“True. But I’ll make it up to her,” he said. “Hey, ain’t you to be married? To the tall gent with them eyes? Never saw eyes like that. They’ll look right through you.”
Behind the bar, Jack’s brows rose. Grace ignored him. “You better get home, John, before that wife of yours comes looking for you.”
“I s’pose I better. G’night, Miss Gracie. Jack.” Listing slightly to the left, John made his way to the door and into the night.
“Well, now, my lovely,” Jack said as he refilled her glass. His eyes were bright with interest and laughter. “What’s this about a wedding?”
“I’ve gotten myself into a spot of trouble, Jack.”
“It’s about time you got into some trouble again, in my opinion. And if you’re not going to play with Jack”—he winked at her—“then you might as well play with the earl. I know his reputation and I imagine he knows what he’s doing when it comes to women.”
Grace choked on her wine. Even if Jack was a dear friend, she was certain she didn’t want to have that conversation with him. “Regardless of his way with women, it’s the consequences that are the trouble now.”
“Well, you could do worse than an earl.” He wiggled his eyebrows at her. “Or you could run away with Jack, my lovely, and live in sin.”
She laughed, but the sound was hollow. If her marriage to the earl didn’t work, if they hated each other, she would lose all chance at love. A lifetime was a long time to live without love.
She swirled the last drops of ruby liquid in her glass before gulping it down. “I’m heading back to the manor for tonight, Jack.” She leaned over the counter and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Oh, now, don’t be so free with your kisses, my lovely. Jack’s already a married man.” He’d said the line a dozen times before, so she knew the proper response.
“Then I must remain a spinster, pining for you to the end of my days.” She added one more kiss for good measure.
And so he waved her toward the door with a laugh on his lips and a twinkle in his eye.
She didn’t recognize the first man that walked through the pub door, nor the second, third or fourth. But a group of strangers wasn’t unusual. These were steely eyed and burly, except one, who was young and handsome with tousled curls. She nearly walked past the group entirely, but she heard one of them ask for Jack.
“Aye, that’s me,” came Jack’s laughing answer. “A drink, lads?”
“Jack Blackbourn, you’re under arrest for treason against the Crown.”
It was as if the entire world stood frozen. Sound filtered away, the light sharpened and she stared at Jack, horror-struck. It wasn’t possible. Jack wasn’t a traitor. A smuggler, but not a traitor.
He bolted. In a heartbeat, he’d disappeared through the door behind the counter. Numb, her mind frozen in shock, she didn’t understand where Jack had gone or why the newcomers were clambering over and around the counter after him.
Then her whole body jerked and the world rushed back. She jumped onto a stool, then the bar counter, and leapt down behind it. She was through the door to the kitchen a second later.
Chaos reigned. Shouts rang in the air. Jack grappled with one of the strangers. His wife, patient and affable Anna, had ranged herself between Jack and another man, a long wooden spoon and an iron skillet raised high above her head.
Two serving girls cowered in the corner, Jack’s son William standing over them, fists raised and ready to defend them.
“Jack!” Grace shouted, leaping into the fray.
A man plowed into her. Her bones rattled with the impact and her breath wheezed out. She hit the floor hard. Crockery rained down, shattering on the stone floor with a crash. She felt a quick sting on her cheek, another on her forehead, as shards bounced off the floor.
The man scrambled to his feet before she could recover. Gasping for air, the breath completely gone from her lungs, she lurched to her knees.
“Get your pistols!” a man shouted.
Jack sprawled on the floor now. Two men wrestled and rolled with him. The third man held Anna around the waist even as she clawed at him to escape. Grace had pushed to her feet, coiled to spring, when the shot rang out.
The tableau froze. All eyes turned to the curly-haired young man. He stood with his back against the wall, a smoking pistol in one hand, an unfired pistol in the other. The acrid scent of black powder saturated the air. She wished she’d thought to use her own weapon. Instead, she was staring into the black hole of a pistol that was not her own.
