The Gentleman Smuggler’s Lady ©2017 by Michelle Griep
The Doctor’s Woman ©2016 by Michelle Griep
A House of Secrets ©2017 by Michelle Griep
Print ISBN 978-1-68322-826-4
eBook Editions:
Adobe Digital Edition (.epub) 978-1-64352-119-0
Kindle and MobiPocket Edition (.prc) 978-64352-120-6
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted for commercial purposes, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without written permission of the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
Cover Photography: Lee Avison / Trevillion Images
Published by Barbour Books, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., 1810 Barbour Drive, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683, www.barbourbooks.com
Our mission is to inspire the world with the life-changing message of the Bible.
Printed in the United States of America.
Table of Contents
The Gentleman Smuggler’s Lady
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
The Doctor’s Woman
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
A House of Secrets
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
The Gentleman Smuggler’s Lady
Dedication
To the One I lean on when there is no one else, and to all the Poldark fans out there who love a great gallop along the Cornish cliffs.
Acknowledgments
Julie Klassen: Brainstormer Extraordinaire
Kelly Klepfer: Male POV Guru
Shannon McNear: Horse Aficionado
Ane Mulligan: Fierce First Reader
MaryLu Tyndall: Editor Supreme
Chawna Schroeder: Plausibility Princess
Chapter One
1815
Port village of Treporth, Cornwall, England
Pretend I am courageous.
Pretend my heart still beats.
Pretend all manner of blissful things …
and that I shall find him alive.
Recreasing a worn scrap of foolscap, Helen Fletcher tucked the paper into her valise, then snapped shut the clasp, wishing most of all she’d never received such horrid news. No one had ever warned her about the dangers of parchment.
Pretend the world is right and well … For it would be—or she would die trying to make it so.
She rose from her sleeping berth and paced the few steps to the small mirror on the wall. Grey-blue light, the last from the end of a melancholic day, leaked through the porthole into her tiny accommodations. The vessel Nancarrow had never been meant to haul passengers, but the captain had made an exception because of her plight, thank God. Removing her hat from a hook, she did her best to pin up her dark hair beneath the brim, then tied the ribbon securely. Now that they were docked, she’d not be sorry to leave this tucked-away compartment.
“Of course Father will be fine,” she whispered to her reflection, taking courage in the voicing of such a hope. She lifted her chin, staring into her own eyes. “And you will be too.”
Whirling about, she retrieved her valise and left her sanctuary of the past fortnight. The corridor was a maze and a dim one at that. Very few vigil lanterns lit the way. She edged past stacks of crates secured against one wall, then turned sideways to squeeze through a narrow throat of a space next to a post. Though she ought be used to it by now, the tight quarters smelled of brine and dampness and overworked ship hands—an odor she wouldn’t miss.
At last she made it to the stairs leading to fresh air and England. She’d never been to Cornwall, Bath having been her home before leaving for Ireland as a governess. But as long as she was with Father, it would no doubt feel like home.
She gripped the railing with one gloved hand and ascended the wooden rungs. Her other hand held tightly to all she owned in this life, which was precious little. No matter. God would provide. He always did. Was not the very fact she’d been sent passage to attend her ailing father proof enough of God’s surprising provision?
The closer she climbed toward the top deck, the louder shouts echoed and boots thudded. Strange. When they’d set sail from Ireland’s green coast, the crew had sung ditties of brisk winds and prows cutting through the ocean blue. Ought not the ballads of mooring at a friendly port be jolly as well? She frowned. No, those rumbles and curses were decidedly not merry at all.
She cleared the last step. Three paces later, she froze. The crew stood against one rail, hands behind their heads. Two masked brigands aimed guns their way. In the center of the deck, the trapdoor of the hold flung wide with more masked scofflaws descending into it like an unholy swarm. Not far from her, the largest man of them all trained a pistol on the captain’s chest. A nightmare on the wrong side of slumber.
Captain Ogden’s gaze darted her way, the slight tip of his head urging her to retreat back below.
Too late.
Before she could consider the possibility, the scoundrel threatening the captain slipped her a sideways glance. Though brief, she’d never forget the intensity in those brown eyes, commanding her without words to stay put.
“Blast!” the man roared at the crew. “I thought you said you cleared the cabins.”
One of the men, the first in a chain of thieves leading from the hold to the gangplank, grunted as he passed a crate on to the next man. “Aye, sir. I did.”
“Apparently, you missed one.” The cloth tied over the bottom half of the big man’s face riffled with a growl. “You, my lady, over here, if you please.”
Though her heart beat hard against her rib cage, she got the distinct impression he meant her no harm—but that didn’t mean she’d comply. Biting her lower lip, she studied the distance between her and the side of the ship. Could she jump from railing to wharf? How big the gap? How great the fall?
