Buckler's Hard
Sahara Kelly
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 SK Private Label Publications
Cover Art Copyright 2012 by Sahara Kelly for
P and N Graphics, LLC.
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Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Acknowledgements
This story is based in a place where I grew up and is dedicated to the friends still enjoying the wonderful history and scenery that is Hampshire. To one special guy who took the time to drive me around and reacquaint me with so much of my childhood, especially Buckler's Hard, my thanks. Nigel, you're a sweetheart—I had so much fun that day in spite of the rain!
Author's Note
There really is a village called Buckler's Hard on the south coast of Hampshire in England. A "hard" was the old word for landing place—somewhere vessels of all kinds could dock safely. Set on the banks of the Beaulieu River as it meets the sea, Buckler's Hard has been in existence for centuries and remains a popular spot for visitors to this day. It's the home of the smallest church in England (it's adorable, seats about ten people squished together on the pews and the ancient wooden door squeaks dramatically when you go in), and boasts a very nice pub.
Two centuries ago, some of Britain's most famous sailing ships were built there, among them vessels for the famous British Naval hero Lord Horatio Nelson's fleet—notably the HMS Agamemnon, one of Nelson's favorite ships. In later times, Buckler's Hard served as one of the staging areas for the World War II Normandy invasion. Nowadays, most of the boats you'll see there are recreational, a mixture of sleek fiberglass, sails and wooden oars—the weekend adventures of nearby residents.
I have taken liberties with the actual layout and settings in and around this delightful village—simply for the sake of my story. Any descriptions that are inaccurate are solely my responsibility.
This book was originally published elsewhere and has been re-edited and slightly revised for this edition.
Chapter One
Sir Marcus Camberley was on a mission.
Or, as he liked to call it, a quest.
He was going to rediscover himself, his country, his life and maybe find himself a wife while he was at it.
Pretty big aspirations, all of them, but to a man with a renewed lease on his very existence, not insurmountable. His hand drifted absently to his chest where there should have been at least a scar, if not crushed bone and mangled tissue. But no, there was no mark, no sign that his world had changed with one savage thrust of a mighty sword and the tainted blood of an ancient evil.
He stood quietly next to his horse, enjoying the night air and the tang of the sea as it swirled around his nostrils. He should have been dead. Or dying. He'd lived for so long with a mortal illness that even now it was sometimes hard to accept he was cured. No longer did he have to cram experiences into every minute, nor did he have to fight the depression that had descended in his darkest hours.
He was free, courtesy of a set of circumstances few would believe. Sometimes he could scarcely believe it himself. But it had happened, he'd suffered a wound that should have killed him, but instead—thanks to the blood of a vampire and perhaps the lover whose hand wielded the sword—he'd survived, whole and healthy for the first time in longer than he could recall.
He shrugged and glanced out over the waters. 'T'was done. Rowan Selkirk was now enjoying connubial bliss with the one-time vampire who had become naught but a beautiful woman on that stormy night farther along this very coast. Marcus had visited them briefly, but although Rowan was still good company, it was clear the new husband's thoughts were centered on his lovely bride.
As well they should be. Thérèse was proving to be the perfect woman for Rowan and theirs was truly a love match. Marcus was glad of it, although there were moments when he missed the passion he and Rowan had shared.
It was that sense of something "missing" in his life that had sent Marcus off on his quest. Now that he actually had a life to look forward to, it was definitely time to see if the world held a woman for him as well.
He'd taken many to his bed—men as well as women—but these days his thoughts seemed to stray more often down a different path. His experiences with Rowan and the rest of their friends had shown him that there could indeed be a perfect mate out there somewhere. All he had to do was find her.
He pushed a lock of black hair off his face after the wind whipped it loose from the tie at the nape of his neck. His horse stirred a little, bridle jangling softly.
Senses pricking up like the ears of his mount, Marcus turned his head, gazing at the serene landscape around him. The clouds had scudded away from the waning moon, allowing it to shine weakly on the waters of the Solent and the river flowing into it. There wasn't much illumination, but what there was proved sufficient to show Marcus' sharp eyes a boat struggling to navigate the mud flats.
The tide was on the turn by the looks of things, making it hard work for the crew to row against the current.
There—a tiny flash of light from the beach. Somebody had uncovered a lantern, then rapidly shielded it again. If Marcus hadn't been looking directly that way, he'd have missed it altogether.
He soothed his horse, fingers riffling softly through his mane as he pondered the situation. It would appear that someone was waiting for this boat. Someone who didn't want much fuss or attention paid to their presence or possibly even the boat itself.
Putting those facts together with the almost moonless night and their location on the coast produced only one reasonable conclusion.
Smugglers.
In spite of the fact that the glory days of such doings were in the past, there was still a thriving community of "free traders" hopping to and fro across the English Channel, avoiding the taxes currently imposed on imported merchandise and probably filling their pockets with what little coinage their desperate voyages could accrue.
