The Smuggler and the Society Bride (10 page)

She smiled back. ‘As you say, it's very early yet, but if it is not too much trouble to inquire, I would appreciate it. I shall speak with my aunt as well. Though she has lived in Cornwall for many years, she maintains an active correspondence with friends in London and elsewhere.'

The vicar returned, apologizing for his absence. ‘Sorry to have abandoned you, but that latest poor wretch was hungry and cold.'

‘Maybe he needed a wee nip of brandy to warm him,' the captain suggested, a twinkle in his eye.

The vicar looked uncomfortable. ‘You're probably right.
Oh, I know Charles Wesley spoke most passionately against free-trading, but I confess I cannot see that it harms, more than it benefits, a parish.'

‘But it's also difficult to persuade them to obey it, when it so greatly conflicts with what's in their best interest.'

‘Still,' the vicar replied, ‘One cannot deny, while the trade helps poor wretches earn a few more pence to ease their lives, importation of cheap gin from Ireland does encourage drunkenness of the dangerous sort Miss Laurie just experienced. Encouraging disobedience of the law is never wise.'

‘Even if you partake of a drop or two yourself now and again,' the captain added with a smile.

‘Shall we return our attention to mittens?' Honoria asked with a reproachful glance at the captain for his teasing of the vicar. ‘I've just been discussing the project with the captain. He suggests we try selling the mittens in London.'

Father Gryffd brightened. ‘It would be better, I think, taking them farther away. Most folk hereabouts know someone who can knit them, if they don't do it themselves. I'm not so sure about city-dwellers. And I have no connections in London. Do you, Miss Foxe?'

Honoria's conscience piqued her anew. She would confess her involvement in scandal to him this minute—but for the presence of Captain Hawksworth. ‘The captain has just been saying he might know someone.'

‘Merchants who deal in goods that are quite legal,' the captain assured him solemnly.

‘Indeed, it would have to be,' Honoria added, giving him a severe look. ‘No involving children in your…trade.'

The captain immediately sobered. ‘I would never countenance involving children in that, Miss Foxe.'

Though she still wasn't sure she could believe everything he said, his avowal reassured her. ‘I'm glad to hear it.'

Putting down her teacup, she looked up to see that disturbingly intense glance fixed on her. Then he smiled.

His smile seemed to coax hers forth by right. In fact, she felt the most curious sensation that some part of her soul, awakened from a long slumber, soared up and out to meet his.

She shook her head rapidly, breaking the hold of his gaze and trying to dispel the nonsensical notion. She succeeded merely in feeling dizzy.

The tea must be too strong, she thought, her emotions unbalanced by a touch of panic. She should remove herself now, before she felt or said anything idiotish. She rose abruptly.

‘Thank you for tea, Father, and compliments to Mrs Wells for the excellent biscuits. But I must return to Foxeden.'

To her dismay, Captain Hawksworth rose immediately as well. ‘I should be going, too, Father Gryffd. Add my appreciation to Miss Foxe's for your hospitality.'

If she'd thought to avoid him, she was disappointed, for abjuring the vicar to remain in his house, since a sharp wind was blowing, he escorted her to her gig.

Acutely conscious she had not managed to fully subdue the siren call of…of
something
that pulled her to him, she cast about for some topic that might lessen it. ‘It wasn't kind of you to tease the vicar about consuming spirits. He's a fine man, one of best I've met in that role.'

To her exasperation, he immediately agreed. ‘You are right, 'twas not well done of me. He is indeed a good man.' He laughed wryly. ‘How difficult it must be for a Welshman to encourage adherence to English law! Especially one that does as much harm to Cornishmen as the customs.'

‘They wouldn't be harmed if they just followed the rules,' she returned tartly.

‘Perhaps, but if they obey them, how would the fisherman or day labourer earn the extra pennies that allow him to purchase tea—or a glass of spirits and a warm meal at Mr Kessel's inn? You can't hold it against a man to choose to do something that makes his hard life a bit more pleasant. Or expect him not to resent or flout authorities who try to
prevent him from doing so, by force if necessary, merely to enrich a government in ways that do nothing to ease his lot at all.'

