Caught in a Cornish Scandal

by Eleanor Webster

  ‘You know,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘I wouldn’t have survived the moor without you.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have survived the sea without me either.’

  He laughed. ‘I suppose I should be glad you decided to smuggle.’

  ‘Indeed, you should be grateful for ever.’

  ‘You know, I have never met anyone like you. I feel as though I have been living in a grey world that has turned multi-coloured overnight.’

  ‘I never knew you were a poet.’

  ‘A poet? Now you insult me. Musician, maybe, but never a poet.’

  ‘And what is wrong with a poet?’ She raised herself on one elbow. He was quite close, inches away from her. His eyes were intently dark and his lips well shaped and sensitive.

  ‘Aren’t they dreadfully foppish? More cravat than person?’

  ‘And musicians aren’t?’

  ‘Not nearly as bad. More person and less cravat.’

  She giggled. ‘I wouldn’t know. Cornish sea towns aren’t known for poets or musicians.’ She touched his cravat, twisting the cloth through her fingers with a rustle of silk.

  They were not touching and yet she was very aware of him and the proximity of his body. ‘I’m afraid this won’t get you admitted into anything.’

  ‘You mock my cravat? You do realise that an elegant cravat is the pride of every gentleman?’

  She met his gaze and felt the rapid-fire thumping of her heart. ‘I am sure it was elegant once,’ she said, conscious of her uneven breath, as though she had been running.

  They were so close she could hear the rustle of his shirt as he lifted his hand, touching her hair and gently tucking a stray strand behind her ear. Very slowly, he traced her jaw. The skimming touch of his thumb made her catch her breath.

  He was so close that she could see the tiny crease on the left side of his cheek from that lop-sided dimple and the firm line of his lips slightly lifted in a smile.

  Very slowly, he pulled her nearer to him, touching her lips with his own. The kiss was soft and gentle, a fleeting thing, and yet she felt it through every part of her body. It made her heart beat like a wild thing. It made her breath quicken and a feeling that was both shivery, but also searing, flashed through her. She’d never felt this. Or anything like this. Her every sense was filled by him. She heard nothing except his inhalation and the rustle of straw with his movement. She felt nothing except the warmth of his hand, cupping her chin, his lips warm against her own.

  ‘You are very beautiful,’ he murmured.

  Never before had Millie Lansdowne felt beautiful, but in this moment, and with this man, she felt beautiful.

  * * *

  Sam looked down at Millie’s flushed countenance. Her eyes were a dark, intense blue—a mesmerising blue—her lips were parted, glistening with moisture and her shirt had fallen open, showing a creamy expanse of skin.

  The place, the moment, the woman seemed stripped of all pretence, innocent of all lies or subterfuge.

  A desperate, raw neediness grew in him. He wanted to pull her close, to feel her, to tangle his hands through her wild hair, drown himself in her eyes and satiate himself with the touch of her skin and lips. This moment had an intensity that made past and future inconsequential.

  Her lips parted with a soft gasp as her hands reached up, touching his cheek and the line of his jaw. There was an exploratory innocence about her. He felt the graze of her fingers, as she touched his neck, his shoulders and muscles. This lack of sophistication also excited.

  His kiss deepened. He felt her arch towards him. He felt the softness of her breasts pressing against him. He wanted this woman. He wanted this alluring, fascinating female with an almost adolescent urgency.

  But he was not an adolescent any longer.

  He forced himself to still, rolling away with a muted groan as he stared again at the cabin’s criss-crossing beams, now dimly lit by the hint of daylight.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled,

  His heart thumped like a wild thing. Desire pulsed through him. But he would not seduce a vulnerable girl. Good God, it was not honourable, or sensible, or even safe.

  ‘We must go. Starting to get light out,’ he said, abrupt and gruff in his reluctance.

  He got up. He looked away as she sat up also, her shirt hanging forward and her hair delightfully mussed.

  ‘I will go outside and get water,’ he said, leaving quickly.

  It was still dim, but with a hint of dawn brightening the eastern sky. He filled the tin cup, also splashing water on his face. He should take a cold bath, it might bring back some semblance of self-control.

  On his return, she was sitting quite composed. He handed her the cup. ‘I’m—I mean—I apologise about before. I regret my actions,’ he said.

  She took the mug. ‘Our circumstances are exceptional, likely resulting in our...foolishness. We will leave here and return to civilisation and put this unfortunate experience behind us.’

  She spoke crisply, in businesslike tones, with as much emotion as his man of business might display about an unpaid bill. Except for the slight flushing of her cheeks, she seemed quite at ease. Meanwhile, his heart beat like a crazy thing wanting to break free of his ribcage.

  ‘I’d best get more water,’ he muttered. ‘We should douse the fire.’

  * * *

  Millie glared at his retreating figure. He was positively galloping from the cottage. The door clanged behind him.

  Of course, he regretted the kiss. And why wouldn’t he? A fashionable gentleman would want someone beautiful, accomplished, witty. She was none of those things. Likely he’d had a moment of weakness brought on by the near-death experience, danger or the cold night.

