Regency Masquerades: A Limited Edition Boxed Set of Six Traditional Regency Romance Novels of Secrets and Disguises

by Brenda Hiatt

  “This is humiliating,” the man grumbled.

  “As if that signifies. Take care not to fall off, because we’ll never get you back on.” He had her so convinced the tide would wash over them at any moment that she jumped when a drop of rainwater hit her nose. Oh, excellent, she thought. Rain was precisely what they needed right now.

  The man was ominously silent. “How are you feeling, sir?”

  “Merry as a grig,” he assured her. “What exactly is a grig?” he asked after a while. “I’ve always wondered.”

  “Grigs are young eels.”

  “Oh. But why are they merry? How do we know they are merry?”

  Clearly she was risking her life to save a lunatic. “I’ve no idea, sir. Perhaps because they don’t have to deal with the likes of you.” The sand was firmer there and she sensed they were on an upward slope. Raising the lantern, she was able to see the cliff looming directly ahead.

  Now what was she to do?

  The horse would have to stay the night in the cave, of course. The nearest way onto land for him was more than a mile away. But she dared not reveal the cave’s location to the smuggler, not while there was any chance he could climb up the same way she had come down.

  She was fairly sure he could not. And why bring him this far only to have him die on solid land? But to take him through the cave would put Diana at risk. Oh, damn.

  With little hope, she decided to gamble he could make the ascent up the cliff. If he faltered, they would simply have to go around the other way. At least they were well beyond reach of the bore tide. She led the horse to the inlet and came to a halt beside a large boulder. “Will he stand if I let go his bridle?”

  “He’ll stand. Jason, old lad, behave yourself.”

  Lucy helped the man slip off the horse, bearing much of his weight when his feet hit the ground. She assisted him to the boulder and gestured for him to sit. “I’m going to leave you here for a short time, sir. The horse cannot go up this way, so I’ll secure him a little distance down the beach, where he will be perfectly safe until I can do better for him.”

  “Where is the way up?”

  “About a dozen yards behind you. It’s not an easy climb. I’ll be back within five minutes.”

  The horse was soon tethered to a rock deep inside the cave and away from the coming storm. But the man was nowhere in sight when she returned to where she’d left him. Blessedly, the rain was falling only in occasional brief sputters. Lantern in hand, she entered Cow’s Mouth Inlet and discovered the man crawling on hands and knees up the path. He was nearly halfway to the top.

  “If I’m going the wrong way,” he called over his shoulder, “don’t tell me.”

  “You are doing fine,” she said bracingly. On her own, she’d have extinguished the lantern and left it behind, but she greatly feared he would require its light when he came to the sharp vertical climb near the top and the jutting rock directly above. “Slow a bit! Let me catch up with you.” She maneuvered herself along the rocky track with the lantern handle clasped between her teeth.

  He waited until she was at his heels before moving again, inches at a time. She could hear the breath rasping in his throat and almost feel in her bones what every inch of progress was costing him. He crept steadily ahead, though, without complaint.

  At one point her hand fell on a wet rock. She thought nothing of it, assuming the moisture to be rainwater. But when she used the hand to wipe perspiration from her forehead, she smelled the coppery tang of blood. Nausea rose to her throat as she scrubbed her hand against her trouser leg. What if he bled himself dry there on the cliffside?

  “Who are you?” he asked, pausing for a few seconds before continuing on.

  She removed the lantern from her mouth. “L-Luke.”

  “Glad to know you, Luke. More than I can say. My name is Kit. I should advise you that I’m a trifle muzzy and am like to tumble off the edge at any moment. But I won’t be any less grateful for your help as I plunge to my doom.”

  “Might I suggest you save your strength for the climb?” she shot back at him. “The hardest part is at the top.”

  He chuckled. “I should have guessed.”

  When he reached the last, almost perpendicular few yards of the cliff, she tugged at his foot. “Huddle to one side, please. I shall try to go around you.”

  “Is that a good idea?”

  “No. But you’ll need me to pull you up. Take the lantern, will you?”

