The Smuggler's Captive Bride (9 page)

Ernest recovered himself enough to croak, “‘Ye and yer papers! It’s all a cover, isn’t it, this smuggling? Ye’re spying fer the Frenchies, ye are.”

Laura made it across the taproom to the doorway by the kitchen in less time than it took the unknown man to laugh.

“What if I am?” he said. “You’ve been well-paid for your assistance.”

A spy. A French spy. Jean.

Laura leaned against the casement and listened, her heart pounding, her breath short.

“I’m an honest, God-fearing Englishman, I am, and I never agreed to help a Frenchie.”

“Honest?” Jean mocked. “Smuggling’s not honest.”

“In this part of the world, it is.” Ernest sounded firm and sure of himself. “My father did it, my grandfather did it, and my great-grandfather did it, but we never stooped to helping the Frenchies.”

“You have now.”

Laura heard the click of a steel and her hand went to her purse where her own pistol rested.

“Hey!” Ernest’s voice rose an octave. “There’s no need fer that!”

“We’re going to go upstairs now, get your lord, and when we’re done with him, Hamilton will give me my information without a qualm.”

With horror, Laura remembered the torture that had scarred her brother’s body. This unknown man, this smuggler, this traitor, intended to do the same to Hamilton.

“M’lord never help ye.” Ernest sounded as scornful as possible for a man facing a gun. “A Hamilton’s honor is above all things.”

“Normally I would agree with you,” the unknown said. “But Hamilton has a lady in that room with him. Her name is Laura Haver, and while I doubt they’re truly married—”

“They wouldn’t lie to me!”

“—I’ve seen how Hamilton looks at her.” The unknown chortled until he snorted. “To keep her safe, he’ll cooperate with me.”

Shocked, Laura stepped back. She recognized that laugh.

Farley
. It was that little worm, Sir Farley Malthus, the one who ushered her into Hamilton’s London office with such obsequious grace while sneering at her desire to find her brother’s assassin.

He’d taken her aside one day and told her how ludicrous she made herself, pretending that a mere woman could influence the grand workings of English government. At the time, she’d hated him for it, hated him even more for his insinuation she sought an illicit union with Hamilton, but never she imagined such a fussy little gossip could be a traitor and a murderer.

Again she touched the pistol in the purse.

But no, that wouldn’t do. She only had one shot, and Hamilton had told her assistance waited in the stable. Quickly and quietly, she made her way to the outer door and eased it open. As she stepped outside, she heard voices in the taproom. Swinging the door almost closed, she fled toward the stable.

Mud clung to her skirt and sucked at her boots.

Ronald’s diary hit her knee; the book came flying out of her pocket.

She didn’t stop. The diary was a memento of her brother — but her brother would have told her to rescue the living.

So she ran harder, right into the dark stable. Pausing, she listened, but she heard nothing behind her. She had escaped without being spotted.

She groped her way along the stalls. A man waited within, Hamilton said, but how would she know if it was the
right
man? Might not Farley also have stationed someone in here to take care of any unwanted intruders?

She sighed, her breath a frightened exhale.

Without warning, something human and undersized hit her from the side.

She tumbled over. Smacked the wall.

Small hands reached for her throat.

She knocked them aside.

A boy’s voice demanded, “Where’s m’lord? Tell me what happened to m’lord.”

When she didn’t respond at once, the boy’s hands grappled with her again.

“Ye’re a woman!” He sounded disgusted, now. “Are ye that woman he saw on the cliffs?”

“Are you the man he left stationed here?” she countered, wondering what to think.

“What’s it to ye?”

Of course, a boy to carry messages would be better than using a man, and it would keep him out of harm’s way, too. “If you are,” she said cautiously, “he might be in need of help.”

The boy sprang off her. “What have ye done with m’lord?”

“I haven’t done anything with him, but there are two men in the inn who will hurt him if you don’t get assistance.”

“I’ll save him myself.”

