Jem was the third body.
She found him face down and spread eagled. She went to his inert shape. The back of his head was gone, a bloodied mess. Strangely, his face remained untouched.
How was she to tell Sally? The Lansdownes’ maid, Flora, was her aunt and Millie had grown up with Sal—they were friends. Bile and vomit pushed into her throat. She swallowed it down.
‘He was not a bad person. He just wanted a different life,’ she said.
Beside him, she recognised the old man from the night previous, his face contorted into a toothless grimace.
She shivered. The cold inhabited every part of her as though generated from a frozen core. ‘We cannot just...leave them.’
‘We’ll get the authorities.’ He looked over the scene. ‘I’m sorry about Jem.’
They stood beside each other in the grey morning, on the grey beach. Sam still wore evening clothes, his tattered cravat fluttering in the wind.
‘We have to go,’ he said.
In a distant part of her brain, Millie knew he was correct and yet she felt reluctant to move. Her limbs were imbued by that heavy, hopeless lassitude.
‘But who? Who did it?’ she whispered.
‘Wreckers,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘They lure ships. Then grab the cargo.’
‘On...on purpose?’
‘Yes.’
‘And Sally? How will I tell Sal?’
‘You will find the words.’ He put out his hand to her. She took it. ‘You will tell her that he was brave. He saved our lives. If he hadn’t untied us, we could not have escaped.’
She nodded. Like it or not, she and this man were each other’s best chance of survival. And like it or not, there was nothing she could do for Jem or the others now.
‘We will get through it,’ she said.
* * *
Every bone, sinew and muscle hurt in Sam’s body as he pulled himself up the steep embankment. They were bare footed and stones pushed painfully into their soles. Occasionally, one of them would slip, sending a tinkling waterfall of rocks tumbling down.
Neither of them talked. Indeed, Sam was conscious of a numbness, part-shock and part-exhaustion. It felt surreal to realise that he and this woman were the only survivors. Why had a Cornish bay become a slaughter house? And how had he ended up in the sea in the first place? And how the hell were they going to get out of this alive?
The image of those bodies flickered before him. He remembered the rhythmic crack of the pistol. He felt the prickling of goose pimples on his skin.
‘Mr Garrett?’
They had reached a slight levelling of the path. Her tone was soft, but something in it made him turn quickly to her.
‘Yes?’
‘I just realised that there was no cargo,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I was told to help unload products from France. I was late coming down, but other boats had made it. Most of the cargo would had been brought in. The Rising Dawn was close to empty. And the men would have no personal effects of value. Why would anyone destroy an empty vessel?’
‘Rival smugglers, I’d guess.’
‘You mean from Cornwall?’
‘Most likely. Maybe it was a fight over territory?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘There has always been smuggling, but never this. Seamen wouldn’t lure people, other seamen, to their death. They wouldn’t—’
‘Miss Lansdowne, I do not mean to be unfeeling—those men did not deserve to die like they did on that beach...no one does—but they were criminals.’
She shook her head, saying nothing for a moment as she continued the ascent. ‘You’re from London. You do not understand.’
‘What has London to do with it?’ he asked, irritated as he chased up the path to keep up with her. Did she think there were no criminals in London, no children who had never been taught right from wrong? He knew and that was why he funded schools to support the moral growth of children whose parents were unable to do so.
She made no reply, merely continuing up the trail, moving swiftly, despite her bare feet,
‘And what do not I understand? Smuggling is a crime. These are grown men, not children who may not understand right and wrong,’ he said.
She paused, glancing back at him, her dark brows pulled together in a way which was almost formidable. ‘It is so much easier to understand right from wrong when one is not desperate.’
* * *
Thankfully, they were close to the clifftop. Millie scrabbled upwards, eager to distance herself from the man behind. Mr Garrett was judgemental. He did not understand the life of the men in the mines. He did not know what it was like to be forced into a life one did not want. He did not know what it was like to feel one’s hope and dreams disintegrate. Or to pore over figures and to know that the best, the only, way to help one’s family was marriage.
Marriage to the dull Mr Edmunds. Marriage to a man twice her age. Marriage to a man who had no interest in her other than to acquire the narrow strip of their property which bisected his own.
But that was not the worst of it. The worst of it was knowing that marriage to Mr Edmunds might not be enough to save Lil. Just as her nagging had not been enough to save Tom.
It was never enough.
With a burst of angry energy, she pulled herself over the cliff’s edge, scanning the area to gain a sense of her surroundings. The ground stretched, flat, ugly and utterly desolate, except for a scattering of hawthorn trees, twisted and hobbled by the wind.
She stared. The anger which had thundered through her seemed to solidify, turning cold, as she looked about with growing hopelessness at the harsh, unforgiving landscape.
Tears smarted. What had she expected: a country village and welcoming tea party? She stared at the bleak surrounding with a sense of futility. She’d overcome one hurdle just to be faced with this vast barren landscape, unbroken save for the tors strung along the horizon.
