He had to put Rebecca out of his mind. So which of the women he’d bedded since living with his uncle would he wish to satisfy his need now? Was it the young widow Bishopston with her eager arms, those dimpled cushiony thighs the gateway to her honey pot? Gentle and grateful, she never chided him for disturbing her, whatever ungodly hour. Beneath him, she vibrated like a taut-stringed harp. The more he fucked her, the more she cried for more. She fed him bread and wine afterwards and sent him on his way with a kiss.
Or was it the raven-haired beauty the locals called the witch? Morwenna’s hot, sweet as raspberries mouth, her artful darting tongue, could bring a man to the edge. Hold him there, before he plummeted into the great beyond. At first she’d feign reluctance, sharpening her tongue on him until, patience almost spent; his need gnawing his innards and glazing his eyes, she’d allow him into her bed. Snarling or cooing, the temptress’ mix of reticence and earthiness excited him beyond belief.
So why would a brief encounter with a virgin urge him to forego such sensual pleasures? The flame-haired girl was a willow wand against the widow’s voluptuousness. And how could Rebecca equal the witch’s skill in the art of satisfying a man? He knew he could no more kick Miss Bright Eyes out of his dreams than resist saddling up Uncle Dermot’s chestnut when the mare whinnied and nuzzled her starry face against him in the mornings. Women and horseflesh fell like ripe fruit into Jac’s hands. And here he was, lusting after the unattainable. Like some horny youth desperate to prove his manhood.
Jac had an eye for quality. He’d noticed the cut of Rebecca’s gown, the richness of its fabric. This girl was not for him. Dermot’s warning rang in his ears. Better to forget her. But she was still there when he closed his eyes. Her curls tumbled round her face as he gave himself up to his fantasy. Let her bend over him to take him in her mouth. How gentle she was. How persistent. Jac groaned. Forbidden fruit. Always the sweetest.
He curled his fingers around his cock and let his dream ride him.
Chapter Three
Half-Moon Bay
THE WELCOME PARTY WAS in luck. The virgin moon was keeping her charms to herself. Jac too, kept himself to himself. His uncle’s men, disguised by darkness, lounged nearby with horses and carts ready to whisk away barrels of brandy, packages of tobacco and chests of China tea and coffee beans. Some would risk straining their back muscles to lug a pair of roped casks to the safe house and earn extra coins. Jac hoped for something special among this consignment. Something to bring relief to the old fellow whose cottage teetered on the nearby cliff. The old timer would surely sleep once his gut pain eased.
He wondered if a remedy existed to quell his own growing unrest. But knowing himself so well, he feared it might have the opposite effect. Tuned to danger, he tensed, sensing rather than seeing a movement. The night breeze whipped his cloak around his body as he focused on the cliff’s underbelly. Until one of the men swung a lantern revealing a flash of fire against the rock face.
Jac’s fingers closed around the hilt of the dagger tucked in his belt. What if this was a trap? He’d be a fool not to expect trouble but he fancied this quarry wanted to be found. And by him. Padding like a big cat over the sands, his stomach lurched as he realised he’d been right. This was someone who’d no business being in the vicinity after nightfall. Relief flooded him and roughened his tone.
‘You little fool. What are you doing here? Are you spying for that bridegroom of yours? Does he think a woman’s a suitable agent to report back to him what’s doing in the cove?’
‘How did you recognise me?’
‘There aren’t too many in these parts with looks like yours, Rebecca. Pull that hood of yours properly over your head.’
‘I can assure you no one knows I’m here.’ Her voice didn’t falter.
Jac shook his head. ‘This isn’t a bazaar – somewhere for my lady to choose a pair of lace gloves or flask of lavender water. You must go home at once and don’t even think of returning again after nightfall. You’re fortunate I spotted you when I did. It’s asking for trouble, butting in like this.’
‘How dare you! Who are you to order me about?’
He grabbed her wrist. Gently but firmly. ‘Little fool. If I didn’t know your status, I’d have you bundled aboard that boat and let you cruise to Spain. Some good voyage you’d enjoy then, Madam. The sailors would see to that.’
