The Smuggler's Captive Bride (2 page)

GOD WOULD forgive her, she was sure, for she’d told her lie in pursuit of truth and justice — but she didn’t know if hearty, bald-headed Ernest ever would.

The hinges didn’t make a sound. The taproom was empty, as it had been when she left, and she didn’t understand how her luck had held. She didn’t want anyone to know she’d been out, yet at the same time, last night the townsfolk had congregated in the taproom for ale and conversation. Briefly she wondered what kept them away, why the fire burned low and place looked abandoned. Then a burst of angry shouting from the kitchen sent her fleeing up the stairs.

When no one stormed into the taproom, when no one pursued her up the stairs, she paused at the top and listened.

Ernest’s voice she could recognize, and he sounded both agitated and afraid. The other voice was a man’s, lower, less distinct, but with a tone that raised the hair on the back of her head.

Who was it? Gripping the rail in both hands, she crept down two steps and listened attentively.

Why did the stranger sound so menacing?

Heedlessly, she stepped on the edge of the third step and it creaked beneath her shoe. The conversation in the kitchen stopped and she froze.

Footsteps sounded on the floorboards and Ernest stepped into the common room.

She tried to melt into the shadows.

He stared up at her.

He saw her; she would have sworn he saw her, but he shrugged and walked back into the kitchen without any indication that he’d noted her presence.

The conversation began again, lower this time, and she sneaked to her room. Silently, she took the key from her reticule and unlocked the door. Slipping inside, she shut the dark oak panels behind her and turned the key again, protecting herself from all comers.

It was exactly as she’d left it. This was, as Ernest had told her the night she arrived, the best bedchamber in the inn and the one which had served Henry the Eighth when he’d been stranded here in a storm. Laura didn’t know if she believed that, but certainly a gigantic old-fashioned bed dominated the room. It rested on a dais in the corner, and the canopy was hung with velvet curtains which could be drawn to keep in the warmth. Gargoyles decorated every bedpost and each rail between had been sanded and polished until it shone. Ernest had proudly told her that over two thousand geese had been plucked to stuff that feather mattress. She only knew she’d been lost in it when she slept.

The fire in her fireplace burned, piled high with sweet-smelling logs. On one side was a settle, a bench whose high back protected her from drafts when she sat there. On the other stood a desk and a chair.

As she always did, she went to the desk first. The candles had burned down while she was gone, but they still illuminated the papers that were strewn in artful disarray. Beneath them rested a diary. Ronald’s diary, bound in gleaming red leather and containing so many secrets.

His diary was the one reason she knew to be in Hamilton Village now, tonight. It was the reason she’d scouted the area earlier in the day and had deducted that the cove would be the landing place.

She reassured herself the diary remained safe, then thoroughly covered it with the papers again. Ronald had taught her that. Always hide things in plain sight, he said. He’d learned that while in service to Hamilton, and she’d found it good advice.

Flushed with guilt, she opened the desk drawer and pushed her hand all the way to the back. Her fingertips touched the cold metal, and she drew out a small silver pistol.

On this matter, she ignored Ronald and his advice. She couldn’t bear to leave the deadly thing out. She’d stressed her need for privacy to Ernest and been careful to lock the door whenever she left, but possession of such a firearm made her nervous. It was Ronald’s, and until he’d been killed, she’d never imagined she would want to carry one. She knew how to use it, of course. Her father had stressed the need for self-defense while they lived in India. Once back in England, she’d believed herself inviolate. Now, with Ronald’s death, her veil of security had been ripped and she trusted no fellow being.

Strange, but her sense of being threatened by Hamilton had started long before her suspicions that he was the smuggler congealed into a certainty.

Once she had caught him contemplating her with a look she’d seen only one other time. When her parents were alive and the whole family lived in India, she’d seen a tiger concealing itself in high grass, waiting for his prey. Hamilton’s mien betrayed a tiger-like confidence in himself. He was sure he could have her if he wanted, but the time wasn’t yet right.

As the months had worn on, she sometimes thought she could sense the impatient twitch of his tail and the way he crouched, waiting to pounce.

Shivering, she replaced the pistol. Stripping off her wet redingote, she flung it over the back of the settle, then laid her gloves by the feeble flames. She slipped out of her practical boots, now covered with mud, and placed them neatly by the gloves. Her dark blue walking dress, so suitable for the city and for the occupation of seamstress, was bedraggled from the night’s ill-use, and she touched the hem with trembling fingers. She hadn’t the money to replace it; every cent she had had gone into this trip to Kent.

Still — she firmed her chin — it was worth the loss of a mere gown to bring Ronald’s murderer to justice.

Kneeling, she repaired the fire so it burned brightly again, warming her hands all the while. As her hair dried, the short strands sprang away from her head and curled in wild abandon, but she didn’t care tonight, for who would see it?

CHAPTER THREE

“SHE’S AT the Bull and Eagle.” Keefe Leighton, the earl of Hamilton, gave the boy a push. “Go back and tell the others, then return and wait in the stable. I’ll be out when I’ve got the information.”

In the dark and the rain, he couldn’t see Franklin leave, but he knew he would be obeyed. Everyone of his men were loyal to him, and only to him, but tonight something had gone wrong. As he kicked the door of the Bull and Eagle, he cursed the woman he’d seen silhouetted against the stars.

His instincts told him it was Miss Laura Haver, and where she was concerned, his instincts were very active.

What was Laura doing here on this precise night? What did she know, and how did she know it? What had her brother told her that he hadn’t been able to communicate to Hamilton?

