Smuggler's Glory (33 page)

Simon
nodded, thinking back to their last meeting in the tavern. Although
it had only been a few short weeks ago, he had changed so much that
it felt as though it had happened to someone else entirely. He
wasn’t altogether sure he was sad to see the back of the old Simon.
If he had of quit that night, he would never have met Francesca.
Never have experienced the depth of emotion he had once considered
impossible.

Now
though, he had a decision to make. Should he go or should he
stay?

Lurching
awkwardly as dizziness swept through him, he shuffled past Bertie,
feeling as old as his friend was, and placed an affectionate hand
on the old man’s shoulder. “Get some rest, you,” Simon murmured
gently. “You’ve earned it.”

Shuffling up the stairs he paused outside his bedroom door
for one brief moment, silently contemplating if he should stay
there. He knew the bruising beneath his shirt was worse than the
cuts on his face. Did he really want Francesca to see? But he knew
that she would probably see him at some point during the night. If
she didn’t come to him, he would go to her. It didn’t seem right
for either of them to walk through the corridors late at night,
especially with his colleagues on guard.

Passing
his room, he began to undress before he had even reached the door
to Francesca’s room. By the time he was at the side of the bed he
was kicking his breeches off and sitting down on the edge of the
bed wearily. He had barely been between the sheets for a minute
before Francesca appeared in the doorway. She showed no emotion at
the sight of him lying in her bed, merely closed the door carefully
behind her and began to undress.

“
Are you tired?” Simon murmured, watching the sensual display
she was inadvertently giving him. If he didn’t hurt so much he
would have taken great delight in taking full advantage of her
willingness to lie with him. As it was, he was lucky if he didn’t
fall asleep first.

“
No, not really. Upset? Definitely. Shaken by the events of the
day? Most certainly. Tired? Definitely not,” she replied, climbing
between the sheets and snuggling against him.

It felt
strangely audacious to strip and climb wantonly between the sheets.
She sighed when he moved so she could snuggle closer to him. She
placed a hand on his ribs only to glance up at him in concern when
he sucked in a gasp of air.

“
Don’t,” he protested when Francesca began to draw the sheet
down.

Francesca ignored him and tugged the material off his chest,
staring down in horror at the blackening flesh scattered across his
body. Two particularly large patches along his ribs had been where
she had placed her hand, and she wondered if he had broken some of
his ribs. She sensed him looking at her and met his
gaze.

“
Are you really going to be alright?” she asked, not sure if
she was asking just about his bruises.

“
I’ll be fine,” Simon whispered gently. “Some tender loving
care, a few good nights’ sleep and plenty of hearty meals would put
me firmly on the road to recovery as long as I get as much bed rest
as possible.” He smiled at the blush that added colour to her
cheeks for the first time that day.

“
Hugo is expecting you to leave tomorrow,” Francesca replied
carefully, and felt her heart sink at the closed look that swept
over his face. She knew she was going to lose him.

“
I have to go, Francesca. There are things I need to tell the
others, so they know what they are looking for. The papers we found
tonight need to be gone through. There is so much behind the scenes
work to do that it will take us a while to sort it out.”

“
What about the men downstairs?”

Simon
shook his head. “I don’t know how Hugo managed to get them out of
deep cover, but I am glad he thought to bring reinforcements with
him. Now that this job is over, they will return to their allotted
tasks, whatever they might be. Nobody will really know, except for
Hugo and of course, the men themselves.”

“
What about you?”

Simon
knew what she was asking but couldn’t make her empty promises he
didn’t know if he could keep. He needed to speak to Hugo first
about his options before he said anything to her.

Francesca lapsed into silence and tried to keep the tears at
bay. He had been through so much already, she couldn’t expect him
to deal with a weepy female was well. Within minutes she heard the
soft rumble of his snores echo about her room. She lay there for a
long time, just listening to the reassuring thump of his heartbeat
and wondering about what might have been.

The
traumas of the day began to creep up on her and at some point she
fell asleep.

She
awoke the following morning to find herself alone. Sitting up, she
checked for his clothing anyway and was unsurprised to find the
floor empty. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and simply
sat there, her heart thumping painfully in her chest. Her attention
was drawn to a single white piece of parchment sitting on the
table. She picked it up, not wanting to read the contents and held
it for several long moments while she tried to stop her fingers
from trembling enough to unfold it.

Eventually though, curiosity dictated that she read his final
words to her.

I’m sorry, I have to go. Simon x.

She
wasn’t sure how long she sat there staring at the black scrawl
standing so boldly against the white parchment. There were no
tears, just an incredible sadness that settled deep within her and
began to grow cold. She doubted she would ever be warm
again.

When she
arrived in the kitchen, it was to find Bertie stirring a pot of
broth over the fire. His sad eyes told her that she didn’t need to
look out of the window to know that the stable yard was empty. The
men had moved out.

“
At first light,” Bertie grumbled sadly.

Francesca nodded, offering him a bright smile that went
nowhere near her eyes.

“
Well, it looks like it is just you and me now, Bertie,” she
declared softly, sitting down at the table before her wobbly knees
gave out. “I think we need to decide what
we
are going to do, don’t
you?”

“
What do you mean, miss?” Bertie asked, with a frown. He sat
down beside her. Francesca patted his hand and sighed.

“
This house is far too big for just me and you. We can remain
and let it fall into rack and ruin, or we can find ourselves
somewhere much more manageable to live.”

“
I can’t leave here,” Bertie declared, clearly horrified that
she would consider such a thing. “Your uncle would roll in his
grave.”

