Smuggler's Lady (4 page)

There was no mistaking the implication. Lady Blake considered Lord Rutherford to be a useless parasite, one who did not know the meaning of hard work and genuine, well-earned hunger.

Rutherford thought bitterly of his years in the Peninsula, years of guerrilla warfare, of forced marches in all weathers, living off an inhospitable land, at the mercy of snipers and treacherous peasants, never sure where one would next lay one's head. Years that he had lived and loved to the full! And this little brown mouse had the unconscionable nerve to imply that he had known nothing but the feather-bedded life of a pampered aristocrat! Except that she was
not
a little brown mouse.

The mittened fingers continued to twist the corner of her napkin, her eyes were resolutely downcast, shoulders hunched.

Damian looked around the crowded dining room. For the moment, their fellow guests seemed absorbed in their supper, and he could detect no inquisitive glances in their direction. Leisurely, almost, he stretched a long forefinger, placed it beneath that square chin, and exerted firm pressure. The face, thus uplifted, expressed infuriated outrage—not a sign of the church mouse. He nodded thoughtfully. “A piece of advice, ma'am. Keep your sword sheathed. It is just possible that I am a more experienced duelist than you.”

The long, sable eyelashes dropped, obscuring the challenge in the dark eyes; the full lips began to tremble. “I cannot imagine what you can mean, sir,” Lady Blake whispered. The note of distress sounded appallingly genuine. His lordship released her chin instantly, suddenly afraid she was about to weep. What the devil was happening? He seemed to be losing his senses—one minute convinced that he was being made mock of by a consummate actress, the next convinced that he must have been mistaken. Either Merrie Trelawney, sister of Rob Trelawney, alias Lady Meredith Blake, was a most complete fraud, or Lord Rutherford had windmills in his head.

“Let us abandon this repellent pastry and take a turn about the terrace,” he suggested in a tone of voice that did not lend itself to suggestion.

“Pasty,” Meredith corrected automatically. “I have no desire to leave this room, my lord.”

“Fustian! You are in need of a little air. It is abominably stuffy in here.” He held out his hand, a polite smile on his lips. “If you argue with me, Lady Blake, it will appear most singular—much more so than a sedate stroll in full view of any interested persons.”

“Oh, but my lord, I would never presume to argue with you,” she murmured in horror. “But I am at a loss to understand why you should seek out my company in this particular fashion. There are many more interesting persons in the room.” Her eyelashes fluttered; her hands twisted in her lap.

“If you say so, ma'am” he concurred equably. “You would know much better than I, of course.” His hand remained outstretched in invitation. Meredith looked around them. She could not continue to ignore that invitation without drawing the most unwelcome notice. Except that it was not an invitation—it was an order. Barely controlling a grimace of angry frustration, Meredith laid her mittened fingers in his palm. His own closed over hers, and there was no mistaking the iron grasp that declared her captivity.

The terrace was not deserted, for which Meredith was initially grateful, but their companions were the young and giddy, escaping the eyes of chaperones for a brief interval. Muted giggles came from the shadows, an occasional, hastily suppressed squeal of delighted outrage. It was no suitable place for a respectable widow, Merrie reflected, however sedate their progression.

“I begin to feel a little
de trop
,” her companion observed as a young couple separated hastily on seeing them.

“We are certainly spoiling their fun.” Meredith, still struggling with her annoyance, was betrayed into tart agreement. Recollecting herself hastily, she tittered again, continuing in a tone of hesitant apology, “You, perhaps, find our country ways a little shocking, sir, but these youngsters have grown up together, and there is little harm in a few minutes of unchaperoned high spirits. They are not often granted the opportunity.”

“I have no wish to be a kill-joy. We shall walk on the lawn.” Before Merrie could demur, he had grasped her elbow firmly and proceeded to escort her down the flight of stone steps to the garden where lanterns swung from the trees, casting a soft, enticing glow.

Meredith felt a flicker of panic at the impression the sight of them, strolling in such a romantic setting, would create. “Please, sir, I do not wish to be here,” she whispered beseechingly, taking her hand from his arm.