She turned back towards the sea. It shimmered, a dull metallic grey. In and out and back for breakfast. That had been the plan. Almost she felt as though a friend had turned on her.
Mr Garrett scrambled over the cliff’s edge. It was ironic that this man from Tom’s past, who represented everything she did not like about England’s aristocracy, should be her sole company. It was an irony that some literary genius would have loved.
With a sigh of exhaustion, he straightened, also staring at their surroundings. The contrast between the first time she’d seen him and now was almost funny. Then, he’d been every inch the fashionable gentleman with his perfectly fitted jacket, high collar and intricate cravat. Now his clothes were close to rags. He’d taken off his coat and held it in one hand, the dark tails hanging torn and wet. His shirt was ripped, several buttons undone, and she could see his chest. His trousers were tattered, his feet bare and the ends of his once-white cravat fluttered in the wind.
‘We made it,’ he said, surveying the emptiness. ‘Where would they have gone and how?’
‘Horseback most likely. There looks to be hoofmarks, but it is too dry and hard to see clearly. We will be able to see more clearly in the damper areas.’
‘Any clue where we are?’
‘I am unsure.’
‘At least no one can sneak up on us.’
He smiled. He had one dimple on the side of his cheek that made a slight crease. Millie smiled also. Laughter bubbled inside her. She grinned and then chuckled. The emotion grew, swelling up from somewhere deep. It shook her, breaking through the numb paralysis morphing into high-pitched giggles which subsided into a whimper.
He stepped up quickly, reaching out for her, taking her into his arms and holding her tightly to his chest so that she could smell the sweat and salt on his skin. Instinctively, she clung to him. Her fingers tightened o
n his arms, needing to feel that he was real, solid, alive. His shirt was damp against her cheek. But she could feel the warmth of his skin and hear the thudding, regular beat of his heart.
‘Hush,’ he said, rocking her as he might a child. ‘Hush.’
His words and the gentleness of his tone made things both worse and better. Her sobs lessened. The tight bands about her ribcage loosened and she could breathe more easily. She became aware of the strength of his arms, the way they encircled her, making her feel safe, protected and anchored away from the horror of the beach below.
For several seconds, she was content to cling to this man, this sole survivor, but as the panic lessened, she felt an awareness that was embarrassment mixed with something else.
She had never been so close to a male. Ever.
Her cheek was flush to his skin. His hands encircled her and she could feel her body tight against him. She felt the pressure of his embrace and a consciousness of the exact inches where his palms and fingers touched her back.
She had been clinging to him as though for survival, but the feeling morphed and she became aware of his skin and the movement of his muscles.
She had never touched a man’s bare chest or shoulders. She had never felt this sensation of curiosity, awareness.
She jumped back. Her arms dropped quickly to her sides.
‘I—I am so sorry,’ she said, stammering as heat rushed into her cheeks.
She glanced up. He was standing quite still, his expression unreadable. His hair was still wet and fell forward on to his forehead. She knew a sudden wish to push it back. She pressed her hands tight to her sides.
‘I cannot think why I behaved so,’ she said, stepping further back, wishing he would say something.
Their gazes met. His eyes were a dark greenish-grey. She looked away. For another moment he said nothing and when he spoke it seemed to require an effort. ‘It might have something to do with near drowning and seeing, well...what we saw.’
‘I...um...do apologise. It...it certainly won’t happen again.’
‘I did not mind,’ he said.
She supposed he wished to be reassuring, but somehow his tone and his expression made the confusion worsen. Heat fired into her cheeks. Her throat became dry. She rubbed her eyes, which were still damp from the tears.
‘Here.’ He pulled out a handkerchief and his fingers brushed her hand as he handed it to her. They were warm, yet his touch sent cold shivers coursing through her body.
‘You still have a handkerchief?’ Her voice sounded strangely husky.
‘Every well-dressed gentleman does.’
She took the handkerchief, still damp from the sea. ‘Thank you.’
After wiping her eyes, she looked around the surroundings and realised that the landscape was not quite as foreign as she has supposed. ‘I feel quite composed now. I suggest we continue to the nearest town,’ she said.
‘An admirable suggestion. I’ll pull out the map.’
‘No need to be facetious. Fowey should be that way.’ She nodded in a south-west direction.
‘Is that a whim or do you know the area?’
‘I know it. I walk a lot. I have not been this far, but I recognise the landscape as similar to what I’m used to.’ Her words came out quickly, sounding like a hurried babble to her own ears.
He looked doubtful. ‘You are a woman of surprises, but I will follow your lead, given I have no better ideas.’
* * *
Miss Lansdowne started forward with surprising confidence. The cap had been lost and wind pulled her hair loose in a wild, tousled mop. Although quite short, her stride was brisk and he found himself quickening his pace to keep up with her.
She was an anomaly, different from any woman he had encountered, and oddly appealing. The way she had clung to him, the surprising soft fullness of her body pressed against him, had invoked a gamut of emotion.
