by Eva Leigh
Kit slid forward and took a penknife from his coat. He worked the knife in the lock until it gave a barely audible click. After waiting a moment to see if she came back to investigate, he followed, making certain to close the door.
He found himself plunged into a shadowy and twisting maze of corridors, bits of hay and stone dotting the rough floor. He wound his way from one passage to the next, always keeping Tamsyn in his sight. She moved purposefully, familiar with her route.
Nerves skittered along his skin. He squeezed his hands into fists, using the sensation of tightening muscle over bone to ground him.
She turned a corner and he paused so that she wouldn’t be aware of him. She stopped, too. The sounds of scraping stone reverberated in the passageway and a rasping, as if another door opened. Then her footsteps faded away.
He moved around the corner. But all he found was silent darkness.
Without the light of her candle, he couldn’t see anything. Feeling around on the ground, he collected a few pieces of straw. Then, grateful that the War had trained him to keep knives and flints on his person, regardless of where he was, he took a flint from his pocket and set the straw to burning.
When it blazed to life, he started in surprise. The corridor came to a rubble-covered dead end, as though it had caved in long ago.
He turned in a slow circle. Where the hell had she gone? People didn’t simply vanish.
Or maybe she was a changeling, after all . . . He shuddered.
Making himself still, he felt a slight, damp breeze coming from the wall to his right. He studied it. The wall looked to be made of plaster over wood, most likely with earth and stone behind it. Yet there was a small gap between the floor and the wall. A few stones were piled up nearby, as though they had been moved aside—revealing the gap. Putting his hand close to the space, the breeze pushed lightly against his palm.
He took a coin from his waistcoat pocket and nudged it through the gap. It clinked, as if falling down a step. The clinking continued until it faded away.
More stairs lay beyond this door. Stairs leading down to. . . . He calculated how far he and Tamsyn had traveled underneath the house, and inhaled the scent of the breeze. It carried the rich brine of the sea.
He frowned in surprise as he realized the stairs led down to the cove. Down to the very inlet that Tamsyn had avoided on her tour of the area, claiming it too rocky for anyone to traverse.
His spine tightened.
He straightened and felt along the wall to find a latch or lever that would open the door. Frustration sizzled when he could discover nothing. He had to get down to that beach.
There was only one other way to get there. Moving quickly, he sped back the way they had come, arriving back in the basement, and then ascending until he was in the house itself. He crushed the burning straw beneath his boot heel, and moved as noiselessly as possible through the manor.
In a moment, he was outside. There wasn’t time to saddle a horse, so he ran at full speed toward the village.
Dark landscape swam around him as he passed fields and cottages. It was a waking nightmare—the shadowy landscapes rose up like those in the midst of dreams.
I’m awake, damn it. He clung to this thought as he ran.
He gave thanks for his good night vision, which had kept him alive on the Peninsula and now guided him to the village.
Everything in the small town was shuttered and quiet. Not a soul roamed the high street, all the citizens clearly in their beds. Out in the harbor, the boats moved with the motion of the water, but no one was about.
Kit hastened past the pier, making a sharp turn to get onto the beach. Running on sand made his legs burn, yet he kept going, speeding from one cove to the next. At last, he reached the edge of the inlet on her family’s estate.
Crouching low, he scanned the scene.
His heart climbed into his throat at what he saw. The village had been empty because most of its inhabitants milled around in the sandy cove.
A woman walked among them, her movements sure and purposeful. She lifted a lantern shaped like a watering can, and light from the spout fell across her face.
Kit bit back a curse.
The woman was Tamsyn.
His addled wits struggled to logically piece together what he saw. It truly was her. She must have emerged from the opening carved into the stone at the foot of the cliff. It appeared that large rocks had been concealing the opening, but they had been moved aside to permit entrance and exit.
A three-masted sailing ship was anchored several hundred feet from the beach.
It signaled to the shore with a light.
Kit scowled at the sight. He’d been in a considerable number of clandestine missions before—sneaking behind enemy lines in Spain to retrieve valuable information on troop movements—but this was England. This was peacetime. None of this was supposed to be happening.
Someone on land signaled back. It was Tamsyn, holding up her lantern. She covered and uncovered the spout with her hand. On the ship, the signal blinked in response.
At the far end of the cove, boulders on the sand formed a ridge that jutted toward the water. Men clambered over the rocks, then reappeared at the farthest end of the ridge. He couldn’t tell what it was they dragged from behind the rocks. Angling for a better look, he sprinted forward and took cover behind a chunk of cliff that had long ago broken free and now rested on the sand.
One of the men turned and looked in Kit’s direction, but he stayed hunkered down, holding his breath. Finally, the man went back to his work.
From his vantage, Kit saw that the men hauled what appeared to be a wooden walkway. No, it wasn’t a walkway. It was a pier—the same used for mooring boats.
People waded into the water as they pulled the pier around the stone ridge, pushing it out into the water before anchoring the end to the rocks.
A large rowboat disengaged itself from the ship and began heading in the direction of the pier. He watched with fascination as villagers formed a line leading from the pier to the opening in the cliff.
