Dreaming (7 page)

Her eyes lit with secret admiration and her voice lowered with a tad of drama. “Have you known many smugglers?”

Yes, he’d known his share. Half of
Devon
smuggled some type of contraband. The village wheelwright and some of the fishermen smuggled lace, silks, and glass. Even the stable master at Lockett Manor had dabbled in brandy. Richard suspected most of what he drank the night before hadn’t had a
ha’penny
of duty paid against it.

He leaned down closer to her inquisitive face. “Didn’t the all-knowing Reverend Mrs.
Poppit
fill your ears with lurid tales. Perhaps I smuggle brandy, spit fire, and devour inquisitive young ladies who ask too many questions.”

She watched him as if she wasn’t certain if he was teasing her. He tried for a fierce look.

Contrary as ever, she laughed and smiled up at him, her hand gently touching his arm. “You can be so witty, Richard.”

The next instant her dog leapt onto the nearest crate, stuck his loose lips and damp black nose directly in Richard’s face, then growled.

Chapter 3

Fifteen minutes later the beast finally moved. For the first five minutes Richard and the obnoxious dog stood in challenge, at eye level; the second five minutes the beast followed his every movement with a pair of bloodshot and leery canine eyes. Now Gus lay in a dark corner, making noises not unlike that of a sleeping bull with some lung affliction.

In that same fifteen minutes, the hellion had scolded Gus, offered to help Richard, then chattered in circles while he’d examined every crate in the hold for legible markings.

There was one candle, and it gave barely a breath of weak thin light. The hold was dark as dusk, so he gave up squinting at the last crate and straightened. Good fortune was on his side, for he spotted two rusty oil lanterns lying in one dark corner. Each was about half filled with oil, and he brought them over to the wooden crates, where he set one on each end.

He lit lanterns with the nub of candle, and soon they were casting a dim yellow glow over the corner. He slid a lantern closer to the edge and bent to try to read the smudged words on the crate.

A curly brown head suddenly popped up next to his line of vision. “What are you doing?” She looked intently at the crate.

“Trying to read this.” He stared at the back of her head.

“What does it say?”

“I don’t know. I can’t read it with your head in the way.”

“Well then, I’ll do it for you.” Before he could respond, she’d shifted in between the crate and him, blocking his entire view. Her head cocked at a curious angle. “It says . . .
F-o-r
,” she spelled out, then paused. “I can’t see . . . ” She pulled the lantern closer to the edge. “There’s a darker smudge, then it looks like
P
something
d
something
y
And
l-o-n-d-o-n
 . . . oh,
London
!” She turned to him and grinned proudly. “Whatever it is, it’s from
London
.”

She whipped her head back so quickly he had to step back to keep from getting snapped in the face with her hair. She continued, “Then beneath that it says
p
again,
e-r-c-u-s-s-
i
-o-n
—”

“Locks,” he finished.

She faced him again, surprised. “How did you know?”

Richard swiped her hair from his face. “Forsyth and
Purdey
are gunsmiths. They market new percussion locks for rifles.”

She stared at him blankly.

He added quickly, “The locks make the rifles fire balls in rapid sequence.”

“Oh.” She straightened. “Is that good?”

“Probably to Napoleon’s supporters it is.”

“Napoleon!” she gasped.

He nodded, eyeing the hold. “Now I think I understand why we’re locked in here.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re smuggling arms, and that’s a treasonable offense.”

She was uncommonly quiet. One look at her face and he saw that she had finally realized this was not some romantic little fairy tale.

Very quietly, with a slight quiver in her voice that made him take pause, she asked, “What do you think they’re going to do with us?”

“Probably nothing,” he lied.

She gave an enormous sigh of relief.

“They’ll deliver the crates to the French, then more than likely return to
Devon
. Just a little adventure for you to tell your grandchildren.” He knew that wasn’t even probable, but he wasn’t sure what the truth was. They could be sailing toward their deaths, but he didn’t intend to tell her that.

He did, however, intend to find some means of escape. In which case she’d never have to know the danger they might be in. He glanced back at her, aware she was keeping incredibly quiet.

She watched him for another peaceful moment, then took a deep breath and said with utter openness, “There’s no one I’d rather be kidnapped with.”

He gave a small mocking laugh. “Of that I have no doubt.”

She smiled at him again.

He looked away. His sarcasm had gone right over her head. When he looked back at her, spurred to do so by another lapse into female silence, she was leaning against one of the gun crates with her eyes closed. She wasn’t asleep, because one hand was again twisting one of those flowers on her hem.

“What
are
you doing?”

“Dreaming,” she answered, without opening her eyes.

“I’m certain that you will find this extraordinary, but most people dream when they’re asleep.”

She laughed and opened her eyes. “Not that kind of dreaming. Daydreaming, silly.”

He flinched. He didn’t consider himself as pompous as his friend
Belmore
used to be, but he still preferred “my lord” to “silly”—a word that brought to mind geese and girls, not that he thought there was much difference between the two, and the last hour had done little to change his view.

