Smuggler's Glory

by King, Rebecca

  “Damn it,” he snarled, watching the thin figure crash through the thick bushes in front of the house. Within seconds Simon was in hot pursuit, lunging through the dense foliage with nothing more than his quarry in mind but, despite his most valiant effort, the intruder escaped. His chest was heaving moments later when he appeared at the kitchen door for the second time that night. Somewhere in the side gardens he had lost sight of the figure, which had seemingly vanished into thin air. He briefly considered giving chase, but knew the unknown intruder had familiarity on his side. Determined not to be thwarted for a second time, Simon began to secure the windows and doors around the house, checking to make sure the intruder hadn’t simply gone right around the house and back in through the kitchen door. His curses were blistering when he found the kitchen door standing slightly open.

  Did that mean someone in the house was the intruder, or someone inside was helping the intruder? Even more importantly, if they lived in the house, they couldn’t really be an intruder, could they? So, why had they checked on Francesca? What did they want? Slowly closing the door and securing it with the heavy iron bolt, Simon did another check of the house, unsurprised to find it undisturbed. He sighed and shook his head at his own stupidity when he realised that the front door had been left wide open. Once it was secured, he left the now secure entrance hall to check on Francesca.

  Taking the main stairs two at a time, he cursed himself when the reality dawned that he had just been played for a fool. Not only had he given his whereabouts away, but he had left the one woman who seemed to be under threat alone, unprotected and, more devastating to him, had left the bloody doors wide open for anyone to get in.

  The enormity of the relief that swept through him as he rounded the corner of the doorway and saw her still sleeping, seemingly undisturbed, shook him greatly. Easing into the room, he closed the door behind him and studied the room. At first glance everything seemed undisturbed, and he would have considered that nobody had been near since he had left the room to chase the figure in black, if it wasn’t for the dresser drawer that was now slightly open, with some white fabric sticking out of it, and the door of the wardrobe that was now standing slightly ajar. Both of which he had left closed and as neat as he had found them. Either he was going mad, or someone had searched the room while he had been gone.

  Certain that it couldn’t have been the cloaked figure he had chased, Simon studied the woman on the bed carefully. Had Francesca left the bed and checked her belongings? It seemed a ridiculous notion to even contemplate, but over the past few years in his line of work, he had learned not to dismiss any possibility.

  Quietly turning the lock on the door, Simon crept toward the wardrobe, his gun pointed toward the wooden door that lay partially open. Was someone inside? Had they tried to hide in the one place they thought he wouldn’t go? His blood thumped in his veins. Every sense was on alert as he approached the door. His fingers grasped the small brass knob at the same time as he raised his gun to eye level. In one wild flurry of movement, he yanked open the door and took aim.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Simon swung around, his gun pointed directly at Francesca’s head. Her gasp met his ears but had no impact. He was lost in the depths of her wide amber eyes as she stared up at him in horror. Closing his eyes, Simon fought to gather his control and slowly lowered his gun.

  “I’m sorry, please forgive me.”

  “Forgive you?” Francesca glared incredulously, her eyes flickering between him and her wardrobe and back again. “For pointing a gun at my wardrobe?”

  “Shhh,” Simon warned, raising a finger to his lips. He could sense her next question and raised his hand mutely. His sigh was loud when he eased closer to whisper to her, only to find her backing away cautiously.

  “You’re perfectly safe, for Christ sakes,” Simon snapped. “Just keep your voice down, there is something I need to tell you.” He hated to do it, but glancing around the room it was evident that there was really very little choice. “Let’s sit down and I will tell you, but for God’s sakes, just keep quiet.”

  Francesca scowled at him, but nevertheless did as she was told and moved toward the bed, yanking her elbow out of his hold as she went. She had no idea what he thought he was doing, but if he thought he was going to be taking any liberties with her, he had another think coming.

  “I think you had better remain standing and tell me what you have to tell me. Then I want you to leave my room, Mr Marlbrook. I feel it would be better under the circumstances, if you left first thing in the morning.” Her voice held every ounce of outraged formality she could summon, but she was achingly aware that its impact was thoroughly diminished by the fact that she was sitting unashamedly in her nightgown on the edge of her rumpled bed. Her cheeks flared at the thought of Simon seeing her in such a state of deshabille, and she quickly drew a blanket around herself to cover her modesty.

  Simon fought a groan and almost told her it was too little too late. Covering her nightgown didn’t go any way toward rendering her unattractive. With her beautiful golden hair tumbling wildly around her shoulders, and the last vestiges of sleep still clinging to her eyes, she looked as though she had just spent the night in her lover’s arms, only he wanted to be that lover. Shaking his head to erase the erotic images that filtered through his mind, Simon held up a pleading hand.

  “Get out of my bedchamber,” she bit out, feeling embarrassed and nervous at the same time.

  “We need to talk first,” Simon warned her, shaking his head to warn her that he wouldn’t be put off. Even in the shadowy room he could see the feminine fury building in her beautiful eyes, and hesitated. The last thing he needed was to risk her ire.

  Francesca felt panic building and pointed one long finger toward the bedroom door.