“Step back,” the man said to Grace, his voice unsteady. He cleared his throat, firmed his jaw. “Step over by the other woman.” He motioned to where Anna was held captive. The pistol shook in his hand.
Grace did as he commanded. Anna’s captor released her so that they stood side by side. The man that had overpowered Anna pulled out his own pistol and aimed it at William and the two serving girls. One girl let out a high-pitched squeak and covered her face with her apron.
“We only want Blackbourn.” The curly-haired man motioned to Jack. His eyes darted around the room. “We’ll leave the rest of you here.”
“No!” Anna cried out, her round and pretty face defiant. She gripped Grace’s hand, crushing her fingers.
“Anna,” Jack shouted. Two men gripped his arms, holding him captive. Blood dripped from his nose, though he appeared otherwise unharmed. “I’ll be safe. I’ve done nothing wrong this time.”
“He’s innocent of treason,” Grace said. Anger rose in her, hot and dark. “I’m sure of it.”
“We’ve found evidence in his lodgings that he’s couriering military information to France.” The curly-haired man kept the pistol aimed at Grace and Anna while his companions manhandled Jack out the rear door.
“It’s not possible.” Not for one moment did she believe them. “You must be mistaken.”
“There’s no mistake.” Still, he looked nervous and uncertain. “I found the evidence myself.” He started toward the door, walking backward, with the pistols still trained on Grace and Anna. They were steadier now.
“Wait.” She would give them the folios in her stillroom and they would release Jack. They must release Jack. She could hear curious shouts from the taproom. Would other patrons start rushing in? Would someone be injured or killed?
She needed to end this. Now. She stepped forward.
“I have evidence—”
But the young man cocked his pistol and pointed it straight at Anna. “You move closer,” he said to Grace, “and the other woman dies.”
Grace froze, though the blood roared in her ears and her fingers twitched with the effort not to reach for her own weapon. “Jack’s not the traitor. I have—”
But he was gone, leaving them alone among broken crockery, the scent of burned meat and the sound of Anna’s quiet sobbing.
__________
SHE WANTED TO gallop. She wanted the blood pounding through her to match the rhythm of Demon’s hooves. Yet she couldn’t. Black, low-hanging clouds obscured the moon and made the road to Cannon Manor dark and dangerous. She couldn’t risk an injury to Demon or herself, so she restrained the stallion’s pace with the same control she used to fight her own black mood.
Jack was gone. He and his pursuers had disappeared into the night. She’d started to follow, but she couldn’t be sure which direction they’d gone or even if they had left Beer. Would they go to London? If so, there was no way to know if they would follow the coastline or stay inland.
Instead, she’d stayed with Anna for nearly an hour before returning home, doing her best to comfort the woman. Full of her own disbelief and fury, she’d done a miserable job of it.
She fisted her hands around the reins. She needed a concrete plan. Jack would no doubt be imprisoned to await trial. She’d take the folios to London. Surely someone would listen to reason.
<
br /> She shivered. If he was found guilty, he would be sentenced to death.
Demon’s pace quickened. His head came up, nostrils flaring. Grace caught her breath as the hair at the nape of her neck rose.
She wasn’t alone.
Pines speared high into the air on either side of her. With her fingers clutching the reins, she slowly scanned the dense shadows between the trees in search of something out of place, concentrating on the sounds of the night animals and the scents of wet wood and grass. She could hear, see and smell nothing unusual. There were no hoofbeats or shadows that didn’t belong. Still, she sensed another person in the darkness, just beyond her range of vision.
Uneasy, she guided Demon along the dirt track that lay between the towering pines, wondering if the invisible follower was friend or foe. This dense copse served as a well-used shortcut between two country lanes. At night, however, the copse was empty and isolated—and miles from anywhere.
A faint horse whinny met her ears. She pulled on Demon’s reins and he grudgingly obeyed, coming to a standstill on the track. She listened, her own breathing suspended. One minute passed. Two minutes. Perhaps she had imagined it.
