Kiss From a Rogue (4 page)

“So, shall we head north?”

Tony stared out the window, watching the widow’s retreating form, her steps confident. The wind hugged her dress to her curves, which were just the right size, perfectly proportioned. He waved at his friend. “You go on ahead. I think I’ll stay here a while.”

Alistair slowly nodded. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with the new career you mentioned, would it?”

He let his smile speak for itself.

Alistair stroked his chin. “I suppose she was pretty, in a rugged, rural sort of way.” He folded the map and tucked it back in his pocket. “You know, we don’t really have to go to Shaftesbury. We have an entire week before we’re supposed to meet up with Nick in Weymouth. We could stay right here.”

We?
“No, no, you go on ahead. I’ll meet up with you in a week or so.”

“You want to stay here, by yourself, in this quaint little village where you don’t know a soul? Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?”

“You mean, besides the lady’s bed?”

Alistair slapped his shoulder. “I’ll give you this, my friend. You have excellent taste. She seemed charming. Too bad she wouldn’t give you the time of day.”

“That will change. Trust me.”

Alistair hefted his haversack over his shoulder. “Are you sure you don’t want to come with me? That telescope is five feet long.” He held his hands outstretched to demonstrate the size.

“Did y’see the pretty widow?”

Alistair set his haversack down. “You know, she really was pretty. Perhaps I should stay.”

Ignoring the tease in Alistair’s tone, Tony picked up the haversack and put it back on Alistair’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to be the cause of you missing out on that five-foot telescope.” He gave Alistair a shove toward the door.

“All right, all right. I can take a hint.” Alistair stepped outside. The wind had calmed and the rain had stopped, at least for the moment.

“See you in a week. Or thereabouts.”

Alistair shook his head, laughing, as he strode across the inn yard. “Happy hunting!”

Tony grabbed his own haversack and went to book a room for the night at the Happy Jack, formulating his plan for wooing the widow.

First, though, he had to find her again.

Late that evening, Tony once more sat at the corner table in the taproom, eating mutton and cheese. Mrs. Spencer, the innkeeper’s wife, and her daughter had been less than forthcoming regarding the widow’s identity. Even though he’d followed the same direction she had taken when she’d left, questioning villagers regarding her identity had proven equally frustrating and fruitless. Between the war against Napoleon and a shipwreck last spring, the village had more than its share of widows. Finding the right one could prove problematic.

The pouring rain and blustery wind had made him give up his search for the evening. After a good night’s sleep, tomorrow he’d begin again. Until then, tonight was the perfect opportunity to gather more information for his brother about the inn.

“Why do you want to know?” Mrs. Spencer stood beside Tony’s table, her fists on her hips.

“Just curious how many employees it takes to operate a fine establishment such as this, one that is not on the post road and doesn’t appear to have much local custom, never mind travelers.” Tony smiled at her.

Mrs. Spencer harrumphed, filled his tankard, and left without answering his question.

Perhaps the inclement weather was keeping the locals at home. Even the blazing fire in the hearth could not dispel the gloom, with the tallow candles adding to the dreary atmosphere rather than dispelling it.

Tony almost dropped his fork when the door blew open and two men walked in. They wrestled the door shut against the wind, then turned and tripped over themselves when they spotted Tony in the corner.

“Good evening,” he called.

“Aye,” the younger of the two newcomers replied, straightening his threadbare coat. With stooped shoulders and weather-roughened cheeks, he looked sixty if a day.

His companion grunted as he removed his cap and ran gnarled fingers through his short hair, before jamming the cap back on over the silver spikes. They moved to one of the rickety benches before the fire and sat down.

Spencer came out of the kitchen, a stained towel over one shoulder, and scowled at Tony.

“Spencer, bring us a pint of your best,” the elder of the newcomers called.

“And keep them coming. ’Twill be a long night,” the other added. His companion elbowed him in the ribs and cast a look over his shoulder at the table in the corner.

