The Smuggler and the Society Bride (13 page)

That delicate but tenacious sense of cherishing wrapped its tendrils around his heart again. Though he still yearned to possess Miss Foxe, he was drawn almost as powerfully by the fierce spirit that championed a child her own community had rejected, fearlessly rushed to attack a drunken miner abusing a lone woman and waded neck-deep to try to save a drowning stranger.

Who would rescue her?

His runaway thoughts jerked to a sudden halt. He had no
certain knowledge yet that Miss Foxe needed rescuing. But he couldn't deny that, though he'd enjoyed playing the role of dashing captain thrust upon him by the admiring local community, he wished even more to act the part for her, to be in truth a valiant knight whom
she
could depend upon, admire and appreciate.

From that realization, it was a short leap back to recalling the most satisfying way she might express that appreciation. This time, instead of reefing the sails of imagination as he had previously whenever his thoughts had blown him in this direction, he allowed his mind to fly free.

He envisioned bringing her to the cliffs on another such glorious day when the sky formed a cave of blue above them. He'd kiss her as it seemed he'd been longing to forever, arouse her with strokes and touches, then lower her onto a blanket of tiny wildflowers and make love to her, warmed by the sun, caressed by the sweep of the wind across the moors, serenaded by roar and hiss of the surf.

He imagined she would respond with all the uninhibited fierceness and passion that had sent her wading into a cold sea or chasing after an abusive drunk. A passion he yearned to ignite and inflame and enjoy.

The two were becoming inextricably linked, he realized: admiration for her fierce spirit leading to desire and desire for her deepened by his admiration. Which was quite unique, since he'd previously placed ‘admirable women' and ‘desirable women' in two entirely separate categories.

The prospect of having both meet in one woman was disconcerting. He wasn't at all sure what to do about it, but as he made his way to the ladies, one thing he did know for certain: winning such a bright soul cloaked in such a sensual body was well worth taking as much time and effort as necessary.

He crossed the beach toward them, but absorbed in their work, with the sound of his footsteps lost in the murmur of wind and shushing of waves, they didn't notice his approach.
Not wishing to startle them, he halted a short distance away and said, ‘Forgive me for interrupting!
Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments
.'

Miss Foxe looked up from her sketch and smiled. ‘Very prettily said. Shakespeare, wasn't it?'

‘Yes, from the sonnets,' he replied, wondering, as he seated himself on a broad rock behind her, if she recognized the rest of quote—and how it described the passionate, unshakeable love of two kindred spirits.

Setting down her sketchbook and charcoal, she said, ‘Did you study with the Bard in one hand and the ship's wheel in the other?'

He smiled at the image of trying to read a book while conning a ship through a rough sea. ‘No, in the Army, actually. There wasn't much to do in winter quarters in Portugal. Some of the lads had brought books, which I borrowed.' He chuckled. ‘An action that would have astonished some of the harried clerics who attempted to cane some knowledge into me as a boy.'

She nodded an agreement. ‘As a child, I hadn't much use for books either, being much more interested in horses, dogs and tagging after my brother. Oh, I read a few of the more fantastical novels in London, along with the daily newspapers and
La Belle Assemblée.
Aunt Foxe, bless her, even ordered some fashion periodicals to be sent here.'

Her smile faltered. ‘Though I haven't much use for the latest fashions now. But Aunt has coaxed me into reading some of her favourite novels and poetry, which to my surprise, I am enjoying. Not as much, I suspect, as Eva will, once she is able to read them.'

She glanced back at the child, to discover her busily plying a stick of charcoal over a blank page in the sketchbook, her face a study in concentration. When she gazed back up and saw them watching her, she dropped both charcoal and sketchbook with a little inarticulate moan of distress.

Springing to her feet, she backed away, hands up as if to
ward off a blow, shaking her head, her expression a study in remorse and apology. After throwing him a look of consternation over what Eva's response told them about how the child had been treated, Miss Foxe spoke to her gently, reassuring the girl that everything was all right and that she was welcome to borrow the materials.