Finally, the rowboat reached the pier and men on the boat hefted something heavy into the waiting arms of the villagers.
Casks. The cargo they transported was casks. He didn’t doubt they contained contraband French liquor.
Like a fire brigade, they passed their cargo from one to the other. Some staggered under the weight of the casks, but they were helped by brawnier, stronger men. The cargo moved toward the people at the entrance to the bluff, who brought the casks within.
All the while, Tamsyn strode up and down the line. Though she barely spoke, she directed the cargo’s movement and paused now and then to consult with someone before stepping onto the slip and conversing with someone in the boat.
Kit sank down onto his haunches, the blood in his ears roaring louder than the surf as the truth finally revealed itself to him.
His wife was a smuggler.
His mind whirled as his body shook. It was impossible to make sense of anything with his thoughts and heart tumbling in confusion. What the hell should he do?
You’ve been in tight spots before, he reminded himself. Take one step at a time.
He seized on a thread of logic to help him move forward.
Years of warfare taught Kit that confronting her now could mean his death. Smuggling gangs carried bats and clubs in case they encountered customs officers. Doubtless the villagers would use the same weapons on him if he made his presence known. They’d beat him first, then ask questions later. They wouldn’t much care that he was their leader’s husband. He was an outsider and a threat.
The farmer had warned Kit about strange and dangerous doings in Newcombe, but never did Kit believe that his wife was at the center of it all. Ever since he’d arrived in the area, his military instinct had told him something was wrong—and here he had proof.
The only thing he could do now was get away without calling attention to himself. The rest he would have to figure out moment by mome
nt. Now he had to work out the best retreat strategy.
He edged back, then retraced his steps along the beach. Despite his shock, he moved quickly, finding the darkest places as his mind spun.
No answers would come to him. Cold bewilderment receded, replaced by blazing anger.
She was a felon flouting the laws he and his men had fought to preserve. And all this time, Tamsyn had hidden this from him, knowing how he felt about crime. But as to the how of it, he could not begin to fathom. Questions pummeled him, questions that no one could answer. Except Tamsyn. She knew everything.
After reaching the village, he went back the way he’d come, walking quickly through the town. Though he kept himself aware of his surroundings, his thoughts were a morass that threatened to overwhelm him.
The way back to the estate offered no solace, only a choking sense of doom. It was all tied to this place—which was why she’d refused to leave.
The way the operation on the beach had moved with such practice and precision revealed that it had been going on for some time. She had been engaged in smuggling since before their marriage. They had wed with her holding this secret.
Why would she marry him? It made no sense. She only jeopardized the security of her smuggling endeavors by doing so.
Was nothing between them real? Was he merely her pawn?
“Fuck,” he said aloud.
He’d lost his heart to her. Yet she’d played him false from the very beginning.
She worked in direct opposition to the Crown. For over a decade, he’d fought to protect his king and country, and all the while, she defied English law. And she had dragged him into her criminal world when she’d agreed to become his wife. Her callous disregard for the sacrifices of good men was anathema to everything he’d championed. But it hadn’t mattered in the face of her criminality.
When he reached the house, stone encased him. His movements were heavy as he slipped inside, still careful to keep from being heard. Tired beyond reckoning, he climbed the stairs.
Part of him shouted that he should pack his belongings and ride away. Far from her.
Instead, he entered Tamsyn’s bedchamber. He pulled a chair into the center of the room and sat.
Many times, he’d readied himself before ambushing the enemy. In that tense silence, he’d checked and rechecked his rifle, mentally reviewing how the ambush was supposed to transpire so that nothing could be left to chance. He had to be certain of his opponents’ defeat to keep his own fear at bay.
This time, he wasn’t armed with his Baker rifle. As he waited for his wife’s return, he armed himself with her lies.
Chapter 27
Tamsyn’s very marrow ached with weariness as she climbed the stairs and made her way toward her bedchamber. She’d never known such exhaustion, but that was the price of stretching herself thin for so long. For the first time in years, she had declined joining everyone at the Tipsy Flea for a postrun celebration.
She prayed for a deep, dreamless sleep, and was already beginning to unfasten the top buttons of her bodice when she opened the door to her room.
She barely had time to swallow her yelp of shock.
Fully dressed, Kit sat in a chair in the middle of the room.
His face was a mask as she shut the door behind her. He held his body rigidly, his hands tightly gripping the chair’s arms.
Her weary mind leapt into action, searching for an excuse as to why she was awake, clothed, and roaming the hallways.
“Don’t.” His voice was low and flat. “Don’t think of an explanation.” He stood, and she instinctively backed up, until she pressed against the door. “I know.”
Her stomach pitched and the room tilted. There was no need to ask him what he knew. She understood. Somehow, he’d found out.
“Outside,” she said quickly. “We can talk away from the house. I don’t want anyone to hear us.”
He lifted a brow. “Your aunt and uncle aren’t aware?”
“Please,” she said, raising her palm. “We must go outside. I’ll tell you everything.”