  “Out! Now!”

  “Shh,” Simon whispered, showing no interest in doing as he was told.

  “Get out of my bedroom,” Francesca persisted, wishing she could shove him in that direction, but loath to put a hand on him. She was certain he would feel the fine trembling running through her.

  “Please, just hear me out. I think you need to listen to what I have to tell you. What has happened tonight?”

  “Happened? What is it? Is Madeline alright? Bertie?”

  Sensing her rising panic, Simon eased down onto his haunches before her and tried to keep his face impassive. In reality he wanted to scowl and punch something for the impact she was having on his wayward body. The last thing he wanted, or needed right now, was a feminine diversion, even if she was as beautiful as the woman before him.

  “They are fine, as far as I am aware,” he replied honestly. He hadn’t thought to check, strangely enough, and wondered if he was starting to lose the plot. His first, and if he was honest, his only thought upon finding the front and kitchen doors open, was to check the safety of Francesca. He had no idea if Madeline or Bertie were even in the house. Mentally chastising himself for not doing a thorough job, he sighed and carefully relayed events as they had unfolded.

  “They came back?”

  Simon nodded slowly.

  “Did you see who it was?”

  “I’m sorry, but it was too dark outside and, when I did remove the cloak, they had disappeared into the bushes too quickly for me to take stock of their height. The only thing I could ascertain was that they were roughly about your height, and not much heavier than you but, from the people I have met around here so far, that could have been any one of you.” He had inadvertently dropped the cloak the intruder had wriggled out of and, unsurprisingly, it had vanished by the time he had returned to the house.

  “It wasn’t me,” Francesca snapped, horrified at the thought of anyone entering her home. Her stomach roiled nervously and she turned terrified eyes toward the man before her. Was he really her saviour, or was he her tormentor? She couldn’t be certain, and had no way of proving if the events he had told her had really happened, or if they were a ruse to scare her into not
going out at night.

  “I know that, sweetheart,” Simon replied gently. “But it could be Madeline, or Bertie, or either of those two thugs who accosted you on the road.”

  “Do you really think it could have been those two? Charlie and Tom?”

  Simon shook his head. “I think they would have entered the room, closed the door and finished what they started earlier.” He hated to be so blunt, but it wouldn’t hurt for her to feel slightly on edge.

  Although the thought made her feel sick, she could see Simon’s logic and knew what he was saying was the truth. Tom and Charlie were not careful or secretive enough to sneak into her room in the middle of the night. They were cruel and clumsy.

  “The fact is, my darling, that you really must start to lock your bedroom door at night and don’t open it to anyone unless you know the person on the other side of the door.” He didn’t add that the lock would go some way to keeping him out of the arms of temptation as well.

  “I don’t usually bother with it. With Bertie being ill, and the house being so far out of the village, it didn’t seem a necessary precaution,” Francesca’s voice trembled with lingering fear. She was suddenly grateful when he placed his warm hands upon her cold ones; his long fingers curling gently around the tight balls of her hands.

  “I don’t want you taking any risks at night, sweetheart,” Simon whispered. “If you do have to go out, tell me and I will come with you but you mustn’t take any risk upon yourself by venturing out alone.” He watched as a guilty blush stole over her alabaster cheeks and he knew he had hit on something she was valiantly trying to hide. Feeling his feet begin to go numb, he rose and took a seat beside her on the bed, some distance away to be heard without talking any louder than a whisper, and far enough away not to pose any physical threat to her.

  “I want you to tell me what you think has been going on around here.” He lifted a cautionary hand when she took a breath. He knew from the look in her eyes that she was going to deny knowledge of anything, and felt his patience begin to wane. “I can’t help you if you are not honest with me.”

  “Look,” Francesca began, her thoughts racing frantically in all directions. “This is all highly improper. It is the middle of the night and here we are, in my room, all alone. The gossips would have a field day, if this ever got out,” she gushed, tugging the blanket higher.

  “There are no gossips, Francesca. You said yourself we are too far out of the village for neighbours to overlook anything we do and besides, the only people in the house are Madeline and Bertie, who are here to protect you. How can your reputation be ruined? I am certainly not going to tell anyone, are you?” His voice dropped in silent challenge, and he watched as she cautiously shook her head.

  “Well then, now there is just you and me, we can talk. You can tell me everything I need to know, and then I will leave you in peace to get some more sleep. I can go back to my room knowing that tomorrow, I can start to resolve the difficulties you are facing and help life get back to what constitutes normal around here.”

  “You are not an artist, are you?” Francesca’s voice was cool and calm. She wondered why she wasn’t shouting at him for telling her lies to gain access to her home, but somehow she couldn’t find it within her to be cross with him. If there had been an intruder in her home as he claimed, he had protected her.

  Simon’s eyes met and held hers through the darkness. The silent understanding that flowed between them shook them both with the depth of it, but he was still unable to say the words he knew she wanted to hear.

  “I am, for all intents and purposes, an artist who is here to paint the scenery.” His voice was bland and noncommittal.

