The Smuggler Wore Silk (11 page)

“Miss Gracie! Miss Gracie!” The panicked call had her jerking away from the earl. She spun on her heel and saw Binkle sprinting across an expanse of green lawn. Alarm and fear lanced through her. Hiking up her skirts, the earl forgotten, she started to run toward Binkle.

When they came abreast of each other, Binkle reversed direction and began running beside her, heading back toward the manor.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Fanny, Jem’s wife. The babe’s coming.”

“It’s too early,” she gasped, lengthening her stride. “Who’s with her?”

“Jem is up Seaton way today, so she’s alone.”

A vision of Jem as Grace had last seen him flashed through her mind, his face grave and eyes worried as they discussed treason over a pint of ale in the Jolly Smuggler. That was quickly replaced by a vision of pretty young Fanny, heavy with child and full of joy. She prayed both mother and child would live.

“Who brought the message?”

“Farmer Harris’s son heard Fanny screaming and went in. Apparently it’s been going on for hours and Fanny couldn’t get out to tell anyone.”

“Have Demon saddled,” she said as they approached Cannon Manor. “I’m going for my supplies.”

“I’ve already ordered Demon brought around,” Binkle puffed out. “Cook is gathering your supplies.”

“Good. She’ll know what I need.”

“Bring my horse as well,” spoke a deep voice at her side.

She whipped her head around. Disbelief rushed through her. The earl ran beside her, barely winded, his trim coat unbuttoned to ease movement. She’d forgotten he was there.

He’d have to wait. She couldn’t manage him now. She didn’t have the time.

“I’m in a hurry,” she bit out, dashing across Cannon Manor’s front drive. Her foot skidded on gravel and nearly sent her tumbling.

Demon waited in front of the mounting block, his reins held by a young groom. Cook stood beside them. Grace saw her satchel already secured to Demon’s saddle. Thankful for the woman’s quick work, she mounted the stallion’s broad back and pulled her skirts up to midcalf. There wasn’t time to change into breeches, nor to ride sidesaddle at a sedate pace. She needed speed, proprieties be damned.

Demon pranced sideways, tail high. His muscles bunched beneath her and she knew he sensed her urgency.

“Get my mount,” the earl commanded to the groom. The young man nodded and sped toward the stables.

“It’s not necessary for you to come, and I don’t have time to wait for you,” Grace said. Besides, the Earl of Langford wouldn’t concern himself with a fisherman’s wife about to birth a child.

She wheeled Demon around, kicked him into a gallop and flew across the countryside.

A weak plume of smoke drifted from the chimney of the thatched fisherman’s cottage. Outbuildings dotted the nearby landscape and the surrounding trees were just beginning to edge from green to gold with occasional hints of red.

It would have been picturesque but for the agonized scream that marred the air.

Grace slid from the saddle almost before Demon stopped moving. Sparing only a moment to secure the puffing horse and retrieve her satchel, she ran to the cottage door and threw it open.

A woman lay on a pallet on the floor in front of the fireplace. Only a few coals burned in the hearth and they cast a red glow over the mound of belly that rose high into the air. Fanny’s head was thrown back as she screamed again, her pretty, narrow features contorted in pain.

Grace kneeled on the packed dirt floor beside the young woman, her hands already evaluating the hard belly.

“Fanny, it’s Grace.”

“Gracie? Oh, thank God you’re here,” Fanny sobbed. Her cheeks were swollen from crying. “It’s too early. The babe’s too early.”

“How long have the pains been going on?”

“Hours,” Fanny panted. “They started about midmorning, just twinges. I let them go for a while, then they suddenly became horrible. Just horrible.” A contraction seized her and she gripped Grace’s hand so tightly that bone rubbed on bone. Fanny’s body tensed, writhed, bowed up. She tried valiantly to pant through it before she simply gave in to the urge to scream. When it was over she fell back against the pallet, gasping.

“I’m so tired, Gracie,” Fanny whimpered. “So tired.”

“I know,” Grace answered, brushing her fingers over the woman’s soft, young cheek. “I’ll do what I can.” She knelt between Fanny’s bent legs, performed the examination.

Her heart sank.
Please don’t let them die.