While Miss Foxe soothed the child, Gabe picked up the charcoal and righted the sketchbook, which had fallen face-down on the sand. Turning the book over, he drew in a sharp breath.

‘Miss Foxe, look at this!'

She glanced over at the page and gasped. ‘Why—that's me!'

‘And an excellent likeness it is,' Gabe confirmed, staring in awe and disbelief at the sketch the child had jotted off in the short time the two had been chatting. A head-and-shoulders portrait of Miss Foxe in profile, it caught perfectly the outline of her nose, the curve of her lips and cheek, the arch of her brows, even the hint of the lace at her throat and the little tendrils tugged loose from her coiffure by the wind.

‘That's amazing,' she breathed, wonder in her face. ‘Eva, your sketch is very, very good!'

For a moment the girl remained still, as if not believing Honoria's words. Then, her face still entreating, she went off in a flurry of hand signals.

‘What is she telling you?' Gabe asked.

‘I'm not altogether sure, but I think she's saying she is sorry and that she loves the beach, because there she can draw in the sand as much as she likes. If I got that right, Eva?'

Still apparently not convinced she wasn't going to be punished, the girl nodded tentatively.

The idea for a new, even more attractive venture began shaping in Gabe's mind. ‘Do you like drawing, Eva?'

The child's vigorous affirmative nod was his answer.

‘Do you like to draw the beach and the coves, as well as pretty ladies like Miss Foxe?'

The girl gestured with her whole arm, encompassing both Miss Foxe and the rest of the scenery.

Turning to that lady, he said, ‘If Eva can create drawings this skilful of the cliffs and sea, the coves and harbours, churches and fishing boats, she could produce something probably much more saleable than woolen mittens. Many of my Army comrades used to purchase sketches just like those in Spain and Portugal, to bring back as souvenirs for their wives and sweethearts. I wager that ladies and gentlemen of leisure in town, or at least at their country estates, would appreciate just as much having skilful renderings of the wild Cornish coast to decorate their parlours.'

Miss Foxe immediately reflected his excitement. ‘I've seen such drawings times out of mind in the homes of family and friends! Sketches in colour might sell even better—especially of garden scenes or flowers. Eva,' she said, turning back to the child, ‘would you like to make pictures with paints or pastels?'

When the child stared at her uncertainly, she exclaimed, ‘Heavens, what am I asking her? She's probably never seen a paintbox nor a set of pastel chalks in her life! But we shall change that at once. Perhaps Aunt Foxe has some, and if not, I'll order them from London.'

Turning back to Eva, she took the girl's hands and said, ‘Eva, you make wonderful pictures. I'd like you to make lots more of them. Would that please you?'

A slow smile started on the child's face. As if finally daring to believe what Miss Foxe was telling her, she bobbed her head enthusiastically, then launched herself at Miss Foxe's waist and hugged her.

Miss Foxe returned the child's embrace just as fiercely. Though happy for them both, Gabe was feeling a bit envious of Eva, held tightly against Miss Foxe's bosom, when that lady turned on him a smile so much more radiant and intense than any he'd coaxed from her previously that he forgot everything in a dizzying wave of surprise and delight.

‘Thank you for driving us here, Mr Hawksworth—else we might never have discovered Eva's talent. Do you truly think we could sell her drawings?'

Still riding that breaker of delight, he would have agreed to anything she proposed. ‘I've seen comrades buy much less skilful drawings of places not nearly as attractive as this coastline—and ladies not nearly as beautiful.'

Blushing a little, Miss Foxe clapped her hands in sheer excitement. ‘If only we might create a market for Eva's sketches! I have no notion of what price such an item might fetch, but unlike knitted goods, which the girls will need time to learn how to perfect, Eva could have drawings ready for sale at once! Again, thank you so much!'

