The Smuggler and the Society Bride (4 page)

He laughed, a warm, rich sound that was as engaging as his smile—drat him. ‘I thought we'd already established I'm no gentleman! But unsuitable as that might make me to accompany you, I did feel compelled to seek you out. A genteel young lady who knows how to swim is uncommon enough. 'Tis even more astounding to find one who was prepared to jeopardize her safety—and dignity—by plunging in to rescue a stranger.'

His unexpected admiration, as much as his sudden dropping
of the overly gallant tone and manner, was making it difficult for her to maintain her haughteur. ‘I would hope any good Christian would do the same,' she said.

‘You have a higher opinion of Christians than I. So why are you so disapproving of me?'

‘Of a smuggler and a law breaker?'
Who is way too attractive for my comfort,
she added silently. ‘I would have deemed you intelligent enough to have already deduced the reason,' she told him, deliberately using the most formal wording she could summon to display a superior education and breeding that was meant to put him in his place.

Instead, he laughed out loud. ‘Miss Foxe, you
are
a newcomer! If not upon that charge, then certainly upon aiding and abetting, you could convict half the congregation! Do you not remember seeing some of them among the group on the beach?'

A grudging honesty forced her to admit she'd noted that fact during services. ‘It's a dangerous risk they all run—and for what, some bits of lace?'

Once again, he paused. After looking her up and down—setting her nerves humming wherever his gaze touched—he remarked, ‘That's quite a disapproving tone for one who, if my eye for feminine finery remains true, is wearing no small bit of lace herself.'

Aghast, Honoria looked down at her pelisse. Warmer and heavier than those she'd brought from London, it was borrowed from her aunt, who was of almost the same size—and boasted a fine trimming of lace at the collar and cuffs.

With chagrin, she realized he was probably right—which made her almost as angry as the realization that, hard as she tried to will it otherwise, she was not immune to the appeal of that blue-eyed gaze or self-assured charm.

‘I shall take care not to do so in future,' she said stiffly. ‘I don't wish to enrich common brigands.'

To her further annoyance, his grin only widened. ‘Ah, Miss
Foxe, we are not at all
common!
Those who follow the sea are a hardy lot, braving wind, tide and storm, and those who do so while eluding pursuit are more resourceful still. I don't wish to sound boastful, but 'tis a fact that quite a few ladies hereabouts admire us!'

‘Ladies?' she echoed disbelievingly. ‘Now I know you are joking.'

‘Indeed, I am not!' he protested. ‘Have you not heard of the landlady in West Looe who, when the preventives came to her establishment searching for free-trader cargo, concealed a keg beneath her skirts and sat calmly knitting until the agents departed? Indeed, even the customs collector of Penzance often calls fellows in the trade “honest men in all their dealings.”'

Honoria studied his smiling face, trying to decide whether he could be telling the truth. ‘I believe you are trying to cozen me,' she said at last.

‘Absolutely not!' he affirmed. ‘Ask anyone. Free-traders are considered quite respectable fellows hereabouts. It's even said that the church spire at St Christopher's—' he gestured upward to the building she'd lately occupied ‘—had its tower built by special contribution from the local landowners, to make it high enough to serve as a navigation landmark for…mariners.'

‘The church tower?' she exclaimed. ‘Now I know you are bamming me!'

‘Since the days of running wool to Flanders, smuggling has been a part of life here. Nearly everyone is involved, either as provider or customer, from the miners who buy the cheapest spirits to the rich landowners quaffing expensive brandy. Even your aunt.'

Though she suspected as much, Honoria still didn't wish to admit it. ‘Surely not my Aunt Foxe!'

The brigand chuckled. ‘Do you think the local dressmaker provided the lace that trims those sleeves? Or the shop in town, the clarets that grace her dinner table—or the cognac that
warms her coachman on a cold evening? If the Crown truly wished to bring illegal trade to a stop, they would abolish the tariffs.'

He must have seen the confusion in her eyes, for he continued, ‘But you shouldn't think poorly of your aunt! With its proximity to France and Ireland and its abundance of natural harbours, Cornwall seems designed by the Almighty expressly to support the free-traders. One shouldn't fault the logic of folk who choose to buy the more reasonably priced goods they provide, any more than one should blame the local men who aid the smugglers. The mines are a hard life, trying to coax a living out of this rocky, wind-swept soil no easier a task, nor is extracting fish from a capricious, often dangerous sea. You shouldn't condemn men for taking an easier route to earning a few pence.'

‘It's hardly easier, when those who participate may end up on the gallows or in a watery grave,' she retorted.