And why was no one stopping these thieves? Though it was dusk, surely not all from the village could be abed. Perhaps if she merely screamed for help, there’d be no need to risk a twisted ankle … or worse.
She opened her mouth—and a glove pressed against her lips. A strong arm pulled her against the side of the man dressed in black. How had he moved so quickly?
“Hush, lady. I’ll have none of that. Do you understand?” His free hand yet aimed the gun at the captain, but his terrible gaze stared into her soul.
Pretend that I am brave. Pretend that fear is strength.
For her father’s sake, she had to get off this ship. Now. She blinked up at him and nodded.
His hold on her slackened.
Then she twisted and jerked up her knee, driving home a solid blow he’d remember for a very long time.
“Oof!”
Wind rushed out of Isaac Seaton’s lungs. Sharp, sickening pain rose up his throat.
Thunder and turf! The little spitfire. Scarcely able to
breathe, he released the woman. It was either that or drop the gun, which could be deadly.
But so could the snippet of skirt who even now lurched toward the side of the boat. Blast! Sucking in salty air, he barely snagged her arm before she was out of reach. She was fast. He’d give her that.
“Join the captain,” he strained out, then he shoved her toward the man. Stunning, this fiend he’d become—all because of Brannigan. Thank God this was his last raid.
She stumbled forward, still clutching her valise. When she joined the captain’s side, she turned and glowered, the fury in her gaze calling down the wrath of God upon Isaac’s head.
He stifled a smile. A worthy opponent. But no time now to dally with such thoughts. Glancing past the woman and the captain, he checked on progress. Wooden crates passed from man to man, slowly filling the wagon on the wharf. Too slow. The free flow of ale at the Pickled Parrot was paid for until the last of light, at which point some very drunk dockhands could pour out the door and discover this little escapade.
“Make haste, men!” he barked.
“God sees your evil deed.” The captain’s eyes burned like embers, his glower condemning him to the pits of Sheol.
“Yes, God sees. But evil deed?” Beneath his kerchief, Isaac’s mouth curled into a half smile, one that tasted bitter. “That’s debatable.”
The lady gasped. “Thievery is wrong.”
Indeed. A principle he knew as intimately as a lover—one no honest man should ever have to bed. He narrowed his eyes, considering the slip of a woman who accused him. What kind of lady would speak her mind so freely while at the wrong end of a loaded pistol? She stood barely the height of his shoulder, and that with a bonnet atop her head. Brown eyes, not as dark as his own, stared back at him. She was fine of bone, almost birdlike. So slight, should a good wind come along, she might fly off.
But there was nothing fragile about the way she denounced him. Her indictment crawled beneath his skin. “One man’s theft is another man’s restitution.” His voice came out harsher than intended, and he cleared his throat. “Tell me, is it wrong to reclaim what was yours in the first place?”
The captain snorted. “This shipment belongs to Brannigan, unless you wear the Brannigan crest on your finger.”
“You are mistaken. Part of this shipment belongs to me.” The sight of a barrel—not a crate—slipped by, just past the captain’s shoulder. Isaac’s free hand curled into a fist. “Blast it! Put those spirits back.”
“Aww, but one barrel ain’t gonna—”
“Do it.” He growled.
Young Graham Ambler, easily distinguishable by the gimp in his step, wheeled about and disappeared into the hold.
Isaac turned back to the captain. “Leastwise the blasting powder is mine. I assure you nothing more will be taken.” He fumbled with a pouch tied to his belt and tossed the leather sack to the captain. “For your trouble.”
The man caught it, a mighty frown tugging the corners of his mouth. “This does not atone for your behavior.”
The captain’s words struck him as brutally as the pain left over from the woman’s knee. “I don’t expect it to, sir.”
A sharp thwack rent the evening as the cover on the hold slammed shut. The last of the crates hefted from man to man, until finally the men themselves emptied down the gangplank.
He whistled for Rook and Hawker to withdraw from guarding the Nancarrow‘s crew, then lowered his pistol. “For future reference, Captain, I suggest you comply more agreeably should smugglers or pirates ever board one of your vessels. Others will not be as forgiving as I.”
A curse flew from the captain’s mouth, tingeing the lady’s cheeks with a fine shade of scarlet.
The wagon rolled down the wharf—just as bawdy drinking songs belched out of the Pickled Parrot, farther up the shore. Clearly if Captain Ogden could not control Isaac’s band of well-intentioned smugglers, he’d not be able to contend with besotted dockhands should any decide to ramble this far.
Isaac glanced at the lady, her outline smudging into the darkness nearly upon them. It was neither safe for her to remain here nor to venture into town past those men. He huffed out a sigh at both alternatives, feeling the weight of responsibility. Bending slightly, he hooked her into his arm and up over his shoulder, like a sack of grain.
“Put me down!” She whapped his back with her satchel, a far cry easier to bear than her former attack.
The captain bellowed for his men to pursue—and the chase was on.