She shook her head in exasperation. ‘You are an Irish devil! To hear you explain it, 'tis the most reasonable thing in the world to disobey the laws.'

‘Because it is,' he returned promptly. Seeing she was about to object again, he laughed and held up his hands. ‘Pax! I can see 'tis not a matter upon which we are likely to agree. And, you know, an Irishman has as healthy a disdain for English law as his Welsh cousins.'

‘That I can believe. I expect you've always been a rabble rouser! Is that how you ended up in Cornwall?'

‘It was a favour to a friend, actually. And I'll have you know I spent a very respectable career in the Army.'

‘Where you made those
respectable
contacts in London, no doubt?'

His slow grin captured her again, warmed her from the face that seemed to glow under his gaze, all the way to her toes and deep within. It seemed her brain had shut down, for all she could do was gaze back, tingling with longing.

A tingling that turned to a shiver in every nerve as he grasped her gloved hand and brought it to his lips. ‘I have appreciated our conversation even more than the vicar's excellent tea. I shall investigate finding markets for your mittens, Miss Foxe, and do my very best not to disappoint you.'

She was not sure how it happened, for her wretched mind seemed incapable of summoning coherent thought, much less speech, but suddenly her gig was beside them.

All she knew was his face angled down toward hers, his eyes staring intently, his slightly parted lips poised as if to descend to hers. Her pulse galloping like a winner at Newmarket, she waited in frantic anticipation for him to close that small gap between them and capture her mouth.

Her eyelids must have drifted shut, for in the next moment,
instead of his lips on hers, she felt the captain's hands at her waist, lifting her up to the seat.

Beneath her cloak, she felt each pad of his fingers against her ribs. The insistent pressure seemed to burn through her clothing into her skin, so that despite being fully dressed, with horse and gig and servant within a few feet of her, the touch seemed almost as intimate as if only the two of them stood there…alone in her chamber, he lifting her onto the bed.

The shocking image rattled her so much, only at the last moment did she manage to grip the rail and avoid falling ignominiously back on top of him. While the servant handed the reins into her numb hands, Captain Hawksworth bowed to her.

‘I hope to report good news for you soon. Good day, Miss Foxe.' With a hand to his hat, he turned and walked away.

The groom set in motion the horse who, fortunately, knew the way home, since at the moment it seemed she was incapable of driving. Long practice kept the reins taut in her hands on the way out of town, until somewhere farther down the road to Foxeden, her mind finally cleared of its sensual haze and she tried to evaluate what had just happened.

Her first realization was that the captain was much more dangerous than she'd first thought him. He'd been able to almost persuade even her, who had family highly placed in government, that the laws against free-trading were flawed. He'd encouraged her to give shape to her sketchy scheme to help the girls and their families, thereby involving her in trading activities that would horrify her Ton relations.

Much worse, though, he tempted her. In him, she sensed the same turbulent, rebellious spirit that always swirled restlessly in her breast. He, like Hal, was an Army man, a man who'd been to foreign lands, tested his courage in desperate battles. Here was a man who welcomed challenges, be it against the sea, the revenue agents—or the establishing of trading contacts to sell mittens knit by schoolgirls. Here was a man who lived life vibrantly on every level.

Most dangerous of all was the call of sense to sense. In the past, she'd giggled at Minerva Press novels in which a heroine melted at the hero's touch, her thoughts scattered to winds by his nearness, her only desire to be wrapped in his strong, sheltering arms.

She wasn't laughing now.

She'd wanted those lips to descend and kiss her, more than she'd ever longed for a kiss from the several gallants she'd permitted that liberty. Anticipating those embraces had filled her with the zest of the forbidden, a mild and pleasurable sense of excitement—but nothing, nothing like this.

Her breathing suspended, her heart pounded, just imagining the feel of his lips on hers. She knew without ever having to experience it that kissing him would be more profoundly exhilarating than any touch she'd ever known.

The ferocity of her desire to experience it appalled her. She hadn't escaped ruination in London to flee here and let herself be drawn into a seduction that would get her expelled from the only haven she had left.

That realization finally broke the hold the captain had established over her senses. Hereafter, she must keep her distance. The free-trader bent on his illicit trade was intriguing enough. The free-trader turned honourable entrepreneur and partner, it seemed, was irresistible. And mere Miss Foxe could no longer count on Lady Honoria's elevated social position to distance him from her.

