With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection

by Kerrigan Byrne

  “What’s wrong, Corie? Why are you acting like this?”

  “Acting? Oh, yes, that’s exactly the point here, isn’t it, my lord? Well, I’m not going to act anymore, no, not another day, not another hour, not another moment. Our agreement is finished, Donovan. Over! I want an annulment and as quickly as you can arrange one, your bloody inheritance be damned!”

  Corisande turned and grabbed for the doorknob as Donovan’s voice suddenly grew very low behind her.

  “Woman, you’re not going anywhere until we have this thing out—”

  “I am going—to my father’s house, which I should never have left in the first place, and don’t you dare try to stop me! If you do, I swear I’ve a very entertaining story I’m sure your brother would love to hear—oh!”

  Donovan had reached above her head and slammed the door back into place, then spun Corisande around so roughly that she felt a moment’s fear. His face had grown as swarthy as she’d seen it, though his eyes held a trace of desperation.

  “I suggest you consider very carefully before leaving this house or revealing anything to my brother, if you care at all about the welfare of your friends. I doubt Captain Oliver Trelawny would relish time in prison if his smuggling activities became known to the king’s excisemen. Or any of his crew.”

  Corisande gaped at him, wholly stunned. Donovan felt his gut twisting at her incredulous silence, which was a telling sign of what his warning might just have cost him.

  Hell and damnation, this wasn’t how he had imagined the morning would be! He hadn’t come up here to threaten her friends but to wake her with a kiss and to tell her again that he loved her.

  Corisande had been so sleepy last night when he finally revealed what lay in his heart that he doubted she had even heard him. Now she would probably never believe him; dammit, why couldn’t he have thought of some other way to prevent her from leaving him?

  “So…so you followed me the other night to the cove?”

  “What did you expect me to do?” Donovan’s gut twisted all the more when he saw her stiffen. “Good God, you’d just been nearly strangled on the heath! I couldn’t believe it when I overheard you asking Peggy Robberts to pretend her babe was coming so you could ride out again to God-knows-where; then, to discover you’re a smuggler—”

  “Fair trading is what we call it here!” Corisande countered hotly, so hurt, so indignant, so furious she didn’t know what to do. Donovan, love her? She must have been dreaming to have come up with such a preposterous thought! “And it’s what has kept this parish from starving, my lord, long before you ever set a foot in Cornwall!”

  She turned around and flung open the door this time before Donovan could stop her, but he soon caught up with her, grabbing her arm to pull her to face him.

  “Corie—”

  “Don’t fear, Donovan, I took note of your threat. I’m not going to ruin things for you with your brother,” she half whispered through her teeth lest any servants were near. “I’m sure he and Charlotte are growing quite impatient to bid us farewell. We should go.”

  “Yes, but we’re going to talk of this later, Corie, do you understand me? We will talk later.”

  She didn’t answer, glancing away as tears suddenly leapt to her eyes—Lord help her, she was a mess.

  She started when she felt Donovan’s fingers at her chin; he obviously wished for her to look at him, but to see her sniffling and crying was the last thing she wanted right now. She wrenched herself away and ran down the hall, scarcely hearing his ragged sigh.

  Yet further discussion was not to be, at least not that morning or into the afternoon. No more than a few moments after the Duke of Arundale and his duchess—whining already about the length of the journey in front of them—and their entourage rolled away in their big black carriages, Henry Gilbert came galloping down the drive with news that one of the mine shafts was flooded from last night’s storm. No men had been injured, thankfully enough, but Donovan should come straightaway to survey the damage.

  So Donovan had gone, not to Corisande’s surprise, although she was taken aback when he ordered Henry Gilbert to stay at the house to ensure that she would not be left alone for the day. Left alone? More likely to keep an eye on her!

  She had at once gone upstairs to her room, having no wish to share company with the man, and now here she stood at her window. The sun was already beginning to set in a blaze of orange and crimson fire, and still Donovan had not returned.

