The Smuggler Wore Silk

by Alyssa Alexander

“What’s wrong, Lady Elliott?” Grace kept her voice low, as she might with a wounded animal.

  “I’m going to be ill.” Lady Elliott pressed a hand to her mouth.

  “Breathe,” Grace commanded. She slid over to the settee and put her arm around Lady Elliott’s shoulders. “Breathe through your nose, slowly. Deliberately. One in, two out. Three in, four out.”

  Lady Elliott gripped her hand and breathed with Grace’s count. As the color came back into her face, she leaned gingerly back against the settee. Her movements were slow and careful, as though she were afraid to upset the balance of her stomach.

  “Thank you,” Lady Elliott said.

  “Of course.” Grace squeezed the other woman’s hand. “What’s the matter? Can you tell me? Are you ill?”

  Lady Elliott contemplated their joined hands for a long moment. Then she lifted shining eyes. “I’m with child.”

  “Oh. Oh. I’m so glad. So happy for you.” She squeezed Lady Elliott’s hand again, genuinely pleased.

  “I’ve only known for a few weeks, so it might not—” She stopped and drew a long breath. “I’m hoping for a girl this time. A small, sweet girl.” She trilled a laugh. “It’s the seedcakes, Gracie. I simply can’t stand the thought of them, let alone the taste. It’s the oddest thing, really. I wasn’t the least bit bothered by foods with the boys, but with this baby the simplest foods make me ill.”

  “You sound happy.” And looked it, she added silently. Lady Elliott glowed with happiness.

  “I am. Oh, I am. I’ve waited so long.”

  “For a girl?”

  Lady Elliott opened her mouth to answer, then swiveled her gaze to the door. “Lord Langford, how nice to see you.”

  Grace’s pulse skipped. The Earl of Langford filled the doorway with his broad shoulders and lean frame, elegant as ever in a blue superfine coat and nankeen breeches. “Lady Elliott, Miss Hannah.” He flashed a grin and swept a bow in their direction, eyes twinkling. “Lady Elliott, you look lovely today. Your eyes are simply full of sunshine.”

  The lady laughed, the merriest sound Grace had ever heard from that sad mouth. “My lord, you are positively foolish.” But she beamed at him nonetheless.

  “My lord,” Grace greeted him, rising from her chair.

  “Miss Hannah.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. His eyes stayed on hers, gleaming devilishly.

  “How are your sons, Lady Elliott?” He kept his fingers twined around Grace’s. She wanted to tug them free, but was afraid to draw too much attention to them.

  “Active as ever,” Lady Elliott answered, waving her hand dismissively. “But I really should be leaving, Gracie. No, I know the way, and there’s always Binkle.” She waved Grace back to her seat and was gone.

  They were alone. Without a proper chaperone.

  Grace could only stare into his eyes, focused so intently on her. Consumed by sudden nerves, she tugged her fingers free and folded them in front of her. She cast about for an appropriate topic of conversation. What did one say to the man that compromised you?

  “Would you care to stroll in the gardens?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she agreed with relief.

  He offered his arm. She placed her fingers on it, conscious of him with every fiber of her body. She and the earl would soon do much more than exchange kisses. If he didn’t jilt her, of course.

  They stepped into the gold September sunlight. The day was still, without a breeze to stir the air, though the chill of autumn hung on the air. Summer blossoms had slowly given way to fall flowers, which bloomed in a riot of rich colors and scents. Grace took a deep breath and let the sweet aromas soothe away the tension.

  She raised the first topic that came to mind. “You met Lady Elliott’s sons?”

  He laughed. “A pair of scamps.”

  “You sound like you enjoyed them,” she said, surprised.

  “Because I did.”

  Grace wondered at the earl’s interest in two rambunctious and unruly boys. Children did not seem to fit his charming personality—or the cold calculation that hid behind the blue eyes. How much did she really know about the earl, aside from his powers of seduction?

  “I imagine you were a similar scamp at that age,” she ventured.

  He was quiet for a long moment. “I was never like those boys,” he murmured. “With a father like mine, I could never be so lighthearted and carefree.”