‘Why must you try to frighten me?’ She made no attempt to disengage herself. Her words hissed into the darkness but she had to wait for a reply. Jac marched her back towards the looming cliffs, away from prying ears.
‘You could have got yourself killed! Strike first before someone strikes at you is the rule here.’ His tone softened. ‘That’s why I’m trying to frighten you. Best you go now. Don’t say anything to anyone about what you’ve seen tonight. Understand? Not even that pretty milkmaid friend of yours.’
‘Oh, so you find Catrin pleasing, do you?’
The jealousy spiking her voice tugged at his groin. He sucked in his breath, forgetting to release her hand. ‘She’s pretty enough. But you, Madam, are a beauty. And beauties spell trouble. Especially when they’ve a mind of their own.’
‘I vow not to say a word to anyone. As long as you …’
‘As long as I what? Are you about to blackmail me, Rebecca?’ He was more relaxed now. Over his panic at realising how close he’d been to lashing out at a shadow. That loveliness could have been marred. Or worse.
‘I won’t say a word. You can be sure of that, because I’ve need of your help.’
‘Is that right? How could I help someone who already possesses everything money can buy?’ He thought of her father’s plans. Jac’s impassioned response to his Uncle Dermot still haunted him. What was happening? Standing a whisper away from Rebecca beneath the sheltering rock face, he smelt her warmth … felt his body stir with more urgency this time.
‘You’re right. I should go back now,’ Rebecca said. ‘Catrin’s a light sleeper. I don’t want to compromise her. Will you ride here tomorrow afternoon?’
‘Yes. But why take the risk of coming here by night if you know my daytime habits?’
There was a pause. ‘It’s necessary to take risks,’ said Rebecca. ‘Otherwise I endanger my soul.’
Before he knew what was happening, she placed one hand on his shoulder, stood on tiptoe and brushed his cheek with a butterfly kiss. He stood watching her slight figure disappear into the gloom. It was clear she’d have no trouble finding her way back. She and her friend probably made a habit of night-wandering. Now the pretty little vixen reaped the benefit of her orienteering skills. He groaned, fingering his face where her lips had been. The men would jeer if they knew how his breeches bulged at that moment.
Jac had a good idea why Rebecca was singling him out. She’d no need to purchase fripperies or contraband brandy. But her betrothal to a rich, odious man might well be what worried her. He could only respect her for that but it would be interesting to discover how she though he could help. For a moment he regretted not having taken advantage of that fleeting kiss. He could have pulled her to him, crushing that soft mouth with his own – pushing his tongue inside while his hands roamed her body. Eager to keep their meeting unobserved, would she have protested? Or did she wish he could caress her breasts as much as he did?
The cart was fully loaded. It creaked as the men moved off. His uncle beckoned. There’d been no need for Jac’s vigilante skills that night. Mr Bevan’s gang of predators must have been deployed elsewhere, maybe Firefly Cove, just along the coastline. The only visitor had been one who exerted too powerful an impact on Jac’s body and his mind, for comfort. He smiled to himself. Comfort was the last thing he wanted. If becoming linked with the redhead spelled danger, as Dermot predicted, then let it.
Rebecca thought her lungs might burst. Holding back her giggles, she flattened her body closer to the wall behind her bedroom door after Biddy’s second discreet knock. The door inched open. Any moment …
‘Rebecca
?’
Biddy sounded puzzled. Surely she must be able to hear the pounding of her charge’s heart beyond the door panels? Rebecca’s breath hissed from her lungs at the sound of Biddy’s retreating feet. Now the woman would assume her charge was somewhere outside. Which, soon she would be.
A door closed at the end of the corridor. Biddy would be climbing the narrow staircase leading to her quarters. She’d take out her sewing, her fingers poised to continue the exquisite drawn thread work she was creating for the bridal trousseau. The gold stripes, the emerald and sapphire, were the colours of the Beaumont family coat of arms, now reflected in a daughter’s wedding finery.
The entire household, including Catrin, was in a lather over marriage preparations. What would they say if they knew the bride contemplated twisting her bridal cloak into a rope to aid her escape by night? Except of course, she knew simpler ways of quitting the house.
