The Smuggler and the Society Bride

‘Nay, just trying to jaw some sense in your head,’ Dickin said placatingly.

‘Well, landing’s my business, not yours, and best you remember it,’ John said. Turning away, he called for the men holding the bound and blindfolded revenue agent to throw him into one of the carts.

After watching the brother pace away, Gabe said, ‘Promise me, Dickin, the revenuer will get safely back to town? What happens on the high seas is up to God. I’d hate to abandon you still needing a replacement skipper for the Flying Gull, but I’ll not be a party to murder.’

‘’Tis a most inconvenient conscience you’ve developed of late, Gabe my lad,’ Dickin remarked.

‘We used to share the same scruples,’ Gabe replied. ‘You’d never have shot a French prisoner back on the Peninsula. Nor have left one for the partisans, though Heaven knows the Spaniards had reason enough to torture the French.’ Smiling anew at the irony of it, Gabe continued, ‘Our former enemies…with whom you now trade for brandy, silk and lace!’

‘True,’ Dickin acknowledged cheerfully. ‘But war is war and commerce is commerce.’

‘Still, it wasn’t sporting of Tomas to sail so close to the cliffs. He knows where that underwater ledge is. Our new revenuer obviously didn’t.’

Kessel shrugged. ‘His own fault, giving chase in daylight. If he wishes to hamper the trade, he’ll have to get to know the coastline better.’

‘Or try to follow us at night, when we, too, show a healthier respect for the rocks.’

‘I doubt any of the revenuers wish to test the sea after dark,’ Kessel replied. ‘Few enough Cornishmen have your fool Irish daring. Or your expertise with a boat.’

‘I’ll ignore that jab at my heritage and accept your compliments on my skill,’ Gabe said with a grin.

‘Sure you’ll not consider staying on once Conan’s fit to resume command of the Gull?’ Kessel asked. ‘You’ve probably earned enough already from your cut of the profits to buy your own boat. We could make a good team, just as we did fighting Boney’s best! Unless you’ve changed your mind about returning home to be your brother’s pensioner?’

Gabe had a sudden vision of the family manor at Ballyclarig, windswept Irish hills—and his elder brother Nigel’s frowning face. ‘I’m not sure yet what I mean to do, but it won’t include staying on in Ireland. I was at the point of setting out…somewhere, when you came calling.’

‘Lucky I did, since with you fully recovered from your wounds, ’tis likely you and your brother would have murdered each other, if he’s as self-righteous as you’ve described him.’ Kessel clapped a hand on Gabe’s shoulder. ‘Though there’s naught to that. Brothers often fight—look at me and Johnnie! Especially when one holds the whip hand over the other. Did you never get on?’

For an instant, Gabe ran though his mind the whole history of his dealings with the older brother who, for as long as Gabe could remember, had criticized, tattled about or disapproved of everything he did or said. ‘No,’ he replied shortly.

‘Best that you move on, then,’ Dickin said. A mischievous light glowed in his eyes and he laughed. ‘Wouldn’t that fancy family of yours disown you forever if they found out exactly how you’ve been helping your old Army friend?’

Gabe pictured the horror that would doubtless come over his brother’s austere features, were the punctilious Sir Nigel Hawks-worth ever to discover the occupation his scapegrace younger brother was pursuing in Cornwall. After casting Gabe off permanently, he’d probably set the nearest King’s agents after him.

Shaking off the reflection, Gabe said, ‘Let us speak of pleasanter things. Who was the charming Aphrodite who launched herself into the water? I’ve not seen her before. After her display of sympathy for the revenuer, I assume she must not be from Cornwall.’

‘She isn’t,’ Dickin confirmed. ‘Don’t recall the name, but ’tis not Af-ro-dye—or whatever you said. My sister Tamsyn, who’s a maid up at Foxeden Manor, says she’s staying there with old Miss Foxe. Some relation or other. I’ve seen her on the cliff walk a time or two.’

Realizing a dame-schooled seaman-turned-soldier probably wouldn’t be acquainted with Greek mythology, Gabe didn’t pursue the allusion. For the first time, he felt a niggle of sympathy for the humourless cleric Papa had employed to try to beat into his mostly unappreciative younger son the rudiments of a gentleman’s education.

His rule-bound tutor provided just one example of the rigid parental discipline that had sent him fleeing into the Army at the first opportunity. How would he have escaped Papa’s heavy hand, Gabe mused, if Bonaparte’s desire for glory hadn’t pushed his nation into a war in which it was every Englishman’s patriotic duty to contribute a son to the regiments? Especially a rapscallion younger son no tutor had ever managed to break to bridle.

Shaking his mind back to the present, he repeated, ‘Some relation of Miss Foxe. Is she staying long, do you know?’