The cargo itself, of course, would travel way beyond this quiet inlet, most likely ending up in the cellars of some member of the local gentry. That would be if it were brandy. Silks, laces and other commodities would be cautiously allocated to whatever place was convenient for wagons to load them under cover of darkness, from whence they would make their way to larger cities—even London.
Marcus had enjoyed many a glass of brandy that had probably been imported in such a fashion. He had no quarrel with the notion, only with those politicians who made such illegal trade necessary.
By now the boat had found a resting place for itself and a flurry of activity was beginning, dark bulky objects being offloaded onto a pile near the person holding the lantern.
Intrigued, Marcus moved at last, tugging on the reins with an admonition to his horse to keep his whinnies to himself for a while. He wanted to take a quick peek at this essentially coastal nighttime game. Why not? He had nothing to lose, no place in particular to be or any time in particular to be there.
This was what his newly found freedom was all about. Poking his nose into other people's business if he wanted to.
He laughed silently at himself as he carefully walked along the shallow rise, his footsteps muffled by the turf and the gentle noise of the waves rippling over the flats. Many of his London acquaintances would have been astonished at the mere thought of "Mad Marcus" Camberle
y even acknowledging such people, let alone being curious about them.
However, those were the very people Marcus had put firmly behind him. That was then, this was now. And now meant he could prowl these remote places, take a closer look at whatever appealed to him and generally do what he wanted without a worry in the world.
Of course, this sort of attitude could well get him into trouble, but then again, trouble could be fun too.
Nearing the path leading down to the level of the sands and mud flats, Marcus loosely tied his horse's reins to a convenient shrub and whispered a soft endearment. Black and strong, the beast seemed to understand, merely checking to make sure he could reach some tempting grassy tufts.
Secure in the knowledge it would be there when he needed it, Marcus moved on, taking care his boots didn't dislodge a pebble or something. He wanted a closer look at these nighttime activities, yes. But he'd prefer not to do it with a pistol aimed at his head or a sword pressed to his throat.
He reached the bottom of the little trail without incident and stopped for a moment, looking out over a windswept gorse bush at the tableau in front of him.
There were four or five men trying to keep as quiet as possible, although how they expected to unload a good-sized rowboat silently, Marcus had no clue at all. The other figure, hooded and cloaked in dark folds of fabric, stood on the beach. This was the lantern-bearer-cum-lookout, Marcus assumed.
The inevitable occasional splash was accompanied by muttered oaths, drifting quietly across the ripples and the flats. He saw crates and a couple of barrels, all being carted to a pile that grew steadily bigger next to the dark and still figure.
When the boat was empty—Marcus hazarded a guess that no more than half an hour or so had passed—two men re-boarded the boat while the others stood on shore, huddled together as if in wait.
He flexed his shoulders against the stiffness he felt from standing still for so long, yet did not move. He was fascinated by this little glimpse into a world he'd not yet investigated, and his patience was rewarded by the soft sound of hoof beats followed by the appearance of a wagon from the far side of the narrow beach.
Concealed by a gentle rise of the shore, there must have been some kind of cart track giving access to the water. It made sense, since fishermen plied these waters regularly. Perhaps this was one way to get their catch into market while it was still fresh.
This catch, of course, wasn't exactly in danger of spoiling. It was in danger of landing all the "fishermen" in jail. Marcus wondered if there were any revenue officers in the vicinity. There had been a severe crackdown on this sort of thing a few years before—he remembered reading about some of the more violent "gentlemen" and he understood the need for recrimination. Nowadays, the smugglers themselves were more likely to be ex-soldiers. Returning from the war in Europe, these men were met with no chance of employment, families on the verge of starvation and a pretty dismal future. Who could blame them for wanting to earn an extra guinea or two outside the law? They certainly had the experience in facing danger. What was a revenue officer compared to Bonaparte's forces?
The wagon was being loaded rapidly, but something else snagged at Marcus' ears. A jangle of a bridle, the neigh of a horse—not his, he knew. It was more distant, coming from the trail he'd followed earlier that night.
Somebody, or several somebodies, was headed this way.
Without thinking twice, Marcus moved, emerging from behind the bush to stride down the beach toward whoever held the lantern. He made no effort to conceal his presence now since a tickle of foreboding along the back of his neck told him that he was the least of the smugglers' worries right at this moment.
There was a curse as his footsteps crunched over some pebbles and the tableau before him froze.
He ignored them, walking continually forward until he could be sure they heard him.
"You'll have more company than you know what to do with in a few minutes." He gestured over his shoulder with his chin. "Horses. Several of them. Coming this way."
"Damnation." The cloaked figure swore softly at Marcus' words. "Roy, James—quickly now. Take the wagon to where we agreed."
