It Only Takes a Kiss

by Wilma Counts

  She saw less of Adam in the days following the trip to the Abbey. He had taken to going out almost daily with Mr. MacIntosh, who had hired an open carriage and team to “see the countryside.” Since the encounter with Mac in the inn, Hero suspected the relationship between the two men was more complicated than that of newly acquainted ex-soldiers of war. But it was really none of her business, was it?

  She had other matters to concern her. Besides worrisome apprehension about Annabelle, she fretted about the continued involvement of members of her own family with those infernal smugglers. The moon, which some called “a smugglers’ moon,” though waning now, still shone brightly each night, and Hero’s heart jumped when she heard Jonathan come and go. She could not allow herself to sleep until she knew he had come home each night.

  A week after that awful confrontation with Jonathan, Hero sat in the library reading late into the night. A summer storm, complete with thunder, lightning, and furious winds, had hit just after supper. The worst had passed, but she could hear rain dripping from the roof. Her father had retired early and Adam had gone out again with Mac, but well after midnight, he poked his head into the library to bid her good night before going to his own room. She ignored her regret that he had not prolonged the encounter, or that she had not manufactured an excuse to have him do so. A few minutes later, she heard a horse literally galloping into the stable yard. Jonathan. But why was he riding so recklessly?

  She met him in the kitchen as he came into the house. He looked distracted and—yes—afraid. She turned up the wick on the lamp Mrs. Hutchins always left on the kitchen’s long worktable.

  “Jonathan? Is something wrong?”

  He visibly jumped. “Oh! You startled me.” He closed the door and leaned his forehead against it for a moment. Then he straightened, his expression of fear and perhaps horror more pronounced now. He flopped down on the bench at one side of the table. He set his elbows on his knees and held his head. “You were right, Hero. You were right,” he wailed through his hands.

  “About what? Jonathan, you are scaring me.” She touched his shoulder and he flinched. She moved to a stool across the table from him.

  He raised his head to reveal tears in his eyes. “It was terrible—so bloody awful! I never thought—I can’t believe—It was murder, Hero. People died! Died!” His words were punctuated with sobs.

  Hero rose and got him a glass of water. “Here. Drink this and, for heaven’s sake, tell me what happened.”

  He gulped the water, set the glass down, and calmed slightly. “There was a ship—but it was not at the usual place. One of us—I don’t know who—had a lantern and signaled the ship that it was safe to come in.” He paused, his face crumpling. “It—it came in and hit that mass of rocks up the beach from the Abbey cliff. The ship—it broke up, Hero. Just shattered on those rocks.”

  “Oh, no-o-o,” she murmured, putting a hand to her mouth.

  “He—we—deliberately lured that ship onto the rocks. Soon enough the surf began to wash up debris and cargo—and—and bodies!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I saw them.” He uttered an anguished moan. “A little girl. And a woman and a man. Two men tried to wade ashore, but our men turned them back.”

  “Turned them back? How?”

  “C-clubbed them.” He sobbed. “Hero, it was awful. I swear to you, sis, I never—never—wanted anything like this to happen.”

  “Why? Why did—”

  “He said we couldn’t leave any witnesses.”

  “Who said that?” she asked, but instinctively she knew.

  “Teague.” Jonathan’s voice had gone flat.

  “He planned to lure a ship to ruin?” Hero asked in horror.

  “I—I’m not sure. I think something happened to the ship we expected—maybe lost in the storm—and then this one showed up. Lost too, maybe. Who knows?”

  “A crime of convenience.”

  “I—I—maybe…” He drew in a deep breath. “I never thought anything like this would happen. Outsmarting the taxman is one thing. But innocent people died tonight.” He ended on a strangled sob.

  “Oh, Jonathan. We have to go to the authorities—”

  “No! No! We can’t. We can’t!”

  “But—”

  “Hero, the magistrate is afraid of Teague. Hell! Everybody in Weyburn is afraid of him.”

