His grip on her loosened and she looked up. Despite the tense lines on his face, tenderness radiated from his eyes. “You don’t have to do this, Delia. I’ll go.”
She saw the sincerity in his eyes. She could feel his passion, his intensity. Whatever it was that had balanced between them the past months was taking shape. Her giddy feelings of girlish infatuation were evolving into something deeper, something more central to who she was.
The expression in his eyes communicated he felt the same. He needn’t say the words.
She studied him for several moments. The cleft in his chin, the stubble on his jaw. She reached out and touched her fingertips to it.
Mr. Twethewey. Her Mr. Twethewey. Her Jac.
She tore her gaze from his. “I have to do this. Can’t you see? If I don’t, I will forever be in fear. Forever chased by the ghosts of my past. No. I must go.”
In the next breath he lowered his head and pressed his lips against hers. Sweet and strong, he deepened the kiss.
She could get lost in this sensation—this feeling of safety and warmth. For a few moments she gave herself over to it. The desperation she felt matched his. They were both hungry for something just out of reach.
Finally he released her, and reality slammed into them. She looked to the window. Outside, darkness was falling. Soon it would be pitch black. She was already dressed in a gown of mourning. How ironic that such a symbolic color would be what she needed to camouflage herself in the night. “Let me get my cloak and we’ll be off.”
As she turned to go, he gently caught her by the crook of the arm. Determination narrowed his eyes as he spoke. “Everything will be fine. This time tomorrow we will be back at Penwythe Hall. All of us. Just wait and see.”
Chapter 47
It was always windy on the moors. The first breezy gust, cold and sharp, forced fresh life to Delia’s memories, as if they’d happened yesterday instead of years ago. She glanced upward, squinting against the breeze. Thick, shifting clouds, like silken gossamer, glinted under the moon. The edges gleamed silver as the moonlight pushed through the night air.
It had been drummed into her: “Don’t go onto the moors at night. Stay to the road where the ground is even. The bogs will trap you; the stones will snap a pony’s leg.”
The warnings were well founded. She’d heard enough stories of men who met their fates on the harsh terrain.
The steady rhythm of Jac’s horse clomped behind her, and she looked backward. The animal’s breath plumed into the night. She lifted her hand to signal him to halt. “The Turf House is just beyond that hill. I don’t think you should go any farther.”
“I don’t like this,” he whispered, pulling his horse to a stop next to her.
She lowered her cape’s hood. The wind caught it afresh. It took strength to resist swaying with the force of it. “Trust me. Greythorne House is there, beyond those hills. The moors stretch out into a meadow, and it meets up with Greythorne property. Bran Cove and the sea are the other direction. There.” She nodded, turned, and pointed. “See that rock there that juts to a point, and the smaller one to the left of it? There is a crevice in between those rocks. Once you go through it you’ll see the cliffs and the cove below. That’s where the caves are. There are dozens of them. Most of them connect, and they are narrow and difficult to navigate.”
“Do you think the haul is still there?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you have no idea what’s in it?”
“None.”
“What will the Greythornes do if the haul isn’t there?”
She shuddered at the thought. They would probably accuse her of keeping it for herself. To reassure herself, she nodded firmly and said, “I am sure it’s still there.”
Thunder grumbled, and the wind whistled down, bringing with it fresh pellets of rain. She circled the horse around. Jac was watching her. For the first time she saw fear in his eyes. His concern mimicked her own. Any kind of dealing with free traders was grave, and the Greythornes were as vile as they came.
“If you go to the cove, go on foot. Leave your horse here,” she instructed. “There’s a small grove of trees on the edge of the rocks over there where you can tie him.”
She clicked her tongue to move her horse, but Jac reached out and stilled her reins. His hand lingered on hers, strong and reassuring. “This goes against everything in me, to let you go in there alone. Surely we should get the magistrate or wait for the excise men. Anything.”