“Oh, but I find it most pleasant,” he returned, retrieving her hand and, holding it tightly, guiding her onto a darkened path out of sight of the house. “It is a delightful night. Let us walk in the shrubbery.”

“No! ” Merrie squeaked, pulling at her hand. “I do not wish to.”

“But I do,” he replied evenly. “What are you afraid of, Lady Blake? That someone might get the wrong idea about you?”

She would have to be deaf, Meredith decided, to miss the sardonic emphasis to the question. If ever there was a moment for dramatic action, this was it. With a whimper, she went completely limp, sinking to the ground, her skirt settling in a corolla around her.

Rutherford swore violently, dropping in alarm to his knees beside the still figure. Her eyelashes fluttered as he lifted her in his arms. She was amazingly light under those folds of material, he noted even through his dismay at this unexpected turn of events.

“I do beg your pardon,” she whispered in a faint voice. “So silly of me, my lord. Pray put me down.”

“You are sure you can stand?” he asked anxiously although the last thing he wanted was to have to carry an inert Lady Blake into the house. The fuss that would cause sent shudders of revulsion down his spine, and dimly he realized that somehow or other his attempt to avenge himself on the widow had recoiled.

“Quite sure.” Her voice sounded stronger, her eyes opened. Clearly the prospect that dismayed him did not appeal to her either. “If you would just escort me back to the ballroom.”

He set her on her feet. “I will take you to Lady Barrat. She will know what to do for you.”

“That will not be necessary, sir. I have these turns on occasion. I shall be perfectly all right directly.” Meredith gave her companion a hopefully reassuring smile. It was met with a speculative frown.

“They appear to come conveniently, ma'am,” Rutherford observed. The sudden flash in the sloe eyes confirmed his suspicion. Lady Blake had just neatly extricated herself from her predicament, and he had no choice but to beat a strategic retreat to plan an attack from another quarter. That he would return to the fight, Lord Rutherford was resolutely determined.

He escorted her back to the ballroom and she disappeared instantly in the direction of the retiring room.

“Will ye join us in the card room, Lord Rutherford?” Sir Algernon appeared at his side. “I've a splendid brandy you'll enjoy. The Gentlemen do us proud.”

“Gladly,” Damian returned, remembering his other purpose in attending this horrendously cloddish evening. A little information about the Gentlemen might make up for his resounding defeat at the hands of the widow. “In a few minutes, if I may. I've a mind to clear my head in the garden.”

“By all means.” The squire clapped his lordship's shoulder in a jovial gesture of comprehension. “ 'Tis monstrous close in here. Too many bodies and too much exertion to my mind.”

“Just so,” Lord Rutherford concurred. The atmosphere in the ballroom was indeed becoming a trifle overpowering as the odors of sweat and perfume combined and the breath of the dancers misted the gilt-framed mirrors.

Standing on the terrace, breathing deeply of the fresh night air, the strains of music wafting over his head, he wondered what the devil he was doing here in this barbaric corner of God's earth where heavy pastry crusts enclosing a mélange of root vegetables and chopped meats were considered a delicacy, where young people romped indecorously and unsupervised, where frumpish widows made subtle mock of one of Wellington's colonels and, unless he was much mistaken, made the same mock of her neighbors who seemed to have swallowed the act hook, line and sinker. More fool them! But why? Damian, Lord Rutherford, was determined to find the reason, just as he was determined to teach the widow that one did not play games with him—not with impunity. It was just possible that this excursion into Cornish society was going to prove rather more entertaining than he had imagined.

Meredith, having dabbed cold water on her wrists and temples and sufficiently recovered her composure, returned to the ballroom, determined to avoid further exchanges with Lord Rutherford at all costs. She had quite forgotten, in the general disturbance of the evening, to ask the Abbots for a place in their carriage. Now she found, to her dismay, that they had been gone a half-hour since. The company in the ballroom was quite depleted, and Merrie was faced with the humiliating prospect of presenting her predicament to Patience.