Beneath her, Demon shifted impatiently and pawed the ground. She could feel his muscles coiled and ready to run. She struggled to keep her own restless urge to run in check.
A shadowed figure emerged from the trees. A man, tall and lean, stood on the narrow dirt track in front of her, blocking her path. In the dark, under the dense canopy of branches, his face was nothing but shadows and indistinct features.
Fear tightened her muscles and sent a line of sweat rolling down her back. Still, she kept her voice cool and steady. “Who goes there?” She narrowed her eyes, hoping to recognize the stranger’s features.
“Why, it’s Miss Hannah.” Pitched nearly to a whisper, the voice was unidentifiable, yet it carried clearly on the still night air. “Whatever are you doing in the woods, alone, at nearly three in the morning?”
“It’s none of your concern,” she answered sharply, shifting so that her coat fell open. She wanted access to her pistol.
“Hmmm.” The man stepped forward. It wasn’t a menacing movement, but certainly commanding. “What kind of mischief would a gently bred lady get into in the dead of night? A lover, perhaps?” The whisper became a sensual caress in the darkness.
Her heart thumped once, hard. She knew that voice, felt its timbre resonate through her.
“What are you about, my lord?” she asked coolly.
Langford prowled to the side so that he was on her right, standing just at the transition of trees to path. He seemed to merge with the tree trunks until he was only a shadow among shadows. Still, she knew what he would look like. Lean and angular and handsome, with eyes the color of the sky in midsummer.
She could not banish the apprehension writhing in her belly. He’d discovered his betrothed wandering the woods in breeches, alone, in the early hours of the morning.
She’d be jilted. Again.
“Is the lady engaging in something illicit?” The words slid over her, a stroke of heat and danger in the darkness. “Smuggling, perhaps?”
Her mouth went dry. He knew.
Without warning, he darted forward and snatched her from the horse’s back, his strong hands gripping her waist. She shrieked and bucked against him, pushing against his shoulders and chest. How had he moved so quickly?
He slung her over one muscular shoulder, holding her in place with an arm just under the curve of her buttocks. His free hand looped Demon’s reins around a thick branch hanging over the path.
Struggling to draw breath past the unyielding shoulder pressed just beneath her lungs, she thumped a fist on his broad back. He didn’t react.
“My lord, put me—”
He bumped her body up for a better grip, wedging his shoulder more firmly into her ribs and cutting off her words.
Gritting her teeth, she sucked in air. It was simply too much. Jack, the arrest, the folios, treason and now the earl. Fury erupted in her, sharp and searing.
“Put me down.” She thumped his back again, harder this time, and was rewarded with a grunt. Good, she thought darkly. She hoped she left a mark.
“You’re not in a position to issue commands.” His tone was unforgiving. It seemed to belong to another man. A harder man.
Still, he complied with her demand, his movements swift and efficient. Her knees buckled when he released her so that she staggered. He caught her hands to pull her up and manacled both of her small wrists with his own large, powerful hands.
Alarm raced through her. She didn’t know this man. This brute. She twisted her wrists, trying to jerk free. But the earl pressed forward until she was pinned against a tree trunk, their bodies inches from each other. He raised her wrists above her head and flattened them against the tree. Even through the coat and shirt she wore, the rough bark scraped against her back.
“Is this how you treat ladies, my lord?” she snapped. “Roughly?” Though in truth, he was not rough. His hands were firm but gentle around her wrists, his body not quite touching hers.
“It’s how I treat smugglers and traitors.” His voice was low and dangerous, his mouth grim.
“What?” She gaped at him. She tried to push him away, but he pinned her to the tree with his body. His chest pressed against her breasts, his heat all but scorching her. “I’m not a traitor,” she ground out.