  Which was fine with her. She hoped he would be gone through the night, and then they wouldn’t have to talk, but she hadn’t enjoyed being left with only her roiling thoughts to occupy her either.

  She had already decided she wasn’t going to meet the Fair Betty tonight no matter if the signal came; if Donovan did come home and find her gone, he might guess her destination and try to disrupt the landing. Better that she didn’t go there at all. Oliver would have to manage on his own.

  Yet thinking about those three men—now that had plagued her. That they might soon be enjoying the hearth fire and eating supper at the Trelawnys’ inn was almost too much for her to bear. They might even be plotting to kill her.

  She had only to think of that ominous warning…“Now you know when you hear from me again, madame, you will not doubt that my words are true!”…and it was like reliving once more the horror she’d known on the beach. Just to recall how close she had come to drowning left her shaking and yet growing angrier by the moment. Those bastards! Why should she be wondering when they might strike again when she knew exactly where they were staying?

  Finally Corisande could stand the endless pacing in her room no longer. Her mind was made up, but she couldn’t just go there and confront them. They would laugh in her face. But they wouldn’t dare laugh at her if she…

  Corisande’s heart was racing before she got to Donovan’s room; the vivid memories she had tried so hard to hold at bay hit her with full force as soon as she saw his bed.

  A bed that must have been made hours ago—Lord, she could just imagine what Ellen Biddle must have wondered upon seeing the blood. Two deflowerings?

  Shoving the thought away, Corisande concentrated upon her search, and it didn’t take her long. She found Donovan’s pistol easily in the bottom wardrobe drawer, a shiver coursing through her when she traced her fingers over the smooth barrel, wondering how many men he might have shot—

  “Oh, Lord.” She didn’t muse any further on that score; Donovan was an army officer after all. Instead she hid the pistol beneath her cloak and quickly went downstairs, deciding she would leave through the front door and let everyone wonder. She should have guessed Henry Gilbert might be watching for her. The agent rushed from the drawing room, his huge Adam’s apple bobbing nervously.

  “I’m going out for a stroll, Gilbert,” she began, only to see that the scrawny fellow had the audacity to step in front of her.

  “F-forgive me, Lady Donovan, but Lord Donovan asked that if you go out anywhere, I should accompany you.”

  “I only plan a short stroll, there’s no need to trouble yourself—”

  “It’s no trouble, my lady, truly. And if I don’t, I’m sure you understand that His Lordship will be most displeased with me.”

  “Henry.”

  “Y-yes, my lady?”

  Corisande drew out the pistol and leveled it at the man’s stomach, and Henry Gilbert’s eyes nearly popped from his head. “I strongly suggest you go back into the drawing room and have yourself a nice brandy. Are we understood?”

  She didn’t have to say another word as the agent slipped and slid across the polished floor in his haste to oblige her. When Corisande turned back to the front door, she saw that the footman had disappeared too.

  Lord help her, now if things would only go this smoothly with those Frenchmen.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “Why, they’re not here, Corie. Left in the wee hours of the morning, they did, half knocking down my door to tell me they were going on their way.
Pah! Good riddance, I say! An’ do ‘ee think they left me an extra pence or two for how well my Oliver and I treated them?”

  Corisande jumped at how hard Rebecca Trelawny slapped the wet cloth upon the trestle table, the woman clearly disgruntled as she scrubbed vigorously.

  “An’ that’s not the worst of it! A fine new fishing boat was taken during the night, can ‘ee believe that? Slipped out of the harbor without a soul giving any notice at all—which is no surprise! After that gale an’ the shipwreck, why, everyone was exhausted and snug in their beds, giving no heed that there might be thieves among us.”

  “You think those men took it, then?” Corisande had scarcely asked before Rebecca hit the table with another resounding whack, causing several old fishermen to lift their heads from their ale with some apprehension.

