For a moment, they lay still. She wondered if it was getting close to dawn.
She could look outside, she supposed, to see if there was any glimmer of light in the east. Yet, she was reluctant to move. It was warm under the jacket, pressed close to the fire. She was conscious of his warm body. She had never been so close to a man before. There was an intimacy that was both disconcerting but also not disconcerting. She couldn’t find the right word—exciting and yet with an underlying contentment. She looked to him. His lips lifted in a smile.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I was only thinking that this felt oddly comfortable.”
“Yes,” she said.
They lay side by side, staring at the ceiling, and she felt his hand reach out to touch her own. Awareness darted through her, a tingling excitement and a feeling of being more alive, as though every particle of her body, every inch of her skin, was sensitive.
“Everything feels more real with you,” he said softly. “Like I have been sleepwalking or living in a gray world turned multicolored overnight.”
Author Note
Historical research is always fascinating, and this book encouraged me to explore Cornwall’s colorful smuggling past. Caught in a Cornish Scandal is set just after the Napoleonic Wars as the smuggling trade began to decline. Two factors contributed to this: growth in coast guard services and the reduction of excise duties on imported goods.
Many smugglers avoided capture, but consequences were dire for the less fortunate. Smuggling was a capital offense. However, the poaching of deer, stealing of rabbits, pickpocketing and numerous other petty offenses could also result in the death penalty.
On a more uplifting note, Sam and Millie decide to open a school at the end of Caught in a Cornish Scandal. This is a reflection of my own belief in the importance of education for all, regardless of socioeconomic status, ethnicity or gender.
In writing this, I learned about the inspirational individual John Pounds, a cobbler who began in 1818 teaching poor children reading, writing and arithmetic without charging fees. This resulted in the development of the ragged schools movement. Individuals like Thomas Guthrie and Anthony Ashley Cooper, 7th Earl of Shaftesbury, furthered this concept, resulting in many free schools for poor children.
This is a time when one needs uplifting stories. The idea that one individual, John Pounds, could make such a difference emphasizes the power one person can have to promote positive change. It reminds us that our choices matter and that we can support and encourage each other to ensure equity and opportunity.
ELEANOR WEBSTER
Caught in a Cornish Scandal
Eleanor Webster loves high heels and sun, which is ironic as she lives in northern Canada, the land of snow hills and unflattering footwear. Various crafting experiences, including a nasty glue-gun episode, have proven that her creative soul is best expressed through the written word. Eleanor is currently pursuing a doctoral degree in psychology and holds an undergraduate degree in history and creative writing. She loves to use her writing to explore her fascination with the past.
Books by Eleanor Webster
Harlequin Historical
No Conventional Miss
Married for His Convenience
Her Convenient Husband’s Return
A Debutante in Disguise
Caught in a Cornish Scandal
Visit the Author Profile page
at Harlequin.com.
Reading was not initially easy for me, and I dedicate this to my first teachers, my parents. They taught me both a love of reading and perseverance. I dedicate this to all educators. Without their diligence, few of us would be able to enjoy the many splendors of the written word. As always, I recognize the support and constant encouragement demonstrated by my husband and daughters.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
Excerpt from The Warrior’s Innocent Captive by Ella Matthews
Chapter One
Cornwall—January 1818
Rain stung Millicent Lansdowne’s cheeks. Wind sliced through the coarse seaman’s cloth of her borrowed shirt. Tangles of wet hair fell into her eyes, blinding her as she pulled on the oars. The darkness suited the enterprise and yet she longed for the merest sliver of a moon. The only relief from the gloom came from the intermittent flash of the lighthouse lamp shimmering across huge troughs of water and towering, omnipresent rocks.
Millie had lived on the Cornish coast most of her life, but had never smuggled. She’d never even considered it...until now.
The buffeting wind stole her breath so that she gulped at the air, panting with effort. The muscles in her arms cramped. Her hands ached as she clutched the oars, but she dared not pause even to flex her fingers for fear that her small vessel would be dashed against the jagged cliffs. She glanced apprehensively seawards. Somewhere, hidden behind the rough seas and salt spray, The Rising Dawn waited with its bounty of brandy.
Yesterday, the decision had felt less foolhardy. Yesterday, the weather had been better and the danger so much less immediate.
But this was necessary. Smuggling had served Cornwall and its people well in times of crisis. And this was a crisis.
Millie had accepted her own duty to marry a dull man twice her age, but she would not let her sister marry a man without morals or conscience. She would not. She had failed to keep her brother safe, but she would not, could not, fail Lil.
Clenching her teeth, she pulled back on the oars with renewed energy, shifting away from the rocks and towards the open sea. It was the flicker of movement that caught her attention. She paused briefly, peering at what seemed like an improbable hand waving from the sea’s belly. She hunkered forward, as though this slight shift would make her better able to see. She shouted, but her voice disappeared, drowned by the wind.
