The Smuggler Wore Silk (7 page)

He saw her breath catch, saw her breasts rise and fall with it.

“What would they do in the night? In the dark?” she whispered.

“They’d
feel
. There’s no sight in the dark, only texture, sound. Sensation.” He could all but taste her, cool and sweet. He leaned in so that his lips hovered just above hers. “Close your eyes,” he breathed. When she did as he asked, her lashes fluttering down to curtain her eyes, he lost the battle with himself.

__________

G
RACE WAITED, ANTICIPATION
trapping her breath. He did nothing, only stood there, a hairbreadth from her. Heat radiated from him, mingled with the humid warmth of the air that dampened her skin. What was he doing? Silent, still, blind, she waited.

“The smuggler and his woman would listen to the night around them,” he whispered. His warm lips touched her ear so that she drew a quick, uneven breath. “Tell me what they would hear.”

Her hearing sharpened, focused. She listened, and heard the stirring of the flowers. Just the merest sigh on the air. Had she ever heard that sigh before? Had she ever noticed that the leaves in the trees quivered and rustled, even in the still air?

“The flowers, the plants, whispering in the night. A cricket.” The insect chirped once, twice, the sound a strident call to his mate. “Laughter and voices and music echoing from the house.”

“What would they smell?” His voice was so low she strained to hear. “Tell me what scents float upon the air.”

Breathing deep, Grace took in all the scents of the garden. “Lavender and verbena. The faintest scent of roses. Earth. Summer. Night.”

Over it all, around it all, was the earl. His scent, man and outdoors. His breathing, in and out, rhythmic. His breath fluttered warm over her lips.

Grace tipped up her own mouth. Would he kiss her? He would. He
must
. Her eyes still closed, her body straining, she waited. Blind anticipation warred with the need to see him. Just when she could bear the awareness no longer, she felt it. The tiniest tickle against her lips. The scent of lavender engulfed her as soft little petals stroked, then trailed across her jaw and down to her collarbone, leaving a line of sensitive skin in its wake.

“I—”

“Hush. Just wait. Just feel.”

The petals traced the neckline of her gown, grazing the soft swell of breast that rose above the muslin. A quiver ran through her, set her muscles trembling. Someone moaned softly. Shocked, Grace realized the sound came from her. She started to flutter her lashes open.

But she was stopped when his mouth finally,
finally
touched hers. Firm, warm. He touched her nowhere but her lips. Yet still she felt his nearness, his body skimming just beyond hers. She opened for him, couldn’t help but open for him as light poured through her. Rising on her toes, she met his mouth and let need overwhelm her.

When he drew back, her breath was ragged, her heart pumping. For one final moment she kept her eyes closed and savored the brightness within her. Then finally, she opened her eyes and met the intense focus of his gaze. Deep, powerful, his eyes searched her face.

“Alas, fair lady. The night must end for our smuggler and his consort.”

“So it must.” She struggled to focus beyond the rush of blood and pounding of her heart. “And the smuggler must relinquish his plunder.”

“Ah, but that is the beauty of kisses. They cannot be returned and must remain forever with the receiver to be treasured.” He rubbed a thumb over her bottom lip.

“You may keep the kisses, my lord.” Her lips curved under his thumb at his foolishly charming words.

But reality intruded. She looked toward the bright squares of light that marked the windows of Lady Hammond’s manor house. “We should return to the assembly before our absence is noted.”

She hated saying it, hated the dread gathering in her belly, but there was little choice. She accepted his offered arm as they wound through the garden and onto the terrace.

Through the open door, Grace could see Lord Cannon standing near the punch bowl, numerous people ranged around him. Even as she watched the group shifted, changed. Anxiety clutched in her stomach as she saw who remained beside him. Michael Wargell and his stunningly beautiful wife.

Her mind raced as they entered the house and crossed the room. She didn’t know what to say to the man who had irreparably compromised and jilted her. Nor to the wife he chose over her.

“Where did you go?” her uncle demanded as they approached the group.

“We took a turn about the room, then the terrace,” the earl answered glibly. “It’s terribly warm in here, is it not?”

“Lord Langford,” her uncle barked, impatient as always with polite pleasantries. “May I present Mr. Michael Wargell and Mrs. Clotilde Wargell.”

Grace could only stare at the floor. He was here. Worse,
she
was here. Grace had managed to avoid them for years, even in Cannon Manor where they visited so often. Now the moment had arrived and it was in front of the Earl of Langford. In front of the entire village.

