The Smuggler Wore Silk (20 page)

Placing a hand on his shoulder, she leaned over him. “Julian.” She shook him a little. When he didn’t respond, she raised her voice. “Julian. Wake up.”

A shudder wracked him and she heard his breath heave in and out. My God, she thought. What was he dreaming? What horrors did he relive in the depths of the night? She shook him again, harder this time.

“I’m sorry.” His eyes were closed and she was certain he was still asleep. “I’m so sorry.”

The words were so full of grief she wanted to cry herself.

“Oh, Julian.” Heartbroken, grieving for whatever misery held him in its grip, she climbed over him and lay down so that her body pressed against his. She gathered him close.

He turned into her, burying his face in her neck. The shudders continued to run through him. But there were no tears.

“Grace,” he whispered into her shoulder. His arms came around her, drawing her in until she couldn’t tell where her body ended and his began. “Stay with me.”

“I’m here,” she crooned, not knowing what else to say. She stroked his back, as though her fingers could smooth away his heartache. “I’m here, I promise.”

She wanted to add
my love
, but couldn’t. And the pain of that stabbed through her.

“W
HAT DID YOU
dream last night, Julian?” Grace searched his eyes in the weak light of dawn. His face was mere inches from hers and bore no trace of the nightmares.

“Dream?” They lay face-to-face on the bed, his arm draped over her hip and his hand stroking lazily up and down her back. A faint line formed between his brows as he considered her question. “Hmm. I don’t remember.” A laugh flashed into his eyes, chasing bafflement out of the brilliant blue. “I must have dreamed of you, of course. For such beauty is every man’s dream.”

“Please be serious, Julian.” Still, a smile hovered around her lips. Then it slid away as she remembered how the shudders had wracked his solid frame. “You had a nightmare last night.”

“Certainly not. I’ve a reputation to maintain, fair lady. My second career, remember?” He dropped a kiss onto her lips. “I must, at all times, remain dashing and dangerous and adventurous. A smuggler would never have a nightmare.”

She refused to laugh. “Whatever it is, you can trust me with it.”

His mouth only tightened.

Running a finger over his lips, she tried to smooth out the irritation. “You were quite upset. I wondered—” Licking her lips, Grace shot a look at the door to the countess’s bedchamber, acutely aware that the carved door figuratively stood between them. “I wondered if it was about your mother.”

“No.” But she saw the flicker of doubt in his eyes. “If I did have a nightmare, it has faded with the morning sun and therefore was of no significance. Now, my fantasies are another thing altogether and are much more interesting.”

Hooking a leg over hers, he rolled so that she lay on top of him. She crossed her arms over his chest, then propped her chin on them and contemplated whether it was better to let him change the subject or to press him. Time, she thought. He needed time to trust her. So she smiled at him.

“Tell me of your fantasies, then. Where are the smuggling captain and his consort sailing now?”

“Today, she’s no consort. She’s a Scottish maid, tall and lithe and strong. High into the hills of Scotland he takes her, where the air is clear and sharp.”

“I thought it was cold and rainy in Scotland.”

“So it is. Sometimes.” He laughed, nuzzling her neck. Rough stubble grazed her skin and sent little shocks though her. “But today it’s a soft rain, quiet and pure and cleansing. He would gather purple heather from the fields and make a bed under the trees.”

Julian reached down and drew the coverlet up until it was over their heads, cocooning them. Dim light seeped through the fabric and cast shadows over his lean face as he whispered, “He would wrap her in his tartan and warm her with his body. They could hide there, protected from the gentle rain and surrounded by the sweet perfume of heather. Just the two of them, alone, with no one to disturb them.”

She ran her hands up his chest, toying with the light sprinkle of hair that covered it. “What would they do under the tartan?”

Cupping her cheeks, he rubbed the rough pads of his fingers along her cheekbones, then across her lips. “He would kiss her. Starting with her mouth, that most kissable place.” The lips that touched hers were as delicate as a whisper. “Then her eyes, her cheeks.” His mouth suited the words, feathering first over one closed eye, then the other, then moving to her cheeks. Hands began roaming her body, skimming over warm flesh. “High in the hills of Scotland, he would seduce her, discovering her peaks and valleys and secret places.”

Moving carefully so the covers remained over them, he rolled until he ranged above her. Propped on his elbows, he lowered his head and dropped a kiss into the hollow of her throat, then trailed his mouth along her collarbone. Her breath caught when his mouth skimmed between her breasts. She arched up, moaning when his mouth moved to one breast then the other.

