The Smuggler's Captive Bride (3 page)

LAURA LISTENED as the two men spoke in the taproom below. It was probably nothing, probably the first of the villagers arriving for an ale, but the events of the night had made her wary, and she slipped over to the door and laid her head against the boards while straining to hear.

The knock on the door made her jump backward, stumbling on the thin carpet that covered part of the floor.

“M’lady?”

Only Ernest called her by that title. “What?” she called, and her voice quavered.

“‘Tis Ernest, m’lady, with a surprise for ye.”

“What kind of surprise?” She feared suspicion colored her tone, but Ernest sounded as cheerful as ever.

“‘Tis something to warm yer bones.” Metal rattled against metal. “Shall I unlock the door and pass it through to ye?”

She stared in horror at the metal lock. She’d thought herself inviolate in here, and now Ernest announced he had another key. Should she fling her weight against the door and block it? She looked down at herself and at another time, she would have laughed. “Bird-bones,” Ronald had called her, and “Shorty.”

Should she start pushing furniture against the door? Her gaze swept the room. No, she wouldn’t be able to move big enough things fast enough. And why was she worried, really? As far as she could tell, Ernest had been totally trustworthy, keeping the secret she’d entrusted to him with perfect consideration. Only the events on the cliff and those voices below colored her suspicions of him.

“I’ll open it,” she called. She wanted to retain control of access to her room, and not have Ernest thinking he could enter any time. She produced the key and turned it in the lock, then opened the door a crack. Nothing more. Just a crack. She was smart enough to peek before she swung the door wide.

Ernest stood beaming, a dusty bottle in one hand and a candle in the other.

Keefe Leighton, the earl of Hamilton
loomed
beside him.

Shock held her frozen for the briefest of moments.

Had her thoughts summoned him here?

She rammed the door closed.

Before the latch clicked, he gave a shove.

She stumbled back, caught her heel on her hem, and fell backward.

Before she hit the floor, he swept her into his arms. Lifting her, he smiled ferociously, looked into her eyes, and in a voice meant to carry, he boomed, “Darling!” And he pressed his lips against hers.

For the watching innkeeper, it must have looked like romance personified.

For Laura, it was the most frightening experience of her life.

Hamilton clearly intended to impress her with his size and her lack of it, and he succeeded by supporting her whole weight against his body without apparent effort. She squirmed to no avail except to, well … to warm herself against him. It was like flint against steel; with the right movement, they would create a spark, and then a fire, and then … then she would burn for him.

No. Unacceptable.

She kicked his legs.

He chuckled as if he were amused.

She jerked her head back, to free her mouth to scream.

His hand cupped her neck, holding her in place.

Wait
. Where was his other hand? Her mind scrambled to adjust, to discover, and found he held her close with one arm under her posterior. Her posterior! She, who maintained dignity at all costs, had Hamilton holding her up by her posterior!

“I’ll put the bottle beside the door, m’lord,” Ernest said. The latch clicked.

Laura was alone with Hamilton.

She forgot about dignity and struck at his shoulders.

He didn’t seem to notice. For now the kiss which had been nothing but four lips pressed together, and a bit of a disappointment, transformed into something quite different. Something dangerous, heady, far too personal.

She tried to evade him.

His generous mouth followed with a sure instinct, blocking every little evasive maneuver and countering with maneuvers of his own. He nibbled at her lips, tiny nips of enticement that stung and yet tempted her with previously-inexperienced sensations.

Sternly she resisted. She would not play this game with him.

But when she opened her mouth to tell him, he slipped his tongue inside.

Disbelief made her catch her breath.

How dare he? How dare he savor her as if she were a delicacy for this pleasure? How dare he lure her to respond by offering softly drawing her tongue into his mouth? How dare he taste like ale and a cool night’s rain and the promise of passion fulfilled?

These tactics of his — they were unfair. And the sooner she told him, the better.

So she bit him.

He dropped her to her feet and grabbed at his mouth.

Hamilton dabbed at his tongue and looked at the blood on his finger.

Laura backed up until the edge of the desk struck her thighs.

What should she do? She could get the pistol out of the desk before Hamilton realized she had it, but why? She knew herself very well. Unless he actively threatened her life — and he might yet — she wasn’t going to shoot him. Not over a kiss which, after all, was probably nothing but an amusing moment in his life. Better to keep the gun concealed than to show it to him in the hopes of intimidating him, for she didn’t believe Hamilton intimidated easily.

Instead, she filled her lungs to scream.

Hamilton heard her inhale, reached her with a few steps.

She stared at him, waiting for his hand over her mouth.

The wretched man did nothing more than
loom
, and watch her

with wicked amusement.

Her cry for help disintegrated into a whimper.

“You can do better than that,” he said encouragingly.

“I will!” She filled her lungs again.

“Really. Go ahead. Yell all you want. No one dares interfere between a man and his wife.” He cupped her chin and leaned down to whisper, “And according to you, little liar, you are my little wife.”

Dear God.
He knew
. She could scarcely speak with dismay. “We’re not really married!”

“You told Ernest we were.” Hamilton straightened. He walked to the door, picked up the bottle of wine and returned to stand in front of her.

She didn’t know many men. She certainly knew none well, and she didn’t understand them at all. She would have thought Hamilton would be livid about her lie.

But he didn’t look angry. His expression seemed more … amused. “Imagine my surprise,” he said, “when I arrived at the inn to be informed my bride awaited me upstairs.” He swung his fist.

She ducked.

But he merely shoved the papers off the desk. They fluttered down, a flurry of white … and with an ominous, telling thud, Ronald’s diary landed on the floor.