She snagged him as he started to run out the door. “Hamilton sent me down here with specific instructions that you go for help.” She lied, but that child should not foolishly run into danger. Not when she was here to be the fool instead. “He wants me to stay.”

“Ye?” The boy sounded scornful. “Why would he want a girl when he could have me?”

“Because I have a gun.”

The lad paused. “That’s a choice reason. Do ye know how to shoot it?”

“Indeed I do.”

“How do I know ye’re telling the truth?”

Laura committed herself to Hamilton with her next words. “Because I work for the Seamaster.”

The boy’s indrawn breath told her of his awe, and he answered, “That’s good enough fer me.” Like a barn owl swooping toward the open air, he was out the open door.

When Laura stepped outside she couldn’t even see his form as he raced across the heath and into the dark.

Looking up at the inn, she could see the light from the bedchamber where Hamilton lay, tied and naked.

This wasn’t what she’d imagined when she tricked him.

No. Not at all.

For a mere moment, she covered her face with her gloved hand.

Then she tucked her chin into her chest and marched toward the door of the inn.

For all her knowledge of firearms and for all of her practice with the targets, she’d never shot a man — and feared to do so now. She feared it all: going upstairs, confronting two men bent on murder, seeing the accusation in Hamilton’s eyes.

Because of her, Ronald’s murderer might go unpunished. Because of her, he might murder again. Because of her, this time it would be Hamilton — and she couldn’t stand to lose both men she loved to such wickedness.

Crossing the yard, she swerved at the last moment and looked in the windows. The taproom was empty.

What stupidity, to love a lord when she was nothing but a seamstress and a commoner. He’d made it clear he welcomed her into his bed, but she wasn’t stupid enough to believe his talk of marriage.

The door still stood off the latch, just as she’d left it when she fled, and she stuck her head in. Still nothing moved. Stepping inside, she left the door ajar for the help which would arrive.

But would it arrive soon enough?

Now she would go upstairs, and save Hamilton’s life.

And if he wanted her to remain with him as a mistress, she’d do it. She had only enough strength to leave him once. And she’d made it no farther than the stable.

If she didn’t save him … well, she knew herself well enough to recognize all the signs of rampaging infatuation.

She
would
save him … or die at his side.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

WHEN MEASURED against such a resolution, Laura’s fears seemed petty and small.

Light spilled down from upstairs and she listened, straining her ears.

Voices sounded up there. Men’s voices.

Moving like a wraith, she crossed the floor.

Farley’s voice rang out. “Untie him!”

Grasping the hand rail, Laura climbed the stairs and moved down the hall.

“I’m trying. I’m trying.” Ernest sounded surly. “M’lady’s quite a woman. These knots are well-done.”

“You don’t have to tell me that.” Hamilton was cool and almost amused. “I’ve been struggling to free myself ever since the first time I saw her. I doubt I’ll ever get free.”

Laura paused, warmed beyond reason, and waited just beyond of the square of light outside the chamber door.

“Cut the damned things!” Farley said. “We haven’t got time for this nonsense.”

“Haven’t got a knife,” Ernest answered. “Do you want me to go down to the kitchen and get one?”

“No!” Farley snapped. “Here Use this one.”

Laura heard the clatter as Farley threw his blade.

Someone cursed. Ernest, she supposed, and she listened as he scrambled around on the floor.

Farley warned, “Don’t imagine you can take me out with a puny thing like that knife.”

Moving a step at a time through the shadows in the hall, Laura adjusted her position, angling to see in the door.

Ernest held the knife. Sweat glistened on his forehead. He bowed toward the bed. “Beg pardon, m’lord. I’ve got to climb on the bed with ye. Beg pardon.” He wiped his forehead on his sleeve.

If Laura had been in the mood to grin, she would have been grinning at Ernest’s discomfort.

“Yes, yes,” Farley said. “Do it!”

Ernest moved toward the bed and out of Laura’s view.