  “Was your father—” She broke off. “I’m sorry.”

  He continued to stroll casually through the garden, but Grace could feel the tension in the arm beneath her fingers. “It’s well known my father was a bastard, Miss Hannah, though not by birth. He was a quintessential Travers male.” Derision dripped from the words.

  “I apologize. I have no right to pry into such matters.”

  “No?” He raised a brow. “But I have been well-informed of your parentage.”

  She closed her eyes, steadied herself. Of course he had. She should have known Uncle Thaddeus would tell him. The need to move rippled through her.

  She stepped away from him and bent to examine a bed of purple-red betony blossoms. Gripping a thick weed that hid between the trumpet-shaped blooms, she dug through the cool, rich soil for the root. “I suppose Uncle Thaddeus wanted to make sure you knew exactly what you were obtaining in a wife?” she said bitterly.

  “Indeed.” His tone was mild. “Lord Cannon thought it only right in the event you provide me with an heir.”

  “My mother married beneath her.” She yanked hard on the root bundle. It burst from the ground in a shower of dirt. “So far beneath her, in fact, that her father and brother disowned her.”

  “I believe the term your uncle used was ‘baseborn laborer.’”

  She shuddered even as she tossed the weed away. “Mother had a modest income—a very modest income—left to her from my grandmother, so she and my father moved to Kent where he had some relatives. They loved each other and were happy. I was happy,” she finished fiercely. She tilted her chin, daring him to argue with her.

  “I can see you were.” He studied her carefully, his hands clasped behind his back as he stood beside the flower bed she crouched in.

  “If you want to cry off—”

  “Why would I?” He gently drew her to her feet.

  “Because I’m a baseborn laborer’s daughter. I have no lineage and no social graces to offer you. I’ll make a dreadful countess.” She hadn’t even realized her fear until she’d voiced it. She stepped back onto the garden path. “It’s not as though we’re marrying by choice.”

  “You don’t want to marry me? Ah, I know.” She knew he was baiting her from the laugh in his eyes. “It’s my lack of smuggling experience that has failed to win you over. What must I do to earn your esteem, fair lady? Offer you a trunk of the finest smuggled French silk?” He took her hand and brought it to his lips in a grand, sweeping gesture. “Perhaps then I shall be able to compete with the notorious Jack Blackbourn for your affections.”

  She was powerless to stop the bubble of laughter that escaped her lips.

  “If you want to compete with Jack, you’ll have to captain your own ship and go to France yourself. Jack would do nothing less.” She let him tuck her hand in his elbow once more as they continued down the path.

  “Alas, I have no ship! I suppose I shall always be second in your affections, then. What a way to start a marriage.”

  “Do be serious.” She struggled to keep the smile from her face.

  “Must I?”

  “Yes. Our conversation has strayed into the ridiculous once again.”

  “So it has. Very well.” He sighed. “Make no mistake, fair lady. I won’t leave you at the altar.”

  She let out a breath. Studying the hard, suddenly serious planes of his face, she thought perhaps she could trust him. But there was much that stood
between them. She couldn’t hide smuggling from him once they were married, yet how could she tell the truth? She was, in fact, a criminal. She cleared her throat and started with the simplest topic.

  “There are items that should be discussed about our future, such as what, exactly, you expect from this union.”

  “To be honest, Miss Hannah, I expect little. In fact, I expect only what you’re comfortable with.” He stopped walking and turned to face her.

  She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “You may live at Thistledown for our entire marriage, or you may live in London. You may live at any of my other estates for that matter. If you never want to see me again, that can be arranged. You can share my bed”—he gave her a long, hot look—“or not. Whatever your pleasure.”

  He was silent for a moment before continuing, as though carefully choosing his words. “As I said in my note, I regret that my actions have forced you into this situation, but it can’t be changed. I won’t force you any further into a situation you cannot abide. I would have us be friends, Miss Hannah. Lovers, if you are agreeable, but friends at the least.”

