Smuggler's Glory
Page 5
“Do you think he realises?”
Francesca shook her head slowly. “No, but he cannot stay and that is what he is after, I am sure of it.”
Madeline studied Francesca closely, wondering if a bed for the night was all that the stranger wanted. Despite the white dye in her hair and sexless spectacles, there was an inherent beauty about Francesca that no amount of false disguises could cover.
“Sometimes, Francesca, it is better to keep your enemies close,” she murmured cautiously.
“You’re saying we should let him stay?” Francesca gasped, astonished that Madeline would consider letting him through the door. “He could be anyone! How do you know he is not behind everything that has been going on of late?”
“I don’t, but neither can we accuse him of anything without knowing him a bit better. We need to know why he is here, and appeared just at the right time, on the very day you were mugged by those two idiots.”
“But he can also learn things about us,” Francesca replied pointedly, knowing her reference to her disguise wasn’t lost on the older woman. “There is something about him –”
Madeline fought the urge to smile, and studied the frown on her charge’s face. Although Francesca wasn’t her charge any more, Madeline had taken over the care of the young woman when she was a baby, and had remained close to her throughout her life. It was inevitable that at some point, at least one man would take a moment to look beneath the bristly exterior she presented to the world and see the truth that lay before him. Madeline studied the tall, handsome man striding with authority cross the stable yard and knew he was no fool.
“He has to stay,” Madeline whispered, shooting Francesca a knowing look. “Not only so we can find out what he is doing here, but having him around will be an added deterrent to the likes of Tom and Charlie if they choose to pay a visit.”
Francesca winced. It didn’t seem right to use the man’s presence to fight her own battles. Whoever he was, he didn’t deserve to be embroiled in her problems. Still, given what had happened on the road, having him in the house would ease her scattered nerves for a while and that could only be a good thing. There was something about the new arrival in her life that unnerved her greatly. He brought more questions than answers and far more complications than she was confident that she could deal with.
Once again, the image of the speed and dexterity he felled the two men in the road swept before her. Whatever secrets he had, she knew he was a fighter who was used to using his fists and weapons with ruthless dexterity. But was he here to use either or both on them? She couldn’t be sure, but maybe Madeline was right. Maybe it was better to keep your enemies close.
Moments later Simon’s arrival in the kitchen was heralded by a loud rumble of thunder directly ahead. Shaking his head to dislodge the water that clung to his black locks, he swept his cloak off, oblivious to how rumpled and intensely masculine he looked in his shirt and trousers.
“Here, let me take that for you,” Madeline murmured, draping the cloak over the back of a chair before the fire. Both women paused at the sight of the pistol strapped to his hip and the sword on his other hip.
The look they exchanged wasn’t lost on Simon, who refused to apologise for travelling fully armed. It was something he had never thought about before. Having spent most of his life in the army, it was instinctive to reach for his weapons in the morning. His curiosity was piqued when after their initial hesitation, neither women protested at having the gun in the house and merely carried on as normal.
Today is getting stranger and stranger, Simon thought, following Francesca across the kitchen toward the sitting room. The kitchen was warm and well-scrubbed, and led to a room that was lavishly furnished but in a homely way. Plush chairs sat before the roaring fire alongside several ornately carved pieces of furniture that were at odds with the size of the room.
“These are the pieces of furniture rescued from the fire,” Francesca explained, sensing his curiosity. She was pleased he didn’t ask any questions, and seemed to be happy to accept the simple explanation. Taking a seat beside the fire, she tried to ignore his towering masculinity as he stood before the warmth of the hearth.
Sensing his scrutiny her eyes met and held his. “Tell me something, Francesca?” Simon murmured, watching Madeline place the heavily laden tray on the small table beside them. “What would happen to your hair if you got it wet?”
Francesca’s heart flipped and she fought the urge to look at Madeline, who stood frozen in place in the doorway. Keeping her face impassive was the most difficult thing she had ever had to do. She fought the urge to fidget beneath his steady gaze.
“Tea?” She didn’t wait for his nod, but could feel his gaze studying her as she poured the fragrant brew into delicate cups on the tray Madeline deposited on a small table.
“It’s a very big house,” Simon murmured, sipping his proffered tea while seemingly content to accept her lack of an answer about her hair.
“Yes, it is,” she replied obliquely, ignoring Madeline’s irritated shuffling beside her. She knew she was silently asking Francesca to look at her, but refused to bow to the woman’s dictates. She wasn’t entirely comfortable with asking the man to stay, although knew she would.
“Plenty of rooms,” he added, clearly waiting.
Madeline sighed deeply, glaring at Francesca accusingly. “Do you have any bags with you, Mr Marlbrook? There is no problem with you staying here with us. I’ll prepare a room for you, of course.”
“My bag is with my cloak,” Simon replied, nodding his head in thanks to the older woman. “Thank you for your kind generosity.” He half expected Francesca to object to the offer, and wondered why she chose to remain quiet when she hadn’t offered the accommodation herself.
