Man of My Dreams Boxed Set

by Minger, Miriam

To Donovan the man was just that, the lowest of filth. If he discovered Jack Pascoe had had anything to do with those pilchard barrels yesterday, bearing some murderous grudge against Corisande…

  “All right, Gilbert, let’s get on with it,” Donovan said in a terse whisper as Henry crept along in his wake, the agent’s eyes round and apprehensive. Henry’s eyes grew even rounder when Donovan pulled a pistol from inside his greatcoat. “Stay behind me if you want to and remember, if there’s trouble, duck the hell out of the way.”

  “Y-yes, my lord. Duck, oh, yes. That I’ll certainly do.”

  Thinking dryly that he would have probably done just as well to leave Gilbert back at the estate, Donovan signaled for Henry to get out of line with the door and to stand flush against the cottage wall, the agent nearly tripping over his scrawny legs in his haste to oblige. “Easy, man. Easy.”

  “Yes, yes, forgive me, my lord,” Gilbert whispered back, his large Adam’s apple pumping.

  Donovan inhaled very slowly, waiting, listening, then took a step backward and violently kicked in the door, the weather-worn wood giving way with a splintering crash. As he rushed inside he heard a raspy intake of surprise and a woman’s scream, high-pitched and terrified, Donovan making out a pair of humped shapes atop a mattress in one dark corner.

  “Get up! Both of you!”

  The dark-haired woman obeyed him at once, whimpering in fear as she half stumbled to her feet and came forward into the light from the doorway, a soiled blanket clutched to her fleshy, sagging breasts. “Lord have mercy, sir, what have we done? I—I don’t even live ‘ere—”

  “Wait outside, woman.”

  She fled, skittering out the door like a plump terrified rabbit while Donovan pointed his pistol at the corner. “I said get up, Pascoe—”

  “Ais, so I am, so I am! Must ‘ee bluster an’ shout?” came a decidedly surly voice, Jack Pascoe not even bothering to cover his wiry-limbed nakedness as he rose from the mattress on the floor. “What do ‘ee want here, my lord? God in heaven, an’ look what ‘ee did to my door! Smashed it t’ bits —eh, there! Is that Henry Gilbert standen outside? I see you, ‘ee bloody scarecrow, an’ ‘ee better keep yer bugger’s eyes off my woman or I’ll—”

  “You’ll what, Pascoe?” Donovan demanded. “Push a few hogsheads down a hill and hope you’ll crush the man? Just like you did yesterday in Porthleven? But then it wasn’t Gilbert you were after, was it?”

  A long silence fell over the cottage; Donovan felt a vein pounding in his temple now that the man hadn’t immediately proclaimed his innocence. Just when he thought he’d have to grab the fool and throttle an answer out of him, a low, hoarse chuckling broke the stillness. Jack Pascoe scratched his crotch as he shuffled forward into the light, the red hair on his head dirty and matted and sticking up like a rooster’s comb.

  “Ais, I should have known you’d come looking for me. But I didn’t do it—though I’ve no liken for that bitch ‘ee took for your bride.”

  “So you know what happened,” Donovan said through his teeth, suddenly tempted to shoot the man right then and there.

  “‘Course I do! One of the mine cap’ens from Great Work saw the whole thing—visiting his dear old mother in Porthleven, he was. Said those barrels caused quite a stir. Wish I’d seen it. But I was already at the mine, an’ ‘ee can ride right out there an’ check for yerself too. Spent the whole day there an’ into the night, then, for my first core, just to get used to the place. ‘Tes huge, ‘ee know, five times bigger than yer little place and richer to boot. And fancy them hiring me so fast after leaving your mine only this past Saturday—”

  “Fancy them firing you, too, if I hear the slightest word that you’re making the tinners suffer as you did at Arundale’s Kitchen,” Donovan cut him off, sickened by the man’s smug smile that he was very pleased to see had suddenly faded. “The same thing, too, if you’re seen anywhere near my wife or her family. Are we understood, man?”