  “Ais, so I do! I told Oliver from the very first when those three came round asking for rooms that they had a mean, harsh look about them, but he laughed an’ gave me no mind. I told that to the constable, too, just this morning, but there’s nothing to be done now. The boat’s gone, they’re gone—” Rebecca paused, straightening from the table to study Corisande. “Why would ‘ee be asking for them, Corie? Aw, no, don’t tell me they stole from the church!”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Corisande hastened to assure her, although she didn’t quite know how to explain why she was looking for them. She certainly couldn’t tell the truth; Rebecca would worry, and with Oliver still being out at sea… “Um, well—”

  “Ah, Corie dear, give me a moment, will ‘ee?” Rebecca threw the cloth over her shoulder and rushed across the smoky room to the hearth. “I’ve got a leek an’ pork pie cooking—my Oliver’s favorite—an’ he’ll have a fit if the crust is scorched.”

  More than grateful that she’d been spared from struggling for an explanation, Corisande called out, “That’s all right, Rebecca, I must run! Take care now.”

  She was gone out the door before the woman had turned from the oven. The pistol Corisande held beneath her cloak was clasped so tightly in her hand that her fingers had begun to cramp. With dusk quickly fading into darkness, she leaned with a sigh against a wall, filled with as much relief as fury that her attackers had apparently left Porthleven.

  So what had that French bastard meant, then? When she heard from him again? Obviously they wouldn’t dare to return to the village now, not after stealing a fishing boat if, indeed, they had been the ones to commit the crime. But who else would have done such a foul—

  Corisande gasped, her thoughts scattering, as a thunderous cannon shot shattered the peaceful stillness and a huge explosion of water burst high into the air only a hundred yards from the end of the quay. In shock she looked farther out to sea where a ship under full sail was making directly for the harbor while behind her another ship, much larger, bore down in hot pursuit.

  Oh, God, a revenue cruiser giving chase, she was certain of it, while in front…in front…

  As shouts went up throughout the village, people spilled from their homes and rushed down to the harbor. Corisande began to run along the quay as more cannon boomed, the shots clearly intended as a direct warning for the Fair Betty to heave to and allow herself to be boarded. For now Corisande was convinced the hapless cutter was Oliver’s; she watched in horror as another roaring blast sent up a great plume of water so near to starboard that she feared the cannon fire might have struck the ship.

  “Lord help us, oh, no, ‘tes my Oliver! My Oliver!” Rebecca Trelawny’s hoarse cries rent the air, the woman at once grabbed by neighbors as she nearly toppled from the quay in her desperate frenzy.

  Corisande had never felt so helpless as she watched the Fair Betty, so close now to harbor, finally slacken her speed and give way to the king’s cruiser. A hue of such outrage—whistles and curses and catcalls, boos and hisses—arose from the village that she had no doubt Oliver and his crew would hear it and take heart that their neighbors and friends were with them in spirit.

  She added her own voice to the wild melee, shaking her fist, shaking the pistol as an eight-oared galley filled with armed excisemen was launched from the cruiser, and she gave no heed that she was squeezing upon the trigger. She was knocked to her knees when the weapon suddenly fired. Her ears rang so loudly from the deafening crack as she struggled to rise that she didn’t hear Donovan shouting until he was almost upon her.

  “Good God, Corie, put that damned thing down! Will you have them think someone’s firing out there and start a battle?”

  Flushing with chagrin, she dropped the pistol as if it were a live snake. Donovan grabbed up the weapon and shoved it into his belt.

  “I—I’m sorry,” she began, only to stiffen when he hauled her to her feet, deep indignation filling her. “For heaven’s sake, why am I apologizing to you? You had a hand in this, didn’t you? Somehow you found out about Oliver returning tonight and you alerted the king’s men! I should have known you’d be here to watch—”

  “I’m here because once again, I had to come looking for you!” Donovan pulled her along with him to where he’d left Samson. “Thank God I did too. Come, we’ve got to hurry.”

  “Hurry? Are you mad?” Corisande tried to wrest herself free, but Donovan’s grip upon her arm was like a steel vise. “I can’t go, I have to stay here! God knows what they’re going to do to Oliver—”

  “You can’t help him, Corie. His fate is in the Crown’s hands now. But your father needs you and Frances too!”

