantee you the center of attention. I wish I could have supplied you with a silver bow and arrow to perfect your costume.”

Tory smiled her secret smile. “I have an accessory that will draw every eye. Let me help you with your coat, Your Gracious Majesty, then I shall glue on your mustache.”

“It's bloody cruel to try to make me laugh.” Falcon had chosen black brocade embroidered with gold.

Tory touched up his scar and painstakingly affixed the thin mustache that stretched across his top lip and partway across his cheeks. With the black silk eye mask in place, he looked convincingly saturnine. When he donned his cavalier hat she declared him perfect.

Falcon bowed and held out his arm. “Shall we go down, my beauty?”

They began to descend the stairs, then Tory drew him into her chamber. “One final touch.” She pulled his black curls forward to conceal his scar. Then she took a royal purple ostrich feather from a powdered wig, pinned it to his hat, and curved it down across his right cheek. Their eyes met and they knew they were playing for high stakes.
Fortune favors the bold.

Tory stepped back and blew Falcon a kiss. “Go down and greet your guests, my love. I intend to make a grand entrance.”

* * *

Hawkhurst arrived at the same time as his four earliest guests. As he had predicted, Lord Sackville and elderly Lord Firle were both dressed as King George, complete with white wigs, powdered faces, and star-and-garter decorations draped across their chests.
Not much of a stretch.

The ladies' costumes, however, were quite out of character. Lavinia was masquerading as a shepherdess and Joan a nun. Falcon murmured to Lady Firle, “You have a sly humor, Joan.”

“Charles, darling, if you'd like a religious experience, join me in the confessional!”

“Washing away my sins would take all night, my dear.”

Lord and Lady Goodwood arrived next. She was gowned as Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, complete with crown, and Lavinia and Joan both seethed that she was royalty while they were mere commoners.

Hawkhurst was amused that his noble guests were early, proving their eagerness to role-play. The government officials, including the customs officer and the magistrate, were late arrivals, revealing their lack of enthusiasm for frivolity. Falcon's tension mounted as he awaited Drudge. The first few minutes would be a test. He must allay any suspicion the captain might harbor.