Smuggler's Lady (19 page)

“Is this reckless enough for you, my hotheaded little adventuress?” Damian demanded, suddenly loosening his hold so that she slipped down his length until her feet touched sand again. “Come, we are going to swim.”

Merrie let out an involuntary wail of protest as he seized her hands and hauled her down the beach. “I do not wish to swim. Why must we stop?”

“If you have not yet learned the pleasures of anticipation, little hothead, I look forward to teaching you,” Rutherford announced, striding into the waves, Merrie, perforce, following. “There is much to be gained from prolonging one's pleasures, my love.”

When the water reached the top of her thighs, he stopped and drew her close against him, one hand encircling her waist while the other tilted her chin. He was smiling, but something lurked in his eyes that she struggled to read—a combination of desire, hurt, determination. Then her own eyes closed under his kiss, and his hand left her chin to trace the outline of her breasts, rising clear of the water that cooled and stroked her lower body. Gently, he rolled her hardening nipples between thumb and forefinger, increasing the pressure until she moaned and shivered, the throbbing heat of her body in sharp contrast to the cold, lapping sea. Damian bent her backward slightly over his encircling arm as his other hand drifted downward over her belly where his fingers lost themselves in the soft dark triangle at its base. His knee nudged her thighs apart to receive the cold caress of the sea even as his fingers followed the water, probing deeply, insistently until her moans became little sobbing cries of delight. The sea became as much an instrument of her pleasure as his hand, and he used it, drawing her backward into deeper water where she floated against his arm, her body drifting free and open for exploration. When she was mindless, only a sensate being at one with the watery element that held and caressed her indivisible from the man, he carried her to the water's edge and laid her down in the shallow, creaming surf. The sand shifted beneath her under the rhythmic progression and retreat of the little waves as he possessed her with the fierce urgency of his own pent-up passion kept waiting during the long moments of her joy. And that earlier joy was as nothing compared to the wonder that now flooded her, caught between his body and the shifting sand and sea.

Spent, they lay, each enclosing the other, allowing the sea to slap and stroke them, until finally Damian moved his mouth from hers and drew them both upright. Dreamily, as if still entranced, they washed the sand off each other. Meredith shivered suddenly and Damian, torn back to the reality of night air and cold water on overheated bodies, seized her hand.

“You must run, love,” he commanded. “You will catch your death of cold!” He began to run along the beach, pulling her along behind him. Merrie stumbled and at first protested this rude interruption of bewitchment, then, as the blood began to flow fast in her veins and the salt sea to dry on her skin, she laughed exultantly, lengthening her stride to keep pace with him, her hair streaming in the breeze.

Only when he was satisfied that they were both dry and relatively warm did Damian stop running. Laughing and touching, they dressed hastily and returned to the lamplit cave where the burgundy awaited its welcome.

“You are as mad for risks as I am myself.” Meredith chuckled, rising on her toes to kiss him. “More so, I think.”

“Since I must compete with smuggling to provide sufficient excitement for you, I have little choice, it seems.”

Meredith stepped back, wincing as if he had struck her. “That, then, was done out of anger?” she asked in a low voice.

Rutherford frowned, pressing a thumb and forefinger against his temples. “Initially,” he said slowly. “I was angry, but my anger did not survive beyond the first touch.” He regarded her gravely for a moment, then his lips curved in a tiny smile. “It shall be as you wish, Merrie Trelawney—an adventure. I am not fool enough to give up what little I have because it cannot be as much as I would like.”

For some reason, the statement gave her little comfort. It was as if he were upbraiding her for a niggardly offering in exchange for his own largesse. Yet Merrie knew she was right. She had too much pride to accept the world he held out for her, the simple, magnanimous solution to all her difficulties. It was not possible for two such different people from such vastly different realms of society to deal together in marriage. Rutherford was not behaving like the son and heir to the Duke of Keighley at present, and there were reasons aplenty for this step out of character. But someone had to prevent a hideous mistake that could ruin both their lives. Both? Meredith laughed mirthlessly to herself. It would ruin Damian's as surely as the sun would rise tomorrow. She, on the other hand, would simply collapse into the lap of luxury, her future and that of the boys secure for the rest of their lives. Rutherford would never go back on his word, however disastrous his error of judgment. And when he discovered that an unconventional Cornishwoman was not the wife he needed or really wanted, then he would face a most disastrous error of judgment. No, clearly Meredith must think for them both.