The air under the blanket heated, warmed by the passion between them. She sighed as his fingers slid over delicate flesh and lingered over the curve of hip and thigh. He seemed to learn her body anew. She was gasping, nearly undone when he finally slid into her. Wrapping her arms around him, she opened, took him in.

Still hidden beneath the blanket, they moved together in a rhythm as old as time. Yet every touch, every sigh, every beat of their hearts was a new discovery. She let her body surrender to the sensations, to
him
, until she was both lost and found in the world he’d created.

__________

G
RACE TUGGED APART
a tight bunch of dormant crocuses, carefully separating the beige bulbs for transplanting. She added them to those already laid out on the turned earth. Engrossed in her plans, she barely heard the gravel crunch beneath approaching footsteps.

“Grace.”

She jumped and the crocuses scattered across the ground. With her breath still caught in her throat, she looked around. Fashionable hunting boots seemed to grow out of the grass beside her. Scars and stains marred the leather—scars and stains she recognized.

“Uncle.” Feeling disadvantaged on her knees, she stood. Lord Cannon made no offer to assist her. She brushed browned grass from her heavy skirts. “May I help you?”

“You can return whatever you’ve stolen from Lord Paget.” Disgust dripped from Cannon’s words.

Grace folded her hands together, lowered her head and stared at the toes of her ankle boots. She could feel herself shrinking. “I haven’t stolen anything.” The protest sounded weak, even to her.

“You must have. Paget informed me he found you in his study. What reason would you have to be there if not theft?”

“Not theft, I assure you.” She shifted, but continued to stare at her boots. “It was an invitation to dinner. My husband and I—”

“I don’t believe you.”

Grace tightened her already clasped fists and hated herself. He had no hold on her, no hold
over
her. Yet anxiety balled in her belly and turned her mouth dry. “Uncle—”

“I don’t trust whores.”

Something snapped inside her, sharp and clean. He’d said it before. Many times before. No more, she thought. She’d done her duty to the family—managing the household, acting as governess and nursemaid, washing, mending, menus, accounts. Even becoming his personal secretary. For a decade she’d been buried beneath rules and disdain and what she believed was her place.

And still, in his eyes, she was nothing.

The need to break free swamped her, overpowering and irresistible. She was finished being nothing. The banked fire of her fury roared to life. The pressure that had bubbled and simmered within her erupted and spilled out.

“Did Lord Paget say what was stolen?” She met his gaze and hoped he saw the blaze of hate on her face.

“No.” Cannon studied her with eyes full of distaste. His riding crop tapped his thigh with impatient flicks. “The only reason Lord Paget hasn’t publicly accused you of theft is because he’s unable to determine what was stolen. Yet.”

“Then until you have proof, kindly refrain from accusing me of theft.” Blood roared in her ears. She raised her chin and kept her gaze steady.

“Don’t think you can speak to me that way, Grace.” The riding crop flicked more quickly at Cannon’s thigh. “You may be called
countess
now, but a title doesn’t change the fact that you’re nothing.”

“No, a title doesn’t change what I am.” She straightened her shoulders and stepped forward. “I’ve only ever been myself. It’s never been enough for you. Do you hate me because my mother married beneath her?”

“He was a common laborer,” Cannon shouted. “You’re nothing but a baseborn whelp, and
I’m
saddled with you when your parents die.”

“You could’ve refused,” she shot back.

“And refuse the money for your care? Am I an idiot?”

“Money?” Shock rippled through her.

“Enough to make it worthwhile to keep you for a few years.”

Keep her.
As though she were a puppy. “But it wasn’t enough money to
care
for me.”

“Hardly,” he snorted. “At least you were useful.”

“Useful.” Resentment raised its head. “I suppose I did earn my keep.”

“Barely. The entire time you’ve lived at Cannon Manor you were gallivanting across Devon, waiting on laborers and fishermen and others of your father’s class. No doubt you’ve whored yourself for them as you did with Michael Wargell and the Earl of Langford.
Embarrassing me.
No more, Grace. I forbid you to whore yourself to the villagers and wait on them with your potions and tonics and—”

“What?”

“I won’t have your husband divorcing you and returning you to me in disgrace.”

Dumbfounded, Grace could only repeat him. “Returning me?”

“You are forbidden to have any contact with those people.”

“I’ll have contact with whomever I please,” she returned. “
Those people
are my friends.”

“Grace,” he thundered. “
I forbid you to
—”

“You no longer have any right to forbid me to do anything,” she said viciously. She rose onto her toes so she stood inches from his face. “I’ll do as I please. And hang your commands.”