  Thoughtful, Grace searched his lean, handsome face and deep eyes, struggling to reconcile this serious gentleman with the laughing would-be smuggler. “I believed there was much more beneath the surface than you show the world. Now I am certain of it.”

  “There’s always more beneath the surface. Take yourself, for instance.” He ran a callused finger against her cheek. “All that smooth, white skin and fair hair. The serene expression. And such passion beneath.”

  He cupped her cheek, a gentle, testing touch. She couldn’t stop herself from turning into his hand until her lips touched his palm. Yet their gazes didn’t stray and she saw the blue turn dark with desire.

  “I want all that passion,” he whispered. “But I won’t take more than you will give.”

  His lips swooped down to claim hers. The kiss was hot and hungry, even a little possessive. He cupped her face, smoothed his fingers over her cheeks and ravished her mouth.

  She sighed and let her body relax into his, let his passion fill her. Heat curled in her belly as his hands skimmed her neck, her shoulders, then down to her waist. His mouth moved over hers, giving, taking, and just a little wild. She gripped his shoulders, then let her fingers delve into his thick hair. She met his mouth with her own, matching him with her hunger.

  When he pulled away, she sighed once more, this time in regret.

  “Miss Hannah—”

  “Just Grace. There’s no sense in calling me Miss Hannah at this point.” Not when his arms were still wrapped around her and her lips were throbbing from his kisses.

  “Ah.” He cupped her face again, and once more smoothed his thumbs over her cheeks, this time with absolute gentleness. “Grace,” he breathed. For a moment, regret shimmered over his face. Then it disappeared into an impassive mask that set her nerves humming. “We do have one vital item to discuss. One that might, in fact, change our marriage.”

  “It’s Michael, isn’t it?” Her stomach sank. “You’re wondering what happened with Michael Wargell.”

  “Miss Gracie! Miss Gracie!” The panicked call had her jerking away from the earl. She spun on her heel and saw Binkle sprinting across an expanse of green lawn. Alarm and fear lanced through her. Hiking up her skirts, the earl forgotten, she started to run toward Binkle.

  When they came abreast of each other, Binkle reversed direction and began running beside her, heading back toward the manor.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Fanny, Jem’s wife. The babe’s coming.”

  “It’s too early,” she gasped, lengthening her stride. “Who’s with her?”

  “Jem is up Seaton way today, so she’s alone.”

  A vision of Jem as Grace had last seen him flashed through her mind, his face grave and eyes worried as they discussed treason over a pint of ale in the Jolly Smuggler. That was quickly replaced by a vision of pretty young Fanny, heavy with child and full of joy. She prayed both mother and child would live.

  “Who brought the message?”

  “Farmer Harris’s son heard Fanny screaming and went in. Apparently it’s been going on for hours and Fanny couldn’t get out to tell anyone.”

  “Have Demon saddled,” she said as they approached Cannon Manor. “I’m going for my supplies.”

  “I’ve already ordered Demon brought around,” Binkle puffed out. “Cook is gathering your supplies.”

  “Good. She’ll know what I need.”

  “Bring my horse as well,” spoke a deep voice at her side.

  She whipped her head around. Disbelief rushed through her. The earl ran beside her, barely winded, his trim coat unbuttoned to ease movement. She’d forgotten he was there.

  He’d have to wait. She couldn’t manage him now. She didn’t have the time.

  “I’m in a hurry,” she bit out, dashing across Cannon Manor’s front drive. Her foot skidded on gravel and nearly sent her tumbling.

  Demon waited in front of the mounting block, his reins held by a young groom. Cook stood beside them. Grace saw her satchel already secured to Demon’s saddle. Thankful for the woman’s quick work, she mounted the stallion’s broad back and pulled her skirts up to midcalf. There wasn’t time to change into breeches, nor to ride sidesaddle at a sedate pace. She needed speed, proprieties be damned.

  Demon pranced sideways, tail high. His muscles bunched beneath her and she knew he sensed her urgency.

  “Get my mount,” the earl commanded to the groom. The young man nodded and sped toward the stables.