Staring into her radiant face, Gabe felt just a bit like that perfect knight. A layer of satisfaction, warm and sweet as honey, spread itself over the heady sensual pull that had drawn them together from the first. Gabe couldn't help returning her grateful, confident smile—and wishing this magical moment might last forever.

But the seaman in him had already subconsciously noted the change in the wind and the way the shadows in the cove had lengthened. Though the afternoons were longer now as summer approached, this one was nearing its end.

Reluctantly he said, ‘As delightful as this interlude has been, I fear we shall have to leave. It must be fast upon four of the clock.'

Miss Foxe looked around her quickly. ‘Heavens, you are right! The sun is so low, nearly the whole cove is in shadow. We must return at once, or my aunt will worry. I can hardly wait to tell her about Eva's skill and all our plans!'

Giving the child one more impulsive hug, she turned to Gabe, her arms still loosely about the girl. ‘We both thank you for today, don't we, Eva?'

Burrowing back into the safety of Miss Foxe's arms, the child nodded and made another hand movement.

‘She says “thank you”, too,' Miss Foxe said softly.

‘My pleasure, ladies—to you both.'

And so they gathered up the sketching supplies and climbed back up the narrow track to the gig while the sun waned and the clouds in the western sky began to burnish gold and purple. Before he helped Miss Foxe up into the vehicle, though, Gabe stayed her with a touch.

‘One more thing before we go.' Pointing to the sketchbook he was carrying, he said, ‘Might I keep your drawing, Miss Eva? With your permission, of course, Miss Foxe.'

Eva nodded gravely, while, blushing slightly, Miss Foxe murmured, ‘If you wish.'

I'd rather keep the original,
he thought, nearly voicing the comment aloud. To distract himself from blurting out something equally unwise, after helping the ladies into the gig, he occupied himself with carefully removing the drawing from the sketchbook. Then, handing the book up to Eva, he climbed up to the bench, released the brake and gave the horses the office to start.

 

An hour later, Gabe arrived back at the inn. Miss Foxe was safely on her horse headed back to Foxeden, and Eva had been escorted to the track leading to her house. Gabe ordered a mug of ale and took a chair, idly sipping at the brew while his mind filled with speculation about cargoes and trading routes and contacts with legitimate businesses in Bristol, Gloucester, Bath and London.

It was more important than ever now that he go to London, so he might check at galleries and print dealers, see what was being bought and sold, at what prices. If Miss Foxe's aunt didn't possess any, he needed to purchase pastels and oils for Eva to try. Miss Foxe was right; since coloured sketches and portraits would probably sell better and certainly command a better price than charcoal sketches, it would be prudent to discover if she could produce works in those mediums with the same natural skill so strikingly present in her charcoal sketch.

He also needed to check into dry-goods dealers, drapers, dressers and modistes who might be interested in offering an assortment of knitted gloves, scarves, hats and reticules of superior weave and design.

And he wished to find a frame for the sketch of a certain young lady that now lay neatly rolled on the table before him.

Smiling, he spread it out, feeling somehow closer to her, as if by holding this brief image of her likeness, he possessed some small part of her. Lovely as the silhouette was, if Eva proved to be as talented with a brush as she was with charcoal, Gabe intended to have her do a portrait of Miss Foxe as he remembered her from this afternoon—framed by cliffs and blue sky, smiling for him.

He seemed compelled by some driving need to try to inspire more dazzling smiles from Miss Marie Foxe. Smiles that, along with her enthusiasm, unquenchable spirit and loveliness, were burning her likeness into his mind and heart. Maybe forever.

As a man who'd always resisted being compelled to stay in any one place doing any one thing for very long, that thought ought to terrify him, send him speeding to weigh anchor on the
Gull
and sail out of Cornwall as quickly as his father's controlling hand had propelled him from Ireland.

But somehow, this time, he did not feel inclined to run.