He shrugged. ‘But all life's a gamble, a vessel buffeted by winds and tides beyond one's control. One cannot retreat; one must put the ship in trim and sail on.'

How does one meet disgrace and sail on?
she wondered. Easy enough for men, who ruled the world, to urge bold action!

But her brigand was halting again. ‘Ah, there are the roses. Lovely, aren't they? I'm told that, protected from the wind against this south-facing stone wall, the plants bloom earlier than anywhere else in England.'

At that moment Honoria spied them, too. With an exclamation of delight, she walked over and filled her nostrils with the rich spicy aroma of alba rose. Eyes closed, inhaling the heady scent, she was distracted for a moment from the curiously mingled sensations of attraction and avoidance inspired by the man beside her.

‘They are lovely,' she exclaimed, reluctantly turning back to him. ‘So at least this part of your tale is true. Is it the lilt of Ireland I hear in your voice?'

He made her a bow. ‘Indeed you do. 'Tis a fine ear you have, Miss Foxe—which means it matches the rest of you.'

She felt her left ear warm, while the tendril of hair just above was stirred by his breath. Other parts of her began to warm and stir as well.

Blast the man! He made resisting his seemingly unstudied charm deuced difficult—and she had been wooed by some of London's most accomplished. No wonder all the maids from Padstow to Polperro were smitten.

‘I'm convinced half of what you say is nonsense, but I'll concede you spin a good story. My brother says Irish troopers tell the best tales of anyone in the Army.'

His lazy regard sharpened. ‘Your brother is an Army lad? In which regiment?'

Belatedly realizing her error, she said vaguely, ‘Oh, I don't recall the number.' As if she didn't know to a man how many troopers Hal commanded in his company of the 11th Dragoons. ‘I've heard you were with the Army, too,' she said, trying to turn the conversation back to him.

‘Yes.'

She waited, but he said nothing more. ‘That seems an odd choice for one who is…taken with the sea,' she said finally.

‘'Tis only a temporary occupation.'

‘Until?' she probed.

‘Until I choose a more permanent one.'

He was no more forthcoming than she. Was he, too, running from something or someone? The wrath of the Irish authorities over some misdeed? The vengeance of a cuckolded husband?

Though Honoria realized she should recoil from one she
knew
to be a law-breaker, she could not sense emanating from this charming blue-eyed captain a hint of anything venal or sinister. She felt no threat at all.

But then, how much credence should she put in her senses? She'd thought she could handle Lord Barwick in the garden—and had trusted in Anthony's support and loyalty.

Mr Hawksworth jolted her out of those unpleasant reflections by asking, ‘What are your plans, Miss Foxe? Do you make your aunt a long visit? With summer just coming into Cornwall, it's particularly beautiful here.'

‘It is lovely,' she agreed, sidestepping the question. ‘By the way, how did you know I liked flowers?'

‘Oh, I have my sources,' he replied.

Had Tamsyn talked to him about her? Somehow she couldn't believe that the maid, if she were granted audience with her hero, would waste it prattling about her employer's niece. ‘A guess, then,' she countered, ‘since most females like roses. Particularly females visiting a lady who possesses one of the finest gardens in the area. Though not this particular rose,' she added, inspecting the blossom. ‘Perhaps I should take a cutting back to Foxeden. In a sheltered bed, it should thrive.'

‘Under your hands, anything would thrive.'

Honoria gave him a sharp glance. He was flirting again, which given the differences in their stations, he should not. But he persisted anyway.

She should be angry, since his forwardness was almost forcing her to snub him, something she really didn't wish to do. Nor, faced with his straightforward honesty, could she seem to hold on to her anger.

Unlike other men she'd known, he didn't appear to practice deceit. He'd freely admitted who he was. If he were a rogue, at least he was an honest one.

Which made him a refreshing change from the London dissemblers who flattered to one's face while plotting ruin behind one's back.

Not that a girl could trust any man. But would it hurt to flirt a bit?

With the question barely formed, she caught herself up short. What was she thinking? Hadn't she just forfeited the life to which she'd been born for not immediately fleeing the presence of one she'd known to be a rogue?

With her treacherous inclination toward the man, the wisest course would be to remove herself from this free-trader's insidious influence.

‘Thank you for showing me the lovely roses, Mr Hawksworth. But I mustn't delay my aunt's departure.' Nodding a farewell, she set off quickly away down the path toward the street and her aunt's waiting carriage.

As she'd feared, he simply fell into step beside her. ‘Lovely they are indeed. But not the loveliest thing I've seen today.'

