Myriah Fire

by Conn, Claudy

  Sir Roland stifled a yawn, and as he observed the innkeeper crossing the room and heading their way, he put up a hand for service. The tavern keeper caught Roland’s motion and sidled over, sniffing affably. “What be yer needs, gents?”

  “A bumper of ale,” Sir Roland said.

  “Make it two, Thomas,” added the landsman.

  “Aye,” the innkeeper agreed, going off.

  Sir Roland turned back to Stone, and the look of boredom had descended over him again; he had some serious thinking to do, and what did he care about smugglers and such? “I am certain you will think me a dunce, but it is still not clear what all this”—he languidly waved his hand in the air—“has to do with me.”

  “Eh, sorry, thought I had explained, sir. You see, I need to keep m’eyes on ’em! Best vantage point be this table. That way I can observe all their comings and goings. Traitorous lot, the pack of ’em!”

  Sir Roland resigned himself. “Yes, I suppose, but …”

  Stone’s eyes flew suddenly to the narrow doorway, and Roland followed the man’s glance. There stood the man locals had identified as Lord Wimborne, his uncovered honey-colored hair falling in waves around his ruggedly handsome face.

  * * *

  Kit’s tall figure shouldered a two-tiered caped riding cloak whose folds were negligently slung back across one shoulder, exposing a superbly cut riding jacket and tight-fitting breeches of the same material. His Hessians were covered with dust from his recent hard riding, and his eyes were alight with merriment and more—the quality of command.

  “Back are ye, m’lord?” the innkeeper cried loudly as he spied Kit in the entranceway and hurried over to stand before him. He dropped his voice to a whisper, and his words tripped out quickly, his eyes darting sideways as he spoke. “Thought ye ought to know. That flash sitting wit the bloody revenuer … he was asking after ye jest when ye rushed off before.”

  Lord Wimborne’s gray eyes found Sir Roland, though his glance in that worthy’s direction was perceptible to no one. “Thank you, Thomas. I’ll be taking the blue room. See to it that we are not disturbed.”

  “Aye,” Thomas said as he moved off.

  Kit then glanced at his men, sitting patiently around the oak table beneath the observation of the excisemen, as several of the government agents were scattered about the room.

  His men were to all outward signs every bit what they appeared to be: big, hard-working, hard-living fishermen. Not a word or another look passed between them and Lord Wimborne.

  Kit moved agilely with Fletcher silently at his back as he made for the corridor to the stairs.

  Stone saw the table of ‘fishermen’ suddenly emptied; open-mouthed, he watched them file out of the tavern room.

  He got to his feet and rushed after them, noting with a grunt of annoyance that any hope of discovering anything of use was put to the stake. There would be no getting near enough to overhear anything they said, for any room they occupied would be well guarded against eavesdroppers.

  He gave a chair in his path a vicious kick, which sent it hurling and brought some attention upon himself, before he returned to Sir Roland’s table. Thomas, the innkeeper, gave him a long, speculative look as he slammed the two pints of ale down on the table and waited for his money.

  Stone produced the coin but reached out and held the innkeeper by the arm. “Thomas, you know what is afoot tonight. Spill it out, man—’tis your duty as an Englishman!”

  “You be daft, man. Ain’t got a notion what ye be blabbering about!” Thomas snapped, pulling away his arm and walking off.

  “No notion … no notion at all!” Stone spluttered irritably. “You’d all sell your souls if there were a profit in it. They are all closed-mouthed about the gentlemen. Not the name I would call these damn smugglers.”

  “Lookee ’ere!” the innkeeper shouted from across the wide, now almost empty room. “There ain’t no call for the likes of ye to talk to me that way. ’Tis none of m’affair what me customers do, and that’s a fact. Onct they pay their due, makes no ha’porth o’difference to me where they go … or what they be doing.”

  The exciseman, barely twenty-five, eager, ambitious, and drastically impaired by the close-mouthed community of a smugglers’ village, was continuously put out by such attitudes. He was stifled by a job with little reward and little chance of success. What he needed was a royal coastguard to aid him. What they had were but a few revenue cutters—simply not enough.