“Lord Langford, a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Michael’s voice was unchanged to Grace’s ear. It was smooth and pleasant, the tone polite.

She frowned. His voice didn’t give her the thrill it once had. She stole a quick glance and saw that his face had changed even if his voice had not. Lines fanned out from his eyes and the hair at his temple was gray instead of the same rich black as the rest. Yet he was still handsome. Her heart constricted with a fierce ache.

“Lord Langford.” Clotilde Wargell’s sugary tone swirled through the hot, scented air. “We’ve only recently returned from London. I found the Season to be such a whirl I could barely keep up. Did you enjoy London?”

The pleasantries began. Fashion, theater, scandal, weather. No one directed a comment to Grace, nor did she join the conversation. She had nothing to contribute, anyway. She’d probably blurt out something ridiculous such as,
Why did you jilt me, Michael?
But she supposed she didn’t need to ask. The answer was standing before her, in the exquisite form of Clotilde Wargell.

“Oh, Gracie wouldn’t go to London,” Mrs. Wargell said, pulling Grace into the conversation. “She’s too attached to Devon, aren’t you?”

Grace looked up to find Mrs. Wargell’s cunning gold eyes on her.

“Er, yes, I enjoy the countryside.”

“And your gardens, no doubt,” Michael added. His dark eyes were neither warm nor cold when they looked at her. Pain sliced through her at the absolute disinterest in his expression.

“You spend hours out in the gardens, don’t you, Gracie?” Mrs. Wargell shuddered delicately. “I wouldn’t dream of mucking about in the dirt as you do. That’s why we employ gardeners.”

“No need to employ someone when Gracie’s right here,” Lord Cannon countered.

“Cannon Manor’s gardens are singularly impressive,” the Earl of Langford noted. “They must be full of delights, Miss Hannah.”

His blue, blue eyes met hers and sent heat shimmering through her. She ignored it. Michael Wargell stood only feet from her. She needed no other reminder why she should stay away from the earl.

“A lady gardener,” the earl mused. “You have so many hidden talents, Miss Hannah.” A knowing smile flirted with his lips.

“It’s just a garden.” She needed to leave. Soon, before she tumbled deeper into trouble. She looked away, searched for the door. It wasn’t far. The Earl of Langford’s eyes laughed into hers when she looked back, as though he knew she hoped to escape. She flushed.

“I look forward to seeing your garden in its entirety.” The earl brought her hand to his lips. His hand was warm covering hers, his breath fluttered over her skin. Sensation spread from her fingertips through her body to center low in her belly. She knew what those lips felt like on hers, had tasted them only a short while before.

Caught in his spell, she waited, breathless, everyone forgotten. When the earl let her hand slide away from his, the guests, the colors and sounds of the room remained unfocused.

“Until later, then, Miss Hannah.” The earl sent her one final seductive smile before he left them.

As he walked away, she wondered if she were dreaming. Then reality rushed back in startling clarity as Sir Richard Elliott, her uncle’s bull-like crony, barreled into their circle. His dainty wife, Lady Marie Elliott, followed a step behind, murmuring her apologies.

“I’ve hired a new steward, Wargell.” Sir Richard’s broad body angled toward Michael.

“Have you? Is he well qualified?” Michael’s eyes lit with interest.

“He came highly recommended by members of the Agrarian Society.” Sir Richard clapped a hand on Michael’s shoulder and they broke away from the group.

Lord Cannon watched the other men move to a quiet corner then looked at Grace. His eyes were cold and the message was clear:
Do not embarrass me.
Then he, too, left their circle, leaving her alone with Clotilde Wargell and Lady Elliott.

“Well, well.” Mrs. Wargell’s silky murmur was barely audible over the music. “Aren’t you up to your old tricks, Gracie.”

“I’m not up to anything, Mrs. Wargell,” she snapped. It was past time to leave the assembly.

“I would disagree, given the earl’s eyes on you. Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Elliott?”

“I’m sorry, Clotilde.” Lady Elliott turned her sad dark eyes on Grace. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh, I think we all understand. We’re all of us women, and all of us experienced.” Mrs. Wargell’s smile turned malicious. “Aren’t we, Gracie?”

“
Clotilde!
” Lady Elliott’s shocked whisper matched her shocked eyes. “You’re being improper.”

“Less improper than Grace was all those years ago.”

“
Still
.” The word was a hiss.