  Jack Pascoe didn’t readily answer, but his pocked face had turned a mottled red that nearly matched his hair. Yet finally he spat, “Stuck on that meddling wench, are ‘ee? Well, more’s the worse for ‘ee, then. I hope she yells yer ears off like she used to holler down into the shaft whenever she came looken for me, calling me names that would make the saints blush. I think she might have followed me, too, if it wasn’t that the men’ll have no women down in the mines. Bad luck, ‘tes, and I wish you plenty of it with that one!”

  Donovan smiled grimly, thinking that he could tell this man a thing or two about having his ears yelled off. But now that he knew Pascoe hadn’t been involved in yesterday’s incident, he wanted out of a cottage that stunk of urine, sweaty unwashed bodies, and sex. He lowered his pistol and left the place without another word, Jack Pascoe shouting after him.

  “Eh! What of my door here? I hope ‘ee plan to pay for it, my lord. A good door costs dear these days, it does!”

  “Give him five shillings,” Donovan ordered Henry, who was hard-pressed to keep his eyes off the woman’s fat, jiggling bottom as she ducked back into the cottage. “Gilbert?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, my lord. At once!”

  Donovan didn’t wait for the transaction to be completed but strode away, inhaling deep breaths of fresh drizzly air as if he could cleanse himself of the unnecessary filth he’d just encountered. The man was disgusting, living like a rat in a hole--

  “All done, my lord. Where to now? Arundale’s Kitchen?”

  Donovan nodded at Gilbert, his jaw clenched as he glanced back at the cottage. “Why does Pascoe live like that? He must have some coin to his name. God knows you paid him like a king when he was under our employ, and I’ve no doubt that he stole his share from the tinners.”

  “Gambling, my lord. Terrible vice. And women.” Henry gave a nervous shrug, clearly having nothing more to say and probably afraid to.

  But it was enough for Donovan. His insides churning to think that their family agent could have given so much power to a man who was no more than scum, he didn’t trust himself to speak as he caught the reins and mounted Samson while Henry clambered atop his horse.

  But finally, after they’d ridden some distance from Pascoe’s cottage, he had calmed himself enough to ask, “Did my wife really do that? Yell down into the shafts?”

  Gilbert bobbed his head, looking somewhat apprehensive after Donovan’s long silence and more than anxious to please. “Oh, yes indeed, she did. You could hear her across the heath sometimes if the wind was right, all the way to the house. I’m ashamed to admit it, but that was always a good sign it was time for me to hide.”

  Donovan couldn’t help smiling. It was all so ridiculous, really. Jack Pascoe heading deep into the earth, Henry Gilbert no doubt diving under a bed, and all because one angry-eyed, sharp-tongued woman had the conviction to stand up to injustices she was determined to change. Good God, she was admirable!

  His smile faded just as quickly as it had come, Jack Pascoe’s words ringing in his mind.

  “Stuck on that meddling wench, are ‘ee?”

  Bloody hell, was that how he appeared? Surely not. He’d gone to see the man because he had his business arrangement to protect, nothing more. He’d be damned if he was going to start over with some other country chit, oh, no. One wife was enough for any lifetime, even if she was only temporary…

  “It must have been an accident, my lord. I don’t see any other way around it.”

  Donovan looked over at Henry Gilbert, who blinked at him in the thickening rain.

  “Those barrels, I mean. If it wasn’t Jack Pascoe—”

  “We’ll be keeping our eye on him all the same, no matter what that bastard said.” His tone must have been dire, for Henry gulped, the man keeping any further thoughts to himself as they galloped in a spray of mud toward Arundale’s Kitchen.

  ***

  “Are ‘ee sure that I can’t send one of the men along with ‘ee? It’ll be dark before you’re halfway home—”

  “So then I’ll
be riding in the dark,” Corisande said firmly as she shrugged into her cloak, although she eyed Oliver Trelawny with fond suspicion. “If you’re acting like this because I’m a married woman now, well, it’s silly! It’s not as if I haven’t ridden across the heath at night a thousand times before. And on Biscuit, too, while this evening I’ve a young strong gelding to carry me.”