  He bent over his ale and began cursing the fates for his no-win job. What he needed was a break … just one break, and then he’d have ’em.

  Sir Roland’s interest had revived with Lord Wimborne’s emergence on the scene. He sat watching the young exciseman, for now, here was something he might be able to use to help him in his own situation.

  He had not noticed Kit glance his way; however, he had most definitely been quick to note that the so-called fishermen—alias Rye smugglers, or gentlemen, as they preferred—had indeed picked themselves up and followed in Lord Wimborne’s wake. Somehow Myriah was connected in this … perhaps his lordship had a sister she was visiting? It would take looking into. “Tell me, did I hear that the gentleman who preceded your smugglers upstairs was in fact Lord Wimborne?”

  “Aye—the devil!” Stone answered sourly.

  “Does he, do you know, have a sister? I am trying to recall the family …?” Sir Roland asked casually.

  “A sister—no, a younger brother, though … a part of all this as well.”

  “But no sister …” Sir Roland frowned and nibbled at his lower lip.

  “No, which makes it all a bit odd—them having that young beauty, their cousin, staying with them, and no other female in the house, but no doubt she has her maid with her …”

  “Young female, you say?”

  “Aye, flaming beauty she is … Miss Myriah White.” Stone sighed plaintively and added, “I am sure she doesn’t know what they are up to … an angel she is.”

  Sir Roland hid his smirk—nothing could be further from the truth. An angel indeed—hiding out with a couple of bachelors? Just what was she doing?

  “Can’t bandy about the Wimborne name though … there would be the devil to pay if m’superiors got wind of it. Wimborne is an old name in this area—carries quite a bit of weight.”

  “Then it is surprising the present lord would mingle with a pack of … fishermen here at the inn,” said Roland, luring the exciseman into revealing more.

  “That ain’t the heart of it, man—why a fellow would have to have his upper works out of order not to realize ’tis Wimborne himself that leads ’em across the Channel on their dirty business.”

  “That, my good man is a very serious and dangerous accusation,” Roland cautioned, still baiting.

  “Aye, that it is, and that is why I ain’t made it official. Already told you I ain’t daft. I ain’t the brightest fellow ever wore the uniform, but I’d have to be a dunce to go off half-cocked aiming a finger without the proof. I know what he’s up to … got all the reason in the world, he does. Why he is up to his head in debt … has been dished this past year … maybe more? How else would he get the blunt to stave off the dunning?”

  Sir Roland, no stranger to debt, was struck with a momentary feeling of pity for Wimborne. However, it soon passed. “I see.”

  “Do you? No, how could you, being gentry yourself?” Stone sighed and took a long drink of his ale. “We nearly had him the other night—the young brother that is.” He shook his head. “We were so close.”

  “Do you mean that you actually observed the brother in the act of landing a cargo?” Roland said in a startled whisper.

  “Dash it, man … nearly! The young scalawag is in league with the devil himself, he is, for I am certain we put a hole in him! Knew it—saw the line of him, saw him slump over in his saddle, but then there he stood, hale and uppity as ever!”

  “Hang it, Stone! Either you shot him or you didn’t.” Sir Roland frowned and began losing pati
ence.

  “That’s the point—the very tear in the tale. Can’t be sure anymore, for while my men could have sworn ’twas young Wimborne. We had the lantern up, and they thought they saw his face in its light … but then, there he was, no bullet hole to poke a finger at.” He shrugged. “And we did find his hat near the spot.”

  “Devil you say—that seems proof to me.”

  “Aye, so it did to me, but then came the lovely. She claimed, and I do believe her, angel that she is, that she lost the hat on her way to town to have it repaired.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” Sir Roland said on a low thoughtful note. Now what did he have here? Enough to force her hand or ruin her—that was what!

  * * *

  Kit glanced over at his man, Fletcher, staunch as ever, peaked wool cap pulled low over his forehead and leaning up against the wooden door of the room he and his men presently occupied. No one was getting past Fletcher.