Tony pretended not to see, as he was busy draining his tankard of ale. The food was indifferent, but the drink was exceptional.

“Keep yer shirts on,” Spencer grumbled, and left the room, wiping his hands on the towel.

The door blew open again with another gust of wind and rain, and more men ambled in, congregating near the fire. All seemed to be of an age with the two already present, and all gave Tony much more than a cursory glance. They conversed in hushed voices, the words lost before they reached Tony’s ears.

Tony raised his empty tankard as Mrs. Spencer made the rounds with a large pitcher. She obliged, not spilling a drop.

“Thought the rain would keep everyone at home tonight.” He pointed at the men by the hearth.

Mrs. Spencer whirled back toward him, pitcher held high. “What did you say?”

Tony set down his tankard. “Just that I thought the taproom was empty earlier because everyone was staying home, out of the rain.”

“Right. Home. Rain.” She bobbed her chin and hurried toward the kitchen, throwing him a glance over her shoulder before ducking through the doorway.

He’d heard people in rural counties were a bit eccentric. He was beginning to believe that the rumors, at least in this case, had merit.

The door opened again, and this time there were boys with the old men coming indoors, in their mid- to late teens guessing by their posturing and strutting.

If Tony were prone to paranoia, he might think the looks thrown his way were suspicious. Perhaps the men had heard of Tony’s inquiries about the widow, divined his intentions, and were simply being protective of her.

Some of the men filed out, including the two who had entered first. The wind had calmed, and no rain blew in while the door was open. The half dozen remaining stayed by the fire, their backs to Tony. If he were in London, he’d think he was being given the cut direct.

With the break in the storm, Tony decided to take a quick walk down to the beach before turning in. He pulled his coat tighter about his shoulders and stepped outdoors. He could almost feel the clouds above, hanging low over the land. Precious little light spilled from the inn’s windows, leaving the courtyard almost solid black. Odd. There should at least be a lantern in the stables. He had definitely heard horses earlier.

He’d gone a few steps in what he thought was the correct direction when he heard a harsh
“Now!”

What little light there’d been disappeared as a not-quite-empty flour sack was thrust over his head, choking and blinding him.

Hands grabbed at him. Tony swung, caught nothing. He coughed, tried to call out, but the sound was cut off by a fist punching him in the stomach. He bent over, gasping for air, struggling to tug the suffocating cloth from his face. More hands were on him, holding the flour sack in place, pinning his arms.

He’d spent countless hours at the London docks among the dregs of humanity with nothing worse happening to him than bruising his knuckles, only to be attacked and bested here, in a tiny, remote village on the picturesque coast. How utterly humiliating.

But he wasn’t down yet.

He kicked. Connected. Someone grunted in pain, one hand loosened from his neck. Encouraged, Tony kicked backward, found another shin. Another grunt. He was able to pull his right arm free, tried again to rip off the blinding sack.

“Stubborn one, ain’t he?”

Tony had just enough time to register the fact that the speaker was next to his ear before they whacked him on the back of his head. Stars flared before his eyes. He staggered, multiple hands still holding him upright. He swung his fist toward the speaker. Another fist struck him, this time on his sore right shoulder, right over the tattoo. Pain exploded in his back, and gravity seemed to disappear.

“About time,” was the last thing he heard before his knees buckled and the darkness claimed him.

S
ylvia sat at the dressing table in her bedchamber, staring at the flame of the single lit candle. Her meeting with Captain Ruford was only a few hours away. Cold dread settled in the pit of her stomach.

There was one way to avoid meeting with Ruford ever again. She fingered the tattered letter that lay among the hairpins and ribbons on her dressing table. Now that her year of mourning was over, Uncle Walcott had invited her to come back and live with him. His wife was busy with the new baby—their tenth—and their governess had left without giving notice. She was the fifth to depart in as many months. Walcott was confident Sylvia would prefer his well-maintained house in Manchester to Jimmy’s decaying manor in the wilds of Dorset.