  “Maybe so, but it should have been a carriage, especially in this foul weather. But you’ve always been a stubborn one, an’ I’m sure that new husband of yours can vouch for that. I still can’t believe Lord Donovan didn’t insist ‘ee let his coachman take ‘ee about—”

  “The coachman was more than glad for the day off,” Corisande lied guiltily, but she turned before Oliver could read anything in her eyes, and headed for the heavy oak door leading out of the inn’s back room. They always met here to discuss their business, a quiet private place well away from the tobacco-smoking, ale-drinking, story-telling customers. But at the door she turned, her expression grown serious. “Godspeed, Oliver, and fair winds. The weather seems to have turned against our favor but—”

  “Ais, Corie, when has a gale kept me from Brittany? I love it all the better, an’ it keeps the king’s excisemen at home in front of their fires where they can cause no trouble! We’ll see you in a few days’ time with a shipload of niceties for the good gentry, yes?”

  She nodded silently, smiling, then lifted her hood over her hair and stepped outside. At once the door was almost flung from her hand by a strong, salty gust of wind, which only made Oliver curse behind her.

  “See? A carriage would have kept ‘ee nice an’ dry an’ well out of this mess!”

  She waved and left him standing shaking his head after her, his burly bulk filling the doorway and limned in lamplight, while she went to retrieve her mount from the small stable next door. But Oliver was gone back inside when she rode out a few moments later, ducking her head against the stiff wind whipping off the harbor.

  Lord, she supposed a carriage would have been nice but she shoved away the thought as she nudged the big brown gelding into a trot. In no time she’d left behind the snug, well-lit houses lining the quay and moved farther into the village, and soon even those familiar houses—including the parsonage, which made her wish she was going there instead—receded into the distance and swiftly gathering darkness as she rode out across the heath at a full gallop.

  She would probably be late for supper, but there was no help for it. She’d had so much to do. Taking time out for the wedding yesterday had put her so far behind.

  First she’d stopped at the parsonage to check on her father, Corisande finding him in his study poring over his books. He’d said virtually nothing to her, no, not even wishing her Godspeed when she left his room, which she’d found strange. But Frances assured her that everything seemed back to normal although Linette, who already missed Lindsay so much, had apparently cried herself to sleep.

  So Corisande had gone straightaway to the church schoolhouse to see her sisters, excusing them for a few moments from their studies to give hugs all around. Her heart ached at how usually matter-of-fact Linette clung to her after Marguerite and Estelle left to return to their desks, her sister’s pretty brown eyes swimming with tears.

  “Oh, Corie, can’t you come back to be with us? I miss you so much. It isn’t the same! Nothing’s the same!”

  Her throat tight, Corisande had wanted so badly to assure her that, yes, she would be home very soon to stay. She had long sensed that perhaps Linette had suffered the most when their mother had died, being only four and too young to understand that Adele Easton would never return. And now with Lindsay having left and Corisande, too, Linette looking so miserable…ah, but she couldn’t tell her the truth. At least not yet.

  “Linette, I’m married now, sweet. I have to stay with my husband. That’s the way of things, and someday you’ll have your own home and family. But I’ll still be here if you need me. I’m not very far away, after all.”

  Thankfully Linette had seemed to understand, smudging away her tears with the palms of her hands although her small chin had still trembled. Corisande had almost been relieved to leave her, and with a host of other things to do—visiting the poorhouse to see that Eliza Treweake had everything she needed for her charges, tending for a few hours to the church accounts, and then meeting with Oliver to make some last arrangements for their next shipment of contraband—she’d had very little time to worry further

  “What…oh, Lord! Easy, boy!”

  A gust of such violent force had suddenly hit them broadside that the gelding had ground to a halt and tried to rear, Corisande gripping the reins with all her might and fighting to maintain control of the frightened animal and keep her seat.

  “Easy! Easy now, boy!”

  They wheeled in place, the horse snorting and blowing and tossing its head, but finally the poor creature grew calmer as Corisande continued cajoling and soothing him.

  “It’s all right, boy. Just a sou’westerly, and a healthy one too. Didn’t that Henry Gilbert ever take you out on a ride before in such lively weather? If he had, you wouldn’t have been so surprised.”