“You’re ready, Fanny,” she said, smoothing the girl’s hair back from her perspiring face. “But the babe is in the wrong position.”

“What does that mean?” Fanny’s deep brown eyes clouded. The girl clutched at Grace’s hand.

“I have to turn him.”

“Oh, God.” Tears spilled, tracking two long rivulets down Fanny’s cheeks.

Too pale, thought Grace. Too pale, too tired. She was going to lose them both.

The door to the cottage crashed open behind her.
Thank God!
Help.

Whirling, she saw the Earl of Langford filling the doorway, blocking out the pretty fall day beyond. Grim eyes fastened on the laboring woman, then his face set and his jaw firmed. Shocked, Grace stared at the handsome aristocrat as he began to unbutton his coat.

He’d followed her. Even after he had an opportunity to escape, when he had a legitimate excuse not to come, he’d followed her.

F
ANNY MOANED BEHIND
her, snapping Grace into action. She placed her hand on the girl’s belly. It rippled, tightened, and Fanny began to cry again.

The earl crouched beside her. He had removed his coat, cravat and vest, and was dressed now only in his shirt. “What can I do?”

“I need my things,” was her only response. She squeezed Fanny’s hand and stood, moving away from the laboring woman so she could speak to the earl without Fanny hearing them. He followed, stepping close.

“What’s wrong?” he whispered.

“Just go, my lord.” He would want to, she thought, moving to her bag and opening it. She set aside a sharp knife, then a needle. Linens to soak up blood and fluid.

“I’m staying.” His hand shot out and gripped her wrist, forcing her to stop the preparations. His voice was low, his lips nearly touching her ear. “Tell me what I can do.”

She searched his eyes. So blue, so intense. He couldn’t possibly understand the miracle and terror of childbirth, or the life-and-death battle about to be waged. He couldn’t possibly care.

A feeble sob sounded behind her. There was no choice. She needed help.

“The babe is breech, my lord. She won’t be able to birth him unless I can turn him.” She looked up, met his eyes, and knew he saw the hopelessness in her face. “I need you to hold her down. It’s going to hurt. Badly.”

He nodded his understanding as yet another cry was wrenched from the girl.

“She’s going to fight you. She’ll scream,” Grace whispered, her voice breaking on the word. “But it has to be done or they’ll both die. They may die anyway.” She searched his eyes. They were steely with resolve. She hoped that resolve wouldn’t crumble. “I need you. I can’t do this alone,” she said, placing her hand on his arm.

“You won’t be alone.” He turned to look at Fanny. “She won’t be alone.”

The earl went to Fanny and kneeled beside her, his back to Grace. She heard him murmur something but couldn’t understand the words, only the tone. Calm, gentle. It didn’t seem possible that the earl would be kneeling in a thatched cottage in his fashionable clothes, trying to soothe a laboring woman.

Yet, there he was.

Grace drew a deep breath and gathered herself for the agony of the task ahead. Straightening her shoulders, she went to Fanny’s other side and knelt. She reached out to place her hand over the bare mound of Fanny’s belly.

But a hand was already there.

His. Long, tanned fingers rubbed slow circles over Fanny’s belly, even over the silvery marks where the skin had stretched tightly over the growing babe. His other hand held one of Fanny’s, her work-roughened fingers entwined with his aristocratic ones.

Rocked to the core, Grace’s gaze flew to the earl’s face. Their eyes met and held. Filled with an unbearable ache as sweet as it was painful, Grace placed her hand on top of the earl’s. Beneath their hands, Fanny’s unborn babe shifted and her belly rippled, as if welcoming their joined touch.

The earl blinked like a man coming from some dark place into the light. Astonishment flickered in his eyes. Grace took an unsteady breath as tears blurred her vision. Still, through them she saw the awe on his face.

“I think the babe wants out,” he said. Fanny moaned, and he leaned forward so that his lips were near the laboring woman’s ear. “Let’s bring your beautiful baby into the world, Fanny.”

Fanny’s eyes fastened on the earl’s face. She squeezed his hand. “Yes,” Fanny whispered, the sound harsh as it made its way between cracked lips.

Knowing what was to come, Grace wanted desperately to weep. But she kept her voice steady and strong. “Get behind her, my lord,” she said.