Unpaid servant, or smuggler. Surely there had to be more options?

She tossed the letter into a drawer and slammed it shut.

She picked up her hairbrush and ran it through her unruly curls, preparing for her meeting on the beach. Realizing her fingers were trembling, she balled them into fists in her lap. She would not allow Captain Ruford to unnerve her like this.

How would she fend him off this time? She must find some way to deter his advances, and curtail his cheating them, without putting their business relationship in jeopardy. Her men, and their families, were relying on her to keep some small amount of money coming into their pockets for food on their tables, thatch on their roofs.

There had to be a way. She would have to look beyond her upbringing as a genteel young lady, her education in how to be a dutiful wife, mother, and run a household. Those traditional skills had proven useless when it came to hiding casks of brandy, transporting the goods to their customers past the noses of the Revenue agents, or finding customers in the first place. Her less conventional skills, like knowing how to stop the bleeding of a dagger wound, had proved invaluable of late. She would have to go further, be even more unorthodox.

She would have to think like a smuggler. Act more like a smuggler.

What did a smuggler do that she did not?

She glanced out her window. The crescent moon was hidden by clouds, with enough rain and wind blowing to make even the most determined Revenue agent prefer to stay by his own hearth. A perfect night for landing illicit cargo.

Right about now, her men would be gathering in the taproom of the Happy Jack for a pint before setting out for their vigil on the beach in the storm, waiting for the signal, when the real work would begin.

She’d join them. A half-pint might settle her nerves. They might be surprised at first to see her, but she had no doubt they’d try to make her feel welcome.

She grabbed her bonnet and left her room.

She paused outside the door to Montgomery’s bedchamber. After a moment’s hesitation, she entered and felt her way to the desk near the window, and opened the top drawer. There, just where she’d put it after his funeral, was the short dagger he’d always kept tucked inside his boot.

The steel was cold in her hands. Heavy. She’d never concealed a knife on her person before. Had never so much as gutted a fish. But in the thirteen months since Montgomery’s death, she’d had to do a lot of things she’d never thought she would. Like lead a group of smugglers.

Her men all carried a knife or two, as well as a pistol.

She tucked the knife into her half-boot. After a cautious step, and an adjustment to make sure she wasn’t going to cut her own ankle, she strode determinedly down the stairs.

Galen was in the front hall, preparing to leave for her weekly cribbage game with Mrs. Spencer. Three of her men were there as well, waiting to escort Sylvia down to the beach.

“Evening, my lady.” Monroe tipped his hat as she came down the stairs, and stepped back so that his bulk didn’t block the hall. Trent and Corwin also doffed their hats.

“Slight change in plans,” she called as she joined them. “I feel like going down for a half-pint.”

“Beg pardon, missy?” Only Trent called her that.

Galen harrumphed.

“Excellent suggestion, m’lady.” Monroe tugged his hat down around his ears. “I could do with a pint meself on a night like this.”

Sylvia grabbed her basket, already loaded with her pistol, bandages and other medical supplies, and they headed out into the night.

The group split up when they reached the Happy Jack. The men entered the taproom, while Galen went around to the kitchen door. Sylvia followed, to learn from Mrs. Spencer what the reaction of the inn’s patrons had been to the cheese Sylvia had traded in exchange for other supplies this afternoon. The cupboard had been frightfully empty. As she stepped indoors, memories of her encounter with the two strange gentlemen came flooding back.

The one who’d introduced himself, the viscount, was obviously a gentleman in every sense of the word. His companion was something else entirely. Her cheeks heated at the memory of how the rogue had touched her. He’d managed to take something as innocuous as tying the ribbons of her bonnet and turn it into an attempt at seduction. She might have been flattered by his attentions, had he not made her feel as though she were being stripped bare by his eyes.

His soulful brown eyes…

The inn’s kitchen was warm chaos, as usual. Spencer and his daughter hurried to fill orders for the villagers in the taproom, and Mrs. Spencer caught Galen up on the latest gossip. Sylvia took off her bonnet, torn between listening to the ladies and joining her men in the taproom.

