by Brenda Hiatt
Not wanting to think about him right now, she began to order things for the long hours ahead. First she carried her straw pallet into the other room for Diana to sleep on and rummaged through their box of supplies for towels, which she folded into a makeshift pillow. Diana’s clothes were stored in the cave, and she could use cloaks and pelisses for blankets.
There was enough firewood to see them through the night, and if the storm persisted, they could always break up the chairs for fuel.
Her brain felt mired in quicksand. She stared at the wig and bonnet for a long time before realizing they could not be left out in plain view. Gathering them up, she stowed them in her portmanteau. What else? She spotted Kit’s discarded trousers on the floor and draped them over a chair by the hearth to dry. The remains of his shirt were put into the fire. She ought to prepare a broth for him to drink when he awoke, but she didn’t feel up to it at the moment. There would be plenty of time for that later. She’d no intention of sleeping. Should he develop a fever, she would have to do something about it. Cold compresses, she supposed. Which reminded her about the water barrel.
Rain pelted into the cottage and onto her hair and clothes when she opened the door to thrust the barrel outside. Shivering, she rushed back to the fireplace and stood facing it, spreading out her arms and legs to catch the heat. I could fall asleep right here, standing up, she thought as the warmth stole over her body. However am I to keep watch on the smuggler when I can scarcely keep my eyes open?
“What a magnificent horse!” Diana said, snapping Lucy to attention. “Kit must have paid a small fortune for him. And he’s so well mannered. He ate the carrots from my hand and stood still while I removed his saddle.”
Lucy turned to see her drop the leather saddle pack on the table. She eyed it curiously. Perhaps there was some clue in there to Kit’s identity, not that it mattered a great deal who he was. But information, however irrelevant it might seem at first start, had a way of becoming useful sooner or later. That was her experience, in any case, and she meant to have a look inside. But first she must send Diana, who was too well-bred to approve of riffling through a man’s personal effects, off on another errand. “You had better fetch warm clothes from your luggage, I expect. And since I left my cloak outside under a rock, will you bring something for me?”
“Gladly. But it’s awfully cold and dark down there. May I leave one or two of our lanterns near to the horse? He is probably frightened to be alone in such a strange place.”
“He has all my sympathy,” Lucy said crossly. “But we dare not light up the cave at night. You know that.”
“I’d leave them well back,” Diana protested, “and they cast very little light. Besides, who could possibly be out in this storm to see?”
“No lanterns,” Lucy ruled. “We’ve enough problems as it is without drawing more attention to ourselves, however remote the chance anyone else is lurking about. Please, Diana. I’m frightfully out of temper just now. Bring up what you need for the night and get settled. It’s the best thing you can do for me.”
Diana fled.
Lucy knew she would feel guilty later, but she had spoken the truth. She was so on edge that she’d gladly tear into the Archbishop of Canterbury if he materialized in front of her.
She went to the table, unbuckled the saddle pack, and sifted through its contents. There were two soft woolen shirts of good quality, but well-worn, and half a dozen cambric handkerchiefs. A pair of heavy wool stockings. A small drawstring bag filled with coins, a few banknotes, and a plain pocket watch. A razor, shaving soap, and cracked mirror all wrapped up in a piece of toweling. A copper-sheathed spyglass. Another drawstring bag, this one larger, holding pencils, a small folding knife, and pieces of charcoal. A sketchbook.
She pulled it out and flipped through the pages. Most were blank, but the first few sheets were covered with drawings. They had no particular significance that she could ascertain. He had sketched whatever caught his fancy—a yew tree, a dinghy tied up to a rustic dock, three or four faces of country folk, a clump of bracken, an ox pulling a plow.
Only one picture, of a little girl sitting on a fallen log with a doll cradled in her arms, was finished in any detail. If ever she saw that child, Lucy knew that she would recognize her immediately. Indeed, from the drawing alone, she felt as if she knew her.