Her eyes met the earl’s once more, and something fierce and powerful passed between them. He nodded, his face grim with purpose, and she positioned herself to turn the babe.

Fanny did scream. She screamed until she was hoarse, the sounds inhuman, primal and so full of suffering Grace’s heart ached. The earl did as Grace had asked, holding the girl down, forcing her to bear the pain. Yet his words were gentle, his fingers light as he wiped her brow with a wet cloth.

An hour later a girl was born. Weak, tired and undersized, but healthy. As her tiny blue body was pulled from her mother’s womb and her first cry rent the air, Grace met the earl’s eyes over Fanny’s exhausted body. There was relief in those eyes, as well as elation.

Grace washed the baby girl, wrapped her in clean linens and laid her in her mother’s arms. Fanny cried once more, but the tears spilled from eyes full of joy.

Minutes later, as the sun’s gold rays slanted through the cottage windows, the door burst open and Jem hurtled into the room.

“Fanny!” he gasped, stumbling over to the pallet. He froze when his gaze fell on the tiny bundle in his wife’s arms.

“You have a daughter,” Fanny whispered, exhaustion still etched on her face.

“It’s too early. Are you—is she—”

Grace stepped in, laid a hand on Jem’s shoulder. “She is healthy, Jem. Healthy and beautiful.”

“Congratulations, Papa,” the earl said, placing his hand on Jem’s other shoulder.

“Thank God.” Jem dropped to his knees before his wife and daughter.

“No,” Fanny said, reaching out for her husband. “Thank Gracie and his lordship.”

Grace let them have a moment, watched the new father’s wonder as he gently touched the downy head of his daughter and tangled hair of his wife. The light that shone from Jem nearly blinded her.

“You’re crying, Grace. Again.”

“What?” She jerked as the earl’s thumb brushed her cheekbone. She felt the hot tears now and could taste the salt of them on her lips.

“You cried during the entire birth. Now you’re crying again.”

“Oh. Well.” She stepped back, swiping at the tears. When she looked up, the earl’s gaze thankfully rested on the new parents.

“What will you call her, Fanny?” the earl asked.

“Grace. And—what was your mother’s name, my lord?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Grace Elizabeth, then.”

The earl looked as exhausted as Fanny. The lines on his face were deep. Blood coated his hands and smeared the front of his shirt. Dirt covered the knees of his expensive breeches.

A delighted grin stretched across his face.

__________

"S
TARKWEATHER,
I
’LL BE
in the library. I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Julian pulled the door shut and stalked to the low side table that held the crystal brandy decanter and glasses. He poured a short glass, tossed it back and poured another. This one he swirled in the glass.

He looked down. He was still wearing the clothes he’d worn during the birth of Fanny’s daughter. The fabric was marred by dried blood and would never come clean. But he considered the loss of the expensive clothes more than worth the life of that little girl. It had been a wonder to see that blue body turn pink with life as she took her first breath. Grace Elizabeth. A beautiful, healthy baby brought into this world by a mother’s pain and suffering and the knowledge of a competent healer. A healer full of compassion.

Grace hadn’t even known she’d cried with Fanny while she turned the babe, silent tears tracking down her cheeks as her bloodied hands did their miracle work.

In that moment, Julian knew he had never seen a more beautiful woman than Grace Hannah. Whether she was a smuggler, a traitor or an innocent, the fact remained that she had struggled to bring life into the world and had saved both mother and child.

He was a fraud. He should have confronted Grace in the garden of Cannon Manor. Before he kissed her. He knew, he
knew
, that once he kissed her he’d lose his control and the opportunity. But he couldn’t help himself. She was nothing but temptation. He couldn’t explain why he was drawn to her, even to himself.

His hand fisted around the brandy glass. If she were innocent, he would stand by his decision, do the honorable thing and marry her.

He looked down at his bloodied shirt. Marriage meant children. Travers children. It seemed the ghost of his father hovered over his shoulder, telling him that he would raise his child as a Travers, as his father had, and his grandfather before him.

No.
Any child of his might be a Travers, but his child would not witness his father beating his mother, or assaulting a maid, or cavorting with his latest mistress.

His child would never once doubt whether he was loved.