A few days had passed since Rebecca’s nocturnal tryst with Jac. Today Catrin was visiting her mother. It was easier to hoodwink Biddy without Catrin complicating matters, fond as Rebecca was of her. Hugh Beaumont was hunting. There was no one to prevent her from meeting Jac.
Her feet hardly touched the treads as she glided downstairs and into her father’s study. He never locked the ante room, liking to let his dogs in and out through the side door. Moments later, Rebecca, darting through shrubbery, arrived at a gate opening on to a footpath. This was the quickest way to reach the sand dunes. And the cove beneath.
Would he be waiting? Or would she be the one sitting on a rock, gaze fixed on the headland. She wished she’d warned him of her difficulties in slipping away. Hoped he hadn’t given her up and decided to ride elsewhere.
It was low tide. Soon she saw the expanse of sand, the turquoise sea ruffled by a brisk breeze. She began her descent. Heard the mournful call of a gull as it swooped past her head on its way to the water. It was a predator. Her stomach lurched as she recalled her father’s words when he condemned smugglers as vile, unscrupulous men battening off the sea. She was seeking out such a man. Was Jac vile and unscrupulous? It was impossible to believe. Rebecca closed her mind to such thoughts as her feet touched shingle.
Jac was saddling Sofia, the chestnut. The mare nuzzled his shoulder. He crooned love words to her, blew into her nostrils. Women and horses – he could still hear his father’s words on the day Jac turned 15. ‘They’ll be yours for the taking one day, my boy.’
He and his father no longer spoke. They’d never seen eye to eye. But once Jac decided to go and live with Uncle Dermot in Wales, his father refused to say another word to him. Not even goodbye. Jac’s liaison with his uncle was proving mutually beneficial but his father couldn’t understand why Jac preferred smuggling to farming.
Of course the old man’s forecast turned out to be true. But this particular woman was not like the others. Jac marvelled at the speed at which she’d become an obsession. She was too young. She was too beautiful. She was a different status. And this unnerved a young man striving to stay out of trouble in his new homeland. Consorting with a girl betrothed to a wealthy, powerful lord hardly boded well when it came to avoiding mishap.
He wondered if Rebecca would arrive that afternoon. It mightn’t be easy for her to go off alone. A young woman of her class was probably surrounded by gatekeepers. But that was her problem. He was keeping his part of the bargain. This was the third afternoon since she’d walked out of the velvety darkness and startled him. Not that it was any hardship riding across the fields and down the gentle gradient to the beach. The cliff path on Rebecca’s side of the cove was more challenging. Nor would that worry the pretty vixen.
Jac climbed into the saddle, Sofia’s hooves clattering against cobbles as he mounted. He noticed dark-haired Mari, one of the servant girls, watching him from her vantage point of the well.
‘Lovely day,’ he called.
She nodded. Held his gaze a moment before moving towards the still room door. The swing of her hips and a backward glance over her shoulder told him all he needed to know. Should he stop and make an assignation? She could easily slip into his room once her duties were done for the day. He shifted in his saddle. She was a pretty morsel but maybe it was best to keep his hands off his uncle’s staff, in spite of Dermot’s suggestion.
Jac had been abstaining for days. The compliant widow had gained a new admirer, a red-faced farmer whose wife, after months of illness, was hardly cold in her grave. Widow Bishopston had declared chastity, putting paid to Jac’s erratic visits to her bed. He’d enjoyed the brief interlude since stopping at her cottage one day to request a drink, but had no desire to jeopardise her chances when it came to attracting a solvent new spouse.
As for Morwenna … unseen strings pulled the witch into moods the like of which a man could only contemplate with wonder. Their relationship began after he visited her for a herbal remedy to help heal his finger, damaged in a scuffle soon after his arrival from Ireland. She’d worked a miracle on the wound, fed him a fruit infusion then removed all her clothes, keeping her long-lashed green eyes fixed on his instant erection. His staying-power, normally excellent, had astounded him that afternoon in her woodland cabin.
Folk claimed Morwenna cast spells and brewed potions to elicit passion. He found that easy to believe though he doubted she could reel him in unless he wanted to be caught. There was something much more immediate upon his mind and nothing could deter him.