  She pulled her clothes more tightly about her. And what had she been thinking? Her character was not of the sort to forget duty. For the past twelve hours, she’d been damning herself for her foolhardy smuggling escapade and reminding herself that a respectable marriage was her best option, both for herself and Lil.

  From now on, she would behave with the utmost propriety. She would search the cabin for anything which might help them on the journey. She would guide them to the nearest habitation. She would return home and hope Flora had concocted some story and her reputation was still intact. She would marry the estimable Mr Edmunds, would somehow save Lil from Harwood and let down neither her sister or mother.

  With new determination, Millie stood, looking around the tiny cabin. Wincing, she went to the small cluttered alcove. It contained a broken chair, a plough, cutting tools and straw. Again, she felt a shiver of unease that so many items had been abandoned. She glanced nervously, half expecting to see the cabin’s owner had arrived, intent on revenge.

  She saw no one and was about to step back into the central part of the cottage when she noted a bin. Perhaps she was fuelled by curiosity or a last-ditch hope to find food. Indeed, potatoes flickered through her mind much like a small child would dream of sugar plums at Christmas.

  Kneeling, she touched the rough wood, trying to pull up on the lid. It did not move and she realised that it was padlocked. She twisted the box about. Why would a peat-cutter need a padlocked box?

  She scanned the oddments of tools. A blunt knife lay close to the plough and, holding it carefully, she placed the blade under the metal clasp. The knife skidded. She swore as it fell to the dirt floor.

  The door clattered behind her as Sam returned. ‘What are you doing in there? We need to leave.’

  ‘Give me a moment.’

  This time the knife did not skid. Gripping it, she angled the blade sharply, prying off the lock so that it fell to the ground with a heavy clunk.

  Millie lifted the lid.

  The box did not contain potatoes.

  Chapter Five

  Millie swallowed. Her hands tightened on the edge of the box while a deep chill seeped into h
er bones.

  She heard the fizzle of the peat fire as Sam doused it with water.

  ‘What is this?’ he asked.

  She swallowed, glancing back at him in mute appeal. She reached in, touching the cold gold of a woman’s locket, as though to affirm its existence and prove it was not a part of a nightmare. Her hand brushed the corner of a child’s portrait and the round contours of a man’s pocket watch.

  ‘Pearls,’ she whispered, pulling up a delicate strand of moon globes. ‘A peat-cutter wouldn’t have all this.’

  ‘Remnants of the wrecker’s hoard. Things he couldn’t sell right away.’

  She let the pearls drop, the smooth feel of them distasteful. They clinked together, snaking around the child’s portrait and the watch. She stared at the collection: signet rings, watches, a locket with tiny blonde hairs trapped beneath the glass.

  Relics from the dead.

  She remembered Jem’s twisted form and sightless eyes. She remembered the other men, both on the beach and flailing, helpless, in the seas. She stood, stepping back, needing to distance herself.

  ‘We have to leave,’ Sam said. ‘It is not safe. They may be back.’

  Millie nodded. Her throat hurt and she felt the sting of tears. She bent, lifting the lid to close it. The splintered lock dangled.

  ‘You broke the lock? Why?’ Sam asked sharply.

  ‘Looking for food.’

  ‘Locked in a box?’

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘You could not have left well enough alone?’ he snapped.

  ‘What does it matter? They’d have known we’d been here from the fire.’ She dropped the lid. It clattered closed.

  ‘That we’d sought shelter, not that we’d discovered...this.’ He gestured to the box with its dangling lock. ‘I should never have let us stay.’

  ‘You did not,’ Millie said. ‘Besides, it would not have been safe to carry on at night.’

  He stared at the box, as though its exterior would somehow serve to inform. ‘But who did this? Who are they? A smuggling gang, no doubt, but from where? Villagers? Fishermen from further up the coast.’

  ‘Not villagers. Or fishermen. They would not wreck. No decent Cornish man or woman would wreck.’

  ‘Even after discovering this, you’re still defending them?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, bristling at the condemnation to his tone.

  ‘Look, I do not know who did this, but odds are they are smugglers, either from your group or a rival gang. Like it or not, they are criminals.’

  She glared at him. His cravat had likely cost more than Jem could make in a year. ‘Jem and the other men did not have choices. Jem had children. He wanted to put food on the table, grow old and see them grow up. Do you know what his other options were? To be snuffed out in a copper mine. Or survive the mine and die coughing his lungs out. He had no education or chance of education.’

  ‘So that excuses crime?’ he asked in that arrogant tone.

  ‘No, but it makes it understandable. You are rich. You have so much money, you can gamble it away.’

  ‘I did not know that you were so personally acquainted with my activities and financial situation.’

  ‘Have you ever been in the mines? Have you ever been so deep in the earth that you are freezing, with air so dusty you cannot breathe and so little light that you cannot see? It makes smuggling seem the better alternative.’

  ‘And you?’ he asked. ‘Are they now employing gentlewomen in the mine? Is that your excuse also?’

  They stared at each other over the chest with its dangling broken lock and damning contents. They were only a foot from each other. She could see the dark intensity of his eyes.

