The Smuggler Wore Silk (5 page)

She sucked in a breath. It was a challenge. Did she dare? He’d know that she was riding astride—if he didn’t already, given the lack of a slipper stirrup. It would be the most improper position, together on a horse. What if someone saw them?

The earl remained beside the stallion, his gazed fixated on her. The calculating look had returned to his eyes and she knew he was after something. Still, she couldn’t ride away without answering his challenge.

“Very well, my lord.” She tossed her head. “Mount.”

She moved forward on the saddle as far as possible, grateful for the high pommel of her uncle’s out-of-date saddle as she hooked her knee around it. The earl placed a foot in the stirrup. A moment later he was seated behind her in the saddle.

Demon danced sideways at the additional weight and she focused on controlling the uneasy stallion. Even as she fought to calm the animal, a part of her was focused on the earl. There was barely enough room for them both and Grace could feel the heat from his chest against her back. His hands circled her waist, resting there as she calmed Demon.

The earl leaned forward and murmured in her ear, “There would be more room if you rode astride. I won’t tell and I promise not to look at your ankles—even though I’ll be tempted.” His husky voice echoed through her, the dare heating her blood.

Oh, dear God, please let no one see me
, she prayed.

She hitched up the skirts of her simple gown and swung her leg over the horse’s broad back. She knew her ankles and calves were exposed. She didn’t care.

She slid forward until her front pressed against the pommel of the saddle. Even with the additional space, they were fitted together in the same position. She could feel him pressed intimately against her backside, his hard, muscular thighs aligned with hers. The earl’s strong hands curled around her waist as a steadying hold, fingers splayed across her belly. Over it all was the knowledge that her legs were opened wide, with his body straddling hers.

The earl leaned forward once more, hot breath tickling her ear. “Ride,” he commanded.

She didn’t hesitate. The thrill of the adventure drove her forward as she spurred the horse.

They flew across the fallow field, both Grace and the earl bent low across the saddle, bodies nearly united as they moved in tandem with the rhythm of the horse. Limb brushed limb and the heat from their bodies mingled. The earl’s fingers gripped her waist, digging into the pliant skin beneath the light cotton. Wind whipped around and between them, pulling at Grace’s hair and whistling in her ears.

A low hedgerow appeared before them. Without even a moment’s deliberation, she sent the horse soaring over it. Time seemed to stop as they hung suspended in the air. She felt the earl’s body brace for the landing even as her own body tensed. Demon thudded to the ground on the other side of the hedgerow before continuing across the next field.

Exhilarated, Grace laughed loud and long, all sense of decorum abandoned. Her braided hair finally loosed from its pins and she could feel the wind whipping through the long strands. Lost in the moment and uncaring that her unbound hair would be streaming into the earl’s face, she leaned forward over the pommel. The earl did the same until his face was over her shoulder. His breath was ragged in her ear, but she could feel the pleasure in her body echoing in his. He seemed to vibrate with energy behind her.

She urged Demon faster, then faster still, and even the animal seemed to relish the sheer abandon of the moment.

Grace wished she could go on forever. The freedom and joy of the ride bubbled in her blood until she was full of heat and light and energy. But the aged brick of Thistledown came into view on the horizon and she knew she must stop. She couldn’t be this woman, this free spirit.

She reined in and the horse slowed to a canter, then a walk. When the horse stopped, they sat still for a moment. She swore she could feel the earl’s heart pounding against her back.

He swung to the ground, then eased her from the saddle before she had a chance to protest. She braced herself on his shoulders.

“The horse needs to rest.” He was breathing hard. She saw the same exhilaration in him that coursed through her veins. His hands were on her waist, hers resting on his biceps. He leaned in, breathed deep. “My God—”

He broke off, drew in another breath. Lost in the thrill of the ride she could only stare at his eyes, as blue as the August sky behind him. He leaned in farther, lips close to hers. He hesitated, giving her the chance to run. She knew what would happen, knew the inevitability of it. And she wanted it—wanted him—in a way that was both foreign and familiar, and filled her with the same fire as the ride.

She didn’t run. Instead, she gripped his arms and lifted to her toes to meet his lips. When his mouth touched hers, it was neither gentle nor demanding. Instead, it was simply there for her to take from, to use as she wanted.

Emboldened, filled with her own recklessness, she pushed her hands to his shoulders and pressed her lips more fully to his. His mouth opened beneath hers and she darted her tongue between his lips. He tasted hot and salty and male.

