Smuggler's Moon

by Cynthia Wright

  The thought of his father, who had never had anything good to say to him, gave him a cold pain in the region of his heart. “You may keep those thoughts to yourself. I don’t give a damn what his lordship would have thought, and you know bloody well that my mother would have been crushed, so why mention her?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Keswick replied. “We regret having spoken so hastily.”

  Sebastian tossed back his whiskey and felt a bit better. He surveyed the shadowy library. The rain had started outside in earnest, and the wind sent budding branches rattling against the windowpanes. “Devil take it, I can scarcely locate the rim of my glass in this gloom!”

  Suddenly, Polly Faircloth was beside him. “Did I hear you remark that your glass is empty, my lord? May I fill it for you?”

  “Ah, Mrs. Faircloth, I fear that if I have another whiskey, I might embarrass my bride. And, speaking of the beauteous Miss Faircloth…where is she?”

  She went white as a ghost and her eyes flicked all around the room. “Your bride will be here at any moment, my lord! She is terribly—”

  “Shy,” he put in, with a decided edge to his voice. “Yes, so I have been told. But, I am as gentle as a lamb. Will you not tell her so, and encourage her to make haste?”

  “Gentle? As a lamb?” Polly began to titter nervously just as a figure wearing a dove gray round gown and a large bonnet appeared in the doorway. “Oh, my, there is my dear—Sarah!” She clapped her hands. “Places, everyone!”

  Latecomer William Bradstreet, Esq. rose from a corner chair and went to offer the bride his arm. Parson Cumberstone regretfully left his fourth goblet of wine and stood in front of the guttering candles. Gathering nearby were Keswick, Polly, and young Freddy.

  Sebastian narrowed his eyes. “For God’s sake,” he muttered under his breath. Sarah’s rose-tinted bonnet featured bows, feathers, ruffles, and a deep piece of netting across the huge brim that partially obscured her face. And where was Julia? Leaning toward Polly, he whispered, “Should we not wait for your elder daughter?”

  Her cheeks flamed. “She has suffered an attack of dyspepsia.”

  “Indeed?” This news gave him pause, but just then the vicar sent him a bleary yet stern glance. Sebastian sighed deeply, resigning himself to the entire dreamlike scene. After all, it was his own doing.

  “Dearly beloved…” the vicar intoned, his prayer book upside-down. “We are gathered here this morn—that is, evening….”

  Sebastian felt oddly peaceful as he held Sarah’s gloved hand. There was something about the sensation of her slim fingers in his that was comforting, even familiar, to him, and he was just foxed enough to take it as a favorable sign. The service passed in a haze. When it ended, and he attempted to lift the netting on his bride’s bonnet, she dipped her head and shied away into the protective arms of William Bradstreet.

  “Please, my lord,” came her meek whisper. “Not yet.”

  Polly was beside him, weepy and overwrought. “Such an honor, if only my dear husband could be with us! To think that one of our own girls is now nobility, never have I dared dream!”

  “The honor is mine,” he muttered. “But will you not speak to your daughter and implore her to remove that bonnet? There really is no reason for her to conceal herself from me. Confound it, one might imagine she’s afraid of me!”

  “My dear Lord Sebastian, my son, I must beg that you be patient and gentle with my little girl.” Then, with a conspiratorial wink, Polly drew him off to one side. “I must confide that she is hiding her face for an additional reason, other than her aforementioned shy nature.”

  His temper flaring, Sebastian took the whiskey that someone put into his hand and ground out, “Confide away, then.”

  “My daughter has…a spot.” Her own face was beet-red as she pointed to her nose. “Right there on the very tip, I must confess. Now, to a man of the world like your lordship, that may seem a trifling matter, but to a timid girl like Sarah, whose only confidence is her great beauty and perfect skin, such a flaw is shattering! She nearly cried off completely. ’Twas Julia who convinced her to wear the bonnet, with the netting, and to trust your lordship to be gentle and considerate…”

  He held up a hand, unable to bear another word. “What does she expect to do, keep that thing on all night?”

