Kiss From a Rogue (7 page)

Most nights after landing a cargo, she fell asleep soon after getting into bed, exhausted. Tonight her thoughts were as relentless as the waves, tossing her one way and then another.

Not counting Ruford’s previous attempts, she had been subjected to more advances today than in the past year or more. She had been caught off guard when Mr. Sinclair tied her bonnet this afternoon, distracted when he kissed her wrist, and shocked breathless when he kissed her on the beach.

His lips on hers had been warm and yielding, and heaven help her, she’d wanted to yield to him. Touch him. Good thing there had been an audience present, or she might have lost her senses altogether.

She’d never lost her senses with Montgomery. Kisses from her husband had been rare. When he’d bothered, he tasted of tobacco, or fish. His lips were rough, chapped from long hours at sea. Like his hands. When he came to her, it was usually late at night for a hasty coupling, and then he’d go right back to his own room. Demonstrations of affection were limited to a gruff “Mind yourself,” said jointly to her and Jimmy, as he left for another voyage.

Mr. Sinclair had already proven himself to be a demonstrative man, and if given half a chance, she had no doubt he would happily demonstrate much, much more.

But Mr. Sinclair did not hold her in any
true
affection. As soon as he realized she was not receptive to his advances, he would be on his way, forgetting all about her. In fact, he was probably annoyed, rightfully so, at being dragged into their mess, and was undoubtedly devising a way even now of escaping their company. He’d leave, and her heart would be safe from his onslaught.

Sylvia flopped down on the bed, pulling the blankets up to her chin. Where was that blasted cat? She needed something warm to hold on to.

T
ony awoke in a strange room, morning light streaming through the window. Nothing unusual about that—he’d spent the night in a different bed, a different inn, every night for the last week. What was unusual was having a cat on his chest.

It faced him, its length running from Tony’s collarbone to hip bone.

“Good morning,” he whispered.

The black cat flipped its fluffy tail and blinked gold eyes at him, but left its chin resting on Tony’s chest.

“I don’t recall inviting you into my bed.” Cautiously, he raised one hand and stroked the cat. He was rewarded with a low rumbling purr. The cat looked at ease, but its position was more of a crouch than repose. At any moment, its claws could dig into all sorts of vulnerable flesh.

The cat blinked again. Tony continued stroking it, plunging his fingers into the thick, soft fur. Purring reverberated through his torso. When he paused, the cat nudged him with its head.

“So, I take it you’re in charge around here?” The cat stretched a paw to Tony’s chin, its claws sheathed. For now. “Less talking, more petting. Understood, sir. Or is it madam?” Tony resumed petting the cat.

Footsteps in the hall caught their attention. Both swiveled their gaze to the door. Without warning, the cat leaped from the bed and disappeared behind the faded armchair near the fireplace. The footsteps retreated, but the cat did not reappear.

Tony sat up, aching all over. His shoulder throbbed, and his kidneys must be bruised. He swore he’d never underestimate the strength of determined old men.

He scratched his beard stubble and looked around. Faded blue and white striped curtains let in the light, and a glimpse of the Channel in the distance. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, pushing the bed curtains out of the way. Dust motes swirled in the sunbeam. He sneezed. Standing barefoot on a threadbare rug, Tony assessed the antique furniture, the faded upholstery. Broad daylight was less flattering than the single candle last night. His reflection in the mirror had gaps where the silver had bubbled and peeled. “I’m guessing the money ran out about a generation ago, Lady Montgomery.”

He hadn’t heard anyone enter since he’d been escorted in here last night and Sawyer had disappeared into the dressing room that separated the two chambers, his hand resting suggestively on the pistol tucked into his belt. But Tony’s haversack was slung over the back of the dressing table’s chair, and a pitcher of fresh water sat in the cracked basin. “I suppose hot water and breakfast on a tray would be too much to expect, eh, kitty?”

The cat did not deign to reply. Tony peeked behind the chair, but there was no sign of the cat. The furnishings were sparse enough that he should have been able to spot the fluffy tail if the cat was still in the room. He shrugged, then washed, shaved, and changed into his only other clothes. Should he fold those he’d slept in and pack them into his haversack, or hang them up in the wardrobe? The watchdogs had agreed he could leave, but that was before the smuggling captain had expressed his preference for doing business with Tony, and left men behind at the inn.

He dropped onto the chair. Yesterday morning, his biggest concern had been how far he and Alistair would travel in the day, and whether they would reach an inn before getting thoroughly soaked in the rain. Today, he was a smuggler.

His brother Ben would be so proud.

Tony snorted. He tugged on his boots, straightened his cravat, and opened the dressing room door.