He groaned and pushed his hands into her loose hair, taking control of the kiss. The demand was there now, the need clear in his foraging tongue and agile lips. His hands worked through her hair, then cupped her cheeks as he drew her against him. She obeyed, hungry for the forbidden. As their bodies met and breath mingled, Grace knew what she had been missing for so long. The
something
she could never define but that left a hole within her. It was this heat, the fire in the blood and the lust that pooled in her belly.

But even as she craved more he pulled away. His fingers still lay against her flushed cheeks, his breath coming in sharp puffs.

“Miss Hannah, I—”

“Don’t apologize, my lord.” She wouldn’t be able to bear it. Grace managed to keep her tone light despite the fire that raged within her. “Smugglers never apologize.”

She stepped back and his fingers dropped away. Gathering her skirts, she whirled around. Without waiting for assistance—what did propriety matter now?—she mounted Demon astride. She wheeled the horse around and set off at a canter, leaving the earl standing in the empty field behind her.

She knew he watched her go, could feel his gaze on her back. But she refused to turn around and glance behind. Somehow that would cost her the challenge, and she knew she’d won this round between them.

T
HE BEST TIME
for espionage was the deepest part of the night.

A sliver of the waxing crescent moon shone through light clouds and onto Cannon Manor. Its windows should have been dark and silent, its inhabitants asleep. But they were not.

At the edge of the graveled drive, Julian rolled his shoulders and studied the pathetic, swaybacked nag standing in front of the manor house. Its rider had dismounted and was even now standing at the side kitchen door. The door itself was open, revealing a single candle and the silhouette of a second man.

The visitor gestured impatiently, the resident responded in kind, and the door swung closed again. The rider returned to his mount and cantered away from the manor, his body bent low over the saddle and rigid with urgency.

Now why, wondered Julian, was a clandestine visitor at Cannon Manor an hour past midnight?

Candlelight sparked to life in a second-floor room. He could see a shadowed figure flitting across the window, then back again. He grinned delightedly when the figure drew off a piece of clothing, revealing the outline of a womanly shape beneath. Regrettably, he was too far away to see clearly, but he glimpsed enough of the curves of breast and hip to know the lady’s shape was pleasing.

He sighed when the figure disappeared from view. That tantalizing peek at Miss Hannah was not going to help his sleep. He’d kissed her just that afternoon, and had lost himself in her honeyed taste and the exhilaration that hummed beneath it. Was it any wonder? There was so much vibrant passion and life behind that cool exterior. He’d been powerless to resist her. Now he was left feeling edgy.

The light in her room went dark. He waited, certain there would be more, and was rewarded when a groom led Demon from the stable toward the kitchen door.

Finally, the lady herself stood silhouetted in the doorway, the glow from the kitchen outlining her shape. He almost failed to recognize her, dressed as she was in men’s clothing. The breeches emphasized long, shapely legs and a trim waist while the coat concealed her torso. The crown of white-blond hair gave her away before she tucked it beneath a laborer’s cap.

She strode to the stallion, placed her foot in the stirrup and threw her other leg over his broad back. Her movements were fluid, graceful—and practiced. Clearly, Miss Hannah needed no mounting block.

The lady was riding astride. Again.

His blood began to heat as he remembered their gallop across the countryside. The memory conjured up a vision of the lady riding astride something else. Namely, him. The image of that cool, serene woman, her head thrown back in passionate abandon as she rode him, had him shifting uncomfortably in his saddle.

He fought back the vision. There was no room for attraction in this mission. She was his assignment. Nothing more than a lead to the traitor.

By the time she trotted Demon past his hiding place, Julian had tamped down any lingering desire and forced himself to study her clinically. Her features were indistinguishable in the darkness, but her shoulders had tensed and her movements were erratic. Not her usual demeanor.

When she urged Demon into a trot and left the graveled drive, he wheeled his horse around and followed at a safe distance. Eventually the windows of Beer’s main street began to glow in the darkness ahead. He expected her to skirt the town, but she rode straight through the village, staying on the nearly empty main street.

The only signs of life in the village were in the various pubs and inns still doing a brisk business. Light and sound spilled out of those establishments as the customers shared ale, cider and smuggled spirits.

She drew to a stop in front of the sign of the Jolly Smuggler.
Julian narrowed his eyes as he scanned the pub’s façade, pleased to be making progress in the investigation. The Jolly Smuggler was Jack Blackbourn’s pub.

Still, a lady did not enter a public house owned by a smuggler and catering to the lower classes, even if she was wearing breeches. Did Miss Hannah care nothing for her reputation?