  “How bold you are, my lord!” Polly pretended to swoon. “No, of course not. However, Julia did mention, just before falling ill, that perhaps we might persuade you not to light the candles in your marriage chamber, so that when Sarah faces you for the first time with her spot revealed, she may imagine that you don’t notice…”

  “Are you certain this is not someone’s notion of a jest? Your highly creative daughter, Julia’s, perhaps?”

  She went from red to scarlet. “Why, certainly not!”

  Sebastian wanted to glare accusingly at Keswick, but remembered then that the manservant hadn’t agreed with any part of this wedding plan. Instead, he walked back to his new bride and offered his arm. “The hour is late, my lady, and I understand that you are in no humor for a celebration. Shall we be on our way?”

  “To—where?” she peeped.

  “Any place.” Sebastian’s mood was darker than the sky. “Any cursed place at all. Are you brave enough to take your husband’s arm?”

  * * *

  It was nearly midnight, and sinister-looking clouds still blanketed the moon, when Lord Sebastian’s fine traveling coach rumbled into the yard of the Goat in Boots Inn. Rains had been chasing the small party from the moment they’d left Bath, and the two men on horseback were now being pelted regularly by stinging droplets. Out of patience, the bridegroom had selected the Goat in Boots the moment he glimpsed its swaying sign.

  “I like this hostelry’s name,” he told Keswick as the two of them dismounted and turned the reins of their horses over to a water boy. Then, pointing toward the wooden sign, Sebastian laughed at the rendering of a goat walking on his hind legs, clad in a Cavalier’s ruffled costume and great bucket-topped boots. “Does he resemble me?”

  Keswick shook his head. “We do not understand how you may jest recklessly, when your entire life may be ruined. And what of that meek little flower in the coach? What will become of her?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. People regularly marry for logical, rather than romantic reasons. I certainly didn’t extract her vows at pistol-point.” He scowled. “It’s late, and I am getting wet. I’ll hire our rooms and you may escort my bride to her marriage chamber and bid her await me.”

  “My lord—”

  “Can you not simply obey me, without argument?”

  With a loud sigh, the manservant bowed and scurried off toward the coach.

  * * *

  Julia noticed, even in the dim light, that Keswick was looking at her oddly. Surely the reason was the hideous bonnet she wore, rather than suspicion of her true identity. Who in his right mind would suspect such an outrageous plot?

  It was even beginning to seem mad to her. Now, standing in this low-ceilinged room, while rain and wind lashed at the ancient windowpanes, Julia wondered what had possessed her.

  “My lady,” Keswick said, bowing, “we suggest that you rest until the servants arrive with food, and other…comforts. If there is anything at all that you require, you need only ask a kitchen maid.”

  And then he was gone. No sooner had she collapsed on the lumpy bed and pulled off the large, ugly bonnet, than a knock came at the door. Her heart raced, though of course she would have to face Sebastian eventually. The thought of how he might react was suddenly terrifying.

  “Who is it?”

  “’Tis only us wit’ yer supper, yer ladyship.”

  She stood behind the door while two maids bustled in and out with trays of wine, fresh bread, kidney pie, raisin pudding, and other assorted delicacies. They left amid promises to return momentarily with a bath for her.

  A half hour later, Julia was sweetly scented and rosy from her bath and the two glasses of wine she’d consumed.
While drying off, she looked at the thin batiste nightgown that had been laid across the bed. Where, she wondered, had it come from? Had her mother put it in her trunk?

  Lulled by exhaustion and the wine, Julia sat on the edge of the bed and combed her long, curls. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep in his own rooms. That notion lifted her spirits. Perhaps he had no intention of ravishing her! After all, she was supposed to be Sarah, pitifully shy—

  A sudden rapping at the door nearly sent her through the beamed ceiling. “Wh—who is it?”

  She heard deep male laughter, then, “Your husband, of course. I wish to come in.”

  Julia feared that she might expire right then, from terror. Fumbling, she blew out the lamps and candles, then tugged the bed-hangings closed as if to hide from him. “Wait—” she gasped. When she had tucked the covers up to her chin and turned away from his side of the bed, she called, “You may enter.”