No one was there. The blanket had been neatly folded on the cot, which in turn had been tucked out of the way. Nonplussed, Tony stood still. There was no sound or movement in the other bedchamber, either.

He stepped out of the dressing room, then opened the door again and stuck his head inside. The master’s side still had several garments hanging, including the clothing he’d borrowed last night. But the lady’s side, which should have been overflowing with colorful gowns, held only a half dozen or so, in faded shades of gray and black.

At least one of the watchdogs had left. Was that because they had locked him in the room? Sylvia may not intend to keep him prisoner, but her watchdogs might. Well, he’d climbed up and down his share of drainpipes before. Nothing to it. But just in case, he tried the doorknob first.

The door swung open.

“Morning.” Doyle leaned against the railing, arms folded. “We thought you might sleep ’til noon.”

“Not generally.” Tony stepped into the hall. “Unless there was a great deal of alcohol involved the night before. Alcohol that was consumed, that is.”

Doyle gave a bark of laughter. “Follow me, and we’ll find you something to eat.” He led the way to the stairs. “Mind the third and fifth steps.” Since Doyle avoided those steps entirely, Tony skipped them as well.

Downstairs, Doyle led him to the dining room, whose wallpaper had water stains around the window, and kept going straight on through to the servant’s hall and down to the kitchen.

The housekeeper looked up from the pot she stirred at the hearth. “Told you he’d still be here come morning.” She held her hand out.

Doyle dug in his coat pocket and handed over a penny. “Lucky guess,” he grumbled.

“Never bet against me, chum.” Tony wasn’t sure if he should sit or go back to the dining room.

“Sit you down, lad.” The housekeeper pointed at the rough oak table with the wooden ladle in her hand. Tony obeyed. The housekeeper was also the cook, it appeared, as she scooped watery gruel into a bowl and set it before Tony. Soon he also had one scone of indeterminate flavor, with butter but no preserves, and weak tea with milk but no sugar. A request for other accompaniments was met with a shake of the cook’s head.

“Won’t have more until tomorrow, and that’s only if the boys get the load handled right and tight today.”

Tony nodded and dug into the paltry meal. All the excitement from last night had only increased his normally hearty appetite. This would have to do until he could get back to the inn for a real meal.

Ignored by the housekeeper, Doyle retrieved another cup from the drainboard and poured tea for himself. “Bloody hell, woman, didn’t you put any tea leaves in the pot?”

Galen cuffed him. “Soon as the lad is done eating, take him to see my lady, and then get your arse down and help with the load.”

Since it had taken only a few bites to consume the meager breakfast, Tony stood. “Ready.”

Doyle poured his untouched drink back into the teapot. “Until tomorrow, my fair Galen,” he said. He bent down to kiss the cook’s cheek.

“Get going,” she snapped, and thwacked him on the backside with the flat of her spoon. Despite the gruff tone, Tony noticed a hint of a grin stealing across the old gel’s cheeks.

Doyle led the way back upstairs, and down one hall to another until they went through a door and stepped into another world.

Unlike the water-stained and ancient wallpaper that covered the other walls, here daylight streamed in through clear glass walls and ceiling. He was assaulted by the rich, earthy scent of young plants and exotic trees. In the midst of the dense foliage he spotted Sylvia, draped in a faded gray gown and dirt-stained apron, working at a potting bench. She looked up at their arrival, and dropped a hand spade onto the bench and came toward them, wiping her hands on the apron.

“Good morning, Mr. Sinclair,” she called to him.

“Lady Montgomery.” Conscious of Doyle standing just behind him, Tony took her proffered hand and kissed her knuckles. He held her a little longer than necessary, relishing the feel of her warm, bare skin, noting the slight calluses, delighting in the appearance of her short blunt nails, complete with dirt beneath. Several sandy blond curls had come loose from the ribbon at her nape and danced around her cheeks. She pushed one out of the way with her forearm. The desire to tuck it behind her ear was so strong, Tony had to force his arm to remain at his side.

Doyle cleared his throat. Tony released Sylvia’s hand, and both took a step back.

“Thank you for showing our guest the way, Doyle.” Sylvia smiled up at him. “I’m sure we don’t want to detain you any longer.”

Doyle returned her smile with a grin of his own. “She says it a might nicer than old Galen, eh?” He gave Tony a nudge with his elbow. “I’ll just be down at the livery, my lady. Monroe and Corwin are still here, helping Gerald with the gold salon.”

Tony watched the silent message pass—Doyle and his brawn may be leaving, but help was still just a shout away. Now Tony knew the names of the watchdogs who’d slept outside his door, though he was still uncertain which was which.

Doyle left, and Sylvia returned to the potting bench, gesturing for Tony to follow.