  He smiled to himself as he brought their meeting to a close. “Well now, there you have it, lads,” he said, putting a hand through his air and setting a foot on the chair in front of him. “We cross tomorrow night for the last time—hopefully. Dibbs has come with the last of it, I do sincerely hope.”

  A heavyset man, clothed in a dark wool shirt and a weathered dark jacket, pushed his chair back and eyed Kit with the only eye left to him, having lost the other in service of His Majesty some years ago. “Begging your pardon, m’lord—yah seen us through a fetch or two, and you’ve got me through more than I can count, and I’m thinking ye’ll see us through a good sight more without us getting twigged, and damn the blunt has been good, but I don’t like the sound of this last job.”

  “Trust me, Fry. You always have, and you won’t be sorry this time either,” Kit said on an irritated note.

  “Hold, m’lord.” This came from a young man in similar worn, dark clothing. “Fry here be in the right of it. We trust ye with our lives we do, and coz ’tis so is why we vote to follow ye as we ’ave. I got four young brats wit their mouths open all the time, and another one cooking. ’Tain’t any way I can feed ’em without the ready, and this way be as good as any other, but this last … gives me a fear, it does.”

  Kit shook his head. “Is that the way of it? After all these years—you don’t trust me to see you safely home? Even you, Fry?” He waited just long enough to allow Fry to expostulate before slamming his fist down hard. “Damnation! Yes, I saw you through a time or two. Pulled you out of hell, Fry—in the Pyrenees. Do you think I’d throw you into it this side of freedom? Hang me before I do! What do you all think—I’d leave you to fend for yourselves? What sort of paltry covey do you take me for? You, Bilkes, with your brats—when this is done, you’ll take care of Wimborne grounds, just as you did before we started this heathenish business—just as your father did before you. And you, Fry—you’ll work Wimborne stables just as I promised you when we sold out. All you damn fools will work Wimborne … just as you have always done! Stupid lot of brutes I’ve got for myself,” Kit said, grinning at them.

  The man called Fry put a fist to his heart. “Aye, m’lord, ye be in the right of it, but what of the Winchelsea boys? They won’t like us pulling out when we do.”

  “Those lads are a hard lot. They have always been smugglers … they always will be smugglers. Don’t think they were living on the thirty or forty kegs we passed from time to time! They went in with us for the money, but they got their own ken—their own galleys—and you needn’t give them another thought.” He scanned the faces. Satisfied with the results, he resumed his seat and drew up paper and quill. “So then, mates, let’s get on with it. We’ll have to plan it to the minute, for our landing crew gets fidgety when we’re not on time.”

  * * *

  Myriah smiled up at Tabby, who came to relieve her in Billy’s room. She tucked Billy in, but he seemed to be sleeping peacefully. With a sigh, she left him to her groom and went to her own room.

  It was late, and she was exhausted. She dropped her gown where she stood and climbed into bed, pulling the covers all around herself and allowing her mind to wander.

  She had a major problem, and its name was Sir Roland. She rummaged for a solution, and finally found one, but oh, she thought, it was going to be tricky.

  She didn’t know how long it was that she slept, as she couldn’t see the clock quietly ticking on the far wall and didn’t feel like getting up to have a look, but she could hear movements in Kit’s room. She glanced towards the door that stood between the rooms, between them.

  She had removed the chair she had wedged there—it seemed an age ago—and she could see a dim light at the crack of air beneath the door. He was back … and it was more than relief she felt. It was much more—it was anticipation.

  * * *

  Kit was tired. Yet as he stood in his room and tossed his shirt across to a wooden chair, his heart spoke with need and his body tensed with desire. She was so close … just in the next room. He should go to her and tell her how wonderful he thought her. He saw her now as an angel. Hadn’t she appeared and saved his brother? Hadn’t she nursed him, stayed with Billy while he had no choice but to meet with his men? Who she was no longer mattered. What she was—only one answer to that: his! Damnation, but that was something he felt in his blood. She was his, and he had made up his mind to it as he went to their connecting door.