CHAPTER FIVE

HAMILTON PLACED the bottle of wine on the desk.

Only with the greatest effort of will was Laura able to keep her gaze fixed on Hamilton’s face.

“You aren’t frightened, are you?” he asked. “Perhaps you are thinking that you’re playing a dangerous game, visiting a wealthy and popular lord on his very own lands and there claiming to be his wife.” Hamilton was making threats. His voice, always deep and mild, had slipped into a husky whisper, and his eyes gleamed like blue coals from the hottest part of the fire. Yet he didn’t seem to notice the precious leather-bound volume, lying with its ruby cover glowing on the otherwise scattered white sheets of paper.

She could see the diary out of the corner of her eye, and she didn’t know what to do. Her fingers trembled with the desire to pick up it and like a guilty child, hide it behind her back. “Claiming to be your wife made it easy for me to get accommodations far above what I could afford, and in addition, it seemed to be the best way to assure my safety here in a place where I am unknown. For a woman traveling alone, comfort and safety are of primary concern.” She thought she sounded logical, not at all anxious, and boringly prudish.

He didn’t seem bored. As if he had every right, he reached out and fingered one of the curls that hung beside her ear. “You’re not alone now. You have me.”

She lost a bit of her temper. “Even if that were true, I would not know what to do with you!”

“I’ll show you.”

She bit her lip. The only way she would escape this untenable situation and live to see justice done was to maintain control, to keep quiet. She couldn’t win against Hamilton. Not physically. Not verbally.

Right now, the most important thing she could do was keep his attention away from the diary. Moving her hands along the desk top behind her, she crept sideways away from the spilled papers.

A successful tactic, for Hamilton watched her; only her. He watched her as he swept off his black wool greatcoat. He watched her as she stared at his loose, rough clothes, more fitting to a fisherman — or a smuggler — than to a lord. His black cravat was nothing more than a scarf to warm his neck, tied with true carelessness into a twisted knot. His dark shirt laid open to the middle of his chest and drops of water clung to the curls that poked forth. The cotton stuck to his shoulders in wet patches, and steam rose in little wisps as if he were hot to the touch.

Well. She knew what he was. A wealthy lord unsatisfied with what he had. A spoiled boy seeking adventure. A man who turned to smuggling and murder. And perhaps … a despoiler of women?

If she wasn’t careful, before this night was over she would know all his sins.

No. No. She was not going worry about her own safety and virtue when she had a chance to avenge herself on Ronald’s murderer.

When she’d reached the edge of the desk, he turned and strode to the settle by the fire. Fingering her redingote, he said, “It would seem you’ve been out tonight.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s damp.” He tossed his own heavy wool greatcoat over the top of hers in what Laura thought a most suggestive manner. “And it didn’t start raining until a few moments ago.”

“I went for a walk.”

He nudged at her encrusted boots with his foot. “Through the mud?”

Cocking her head, she replied, “Much like yourself.”

“You’re a clever minx. Saucy, too.” For such a large man, he moved gracefully, and he eased himself down on the settle as if he planned to remain there a long time.

The high back of the seat protected most of him from her sight, but she could see his hands as they came forward to grasp one of his work boots, and jerk it off.

She stared. What was he doing?

“I’m removing my boots,” he answered, although she wasn’t aware of asking the question aloud. “I’m wet and I’m cold, and I’d like to spend an evening alone with my new bride — and so I informed Ernest. I’m not a man to let opportunity slide … especially when I’m long overdue for a wedding night.”

Laura couldn’t believe that Hamilton spoke to her so frankly and with such provocative intent. Then she remembered the image of the Indian tiger. The lying in wait, the stalking of the victim who, unaware, walked into the trap, the brief race, the tiger’s final success.

She tried to wet her suddenly dry throat, and tried to speak, but knew no words that would sway him. He’d waited, he’d stalked her, now her escape depended on her own speed and dexterity. She paused only long enough to scoop up the diary and thrust it in the pocket of her skirt, then allowed her panic to move her toward the door. Grasping the knob between her sweaty palms, she tried to twist it open, but her grip slipped on the cool metal.

The door was locked from the outside.

Was that part of Hamilton’s trap?

No, more likely Ernest wished to give his lord and new lady privacy. She plunged her hand into her reticule, wanting the key, wanting desperately to escape, but Hamilton’s next words brought her to a halt.

“Smugglers were plying their trade on the coast tonight. Would you know anything about that?”

The key slithered away from her shaking fingers and fell to the floor with a clink. She dropped to her knees and groped for it, grasped it, stood and tried to insert it into the lock.

“Miss Haver, I asked you a question.” Hamilton leaned around the high edge of the settle and fixed her in his gaze. “Or should I call you
my lady
?”

She tried to appear innocent, as if sneaking away from this room was no more than should be expected.

Indeed, he didn’t seem surprised. “Are you leaving?”

Show no fear
, she told herself.
Stare the tiger down
. “Yes.” Her voice squeaked, and she smiled fixedly at him to counteract any cowardly impression.

“You can do that, of course, but it will be quite embarrassing.”

Her smile faded. “Why do you say that?”

“Because I’ll be forced to chase you down and bring you back. I can’t imagine that you’ll look your best draped over my shoulder as we go through the taproom.”

“I’ll scream. Ernest won’t let you —“

“Won’t he?” She’d always thought Hamilton smug, but now he fairly glowed with it. “Ernest would not ever interfere, no matter what he heard.”

She looked at him, at the openly tigerous satisfaction on his face, and she didn’t care. She wanted to run, she
had
to run, she had to try, and she crammed the key into the lock, turned it, and slammed the door back on its hinges.