“The excise men can’t do anything until they catch them in the act of transporting goods. That’s why the Greythornes have evaded them for so long, don’t you see? Besides, the excise men don’t know this land like the Greythornes do. I’ll lead the excise men, and God willing, my in-laws will be caught. Like I said, I believe they won’t hurt me, but they wouldn’t think twice about hurting you. Or . . .”
She stopped short of saying Liam’s name. She couldn’t. Fear lodged the name in her throat.
His tone darkened. “You’ve a great deal of faith in the people you say will kill.”
“My faith is not in them, Jac.” She turned her face into the wind. The prayers that had become more constant in her life sustained her. Somehow, through all of this despair, God had spared her. She’d survived her parents. Her husband. Even her child. Like Elizabeth had said, there was a reason she was here, a purpose. Perhaps this was it—perhaps not. But no, her faith was not at the mercy of those who bore her name. It was in Someone far greater.
He inched his horse closer and placed his palm on her cheek. It felt rough yet tender against her chilled skin. He kissed her, there in the wild wind, the intensity of which rivaled the gales sweeping from the cliffs. When he straightened, he dropped his hand and pulled a pistol from the saddle. He checked it and then handed her the handle. “This is loaded.”
She stared at it, noting the way the moonlight glinted off the metal. Pistols frightened her, ever since she saw one that belonged to her husband discharge in their very own drawing room. The roar had been deafening, and the look of alarm in Robert’s eyes would haunt her for years to come. “I don’t want it.”
“But you need it.” He took her hand and slid the weapon into it. “If you get into trouble, scream loudly. I’ll be there.”
She licked her lips. They tasted salty from the sea air. “I will. I’ll be bringing them back this way when I take them to the crates. Stay clear of this path. Go up to those cliffs, but be careful. I’m sure they have watchmen out. Keep low, and listen for the birdcall.” She kicked her horse, sending it along the path.
Her horse trudged up the hill, and when they crested it, she looked down to the valley. The white stone cottage was barely visible in the dark night, yet it was there, standing as it had, no doubt, for centuries. Despite its fortitude, it was anything but welcoming. She scanned the landscape. If the Greythornes were within, they’d be watching. They were probably watching her now.
She tightened her cape and urged the horse forward. There was but one window in the cottage and just two doors, one facing north and the other facing south.
As she drew closer, her mind raced to make sense of the entire situation. She didn’t know who was inside and had no idea if Liam was with them. She focused on Jac’s promise. This time tomorrow they’d be at Penwythe Hall, among the orchards and the flowers. The sun’s warmth would brighten all, and this dark, desperate experience would be nothing more than a memory.
The cottage came into sharper focus. Heavy stone walls, strong enough to withstand the wild wind and sea air, and a slate roof harvested from the moors themselves. She slid from the saddle and tied her horse to the post just outside the door.
She whispered a prayer, then drew a breath.
Delia prepared to knock, but before she could, the door flung open. She jumped at the suddenness of it and squinted at the brightness, her heart thudding so strongly she thought surely it would give out.
The flickering light from within illuminated the s
ilhouette of a man. Thomas Greythorne.
A throaty chuckle rumbled from his big chest. “Sister. You did come. Saw the error of your ways, did you?”
She swallowed. Showing any fear would not do. They would sniff it out. Exploit it. She had to play the part of a brave woman, even if she didn’t feel it. She pushed her way past him. “What is the meaning of this, Thomas Greythor—” She cut her words short.
She blinked and looked around the room. Liam was nowhere to be found. But none other than Ada Greythorne was present and, just behind her, Hugh Simon.
Delia felt as if she’d been struck. It would have been bad enough to come face-to-face with her mother-in-law, but Mr. Simon? None of it made sense.
Scraps of Jac’s warning about the man swam in her head.
The sight stole her words momentarily. She wanted to lash out at Mr. Simon and demand an explanation of what he was doing here. But instead, she drew herself up quickly. “What, Henry couldn’t join us?”