“No? Well, you are not an innocent. A woman in the woods at night, alone, is not out for a stroll. A woman who meets men at the local pub and smugglers in an abandoned quarry is not calling on friends for tea. And a woman wearing men’s breeches is not a lady.”
“I’ve done nothing I’m ashamed of,” she returned furiously.
“Which doesn’t recommend you, given the evidence.” He dropped her hands and stepped back. His eyes remained intensely focused on her face as he reached into his coat pocket and slid something out. Covered in smooth, dark leather, it was frighteningly familiar.
“Where did you find that?” She couldn’t quite catch her breath, as though he’d physically sent a blow to her midsection. Her gaze flew to his face, but the tight mouth and blank eyes revealed nothing.
“In a barrel of rose petals in your stillroom.” He bared his teeth in a merciless smile. “Now are you going to tell me you’re not a traitor?”
Chapter 15
“I’M NOT A traitor,” she said furiously.
“You lie,” he snarled, fisting his fingers in her shirt and yanking her to him.
She shrieked—not in fear, but in fury. Slapping her hands against his chest, she pushed with all her might. But he was as grounded and immovable as a mountain.
His face bent close to hers. “Do you know the penalty for treason?” His menacing whisper chilled her to the marrow.
“I do not lie.” She struggled anew, clawing at his fist.
He dropped the folio onto the ground and once more used both of his hands to hold her in place, pressing her against the tree. She strained to pull her arms from his grasp, her breath coming in panicked gasps.
“I know you lie because I followed you,” he spat. “I watched you go into the Jolly Smuggler and I saw you hide the first folio under the rose petals. I watched you at the smuggling quarries and saw you hide a second folio in your trunk.”
“It was you I saw on the edge of the cliffs that night at the quarries?” She stiffened. “You were watching me? Spying on me?” Something dark and ugly swirled within her. Her privacy had been violated and it left her feeling as though a layer of grime filmed her skin.
“Since I am a spy, yes. It is what I do best.” His lips twisted in a derisive smile as his hands tightened on hers.
“A spy,” she repeated faintly. She should have been surprised, but it fit. For all his charming and gilded words, she’d seen the predator that lurked w
ithin.
You can’t change the eyes.
She twisted away and this time he released her, sliding his hands down her arms to circle her waist. Now it was the nearness of him that held her in place. The scent of him, man, leather and outdoors, surrounded her. Her pulse started hammering, her skin went hot. How could she feel desire for this man? He was a spy, and nothing she’d thought he was.
“If you’re not a traitor, tell me how you obtained those documents.” He leaned close so their faces were only a breath apart, his lips just a kiss away from hers.
“Do you think to seduce the information from me?” Fighting against her need for him, she raised her brows.
“You will tell me.”
“What do you expect from me?” She glared at him. “That I’m going to tell you everything I know? Divulge all my secrets? It seems I barely know you, my lord. Are you the Wandering Earl, or someone else?” She pushed past him, stalking through the thick tree trunks. She could see Demon only a few feet away, apparently unconcerned by their confrontation.
“I’m a spy, as I said. The Wandering Earl is simply a useful disguise.” He leaned casually against the tree he’d pinned her to, but his eyes were sharp. “My mission is to locate a traitor passing military information to the French. We believe the traitor is using the smuggling channels in this area to send the information to France. Which brings me to you. I came to Devon in search of you.”
“In search of me.” Her stomach pitched. It had all been a lie. The ball, the picnic, the seduction, the betrothal. “It’s all been part of your mission.”
He studied her, his face unreadable. “Yes.”
That one word sliced through her. Unable to stand still, she paced a few steps away then turned to face him. “Was it difficult to feign desire?” Bitterness filled her mouth.
“What?” His eyes widened, the whites showing clearly in the dark. He straightened and took one quick step toward her.
“Would you have gone through with the marriage?” She reached out for the thick trunk of a tree for support. Her fingernails curled into the coarse bark when he strode forward, reaching for her.
The Smuggler Wore Silk Page 14