  “Language, Jonathan,” she said almost absently as she racked her brain for something to do that would not put her baby brother in jeopardy.

  “Sorry. After—after he made us pick up as much cargo stuff as we could and take it away, Teague gathered us all together gave us and ‘all-for-one, one-for-all’ kind of speech. Said if anyone snitched to the militia, the rest would have to kill him. Most of the others agreed with him.”

  “But you did not?”

  “N-not really. And then he looked right at me and Milton and Anthony and said, ‘That includes family members too.’”

  Hero drew in a deep breath. “Oh, good grief!”

  “What am I going to do, Hero? If it was just me…but I can’t let them kill Milton and Anthony.”

  Hero reached across the table to grasp his hand. “Of course you can’t.” She looked into his distraught eyes. “I have no idea what we will do.” She squeezed his hand. “But we will do it together, Jonathan. You are not alone. Certainly we can do nothing now, tonight. You go on up to bed. We shall talk about it in the morning.”

  “I—uh—all right.” He rose, then paused. “Hero, I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry.”

  She jumped up and put her arms around him. “I know, Jonnie-boy. I know.” They hugged each other tightly and Hero thought she had her little brother back. But, oh, the circumstances of his return!

  When the kitchen closed behind him, Hero sat back down on her stool and, her elbows on the table, cradled her head in her hands. What to do? What to do? What to do?

  She looked up as the door opened again, thinking Jonathan had come back.

  It was Adam. His clothing—slippers, buckskin breeches, and a shirt opened at the neck and hanging loosely over the breeches—had obviously been donned hastily.

  “Surely we did not wake you?” she said.

  “No. I heard his horse when he came home. Just now I heard him go upstairs. I listened, but did not hear you go up. You were not in the library.” He stood, his hands on his hips. “Is something amiss?”

  “Oh, yes. Something is very much amiss’” She could not help the irony. “Same story, new page. And I just—I cannot—”

  He sat on the bench where Jonathan had sat. “All right. I am a good listener. Tell me.”

  And because he knew so much of the story already, she did just that, ending with, “This has not happened before—not here, not at Weyburn. Deliberately luring a ship in, I mean. During the war, it occurred elsewhere on the Cornish coasts, but not here.” She sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. “Jonathan. Milton. Anthony. What am I to do?” She felt the tears she had held in with Jonathan streaming down her face as she raised her head to hold his gaze.

  He stood and reached to pull her to her feet and into his arms. She put her arms around his waist and clung to him, burying her face against his chest, welcoming the warmth and strength through the thin fabric of his shirt. He laid his cheek against her head and just held her for few moments, stroking her back, sharing her distress.

  He leaned back and put a finger under her chin, forcing her to look at him directly. “Hero, this is not your problem alone. Nor is it just your family’s problem. Everyone in Weyburn owns a piece of it.”

  He stepped away to lower the wick in the kitchen lamp and check to see that the outer door of the kitchen was locked, then he led her out of the kitchen, down the hall, and finally into the library. He gently pushed her onto the couch where she had been reading earlier, and he sat himself down clos
e to her. He took her hand in a now familiar gesture and laced their fingers together.

  “I was there tonight,” he said.

  “You were—what? You—?” Words failed her.

  “Mac and I saw it—that is, we saw some of it. We were on the cliff at the Abbey. We were too late and too far away to see it all. The ship had already foundered on the rocks. We saw the gang hauling goods away.”

  “You were a witness? You saw—Oh, Adam, that could be so very dangerous for you and Mac. You heard what Teague said about trespassing. You must not embroil yourself in Weyburn problems.”

  “I already have,” he said so softly she was not sure she had heard aright. In a more normal tone, one laced with anger and regret, he said, “We saw it, but we were too far away, and there were only the two of us. Twenty or more of them, all armed, I am sure. Even with the element of surprise…” His voice trailed off.