Hurriedly, the horse was turned and the wheels began to bite into the soft surface of the inlet. They rushed, but managed to maintain an almost eerie silence as Marcus watched.
Within moments, they'd vanished into the darkness beyond and he was left alone with that one mysterious figure. Who began snapping a branch or two off the low shrubs.
"Well, if you're going to help, then do it, damn it." The hood fell back, revealing long hair bundled into an untidy knot.
Marcus blinked.
It was a woman.
"Uhh..." Caught by surprise, words failed him.
"Here." She thrust a branch into his hand. "Run this over the sand. Obliterate as many of the tracks as you can." She set her lantern down after carefully snuffing the light and began to brush out the marks of footprints and the deeper lines of the wagon wheels. "Move, you idiot. There must be nothing here for them to see, do you understand me?"
Marcus nodded and did as he was bid. Clearly this was a woman who knew what to do. The leader of the smugglers, perhaps? A local wench?
He thought not. Her voice was low and cultured. But what would a lady be doing on a deserted beach with a gang of smugglers in the middle of the night?
Marcus was intrigued. He shot a sideways glance at her as he industriously swept the rough sands. She was tall and as she moved, a glimpse of something white and high to her neck flashed against the dark cloak. There was the swish of dark fabric around her feet.
No cheap evening gown or loose-necked whore's chemise. This was, without a doubt, a lady. Although what kind of lady remained to be seen.
"How's this?" He waved his tattered branch at the sand.
"Not perfect, but it will have to do, I suppose." She barely glanced at him.
Disappointed, but determined to make a good impression, Marcus flipped at a few more footprints. "The tide's turning. What's left won't wash away before they get here."
"I know." She sounded irritated. "More's the pity."
There was a distinct whinny—closer now—and both Marcus and the woman lifted their heads.
"I shall have to distract them." She dropped the branch and squared her shoulders.
"Not alone, you won't." Marcus felt the germ of an idea take root in his admittedly wicked mind. "Come with me."
He grabbed her hand and almost dragged her to the edge of the inlet and a soft patch of turf. It was near where he'd stood and watched her little band of smugglers. "Take off your cloak."
He was stripping off his jacket even as he spoke, casting it aside without a thought.
"What?" She froze.
"Take off your cloak. Quickly. You want a distraction? We'll give them one." Marcus infused his voice with as much urgent command as he could pour into it without actually yelling at her.
It worked. She unfastened the garment and turned the white blur of her face toward him. "Now what?"
He pulled it away from her and spread it on the ground. "Lie down."
"I—wait..." She seemed undecided, uncertain what to do.
"Woman, we have little time. Don't dither." Marcus stepped forward, swept her off her feet and plunked her down onto her cloak with no ceremony whatsoever.
"Ouch."
"Sorry."
He wasn't sorry at all, of course. She was a wonderfully warm and curvy armful and it was no hardship to tumble next to her, laying his body almost on top of hers.
"Two questions."
The breath seemed to be forced from her lips as the dark pools of her eyes gazed wide at him in shock. "I don't understand—"
"What's your name?"
"Um—Mariah."
"Good. Are you married, Mariah?"
"I'm a widow, sir." She paused, gulped, then continued. "Five years now."
"My condolences. I hate to sound callous, but right at this moment, your widowhood is a go
od thing."
She struggled a little as Marcus pulled at her hair, loosening it. "Sir, you obviously never met my husband. My widowhood has always been a good thing."
A surprised chuckle caught at Marcus' throat. He liked a woman with a ready wit. But he couldn't spare the time to explore it further, since the oncoming riders were almost upon them.
"Forgive me." He reached for her shirt and ripped it apart, exposing her chemise and the soft mounds beneath.
"Aaarrgh..."
Marcus did the only thing he could do under the circumstances.
He kissed her.
Hard.
*~*~*~*
Mistress Mariah Dean was having what could well be called a trying evening.
It was always thus when her "boys" decided to make a run, especially now that a small armed force had established itself farther along the coast in Calshot, specifically to prevent that very thing from occurring.
Her nervousness made her heart pound rapidly throughout the entire adventure and her palms perspired a lot more than normal.
But never had she been swept off her feet—literally—and kissed quite so ruthlessly.
This man's lips were strong, demanding, his tongue pushing into her mouth and making itself at home without so much as a by-your-leave.
Not that he needed one. Mariah knew something strange was happening to her the minute she'd felt his arms around her. When their lips met—well, the effect was cataclysmic.
Part of her mind knew exactly what his plan was. Their presence, lying entwined on the beach, would indeed serve as a major distraction to whomever rode along the path above them.
But that part of her mind was losing focus rapidly. And one pair of lips had a lot to do with it.
Instinctively, she reached for him, letting her fingers rest on the back of his neck, feeling the softness of his hair as it rippled across them. Somehow he'd undone his shirt and the heat of his chest burned against her breasts as they writhed together, limbs tangled, on her cloak.
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