  The gelding nickered, shaking his thick mane, which made Corisande feel as if they could start out again. She rubbed his neck first a few times and then veered him around, catching her bearings and…and…who in blazes was that?

  Corisande squinted against the cold drizzle hitting her face and peered through the near pitch-black darkness at the undeniable shape of a horse and rider some distance away. They weren’t moving either, just standing there beside a stunted tree, which was odd. The weather really was quite miserable. Who would be outside if he didn’t have to be?

  “Hello!”

  The whistling wind sucked up her cry, but surely the rider must have heard her. Yet he still wasn’t moving—oh, Lord. It couldn’t be. Had Donovan ridden out to meet her?

  Here she’d hoped he might even still be at the mine, and then he wouldn’t have known at all that she had chosen to ignore his ridiculous command. Now he probably planned to play the outraged husband and lecture her all the way to the house about the correct behavior for the wife of a lord, but oh, no, she was going to have none of it!

  “On with you, boy! Go!” Corisande kicked the gelding into a gallop, but the big horse surprised her, probably so eager to be home and well out of the approaching storm that he lengthened his strides to a breakneck run.

  Which was perfectly fine with her. Donovan would have no hope of catching them now, no, not even riding his fine steel-gray stallion. They’d had too great of a head start, and just to make sure, she glanced over her shoulder and saw that, indeed, they were being followed; but Donovan was still so far back that he almost blended into the darkness.

  Facing front, Corisande smiled giddily as she hunched down over the gelding’s lunging neck and held on tightly, her hood flying off her hair, her cloak billowing and snapping in the wind. She may have decided that she was going to behave as if she and Donovan had the happiest marriage in Britain no matter what had happened—although she’d been encouraged that no hint of Fanny’s gossip had yet reached Porthleven—but right now, it was just she and Donovan out here in the windswept dark where no one could see them.

  Why not frustrate him entirely by refusing to wait up for him? Why not show him that she needed no silly carriage to take her here and there, her riding skills quite capable, thank you very much! She began to laugh with sheer exhilaration, the lighted windows of the house appearing through the thickening trees as they thundered into the wide valley that nature had cut through the heath.

  Just she and Donovan, and she was still well ahead of him, a quick glance telling her that he had nonetheless gained some ground no matter that she could barely see him. But she could hear him, his stallion’s hooves pounding the ground while her heart began to beat faster and faster. With a whoop of triumph she burst through a line of elms and onto the drive and pulled up tight on the reins, mud and stone
s spraying behind them as she brought the heaving gelding to a halt.

  Right in front of the entrance door.

  Donovan stood waiting for her in the lamplight, his swarthy face truly ominous to behold.

  Wholly stunned, Corisande glanced behind her but there was no rider in sight. None.

  She gulped.

  Oh, Lord.

  Chapter 18

  “Looking for someone?”

  Breathless, Corisande spun to face Donovan, not really sure what to say. “Yes…well, I mean, no, no, I’m not. Of course not. There’s no one there.” She glanced behind her again, staring into the darkness, hearing nothing, no pounding hooves—for heaven’s sake, she hadn’t imagined it!—and looked back at Donovan. He couldn’t have beat her to the house, that was bloody impossible, so who…? “Is…is Henry Gilbert here?”

  “He went home five minutes ago.” Donovan nodded brusquely in the opposite direction. “He lives that way.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I knew that.” So much for Henry following her, she thought, growing more confused than ever and a mite alarmed. Should she tell Donovan what had happened? He didn’t look very happy; in fact, she hadn’t seen him look or sound anything but surly since last night when she’d come out from behind that screen. She doubted he was in any mood at all to hear her incredible story—

  “Are you planning to just sit atop that horse or come in for supper?”

  “Of course I don’t intend to sit out here all night!” she snapped, only to catch herself when she spied Ogden walking stiffly to the door. The happiest marriage in Britain, remember?

  It was more for her family than anything else. If Linette was so distressed just to have her gone from the parsonage, she could imagine how her sister might feel if she believed Corisande was unhappy. Marguerite too. It would crush her. She truly thought Corisande was in love. So for now she would play the part, however difficult—and the way this night was going, she was clearly in for a chore.