Eyes wide with shock, he raised his hand as if to strike her.

She would not allow it.
She blocked his arm with her own and gave it a shove. Off balance, he was forced to take a half step backward. He might be physically bigger than her, she thought, but she would not be made small. Not again. She leaned in. His ragged breath was sour on her face.

“I waited on you. I ran your household. I was a governess for your spoiled daughter and nursemaid for your unruly sons. My own
cousins
,” she spat. The words arrowed from her, cruel darts she hoped would land true. “I was a servant.”

“You’re no better than a servant,” he sputtered. But his tone held a hint of panic.

Strength and power sang through her. “I tolerated your insults and your abuse.
No more.
” Fisting a hand in his shirt, she leaned close and narrowed her eyes to slits. Their eyes were level, and she could see fear flickering in his gaze. “Get off of my property. Or I will have you removed.” The fierceness of her tone filled her with the thrill of satisfaction.

Whirling away, she stalked through the stone gate that marked the entrance to Thistledown’s gardens. She refused to look back, not caring where he went from there. She made her way toward the nearest entrance to the house. It was the stone terrace and glass door that opened to Julian’s study.

Her hand was steady on the knob as she opened the door. She tossed one final glance over her shoulder—and shrieked when she saw the man at the top of the terrace steps. She braced, certain Uncle Thaddeus had followed her, before realizing it was Julian.

The wind plucked at his hair and coat, but he made no concession to its sharp, cold fingers. He simply stood, watching her with hard eyes.

“I was in the garden.” Pressing a hand to her pounding heart, she pulled in deep gulps of chilled air.

“I saw.” A muscle in his jaw jumped and she recognized the light in his eyes. Rage.

“Then you saw Uncle Thaddeus.”

“I was a few minutes too late to detain him.” His eyes cooled to ice. “Did he touch you?”

“No.” Her chin tipped up as pride filled her. “No, I touched
him
. I put my hands on him.”

“He raised his arm to you.” His voice was low and dangerous. “I should kill him for that threat alone.”

“You don’t need to. I don’t think he’ll be back.” The memory of the fear in her uncle’s eyes lingered. Satisfaction settled in. “Let’s go in.”

He hesitated, his eyes scanning the garden as hers had. “I’m not finished with your uncle.”

“I am.” She held out her hand to draw him into the study. “I’ve said what I needed to say to him.”

“I haven’t.” But he took her hand and followed her inside. A low fire lay in the hearth and within minutes, he’d stoked it so flames crackled and danced in the fireplace.

“You’re flushed.” Cupping her chin, he studied her face.

“Am I?” She pressed her palms against her hot cheeks.

“What did Cannon say to you?”

“Oh, nothing of import, I suppose.” She stepped away and his hand dropped to his side.

“If it wasn’t important, you wouldn’t be flushed, nor would your eyes be so bright with anger.” Menace shadowed his eyes. “He wouldn’t have tried to strike you.”

“He didn’t say anything I didn’t know already. I was a burden to him. My father was a commoner, as am I. He said I was nothing.” For the briefest of moments, the black hole yawned open within her and threatened to suck her in. She pushed it away, filling it with the dark delight of standing firm against Uncle Thaddeus.

“You can’t believe that.”

“Not any longer. Or perhaps I had only forgotten the truth.” Looking out the window, she contemplated the dull gray clouds that mottled the sky and cast a pallor over the gardens. “According to my uncle I’m a baseborn whelp that serves the lower classes. The circumstances of my birth are true, as you know. And yes, I serve the lower classes. They’re good people.”

“The circumstances of a person’s birth are an accident. Only character can be chosen.”

“Not a common view of our class.” She looked over her shoulder at him. So handsome, so elegantly dressed, and with that indefinable aura of wealth and privilege. No one would ever mistake him for anything but an aristocrat. “
Your
class, I should say.”

“Yours, too.” He held up a hand when she started to protest. “I’m not arguing the point with you, Grace. I don’t care who your father was. It’s you that matters to me now. And you are
not
nothing.” The muscle in his jaw ticked again.

“I’m just—”

“A compassionate woman,” he finished for her. “With a deep well of empathy for those in need. You’re also stubborn, quick-witted and courageous.”

“Courageous?” The disbelieving laugh caught somewhere between her chest and her throat. “I’m not without fear, Julian.”

“I didn’t say fearless. I said courageous. The two are vastly different. One is foolish, the other admirable.”

“I suppose.” She looked once more out the mullioned window.