“You can’t be none too careful these days.” Mrs. Spencer wagged her finger. “Them city fellows think they can get away with anything. Got no right harassing good country folk.” She had to raise her voice at the end, to be heard over a sudden commotion outside. “Time to put my feet up for a spell.” Mrs. Spencer gestured for Galen and Sylvia to follow her to the private parlor, with an invitation for a nip of sherry.

Before they had taken a step, the kitchen door burst open and slammed against the wall, quivering on its rusty hinges. Four men clustered on the stoop, a large cloth bundle at their feet.

Hayden kept the door from swinging shut again. “I caught one, my lady!”

“What do you mean, you caught him?
I
caught him!” Doyle poked Hayden in the chest. “ ’Twas my blow that knocked him out.”

“We all caught him, you twits.” Baxter, ever the voice of reason, gave both men a shove backward.

Sawyer stepped up into the space vacated by Doyle and Hayden. With his stooped shoulders, Sylvia hadn’t seen him at first. “What would you like us to do with the bugger, my lady?”

“Him, who?” Sylvia looked from one weathered face to another. She shared a glance with Galen, who looked just as puzzled.

“A Revenue agent, my lady.” Doyle gave the lump at their feet a jab with his toe.

“He’s been sniffing around all afternoon, asking all sorts o’ questions.” Sawyer took off his cap, ran gnarled fingers through his short silver spikes, and slipped his cap back on.

Monroe came to the taproom doorway, tankard in his hand, saw the bundle, and called for Trent and Corwin.

Sylvia clutched her bonnet, her knuckles white. They’d had a few close calls with the local Revenue agent, but so far no confrontations. Their operation was too small to pay any attention to when there were much larger, more dangerous gangs to contend with. Last month a Revenue man had been found facedown in Worbarrow Bay, a knife in his neck.

“Didn’t want this one interfering tonight.” Baxter gave the lump another kick. “Sawyer wanted to slit his throat and dump him in the bay.”

“Did not. Wanted to tie him on his horse, point him at the cliff, and slap the mount’s flank.”

“That’s not very nice to the horse,” Doyle muttered.

“He didn’t come on no horse,” Hayden interrupted. “Spencer said so.”

“We could still take him up to Worbarrow,” Corwin suggested.

“Gentlemen!” Sylvia shouted. All the men were instantly still, their full attention on her.

In the sudden quiet, they heard a low groan emanate from the bundle of cloth at their feet.

Sylvia set her bonnet on the table. “We may be desperate, but we are not the Worbarrow Bay gang. No blood will be shed, do you understand?”

All seven men clutched their hat or cap to their chest, nodding. A chorus of reluctant “Yes, my lady,” and “Aye, milady,” echoed through the kitchen.

Sylvia nodded. “Take him into the parlor, and we’ll see how badly he’s injured. Then we’ll decide what to do with him.” She turned to Mrs. Spencer. “If you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. Haul ’im to the parlor, lads!”

The seven men, each old enough to be her father or even grandfather, picked up part of the flour-dusted bundle and scuttled through the doorway, down the back hall, and into the parlor. Mrs. Spencer hurried ahead to toss a sheet over the sofa before they set down their dirty burden. The men grumbled and pushed each other, and Sylvia heard more than one muttered curse as they untied the knots.

Finally they all stepped back, ropes and various flour sacks in their hands, and Sylvia had her first look at the man on the sofa.

Blast. She should have known. It was the rogue who’d accosted her this afternoon.

Before today, she’d almost forgotten what a handsome, healthy young man could look like. Well, perhaps not so healthy anymore. Better see what damage, if any, her men had done to him.

On his left side, knees drawn up, wrists still together though no longer bound, his body just fit between the arms at the ends of the sofa. The dusting of flour made him look like a statue, hard and cold as marble. She clucked with impatience, fished a handkerchief out of her reticule and dampened it with water from the vase on a side table, and began to wipe his face. His long lashes brushed his cheeks, hiding the eyes that had distracted her so much during their first encounter.