She glanced over at Kit, thinking that she didn’t know him at all. Oh, she stuck by everything she had already decided about him, but there was clearly more to the man than she was ready to admit. All the same, a talent for sketching was scarcely a point in his favor. Even criminals had hobbies, she supposed.
Carefully, she restored everything to its place in the saddle pack and took it into the back room. Diana was still in the cave, probably sealing her friendship with the horse. Any company was better than Lucy Preston’s, with her black mood casting shadows over every place she went.
Her real shadow, created by the fire behind her, fell over Kit as she stood with her hands clenched, staring down at him without pleasure. A lamb, indeed! A black sheep, more like, the despair of his family and a blight on decent society. He would probably hang one day, and good riddance to him.
Such a waste of a beautiful man, though. He was nothing like the pale-skinned overdressed dandies that Lady Tumbridge welcomed to her house parties, and more often than not to her bedchamber. His bronzed face and the taut musculature of his tall, lanky body gave evidence of an athletic life spent much in the out-of-doors. His hair, a sun-streaked tangle of light brown and blond, waved slightly and reached to where his collar would be if… if he were wearing any clothes.
His bare flesh under that thin blanket did not bear thinking of. She crossed to the hearth and jabbed at the burning logs with the poker, wondering if the fire could be any hotter than she felt. She gazed into the flames, seeing nothing and having vague, irreverent thoughts about large, unpredictable male animals.
After some time Diana came into the room and placed a bundle at her feet before departing in silence. Belatedly, Lucy murmured words of thanks that probably went unheard. Well, she would apologize in the morning for being such a bear.
Anger was the only thing that fueled her now, anger at Kit and at Diana’s uncle and, shamefully, at every person who had treated her unfairly when she had tried so very hard to do the right thing. Without her anger, she would probably be curled up in a bundle the size of the one Diana had brought, crying her heart out like a frightened child. And what good would that do?
If it took rage to keep her going, she would nurture it for however long she must. Diana would simply have to put up with her, and the smuggler deserved whatever he got.
She poured the last of the cold tea into her mug and drank it, hoping it would help to keep her awake for the rest of the night. Rain pounded against the roof and a blast of icy wind made its way down the chimney, causing the fire to sputter and shoot sparks and ashes onto the floor. She set another log on the grate and kept watch until it was blazing, aware all the while of the man who lay asleep only a short distance away.
He was such a vital presence in the room that he might as well have been standing in the middle of it, juggling lit torches.
Lucy dragged a chair closer to the hearth and straddled it with her arms folded over the top rung of the laddered back. Propping her chin on her forearm, she gazed at Kit the Demon Smuggler who had stolen what little remained of her peace.
Go away, she thought. Take the rain with you. Give us what scant chance we may yet have to escape.
Chapter Four
Kit was enjoying his decidedly erotic dream. On the sands, beneath a starry sky, he was making rapturous love with Miss Luke.
Suddenly they were both underwater.
She didn’t seem to mind. Still holding him, her hands on his bare shoulders, she smiled into his eyes. But his movements slowed, and he felt himself struggling for breath. Then he began to float, rising up and looking back at her, at her soft, creamy flesh and the cap of pearls on her
head. She stretched her arms to him, but try as he might, he could not reach her.
He became aware of his own body then, and a throbbing pain in his shoulder, and more pain at his ankle. He ought to do something, he supposed, but it was as if heavy coins were pressed against his eyelids. Most likely he had put them there himself, for assuredly he had no wish to wake up. He wanted only to return to his dream and reshape the ending.
But his body had its own urgency and was demanding attention. And, too, he had the eerie sensation that someone was staring at him.
Bloody laudanum. He loathed the stuff. It left a man weak and noodle-witted. Forcing himself fully awake, Kit wrenched open his eyes and looked around the cottage.
No one was there. He saw only bare stone walls, a table and two chairs, and a small fire in the hearth. He couldn’t guess the time of day. Heavy black curtains hung over what he supposed to be windows, and both doors were closed. He listened, hearing only silence, and reckoned the storm must have passed.