  ‘I do not need an excuse. I do not need to explain myself to you, but if you must know, I want to save my sister from marriage to Harwood.’

  ‘Harwood? Lord Harwood?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would she marry him?’

  ‘Apparently my brother owned him money.’ She stepped towards the door. ‘Right, shall we go?’

  * * *

  Sam followed Millie as she led the way, skirting the low land. The rain had stopped, but the clouds were still heavy, the mists tangled in the few trees, obscuring the sun except for its glowing disc.

  Millie’s every movement, the way her hands formed tight fists, her quick steps and hunched shoulders spoke of her anger. Sam hurried after her.

  Lillian Lansdowne should not marry Lord Harwood. No woman should marry Lord Harwood. Harwood was middle-aged. He was not accepted in polite society, frequented brothels, abused his mistresses and was diseased.

  ‘Miss Lansdowne? Millie? There must be another option. How much is owing?’ Sam asked.

  ‘A thousand pounds,’ Millie replied, without stopping or slowing.

  ‘And it is authentic? Not a forgery?’

  ‘I do not know.’

  ‘What do you mean “I do not know”?’

  ‘I do not have the information. Clear enough for you?’

  ‘Why not?’ he asked.

  ‘His chose to talk to my mother and I did not see the note proving the debt.’

  ‘A predator always goes for the weakest.’

  She turned, briefly pausing. ‘Very wise, Mr Garrett, but when I rescued you from the sea, it was not an invitation into my family’s business.’

  ‘I want to help.’

  ‘Well, you cannot. Tom gave Harwood a promissory note. Now, he will throw Mother into debtors’ prison if Lil doesn’t marry him.’

  ‘Do you have a solicitor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then he needs to look into it. Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘No, I was somewhat preoccupied with rescuing a drowning man and being kidnapped.’

  She turned, starting to walk briskly again.

  ‘It might have been a better initial first step. I mean, instead of smuggling.’

  ‘A solicitor cannot find money that is not there. He will merely charge for the privilege. Besides, I needed to do something, not listen to some fusty man tell me there was nothing I could do.’

  Her voice was thick with emotion.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I sounded judgemental.’

  She shrugged. ‘Obviously, my smuggling idea was not my crowning achievement.’

  This much was true but he could understand her near panic. ‘Harwood is...’ he paused, trying to find the words ‘...unpleasant.’

  No woman deserved such a fate. He realised he had no right to judge her or dead men.

  Besides, his harsh words had been less about anger or judgement, but more about his own vulnerability. There was something about this woman which made him feel a complexity of emotion he did not begin to understand. She had such spirit and humour. What other woman would seek to save her sister by smuggling? Or be able to walk for miles, shoeless, and without complaint?

  She was so different than most women of his acquaintance. He felt more in her presence. She attracted him in a multitude of ways. She intrigued him. His thoughts circled back to those moments by the fire. He remembered the touch of her lips and how physical desire had trumped sense.

  She engendered a raw neediness, marked by a lack of control, and made him want to throw caution away.

  But he’d done that before, immersed past, present and future into his adolescent love for Annie Whistler.

  And then everything had disintegrated.

  He pulled himself back from the past, focusing on the woman in front of him. She strode forward, her spine stiff, irritation almost bristling from her. She must love her sister very much to try smuggling in the middle of a gale.

  ‘Miss Lansdowne, about Harwood—he is known to be ill and I have heard his behaviour is erratic. Why would he suddenly produce this promissory note, six months after your
brother’s demise? I do not know anything for certain, but a solicitor should be involved. Will you let me get my solicitor to look into it?’

  She paused, glancing back at him and studying him with her intent gaze. ‘Very well.’ She turned away and they continued to walk for several minutes. Then she stopped again. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  * * *

  ‘Over there. Look!’

  Millie had stopped. Roused from his introspection, he squinted towards low hills.

  ‘See! A road and a building. I think it is a tavern. Indeed, we are quite close to Fowey. I do not think I have been more glad to see human habitation before.’

  He saw now the road winding through the countryside and a stone building, half hidden behind a cluster of trees. The harshness of the moors had lessened. The sparse grass and bent trees had given way to more habitable greenery and the patchwork of fields. Even the air smelled better, less peaty, laced with fresh grass and salt air.

  ‘I have never been more famished,’ he said.

  She turned to him, her forehead puckered into a worried frown. ‘But we have no money. Indeed, given the state of us, we’ll likely be sent away as beggars.’

  ‘Except I do,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have money.’ He pulled out a gold guinea, laying it flat on his palm.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ she asked sharply. ‘The cottage?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She stood quite still, staring at the coin, before looking up with her dark brows pulled into an angry frown. ‘People gave their lives for that. I’d prefer to go hungry than use that money. And you judge me and Jem? How much did you take?’

  ‘A few guineas. I did not want you wandering about this moor with criminals tracking us.’

  ‘So I am the reason? You would be quite happy to be tracked by any number of homicidal felons if you were alone? You blame your moral lapse on me?’