  In the corridor, Sebastian was surprised to find the door unlatched, and even more surprised to discover that his marriage chamber was completely drenched in darkness except for an intermittent flicker from the fireplace.

  “Sarah, my dear, are you in there?”

  “Mm-hmm,” came her faint reply.

  “Asleep so soon?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Did I not see the maids returning with your empty bath mere minutes ago?” This time, she made no response. Frowning, he pulled off his riding clothes, poured water into a basin, and washed by the light of a very weak moonbeam. His head hurt. Too much whiskey at Turbans, and too much strong wine in the taproom downstairs. It was the oddest night in his memory. “Are you well, my dear?”

  “Quite…sleepy,” she whispered.

  “We’ll share a glass of wine, then. That should revive you.”

  Sebastian knew that he should make this experience a slow, exquisite awakening for his timid bride, but it had been a trying day and he was ready for it to end. If he had feelings for Sarah Faircloth, it would be easier, but after all that was the very reason he’d chosen her. He didn’t want to feel anything, particularly for his wife!

  His eyes were adjusting to the dim light, and he found the bed without crashing into any heavy furniture. Drawing back the rather musty draperies, Sebastian climbed into bed, naked. His bride was huddled far away, her face hidden.

  “My sweet, will you not show yourself to me? Have a sip of wine; it will ease your mind.” She didn’t stir, and his patience waned. “I know that you imagine you aren’t perfect, but I am your husband, and you must trust me to look beyond such trivial matters. You’re a beautiful woman, Sarah. The tiny flaws that come and go in daily life matter not to me.”

  Julia curled into a ball and was utterly still. Her heart, however, had begun to pound again, louder to her own ears than the thunder outside. She understood how a fox felt when cornered at last by a pack of ravening hounds.

  His hand closed around her shoulder; his voice hardened. “You must face me. Taste the wine, my dear. Talk to me.” He paused, then added, “This is our wedding night, you know.”

  She pressed her lips together, stubbornly, but her palms were moist and her heart pounded furiously. The moment of truth had arrived.

  “All right,” she managed, “have it your way. Here I am.” And, with one lithe movement, she turned and sat up to look into his stunned eyes.

  “I—I knew I’d drunk too much—”

  She watched as he blinked, while the glass he held sloshed wine onto the coverlet. “Sebastian—”

  “Don’t speak until I get a candle. My eyes are playing tricks on me, or perhaps it’s the wine our innkeeper served to poor fools like me.” He yanked on breeches and took a candle to the fireplace, where only a sputtering flame survived. Returning to the bed, Sebastian climbed in with candlestick in hand. He held it close to Julia’s face, and this time she did not shrink away, but met his horrified gaze with frank audacity. “Devil take it,” he cursed.

  “It’s too late for that.”

  “What the bloody hell are you doing here? Where is your sister?” His expression revealed a range of strong emotions. “You’ve hidden her, haven’t you? I expect you think Sarah couldn’t survive the trauma of my marriage bed, and so you’ve decided to sacrifice yourself in her place.” Leaning closer, he grasped her soft upper arm and brought her face close to his. “Confess, Miss Faircloth, and show me your sister’s hiding place.”

  “Sarah is at Turbans, of course, where she belongs. No doubt she is enjoying a visit from Charles Whimple, her true love, and he is reciting the latest poem he’s written in her honor.” Julia discovered that she was shockingly stirred by the candlelit nearness of her new husband. He exuded a raw energy that was exciting, and his wide, lean-muscled chest aroused her curiosity. Even his breath, smelling faintly of tobacco and wine, appealed to her.

  “What the devil are you saying?” he demanded. “Miss Faircloth, I am in no mood for this foolishness. Bring me my wife, and leave us.”

  “I am your wife, Sebastian.” The sight of his darkening countenance propelled her onward. “You see, I’ll warrant, that it’s just as you have said. I knew Sarah couldn’t bear it; not only this night, but the entire marriage. You simply wouldn’t have suited, and then there is Mr. Whimple.”

  “Stop saying that. I will not be bested by a cursed, sallow-faced poet named Whimple!” he shouted.