She found, however, that she had no further need to think. In the following days, the subject of marriage was never again referred to. At night in the cave, they loved gloriously and free of care or conflict. Their days were enlivened by their shared secret, and Damian found his talents for the stage improving by the hour. Merrie was outrageous with her innuendos, spoken in dulcet tones, so that he had often great difficulty maintaining a sober countenance. And while she was not engaged in smuggling, he was unafraid for her safety.

This happy state of affairs, unfortunately, was short-lived.

It was in Fowey that Meredith first made the acquaintance of Lt. Richard Oliver. She had satisfactorily completed her business with lawyer Donne and was in a cheerful mood as she ordered a bolt of gray worsted of the finest quality to be made up into suits for Theo and Rob before they returned to Harrow next month. It was most pleasing to find no need to stint on this expenditure, and she ordered three new shirts apiece in addition.

“Ye'll be bringing the young gentlemen in for fittings, Lady Blake?” Sam Helford, the tailor, bowed her to the door, every bit as pleased as his customer at this substantial piece of business.

“Next week,” Meredith agreed, drawing on her gloves. “I'll probably have to tie Rob down in order to do so, though.”

Sam chuckled. He'd been doing business with the Trelawneys, like his father before him, since he'd first taken over the shop. His laughter died, however, as he peered out into the street. He spat contemptuously into the dust. “Demmed coastguard! Look at that fine fellow they've brought down from Bodmin.”

Meredith looked. An immaculate gentleman in scarlet coat with epaulets, dark-blue britches, and cocked hat stood on the steps of the custom house. “Who is he, Sam?”

“From the regiment in Bodmin.” Sam spat again. “Sent to kick this dozy lot in the backside, beggin' your pardon, m'lady. That last delivery and the madeira on the steps finished ‘em off. Can't have it said a passle o' smugglers got the revenue on the run!”

“No, indeed not,” Meredith agreed thoughtfully. Bart had told her of this new arrival, but she could not reveal her prior knowledge to Sam. “I had not heard of this. When did he arrive?”

“Two days ago,” her informant supplied. “ 'Tis said he's been creating somethin' dreadful in the custom house. Thinks he'll make soldiers outta them.” Sam's sardonic laugh showed what he thought of this hope.

Meredith shrugged with a fair assumption of indifference. “He'll have scant welcome from the folks here abouts, I'll be bound.” Then she frowned. Lord Rutherford had appeared around the corner of the street and was riding purposefully towards the custom house and the soldier on the steps.

“Not from foreigners, it seems,” Sam grunted, watching as the two men greeted each other. “But what else can you expect of a Londoner? 'Tis time that lord went back where he came from.”

Meredith couldn't help her smile. Strangers, or foreigners as they were called, were regarded with deep suspicion by the locals. Not even his connection with Matthew Mallory could win Rutherford acceptance in the villages. And he would certainly not endear himself if he were to be seen on amiable terms with the detested revenue.

Bidding farewell to Sam, she crossed the street toward the two men. It would not be considered strange in her to acknowledge Lord Rutherford. They were known to be acquainted, and he was seen often enough in the company of her brothers for an exchange of greetings to be thought necessary.

“Good morning, Lord Rutherford.” She held up her hand, squinting in the bright sunlight reflected off the smooth flat waters of the River Fowey.

“Lady Blake. Your servant, ma‘am.” Reaching down, he took her hand, exerting special but invisible pressure. Their eyes locked in mischief and memory for the barest instant before he said, “You have not, I think, met Lieutenant Oliver, ma'am. He is but newly arrived from Bodmin to take the revenue forces in hand.”

“Indeed,” she said coldly. “A pleasure, Lieutenant.”

The soldier clicked his heels together and bowed. “Your ladyship, an honor.”

“You are come, then, to engage in battle with this audacious smuggler who leaves presents for the coastguard?” Her smile was silky and did nothing to hide the note of derision in her voice.