H
onoria galloped back to Foxeden, arriving sufficiently in advance of sunset that neither the staff nor her aunt appeared to have grown uneasy about her absence. She was relieved her aunt would be calm when they met at dinner, for after her interlude with Mr Hawksworth and Eva, Honoria was unsettled enough for both of them.

She went up to her room to prepare for dinner, then changing her mind, sent Tamsyn off with a request that her aunt meet her in the library before the meal, where they might talk privately. Honoria didn't want the whole staff buzzing about her plans for Eva before she determined whether or not they were feasible. After finishing her evening toilette, Honoria repaired to the library to wait for her aunt.

Matrons of a more conventional turn of mind might view with disfavour the idea of dealing with such a child, or dismiss the entire project out of hand. But Honoria knew Aunt Foxe would not prejudge Eva or her skill, but thoughtfully consider before giving her opinion on the concept's value and probability of success.

Anxious as she was to find a way to guarantee a decent income for the Steavens family and make it possible for Laurie to escape the protection of the unsavoury John Kessel, Honoria
knew that was not the true reason behind her excess of nerves—but her fraught interlude with a mesmerizing free-trader.

For a moment, she wished the exceptional sketch Eva had produced this afternoon had been a likeness of the captain, so she might have something tangible to remember him by.

Though what could she do with it, if she had obtained one? Hide it in her room, pretending it was just a pleasant example of Eva's skill? Trying to deny the powerful mix of admiration, desire, curiosity and longing Captain Hawksworth inspired in her?

She hardly needed a portrait of him to prompt her memory or induce sighs, so indelibly seared into her being were his image and actions.

She could scarcely touch her palm against the door handle without a reminiscent shiver—and would probably never be able to eat an orange again without heat suffusing her body. Even envisioning the fruit now without its peel led her to inappropriate, erotic thoughts.

How fortunate that Eva had accompanied them that afternoon, she thought as she entered the library. She'd been attracted to the captain from the first—but never with such powerful intensity as today. Had he kissed her after eating that orange from her palm, she would not have objected. Nay, had she not been so conscious of Eva's curious gaze upon them, she would have surrendered to the compelling urge to throw her arms around him and pull him close, ravenous to feel his arms around her, his hard, lean body next to hers.

Ravenous for more. She'd burned to explore other, more hidden places—those manly parts she'd seen often enough when swimming with her brother, who'd never troubled to hide his nudity when they were both children. Parts he hadn't begun masking from her sight until he'd become a young man and caught her staring in fascination at that which had once been small and dangly and was now long and thick.

The thought of exploring Captain Hawksworth's manly
parts made her flushed and a little dizzy. Since she and her mother were not close enough to comfortably discuss intimate issues, she'd been relieved that the shortness of her engagement had spared her receiving from that lady what would doubtless have been an awkward and embarrassing description of the wedding night. Being country-raised, she knew well enough what the coupling of animals entailed and could extrapolate how the human species accomplished the same.

During that brief engagement, she had given some thought to what married life with Anthony would entail. Only a few years her senior, he was generally accounted a handsome, well-made man, and she'd speculated with a mild sense of titillation about exploring his body, having him explore hers. The flurry of excitement and anticipation such thoughts engendered were similar to the sensations she experienced when he kissed her.

The feelings engendered by thinking about kissing the captain were a hundredfold more intense. More acute and breathtaking than the heightened sense of pleasure she'd felt on a few occasions before her engagement, when she'd allowed one of the more dashing bucks to kiss her, the naughtiness of her behaviour and the need to conceal it adding spice to the encounter.

In short, her response to the captain was so markedly more intense than anything she'd known previously that it seemed her knowledge of passion fell into two halves: everything she'd experienced before coming to Cornwall, and the sensations he inspired in her.