“What do you want me to say, Mrs. Wargell? That you won?” Weary of the assembly, of pretending, Grace sighed. She wanted to rub her temple and massage away the headache brewing there. But she held back. To do so would only show more weakness. “Fine. You won. Michael married you and I’m a ruined spinster. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Grace.” Lady Elliott’s hand reached for hers, squeezed.

“I believe it’s time for me to leave.” She patted Lady Elliott’s hand. “I’ll see you soon.”

Willing back the tears that clogged her throat and stung her eyes, Grace crossed the room. When she reached the door to the hall, she looked back once into the room. The Earl of Langford was watching her, his eyes hooded, his gaze unreadable.

Grace straightened her spine, lifted her chin and let out a slow, controlled breath. She might be retreating, but she refused to look like it.

G
RACE THREW A
leg over Demon’s broad back and adjusted her men’s riding boots. The miserable drizzle that had started as she left the ball continued, soaking the dark countryside as she and Demon rode to the smugglers’ quarries.

Nothing remained of the burning tears and sharp ache she’d felt hearing Clotilde Wargell’s spiteful words. Studying the white limestone cliffs that concealed the smuggling caves, Grace pushed the lingering wistfulness aside. Those old dreams no longer had any place in her life. She had found her position in the community and was content.

If loneliness occasionally weighed her down no one need know but herself. If the Earl of Langford had dispelled the loneliness for a few minutes, that knowledge, too, was only for her.

The taste of him was still with her, as was the energy that had rushed through her. Her skin hummed where his fingers had touched her, leaving an imprint on both her body and her memory. She’d lost control of herself, and there was no justification for her inappropriate behavior.

She flipped up the collar of the homespun coat she wore and tugged her cap lower. It was little protection against the spitting clouds. The cold rain coupled with the light breeze made the warm September evening feel more like November.

Rainwater slicked the cliff path and muddied the earth beneath Demon’s hooves. They picked their way across the rough ground, each conscious of where the earth dropped away and the surf pounding below. A false step, a stumble, and she and Demon would be over the edge and into nothingness.

She saw the small gap in the rock formations that marked the start of the narrow path leading to the quarries. The cliffs became less sheer here, but still too dangerous for a horse to navigate. She bypassed the path and turned inland instead, traveling another few hundred yards.

At the edge of a wood squatted an abandoned cottage. She tethered Demon in the lean-to and hurried toward the cliff path as quickly as the slippery ground would allow. The rocky slope was treacherous. Its crags and boulders extended stony peaks to slow her descent. She scrabbled down the path, digging her fingers into jagged fissures to steady herself.

When she reached the outcropping that protected the entrance to the quarries, she ducked inside. Crouching in the low tunnel, she pulled the cap from her head and fumbled it into her coat pocket with numb hands.

It was dark at the mouth of the quarry, but she could see light ahead and hear voices and laughter. Bent nearly double, she started down the natural tunnel. The passageway widened, the roof elevated, and finally she stepped into a large, rough-hewn room. The white limestone walls glowed with the light of numerous tallow candles. Their flames illuminated the hewn arches and columns supporting the roof, throwing ancient tool marks into relief.

She breathed deep and let the cool cave air fill her lungs. It should have been damp air, but the quarries and the natural passageways that connected them had always been dry. Perfect for the storage of smuggled goods.

For the first time in hours she began to relax. In the caves, she knew her purpose and how to conduct herself. In this place—with these people—she belonged.

She strode through the cave. Around her, men stacked the casks and crates and barrels that had arrived earlier in the night, dividing and separating them for later delivery. Their laughter and greetings echoed off the walls.

“A bit late, aren’t you, Miss Gracie,” one man called out.

“Only a little,” she said with a wave in his direction.

“We thought you weren’t going to make it to count the shipment,” another said.

“Word has it our Miss Gracie fancied herself up and went to a grand ball tonight.”

Her stomach clutched, then relaxed again when she saw his grin.

“Aye, where’s the fancy dress?” That sentiment echoed around the room, accompanied by good-natured laughter.

“Our Miss Gracie doesn’t need a fancy dress, do you, my lovely?”

She laughed as she recognized the voice. “I prefer my breeches, Jack.”

“I thought as much.” Jack Blackbourn leaned against the wall near the small trunk that housed her ledgers, quills and ink. “I wouldn’t recognize you in a fancy dress.”

“I scarcely recognized myself.” She crouched down and opened the trunk to remove the ledger for the night’s shipment. “The shipment came early. I wasn’t expecting it until tomorrow night.”