‘You are a blatant charmer, Mr Hawksworth,' she tossed over her shoulder. ‘I'd advise you to save your pretty compliments for those more desirous of receiving them.'

He cocked his head at her. ‘And you are not?'

‘Indeed no, sir. I prefer unvarnished truth.'

He laughed again, a deep, warm, shiver-inducing sound. ‘Then, Miss Foxe, you are the most exceptional lady I have ever met.'

‘I hardly think so,' she replied as they exited the churchyard and regained the street. ‘Ah, Aunt Foxe,' she called to that lady, who stood chatting with the vicar beside their carriage. ‘Were you looking for me?'

Before she could step away, Mr Hawksworth snagged her sleeve and made her an elegant bow. ‘I very much enjoyed our walk. Good day, Miss Foxe.'

Politeness required that she curtsy back. ‘Mr Hawksworth,' she replied with a regal incline of the head. Conscious of his gaze resting upon her back, she stepped into the sanctuary of the carriage.

A great one she was to talk of preferring
truth,
she thought disgustedly as her aunt settled onto the seat beside her. She, who'd just identified herself to the entire community under a false name. Who'd wondered what Mr Hawksworth might be hiding when she'd not vouchsafed to any but her aunt her own reason for being here.

How much do we ever truly reveal of ourselves to others?
she wondered, finding it hard to resist the impulse to look out the window and peer back at Gabriel Hawksworth.

Strangers and villains. Was he one—or both?

S
miling, Gabe watched the shapely sway of Miss Marie Foxe as she entered her carriage. She was a little
too
deliberate about not even glancing in his direction as the vehicle set off.

He was reasonably confident she liked him. She most definitely responded to him, he thought, absently rubbing the hand that had been shocked by touching hers. She might not want to admit the attraction, but he was experienced enough to read, in the silent gasp that escaped her lips and the shudder that had passed through her body, that his touch had affected her as strongly as hers had him.

He grinned. Armed with that knowledge, he hadn't been able to refrain from provoking her a bit. It was much too enjoyable to watch her face burn as he let his gaze linger on those parts of her body he'd almost seen that day on the beach.

Parts he'd like to see much more clearly…and touch and caress and kiss.

Her face had crimsoned as if she knew what he'd been thinking. Had she been wishing it, too?

He sighed. Such contemplation set off quite a conflagration within him as well. What a shame Miss Foxe was not Sadie, the barmaid at the Gull whose amorous advances Gabe was having increasing difficulty dodging.

Not that he was at all adverse to the pleasures offered by an ample bosom and hot thighs. But living in an inn operated by a friend of Sadie's father, in a village where practically everyone was kin to everyone else, a maid who had three stout brothers to guard her virtue did not inspire a man to succumb to her blandishments. Even if she tempted him, which, in truth, she did not—particularly not since he'd had his first look at the lovely Marie Foxe. In any event, the enjoyment of a quick tumble with Sadie could not compensate for the trouble it would certainly cause.

Trouble or not, were Miss Foxe the lass making advances, he suspected he wouldn't resist.

He did ache for the sweetness of a woman, the bliss of release and the satisfaction of pleasing her in an intimate embrace. As he set off walking to the Gull, his thoughts drifted to Caitlyn back in Ireland, the knowing widow who'd been happy to ease the pain and boredom of his recovery with a little discreet dalliance.

He'd be better able to keep his unruly urges under control—and resist tempting young ladies he shouldn't even approach—if he paid her a visit. But he didn't want to risk having his brother discover him and piece together exactly what he was doing in Cornwall. Nor did he want to involve that lovely, compliant lady in what might be a damaging association if he were apprehended—or worse—during his sojourn in Cornwall.

With a smile, his thoughts returned to the lady who had been anything but compliant. He didn't know how well-connected the Foxe family might be, but from the arrogance of the niece, it was apparent she considered a smuggling captain to be vastly beneath her. Her irritation at his effrontery in approaching her was obvious in her haughty tone and elevated words, both of which, he felt sure, were designed to put him off.

They hadn't, of course. He found it amusing to reflect that unless the Foxe family were very well-connected indeed, by birth if not current occupation, he was probably her equal.
Even more gratifying was the knowledge that, hard as she'd been trying to resist him, she hadn't been able to mask the fact that she found him attractive.

What was such a lady doing in Sennlack? It was hardly the sort of place a lovely, unmarried miss would linger longer than the few days necessary to pay a call on a beloved aunt. Indeed, his memory was vague on the point, but wasn't the London social Season still in full cry?