Her eyes were huge and blue, not a flat cornflower blue, but a dark, deep blue. He watched her nimble movements and the ease with which she negotiated the rugged path, despite her bare feet. He lived in a world where conformity was paramount. His father had wanted him a certain way, an imitation of all the other sons from centuries past who had gone to Harrow and graduated into White’s. He’d hated Harrow and he did not particularly enjoy White’s. His father had sent him to school days after his mother’s death. He’d learned to survive. But survival had depended on being the person others had wanted, not the person he was.
This girl should be singing and torturing a musical instrument, not running around Cornish bogs in sailor’s trousers. He did not know if he envied, admired or disapproved. All three, perhaps?
How did one go from tea parties to smuggling? Why would one go from tea parties to smuggling?
‘You mentioned being in London some years ago. Have you visited more recently?’ he asked, as he followed her brisk steps.
‘We are still in mourning,’ she said, her tone flat.
‘Of course, I am sorry.’
‘Yes, people always are.’ Again, she sounded almost angry.
Grief did that, the pain mixing with a desolate, impotent wrath so that one did not know where one emotion ended and the other began. He remembered when his mother died and how the pain and shock had shifted into rage.
Miss Lansdowne had suffered two losses: father and brother. Two losses so close to each other would be tough on any family.
‘It must have been a difficult time,’ he said.
She stopped a few feet ahead of him and turned, her hands set squarely at her waist. Her dark hair blew wildly and there was something about her silhouette, starkly outlined against the moorland’s grey sky, which had an untamed wildness that was akin to pagan. He could imagine her as a direct descendant from the druids who had once walked these shores.
‘As I mentioned before, I am not comfortable with small talk or condolences. If you must talk, why do you not enlighten me about your aquatic escapades? How did you end up half-drowned off the coast anyway? I still do not even know that.’
‘Nor do I,’ he said.
‘Pardon?’
‘I do not know what happened.’
‘You do not know?’ Her brows pulled into a ferocious frown, as though finding this statement a personal affront.
‘No. Everything is blank.’
‘I suppose you were drinking.’ She spoke flatly, a statement as opposed to a question. It struck him as surprising that such a young female should be knowledgeable about drunkenness.
‘My brother’s evenings usually started with food and ended in stupor,’ she said, answering his unspoken question.
Indeed, Tom had been habitually three sheets to the wind, but Sam felt again taken aback by her bluntness.
‘I believe in honesty, perhaps to an unladylike extent.’ She looked at him with that disconcerting direct gaze as she again answered an unspoken question.
He paused, caught by her candid blue gaze.
Did she? How would she react if he’d told her that he found her the most fascinating female he’d encountered in years? Or that he wondered what it would be like to kiss her? And that her eyes were a beautiful blue?
He wouldn’t say any of this, of course. He would not take advantage of a young woman still emotionally distressed. Nor would he step away from the script deemed appropriate for a gentleman. He paused and wondered which was the greater motivation; character or convention.
She nodded, turning from him and moving forward. ‘So what do you remember?’
‘The last thing I remember with any clarity is dinner,’ he said, stepping after her.
A drunken escapade was a simple explanation. It would make sense; dinner followed by too much port. Except he did not believe it. His memory loss was not merely the blurriness of too much wine. Moreover, he’d been too worried about Frances to
drink very much. Even that afternoon she’d seemed oddly quiet, holding her baby as though fearful to put him down. At dinner, it had been worse, as though her body was present, but her mind was not.
‘I do not think that my memory loss was caused by too much drinking,’ he said.
She glanced back. ‘You did hit your head so I suppose it could be that.’
He touched the base of his skull somewhat tenderly. ‘Isn’t that the stuff of novellas and fanciful stories?’
‘There is often a grain of truth in such tales, at least so my sister says.’
‘Perhaps. I am not well versed in such fiction.’
‘My sister adores them. The more unlikely the better.’ Her voice had softened, as though merely thinking about her sister gentled her disposition.
‘So might I be a prince in disguise?’ he asked, needing to draw out this tenuous connection, this moment of levity, to hear the laughter in her voice and imagine her expression relaxing, her lips curving upwards in that smile which was somehow transformative.
‘Her favourite authors would find that entirely possible with all manner of assassins eager for your demise.’
‘You say that with too much enthusiasm.’
She glanced back again, her face now serious. ‘But is it possible? Could someone wish you harm? Might you have been intentionally attacked?’
He frowned. ‘It seems unlikely. My memory of my last twenty-eight years is quite clear and I do not remember any duels, physical skirmishes or enemies to speak of. Although I suppose I might have had a run-in with one of your smuggling friends.’
She shook her head. ‘It was a small delivery. I saw the other two boatmen collecting the shipment and they did not seem distressed.’
‘Perhaps they are too used to clonking the odd inconvenience on the head to experience any additional concern?’
‘No, they are both very pleasant individuals. Mr Jones is the baker and Mr Larose the undertaker. That doesn’t sound reassuring, I know, but he is quite the loveliest man. Where were you staying?’
‘Manton Hall.’
Caught in a Cornish Scandal Page 4