Isaac sprinted down the gangplank then swung the lady and himself onto Duchess, his dappled grey waiting where he’d left her. By the time Captain Ogden’s crew cleared the deck, Duchess was already crushing gravel beneath her hooves and tearing up toward the village proper.
The lady wriggled in his grasp. “Put me down!”
“In due time.” He flexed his arms into bands of steel as she flailed. Clearly, she hadn’t the horse sense to know she’d probably be killed if she fell from a galloping mount.
Ahh, yet he could not help but admire such pluck. A slow smile stretched across his face. He might almost enjoy this were he not posing as a felon.
He reined Duchess to a stop in front of the Candlelight Inn. Swinging his leg over, he dismounted and pulled the woman down along with him. She squirmed, and in the scuffle, his kerchief fell to his neck.
His hand shot up, about to tug the cloth into place, but as she glowered at him, he froze. Locks of raven-coloured hair had loosened, lending her a wild appearance—yet altogether lovely. The flush of fear and wind pinked her skin to a most becoming shade. Beneath the fabric of her sleeve, frailty and strength contradicted one another.
Without thinking, he pulled her close and breathed in her sweet rosewater scent—and lost any reason whatsoever. “It is customary, lady, to reward a good deed with a kiss.”
“Good deed! You’ve taken me from the sanctity of a ship to God knows where—”
“The Candlelight Inn,” he interrupted.
Her eyes narrowed. “For what purpose I can only imagine.”
“For the purpose of saving you from a drunken band of longshoremen and delivering you to a coaching inn that will provide you with the means of getting to wherever it is you’re going.” He retreated a step and flourished a bow. “Now, about that kiss?”
“After delaying me from my father’s sickbed? You, sir, are a miscreant.” She sidestepped him and darted toward the safety of the inn.
He watched until the hem of her skirt disappeared through the inn’s front door. Then he hoisted himself back into the saddle. Of course, he’d never see her again.
But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t like to.
Chapter Two
Helen nudged open the door to her father’s chamber, her hands full with a morning tea tray and her heart filled with a fresh hope—for Father’s smile, albeit weak, greeted her from across the room. She’d been hard-pressed to decide which had frightened her more these past two days: her disturbing encounter with smugglers or the deadly state of her father’s health. But perhaps today would be the day he turned the corner toward healing.
Pretend it will be so.
“Good day.” Her father’s words wavered on a wheezing breath, ravaged by age and dropsy.
“It is a good day, for you are awake.” She set the tray on a bedside stand and pulled over the only chair in the small room. “I am glad of it.”
“And I am glad for another day, Daughter.”
“So should we all be, hmm? Now, let’s prop you up.” Sliding her hand behind his shoulders, she lifted him and his pillow, choosing to ignore the swelling in his neck and fluttering breath.
Once settled, she retrieved the mug of tea and bottle of chamomile syrup, stirring a spoonful of the tincture into his drink. “Here you are.”
Some of the mixture leaked from the sides of his mouth, and she snatched a coarse cloth from the tray, the cheap fabric a bit rough for his frail skin. She frowned. “Would that I had been a son, an
d a prosperous one at that.”
“Pish!” His bare head, long removed of the dark hair she remembered, shook against the cushion. “I couldn’t have hoped for a better daughter. Nor a better patron.”
“Forgive me, Father. I did not mean to sound ungrateful. I am thankful for the Seatons’ generosity, and I shall let them know how much as soon as you are on the mend.”
He reached for her hand, his fingers swollen to the size of sausages. “There will be no mending. Not this time. My breaths are numbered, and the sum is small.”
“Do not speak so. You must live, for me, for your congregation.”
“We are all mortal, Daughter.”
She patted his hand, unwilling to acknowledge the grotesque changes destroying his body. “It benefits no one to accept defeat, even death, and so I shall endeavor to fight against it—for both of us, if need be.”
“This is not your fight.”
She squeezed his hand, then let go of his hold and his words. “I will not concede. You are all I have left.”
“No, child. There is always God.”
“Yes, of course, but …” She sighed. Why could doubts not be as easily exhaled?
“But what?”
“Well, I know in my head God is always present, but in my heart? I cannot credit it.”
A sliver of morning light angled through the single window, washing her father’s face in a pool of yellow light. “You keep your heart too well guarded, I fear.”
Of course she did—and always would. There was no better protection against hurt. “In the homes where I’ve served, I’ve seen what men do to women’s hearts.”
“You can’t judge all men by the actions of a few. Did you ever stop to think that by shutting off your heart from man, you’ve closed the door to God’s love as well? Those who leave everything in God’s hand will eventually see God’s hand in everything … even in man.”
A rap at the front door jarred her as much as her father’s words, and she patted his shoulder. “I shall return.”
Exiting his chamber, she crossed the small main room and opened the door. An angel of light appeared—or so it seemed.
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