  He did, and she slithered past him with half her body hanging over the side of the cliff. Should they both survive this ordeal, she thought, she would kill him for putting her through it. With a final burst of maniacal strength, she clambered over the jutting rock and flattened herself atop it.

  “You’re almost done, sir. Put down the lantern and grab hold of my hands.”

  “Make that one hand. I’ve only the one to grab with.”

  Knitting her fingers together, she made a sort of sling for him to hang on to as he thrust himself up and over to safety. He must have kicked the lantern on his final push. It tumbled off the cliff and fell like a shooting star, the light flaming out when it crashed against the ground below. That could have been either one of them, she realized, suddenly icy cold from scalp to toes.

  He flopped onto his back, breathing heavily. “Well, that was a treat. I’ll try it again about fifty years from now. Are we there yet? Or do you have another mountain for us to play on?”

  If she had ever doubted it before, she was now convinced the man was daft. “It’s perhaps a hundred yards from here to our destination. Can you walk if I support you, or would you prefer to crawl?”

  “Walk, thank you.” He lurched to his feet and seized hold of her waist.

  As they teetered in the direction of the cottage, Lucy began to realize her problems had only just begun. She could not take him immediately inside, not without warning Diana and making preparations. Somehow there must be a way to get through this debacle without ruining everything, but she had no idea what that way could be. In a dark closet of her soul, she wished the smuggler had been shot through the heart instead of the arm. Or that he’d tumbled off the cliff.

  But he was alive, drat him, a heavy weight against her now and an impossible burden to carry from here on out.

  To one side, she spotted the large flat tree stump that rose from the ground a short way from the cottage. Some previous resident had smoothed the top and now it provided a nice bench to sit on, with a view of the woodlands in daylight. She detoured over to it and let go of the smuggler’s waist. “You’ll have to wait here a few moments, sir. Let me help you sit.”

  “Again?” He lowered himself onto the stump with a low groan. “We’re making more stops than a London post deliverer.”

  “Yes. It’s unfortunate. I’ll be back directly.” He would simply have to remain befuddled, Lucy thought as she dashed to the cottage and slipped inside.

  Diana, seated at a small table beside the hearth, looked up with alarm. “What happened? Where is your witch’s—”

  “Never mind that. There’s a man waiting outside. He’s been shot.” She waved a hand when Diana tried to speak again. “I can’t tend to him alone, so you must be Mrs. Preston. Wear the veil and pretend to be mute.”

  “Is he badly hurt?”

  “I don’t know. He’s not right in the head, and he’s lost a good deal of blood. We’ll need bandages, scissors, perhaps needle and thread. Any medicines you have that might be useful. Is there laudanum?”

  “Yes. I’ll bring everything I can think of.” Taking her book, Diana went to the door that led to the cottage’s only other room. “Hadn’t you better fetch him inside?”

  “In a moment.” Lucy darted around the sparsely furnished room, grabbing up anything that might provide a clue to their identities and concealing the items in her portmanteau. Finally, taking along a sturdy walking stick, she went outside to collect the smuggler.

  Chapter Two

  Kit watched Luke vanish in
to the dark cottage, abandoning him to his tree stump.

  An odd development, to be sure, but unexpected things had been happening all night. At least he was apt to be among the living come tomorrow. For a few thorny minutes there, his foot embedded in wet sand under that wretched box, he had been fairly sure he was about to cock up his toes. One set of toes, anyway.

  By now, the bore tide was driving up the bay. It might already have swamped the wagon, and he would currently be making the acquaintance of the local fish had Luke not pulled him free. Only to leave him, it seemed, to pour out his life’s blood on a tree stump.

  With his rescuer in no apparent hurry to come back for him, he turned his thoughts from his near demise to the mystery of her identity. Her, for if Luke was of the male persuasion, Christopher Etheridge Valliant was the Queen of Sheba.

  He certainly knew a female body when he felt one, and he’d had several opportunities to detect the swell of breasts under that heavy homespun shirt and makeshift binding. While leaning against her for support, his hand had encountered the flare of feminine hips and a sweetly rounded derriere.