Hadn’t he anticipated Rebecca’s next visit to the cove over the last few days? Each afternoon he’d reined in Sofia after they rounded the headland, scanning the dunes for a glimpse of gown, a flash of bright hair. He’d even wondered if she might send Catrin as an emissary then recalled Rebecca’s comment about not wanting to compromise her cousin. Knowing the redhead lacked allies made Jac all the more determined to come to her aid. He fantasised about removing every one of her pretty garments and finding the real woman.
Jac knew Dermot had contacts that could ensure safe passage to Rebecca and her serving woman, to get them out of Wales. Then Jac could sleep easy at night. Explore new conquests and indulge his passions again, without a care. If only he hadn’t lost his reason.
‘Do you think I’m an eejit, Sofia?’
The mare pricked her ears but continued on her way.
‘I have to help her escape from that monster,’ Jac told his horse. ‘Once she’s gone, I won’t be tormented.’
But how he would arrange this wasn’t yet clear. What was clear was that his insides lurched alarmingly at the thought of her going away.
‘So you came at last.’
‘There are times when it’s easier to sneak away than others.’
Jac slipped from the saddle and stood, holding Sofia’s bridle. He whispered into the mare’s ear. Gave her rump a gentle smack. She wandered off towards the shoreline.
‘Will your horse be all right? Can you trust it?’
He turned towards Rebecca. ‘Horses, dogs, women … you have to know how to handle ’em. Trust’s a two-way thing. So, what would your father think about a noble young lady like you consorting with a rogue?’
‘How much do you know of me? And where precisely do you come from?’
‘Ah, two questions. Well, I know all I need to know about you. And I come from the south of Ireland.’
‘I think I know who your uncle is,’ she said.
‘Is that right? I certainly know who your father is.’
She frowned. ‘So you’re aware how difficult things are for me?’
‘Difficult? There’s some would kill to be in your shoes, my lovely lady. But I don’t mean to tease. I realise something of your, shall we say, predicament.’
She fell into step as he strolled across the sand towards the headland.
‘No,’ he said as she made to unfasten her hood. ‘Keep your head covered, for fear of curious eyes. I’m thinking of your safety.’
Rebecca’s hands trembled. Jac’s mix of arrogance and tenderness intrigued her. She felt the
first tiny spark of hope. Maybe there was a way. Maybe she wouldn’t need to marry that toad after all. In all her 17 years she’d never met anyone like the Irishman. What a contrast he made to Geraint. For a start, her despised fiancé was probably old enough to be Jac’s father, let alone hers.
‘I’ve heard the servants speak of someone called Jack. Would that be you?’
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘I’m flattered to be the subject of conversation. Unless of course it’s Jack with a K they’re saying and not Jac without.’
‘You’re teasing me again. Jac’s a fine name. I prefer it to Jack.’ Her eyes danced with merriment.
‘Rebecca is a beautiful name,’ he said softly.
She shot him a swift glance. ‘Thank you. How old are you?’
‘Guess.’
She considered. ‘28?’
The corners of his mouth drooped and he stopped walking. ‘Then I must have aged since meeting you. I’m just turned 21.’
‘Not so much older than me.’
‘But you’re still a schoolgirl?’
‘I’m almost 18. The right age to be married off.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Anyway, you look older than you are.’
The sky was darkening. He looked up at it and began walking again. Faster this time. ‘You and I move in different circles. I doubt you’ve seen the sights I’ve seen.’
Fear of the unknown battled dread of the fate waiting if she didn’t find a way out. She increased her pace, almost matching his stride. ‘It’s for that reason I seek your help.’
His silence made her wonder if he planned to turn her down. But his firm yet gentle clasp on her elbow thrilled her, filling her with hope.
‘Will you walk into the next cove with me, Rebecca? Maybe a little further?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll walk as far as you want me to, as long as you’ll hear me out.’
‘Tell me about yourself.’
Rebecca described her childhood, the loss of her brother and her mother. She wasn’t to know Dermot had provided Jac with details. She played down her own character, praising Biddy for putting up with so much.
Traded Innocence Page 3