“My dear Meredith.” Patience bustled over to her. “What excitement!” She fanned herself busily, plump, beringed fingers curling around the ivory sticks. “Such attention as he paid you. Quite unlooked for! ”

“Quite,” Meredith agreed drily, then, seeing the flash of surprise in Lady Barrat's eyes, moderated her tone. “It was a mere kindness on his part, Patience,” she fluttered, dropping her gaze, playing with her fan with a fair assumption of embarrassment. “He happened to meet Rob yesterday and was kind enough to say that he found the young scapegrace quite engaging.” It was half true, at least!

“Oh, I see.” Patience was clearly relieved at such a simple explanation for an extraordinary circumstance. “We are all sensible of your difficulties, my dear.” Her voice dropped confidingly. “Sir Algernon, you know, would be most willing to offer advice. A single woman is not equipped to manage growing boys.”

“You will thank Sir Algernon for me,” Meredith said with a demure smile. “Such consideration quite overwhelms me.” Her fan moved rapidly, hiding the flash of irritation in her eyes. Now, more than ever, she was determined not to reveal her carriage-less state to her hostess. Patience was clearly expecting her to make her farewells. It was hardly seemly for the widow to be amongst the last guests, but Meredith smiled blandly, turning toward the terrace. With any luck, Patience would be so occupied with bidding farewell to the others that she would not remember Lady Blake. She had simply to slip through the doors into the garden and make a discreet escape. It was but three miles home, easily walked in less than an hour even in thin slippers and an evening gown. Patience would just assume that she had left in her usual retiring fashion, too shy to intrude with her own farewells. A polite note of thanks on the morrow would satisfy the courtesies.

Her disappearance was simply accomplished for one accustomed to moving with speed and stealth and taking advantage of what cover was available. It was a soft night, heavy with the scent of honeysuckle, and, once clear of the house, Merrie, with a blissful sense of release from captivity, sat on a bank to remove her stockings and slippers, the better to enjoy her solitary walk. She was about to tuck the skirts of the loathed bombazine into the legs of her frilled pantalettes to free her stride when the unmistakable clop of hooves rang from around the corner of the paved road.

Merrie's heart sank as she thought of the picture she must present. There was little hope that the rider would not know her. Strangers were not wont to be abroad at this time of night, and she would be a familiar figure to any resident for miles around. There was nowhere to hide, except the muddy ditch, but, for once, there was nothing illegal about her presence on the road in the middle of the night. Small comfort, perhaps—the sight of her would set the gossips' tongues to running. The sound came closer and she pushed her shoes and stockings behind her on the bank—no time to put them on again. Inspiration would come, it usually did, but the explanation for her plight would depend on the identity of her discoverer. A local farmer would require something less elaborate than a fellow guest at the hunt ball. Tucking her bare feet beneath her skirts, Lady Blake sat upon the bank, a veritable picture of patience-in-waiting, as the horse and rider drew near.

“The deuce take it!” an all-too-familiar voice exclaimed. “If it isn't Lady Blake, taking her ease by the roadside.” He sat the most magnificent black Meredith had ever seen, one hand resting casually on his hip, the other holding the reins loosely. Those eyebrows lifted quizzically, and his mouth curved in a smile that contained more than a hint of triumph.

Meredith gnashed her teeth in impotent fury. Anyone else she could have dealt with easily, but she had already developed the unwelcome conviction that, in Lord Rutherford, Merrie Trelawney was in danger of meeting her match. “I am sure you think it a most singular circumstance, Lord Rutherford,” she said stiffly.

“Well, yes,” he said with due consideration. “I think that I do.” He dismounted. “May I join you? You look most comfortable.” The gods had decided to smile on him at last, Damian thought complacently. What a stroke of good fortune to catch the deceptive little widow at such a monumental disadvantage. She could feign as many swoons as she wished, out here in the middle of the night, and they would do her not a whit of good.