Thomas laughed. “Our brother’s just outside. No doubt he saw you approach. Someone has to watch out for our safety. You never know what sort of dangerous folk lurk out there on the moors.”
She set her jaw and looked back to Mr. Simon, staring him dead in the eye. He blinked and his Adam’s apple bobbed under the scrutiny. “Hello, Delia.”
She narrowed her eyes in his direction, then let her gaze slide to Ada Greythorne. She was seated at the cottage’s only table, her dainty hands folded primly before her. She was a small woman, even smaller than Delia. Her hair boasted more silver than in years past, but otherwise she was exactly as Delia remembered.
Ada’s expression remained stoic, and she lifted her chin. “I always wondered if I would see you again. ’Tis a shame we had to resort to such methods.”
“Where’s Liam?” Delia demanded. Perspiration beaded on her forehead, and her heart’s wild beating made it difficult to think clearly.
“Ah, ah. First the location, then the boy.”
“But where is he?”
“He’s safe. Everything else will come later.”
Delia shifted her glare to Simon, standing just behind Ada. She didn’t know how or why he was here, but suddenly shadowy pieces of information shifted together and formed a complete picture. Jac had seen Thomas giving him money. Surely they had been paying him for something. But what? To keep an eye on her?
“What’s he doing here?” She nodded at Simon, unable to let even his name pass her lips.
“Come now, dearest,” Ada said, her voice frustratingly cool. “You didn’t think we would let you go all the way to Yorkshire without keeping tabs on you, now did you? After all, you are the only one alive who knows Robert’s secret hiding place, and Mr. Simon was an obliging assistant. Oh, you know patience is a great virtue of mine.”
Delia stared at the mastermind, the woman who directed her sons and the rest of them like puppets.
It made her sick.
Behind Ada, darkness shrouded Mr. Simon’s expression. The distance was too great to read it with any certainty, but she did not care to see it, for shock stung. Betrayal burned. She’d considered him a friend, and even more, Liam trusted him. Whatever happened, however they had lured Liam away from the inn, she had no doubt that he played a role in it.
She despised him for it.
Delia licked her lips, determined to keep her wits about her. She needed to go as slowly as possible. It would take time for Horace to get to the customs office, and even more time for them to return.
“Cordelia,” Ada purred, her voice smooth and low. “Show Thomas and Mr. Simon here where the shipment is. Then you can get your boy and you will leave Cornwall once and for all. But do permit me to say that if you ever venture this way again, we will not be so lenient, family or not.”
Now perspiration trickled down Delia’s temple, and she resisted the urge to wipe it. As she stepped toward the door, Thomas grabbed her arm, jerking her to a halt. She snapped her gaze to meet his. A sloppy grin slid over his face, and he nodded toward her skirts. “Not that we would suspect you of anything so vile, but you wouldn’t by chance have a blade or pistol or the like in those skirts of yours? I can check for myself, but it would save time if you would just hand it over. I ask only as a precaution, of course.”
She gritted her teeth but did not look away. It was useless to hide her weapon from him, for she had no doubt he’d find it. Without a word she reached into her pocket, retrieved the pistol, and handed it to him.
Thomas chuckled and held it up to the light. “I figured as much. No wife of Robert would venture to the cliffs without one of these.”
She held his cold gaze for several seconds before finally yanking her arm away from his grip with a sniff and stomping through the door.
Once she mounted her horse, Thomas urged his horse beside her, and she eyed him. Now a pistol of his own rested on his lap, and he made no effort to hide it. “Just in case you thought you might turn that pony of yours and take off running.”
Simon rode on the other side of her. She saw no pistol. She lifted her face, and their eyes met briefly. He quickly looked away.
The deceitful weasel.
She pivoted her head forward and pinched her lips together so tightly they ached. Instead of being angry, she’d throw her energy into getting Liam back. Jutting her chin upward, she urged her horse forward. He might have bested her in this instance, but she would win in the end.