  “In any event, Sarah wanted to do the right thing. We all did, and of course we wanted to keep Turbans—”

  “You can’t be saying that it was you wearing that deuced bonnet!”

  “Yes, that’s right,” she said softly. “It was never anyone’s intention to make you appear foolish. There just didn’t seem to be any other way.”

  Setting the candlestick back on the washstand, Sebastian raked both hands through his thick black hair. “I shouldn’t have drunk so much whiskey. My wits were dulled.”

  “If you’d been happier about the wedding, you wouldn’t have needed the whiskey. You didn’t really want it any more than Sarah did.”

  “Why’d she accept then?”

  “Obligation, to the family.”

  “As if I’m some sort of deformed misfit? That’s hardly the impression I’ve gotten from countless other women—”

  “You’re simply not Sarah’s cup of tea. For heaven’s sake, my lord, don’t take offense. You know as well as she that the two of you didn’t suit. And we both know that’s precisely why you chose her.” Julia stared hard at him in the dim golden light. “You didn’t want a wife you might fall in love with, or who might love you. That would have been far too messy and unpredictable.”

  He couldn’t look at her. In an instant, Sebastian was out of bed again, pacing. “I was perfectly kind to her. What was it about me that repelled her so?”

  “I wouldn’t choose that word. Let us say that Sarah was frightened of you.”

  “That’s the most ludicrous thing you’ve said yet. I always behaved as a gentleman toward your sister.”

  “Perhaps she saw past that, to the glitter in your eyes.”

  That brought him back, hands braced on the mattress as he glared at Julia. “If you’re trying to make me angry, it won’t work.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Why indeed?” His hand shot out and caught her wrist. “So, you took Sarah’s place to save her from marrying a terrifying beast—”

  “And because I felt that the entire scheme was ethically wrong.”

  “You’re a fine one to talk of ethics!” Sebastian blazed. “I surmise that you are not frightened of me—are you? No, of course not. You’ve shouted and shaken your fist at me more times than I can count.” A wicked smile touched his mouth. “Not quite the sort of woman I had in mind for my wife, but you do have other more agreeable qualities.”

  Her face burned as his bold gaze surveyed her thinly clad body. “I—I—”

  In an instant, he was kneeling before her, and his muscular brown arms were drawing her into his emb
race. “You’re not frightened of me,” he repeated, his breath warm against her ear. “I’ll wager that, while you were plotting to hoax me on my wedding day, you were also dreaming about this moment. Hmm?”

  She could scarcely breathe, but couldn’t let him know that. Instead, somehow, she made her voice as determined as his. “My lord and husband, I can assure you that I have had more immediate concerns than this moment. And, I can further assure you that I will not be forced, if that is your intention.”

  “Don’t say that you will play me false a second time in one day, Julia. There are remedies for that, and don’t think I’m not pondering them even now.”

  She knew what he meant: the marriage might still be annulled, and her family turned out of Turbans without a shilling. “Kindly let me finish. I was going to add that, while I won’t be taken by force, neither shall I cower from you in the corner. If you will behave decently, I will keep my part of this bargain.”

  “Decently?” His low laughter echoed in the dark room. “My lady wife, how little you know of me.”

  And as he shifted so that they were lying down and began to kiss her with slow, hot lips, Julia felt a hard part of him pressing intimately against her inner thigh. There was no turning back, she realized. To her further shock, he lifted her nightgown and fit his big hand to the curve of her bare leg.

  “My lord—” she gasped.

  Sebastian laughed softly. His hand slid along the length of her leg, then caressed her hip and boldly cupped her buttock. “Lovely,” he whispered.

  “I believe,” Julia managed to utter, “that you ought not take such unthinkable liberties with my person.”

  “You are in jest, madam!” Drawing back, he stared at her in the candlelight, both brows arched in frank amusement. “No, I see that you are not. But, what can you mean by ‘unthinkable liberties?’ From what, did you imagine, were you saving your sister?”

  “But surely—what you are doing—touching me in that manner, is beyond the bounds of common decency.”

  “We’re married, Julia. Decency is not an issue.”

  “But, respectable people could not possibly—”