Maybe an appeal to chivalry would work, Merrie thought rapidly and without much hope. “It is most embarrassing, my lord, to be discovered in this position.” A slight shudder shook the slender shoulders. “I cannot tell you how mortifying I find it, but I must beg you to continue on your way.” The long eyelashes batted vigorously, the full lips trembled beseechingly. “Pray continue on your way, my lord, so that I may continue on mine.”

“You cannot expect me to be so unchivalrous as to abandon a lady in such a plight,” he remonstrated, spying her shoes and stockings on the bank behind her. Now why the devil was she not wearing them? A bubble of laughter threatened his composure.

Meredith saw the direction of his gaze and bit her lip crossly. There was no possible explanation but the truth for that embarrassment. “I find it easier to walk barefoot,” she offered.

“But of course,” he responded smoothly. “Quite understandable. I am sure you have a perfectly good reason for nighttime peregrinations, also?”

Merrie, abandoning the masquerade, spoke acidly. “Since you are aware of that fact, sir, I suggest you accept my reasons as both sufficient and not your concern.”

It was not a suggestion that suited Lord Rutherford in the least. One did not look gift horses in the mouth and, if ever he had encountered a gift horse, it was now. He shook his head. “No, Lady Blake, I am not to be so easily dismissed. I will escort you home.”

Merrie wished she could stand up, straighten her shoulders, and walk away from him. To do so, she would either have to hitch up her skirt and petticoat and put on her stockings or pick up both shoes and stockings and proceed, barefoot and bare-legged. Neither alternative was a remote possibility. “I require no escort, sir. You need have no fears for my safety. I know the road and am well-known in these parts, so I am unlikely to be molested.”

Lord Rutherford thought, with an inner chuckle, that he had no fears for her safety. For some reason that he couldn't yet fathom, he was convinced that Merrie Trelawlney was more than capable of taking a care for herself. But that consideration was not the point of this exchange. He was owed a victory and was disinclined to give it up, not when it hung ready for the picking. “I do beg your pardon, Lady Blake, but I find myself quite unable to leave you here.” He smiled apologetically. “Some quite ridiculous, and I'm sure unnecessary, notions of propriety prevent me.”

“Rules of propriety pertaining in London society, sir, do not apply in the wilds of Cornwall,” Meredith snapped. “You will have a miserable time of it during your visit here if you uphold such lofty standards.”

“I will remember your advice.” Lord Rutherford rose, bowed, picked up her discarded footwear. “You will find it more comfortable to ride if you replace your shoes and stockings,” he said, dropping them in her lap.

Meredith blinked, as if to dispel this dreamlike sensation of being quite out of control of the situation. “Lord Rutherford, I do not think you can have heard me correctly—unless your wits are quite addled—by Sir Algernon's brandy, perhaps?” Mobile eyebrows lifted, all thoughts of caution dissipated under an anger that was as much defensive as aggressive.

“Both my wits and my hearing are perfectly sharp,” he assured her. “Yours, on the other hand, appear to be a trifle slow this evening.” Dropping on one knee in front of her, he took a stocking out of her lap. Even as she sat, transfixed on the bank, he possessed himself of one foot and then, with a skill that bespoke practice, slipped the stocking over the foot, smoothing out the wrinkles as he eased it over both ankle and calf, calmly pushing up her skirt to facilitate his progress. Meredith, after a moment's frozen horror when she watched his fingers sliding up her bare leg, feeling the stroking warmth smoothing over her skin, lashed out. Her flat palm, powered with the full force of her arm, cracked against his cheek.

The gray eyes closed for an instant, his head falling back under the blow, but the hands remained on her leg. “You would do well to remember, Merrie Trelawney, that that is the one and only time you will do such a thing without my permission.” The voice was level, his face, seared with the scarlet mark of her hand, quite expressionless. And the top of her stocking reached her thigh.

She wanted to hit him again more than she had ever wanted to do anything in her life but, to her utter fury, found that she did not dare. The note of chill certainty in his voice was one she had never heard before although it would have been familiar enough to any man under the command of Colonel, Lord Rutherford. Desperately, she tugged at her imprisoned leg, bracing herself with her hands on the bank beside her. The maneuver achieved nothing, and her garter slipped over the top of her stocking before her unlikely maid turned his attention to her other leg.