The lighthouse beam swung around. Again, she saw flailing arms, the frantic limbs silhouetted against the light.
She acted instinctively, sprawling across the gunnel as she pushed the oar out over the water. ‘Here! Grab on!’
The oar dipped, pulled by a heavy weight. She saw a man’s face, mouth open in a silent shout. He caught at her arm, gripping so tightly that she half feared she would be dragged into the sea. The boat sank into the trough, soaring up again on the crest of the next wave.
She clutched at wet cloth, flesh and muscled arms, pulling and tugging until the man floundered aboard. He tumbled to the boat’s bottom. For a moment, she could do nothing except pant, staring at the inert figure briefly outlined in the light’s glare.
Then the splintering crash of the waves jolted her into desperate action. With frantic energy, she pulled on the oars, fighting wind and current, inching away from the white-flecked foam of the crashing breakers.
But relief was a transitory, fleeting thing.
Even as she pulled clear of the cliff face, she felt the ship’s presence. The Rising Dawn was the stuff of legend; the smuggler’s ship that could outrun the fastest cutter. The ship’s transom towered above her, a black bulk, invisible save for a signal light which swayed
with the sea’s movement. In the distance, one of the village boats scuttled back to shore, a small shadowy outline, disappearing fast into the wet darkness.
And then she was alone.
Her heart thundered. Her chest felt tight, unable to expand to properly breathe as she looked nervously upwards towards the deck. The torchlight moved, illuminating a single person, his craggy brows, nose and the folds of his face deeply shadowed.
‘Who’s there?’
Her mouth felt dry. ‘Heaven sent!’ she shouted.
‘You new?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ll lower—’
Whatever the sailor was going to say died on his lips as the man at the bottom of her boat coughed, retching up the contents of his lungs into the bilge. Not dead, it seemed.
‘What the hell’s that?’ the sailor asked, moving the torch so that its weak light shone down into her vessel.
‘He’s injured,’ Millie shouted.
‘Didn’t ask about his health. Who is he?’
‘One of your men, I presume. He was drowning.’ Her tongue felt huge and unwieldly in her dry mouth.
‘Not ours.’
The drowned man pulled himself to a seated position, staring blearily, blood trickling across his forehead. She could have wished him dead longer.
‘Best come aboard as you’ve brought company,’ the sailor shouted, his mouth a black hole, save for a single tooth.
Fear snaked through her. ‘No! That was not the agreement...’
Instructions and warnings had been clear enough. A smuggling ship was no place for a female. Ferrying goods to shore was foolhardy enough, going aboard could spell disaster.
She grabbed at the oars, pulling her vessel away.
A shot rang out, audible even over the wind and waves. Gasping, she looked towards the single flickering light. The sailor stepped forward so that he was illuminated. He did not speak, merely beckoned her on board. She shook her head, gripping the oars more tightly. He shifted the pistol. The metal glinted as his lips stretched in a wide, almost toothless grin.
* * *
Sam’s head thudded. The pain was so great that sparks flashed before his eyes like the fireworks at Vauxhall. He tasted salt water, blood and bile. He coughed, rolling on to his side, before again slumping to stare upwards into the black heavens.
Where was he? He could make no sense of the voices, the lurching movement, wind or rain. Everything had the surreal, disjointed quality of a bad dream. The effort to think, to push away the blank fuzziness overwhelmed him and he felt himself slip again into the inviting nebulous state which was neither sleep nor consciousness.
Seconds...minutes...hours later, he wakened once more. He was being moved, handled by rough hands and dropped or tumbled to the ground. He lay quite still, orienting himself in a world spinning and lurching.
He forced his eyes open. He could see his own fingers splayed on wet rough planking and, beyond that, a black seaman’s boot.
‘Captain! ’E’s awake,’ a man bellowed from somewhere above his head, the words inordinately loud so that they ricocheted about his skull.
Sam pulled himself painfully on to his knees. Briefly, everything blurred as his head thudded. Then the thunder lessened and he found himself looking up into the distorted visage of an old man, his features eerily lit in the swinging torchlight.
For a moment, he distrusted the evidence of his own eyes. It seemed he was on a ship. The man opposite looked to be a pirate, or as good as. The sea was so rough that Sam put his hands back on the deck for balance. Rain fell. His hair was plastered to his forehead. Water ran into his eyes and down his cheeks. He could feel the rain’s sting and the cutting cold of the wind.
It made no sense. He’d come to Cornwall to visit his elder sister and her new baby. He’d travelled from London in a private carriage. Why was he on a ship? Had he been attacked on the highway? Except he’d made it to Fowey. He’d seen his sister...
Before his thoughts could clear, he was brought back to the immediate present as another man strode over, the sea boots huge, mere inches from his face.
‘Best get rid of them.’ The command was cold, without emotion.
Instinctively, Sam reared up, only to be struck by the boot. Helpless, he crumpled to the deck.