“
But he isn’t here, Bertie,” Francesca replied sadly. “Nobody
is.” The words dropped between them, leaving silence in their
wake.

“
He will come back, you know,” he said gently, patting her hand
in an almost fatherly manner.

But
Francesca wasn’t going to be so easily mollified. Shaking her head,
she pushed away from the table and went to stir the broth. “No he
won’t, we both know that. His life belongs to the danger. Once he
is well enough he will return to his duties and forget all about
us.”

Bertie
wanted to argue, but knew she was most probably right. Men like
Simon weren’t domesticated people, happy to spend their days in
front of the hearth. He would be bored rigid with a life in such a
remote spot as Thistledown Manor, and Bertie couldn’t bear the
heartbreak Francesca would experience if he turned to another woman
to seek the excitement he couldn’t find at home. Feeling older than
his eighty something years, Bertie went to fetch two bowls and help
her serve up.

“
Do you know what I think we should do?” Bertie declared
moments later, slamming his spoon down on the table so suddenly
that Francesca jumped.

“
We should restore this place to its former glory. It looks
miserable around here because it is so run down. Let’s put some
life back into the old gal, and then you can decide whether you
want to stay or not. After all, it isn’t as though either of us
have anything else to do, now is it?”

Francesca’s brows rose and she studied the light in Bertie’s
eyes that she hadn’t seem for some considerable time.

She
wasn’t convinced, but was willing to accommodate him for now.
“Alright,” she sighed. “First thing tomorrow we will go to
Launceston and see if we can arrange for some workmen to come and
take a look at the place.”

“
Why wait until tomorrow?” Bertie argued, waving toward the
door. “What’s wrong with today?”

“
But - .” Francesca wracked her brain, trying to think of an
adequate reason but falling short. The last thing she wanted to do
was go to Launceston. It was the town that Simon and the men had
gone to. She couldn’t bear to see him heading out of her life for
good. Although she was incredibly hurt that he hadn’t woken her
before he left, she was relieved that she had been spared the pain
of watching him ride out of her life. “Alright,” she sighed, unsure
whether a trip to town would have the desired effect Bertie was
aiming for.

Within
minutes they were trundling out of the stable yard in search of
workmen.

The
following weeks passed in a blur for Francesca. Their trip to
Launceston threw her life spiralling out of control. Within days of
their visit, workmen began to arrive to assess Thistledown and
begin work on its foundations. Stonemasons set about measuring the
stone blocks they would cut to replace the damaged ones. Carpenters
measured for new beams and floorboards.

More
touchingly, people from the village began to call by. Whether they
had been hoping to catch sight of Simon and his men, or whether
they were just enjoying their freedom, she couldn’t be sure. Their
visits revealed that some of the villagers she had once thought had
moved out of the village, had vanished instead. Gossip was rife
that they had been dragged from their beds and taken deep into the
moors from which they never returned, especially the people who
lived in the house Lindsay and his men had chosen for their base.
People had learned that they would face the firm hand of vengeance
if they tried to oppose Lindsay’s activities in any way and that
had led to wary suspicion of anyone and everyone.

Simon
and his men were considered almost godly for the part they had
played in ridding the village of its tormentors. It was only
reasonable they would want the opportunity to thank him for his
efforts. Still it was nice to see other people, and it had prompted
her to take up on one of Simon’s suggestions and set about staffing
the place as it should be.

The
women from the village arrived, and were soon employed in various
positions until she had a full complement of people willing to help
to return the house to its status as the pride of the village.
Bertie was delighted that Mrs Partridge, the cook, resumed her old
position, and Mrs Enstridge took over as housekeeper. To him it
felt as though they had never been away.

There
was major excitement that someone had recently purchased the tin
mine and it was about to be re-opened. Already people were starting
to return to the village in anticipation of resuming their normal
lives and gainful employment at last.

So much
happened in such a short period of time that Francesca struggled to
keep up. Despite the distractions though, Simon continued to haunt
her thoughts. There wasn’t a moment through any single God-given
day that she didn’t think about him. If he had been declared fit
enough to be given a new assignment yet. If he was safe, wherever
he was.

She lay
on the chaise in the morning room for several moments, trying to
gather her thoughts. The once familiar silence was now interspersed
by the sounds of hammering and sawing coming from the disused wing
of the house. All day long, carts came and went carrying all sorts
of building material and of course, workmen. It seemed impossible
of late to get a quiet moment to herself just to think and simply
absorb the possibility that she might be expecting a new
family.

She
placed her hand on her stomach and listened to two of the
downstairs maids shuffle past the door carrying a heavy rug between
them. She knew she had to get out of the hustle and bustle, if only
for a little while. Fetching her cloak, she swept out of the front
door and took her usual route straight into the deepest part of the
moors.

The wind
was stronger today, teasing the finer tendrils of hair out of the
bun at her nape. The tickling of the fine strands against her
cheeks felt wonderful, and she gave in to the urge to shake out all
of the pins and let her hair flow free. She was oblivious to her
long cloak billowing out behind her and simply gloried in the feel
of the wind teasing her hair, and the sun warming her face. She
breathed in the rich scent of bracken and moor and knew that she
could never leave. Thistledown was her home. It was as much a part
of her as her hands on the ends of her arms. Yes, it held good
memories and bad, but wasn’t that what life was all about? Triumph
in the face of adversity? Making the most out of whatever life
threw your way, whether it was good or bad? She knew that whatever
happened, she was here to stay.