  He wouldn’t object in the least to encountering them again. When he’d recovered his strength, perhaps she would permit him to reward her for saving his life.

  The door opened again, and this time a narrow slice of light fell onto the ground. Luke strode swiftly to the tree stump, a blackthorn walking stick in her hand. “Well, come along, then,” she said. “Lean on this.”

  One hand clutching the knobby tip, Kit lurched to his good foot and reeled precariously, struggling to regain his balance.

  Luke anchored him with one arm wrapped around his waist. “Steady on. It’s only a few steps more.”

  They tottered slowly toward the door, the sudden exertion having sucked what remained of Kit’s blood to his legs. They felt like overcooked noodles, and it required iron concentration to compel them to move.

  Luke towed him inside and maneuvered him to an object he could not quite make out. A large spider? he wondered dizzily as she turned him around.

  “There is a chair directly behind you,” she told him. “Sit.”

  The walking stick slipped from his hand when he tried to lower himself. Luke seized his belt with both hands and helped him settle on the chair. Then he felt a pressure against the back of his neck.

  “Bend forward, sir.” She pushed his head down between his knees. “Stay in this position until I tell you otherwise.”

  Sit. Stay. What the devil did she think he was—a bloody spaniel?

  But he obeyed, and soon his head began to clear. Marginally, anyway. He became aware of a packed-dirt floor, two boots caked with wet sand, and the god-awful pain in his shoulder.

  Lifting his gaze, he saw a narrow cot set in the corner, a small, rough-hewn square table beside him, and another primitive wooden chair. There was a fire at his back, he could tell, and Luke was at the hearth, pouring something liquid into a metal pot. Then he heard wood against wood as she added logs to the fire, and the crackle of sparks shooting, up the chimney.

  “Are you still alive?” she asked briskly.

  “I believe so.”

  “Try to remain so a bit longer, then. When we have got things organized, we’ll tend to your shoulder as best we can.”

  We? He wrenched his head from between his legs and looked around the small room. Luke was poking at the fire, but there was no sign of anyone else. He did see two doors, both closed. One would have to be the one he’d just come through, so the other probably led to a second room.

  His brain felt as if it were marinating in molasses. “Where the deuce am I?”

  “Not at a proper surgery where you belong, I’m afraid. The locals call this outpost Cow’s Mouth Cottage, and Mrs. Preston is currently in residence here. She is gathering bandages and implements, but we’ve little to work with and shall be forced to improvise.”

  That sounded ominous. Carefully, Kit rotated his shoulder. It moved well enough, so he experimented with his arm. Everything responded as it ought, but the pain sent sweat to his forehead and from there down into his eyes, carrying with it particles of gritty charcoal dust. They filtered through his lashes and burned under his lids.

  “C-could you possibly wash my face?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Good heavens!” She sounded contemptuous. “We’ll attend to that later. You may be sure your appearance is not of the slightest concern to anyone here.”

  “I’m quite serious. Grains of coal dust have set themselves to blind me.”

  “Oh. I beg your pardon. Yes, I shall certainly scrub you up a bit.”

  He heard metal again, and water being poured. Soon she set something on the table beside him and pulled off his black knit hat.

  After a barely discernible pause, she plastered one hand over his eyes and set to work on his forehead with what felt like a sponge dipped in warm water. After a few dabs, she rinsed the sponge and began again.

  When his lids had been cleaned, he opened his eyes and watched her work on the rest of his face. Her hair, what he could see of it, fascinated him. It was the color of pearls, a sleek, silky cap tapering to her neck with an uneven fringe across her forehead.

  She attended fiercely to what she was doing, never meeting his gaze, her slim pert nose slightly crinkled in concentration. Although her lips were set in a narrow line, he could tell they were naturally soft and full. Firelight was reflected in her eyes, making it impossible to determine their color. Her lashes were long but pale, best appreciated from the closeness of an embrace.