Instead, she settled deeper into the chair with a sigh and stared into the fire while sipping her tea. The silence that fell between them was almost companionable and, at first, Simon refused to be lulled into a false sense of security but, after several moments when she made no attempt at conversation, he relented and moved to sit on the chaise opposite her.
For her part, Francesca wasn’t entirely sure they were doing the right thing by asking him to remain with them. Although Madeline was right in that someone of his size and stature would be an added deterrent, especially if Tom and Charlie chose to pay her a house call, he brought her so many problems she wasn’t sure where to start. She didn’t want him in the house, but it would be rude of her to ask him to leave, and her conscience wouldn’t allow her to simply throw him out, especially when he had nowhere else to stay.
“Tell me, Francesca, do you have a second name?”
“I’m sorry,” Francesca murmured, feeling somewhat mollified by the warmth of the tea and the familiar comfort of her uncle’s favourite chair. “With everything that has happened this afternoon, I really didn’t think about it. Please forgive my rudeness. My name is Francesca Hillier.”
Simon nodded and studied the fire for several moments, his mind racing frantically. He had heard of the Hillier name before but couldn’t quite place where. Over the course of the past several years he had been up and down the country more times than he cared to count, it was inevitable that at some point he would come across someone else with the same, or similar, surname but, for some reason this name stood out as different from the rest. He made a mental note to check into it as soon as practically possible, but until then decided not to give the woman seated opposite any reason to put up any barriers against him. If he was to tap into her local knowledge, he needed to garner her trust.
He tried not to stare at her as he sipped, but found his curiosity building. Why would someone who was so intrinsically beautiful be living in a half burnt-out house in the middle of such bleak surroundings as Bodmin Moor? Especially knowing she was risking life and limb by simply going to buy some provisions from the nearest village.
Even more importantly, why she felt the need to be disguised as someone twice her age? What was she hid
ing, and why? Was she involved with spy smugglers? Was she the next link in the chain he was looking for? He wasn’t certain, but he definitely wasn’t going anywhere until he had the answers he needed.
Simon waited, watching carefully as she tried her hardest to avoid looking at him. His patience was rewarded when curiosity won through and she flicked a glance at him. It was a glance he met and held. She looked like a terrified rabbit caught at the wrong end of a hunter’s gun; knowing her fate and very aware that there was very little she could do about the outcome.
“Tell me about what has been going on in the village,” he asked, watching wariness immediately cloud her beautiful eyes. He didn’t need to hear her speak to know she was going to lie and be as evasive as possible. Leaning forward suddenly, he felt a brief flicker of satisfaction as she immediately leaned back in her chair. He wanted her to feel on edge and, for both of their sakes, keep as wary distance from him as possible. She was far too tempting; far too beautiful; and had far too much mystery about her for him to be completely comfortable alone with her. He was a man after all, and she was a beautiful young woman.
“Everything, Francesca,” his voice held a hint of warning that he wasn’t going to be fobbed off with anything less than the truth.
Francesca felt her heart flip and struggled not to fidget under the intensity in his beautiful blue eyes. They really were the most captivating colour. At first glance they were dark grey; until you got close and realised they were the most startling blue-grey that could be cold and direct one moment, and somnolent the next.
Silence settled between them while she contemplated just how much to tell him. She wasn’t sure quite what was happening herself, and didn’t know where to start. Mulling over the possibilities, she jumped when his voice broke the silence.
“Are the two thugs who attacked you local?”
Francesca looked into the fire. “I think so, yes. I don’t really know much about the area except that the village is small, as you know.” Her eyes met and held his sympathetically when he snorted and nodded emphatically. “Most people know each other. Their families have been here for generations. I have only recently moved her permanently. Well, since the demise of my uncle,” she broke off, when her voice trembled with grief.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Francesca,” Simon muttered, wondering where the softness was coming from. His life to date had been anything but soft. He was a pragmatic man, not used to flights of fancy, romance or comforting softness. Over the past few years he had become far too adept at appearing, getting on with the job at hand, doing whatever was necessary to get the outcome he desired, before moving on to the next job. There had been little, or no chance of softness, gentleness or commiseration, but something about this house, the young woman sitting opposite, brought forth emotions he couldn’t define and it made him feel amiable.
Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, he reluctantly set aside his wayward thoughts, abruptly closing off the burgeoning compassion for her grief and once more turned his mind to the task at hand.
“If I am not being too presumptuous?” he shifted, frowning at her thoughtfully. “What on earth made you move to somewhere so remote?” He glanced around the room as though searching for someone. “Is there no husband in attendance?”
Francesca stared at him, a small flurry of alarm flickering through her. She could see no reason to lie to him. If he was working for the man harassing her, they already knew she had no husband.
