by Jane Feather
When she rejoined him, the bottom of her habit was dark with water and her hair, escaping from her hat, was whipped into a tangle. Her expression, however, was calm, her eyes swept clean of anger.
“Saltwater will not do your boots much good,” he remarked casually.
She laughed. “But it is good for my temper.”
“That is fortunate as there is something I wish to discuss with you, and in the past the subject has tended to lead to acrimony.” Leaning over, Rutherford took hold of the mare’s bridle at the bit, bringing her to a halt. “I wish you to hear me out,” he explained, “so we will stay still for the moment.”
“What is it you wish to talk about, my lord, that necessitates this degree of compulsion?”
“You know full well, Merrie, so let us dispense with games if you please. I have already told you twice that I am in love with you, so will not bore you with a repetition. What I wish to hear from you is a statement of how you feel. So far, I have heard nothing but a tangle of half-truths blanketed with confusion.”
“How dare you talk to me in this manner!” It was fear that fueled the resurgence of anger, panic that led her to encourage the mare forward.
“No, my dear girl, you will not run from me.” His lordship tightened his grip on the bridle. “I will have the truth. Do you—could you—return my affections?”
Anger was a futile emotion, an inappropriate reaction to the reasonable but determined question, and in its absence she had no defense but the truth. “It cannot be.”
“Look at me, Meredith, and tell me that you feel nothing for me.”
She tried and failed. The color came and went in her face; there was an almost wild desperation in her eyes. “It cannot be,” she repeated eventually, whispering the words as if they were dragged from her with screw and rack.
To her astonishment, he smiled, straightened, and released the mare’s bridle. “Very well. We will say no more about it. Let us return to the house. You will wish to change your dress, wet as it is, and make peace with Hugo.”
“Yes,” she murmured, considerably taken aback by this calm, matter-of-fact manner of treating her rejection.
Back in the stableyard, he assisted her in dismounting with a light hand at her waist. “If my presence will be of any assistance in this business with Hugo, I shall gladly accompany you into the house.”
“You are too kind, sir.” Her lips seemed strangely stiff as she attempted a smile. “But I would not trouble you.”
The was laughter in his eyes, skimming across a gravity that he was obviously struggling to maintain. Merrie could not for the life of her understand what he should find amusing. One minute he was demanding an answer to what was surely an important question for him. Then, when he received the wrong answer, he behaved as if the weight of the universe had been removed from his shoulders.
“I will bid you good day, then.” Solemnly, he bowed over her hand, remounted, and horse and rider left, the black’s hooves clattering on the cobbles of the yard.
In fact, Lord Rutherford was well pleased with his morning’s work. He would have preferred Merrie to confide in him, but it was as obvious that she would not as it was that she had struggled to hide her true feelings. He was clearly going to have to take matters into his own hands in a suitably dramatic fashion, confident that, caught off guard, her innate honesty would reveal itself. She had never, after all, attempted to dissemble when confronted with an accurate charge.
He had satisfied himself the previous evening that the contraband still lay in the secret cavern. She had said to the Frenchman that this run was to be delivered to the Eagle and Child in Fowey, so it was reasonable to assume that Landreth would not be made aware of the day, as it was when its inhabitants were to be the recipients. That being the case, he would have to watch and wait.
For two evenings, he kept vigil on the cliff and was rewarded on the third. It was a black, moonless night, obviously carefully chosen. The scene was similar to the one he had watched before, the same silent order and efficiency on the cliff path below as the ponies were loaded. Merrie took the lead again, and he watched them go with his heart in his mouth. It was a six-mile journey into Fowey, six miles of open road, and the coastguard headquarters were in the town. It was a mad, wild risk that she took, but, short of pulling her from the pony and imprisoning her in his arms, there was nothing Rutherford could do to prevent her. Not yet, not until he had established some claim.