That seemed to momentarily mollify him. They left her chamber and she moved back down the stairs and out the rear door of the house. As she wove through the weed-choked garden, Kit’s looming presence remained at her back. He said nothing, yet she could feel his anger in unseen waves.
Like a prisoner walking to their execution, she exited the garden through a gate, moving on until she reached a fence at the edge of a barley field. Her sense of self-preservation screamed for her to run and never come back. Yet he would catch her if she tried, and it was pointless to flee.
She felt the slightest gleam of relief. The lies could stop now. Everything would be out in the open, and her deception—of Kit, at least—was at an end.
“How?” she asked, turning to face him. The night’s darkness wreathed him in shadow, but she sensed his furious expression. “How did you find out?”
“I followed you,” he answered. “Down to the dead end in the corridors beneath the house.”
“I didn’t hear you.”
He gave a humorless laugh. “That’s because I was a damned good soldier.” After a moment, he asked, “Did you build them—the corridors, the false wall with the door?”
“No,” she answered. “My grandfather saw what happened to the aristocrats in France, and was terrified that the thirst for noble blood would spread across the Channel. He hired Irish workers to construct an escape route from the house. It was only happenstance that there are also caverns beneath the manor. That’s where . . .” She swallowed. “That’s where we store the brandy and lace when they’re brought ashore. There’s another passageway that leads from the cavern to the stone shed you saw yesterday.”
“The spiders’ home,” he said acidly.
A throb passed through her at the mention of her distraction. “A week after the goods are delivered, we bring them up to the shed, load them into our buyer’s waiting wagon, and then he proceeds from there.”
“I find it difficult to believe your uncle and his wife don’t know any of this.”
“They never go into the cellar,” she answered. “Their servants are too lazy to investigate. For eight years, I’ve kept it hidden from them.”
Kit cursed. “You’ve been smuggling for eight goddamned years.” Briefly, he glanced away, as if unable to look at her. “I killed in the name of my king. I sent men to their deaths to protect my country. Yet all this time, you’ve flouted the law and made a mockery of the royal mandate. And by tying our names together, you’ve brought me into your reprehensible world, made me guilty by association.” His voice throbbed with confusion and hurt. “Why?”
He’d survived the brutality of war, and she’d wounded him. Deeply. As he’d said, he had been a damned good soldier, and she’d flouted that. Shame was a brand upon her heart.
“The cost of a war is felt by many,” she replied. “Newcombe was hit hard by taxes. There wasn’t enough to pay for food. And the fishing had tightened up so that the catches were minuscule. Jory didn’t take up my father’s work of keeping the village afloat. When I’d go into Newcombe, I’d hear all the children and babies crying from hunger, and see the sunken eyes of the men and women.” It pained her still to think of that time, as the village edged toward its demise.
“I grew up hearing stories of daring Cornish smugglers,” she continued, looking up at the night sky. “They were heroes, not criminals. It came to me one afternoon after returning home from the village. Chei Owr had a secret way to the cove from the house and the passage to the stone outbuilding. Everything fell into place.”
He said coldly, “A legal way to earn money didn’t occur to you.”
“Nothing would get the village back on its feet so fast,” she answered, her voice tight, “or with such steady profits. I discussed it with everyone, and it was agreed we’d give it a try. There was nothing to lose.”
“Except your lives,” he bit out.
“Starvation makes people desp
erate. With children on the verge of death, would you make a different choice?”
He was silent.
“I went to a nearby town,” she went on, “to a tavern known for being frequented by smugglers to get the operation set up. Nessa came with me.”
“Eight years ago means that you were only sixteen.”
“My parents had been dead for two years, and my father had always looked out for the village.” Pride filled her now, as it had then, to see how he had asked after everyone at the conclusion of church, and how he’d never turned a villager away whenever they asked for assistance. “So it fell to me to take care of them. My childhood had come to an end when my mother and father died,” she said without self-pity. “No one else had the means to do what had to be done. Just me.” She lifted her chin as she spoke, “So I walked into that place with a hammering heart and a knife tucked into my garter.”
Kit paced away, seemingly deep in thought. He whirled back to face her. “You married me and risked the whole operation,” he accused.
“I had to,” she said simply. “Chei Owr isn’t entailed, and Jory is making plans to sell it.” She lifted up her hands. “Without the house, we’d have no means to keep going.”
“And your plan was to do what, precisely?” His question was brittle like frost.
Seeing no way to go but forward, she continued. “Word got to our buyer that our operation here was in trouble. He backed out.” Bitterness clogged her voice. “Going to London seemed the answer to our problems. I could locate a new buyer in the biggest market in the country. There’s always a need for brandy and lace, and we had a new shipment gathering dust here in Cornwall.”
“That wasn’t all you sought in London,” he said cuttingly.
She ducked her head. “I couldn’t find a buyer, and time was running out. I needed to find myself a husband, someone with money, who could purchase the house from Jory. Everything would be taken care of.”
“You got a man who’d marry you,” Kit noted. “Did you find your buyer?”
The day in the jewelry district was still vivid in her memory—and how close she’d come to being discovered by Kit. “I did. He agreed to take the goods off my hands when they came in from Cornwall.”