  She knew he was lying by the careful way he was studying the skirting boards as he spoke. It was almost as though he didn’t like lying to her, and was trying to avoid her gaze in case she read the truth in his eyes. Something within her felt vaguely reassured with the knowledge that she could make him feel just as awkward and off-balance as she felt around him.

  “Meaning you are not going to tell me who you really are.” She launched off the bed and began to pace up and down the length of the bed in front of him. “Yet you want me to trust you.”

  “You think your uncle was murdered,” Simon declared softly, watching as she froze and turned slowly toward him. The sheer grief on her face unmanned him and it took every ounce of self-control he possessed to remain seated and wait impassively for her to reply.

  “Who sent you? My family? Are they trying to scare me into leaving here so I return home and they can sell me to the first groom that sweeps through the door again?”

  Simon scowled darkly at her. “Your family tried to sell you?”

  Francesca huffed, aware that he hadn’t answered her question. “The groom with the highest status and largest wealth wins,” she replied cynically. “They would have a field day if they were here. You wouldn’t stand a chance of getting out without the matrimonial shackles in place, that’s for certain.”

  Simon’s brows rose. “You sound so averse to marriage.” In reality he was shocked that this beautiful woman would declare the words so very close to his heart, so boldly and so matter of fact.

  “That’s because I am. My sister was married to someone she barely knew. Pressured into doing so to allow the rest of us to find husbands and release some of the financial burden on our parents. Unfortunately, nobody thought to ask my sister what she wanted. As a result she is married to a man who can’t keep his trousers up with any woman, except his wife and she is a mere shadow of the person we grew up with. My parents, meantime, have one daughter less to feed and the financial benefit of having a wealthy and titled son-in-law.”

  “I’m sorry,” Simon murmured, hearing the pain in her voice. “I can see why you wouldn’t want end up the same way as your sister, but not all men are like that, you know.”

  “Of course not,” Francesca replied cynically. “I believe you, just don’t expect me to ever find out.”

  “Do your family actually know you are here?”

  Francesca paused and stared blankly at the wall for several moments before turning slowly toward him.

  He cursed when she shook her head slowly.

  “How old are you?” He hoped to God she wasn’t going to say she was one and twenty, or seventeen. She was beautiful, and young, but surely she wasn’t that young.

  “I’m five and twenty.”

  Simon didn’t know why he was nodding wisely. He felt a gentle flurry of something at the realisation that she wasn’t all that much younger than his own four and thirty. Certainly of marriageable age, yes, but definitely no impressionable young miss.

  “I am my own person. I have made it perfectly clear to my family that I am not going to agree to being sold into any kind of marriage to anyone. Indeed, I am not going to be married to anyone, full stop. I have alleviated the burden my presence in the family home causes my parents so they really have no reason to follow me here.”

  “But they may come looking for you, if they are of a mind to want you back.”

  “I don’t see why,” Francesca scoffed. “They hardly wanted me when I was at home. Now I have left, I cannot see any earthly reason why they should want to re-burden themselves.”

  “Except that you have already given a reason why they would want you back.” When Francesca turned toward him with her brows raised in query, he sighed. “You are marketable. A beautiful young woman such as yourself would attract many suitors and if your parents are the kind of people who would have no qualms about entering into agreements with future son-in-laws for social gain, they may be sufficiently greedy to try to get you back for financial reasons.”

  Francesca shuddered, and stared at him in horror. The sudden paleness of her cheeks told him everything he needed to know and he suddenly wished he had kept his mouth shut.

  “I am sorry, Francesca, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “But you are right,” Francesca sighed, feeling the walls begin to
close in on her. She sat down in the chair in front of the fire with a heavy thump. In all honesty, she wasn’t certain how much longer her legs would hold her up. She felt shaken to the core by Simon’s reasoning.

  “You didn’t tell me,” her voice broke the long silence that stretched between them. Her eyes met and held his across the distance of the bedroom. “Did they send you?”

  Simon shook his head. “I had no idea you were here, Francesca, and that’s the truth. I do think there is something going on in the village, though.” He continued after several moments of thoughtful silence. He didn’t like to see her so pale and decided to drop the subject of her parents for now.

  “Like what?”

  “Like have you ever considered why, in a village as seemingly busy as Much Hampton, there is no tavern? The village isn’t so tiny that the populace cannot support a fully functioning tavern, so why did the one here close down?”

  “Maybe the owner became ill and couldn’t run it anymore.”

  Simon thought about that for a moment before shaking his head. He knew it was going to be almost impossible for him to get the information he needed, but Francesca could probably get some of the locals to talk to her. If only he could persuade her to be on his side. She could help him gather the information and, if it came down to a battle, she would be protected from becoming directly involved. He would see to it that she wasn’t incriminated in his activities in any way.

  A small, niggling voice warned him that his mere presence in her house involved her in his operation, whether he liked it or not, but he quickly closed that thought down. His first goal was to uncover the identity of tonight’s intruder and find out if they were the same person who had hung the dead rook on the kitchen door. He was fairly sure that the events in Francesca’s home had nothing to do with the document forgery for the French spies in the area but, until he had the evidence to prove it, he had to consider the possibility that the two may very well be closely linked. He just didn’t know how yet.