“Aye. It’s lucky our goods were ready to go out. The lugger’s waiting in the cove.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the Channel.

“I’m surprised to see you here.” She looked up from the ledger. “Not thinking of taking up smuggling again, are you? I promised Anna I wouldn’t let you back in.”

“Oh, we all three know I’ll be keeping my hand in, don’t we?”

“I’d say we do, but I don’t want your wife after me. So scat.” She flapped the ledger at him, without any intention of persuading him to leave. “I’ve a shipment to tally.”

Setting the ledger beside the first smuggled trunk, she kneeled on the rough stone floor and lifted the lid. Silks. Undamaged, she noted. Emerald and ruby and primrose and cerulean shone in the light of the torches.

“Gracie.”

“Hmm?” Burying her arms to the elbows, she rifled through the soft, smooth fabric and counted the bolts.

“Rumor is there’s a bit more to our shipments than what’s accounted for in your ledger there.” He crouched beside her and laid his hand on her arm, the light and insistent pressure forcing her to meet his gaze.

“What?” Dread sent her stomach plummeting. She didn’t need to ask. She knew. Jack—ever-laughing, ever-smiling Jack—was serious. His eyes were dark, his blunt features tight and drawn.

He waved across the cave. John the blacksmith responded with a sharp nod, crossing the room to crouch beside her.

“We’ve found another folio, Miss Gracie.” John’s voice was low, barely audible above the voices and laughter of the other men. Apprehension was etched into the already deep lines of his face. With his graying hair and beard wet with rain, he looked older than his years.

“When?” Grace pushed to her feet, smuggled silks forgotten, and both men followed suit.

“Just this evening.” John worried the cap clutched in his workingman’s fingers. “’Twas a man from over Sidmouth way that found the folio. The lid on the trunk weren’t on tight so it wouldn’t latch proper. It were right on top, Miss Gracie. Not even hidden under the lace this time.”

“Did the Sidmouth man question it being there?”

“I don’t think so. I took it right away, said it was your ledger for counting the goods and you must have forgot it there. He just said as how you’d be glad to have it back and then closed the trunk lid proper.” His big hands had wrinkled and crushed his cap.

“Where is it?”

“I have it here. I knew you’d be by to check the shipment.” He reached into his coat and retrieved the folio.

It looked the same as before, she noted dimly. The smooth leather cover and wide thong were identical to the first folio. Grace snatched it from John and slid it inside her own coat.

“Thank you, John.”

“Aye. When you need help, Miss Gracie, you tell us.” Face grim, he rejoined his comrades.

“What will you do with the folio?” Jack murmured beside Grace.

“I don’t know.” She gripped his shoulder. “What do
you
think I should do?”

“I don’t know who to trust, my lovely.” He ran a hand through his thick hair, pulling it out of its queue. “Whoever the traitor is must know the location of this quarry.”

“I know.” She looked around, saw farmers and fishermen and laborers working side by side. Friends. All of them. Her stomach sank. “There are two dozen smugglers that use this quarry. Nearly all of them are here tonight.”

“There are more that know of these quarries,” he said. “A few of the villagers. Lord Cannon.”

“Uncle Thaddeus?” Eyes wide, she whipped her head toward Jack. “He knows about the caves?”

“Aye. As do Lord Paget and Sir Richard Elliott.”

“How?”

“Years ago, when I was first smuggling, they used these quarries for some type of club they’d formed.” Rubbing a hand across his jaw, Jack narrowed his eyes in thought. “That would have been in around ninety-four or ninety-five.”

“What type of club?”

“A Hellfire Club.”

Her mouth fell open. “But Hellfire Clubs were for rakes and drunkards. I’ve heard rumors of debauchery and other indecent behavior, even sacrifices. Uncle Thaddeus—”

“Oh, their club was quite tame, all in all. A lot of drinking and women but none of the sacrifices and the like. They established it when they were at university together. Later, they’d meet in these caves before going down to the village or over Seaton way for a bit of sport.” He turned amused eyes to Grace. “I already had a little smuggling business going then. I stored my smuggled cargo here, and they would help themselves to a bottle or two and leave a bit of blunt in payment.”

“Ever a businessman, weren’t you, Jack?”

“Aye.” He winked. “They disbanded their foolish club a few years later and I lost a bit of my income, though I made it up in other ways.”

“I had no idea Uncle Thaddeus was a member of a Hellfire Club,” she murmured.