The lieutenant flushed a dull red. It was a note he had heard in the voice of every one he had so far met in Fowey except for Lord Rutherford. “That particular gentleman will find himself at the end of a rope in Bodmin jail, ma'am,” he said stiffly. “We'll not put up with it any longer. He'll find that under my command, the forces of law and order will be something to be reckoned with.”

“I commend your confidence, Lieutenant,” Meredith said sweetly. “Good day, gentlemen.” She dropped a small curtsy before going back across the street to where her mare waited.

“Cornishmen!” the lieutenant muttered viciously. “Two years I've been in Bodmin and I still don't understand them. They don't have a civil word for strangers, and no respect for the law. But I'll have that smuggler despite 'em!”

“I wish you luck, Lieutenant.” Rutherford sounded genuinely sympathetic, and the other man's grim expression softened slightly.

“Of course, my lord, being a foreigner in these parts yourself, you know just what I mean.”

“On the contrary, I have met with a deal of civility,” Damian replied. “But then, I am not bent on halting the supply of contraband.” He laughed, nodded farewell, and turned Saracen to follow Merrie, who was proceeding on her mare along the quay in the direction of the Landreth road.

He caught her up easily enough. “May I bear you company, Lady Blake? We are fellow travelers, it would seem.”

“By all means, sir.” She smiled but looked thoroughly distracted, he decided.

“What think you of our friend, Lieutenant Oliver?” he enquired casually.

“A pompous ass with an overweaning conceit,” she condemned roundly.

“Do not underestimate him, Merrie,” Damian warned softly. “I have gone to some pains to discover a little about him. You may treat him with the contempt of your fellow Cornishmen, but you will do so at your peril.”

Meredith was silent, but a deep frown drew arched brows together over the purple eyes. “I'll not underestimate him,” she said eventually. “Indeed, I shall enjoy a worthy opponent, I think. Tell me what you know of him.” The frown had vanished, and she turned on him eyes that were alight with mischievous curiosity. It was a look that filled her companion with foreboding.

“He is a career soldier of some repute, Merrie. A man who has fought with Wellington before his regiment was withdrawn to serve its country at home. You will find him both intelligent and energetic.”

“All the better. The challenge will add spice to the enterprise.” She nudged the mare into a trot. With a sigh, Rutherford followed suit.

“You will surely take additional precautions?” he demanded.

“But of course.” She smiled a reassurance that quite failed to satisfy him. “We have our own spy amongst their ranks. He has not failed us yet.”

“And if he is discovered?”

She shrugged. “That is a bridge we will cross when we reach it, sir.”

“Would it not be sensible to lie low for a while?” he asked, trying to sound reasonable and detached, to keep the panicky plea from his voice.

“But think how poor-spirited,” Merrie protested. “Besides, everything is arranged.” She put the mare to a canter and Damian, after a shocked moment as the words sunk in, thundered after her.

“
What
is arranged?”

“The next run. It is for tomorrow night.” She waved an airy hand. “I was going to tell you when next we met.”

Forgetting that they were on a public highway, Rutherford leant over, seized the mare's bridle, and pulled her to a halt. “Am I supposed to believe that you would have told me if we had not chanced to have this conversation?” The gray eyes were mere slits.

“Yes, of course. I promised that I would tell you, did I not?” She was a picture of innocence. “I had just thought that it would be easier for you if you did not know until the last minute. You would have less time to worry, you understand.”

Flabbergasted at this blithe statement, Damian was struck dumb for a moment. Then he said savagely, “One of these days, Meredith, I am convinced I shall wring your neck if the law has not done the job for me!”

“Oh, do not get on your high ropes,” Merrie begged. “It will be quite safe, I assure you. I do not think Lieutenant Oliver will expect anything quite so soon after his arrival. He will think that the smugglers must run from the fire he breathes at least until they have had time to weigh up his mighty powers.”

“If you believe that, then you are a fool,” Damian said curtly.

“I do believe it, and I am no fool,” she retorted. “There seems little point in riding together if we are to quarrel, Lord Rutherford.”

“For once we find ourselves in agreement,” he replied furiously, releasing the mare's bridle. “Continue on your way, Lady Blake.”

She went ahead for a few paces, then reined in the mare, turning back to him. “I am sorry. You are frightened and I have no right to make light of your fears. It is easier for me because I am active. I understand how difficult it must be for you, having to sit and wait.”