The odd sensation that he was being watched grew more intense. Sitting up, he scanned the room again, this time noticing the dishes, jars, and cheesecloth-wrapped packets that were set on a shelf running all along the opposite wall. Finally he glanced in the direction of the low, smoke-stained ceiling.
Two round, glossy eyes gazed steadily at him from a white heart-shaped face. The small owl, about the size of his forearm, was perched on a coat peg jutting from the wall.
“Well, hullo there,” Kit said. “I don’t suppose you could direct me to the nearest chamber pot?”
The owl blinked.
Kit leaned over and peered under the cot. Nothing there. “Luke?” he called. “Mrs. Preston?” No one emerged from the back room.
“It appears the ladies have deserted us, old lad.” Swinging his legs over the side, he gently planted both feet on the dirt floor and examined his wrenched ankle. It was red, swollen, and somewhat painful, but it moved easily enough when he made circles with his foot. He was fairly sure he could hobble about with the help of the blackthorn cane, which was perniciously propped against the wall clear on the other side of the room.
Levering himself up, he hopped gracelessly as far as the table and braced himself against the back of a chair to catch his breath. The bouncing had jarred his shoulder, and there was no denying it hurt like the devil. He used the chair’s support to cross the rest of the way and finally managed to grab hold of the walking stick.
The owl made a throaty, wheezing sound.
Kit looked up and the owl stared back, its buff-colored head turned ninety degrees in his direction to get a better look. It made the snoring noise again.
Kit suddenly realized that he was bare-arsed naked. He located his trousers, which were draped over a chair near the fire, but he wasn’t about to wrestle with them now. Leaning heavily on the cane, he returned to the cot and stripped off the thin blanket, securing it around his waist.
The exertion helped clear his mind of the laudanum, which he was resolved never to touch again. Good clean pain he could deal with, but anytime he decided to get muzzy-headed, he would bloody well do so with a bottle or two of vintage wine.
By the time he crossed the room again, he’d got the hang of balancing on the walking stick and limping in a relatively smooth manner. Fog billowed into the room when he opened the door, and the owl swooped past his shoulder.
He could see precious little when he stepped outside—the outline of the roof when he looked back, and what might be a tree near the corner of the cottage. He aimed himself for the concealment of its trunk, although the fog would hide him well enough from anyone who might be in the vicinity.
The owl joined him and perched on a branch directly overhead, still making that throaty sound and gazing at him with keen intensity. Kit decided that he must resemble some exceptionally large form of prey.
What a stroke of luck to have stumbled into this unlikely menage—a mute woman clad all in black, a glorious female masquerading as a boy, and a singularly demented owl. For adventure, ever his ruling passion, he had assuredly come to the right place.
Gaze focused on his bare feet, he made his way carefully back to the door and was about to step inside when he heard the sound of voices from the other side of the cottage. He crept into the shadows and risked a look around.
Two figures, one slim and the other large and burly, swam in and out of the fog. Their voices were muffled, but he recognized Luke’s clear alto and the gruff rasp of a Scottish accent.
“I c’n take him with me now,” the man said. “Better I do.”
“No. If he dies in Silverdale, the authorities will have questions. If he dies here, we can lug his body—oh, I don’t know—somewhere miles away and leave it there.”
“That bad off, is he?”
“In fact, I’ve no idea. He slept quietly and has no fever, but he lost a great deal of blood. We shall do our best for him, but once he leaves, he’ll doubtless tell someone what he saw at the cottage. We must hold him here until we are gone. Bring Giles back with you, and should he rule that the man requires a doctor, we’ll scarper in a hurry.”
“If you say so, lass, but I mislike leaving the two of you alone with a stranger.”
They moved away then, disappearing into the heavy fog. He heard the Scot ask if she wanted him to bring a pistol but couldn’t make out her reply.