“Trent and Baxter have been down to the inn this morning.” She resumed transplanting a tray of seedlings into small pots, not looking at Tony. “Captain Ruford’s first mate plans to stay here until the next cargo.” She finally looked up. Despite the bright sunlight flooding the room, he couldn’t read her expression. “A week from today.”

She seemed to expect a reply, but Tony didn’t know how to respond.

“His other crewman is staying, as well. They’ll both report back to Captain Ruford about, ah, the goings-on in the village.”

Tony filled the next pot with soil from the bucket, just as Sylvia had been doing. “Goings-on, such as our honeymoon?”

Her cheeks flushed a delightful shade of pink. “If you wanted to, I’m sure you could evade my men, and go back to the inn and talk to Ruford’s people. Or you could be on your way to wherever you were headed before you were detained—”

“Kidnapped.”

“—and not give us another thought.” She paused, as though the next words exacted a great toll on her. “But I ask that you not do that.”

Tony slid the filled pot across the bench top and picked up the next. “Why?”

Sylvia pulled the pot closer, made a well with her finger, plopped a seedling inside, and tucked the dirt around it. “Ruford was the only supplier who would even talk to me and Jimmy about doing business. Without the cargo Ruford delivers, there is no other way to bring income into the village before winter.” She gave the seedling another pat. “This is all we have.”

She accepted the next filled pot from him. “I don’t expect you to stay all season. I’m only asking that you stay until the next cargo is landed. A week at the most.” Despite her words, she looked pained by the thought of him remaining even an hour.

Their hands brushed as they moved the pots. Tony trailed his fingers over hers. “And what will you tell your captain after next week?”

Sylvia glanced up, her chin held high. “I will think of something by then.” She gathered up the potted seedlings into a crate.

“Let me see if I understand what you’re asking. You want me to go on pretending to be your new husband, at least for the next week. And we’re a family of smugglers?” He stepped closer to his “wife,” his breeches brushing the folds of her skirt.

Sylvia stepped back. “Yes.” Her eyebrows rose as he wiped his hands on her apron.

Hands now clean again, Tony tucked one of her curls behind her ear. His voice was husky when he spoke again. “And just how far do we carry this charade?” He brushed his thumb across her silky cheek.

Her breath caught, and released in a rush. “The whole village knows of our ruse by now. We just need to pretend for the sake of Ruford’s first mate and sailor.” She spun on her heel and carried the crate of seedlings to a row of shelves staggered against the south wall. “You’ll need to stay here rather than at the inn, of course. Sawyer, Doyle, and the others have already offered to take turns, ah…”

“Guarding your virtue from me?”

She blushed, a delightful pink that tinted her cheeks and neck, down to her collar. He wondered how far down the blush continued. “They’re very protective, and have been a tremendous help since Lord Montgomery passed, but sometimes…”

“They smother you?”

“I never said that.” She quickly transferred the pots to an open, sunny section on the middle shelf. She retrieved a pair of shears from the potting bench and began pruning a row of larger plants. “The accommodations may not be what you’re used to, but I can promise you clean sheets, meals at regular times, and one glass of the finest brandy every night, if you want it.”

Tony scooped up the leaves and stalks that fell. “Is the bed companion included in your offer?”

She dropped her shears. “Excuse me?”

He paused at her shocked expression, and barely suppressed a grin. “The black cat. It was on my chest when I woke up.”

“Macbeth was with you last night? Why, that—”

“Traitor?” Tony retrieved the shears. “He seemed quite at his ease on the bed, but disappeared as soon as we heard footsteps in the hall.”

“He knows he’s not supposed to be in Mont—that bedchamber. He usually sleeps with me.”

Tony held up the shears. Sylvia plucked them from his hand, careful not to touch him in the process. “And his disappearing act? There were no doors or windows open.”

She resumed pruning. “It’s a very old house. There’s rumored to be a priest’s hole somewhere, and any number of secret tunnels and corridors.”

Tony followed her, picking up the pruning debris. “Secret tunnels? How quaint.”

“Montgomery said it was all hogwash, but Macbeth seems to get into just about any room he wants, regardless of the state of the doors and windows. And the house is practically mouse-free.”

By now Tony’s hands were full. Lady Montgomery pointed out the compost bin just beyond the door to the outside.

He came back into the conservatory, now noting the orange trees with small fruit, strawberry plants heavy with green berries, and several other plants with young fruit. One row of pots he recognized as containing herbs. Everything growing under Sylvia’s care was either edible or useful in the stillroom. Everything had a practical purpose.

“So you’re willing to provide me with food and shelter, and all you ask in return is that I stay and maintain our charade?”

Sylvia rested her fists on her hips. “Well, on a property this size, there are always more tasks than workers.”