  She sat for a moment, mulling over what he had just said. It did not make sense. She released her hand from his and turned a bit sideways to look at him directly. “Let me get this right: You and Mac just happened to be walking or driving along the top of the Abbey cliff late at night? When you knew very well you should not be there?”

  “Walking. We left the carriage some distance away.”

  Now she was exasperated. “Oh, for goodness’ sake. Adam! What were you thinking?”

  “Actually,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, “Mac and I were thinking to see if we could find anything worth taking to the militia.”

  “Oh, really? And did you?” Her concern for him had produced that bit of sarcasm.

  He nodded. “We did. Mac is going to visit Colonel Phillips at militia headquarters in Appledore tomorrow. But now I suppose I must see Mac before he leaves and add what Jonathan told you to the report.”

  She jumped up from the couch. “No. Absolutely not! I forbid it. I told you of Teague’s threat to Jonathan and Milton and Anthony. You cannot endanger them. I never would have told you anything if—if—” She began to pace.

  Adam rose and grabbed her about the waist in midstep. “Hero, stop.” He pulled her against him and kissed her. Just planted his lips on hers and kissed her quite thoroughly. Moreover, she kissed him back—equally thoroughly—her arms around his neck, her hands in his hair. A sense of intensity, urgency, and simple need engulfed them.

  Finally, reason prevailed and she pulled back, but not away. “Wh-why did you do that?”

  He grinned. “I might ask you the same thing.” He hugged her tightly. “The truth is I had to stop you—to make you listen and—and I just wanted to kiss you. I’ve wanted to do this again for days now.” He kissed her again, but with less intensity this time, and released her.

  She stepped back. “All right. I am listening.” She folded her arms across her chest.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “This smuggling business must stop before any more people are killed or injured. It simply has to stop. The government turned a blind eye during the war years. It will no longer do so.”

  “I agree. But I cannot—I will not—be a party to seeing members of my own family hanged or transported. Surely you understand that.”

  He gave her a look of sympathy and nodded. “Yes. I do understand. And I promise I will do all in my power to protect them. Trust me, please.”

  “Trust you? I’m to trust you—you, who will not even trust me with your real name?”

  She knew this hit home, for he went very still for a moment. “I will, Hero. I will. Just not quite yet. Meanwhile, can you trust this?”

  He pulled her close again and this kiss was gentle, tentative in seeking her response which, God help her, was all the affirmation he really needed, but she whispered yes anyway.

  * * * *

  Alex asked himself repeatedly during the rest of that night and all the next day, Why didn’t you just tell her? You passed up the perfect opportunity to do so. The truth was that he needed to be Adam Wainwright for a while longer. Despite her response to his kiss, he was not at all certain how she would respond if she knew it was Lord Alexander Sterne kissing her. Nor was Hero the only person in Weyburn for whom he wished to remain known as Adam.

  He had spent the last several days trying to come up with solutions to problems that had been building up and expanding and plaguing Weyburn people—his people now—for over a decade. The linchpin of the entire situation was one Willard Teague. He knew Teague knew who he was, but Teague was unlikely to confront him directly. Should he do so, Teague would have to explain just how those henchmen of his had come to attack Alex on the way to the Abbey.

  The broken leg was virtually healed now—Alex limped and resorted to a cane only when he was especially tired—so he set out to learn as much as he could about the land and environs that he was coming to recognize as belonging to him—or he to it—in every sense of the word belonging. This feeling was new to him, but he rather liked it. With Mac accompanying him, he made a point of visiting every place of business in Weyburn, from the blacksmith’s forge to the bakery to the mercantile store, the combination bookstore and lending library, the cobbler, and the seamstress’s shop. In each place, he bought something and commented on the convenience of having such wares and services available to people in less populated areas of the nation. By the end of a week, people were stopping him on the street to pass the time of day.