“Careful, my lady, he’s a wily one.” Doyle rubbed his shin.

“I’m sure we can subdue him again if necessary.” Sylvia watched the stranger’s chest rise and fall to confirm he was still breathing. He wore an embroidered waistcoat and fine linen cravat, and his shoulders were encased in finest wool, an elegant dark brown before it had been defaced by the flour.

She knelt beside the sofa and returned to cleaning his face. Strong jaw, chiseled nose, high cheekbones, full lips set in a mouth that looked like it smiled often. She remembered how he’d smiled at her this afternoon, remembered how her stomach had fluttered.

He was in need of a shave, but aside from the stubble his skin was smooth, not lined by weather or time. He appeared to be only a couple years older than she, at least a decade younger than her husband had been. Montgomery had smelled of the ocean, of salty air and hemp ropes. The only scent emanating from the stranger, aside from the flour, was a hint of sandalwood soap.

She tipped more water onto the handkerchief and smoothed the hair near his brow, revealing a rich chestnut brown. Not a single thread of gray marred his temple.

All the Revenue men she’d seen or heard of were much older than this. Sylvia slid her gaze down the rest of his body. Light brown breeches hugged his well-formed legs, the fabric equally as fine as his coat, both with perfectly neat stitching. His boots, with the tops turned down, showed some wear but had recently been well polished. Sylvia recognized the same style and material of footgear that Montgomery had once bought in London, at a cost that would have fed the fully staffed household for a month.

No government agent earned enough to dress this well.

“Blast,” she whispered, sitting back on her heels. Her men had meant well, but they’d assaulted and kidnapped a gentleman. The man might be a rake, but he was innocent in their match of wits with the Revenue men.

“My lady?”

“Something wrong?”

“Is the bugger dead, then?”

She held up one hand, halting the flood of questions from the men clustered around her. “He’s not dead. He’s also not a Revenue agent.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Sounded like one to me, asking so many bloody questions.”

“It ain’t a coincidence he showed up the same night a shipment is due.”

She ignored them all, and set about discovering why he hadn’t moved or made any sound since the moan on the doorstep. She ran her hands down his limbs, checking for broken bones. He gave a slight twitch as she passed her hand over his right shoulder blade, but she felt nothing give where it shouldn’t. Even in his relaxed state, she could feel sleek muscles. His hands were callused. Not those of a man who performed harsh labor, but neither was he an idle gentleman of leisure. He must have been unconscious before they tied him, fortunately, because there were only the faintest of marks from the rope on his wrists.

The irony of the situation was not lost on her. Earlier, she’d been irked by his attempted liberties, merely touching her chin unnecessarily while tying her bonnet without her permission, and now she was running her hands all over his body.

Satisfied there were no broken bones, she slid her fingers through his hair, which was just a little longer than was fashionable, ignoring its silky softness as she searched for a lump or soft spot. There, on the back of his head. Not the mushy give of a broken skull, thankfully, but her fingertips came away covered in a sticky mix of blood and flour.

His left hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. Sylvia gasped. She looked beyond her fingers, past his strong grip, to his eyes. Wide open, the color of rich chocolate, they stared at her unblinking.

“What the hell are you doing?” His voice was low and intense, the rich timbre even smoother than she remembered. The cultured accent confirmed his social status as gentleman.

“Checking that they didn’t accidentally bash your skull in.” Knowing the men were still clustered around her, Sylvia was able to keep her voice steady. He was young and strong, but they had him outnumbered eight to one. Ten, if Galen and Mrs. Spencer joined in. Both hovered near the doorway, ready to call for assistance if needed. The tiny parlor was already crammed full of people.

Still gripping her wrist, the stranger slowly sat up and swung his legs over the sofa. He glanced at the men. “Step back, or I’ll snap her like a twig.”