  “It’s not necessary for you to come, and I don’t have time to wait for you,” Grace said. Besides, the Earl of Langford wouldn’t concern himself with a fisherman’s wife about to birth a child.

  She wheeled Demon around, kicked him into a gallop and flew across the countryside.

  A weak plume of smoke drifted from the chimney of the thatched fisherman’s cottage. Outbuildings dotted the nearby landscape and the surrounding trees were just beginning to edge from green to gold with occasional hints of red.

  It would have been picturesque but for the agonized scream that marred the air.

  Grace slid from the saddle almost before Demon stopped moving. Sparing only a moment to secure the puffing horse and retrieve her satchel, she ran to the cottage door and threw it open.

  A woman lay on a pallet on the floor in front of the fireplace. Only a few coals burned in the hearth and they cast a red glow over the mound of belly that rose high into the air. Fanny’s head was thrown back as she screamed again, her pretty, narrow features contorted in pain.

  Grace kneeled on the packed dirt floor beside the young woman, her hands already evaluating the hard belly.

  “Fanny, it’s Grace.”

  “Gracie? Oh, thank God you’re here,” Fanny sobbed. Her cheeks were swollen from crying. “It’s too early. The babe’s too early.”

  “How long have the pains been going on?”

  “Hours,” Fanny panted. “They started about midmorning, just twinges. I let them go for a while, then they suddenly became horrible. Just horrible.” A contraction seized her and she gripped Grace’s hand so tightly that bone rubbed on bone. Fanny’s body tensed, writhed, bowed up. She tried valiantly to pant through it before she simply gave in to the urge to scream. When it was over she fell back against the pallet, gasping.

  “I’m so tired, Gracie,” Fanny whimpered. “So tired.”

  “I know,” Grace answered, brushing her fingers over the woman’s soft, young cheek. “I’ll do what I can.” She knelt between Fanny’s bent legs, performed the examination.

  Her heart sank. Please don’t let them die.

  “You’re ready, Fanny,” she said, smoothing the girl’s hair back from her perspiring face. “But the babe is in the wrong position.”
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br />   “What does that mean?” Fanny’s deep brown eyes clouded. The girl clutched at Grace’s hand.

  “I have to turn him.”

  “Oh, God.” Tears spilled, tracking two long rivulets down Fanny’s cheeks.

  Too pale, thought Grace. Too pale, too tired. She was going to lose them both.

  The door to the cottage crashed open behind her. Thank God! Help.

  Whirling, she saw the Earl of Langford filling the doorway, blocking out the pretty fall day beyond. Grim eyes fastened on the laboring woman, then his face set and his jaw firmed. Shocked, Grace stared at the handsome aristocrat as he began to unbutton his coat.

  He’d followed her. Even after he had an opportunity to escape, when he had a legitimate excuse not to come, he’d followed her.

  Chapter 12

  FANNY MOANED BEHIND her, snapping Grace into action. She placed her hand on the girl’s belly. It rippled, tightened, and Fanny began to cry again.

  The earl crouched beside her. He had removed his coat, cravat and vest, and was dressed now only in his shirt. “What can I do?”

  “I need my things,” was her only response. She squeezed Fanny’s hand and stood, moving away from the laboring woman so she could speak to the earl without Fanny hearing them. He followed, stepping close.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispered.

  “Just go, my lord.” He would want to, she thought, moving to her bag and opening it. She set aside a sharp knife, then a needle. Linens to soak up blood and fluid.

  “I’m staying.” His hand shot out and gripped her wrist, forcing her to stop the preparations. His voice was low, his lips nearly touching her ear. “Tell me what I can do.”

  She searched his eyes. So blue, so intense. He couldn’t possibly understand the miracle and terror of childbirth, or the life-and-death battle about to be waged. He couldn’t possibly care.

  A feeble sob sounded behind her. There was no choice. She needed help.

  “The babe is breech, my lord. She won’t be able to birth him unless I can turn him.” She looked up, met his eyes, and knew he saw the hopelessness in her face. “I need you to hold her down. It’s going to hurt. Badly.”