She sat very still, almost relaxed, but what gave him pause was the peaceful expression on her face. “You do this often?”

“Umm-hmmm.” She had closed her eyes again.

He shook his head and turned away but for some reason stopped
midturn
. “Why?”

“Because I can see things no one else ever sees. Close your eyes.” She began to hum Mozart.

“Wait!” He held up a hand.

She stopped humming and looked at him.

“Why do you want me to close my eyes?”

“Because that’s how one dreams, silly.”

“I prefer ‘my lord’ to ‘silly,’” he said sharply.

Her face flushed red with embarrassment, and she averted her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

He looked at her bowed head and wondered why it was that she was able to spark guilt in him more often than anyone else. He felt a sudden need to find a way of escape. Quickly. He turned away and searched for some kind of hatch behind the stack of wooden crates.

There was none. Let her dream her little dreams. He would look for a way out.

“I didn’t mean any disrespect . . . my lord. I forgot you weren’t Richard Lennox anymore.” She made it sound as if he had died.

He slowly counted to ten, then leaned against the crates, crossed his arms, and closed his eyes. He was about to rescue a kitten. “There. I’ve closed my bloody eyes. Are you happy?”

He heard her skirts rustle with movement and could feel her face move just inches from his. He caught a whiff of lavender just before he felt her wave her hand in front of his face, apparently to make certain he wasn’t peeking.

“Thank you, my lord.”

“You’re welcome.” He paused. “And you can stop ‘my lording’ me.”

“But my lord, you said—”

He opened his eyes. “I know what I said.” He took a long breath, then admitted, “I was wrong.”

She smiled up at him so brightly he couldn’t look away, so he closed his eyes again.

“Just let your imagination go . . . ” she said in the low and dreamy voice of a mesmerist.

He stood there leaning against the crate with his eyes closed when he should have been looking for a way to escape. “Why am I doing this?”

“To put wickedness from your troubled mind,” she said very slowly.

“And here I was, plotting my latest debauchery.”

“I don’t think debauchery is allowed.”

“Ah, yes, well, I do believe I’m as familiar with gambling. Suppose I dream that I’ve wagered a small fortune.”

“Gambling’s not allowed either.”

He opened his eyes. “Fine wine—”

“No.”

“French brandy?”

“No.” She shook her head, her eyes still closed.

He wondered how long she’d keep her eyes closed if he mentioned seduction and used the most base and elemental English word for it. Not long. And no doubt it was not allowed either. However, the thought brought to mind some interesting and decidedly sinful images, and he closed his eyes willingly this time.

“Are you imagining something?”

He gave a wicked grin. “Yes.”

“In your mind’s eye, do you see something personal, something that I can’t see?”

“I’m certain this would never be among your dreams, hellion.”

“Is it wonderful?” she asked, the rustle of skirts telling him that she was stepping away.

“Umm . . . I’d say so.”

“So is what I’m imagining.” There was a moment of utter silence. “Do you want to know what it is?”

“What is this? You show me yours and I’ll show you mine?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“No, I suppose you don’t.”

“Dreams aren’t like wishes. You can tell what they are and they can still come true.”

He laughed.

“Do you want to hear mine?”

“No, but I’m sure that won’t stop you.”

“I’m dreaming that—”

“Ha!” He opened his eyes and looked in the direction of her voice. “I was right.”

She stood barely three feet away, her head swaying to some imaginary tune, her eyes closed and her expression still dreamy. As if she stood in front of a star, she was limned in the dim light of the lanterns. Every curve, every line that was in essence her, had sharpened in clarity before him. For the first time ever, he saw her as a woman.

Wild and untamed, her hair spilled down her back almost to her waist, and instead of being charmingly ramshackle, it was suddenly sensual in its disarray. It brought to mind the deep hot images of the morning after—after a night in which every minute was filled with sensual pleasure. Her figure was not that of the young girl he’d known as a pest. She had a woman’s fullness, and he asked himself when she had grown up.

The faceless woman in his imagined seduction suddenly had a face, a young face, with full lips and a dreamy expression that was the result of the most intimate fulfillment. He could almost taste her on his lips. He stood frozen, unable to catch air, to move for an instant. He’d had this feeling only once before, when Gentleman Jackson had given him a hard right cross.

“Oh, truly? What were you right about?” Her curious voice broke the spell.

He blinked a few times, stupefied, and stared at nothing, the only thing on his mind the carnal images of soft naked thighs wrapped tightly about his hips, his waist, his head. “I don’t remember.”

“That’s a shame. Now we’ll never know.”

“This seems to happen often.”

“My being right?”

“No. These memory lapses. Perhaps the fall did knock you senseless.”

Senseless. Yes, he was senseless. He looked at her face and focused on her mouth. He shook his head to clear it, but it didn’t help. Too much brandy the night before. His hands shook slightly, a sign that he had lost his control.