“I don’t see why you’re in such a hurry, Farley,” Hamilton drawled. “It’s not far to the smuggled goods. I can give you directions …”

“You’ll take me yourself. That’s the only way your men will give me what is mine.”

Hamilton continued as if Farley hadn’t spoken. “And I wish you’d stop waving that gun around. What harm do you think I can do to you? My God, man, I’m naked and trussed like a Christmas goose.”

Laura winced at the image, then scooted far enough that she had a view of Farley.

He stood with his feet planted firmly, his pistol held in both hands. He kept the barrel steady and pointed straight at the bed as he said, “I don’t trust you, Hamilton. You always have a confederate hidden somewhere or another.”

Laura recognized her cue. Pistol aimed at Farley’s heart, she stepped in the door, cocked her weapon and said, “So he does.”

Ernest knelt on the bed, sawing on Hamilton’s bonds.

Both men swung to face her, horror etched on their faces.

Farley swung his pistol toward her.

Hamilton roared, “Farley, no!”

At Hamilton’s shout, Laura jumped.

But her father had trained her well.

She pulled the trigger. And missed.

No, not quite.

Blood spurted from Farley’s thigh. His leg collapsed. He fell sideways.

Yet quick as a cobra, he aimed at her again.

Laura threw herself on the floor and rolled.

With another roar, Hamilton ripped himself free of his bounds.

He smashed into Farley.

Farley fired.

Laura flinched. Expected the burning flash that would end her life…

Hamilton knocked Farley’s pistol out of his hand. With the same smooth motion, his fist slammed Farley under the chin.

The back of Farley’s skull bounced against the floor.

Catching him by the cravat, Hamilton flung him toward Ernest, who caught him and rested his knee on Farley’s windpipe until, out of air, Farley ceased clawing at the landlord.

No pain
. Laura was fine.

She tried to lift her head to tell Hamilton, but he gave her no chance.

“Laura!” His shout made her ears ring, but his hands turned her over as gently as if she were a fragile china piece.

“I’m fine. Really.” She was, although she’d hit the floor so hard she’d knocked the breath out of her lungs and bruised her elbows.

But the bullet hadn’t struck her. That’s what mattered. The bullet hadn’t struck her.

Hamilton’s sharp eyes observed her. He took a long breath, half-closed his eyes, and muttered, “My life is no longer my own.”

“What?” she asked. What kind of comment was that?

Hamilton shook his head as if everything should be all too obvious to her. Then he snapped, “Ernest, secure that blackguard.”

“I have, m’lord.” Ernest pointed the knife at Farley’s throat. “Nice shot, m’lady.”

Wanting to set matters straight about this false marriage, Laura began to say, “I’m not—”

Hamilton picked her up and cradled her in his arms, muffling her protest with his vigor and the impact of his large, bare body. “Hush, my lady,” he said. Then he lifted one finger. “Listen.”

Outside, she heard the jingle of horses’ tack and the movement of hooves in the mud of the stableyard.

Boots pounded through the taproom and up the stairs.

With a rush of alarm, she realized their rescuers had arrived.

Unfortunately, they’d arrived too late to rescue anyone, and they’d arrived too early for Hamilton to dress himself in a scant semblance of respectability.

Hamilton and Laura were compromised.

“Hamilton.” She pushed at him. “Let go of me!”

“Keefe,” he reminded her, and brushed her hair away from her face. “You banged your forehead.”

She touched it and brought her hand away, expecting by his concern to see blood. There was nothing, and it ached only a little. “It’s fine. I’m fine. You need to get dressed!”

The pounding boots reached the doorway, and a brisk male voice called, “Sir!” A young man Laura recognized from Hamilton’s London office skidded into the room, pistol raised. He stopped cold at the sight of the naked Earl of Hamilton crouched on the floor with a woman in his arms. “Sir?” The gun wavered.

“Everything’s first rate, Robinson,” Hamilton said. “Put your firearm away.”