If the touch of his hand on hers, of his lips against her palm, worked upon her so strongly, she wasn't sure kissing him was wise. She very much feared that any control she intended to maintain over her subsequent behaviour would disintegrate within seconds—if she indeed survived the initial brush of his lips against her own without fainting or having her rapidly accelerating heart simply beat its way out of her chest, like a sea osprey taking flight.

Just thinking about kissing him made her heartbeat race. As she looked at her palm, halfway expecting to find some trace of him engraved there, her hand tickled and burned. She pressed it against the cool surface of the library table with a sigh.

What was she to do about Captain Hawksworth?

If she feared she could not behave with modesty and decorum around him, so rapidly was her curiosity about, admiration for and desire for his touch and taste growing, prudence dictated that she avoid him.

But she didn't want to avoid him.

Every sense within her that spoke of life and joy and adventure and desire shrieked to be with him again, to experience to the fullest everything his daring, seemingly kindred spirit could offer her. The resulting din of demand was drowning out the calm voice of reason so effectively that she had to struggle more and more to hear its whisper.

Plain and simple, she wanted him. She wanted to touch and kiss and fondle him. She wanted him to touch and kiss and fondle her—and possess her, in every sense of the word.

It was madness.

What difference would it make?
the seductive, cunning little voice whispered.
You are ruined already, with a reputation that can never be restored.

True,
the acerbic voice of reason answered. But a ruined reputation damaged only oneself. Giving her body to Captain Hawksworth might result in a child who would be condemned for life by the taint of being born a bastard.

Had the captain laboured under such a stain? It might explain how a man whose speech, dress and such details as he confided about his background, which all suggested a noble up-bringing, had ended up at the helm of a Cornish free-trader.

No, disgrace imparted enough of a disadvantage; never would she knowingly extend the damage by inflicting such a burden upon an innocent child.

So honour dictated she avoid him, no matter how much her heart and spirit, as well as her body, clamoured in protest.

Unless he was not only as mesmerized by her as she was by him, but was prepared to make her an offer.

And if he should offer marriage, how would she respond?

Marriage with a free-trader, about whom she knew virtually nothing other than that he had been well educated, served in the Army, was handsome, alluring and seemingly possessed of strong principles of which she approved?

How could she even consider marrying a man who was so wholly a stranger?

But he's not a stranger,
a little voice said.
In him, you are coming home.

There you have it!
the rational part of her replied in triumph. Could there be anything more illogical than this instinctive, insidious sense of connection to a man she knew so little? She must wean herself from it!

But logical or not, she didn't want to.

Enough, she would think no more on it! Exasperated, she began to pace the room, from the hearth to the window and back to the bookcases. Halting, she ran her restless fingers along the shelves, straightening and arranging, although in her aunt's well-ordered household there was scarcely anything to straighten or arrange.

She did find one volume whose title seemed to indicate it had been misfiled, tucked as it was among tomes about botany and science. Pulling out a book entitled
Aristotle's Masterpiece,
she was about to return it to the section containing the works of the Greek philosophers, when the subtitle caught her eye.

‘The Secrets of Nature Displayed,' she read off the frontis-piece. Idly flipping it open, she realized with shock that the book had nothing at all to do with classical philosophy. Instead, beneath her scandalized and very interested gaze appeared a detailed description of the appearance and function of those very manly parts she'd just been contemplating.

A well-brought-up, genteel young maiden like Verity would have slammed the book shut. Fascinated, titillated, Honoria read on.

In precise detail, the book described each part of the masculine apparatus, how it worked and how its performance led to pleasurable coupling. She lingered particularly over the description of that most essential part called the ‘yard', a long, smooth cylindrical shaft, sensitive to its tip, which the writer described as ‘soft and of most exquisite feeling'.