A thin, gangly lad just shy of manhood darted forward to claim Demon’s reins.

“Be careful. He’s frisky tonight.” Her voice floated through the darkness.

“I’ll be careful, Miss Gracie,” the lad answered as he led the animal away.

Julian’s eyes narrowed as he watched his quarry stride to the door of the public house. Miss Hannah’s gait was sure, her chin held confidently high, her shoulders at ease. She looked more comfortable wearing breeches into a smuggler’s pub than wearing a lady’s gown in a salon.

Interesting.

Warm light and raucous laughter spilled out of the open door. Julian saw a man behind the bar raise his hand in greeting and beam out a delighted smile. Then the door slammed closed behind Miss Hannah and Julian was shut out.

__________

T
HE COMMON ROOM
smelled of ale and tobacco. Beneath that was the ever-present scent of fish and ocean, as most of the patrons made their living on the water—by means both legal and clandestine. It was a pungent mix, but comforting in its familiarity. The tension at the base of Grace’s neck eased slightly as she scanned the room.

The man behind the bar was stout, with a square face and a prominent nose. Wild hair sprung from his scalp in tufts that Grace knew he tried desperately to control with the queue at the base of his neck. He was a man with many roles: fisherman, pilot, sailor, publican—and smuggler.

“Hello, Jack,” she said.

“Now there’s a lovely lass come into my pub. A drink on the house? I have your favorite French wine.” Jack Blackbourn wiped the counter with a well-used rag, clearing a space for her.

“Thank you, Jack, but no. I’ve business tonight.” She held herself away from the counter even as Jack leaned companionably on it. She recognized his posture and knew he was preparing to settle in for a long talk.

“All work and no play again, my lovely?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Spend a few hours in my pub, and Jack will show you how to play,” he said with a wink.

“Your wife might object and skin you alive. Then where would I buy my wine?” she replied blandly.

“She might, Miss Gracie, she might indeed.” Jack guffawed and slapped his thigh before gesturing across the room. “Your business is in the corner, my lovely. But come back soon and share a bottle with Jack.”

“I will.” Giving in to affection, she rose to her toes and leaned over the counter to drop a kiss on Jack’s cheek.

“It’s just as I always tell my Anna. The ladies love me.”

With another laugh, Grace turned in the direction he’d pointed. The village blacksmith and two other men sat at a table, heads together, talking in low voices. She threaded through the throng in the common room while patrons hailed her from all directions. Even as she answered the greetings from the fishermen and laborers, her focus was on the trio in the corner. She knew their expressions like her own and understood something was wrong. Her muscles tightened again as the tension that had drained away upon entering the pub roared back.

Three faces peered up at her as she approached. Each man stood as she reached the table, and one drew out a chair for her before they all sat again. There the propriety ended. Etiquette between the sexes was only a nuisance when it came to smuggling.

“Hello, Jem,” she said to the young man across the table. “How is Fanny?”

“Tired, and ready for the babe to be born.” Jem’s shock of flame-colored hair was mussed, no doubt by the sea wind given his occupation as a fisherman.

“There’s a few months left, I’m afraid, Jem.” She smiled, though her heart clutched. His brilliant green eyes were too anxious.

She looked to the side and studied the round, bewhiskered face of John the blacksmith. He leaned close to the narrow face of Thomas, a tenant farmer from a nearby estate. Worry etched both of their faces, carving deep lines around their mouths.

“What’s happened?” she asked sharply. “Your wife is well, John? Your children, Thomas?”

“They’re all well enough, Miss Gracie,” John said, his voice low and urgent. He scratched at the stubble on his chin. “We found something in the smuggling caves, and don’t think as how it’s quite right.” He glanced at the other two men in turn. Each nodded in confirmation.

She, too, kept her voice low. “What did you find?” she asked, brows drawing together.

“This.” John reached into his homespun coat and pulled out a leather folio tied with a thong. “We found it inside a trunk of lace.”

He handed the folio to Grace. She untied the thong and opened the trifolded leather. Inside was a sheaf of papers covered with thick, heavy writing.

What she read had her mouth dropping open.

San Sebastian . . . Wellington to join . . . battering train traveling through Spain . . . appropriate siege guns, short on ammunition . . . troop count . . .

Then, on the next page:

Alastair Whitmore, code name Angel, 13 stone, over 6 feet, blond hair, brown eyes . . . Safe houses . . . 14 Avenue de la République, Paris . . . 22 Rue Carnot, Cherbourg . . . 4 Rue Delacroix, Calais . . .