With the captain an expert in a game in which she was beginning to realize she didn't even know the rules, she'd do better to take her counters from the table and flee.

T
houghtfully Gabe watched Miss Foxe until her gig rounded the curve. He chose the long way back to the inn this time, needing the wind in his hair, the crash of waves in his ears to settle his pounding heart and agitated senses.

It might require a dip in the cold sea to settle another part of him.

He'd been relieved to discover Miss Foxe had regained her equilibrium after her fright at the hands of the miners. Despite his admiration for her fearlessness to going to Laurie Steavens's assistance, a swift and blinding rage had filled him at the thought that some ruffian might injure or frighten her.

Even a man who didn't chart his future past the next reef or the next month could still admire her, he told himself. By Heaven, he'd scarcely believed it when she took on that drunken lout outside the beer hut—delivering a blow that would have done credit to a masculine practitioner of the fancy. Was there no end to the surprises concealed in her?

Miss Foxe had been even more approachable today—maybe too approachable. Pausing beside the gig, he'd almost ruined everything by bending down to kiss the lips that seemed to beg for his touch, right there under the gawking servant's eye! Whatever had come over him?

Even worse, after putting his hands at her waist to lift her up on the bench, he'd had to struggle to make himself release her, so strong and fierce was the current flowing between them. He'd wanted to leap beside her, seize the reins, drive her to some isolated fisherman's hut, strip her clothes off layer by layer while he touched and gentled and inflamed her, then make love to her again and again while the sound of the surf roared in his ears as fiercely as desire was roaring through his veins.

And she would have gone with him. He was sure of it.

Almost.

Damn, but he wished he knew for certain whether she was a matron or a maid. If she were experienced and willing, he'd sweep her straightaway into a discreet dalliance that he already knew instinctively, given the enormous heat between them, would bring unprecedented pleasure to them both.

If it were possible to entice her without causing harm, he wanted to. But the more he encountered her, the more she surprised and impressed him, the stronger grew his sense of responsibility toward her. Fiercely as he wanted to possess her, he also liked her enormously. If there were a chance of redemption for her, he didn't want to jeopardize it. He'd have to proceed cautiously.

Because even if she were knowing, she was still gently-born and unmarried. Uncharted territory, that. His dalliances with ladies of quality had all been with widows or married ladies with indifferent spouses, if one didn't count the single objecting husband he'd had to sweet-talk out of pistols at dawn.

What had happened to ruin this maiden of quality—if, indeed, she had been ruined, a fate that was still only wild conjecture. She might be entirely chaste.

Though her presence here argued against that.

What would happen to her now, assuming she'd not been sent here as Miss Foxe's long-term companion? If she were indeed ruined, she might eventually be married off to someone
obliging enough to overlook a loss of virtue in return for a sufficiently generous dowry. To a man who might never let her forget he thought she was soiled goods.

Or perhaps she'd end up an unpaid servant for her family, shuttled from one household to the next as births, illnesses or burgeoning nurseries dictated, her presence attended by whispers of past scandal, condescension, perhaps even covert, illicit offers by visiting lords of large appetite and small scruples.

His lip curled with disgust at envisioning such a sorry end for a lady of her spirit and wit. Whether ruined or chaste, she deserved a man who appreciated and valued her. Someone like—him?

That conclusion veered too close to the shoals of commitment, sounding the alarm bells again in his brain. Dalliance was one thing, but envisioning anything more permanent filled him with the need to trim his sails and tack off in the opposite direction.

Still, he was pleased to be able to involve himself in her scheme to sell the gloves made by her students. It would give him an excuse to talk with her, stay near her…though sea bathing would definitely be in order if he strayed too close. Even now, his fingers itched with a reprise of the desire to touch her cheek, bring her soft lips to his own.

He'd been far too long without a lady's intimate embrace—and was far too attracted to this lady. So attracted, in fact, that slaking his desire with some other female didn't really appeal, despite his need.

A shock went through him at that realization, followed by a vague sense of unease. Never had he fallen into such thrall to any one lady that he lost his taste for an agreeable substitute. His level of infatuation with and desire for Miss Foxe was disturbingly different from anything he'd previously experienced.