Julian left the library, climbing the stairs to reach the carved doors of the earl’s chambers. He had yet to sleep in these rooms, instead retiring every evening to a nondescript guest chamber instead of the soft four-poster he had inherited from his father.

Nymphs cavorted across the oak door that marked the earl’s chambers. He reached for the elaborate handle and pulled it open.

Ghosts hovered in this room.

The window curtains were drawn, giving the appearance of dusk. The gloom was suffocating, and Julian tugged at his cravat to relieve the sensation. His gaze fell on the bed. His father had commissioned the artist shortly before his mother’s death. Heavy crimson curtains hung from the tester. The carved posts were nude women in a lewd parody of a classical pose. Long hair swirled around breasts and thighs. Hips were cocked in a suggestive stance and lips were quirked in seductive smiles.

Fury and hate and shame roiled in his belly, a volatile mixture that strained his control. His fingers tightened on the brandy glass. With a sharp, angry snap he set the glass on a side table and strode purposefully to the bed.

Taking a deep breath, he clutched at the crimson curtains. The fabric was smooth and thick and rich in his hands. Seized by frenzy, he ripped the curtains from the side of the bed frame. Nearly running in his haste, he tore the hangings from the foot of the bed as well, then the remaining side.

Leaving the crimson damask in a pool of fabric on the floor, he moved to the heavy brown window curtains. One sharp wrench and those, too, lay on the floor. Bright, cleansing sunlight streamed into the bedroom, forcing him to squint against the glare. But it was a welcome glare that dispelled the hovering ghosts.

It didn’t matter how the room was redecorated, as long as it bore no trace of his father. He would empty it of all remnants of the previous earl and his predilection for infidelity. And violence.

A series of impatient tugs on the bellpull had Starkweather running into the room.

“Get an ax,” Julian commanded before the butler could catch his breath.

“An ax, my lord?”

“Now.”

While he waited for the butler to return with the tool, Julian stripped off his bloodied shirt so that he stood bare-chested in the bright sunlight. He began to pace the room, impatient to begin. But the door that joined the earl’s suite to the countess’s suite caught his eye.

Grace would soon be his countess. Most couples slept in separate bedchambers. She would need a bed, a space to call her own. Something rose in this chest. It lodged there, clawing and howling.

Not that room. The room belonged to his mother.

Julian turned from the countess’s chamber when Starkweather handed him a long, wood-handled ax. He took the instrument from the butler and stepped to the bed.

Each nude woman held the curtain frame with one upraised arm, the other arm resting provocatively on a hip. Julian reared back then swung the ax with as much force as he could muster, striking the first post at the juncture of arm and frame. He struck a second time, then a third until the frame was separated from the post. With a grunt of satisfaction he turned his attention to the juncture of post and footboard and began hacking at the woman’s ankles. The wooden post fell to the floor with the dull thunk of wood striking wood.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Starkweather standing in the doorway, mouth agape. Julian ignored him, and attacked the second post, the third, then the fourth until the tester crashed to the floor.

When the wooden frame was nothing but splinters he focused on the mattress. He pulled it from the bed with a strength born of rage and began to strike at it with the ax. In seconds the ax broke through the fabric and began to shred the feathers beneath.

He could see his father’s face in his mind, the cold eyes and cruel smile. His chest ached with a dreadful emotion he couldn’t name, filling his body and mind. He swung at the mattress again and again, trying to ease that horrible ache.

But it didn’t. When he flung the ax aside the ache was still there, the pressure of it nearly unbearable.

“Master Julian,” came a shocked whisper from the doorway. Julian turned and saw that Mrs. Starkweather had joined her husband in the doorway. Her face was so full of pity, her voice so full of sympathy, that he thought he might shatter.

“Burn it all,” Julian rasped. “Better yet, give everything combustible to the poorer tenants for firewood. Let them use the fabric and feathers to make pillows. I don’t care. Just make damn sure that this room is completely empty by tomorrow morning. I don’t want a single tapestry or table or curtain left in this house.”

The ache pressed down on him so that he couldn’t draw a breath. He needed to get out. He pushed past the Starkweathers and through the house until he reached the courtyard. He doubled over, hands on his knees, and forced himself to breathe deep.

To just breathe.