  It was altogether an elegant face, perfectly sculpted, the lines clean and distinct. Her fine-grained complexion put him in mind of the most exquisite porcelain, or of fresh cream with a touch of apricot on her high cheekbones. A chap could look at this face for an infinite time, and he was in no hurry for her to finish what she was doing.

  Twice she rose gracefully, emptied the fouled water outside, and returned with a refilled basin. Head swimming, Kit sagged against the chair back, allowing himself to enjoy her attentions while he could.

  She had just got to his lips when something appeared to overset her. “Must you sit there grinning like the village idiot?” she demanded.

  “I must,” he replied amiably. “I cannot help myself. You are preposterously lovely.”

  Color flamed in her cheeks. “Did that box bounce off your head before landing on your foot, sir? Men are not considered to be lovely.”

  “Nevertheless, you most assuredly are.”

  She scrubbed at his neck with a vengeance, her lips carved in a rigid line.

  “If you mean to separate my skin from the rest of me, may I suggest that sandpaper would be more efficacious?”

  “Oh.” She rinsed the sponge and dabbed more gently at his raw flesh. “I apologize, sir. You were talking nonsense, and I feared you were about to swoon. We must see to your wound.”

  “No more than a scratch, I’m fairly certain. Nothing seems to be broken.” He lifted his left arm and stroked his forefinger down her cheek. “See?”

  Her eyes widened with shock. A beat later she jerked her head away. “Don’t do that, you… you dolt.”

  He already regretted the move excessively but could not resist crossing swords with her. It distracted him from the pain. “Ah, moonbeam, I do love it when you talk sweet to me.”

  With an exasperated oath, she rose, grabbed up the basin, and stomped to the door, slamming it behind her when she returned. The basin hit the stone hearth with a resounding clang. “Keep in mind, sir, that I will soon be probing at your shoulder with something excessively sharp.” She came around in front of him, hands planted on her hips. “Have you anything else objectionable to say to me?”

  “Only a question, Mistress Luke. Why are you masquerading—ineptly, I might add—as a male?”

  She closed her eyes. “I should have left you out there,” she muttered grimly. “You would have been drowned and out of everybody’s hair by now.”

  Before h
e could respond, there came a thudding sound from the back door, as if someone was kicking at it.

  “That will be Mrs. Preston,” Luke said in a hiss. “Be kind to her. She doesn’t speak.”

  “Doesn’t as in can’t, or won’t?”

  “Oh, do shut up.” She went to the door and raised the latch. Kit watched with slightly befuddled fascination as a female clad all in black entered the room, carrying a large wooden tray heaped high with bandages, small vials and jars, and other items he couldn’t identify. She wore a felt bonnet from which a heavy veil descended, thoroughly concealing her face. Without acknowledging him, she set the tray on the table.

  “Bring every lamp and candle we’ve got,” Luke instructed, “and fill the basin with hot water from the kettle.” She was all business as she took up a pair of scissors and turned to Kit. “I’m going to cut your shirt away now. Are you able to remain upright and hold yourself still? Be honest. It will be easier to work if you are sitting in the chair, but you can take to the bed if you must.”

  Although the door and windows were closed, he’d have sworn the room was beginning to fill with fog. Kit took hold of the wooden chair seat under his right hip and held tight. “Have your way with me, Luke. I’ll let you know if I’m about to slide to the floor.”

  Nodding, she unbuckled his belt and tossed it into a corner. “Were you shot from the front or the back?”

  “Front.”

  She moved behind the chair. “Bend forward, please. I’ll start here.”

  He felt the cool metal of the scissors against his back as she clipped steadily from the tail of the black woolen shirt to the neck. Then, gingerly, she lifted a flap of material from his shoulder.

  “The bullet must have passed straight through,” she said, relief in her voice. “I feared that I would be compelled to dig it out.”

  “I would not have enjoyed that.” Suddenly feeling ghastly cold, he buried his head between his knees.

  A cool hand pressed against his forehead, and a soft voice whispered at his ear. “Take your time,” it said. “Tell me how I can help you.”