At the close of the document was a French revolutionary call.
Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood, or Death.
Her ears buzzed and she could feel the color drain from her cheeks.

“I can read some,” the blacksmith said, bringing Grace out of her shock. “Though it’s harder when the words are joined. But I can tell it’s not right, is it, Miss Gracie? What’s on that paper, it’s not right.”

“No,” she answered. “No, John, it’s not right. It’s military information. Troop counts, munitions information.”
It’s treason
, she wanted to shout. Fear strangled the words in her throat.

“S’what we thought, Miss Gracie.” John nodded with grim satisfaction. “What’s on there shouldn’t be going to Cherbourg.”

“This information should not be outside of the Foreign Office, and most definitely should not be in France.” She closed the folio, rubbed her hands on the smooth leather. “When did you discover it?

“’Twas a fortnight ago.” Jem leaned forward. “The trunk was being loaded onto my fishing lugger.”

“We didn’t know what to do with it,” John told her. “We didn’t want to go to the magistrate or the customs house, not knowing who wrote it.” He took a bolstering sip of ale then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“We didn’t know who to trust.” Jem gestured toward her. “So we thought: Miss Gracie will know.”

But she didn’t have an answer as to whom they could
trust. Grace secured the folio with the thong. Tucking it away inside her coat, she wished she could hide treason as easily as she could hide the folio. Did she recognize the handwriting? She couldn’t be certain. Chilled, Grace pulled her coat more securely around her.

Thomas, the third man, leaned forward. His narrow features were serious and haggard. “It has to stop, Miss Gracie. I might ignore the law for a few extra coins, but I don’t hold with treason.”

Treason.

The word fell between them, a lead weight.

“Who should we tell?” Thomas continued. “And how do we tell someone without explaining how we found it in the quarries? We’d be turning ourselves in for smuggling. I have seven mouths to feed.” His voice was full of fear. “I can’t be taken up for smuggling.”

Grace looked around the table. Three pairs of eyes turned to her for answers. She could feel their anxiety, tense waves that radiated through the air. Each of them was afraid. For themselves, their wives and children, if they were caught smuggling.

“Someone must be informed,” Grace agreed, and held each of their gazes in turn. “I don’t know who—yet—but I give you my word, when I inform the authorities, I’ll protect you. I won’t give them your names.”

She could see the relief flow over them, a little wave of release that rippled around the table. They’d been living in fear for two weeks and she was glad she could relieve them of some of it. Yet now their worry weighed heavy on her shoulders.

“If we can help, we will.” John leaned back in his chair. “Just say the word.”

“Thank you.” She stood, the men following suit. “I must return to the manor, but I promise to let you know what happens.”

She bid them each good night and moved toward the door to the street. She waved good-bye to Jack, who called out from behind the bar, “Are you sure you don’t want to stay and have a spot of fun, my lovely?”

“Next time, Jack.” She knew he expected a laugh from her and obliged him. The sound was strained even to her own ears. When she turned Demon toward Cannon Manor a few minutes later, she let him have his head while her thoughts whirled.

Treason.
The word screamed through her mind. She was certain in the general course of things, an official military dispatch would not be in an abandoned quarry used by smugglers. It would be carried by a member of a governmental office, either diplomatic, military or political. An official British dispatch would not end with the phrase
Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité, ou la Mort!

Demon tensed beneath her. She rubbed his neck and crooned softly to him to calm him. Still, she couldn’t calm her own thoughts. She must inform someone in a position of power. But how to do so and still keep her word to the men? The only way to protect them was to conceal their identities from the authorities.

She would not fail in her promise.

Suddenly, the fine hair at the nape of her neck rose. She felt eyes watching her. Demon shifted beneath her and whinnied softly. He felt them, too.

Glancing to the right, then the left, she squinted into the deep shadows formed by the trees. Nothing was visible in the dense darkness. Yet she sensed the other person, like a faint hum of an insect she couldn’t quite see.

She raised her chin. Well, this was Cannon land. She regularly rode these lands in the early hours of the morning. She wouldn’t run and she wouldn’t be afraid. Besides, if the observer meant mischief, he’d had plenty of opportunity to pounce already and hadn’t done so.

The small, delicate pocket pistol in her coat weighed heavy. She’d become so accustomed to carrying it at night she’d forgotten it was there. Now, she was grateful for its presence and glad she’d been taught to use it.