“I am not married. I come from a family of six daughters. My parents weren’t able to afford coming out balls for us all and, coming from a small village very similar to this one, the opportunities weren’t forthcoming to find a suitable husband.” It was the truth. Sort of. She saw no reason to admit that the potential husbands her parents had pushed at her, sometimes quite forcefully, had somehow not met the ideal she had formed as to what her husband would be like. They had all seemed insipid, bland, false and far too – well, something. Something she couldn’t define had prevented her from accepting their offers for her, leaving her to face the increasing wrath of her parents until news of her uncle’s demise had arrived, along with the news of sudden wealth and fortune, giving her the perfect opportunity to forge a future of her own, without their blessing.
“I take it you are the youngest of the six?”
“Yes,” Francesca replied hesitantly, lapsing into silence rather than expanding.
“So, your uncle died in the fire here. You inherited this house?”
Francesca nodded.
“Were you the sole beneficiary?”
“Yes, much to my family’s disgust.” Memories of her sisters’ ire at Francesca’s sudden good fortune still rang in her ears, filling her gaze with sadness at the ill feeling that now lay between them. Nodding slowly, she stared blankly at the fire. “The house and the estates, as well as a reasonable fortune,” she replied softly and sighed, glancing around the cheerful but shabby room. “Although at the moment, I am not sure if it is more of a curse than a blessing.”
Simon nodded in sympathy, well aware of the task that lay before her if she intended to make the house habitable again. It was a mammoth task for anyone to undertake, let alone a single, unmarried lady; even one of reasonable fortune and incredible beauty.
“So I take it you aren’t looking for a husband to assist you in turning this place into a home?”
Francesca shook her head. “No, definitely not.” Her voice was cold and crisp.
Simon frowned a little as he studied her. He wasn’t privy to most young ladies’ wants or thoughts toward matrimony, but he was fairly certain that most young women entered adulthood with the intention of finding a husband and having children. Why was Francesca so different? It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her, but at the last moment, something warned him to keep his mouth shut. It really was none of his business why she chose not to find a husband, as long as she didn’t look in his direction for one, he was fine. He had to be careful. If he showed too much interest in her matrimonial status or intentions, she could misinterpret his interest as intent and that was the last thing he wanted – or needed.
“So, back to the men on the path, do you know much about them?”
“I know they were released from Bodmin jail not long ago, but I don’t know what they were sent to jail for. In the past, when the family came to visit my uncle, we rarely spent time in the village except when we were walking through on the way to the moor. I don’t really know much about who is who, and who are the influential people and the like. Bertie should be able to tell you more.”
“Where is Bertie?”
“Oh, he has been ill with flu and has been sent to his bed for a while to recuperate,” Francesca gushed, feeling a pang of guilt that she hadn’t sent her wishes to him today.
“Bertie and Madeline are husband and wife, I take it?”
“Oh no,” Francesca replied hastily. “Bertie is seventy if he is a day. Far too old for Madeline.”
“So, where is Bertie from?”
Francesca frowned, feeling as though she was being interviewed by something, but willing to go along with his questions for now.
“Bertie was my uncle’s butler, and had been for as long as I can remember. Although my uncle awarded him a stipend for his years of service, Bertie looked after the house when the rest of the staff were laid off after the fire. He asked to remain at the house when I moved in and I could really see no reason to refuse him. This is his home; all that he has known for decades. It didn’t seem fair or right that I turn him away. Besides, it is nice to have a man about the house, even if it is one of advanced years,” Francesca added, smiling gently at Simon, whose own lips twitched automatically in reply.
“Madeline? She must be in her fifties, at least. Does she not have a husband?”
Francesca frowned, and studied Simon closely. “I think that is something you should be asking Madeline, not me.”
“But you have had a long acquaintance with her,”
“Do you go into the village often?” Simon frowned, wondering how far to keep probing. The door to the sitting room had been left open, and he could see Madeline adding the last finishing touches to dinner.
“Only when we need supplies, and when Bertie isn’t able to go.” The teasing scent of pie and boiled potatoes wafted through the air, making her stomach rumble loudly. Shooting an embarrassed look at the man opposite, she relaxed when he didn’t appear to have heard.
Simon fought the urge to wink at her in sympathy. The smells coming from the kitchen were heavenly and he could only hope Madeline wasn’t working to a tight budget. His breakfast had been meagre and taken hours ago, and he was as ravenous as Francesca was if the rumblings in her stomach were anything to go by.
“I think it would be safe and wise for neither you nor Madeline to go into the village again unaccompanied. I am not saying those two would try again, but you never know. My experience is that they won’t take kindly to having their intentions thwarted and it will make them even more spiteful and dangerous.” Simon stared at her hair thoughtfully for several moments. “Is that why you colour your hair?”
Francesca flinched and tried to ignore the tell-tale blush that stole over her cheeks. “It is for protection. There are odd things happening on in the village, people disappearing and the like. Strange men keep appearing, and not just the likes of Tom and Charlie. I thought they would ignore me if I looked considerably older.”