“It is the very devil!” he exploded. “If you understand that, why must you do it?”

“You know the answer, love.” Smiling, she laid her hand over his. “I am committed to the run tomorrow night. It has been arranged this age and too many people are involved for a change of plan. After tomorrow, I will talk with Bart.”

Rutherford sighed. “I suppose I must be satisfied with that.”

Could he have been a fly on the wall of the custom house later that day, he would have been far from satisfied, would probably have hauled Meredith from her horse, placed her across his own saddle, and removed her forthwith from both temptation and danger.

Experience with Cornishmen had taught Lieutenant Oliver caution. It had occurred to him that the presence in the custom house of certain local employees who were not members of His Majesty's coastguard was inviting a wider disclosure of his plans than was perhaps wise. As a result, Luke's brother-in-law had gone home for the night before the lieutenant gathered his men together and proceeded to outline his plan. It was a plan beautiful and comprehensive in its simplicity. Instead of making random raids along the coast, they would be on the watch every night. They did not know which beach was used, but they did know that it was one along the short stretch of coast between Fowey and Mevagissey. It was reasonable to assume that a signal of some kind would be given from the shore. They would simply post watchers.

The men grumbled, muttered at the waste of time and energy. To be on the alert every night meant less time in the taprooms. The grousing died under the steely stare of their commanding officer. Since the only brush the coastguard had had so far with the smugglers had been on the road near Landreth, they would concentrate their activities there for the first few days, but they would do so discreetly.

Lieutenant Oliver glared at the circle of sullen faces. “Discreetly,” he repeated. “Keep out of the taverns and away from the villages. You'll learn nothing by being visible. We catch them when they don't know we're there. We need the advantage of surprise only once.” This last was said with such quiet, confident emphasis that a flicker of enthusiasm showed on the hitherto unresponsive faces of his audience. “Just once,” he said again, “and the man who makes a mockery of His Majesty's laws will be yours.”

A low rumble ran around the room and the lieutenant nodded his satisfaction. “It'll be some time before we can transport him to Bodmin. You'll have him in custody here some days, I shouldn't wonder.”

That thought was more than sufficient inducement to give the lieutenant a willing and eager force to hand. “We start tonight,” he said briskly, unrolling a detailed map of the immediate area.

That night, there were men deployed at significant positions along the headland between Fowey and Mevagissey, and, if a light had been shown from Devil's Point, it would not have escaped notice. All was quiet, however, as those that they sought went about their legitimate business.

Lord Rutherford, leaving the lovers' nest in the cliff just before midnight, wore a preoccupied frown. Meredith had been as gay and loving as ever, and he had held his tongue on the subjects of marriage and smuggling. He had helped her dismantle their playhouse in preparation for the following night's arrivals, and the grimly serious nature of the business had stood out in stark contrast to the flippant gauze of their play. On parting, she had clung to him just a little longer and tighter than usual, and he had known full well that, for all her appearance of carefree insouciance, she was fully sensible of the dangers. If only she were not so blindly obstinate, he thought with the now familiar sense of helpless frustration.

Saracen whinnied a soft greeting as Rutherford gained the copse where the black had become accustomed to his nightly stable under the trees. Deciding for a change to take the cliff road rather than the fields back to Mallory House, Damian turned his mount toward the dark sea where white-tipped breakers gleamed in the moonlight. It was a magnificent coastline of craggy cliffs rising sheer from foaming surf, long sandy beaches in quiet coves, its treachery hard to believe on a quiet night; yet only the most skilled sailor, well-versed in the ways of these waters, would venture beyond the headland.

A movement on the field side of the path set the hairs aprickle on the nape of his neck. Who else would be abroad at this hour? Unless there were other clandestine lovers returning from the trysting place. A remote possibility! Rutherford realized that foolishly he was unarmed except for his riding whip. Somehow, the presence of footpads in this small, close-knit community had not occurred to him. Saracen tossed his head, the skin of his long sinewy neck rippling. He, too, was alerted to the possibility of danger, the sense of someone close by.

Whoever it was did not show himself, but throughout the ride, Rutherford could almost feel disembodied eyes on his back. His scalp tingled with the knowledge of hidden watchers, and his sense of foreboding increased.