While Lord Rutherford hid in the inner cave to await her return, closing his mind to the possibility that she might not return, Meredith, imbued with an even greater recklessness than usual, was playing tricks on the revenue. When Bart and the others were engaged in unloading the goods in the hushed yard behind the inn, she slipped through the dark streets, passed shuttered houses holding their sleeping inhabitants, passed the smithy and the tailor and the apothecary, and up the whitewashed steps to the door of the custom house. Carefully, without so much as a chink of glass on stone, she placed two bottles of the finest madeira against the door. There was a note attached, With heartfelt gratitude, written in bold black script. That would have them gnashing their teeth in the morning! Chuckling, she returned as stealthily as she had come. It was an unnecessary risk, and Bart would disapprove mightily if she told him, but it was too good a joke to pass up. Merrie did not stop to wonder why she felt so reckless or to connect it with the nagging emptiness that had plagued her over the last several days.
They rode the now unburdened ponies to the outskirts of Landreth where they went their separate ways. Meredith, freed of her companions and of danger for one more night, felt the usual rush of exultation as she made her way, on foot, back to the cave. They had succeeded in making a large delivery right under the noses of the coastguard. It was too delicious, and she wished, as she sometimes did, that there was someone with whom she could share the exhilaration. But she had chosen the lonely road; there was little point in repining.
Merrie performed her customary task with the broom, sweeping clean the path and outer cave before going into the inner cavern where the welcoming lantern burned as usual. This time, the cave was empty of boxes, crates, and parcels. The ponies were gone to their own stables, and the space seemed suddenly vast, echoing like a cathedral or a deserted theater. Meredith, on sudden impulse, began to dance around the cavern, singing at the top of her voice, secure in the knowledge that there was no one to see or to hear this absurd display of high spirits released from tension.
“I am delighted you found your evening amusing.” Rutherford stepped into the cavern from the narrow tunnel at the rear. “I found mine somewhat nerve-racking.”
Meredith stopped in mid-step, the color fading from her face as she stared as if she were seeing a ghoul.
Cursing his stupiditity for startling her so violently, he moved swiftly, afraid that she would swoon. But even as he reached her, her eyes focused again, the color returned to her cheeks. He should have known she was made of sterner stuff, Rutherford thought ruefully, finding the support he wished to offer unneeded.
“You knew,” Merrie said simply, speaking from a sudden calm space that contained only relief and inevitability. If this, the last secret, was known and accepted, then was she freed of all chains. There could be no question of marriage between them, of course, but they could love and the aching void could be filled.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“How? It is important that you tell me.” In spite of her sense of peace, her voice as she asked this all-important question was low and tense.
“As you know, I saw you, the night I arrived in Landreth, on the cliff path engaged in battle with the coastguard.” He smiled. “I knew there was something familiar about Lady Blake but didn’t guess the truth until I went out hunting smugglers and saw you again. On that occasion, blessed with hindsight, there was no mistaking the identity of that mysterious young man! But I would not else have seen through your masquerade.”
Merrie sighed with relief. “Well,
that is all right then.”
“It is?” His eyebrows shot up at this matter-of-fact statement. He hadn’t known quite what to expect when he confronted her. Shock, denial, embarrassment, anger, fear—a combination of them all. But definitely not this calm acceptance. She was quite unperturbed that he should know of her disreputable activities, her only concern being that she had not given herself away inadvertently.
Merrie’s eyes danced as she read his expression. “You are, of course, shocked. But it is a most entertaining business, you understand, and lucrative enough to enable—”
“Yes, I have pieced all that together,” he interrupted. “It is also dangerous and against the law.”
“Quite so, my lord.” She seemed to be brimming over with mischief and elation. “But it would not be nearly so entertaining if it were not.”
“What am I to do with you?” He pulled her into his arms with a violence to equal the exclamation. Merrie gasped, lifted her face before his hand caught her chin. Rutherford looked down into the sloe eyes where recklessness and passion shone clear and true. The lithe, muscular body in his arms seemed to vibrate against him. He could feel the warmth of her skin beneath the thin shirt, the press of her breasts against his chest, the taut curve of her hips. In the shirt and britches, her frame was as clearly outlined as if she were naked, yet the covering tantalized and invited.