He walked into the tap room and motioned Kessel to bring him a mug. Why, he continued to muse as he dropped into a seat, would a young lady whose family—if not the lady herself—should be concentrating on catching her a well-breeched husband, be wasting her beauty and her wiles on brigands like him, rather than in London, enticing more eligible gentlemen?

Perhaps her family, unable to afford the dowry necessary to marry her off, had sent her to be her aunt's companion.

Recalling her haughty demeanor—the attitude and bearing of someone accustomed to having her own desires catered to, rather than catering to others—Gabe had to laugh. She was hardly the meek, biddable sort able to adapt to living her life at the beck and call of some richer relation.

If she had been sent here by a family needing to reduce expenses, Gabe thought, frowning, they could have at least given her a maid to accompany her. Sennlack was a law-abiding town, but a luscious lamb like that needed some protection from the wolves of the world.

Like him, he thought with a grin.

Or had some mishap left her with no family but Miss Foxe? From some hitherto unknown place deep within him, an unprecedented sense of protectiveness seeped out.

The first day they'd met, he'd found the idea of pursuing the water sprite diverting. Tempting her with the attraction that ran so strongly between them might be more satisfying still.

Gabe sensed snobbery rather than fear in her reluctance
to associate with him; even for diversion, he'd never pursue a truly unwilling lady. If his instincts were mistaken and he was unable to melt that frosty demeanour, after a few attempts, he'd reluctantly abandon the game. Until then, however, he meant to apply his not inconsiderable charm into getting her to lower that ferocious guard and allow her true partiality to emerge.

He pictured her countenance, the silken texture of her face that begged for the touch of his finger, the large, expressive blue-grey eyes that could mirror the sky when she exclaimed over the roses or turn storm-cloud grey when she sought to depress his pretensions. The velvet look of those plump lips that seemed to just beg for a kiss—or two or three.

The desire she'd incited from first glance spiked, tightening his body and making sweat break out on his brow.

Just a kiss, of course, for she was a maid. Still, when the maid in question was the tantalizing Miss Foxe, even a simple kiss was a prize worth savouring.

Instead of chafing, as he usually did, at having to kick his heels in port until it was time to pick up the next cargo, now he had the charming Miss Foxe and an irresistible challenge to distract him. In these next few weeks, could he charm her out of her resistance…and into his arms?

 

As she'd spent the evening playing backgammon with her aunt, Honoria had tried to convince herself she had banished the dashing Captain Hawksworth from her mind. Though she was moderately successful at pretending that he was not always teasing just at the edge of her thoughts, the subject of the handsome free-trader was dragged forcibly before her the following morning when Tamsyn, who'd gone to visit her family Sunday evening, brought in her chocolate.

‘Dickin tells me you met the Hawk after services yesterday. That he even walked with you in churchyard!' she said, reverence in her voice at being accorded such a high honour.
‘Isn't he just the most handsome, charming man you've ever met?'

Knowing of the girl's obvious infatuation, Honoria might have expected to hear jealousy in her voice, and was struck to realize she heard none. Perhaps to Tamsyn, her brother's friend—a man with whom Lady Honoria Carlow might disdain to associate—seemed a personage too elevated to pay attention to a mere maid from a tiny village like Sennlack.

And perhaps Gabriel Hawksworth wasn't the only one who needed a lesson in humility.

‘Yes, he is both handsome and charming. Though I suspect his design is to bedazzle every maid in Cornwall.'

‘I figure he's already done that! He's greeted me polite enough, coming or going with Dickin, but I done never had all his attention fixed just on me. I'd probably swoon straight away!' Sighing, Tamsyn stared dreamy-eyed as she extracted Honoria's gown from the wardrobe. ‘Do…do you think he might call on you?'

The tightness in Honoria's chest eased. If the maid thought he might, her deception must be safe. Even a girl from a small Cornish village, her head filled with a romantic vision of the dashing captain, would know a common smuggler would never have the effrontery to call upon someone as far above him socially as Lady Honoria Carlow.

Though still bold, for such a famous local personage to pay his respects to ‘Miss Foxe' was not beyond possibility, particularly after having been introduced by the lady's own aunt.

Honoria was not sure whether to be relieved or alarmed by that fact.

In an urgent, low-toned discussion during the carriage ride home from church, her aunt had already assured her that her true identity was unlikely to be discovered. The conversation with Tamsyn had sealed her relief. She'd feared the rash announcement of a false name might backfire if the servants around whom she'd lived for the last month told a different tale.