Chapter 48
Jac licked his lips and wiped perspiration from his brow. He didn’t want to blink. The clouds had completely eclipsed the moon, and he feared missing the sight of Delia moving across the moors.
He clenched his jaw, squinted, and scanned the landscape. She’d said they’d be coming this way. Minutes ticked past in a painfully slow cadence, and then he heard it—the call of a night bird. It was faint and barely audible above the rustling of the straw-like grasses, but it was there, soft, certain.
He couldn’t tell which direction it came from. He listened harder.
There! It came from the south. By the cliffs. It had to be Abbott.
He was caught between his desire to wait for Delia—to see that she was safe—and the need to go and join the men. He had no idea if Delia and the Greythornes would have Liam with them. The thought of the boy being frightened ripped through him. If a confrontation did ensue, they’d need as many men as possible, which spurred him to join the excise men.
He led his horse to a sheltered spot near the road’s edge and secured the animal. The birdcall sounded again, rising above the deafening surf and crashing waves, and then again at regular intervals, louder with each careful step toward the coast.
Jac heard them before he saw them, the echo of crunching stone and hushed whistles and voices.
Following Delia’s directions, he shifted the pistol at his waist, secured his blade, and located the stone jutting to a point. As she had said, a narrow crevice was at its side, and he squeezed through.
The sight that met him stole his breath.
The sea, as far as he could see, spread into the night’s blackness. The intermittent moonlight glittered on the waves, making the entire expanse seem alive. Below him, shadowed craggy rocks descended sharply to the shadowed beach.
Then the birdcall sounded again, mournful and low.
He followed it, testing his footing before putting his full weight on any rock, until he reached the sandy beach. Out of nowhere, a man’s rough hand grabbed his arm and pulled him backward. Jac stumbled on the shifting ground and fought to regain his footing.
Jac jerked to face the man who’d seized him. The large man’s features weren’t visible in the light, but then Jac saw six additional men pressed against the stone wall, Horace amongst them. The vicar looked out of place next to the other darkly clad men, but a new respect for him simmered within Jac. Abbott had done it—he’d found the customs office and persuaded several of them to come.
One of the men motioned toward him, and Jac leaned close,
hungry for details.
“Now’s not the time to be timid, lads.” The man’s voice was gruff and low. “We’ll make no move ’til we see them with cargo in their hands. Am I clear?”
The passing seconds dragged into minutes, and the minutes seemed like hours—little sections of eternity that time had forgotten.
Jac wiggled his foot impatiently. Would they even come?
Two of the customs men, dressed in black, spread out to see what they could find. Horace, Jac, and the other men stayed put.
A white spot caught Jac’s eye, and he looked out to sea. He jerked. A small boat approached the shore, lapping in with the waves. It rocked and swayed as it drew nearer, and then two men jumped out, pulled the boat to the sand, and secured it behind a rock.
The leader of the customs men leaned in. “This is it, gentlemen.”
“What are they doing?” whispered Horace.
“To move the cargo from the cliffs, they need a way to get it down. They can’t move it back through the rocks to the moors, so my guess is they’ll take it out to sea and go to another cove with better access to land.”
Jac watched intently. He’d heard of these things—the intricate plans of the free traders. They were masters of moving cargo, quietly, silently, more like phantoms in the night than men of flesh and blood.
The scrape of stone against stone pounded above him. He looked up to see a flash of black. The toe of a boot.
The customs officer lifted his finger to his lips. Whoever was above them seemed to be unaware of their presence. He raised his pistol and motioned for Jac and Horace to do the same.
Jac’s hand trembled as he lifted the weapon, which now seemed to weigh twice as much. Like it or not, he’d been swept into this world of danger—driven by his desire to save the boy who depended upon him and the woman who had captured his heart. Every thump of his heartbeat was like a stab in the chest. A cloak’s black fabric swished again, and then he heard a voice. A soft voice. A woman’s voice.
The Governess of Penwythe Hall Page 28