  He already knew it would be unlocked before he pulled it open, feeling like a boy without style or grace, feeling awkward and wanting to get it right. The door made a slight creak as the light from the candle on his nightstand at his back flickered over her fiery hair spread all about her face. She sat up, and her beauty literally stole his breath; all he could do was stand there and stare …

  She smiled at him and whispered, “You are safely back … I am so glad.”

  He went to her, knowing it was more than words he wanted to express. He had her in his embrace as he whispered her name, “Myriah …” It was all he could utter as his lips parted hers—as his tongue reminded them both of their last encounter.

  He pushed her gently back against her pillow and stood for a moment to pull off his boots and then his breeches, and his heart swelled as she stared at his body and licked her lips.

  He came to her then, took her hand, and put it to his hard, pulsating manhood. She stroked him enticingly, and he groaned as he broke away and climbed onto the bed.

  He bent his head to her full breasts and whispered her name, just before he began to suckle and fondle there. She threw back her neck and closed her eyes. He looked at her and whispered, “No, my sweet. I want your eyes open … I want you to see me … watch me touch you …”

  She opened them, and he was thrilled with what he saw in their deep blue-green recesses. He kissed a path over her belly to her thighs, spread them, lifted her legs, and began nibbling and licking her clit as he brought her to a scream of pleasure.

  He was breathing hard. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this way. He wanted her more than any woman he had ever known in his lifetime. More than that, he wanted to climb into her, be a part of her, and never let her go.

  “Kit … you are … beautiful … all of you … your shoulders, your arms … this …” she said as she moved into position and took his cock, palming it with a motion that made him wild.

  He rolled onto his back. Holding her by her small waist, he lifted her into position and told her hungrily, “Ride, love … ride it all you want, show me what you want from me, and I will give it to you … always …”

  “What I want is … everything …” Myriah said, climbing onboard.

  ~ Ten ~

  “ARR …” BILLY GROANED. He blinked at Myriah as she pulled away his drapes from the window and turned to smile brightly at him. “Hold there—what the deuce are you doing?”

  “Cook is sending up a breakfast you will love … and I am going for a quick walk. ’Tis a glorious day!” she threw over her shoulder.

  “Come back here, she-devil, and keep me
company!” he called after her.

  She turned and stuck her head back into the room. “I expect your brother will be doing that any time now.”

  Some moments later, she stood on the front portico and breathed deeply. Indeed, it was a lovely day for so many reasons.

  Kit’s lovemaking had gone on for an hour before they fell asleep in each other’s arms, and while he had not uttered the words she craved to hear, he had come close. He had told her she was his and never would be any other’s. He had said she made his heart beat. Imagine … such a pretty thing to say, but more than that, he had meant it.

  Oh yes, everything seemed brighter, lighter, and perfect this morning. The gentle breeze brought the aroma of flowers that grew wild in the unkempt garden beds. The sun played saucily with the mist it was burning away, and the sky was a rich and cloudless blue.

  Myriah stretched her arms heavenward—’twas a new day, and it held fresh hopes. She rounded the house and crossed the rear lawns past a rich meadow with grazing sheep. They looked like puffs of dirty rags sitting upon black footstools, and Myriah laughed when one picked up its head and baaed at her.

  She came across a small wooden bridge that arched prettily over a steep dyke and crossed it, feeling as though she had entered some fairy tale land. She walked beside the dike, looking down into its dark waters, marveling at the glistening gems it seemed to hold, when all at once the sound of another lamb bleating piteously halted her.

  “Oh, gracious, however did you get there, you silly?” she asked the poor thing that was entangled in a mesh of grapevines. Its struggles were plunging it deeper into the water.

  She looked around for a means to get to the animal, but the walls of the dike appeared to be almost straight up and down. However, there was a point at which a slope could be taken, though not without some effort.

  “Oh, my …” Myriah sighed. “Very well, little one, it looks as if I am going to ruin a perfectly good gown, and I don’t have but one other with me.” Myriah then picked up her skirts and tucked the lace hem into her brown velvet waistband. Off came her walking boots and stockings.