Uncharted waters indeed. Still, even if he had less inclination than usual to move on to another port, there was no need
to ready the anchor chain. He couldn't envision any future beyond dalliance between Miss Foxe of Foxeden and the man she saw as a law-breaking free-trader.

Or could there be?

Damn, he was veering between one heading and another like a ship in capricious winds. Abandoning any notion of drawing a final conclusion about his relationship with Miss Foxe, he'd concentrate simply on acquiring some trading contacts for her, thereby earning her gratitude—and if it later turned out to be agreeable to them both and not harmful to her, maybe something more.

 

A short time later, Gabe entered the inn. Calling for a mug of ale, he sat over it contemplating remarks he could utter to a certain golden-haired lass that might make her blue eyes widen with enthusiasm—or turn them a stormy grey with annoyance. He was still smiling about the delights of teasing her when raised voices at the front of the inn pulled him from his musings.

In this isolated village, the arrival of a newcomer was novelty enough that he glanced over to take a look at the stranger now speaking with Mr Kessel. Something odd about the conversation caught and held his attention.

The exchange seemed more animated than usual, the newcomer gesturing broadly and inclining his head, from which he'd just removed a fashionable beaver hat, revealing a sweep of long, wavy dark hair. His garments were of good quality and cut: chamois breeches, dark coat, elegant boots obviously from a skilled London maker and polished to high shine.

Yet, there was something faintly exotic about him. Perhaps it was the exuberant fall of linen at his throat from which winked some ornate stone. When the man turned, Gabe saw he wore a gold earring in his left ear.

The newcomer gestured up the stairs to a boy following in
his wake, doubtless a servant of some sort, then followed him up, moving with the lithe grace of a dancer. His slightly olive skin and theatrical flair were most un-English. Did he spring from the tropics somewhere—India? The Caribbean? Was he maybe even a Gypsy, perhaps?

When Mr Kessel returned to the tap room, Gabe called him over. ‘I see you have a new patron. An interesting-looking fellow.'

‘Aye, he's unusual,' Kessel said with a grimace. ‘A Gypsy, one of the Argentari.'

So his guess was correct, Gabe thought, trying to remember the name of the troop he'd encountered as a child. Seeking some of the famous Irish horses for trade, a group had camped near the sea at the outskirts of Hawksworth land the summer he turned ten, much to his delight and his father's disgruntlement.

‘Comes a few times a year,' the landlord was saying. ‘Buys copper and silver for his tribe. He's bought a cargo or two from Dickin in the past as well. Claims he deals in a variety of goods and has contacts with merchants in London, but being a Gypsy, one can't credit anything he might say.'

‘Contacts in London?' Gabe repeated, his interest further piqued.

‘So he claims. I know he paid cash straightaway for the cargoes; sent a crew of his own men to move it. If you're thinking of dealing with him, I'd proceed warily. He seems civilized enough, but there's an air about him. I wouldn't try to cross that one. Walking home some dark night, you might find yourself with a knife between your shoulder blades!'

With that cogent advice, Mr Kessel bustled off.

Should he approach the trader, Gabe wondered, sipping his ale thoughtfully. He had to admit, part of his urge to do so was a carryover from that fascination with Gypsy life he'd acquired as boy.

Warned by his father not to have anything to do with the foreign interlopers, he had, of course, run off to their encampment at the first opportunity. Kinder than his father, they'd not
chased off the impertinent
gadje
child, but let him watch them as they tended fires, hammered out jewellery, or gentled their horses with an expertise he admired to this day. He'd even picked up a bit of language, enough to understand some of their sayings and the gist of the stories and songs sung around the campfire.

After a few weeks, they vanished as silently as they'd arrived. For the next few summers, he'd hoped they might return. They never did, but his curiosity about them remained.

The question about whether or not to approach the man was settled a few minutes later, when the Gypsy himself strode with a confident swagger across the tap room to Gabe and bowed.

‘Captain Hawksworth,' he said, extending a hand to shake. ‘Stephano Beshaley. You will allow me to buy a drink for the man whose fame I've heard celebrated everywhere since arriving back in Cornwall?'