“It’s old scandal.” Jack surveyed the room. “Others know of the quarries, of course. The families of these smugglers, for example. Men share a lot of information with their spouses.”

The statement sent her stomach quivering. “Michael Wargell knows of the quarries,” she whispered. Heat flooded her cheeks.

“Does he now?” Jack studied her face.

“I—I brought him here when we were—”

“Don’t explain, my lovely.” His voice was soft, his eyes full of compassion. “I know it hurts you.”

“Not anymore. Not really.” She couldn’t look at him, so she pulled open the ledgers and ran a finger down the page. But her eyes were blind and registered nothing.

“If I were your uncle—if I had any kind of power—I’d have forced him to marry you.”

“It’s better we didn’t marry.” The letters on the page swam even as the lump formed in her throat. “We’d be miserable now.”

“But your reputation would be intact and you wouldn’t be alone. Come to think on it, I should have killed him,” he spat out viciously.

“Jack!” The ferocity of his tone shocked a laugh out of her.

“Well. Someone should have done something,” he said, mouth set.

Gratitude bloomed within her, warm and bright. “Jack.”

“Aye?”

“I’ve never said thank you for letting me in.”

“With the smugglers?” He turned eyes bright with curiosity on her. “I’d say you do more for us by divvying up the blunt than we do for you.”

“Not just with the smugglers, though you did give me something useful to do.” She smiled. “Well, I suppose ‘useful’ would depend on what side of the law you’re on.”

“That it would.” He laughed.

“But I meant letting me into it all. Smuggling, the pub, the villagers. Anna. Your family.”

“’Twas the least I could do after you saved my life.”

“It was only a musket ball.”

“I thought I was done for, my lovely, until you came around.” He grinned at her. “Aside from that, your big sad eyes reminded me of the sea. The sea will always call to the sailor.”

Yes. This is where she belonged. She bent her head to accommodate the few inches between them and kissed his weathered cheek.

“Thank you, Jack.”

“A kiss from my lovely lass.” His grin flashed, causing the lines around his eyes to fan out in the most comforting way. “Don’t tell Anna.”

“It’s our secret.” She sent him a saucy smile and a wink, just to please him.

“Always lucky, that Jack Blackbourn,” someone called out. Answering guffaws reminded her they weren’t alone.

She looked up and caught John the blacksmith’s eye. The merriment within her faded.

“Who could the traitor be, Jack? Who do we trust?”

“I’d say you can’t go to the magistrate, as that’s Lord Paget and he knows about the quarries.”

“You don’t really think Lord Paget—”

“Our list of suspects is short.”

“It is.” She sighed and nodded toward the others. “Could it be one of our men?”

“I don’t know. It bears thinking on.”

“I’ll finish today’s tally, then.” She pulled her coat closer around her and felt the weight of the folio. “Then I’ll hide this folio with the first and we’ll decide what to do.”

“Aye. I’ll see what I can learn in the pub. If something’s afoot, the lads that come down to the pub might know.”

“Be circumspect.”

“I don’t know what that word means. But for you, my lovely lass, I’ll do it.” With a wave, he sauntered across the cavern and through the tunnel. She heard his whistle echo as he left the quarries and disappeared into the night.

As she compared the contents of the trunks and barrels with her ledgers and ticked them off, her mind turned over the possibilities. The traitor was unlikely to be any of the smugglers, though it wasn’t impossible. They all had access to the quarries, but not the information. Lowborn smugglers wouldn’t have the contacts in London that would allow them an avenue to the information. Unless, of course, someone from London had approached the smugglers in the first place.

She let her gaze roam the room. Misery and guilt weighed heavy on her heart. These men were her friends. Her comrades. They’d accepted her without a qualm when Jack brought her in. She’d found comfort and friendship and, more, they helped to fill the dark, lonely place inside her.

And they would be the perfect scapegoat if the folio were discovered. So she would ensure that none of them were taken up for treason by finding the traitor who was using her friends.

Turning back to the ledgers, she finished the count of goods in the smuggling shipment. When she left the cave, she called out to the men as she departed and wished them luck on the water. A moment later, she was in the darkened mouth of the tunnel.

She tested for rain before exiting the cave. The unpleasant drizzle had ceased, leaving the air cool and moist. She picked her way up the slope to the cliff top above.

A shift in the shadows at the edge of the cliffs caught her attention. She waited, watching the jagged rocks, heart pounding. The shadow shifted again and the figure of a man rose up from the cliff edge.