‘You cannot kill us. I work for you.’ The words were calm, unflinching and reasoned.
Sam turned quickly. His head thudded with the movement. A scrap of a lad stood beside him, wet hair and shirt plastered to his skin.
The first man, older and with just a single tooth, did not even acknowledge the lad. Instead he continued to chew his tobacco with a singleness of purpose. With methodical motions, he reloaded the pistol. The ‘Captain’ was already turning away, as though their execution no longer merited his attention.
Sam pulled himself again to a seated position, fighting down the nausea induced by the movement. He would not have them discuss his murder as though he were a kitten to be drowned. ‘Sir,’ he said. ‘My absence will be noted.’
‘Indeed,’ the lad said in clear, crisp, surprisingly educated tones. ‘Besides, you have no idea of this fellow’s identity. He might be some bigwig.’
‘Good Lord,’ Sam said, before silencing himself. Even in the dim light, the lad’s silhouette had a delicacy of feature that was not masculine and the wet shirt definitely showed a femininity of form.
Perhaps this was, indeed, an illusion or nightmare too bizarre for reality. Was he to believe that he and this female had been captured by pirates? Was this some elaborate ruse? A practical joke or crazy wager? A hallucination after too many brandies?
The clear calm reasoned voice spoke again. ‘It makes no sense for you to hurt us. You were happy enough to accept my services.’
‘That was before you started bringing strange, unknown folk to my ship,’ the Captain said, turning back to his captives.
‘I did not bring anyone to your ship. I did not want to be on your ship. I wanted to collect the merchandise and return to shore.’
‘Leaving him as a witness.’
‘He was out cold.’
‘He was throwing up his guts in your bilge.’
‘Either way, he certainly did not seem capable of witnessing much,’ the woman said.
The Captain held up the lantern and Sam could feel his scrutiny. Shrewd eyes glinted, deep set within leathery, pockmarked skin. He lowered the lantern. ‘He looks capable enough now. And I cannot see any other solution. Killing ’im seems the best policy.’
‘Not unless you want every Bow Street Runner investigating the situation,’ Sam said, collecting his thoughts and forcing the words out. Even if this was a bizarre hallucination, he refused to be the snivelling coward in it.
There was a silence interrupted only by the regular squelch of the older sailor’s tobacco.
‘When I want the opinion of a toffee-nosed Brit on my own ship, I will ask for it,’ the Captain said. ‘And I wouldn’t mind adding an aristocrat to the minnow population.’
He chuckled at his own joke. Sam swallowed. He wished his thoughts would clear. Everything was a blur of disjointed images: his sister, the baby, dinner. How could he argue for his life when he had no idea why he was here or how?
‘But that’s just it,’ the girl said in her clear tones. ‘I know him. He is a gentleman. From London.’
Sam startled. Good God, she was right. But how did she know him? Had they met? Had she attended dinner with his sister? He had no recollection of her and she certainly was not dressed for it.
‘I am Mr Garrett,’ he said. It was an effort to say the words, as though their enunciation required conscious thought and labour. He felt less that he was providing information and more that he was clinging on to a fact, as one might a life ring.
‘There, you see!’ the girl said with some energy. ‘As posh as the
y come. He is quite rich and might well be worth more to you alive than dead.’
The words hung in the air.
* * *
Millie held her breath. Despite the storm, the wind had dropped so that even nature seemed to be waiting. A variety of expressions flickered across the Captain’s face. He was not smart, but she detected a natural cunning.
‘What’s your meaning?’
‘Likely, he has a family that would pay for his return.’ She made her voice calm despite her nervousness. She knew nothing of Mr Garrett’s family. Indeed, even her belated recognition felt as though it had come from a force external to her, an image dropped into her mind from a lifetime previous. Later she would be fully conscious of the oddness of this coincidence—finding themselves together on a smugglers’ ship off the Cornish coast—and would feel a stunned disbelief.
Right now, she felt nothing.
‘It would put me and the company at risk. And I do not like loose ends,’ the Captain said.
She swallowed, biting her lip. Sal’s husband had warned her. Smuggling was different now. The war with France was over and the coast rife with excise men. Fear and risk had grown exponentially and, with it, a harder, crueller breed of smugglers. They would forgive no mistakes and demonstrate little humanity or mercy.
The Captain nodded to the sailor who again raised the pistol.
She saw the glint of metal. She saw the movement of his finger on the trigger. Instinctively, she held her breath, squeezing her eyes tight shut, ludicrously bracing herself for impact as though taut muscles might deflect steel.
The shot did not come. Instead, peering through her lashes, she saw the Captain’s gaze had turned towards the rocks and then seawards. The ship had drifted too close to shore.
‘Luck’s with you fer now.’ He turned away. ‘Wind is dropping. Best to git out.’
‘What do I do with ’em?’ the sailor asked.
‘Tie ’em up and git ’em below decks. I’ll decide what to do with ’em later.’
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