He limped as fast as he could into the cottage. When Luke returned he must be flat on his back, just as she’d left him. The owl swooped in as he was closing the door, took up its perch on the coat peg, and followed his every move with those bright black eyes. Kit quickly peeled off the blanket, spread it over the cot, and slid into place. He had barely lowered his head to the pillow and closed his eyes when the door swung open again.
Listening acutely, he heard Luke drop something on the table and cross to him. He felt the warmth of her body as she leaned over him and sensed her gaze probing him like a lancet.
The owl was snoring again. Excellent notion. He faked a snore of his own.
“Don’t pretend you are asleep,” she said sharply. “The blanket is damp and so is your hair. You’ve been outside.”
Not easily fooled, Lady Luke. He liked her all the more for it. “So I have,” he affirmed, opening his eyes. “And it wasn’t easy to get myself there, I assure you. But when nature is calling, a man has little choice but to answer.”
Red flags blazed on her cheeks. “Yes. I hadn’t thought of that. You can walk then?”
“Only if I must. Indeed, I expected that you would eventually find me in a heap somewhere between this spot and a friendly tree. You may be certain that I’m in no hurry to try another excursion.”
She tugged the blanket down his chest and examined the bandage. “Fresh blood,” she said irritably. “Not much of it, but you’ve done yourself no good. In future, pray ask for assistance.”
“I’d have done, were there anyone of use to ask. The bird was no help at all.”
Her gaze shot to the coat peg. “Fidgets! However did you get in here?”
The owl shuffled on its perch, ruffling its feathers.
“I used to smuggle lizards and frogs and snakes into my room,” Kit said, “but I’ve never known anyone to take an owl for a pet.”
“He took me.” Luke held out her arm and the owl immediately flew to her wrist. “And he isn’t a pet. Mostly he’s a nuisance. He thinks I am his mother, I expect. The nest he was in got abandoned, and I came upon it just as he was pecking his way from his egg. From then on, of course, I had to feed him—minced meat when he was a chick and whatever I could beg from the kitchen as he grew. He has rewarded me with loyalty, which I could well do without, and of late he sometimes catches a meal for himself. I keep hoping he’ll fly off to live the way an owl ought to live, but he shows no inclination to do so.”
“Why does he make that growly sound?”
Luke raised a pair of beautifully shaped brows. “I’ve never heard it. But an ostler to whom I applied for
advice about food and the like told me that barn owls make odd noises when they are attempting to woo a mate.” She looked at the bird. “Are you in love, Fidgets?”
The owl snorted.
“Well, I cannot applaud your taste,” she said, stroking the feathered head. “But perhaps this means you are a female.”
“I certainly hope so,” Kit declared. “Cannot you tell?”
“No. It isn’t… easily apparent. And in either case, the two of you would not suit. Off with you, Fidgets.”
The owl flew back to its peg and resumed staring at Kit. Returning to the table, Lucy began to unpack a large basket. “There is fresh bread, and I made up a pot of soup this morning. Are you hungry?”
“Ravenous.” It was true, he realized, hearing his stomach rumble. “Where did you come by the basket?”
“A traveling blacksmith is kind enough to deliver provisions whenever he is passing by.”
“On the way to where? This cottage is scarcely on a main road. I doubt it’s on any road.”
“Then he is very kind to detour so far out of his way. And kinder still because he has gone to fetch his nephew, who is an apothecary, and a wagon to carry you to a physician if Giles believes that you require one.”
“Will he bring along a constable?” Kit asked wryly.
She dropped an apple, which rolled into under a chair. “Certainly not. What you were doing last night is none of my concern. If the authorities are searching for you, I’d as soon they find you elsewhere.”
“Why is that, I wonder? Because you don’t want them to find you!”
“Nonsense.” She retrieved the apple, providing him with a delectable view of her shapely derriere when she bent to pick it up. “You, sir, are the only felon on the premises. And the sooner you are gone, the better. Mrs. Preston is deeply in mourning for her late husband and requires solitude. It would be most unworthy of you to mention our presence here to anyone.”
He could not resist prodding her. “Most particularly the authorities, should they manage to nab me.”