There followed an equally exhaustive discussion of a woman's parts. Hers began to throb as she read feverishly on, noting those places subject to arousal like a man's, places that that ‘close with pleasure upon the yard of the man'. Then, in the poem designed, the writer said, to stir the appetites to a more joyous coupling, the poet urged the lady to take ‘his rudder' in her ‘bold hand…like a try'd and skilful pilot' and ‘guide his bark in love's dark channel, where it shall dance…'

Oh, how she burned to follow that admonition and feel the captain's ‘tall pinnacle' within her, ready to ‘ride safe at anchor and unlade the freight'.

Though no fire burned on the grate, the room seemed over-warm. Fanning herself, Honoria was turning the page to the next section when an amused voice interrupted her.

‘Find some instructive reading, my dear?'

Startled, Honoria dropped the book with a thump and looked up in consternation into the grave face and smiling eyes of Aunt Foxe.

Her aunt righted the volume and closed it carefully. ‘A fine, plainly written explanation of the intimate workings of the body. How I wish such information, so readily available to men, could be disseminated as widely to girls! It would make the passage from maiden to matron much less mysterious and frightening for many a bride. Did you find it illuminating?'

‘Y-yes,' Honoria stammered, knowing her face must be as scarlet as the hangings at the library windows.

Her aunt chuckled. ‘You mustn't feel missish talking with me about it, child. Of course you are curious about such things! You were about to be married, after all; you must have thought about them. Or did Anne ever—'

‘No,' Honoria interrupted hastily. ‘Mama never said anything.'

‘I don't doubt it,' Aunt Foxe said drily. ‘How are girls supposed to know what to expect, pray, if no one explains? Though perhaps the best explanation is a demonstration by a loving bridegroom.' Her aunt arched an eyebrow. ‘And since I'm still unmarried, you're probably wondering how I came to possess such a book.'

‘I wouldn't be so presumptuous,' Honoria said.

Aunt Foxe smiled. ‘No, I suppose you wouldn't. Such a kind and discreet child, for all your passion and spirit. But I think perhaps it's time I told you the whole story. Sit down, child.'

Still more than a little unsettled at being discovered mired in lust, Honoria followed her aunt to the sofa. For a long moment, that lady stared silently out the window toward the distant vista of the sea. Honoria began to think Aunt Foxe had reconsidered revealing anything, when at last Aunt turned back to face her.

‘Many years ago, while your mother was still a girl, I made my debut. My portion being one of the largest of any maiden then on the Marriage Mart—though it wasn't yet called that— I was much sought-after. But I longed for a man who wanted more than my dowry and a connection to my prominent family. I wanted someone who would appreciate the unconventional spirit in me, the longing for something different and challenging that had always driven me, despite my mother's best efforts to exterminate it.' She paused and looked at Honoria. ‘Sound familiar?'

‘Why, yes!' Honoria cried, surprised to find how much her aunt's feelings had mirrored her own.

‘One day as my chaperone and I were headed for Bond
Street, another vehicle tried to pass ours too closely and locked wheels. Over the protest of my governess, I climbed out to watch as they were disentangled. While the respective coachmen shouted, each blaming the other, a handsome young man in a naval uniform stepped over, called one of the grooms to assist him in disengaging them, then ordered the coachmen to proceed, as they were blocking the street. Since I was standing practically in his path when he walked out of the road, he bowed and I curtsyed.'

‘And you thanked him for his intervention?'

Aunt Foxe laughed. ‘I would have—but after that quick bow, he walked right past me!'

‘How disappointing!' Honoria said, expecting a much more exciting denouement.

‘I quite agreed,' Aunt Foxe said, a twinkle in her eye. ‘So I followed him into a haberdashery and thanked him there. At first he was hesitant to speak with a young lady of Quality to whom he had not been introduced.' Her aunt gave a roguish smile. ‘You may not credit it, seeing me now, but in those days I was rather strikingly attractive and possessed of a certain charm.'

‘Indeed, I can easily believe it!' Honoria said.

‘I persuaded him not only to make my acquaintance, but to accompany me and my chaperone for some ices, where, with some skilful questioning, I discovered he had just been made captain of his first ship.'