However, as her aunt had reminded her, with her arrival being unexpected, Miss Foxe had not primed the servants to prepare for ‘Lady Honoria's' visit. And having learned immediately upon her arrival of the delicacy of her situation, Aunt Foxe had been careful to refer to her as a niece or kinswoman, and to address her simply as ‘my dear.'

Jerking her thoughts back to the girl's question, Honoria realized the maid's tone this time did hold a bit of an edge. Perhaps Tamsyn was not totally without hope in the captain's direction after all. Was she trying to determine whether Miss Foxe intended to set herself up as a contender for the rogue's attentions?

If so, she could speedily disabuse Tamsyn of that notion. ‘I hardly think he will call,' she replied. ‘He wished to politely welcome a newcomer, but I expect he enjoys feminine attention far too much to show partiality to any one lady.' Though she was piqued to discover she'd be a bit disappointed if the first assessment were true, she was quite certain of the second.

She'd met enough rakes in London to recognize a man who enjoyed and understood women. Gabe Hawksworth possessed that certain appreciative sparkle in his eye, along with an almost uncomfortably intense focus that, for the time it lasted, made a girl fancy he saw her as the most attractive and fascinating being in the universe.

Indeed, his gaze might be the most discerning she'd ever encountered. She shifted uncomfortably, hoping the rogue hadn't been able to tell just how attractive she found him.

Apparently she'd said the right thing, for the maid brightened. ‘Pro'bly true, miss. Well, that gives me hope to keep trying to find the courage to flirt with him.'

Tamsyn finished helping her dress and went out. Honoria followed her, pausing to sniff appreciatively at the primroses Eva given her, displayed in a crystal bowl. She'd not seen any in Foxeden's herb garden and wondered if the plant might grow somewhere on the property. Aunt Foxe would probably
enjoy having some of the fragrant blossoms in her rooms. Perhaps Honoria would go search for some.

She sighed. It wasn't as if she had any more pressing matters to attend to. But after the interlude at the beach and the excitement of meeting Mr Hawksworth, having nothing more stimulating to look forward to than picking a few posies made the day seem rather flat.

Good Heavens, why was she repining? She rallied herself immediately. Had Aunt Foxe not taken her in, she'd be at Stanegate Court, being viewed with pity or reproach by the staff and the neighbours, to say nothing of the lectures she would likely endure from Marcus each time he visited the estate. She couldn't bear to think about hearing what Mama, Papa—or her younger sister—might have to say to her.

Unexpected tears stung her eyes. How arrogantly sure she'd always been of being so much more worldly, knowledgeable and competent to look after herself than Verity! Pride goeth before a fall indeed.

No, she should sink to her knees and bless a kind Providence that she was here in Cornwall, under her aunt's benevolent eye and free to go gathering spring flowers.

After a solitary breakfast, her aunt keeping to her chamber as she usually did, Honoria went to consult the housekeeper, whom she found in the stillroom, hanging herbs to dry.

‘I wanted to gather some primroses, Mrs Dawes. Are there any on this property?'

‘I don't believe so, miss. If there are, they'd be growing down by the old stream bed near the copse. I've always thought one could plant a pretty wet garden there, with mints, foxglove, monarda and such. But the herb and kitchen gardens keep the boys busy enough, so I never tried anything there. The best place to find some, though, would be next to the brook that runs behind St Christopher's Church.'

That must have been where Eva Steavens had picked hers, Honoria thought. ‘Thank you, Mrs Dawes. If there aren't any
in the copse, perhaps I'll ride into the village and ask Father Gryffd if I might dig up a few plants from beside the brook to bring back.'

‘I'm sure he wouldn't object. It's quite an interest you've taken in the plants, miss. Made some very pretty bouquets, too. The whole household is enjoying them. Now, let me find you some trugs to hold the flowers.'

After thanking the housekeeper and fetching a cloak, gloves and pattens to keep her hem and shoes dry, Honoria set out. She had a pleasant walk down the lane past the stables, its sheltered roadbed winding between lichen-covered stone walls, but upon reaching the lower meadow where an occasionally overflowing brook left the ground soggy, found no primroses. Heading back, she decided to ask Aunt Foxe if she might borrow her mare and pay a visit to St Christopher's.

Excitement fluttered in her chest at the realization that she
could
go there without fear of unpleasantness. Although she loved the cliff walk, she had confined her explorations to that solitary trail mainly because there was little chance of encountering anyone.

But as far as this community knew, she was not the disgraced Lady Honoria Carlow, but simply Miss Marie Foxe, kinswoman to a well-respected local gentlewoman. She might walk where others gathered, encounter villagers or fishermen, or converse with the vicar or the shopkeepers, safe from the dread of discovery and embarrassment.