“I could
kill
you,” she declared in a choked whisper. “How
dare
you do this to me?”

“You gave me little option,” he said coolly, “having refused to do it for yourself. There now.” Her slippers slid over her feet, her skirt and petticoat were pulled down to her ankles, and Lord Rutherford stood up, extending his hand. “On your feet, Lady Blake.” His fingers snapped imperatively.

Quivering with temper, Merrie turned her head away from him in mute defiance. “Dear me,” he said, shaking his head in mild exasperation. “You do not appear to be an apt pupil at all.” He bent and, before she had time to realize his intention, scooped her up into his arms. Forgetting his unspoken warning, Merrie slapped him again. There was an instant of dreadful silence during which she fancied she could still hear the resounding crack of her flat palm. Then he spoke very softly. “I repeat, Merrie Trelawney, you are not an apt pupil. You will not, I trust, deny my right to retaliate.” Meredith was speechless, shaking now with fright rather than rage as he set her down, standing her against the trunk of an oak tree. Both of her wrists were seized in one large hand, and she stood sandwiched between the tree and what suddenly seemed to be an alarmingly broad, sinewy body, radiating strength and determination.

Merrie forced herself to meet his eyes. She could not begin to imagine what form the retaliation would take, but she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her fear. A long-fingered hand encircled the slender column of her neck, the thumb feeling the wildly beating pulse at the base of her throat. “Mmmm,” he murmured, smiling slightly. Meredith did not, however, find the smile reassuring. “What exactly are you, Merrie Trelawney?” It was clearly a rhetorical question since, before she could reply, she found herself unable to do so. His mouth came down on hers, the pressure bending her head back, holding her immobile against the tree, the grip on her wrists tightening as she fought back in a wash of panic. Meredith thought she would suffocate under the bruising punishment of a kiss that pressed her lips against her teeth, her body against his length so close she could feel the rapid thud of his heart against her breast, the power of his thighs forcing her to be still. Then abruptly the pressure ceased although he continued to hold her. The lips on hers softened, the hand at her throat stroked gently before moving downward, gliding over the swell of her breasts beneath the stiff material of her gown. Merrie felt herself tremble deep within her at some core she had not known she possessed. She trembled, not with anger or fear this time, but with some sensation previously unknown to her. His tongue ran over her lips gently, then more insistently, demanding entrance. The hand at her bosom traced the outline of her breasts, circled their tips with knowing urgency until her nipples peaked hard and her lips parted to receive the exploration of a muscular tongue.

After what seemed an eternity of sensation, Rutherford straightened slowly, raising his head to look down at the stunned, heart-shaped face below. The sloe eyes were bemused, the full lips kiss-reddened, the ivory complexion tinged with pink. What had started out as retribution had taken a most definite turn in the reverse direction, he reflected, absentmindedly running a finger over the bridge of her freckled nose. “I think that perhaps you had better make a habit of slapping me,” he said with a smile. “I found the consequences most pleasant.”

“
I
did not,” Merrie denied in a stifled voice, turning her head away.

“Liar,” he accused, gently and without rancor. “But I'll not prove it to you again tonight, much as I would like to. Let us go.” Taking her elbow, he turned her toward Saracen. “Do you prefer to ride pillion or before me?”

Meredith swallowed. “I prefer to walk—alone!”

“I should find it easier to have you before me,” Lord Rutherford continued as if she had not spoken. “Up with you.” Catching her by the waist, he lifted her onto the saddle with the firm injunction to hold the pommel. The black stood at least twenty hands, Merrie thought, looking down at the distant ground, wondering if she dared leap from her perch. “If you do, I shall simply put you back again,” her companion said, reading her thoughts with infuriating accuracy. He then swung up behind, reaching around her for the reins, asking with formal solicitude, “Are you quite comfortable, Lady Blake?”