Taking hold of the knitted cap, he tossed it to the floor. His hands moved to the pins in her hair; her eyes widened but she made no move to stop him as he released the shining mass to tumble down her back in a luxuriant, auburn cascade.
“Even more magnificent than I had thought,” Rutherford murmured, burying his fingers in the fragrant mass. “I do not know what you deserve for keeping it hidden in that abominable fashion.”
“It is necessary,” she whispered through a constricted throat.
He shook his head in denial and reproof before cupping her face. He kissed her as he had done that evening in the gig and Merrie responded in the same way. Alone in the cave, safe from all eyes, hidden from the world’s knowledge, reality ceased to exist for either of them. Merrie’s hands slid beneath his coat, running over the broad rippling back as her tongue fenced with the muscular presence inside her mouth, a presence that explored the whorls and contours of her mouth, stroked over her teeth, pillaged with a rapacious hunger that created a deep tension in her belly, brought her body hard and urgent against his length.
As she reached against him, he seized her hips, his fingers biting into the firm curves outlined by the britches as he held her in place. Now there was no deception between them, only truth, hard and shining as enamel. Merrie tugged at the fine lawn of his shirt, drawing it free of the constraint of his waistband; her fingers slipped inside. At the feel of his bare skin beneath her touch, a sibilant sigh of satisfaction whispered against his mouth.
Damian raised his head slowly, without moving his body away from her exploration. His eyes were hooded, concentrated pools of passion as he unbuttoned her shirt, opened it, and unfastened the tiny buttons of the camisole beneath. Merrie’s breath came fast now, her hands moving under his shirt to his chest, palming the hard points of his nipples as he drew out her breasts, globing them in cupped hands. The flickering glow of the lantern illuminated the ivory damask of her skin, the rosy crowns of her breasts, small and erect with desire. His gaze held a question, one answered by her own gaze, the flick of her tongue across her lips, the arch of her back that thrust her breasts against his palms. His mouth enclosed the hard nipples, tongue lifting and tantalizing so that she moaned, caressing the bent head, savoring the slight rasp of his cheeks, rough with late-night stubble, against her tender flesh.
Damian straightened, slipped his hands beneath her shirt, pushing both shirt and camisole off her shoulders to slide unheeded to the sandy floor. Unconsciously almost, Merrie drew back her shoulders, facing him, proud in her nakedness. He smiled, shrugged out of his coat and shirt, eyes never leaving hers. Not a word had passed between them and the silence continued, but it was the silence of tongues only; eyes and bodies were speaking—shouting, rather—their message. With a long, delicate finger Merrie traced the jagged white scar carved into his shoulder, then, standing on tiptoe, pressed her lips against it.
When she stood back, he knelt to pull off her shoes and stockings, lifting each foot in turn, running his hand over the high arches, the narrow soles. His hands moved to her waist; for an instant, Merrie tensed, drawing in her breath. His fingers paused at the fastening of her britches, stroked over the skin of her midriff, traced the delineation of her ribs until, with a soft exhalation, she relaxed again, renewing her permission. The fastening opened, the garment was pushed slowly over her hips and then stopped as he kissed the softness of her stomach, his tongue flicking in the tight shell of her navel. Merrie knew only the deep coil of tension spiraling within her, the moistness of her soft petaled center that seemed to swell and part in eager preparation. Her hands gripped his bare shoulders with a fierceness that brought a low groan to his lips. Her britches slipped to her ankles, were drawn over her feet, and tossed aside.
Damian sat back on his heels and ran a long, leisurely look up and down the slight figure, the bared skin glowing in the lamplight.
“Oh, but you are so beautiful,” he whispered, and Merrie smiled tremulously, thrilled at the sincerity in his voice. He began to touch her, a small frown of concentration between the gray eyes, a slight smile on his lips that broadened as he felt her quiver under his hands. “So passionate,” he said softly. “Such a wild, reckless, passionate little smuggler you are, Merrie Trelawney.” He kissed her belly again, and she moaned under the intensity of her pleasure as he steadied her with one hand on her bottom, the other sliding between her thighs to touch deeply and intimately.