  She stopped struggling, noticing for the first time how grim Donovan looked, his face etched deeply with worry.

  “My father? What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  He didn’t readily answer, lifting her onto Samson’s back and then vaulting up behind her.

  “Donovan?”

  “Your sisters are gone, Corie. They were taken from their beds sometime during the night.”

  “Taken?”

  His grave nod left Corisande cold, so cold that she could only stare blindly ahead of them as Donovan guided Samson from the crowded quay and onto the road where he kicked the animal into a gallop. As villagers scattered out of their way, it seemed they had reached the parsonage in an instant, the place eerily dark and silent but for a light burning in the kitchen window.

  “After what you spouted earlier about wanting to go home, I came here first to look for you and found Frances and your father instead,” Donovan said, lifting her down. “Then I heard the cannon and—Hell, that doesn’t matter. Your father was tied to a chair when I found him, Corie. He’s been badly beaten, but he’ll—Corie?”

  She’d fled inside, not waiting for Donovan as she careened through the parlor and down the hall.

  “Papa? Papa!”

  She burst into the kitchen, coming up short in front of the high-backed settle as her father lifted his head from his hands to look at her. One of his eyes was swollen shut, his face puffy and covered with ugly bruises, a line of dried blood trailing down the corner of his mouth. Splotches of dull brown blood stained his shirt.

  “Oh, Papa…” Tears blinding her, Corisande looked up at Donovan, whose arm had gone round her waist. “Frances?”

  “I carried her upstairs, put her to bed. I found her down here lying on the floor—she must have been baking.”

  “Yes, yes, she likes to bake bread late at night,” Corisande said numbly. “Is she all right?”

  “Groggy, can hardly open her eyes, but I think she’ll be fine. She doesn’t remember much more than that they forced her to drink brandy laced with laudanum.”

  “They?” Corisande whispered, ice-cold intuition clutching at her heart. Donovan didn’t answer, nodding to the piece of paper that had been skewered to the kitchen table with a knife. Corisande went instead to her father; she sank down next to him and laid her hand on his arm, her throat so tight she could hardly speak. “Papa? What happened?”

  A tear running down his swollen cheek, Joseph Easton shook his head in despair. “I tried to find it, Corie. I tried so
hard to find it but I couldn’t remember…”

  “Corie.”

  Starting, she looked up as Donovan handed her the letter he’d just removed from the table.

  “Here. I know you don’t like knives.”

  His voice was so huskily soft, his eyes so full of concern, she couldn’t help but be touched. Her hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t focus upon the writing, and she handed it back to Donovan. “Please…”

  “They’ve taken the girls to France,” he said without looking at the letter, obviously having already read its grim contents. “To Brittany—Roscoff—where they’ll wait only until Monday morning, barely three days from now. If they don’t have what they want by then, Marguerite, Linette, and Estelle will be given over to Moroccan pirates who still trade with the French no matter the war—”

  “But what could they want?” Corisande cut him off hoarsely, desperate tears clouding her eyes. “We don’t have anything! My father is a vicar—we’ve no money!”

  “Corie, whoever wrote this letter says your family has a cache of jewelry that belongs to him.”

  “Jewelry?”

  “He says, too, that he’s the one who pushed over those barrels, who attacked you on the heath, who rode after you that one night—”

  “One night?” Momentarily confused, Corisande had only to glance at Donovan to know that he must have followed her back to the Robbertses’ that night of the landing. Yet she didn’t press it further as he went on, his voice becoming angry.

  “And he was the one who gave you a warning last night on the beach. Good God, you never told me that he spoke to you!”

  “I did! I said he claimed he hadn’t brought me there to kill me and then I tried to tell you the rest, but you said we would speak of it tomorrow—” Corisande fell silent, her face burning as she looked down at her hands. “He told me that when I heard from him again, I wouldn’t doubt that he spoke the truth. I didn’t understand…it made no sense until now.”

  “But I knew. God forgive me, I knew all along…”