Hamilton needed to know the answers, so he’d abandoned his men as they unloaded casks of brandy and hid them in the caves on the cliffs above the beach. Hamilton had to follow the woman.

The taproom was empty. Not even Ernest stood before the fire that sputtered on the hearth, and Hamilton’s gaze probed every corner as he scraped mud off his boots. Then the innkeeper bustled out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. “Hey, what are ye doing out tonight?” he demanded roughly. “Ye know—”

Hamilton swept his hat off and Ernest stopped in his tracks. Something that looked like horror flashed briefly across his rotund face, then his expression cleared and a slow grin built. Hurrying forward, he took Hamilton’s cloak. “M’lord. How delightful! M’lady assured me ye’d arrive.”

“M’lady?”

“Lady Hamilton arrived yesterday, but said she didn’t expect ye for several days.”

What was the man babbling about? His mother was dead, his grandmother seldom left the manor, and they were the only noblewomen Ernest called
M’lady
. In a neutral tone, Hamilton asked, “Didn’t she?”

Chuckling, Ernest slipped behind the bar and opened the tap on a cask of Hamilton’s favorite ale. Brown liquid splashed into the mug while Ernest said, “Aye, ‘twill be a surprise sure to please her. Almost as pleasant as the surprise ye’ve given us.” He winked and passed Hamilton the glass. “Marrying the young lady, and at Gretna Green, too! We’d never have thought it of ye, m’lord, but when love strikes as sudden as all that, a man’s got to leg-shackle the heifer before she’s had a chance to think.”

“My opinion exactly.” Hamilton kept his face carefully blank. He’d come in, furious and determined, and been knocked completely awry by Ernest’s babblings. Now he found he was supposed to have married — and at Gretna Green.

But to who?

Could the answer be a hoped-for stroke of luck?

Taking a chance, Hamilton used her name. “Did … Laura … mention this to many people?”

“Nay! Lady Hamilton was as discreet as ye instructed, and told only me.”

So it
was
Laura who awaited him in the bedchamber above. Of course, she didn’t realize her lord would ever truly arrive.

A slow smile curved Hamilton’s mouth.

But perhaps these events could be turned to his favor.

“So only you know this?”

“Ah …” Ernest swabbed the length of the bar with a rag. “Well, to tell ye the truth, m’lord, word seems to have got out in the village.”

“Now, how did that happen?” As if Hamilton didn’t know.

Ernest scrubbed harder and with guilty fervor. “But of course the women wondered, and I gave ‘em one little hint, and before I knew it — “ He flung up his hands in a helpless display. “Ye know women, m’lord. They’re terrible gossips.”

“Yes. There’s nothing worse than a terrible gossip.” Hamilton clutched the handle of the mug and wished he could clutch Ernest by the throat with equal fervor.

The whole village knew that their lord had supposedly married?

Miss Laura Haver had a lot to answer for, and the list grew with each passing minute. “Gossip can be the cause of a lot of trouble. Did my lady happen to tell you why I wasn’t with her or why she didn’t go on to Hamilton Court when it is so close?”

“Aye, m’lord, she told me everything.”

Ernest beamed with pride at being trusted with so many secrets, yet at the same time lines of worry marred the baby-softness of his skin and his dark gaze darted toward the kitchen as if he perceived danger within. Hamilton had never seen him look so beleaguered, and that gave him pause. In his business, he recognized the signs of a traitor, and he softly paced back to the bar and leaned on it. “Ernest, have you got a problem you’d like to discuss?”

Hamilton well knew the power of his gaze, and Ernest cowered, then dropped his rag to the floor and bent down behind the bar to pick it up. “I’ll take ye up there now, m’lord.” He bustled out from behind the bar, his shoulders hunched. “I know ye’re anxious for a reunion.”

Wanting to see how badly Ernest wanted him gone, Hamilton said, “I ought to eat first.”

“No!” Ernest turned on him, then tried to smile. “Not here. In yer room. I’ll bring up a meal to yer room.”

“Ernest …” Hamilton drew out his name in warning.

“Where’s yer valet? Is yer horse in the stable?”

Hamilton watched Ernest sweat and contemplated the situation. Ernest would have to be dealt with, but Ernest and his family had been the innkeepers at the Bull and Eagle for two hundred years.

Ernest would be waiting when Hamilton walked down the stairs once more.

Laura Haver was his first priority. She didn’t know it yet, but she was going to tell him every bit of information she knew. He would work on her. Hell, he looked forward to working on her. Decision made, Hamilton answered Ernest. “I walked over.”

“From the manor?” Ernest’s eyebrows lifted so high they would have touched his hairline, if he’d had one. “Didn’t ye know to look for m’lady here first?”

“We haven’t been speaking.” It wasn’t a lie. He could scarcely talk to m’lady when no m’lady existed.

“A tiff already?” Ernest clucked his tongue and bent down and rummaged under the bar. “But an evening visit such as this will cure that honeymonth uncertainty. Here” He handed Hamilton a dusty bottle of wine. “‘Tis one of my best. Share it with her tonight.”

Hamilton took the bottle, looked up the stairs, and for the first time allowed himself to wonder what Laura would do when he knocked on the door. She didn’t plan on him arriving to claim his “bride,” but … his vision blurred in a sudden flush of heat. He’d caught her at last. He’d have to question her about her presence here, and he knew from experience she was stubborn, bad-tempered and determined.

He might have to question her all night.

He looked at the bottle in his hand. She might need to have her tongue loosened with an application of truth medication, and if that didn’t work, he might have to seduce her — for the good of his operation, of course.

He grinned. The little fool had played right into his hands.

CHAPTER FOUR