When Gabe allowed that he would, Beshaley made another flamboyant gesture toward the bar. Flashing Gabe an irritated glance over Beshaley's head, Mr Kessel called, ‘Sadie, where are you, girl? We've got customers to serve.'

A moment later Sadie came in. Visibly brightening when she spied Gabe and the Gypsy, she hurried over to the table.

‘Sir, what a pleasure to see you again,' she exclaimed.

Beshaley leapt to his feet and made her an elaborate bow. ‘The pleasure is entirely mine, lovely lady. Ah, how long we have been parted! My eyes have looked upon nothing but desolation, deprived of your beauty.'

Gabe thought the speech a bit extravagant, but appearing well-pleased, Sadie giggled and preened like a parrot. ‘I do swear, Mr B, you could talk the bees from their honey. As if I don't know you been charming dozens of pretty girls since last you was here!'

‘None so pretty as you, fair Sadie. Or so worthy of adornment.' Reaching up, he slid his fingers through her hair, pulled out a shiny gold clip and presented it to her.

‘Why—how'd you do that? Oh, how pretty!'

Winking at her, he said, ‘'Tis magic, my sweet—a little treasure for one whose regard I treasure. Now, you will bring me a mug of ale and I will thrill to hold it, knowing it was warmed by your touch. And ale for my friend the Hawk, too, eh?'

He flipped her a gold coin, which she snatched in mid-air and tucked into her ample bosom. ‘I'll get them drinks over here straightaway. Always a pleasure to help a handsome gent like you. Or you, Mr Gabe,' she added, as if belatedly remembering that, though generous, the Gypsy was transient and she ought not to neglect her regular customer—the usual target of her amorous glances.

Beshaley kissed his fingers to her. ‘I rejoice in your good will, my angel, and carry the vision of your enchanting face in my heart.'

That flowery speech made Gabe rather ill, but Sadie beamed. ‘I swear, Mr B, how you do talk!' Bobbing a curtsy, she waltzed away.

Both men watched her display of hips and bottom as she crossed the room. ‘And how you do talk, my loose-lipped lass,' Beshaley murmured, the gallant tone disappearing from his voice. Looking back at Gabe, he said, ‘A clever man knows goods offered too widely are of lesser value.'

‘I'm well aware of that,' Gabe replied, wondering how many times Sadie had warmed Beshaley's bed, or how much information he'd prised out of her with gold coins and honeyed words.

Beshaley smiled. ‘I knew you for a man of wisdom. Even goods of small value can be useful, as long as one does not pay more than their worth.'

A moment later, Sadie bustled back with their glasses, but unable to spark a revival of gallantries from either the Gypsy or Gabe, she soon retreated back to the bar.

Ignoring the girl now, the newcomer raised his glass. ‘I did
not come here to talk of loose wenches, but to make your acquaintance. Here's to you, a man of daring, whom I've heard commands his vessel like a great horse master does his mount, swift and responsive to his touch. To the confounding of King's agents and good custom for all!'

Gabe raised his glass and drank the toast. ‘I've heard of you, too, Mr Beshaley. As a trader in copper, silver and sometimes other goods.'

Beshaley shrugged. ‘I trade in such goods as interest me at the time. Though I have moved cargoes from Mr Kessel in the past, I deal in other things now.' He flicked a finger toward the gem winking in his neckcloth. ‘Particularly beauties like these.'

‘Diamonds?' Gabe asked.

‘Aye, and other gemstones. I've a source in the Far East that provides high-quality uncut gems, as well as those already facetted and polished. I also buy and sell stones, both set and unset.'

‘Rather a risky business, isn't it?' Gabe asked. ‘Your goods are easily portable, but also highly pilferable. Do you not worry about losses?'

In one swift movement, Beshaley pulled a knife from his boot, then rolled it over his fingers and into his palm. ‘
In a village without dogs, farmers walk without sticks,
my people say. But in this world?' Laughing softly, he twirled the knife. ‘No one bothers me—or I bother them, you see? If not with this slender blade, then with the power of my will. Retribution comes to all who cross me. You know the Carlows, sir?' he asked. When Gabe shook his head, Beshaley continued, ‘A mighty clan who thought themselves untouchable. They know better now.'