  But they did not pass on information about the smuggling operation. In fact, townspeople—only a few of whom were actually involved in that endeavor—scrupulously avoided the topic. Alex felt that many of them were just plain scared—or at least intimidated by Teague and his gang.

  He and Mac did not confine their investigations to the town itself. Pretending to be beachcombers, they also explored a long stretch of the beach, including a number of caves along the coastline. They were actually looking for stores of contraband goods. Late one morning, as they emerged from the third cave that day, Mac stood with his hands on his hips and pronounced himself ready to give up.

  “There’s no doubt they’re using some of these caves to store goods temporarily. All that scraped earth in the cave floors tells us that much—not to mention the signs of traffic at the mouth of some of them.”

  “I’m sure you’ve the right of it, Mac,” Alex said. “But their real storage places have to be first, the Abbey cellar, and second, barns on tenant farms. My money is on that deserted Thompson farm and the Abbey cellar—which could itself easily accommodate the cargo of at least two ships.” He explained about seeing the cellar on his visit and described what it had looked like years earlier to a young boy seeking imaginary adventures.

  “Ah. It is connected by a tunnel to the cave directly beneath?” Mac asked. “That sounds like a godsend to smugglers!”

  Alex nodded. “No doubt it was originally intended as an escape route if the Abbey came under siege.” He placed a hand on his brow to shade against the sun as he gazed up at the cliff and then farther along its face to that area just beneath the Abbey. Yes. They were still there: the guards he and Mac had seen at the mouth of that cave for the last three days. “It is perfect for their purposes. Just perfect.” His tone conveying a note of resignation, he sat on a large boulder wedged in the sand and looked out at the sea. Storm clouds hovered on the horizon.

  “Major, are you saying we’re done with this recon work?” Mac squatted in the sand and looked up at his employer, his friend.

  “I think so. But we cannot call in the militia until they have a chance of dealing with at least the greater portion of the gang. They need to catch them actually moving the goods.”

  “An’ then what, my lord? You been talkin’ some about settling in the Abbey.”

  “I am thinking of doing so, yes. What? You will not be happy as a country boy?”

  “I did not say that, sir. I grew up in the country, you know. Up north. Border country. I like country life. I li
ke it here.”

  “So do I, Mac. So do I.”

  “Well, sir, that presents a problem, doesn’t it?”

  “More than one, I’d say.”

  “Yeh, but if you see to the hanging or transportation of some of your neighbors, you ain’t likely to be near so welcome here as what you are now.”

  Alex ran a hand through his already windblown hair. “Believe it or not, Mac, I have thought of that.”

  That night they had stationed themselves on the Abbey’s cliff overlooking the sea.

  Chapter 14

  For the next few days Hero endured a vague sense of foreboding. Life bumped along as usual, but it seemed to do so in a suspended atmosphere, waiting for some cataclysmic action—but what? She found herself hugging Annabelle harder and wanting her near all the time. She was also keenly aware of the cloud that hung over the entire community because of recent activities by the smugglers. Everyone knew about the deliberately wrecked ship and everyone seemed to anticipate repercussions from that event. If people spoke of it at all, they did so in hushed tones marked by disapproval and fear. To avoid dwelling on such things, Hero donned an old day dress that had seen much wear, pulled on a pair of gardening gloves, and joined Stewart in weeding the herb garden. Physical activity, she reasoned, was therapeutic. She and Stewart talked of Weyburn problems as they worked.

  “My bother said you did a fine job of patching up that miner he brought in the other day,” Stewart said.

  “Thank goodness we were able to clean the wound and stitch it up and send him home. He is sure to have a very sore arm for a while. He is so worried about losing his job,” Hero said.

  “Ah, my brother Kenny will cover for him, I’m sure. But you know, Miss Hero, that accident need never have happened. Kenny has complained often enough to Teague about safety in that durned copper mine, but he is just ignored. Teague always says ‘costs too much’ or ‘next month’ or some such. And this is not the first mishap there.”

  “I know. If only the owner would take more interest—”