She had never been touched in that way, never before felt this hot rush of a desire that could not be denied, coursing like molten lava along her veins. Coupling with her husband had been an infrequent and perfunctory business, neither pleasurable nor particularly distasteful. Nothing had prepared her for this breathtaking glory that misted her skin with a fine sheen of sweat and sent waves of heat and icy cold crashing over her like the Atlantic breakers. Urgent words were on her lips, words of passion and appeal as her thighs parted under the questing fingers, and she clung to his shoulders like a drowning man clings to a piece of driftwood.
Damian drew her down to the sandy floor of the cave, spreading his coat and shirt beneath her as she lay, shuddering with her longing, eyes heavy with wonder. He found that his own powerful excitement was in check, allowing him to play on that taut, wire-sprung, lean little body until she vibrated, thrummed, and was lost in the maelstrom of sensation. Somehow, he knew that this was new for her, that she had never before attained the heights of ecstasy, and to take her with his love to that peak became his sole purpose, his own gratification now unimportant.
Merrie was incapable of anything but the responses drawn from her by his hands and mouth, incapable of questioning, of taking any initiative of her own, of controlling what was happening to her, and, as her lover possessed himself of every curve, every millimeter of skin, every entrance to her body, she knew that nothing but response was expected of her. When it seemed that there could be no further peaks to conquer, when she lay spread-eagled and suffused with joy, Damian stripped off his remaining clothes and took her with his body. She was weeping with a pleasure so intense that it was almost pain, reaching new peaks as he stroked within her, paused on the very edge of her body, sheathed himself with exquisite slowness. And then, when she knew she could bear it no longer, he drove deep to her very core, and she lost touch with herself, with the world, knew only the fusion of their selves as his own completion throbbed and filled her.
They lay still fused for many long minutes until reality returned and Merrie became aware of the hard floor of the cave pressing into her shoulder blades, the heaviness of the body crushing her breasts. She moved infinitesimally, but
it was enough. Damian, with a tender word of apology, disengaged, rolling sideways to prop himself on one elbow, looking down at her. A long finger wiped the smudge of tears on her cheeks. Smiling, he bent and kissed the tip of her nose. The lamplight flickered, deepening the translucent radiance of her skin, the glow of fulfillment in the sloe eyes. Merrie smiled back, ran a languid caress over his chest shining with the sweat of ecstatic effort.
“I love you, Merrie Trelawney,” he said.
She nodded. “And I you.”
Damian sighed with satisfaction. “At last we begin to touch truth. You will marry me, my little smuggler, and become a law-abiding citizen forthwith.” He regretted the words instantly as the light left her eyes and her mouth set in a determined line.
“It cannot be,” she said as she had done once before.
He gave her the answer he had given before. “Very well. We will say no more about it.”
Both relief and puzzlement flickered over her mobile features, but he simply kissed her before standing up and pulling her to her feet. “It is not that I object to making love in a smuggler’s cave,” he remarked, turning her around to brush the sand from her back where the protection of his shirt and coat had failed. “But if it is to be our fate, I think we must contrive a more comfortable bed in the future.”
“That is easily done.” The sloe eyes danced again with the familiar mischief. “I will arrange matters quite satisfactorily. No one comes here except on the nights of a run or a delivery, so it will belong just to us. I do not expect Jacques for another three weeks. Until then, we shall set up house in a most pleasing manner.
He loved her and, watching the deft movements as she dressed herself, his loins stirred as desire rose again, but the anger of frustration also rose. He was powerless to stop her madness unless she gave him the right to do so. Instead, she had simply incorporated the fact of their loving into the dangerous, duplicitous framework of her existence. They would conduct their clandestine affair by way of secret passages and hidden caves because Meredith chose not to make it legitimate. He had no choice but to accept her wishes for the moment; it was that or lose her altogether, but Damian, Lord Rutherford, was prepared to play only a waiting game.