Dickin raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ll see if Tamsyn can find out. So, ’tis not enough you’ve all the maids hereabouts sighing over you—and barmaids at the Gull fighting each other to warm your bed. You must hunt fresh game?’

Gabe shrugged. ‘What can one do when he is young, daring, handsome—’ Breaking off with a chuckle, he ducked Dickin’s punch.

‘You’ll soon catch your death of a chill if you don’t get your handsome self into some dry clothes,’ Dickin retorted. ‘I’d as soon not lose my new skipper—or my closest Army comrade—just yet. Off with you, while I help the boys move the cargo inland. I’ll see what Tamsyn can turn up about the lady.’

Gabe bowed with a flourish. ‘I’d be most appreciative.’

‘Aye, well, see that you show me how much on your next run. We’ll meet at the inn later, as usual.’

Clapping Gabe on the back, his friend trotted off. Gabe made his way up the cliff walk, pausing to watch as the well-organized team of farmers, sailors and townsmen quickly freed the tubs from their temporary moorings, floated them to shore, then hefted them onto carts to be pushed and dragged up the slope to the waiting wagons. While one or two of the men nodded an acknowledgment, most ignored him as they passed by.

’Twas the way of the free-traders, he knew. Don’t watch too closely, don’t look a man in the face, so if the law ever questions you, you can truthfully reply that you know nothing.

At the top of the cliff, Gabe retrieved his horse and set off for what currently constituted home—the room he rented at the Gull’s Roost, the inn at Sennlack owned by Richard and John’s father, Perran.

The six months’ run as skipper of the Flying Gull that he’d promised his comrade who’d saved his life at Vittoria would expire at summer’s end, Gabe mused, setting the horse to a companionable trot. He had as yet not settled what he meant to do once his time in Cornwall was over.

He’d given his brother Nigel no promise of return and only the briefest of explanations before going off with Dickin, leaving Nigel to remark scornfully that he hoped after Gabe had scoured off the smudges he’d made on the family escutcheon with some honest soldiering, he wouldn’t proceed to soil it again indulging in some disgraceful exploit with that seagoing ruffian.

If Nigel knew Gabe was skippering a boat for a free-trader, he would probably suffer apoplexy. How could one explain to a man whose whole world revolved around his position among the Anglo-Irish aristocracy the bond a man forms with a fellow soldier, one who’s shared his hardships and saved his life? A bond beyond law and social standing, that held despite the fact that Gabe’s closest Army friend had risen through the ranks to become an officer and sprang not, as Gabe did, from the gentry.

When Dickin had come begging a favour involving acts of dubious legality, Gabe had not hesitated to agree.

He had to admit part of the appeal had been escaping the stifling expectations heaped upon the brother of Sir Nigel Hawksworth, magistrate and most important dignitary for miles along the windswept southern Irish coast. After months spent cooped up recovering from his wounds, it had been exhilarating to escape back to his childhood love, the sea, to feel health and strength returning on the sharp southwestern wind and to once again have a purpose, albeit a somewhat less than legitimate one, for his life.

If he were being scrupulously honest, he admitted as he guided the horse into the stable yard of Gull’s Roost, having lived on the sword’s edge for so many years, he’d found life back in Ireland almost painfully dull. He relished matching his wits against the sea and the danger that lurked around every bend of coastline, where wicked shoals—or unexpected revenue agents—might mean pursuit or death.

Despite the massive collusion between local King’s officer George Marshall, who complacently ignored free-trader activity as long as he got his cut from every cargo, there were always newcomers, like the fellow who’d foundered on the rocks today, who took their duties to stop the illegal trade more seriously. Although trials seldom occurred and convictions by a Cornish jury were rarer still, a man might still end up in Newgate, on the scaffold—or in the nearest cemetery, victim of revenuer’s shot, for attempting to chouse the Crown out of the duties levied on foreign lace and spirits.

Still, Gabe was optimistic that his luck would hold for at least six months.

For a man unsure of what he would be doing at the end of that time, he’d considered it wise to dampen the enthusiasm of the more ardent local lasses—almost uniformly admiring of free-traders—by treating all with equal gallantry.

However, toward a lady whose tenure in the area was likely to be even briefer than his own, he might get away with paying more particular attention. While serving to discourage some of the bolder local girls, it should also prove an amusing diversion. The lass on the beach today had been as attractive as her behaviour in attempting to rescue the sailor had been unusual.

Gabe pictured her again, water lapping about her ankles while the sheer wet linen chemise provided tantalizing glimpses of long limbs, a sweet rounded belly and the hint of gold at the apex of her thighs. His breath caught, and more than just his thoughts began to rise.

With a sigh, he forced the image away. Too bad this one was a lady born rather than a hot-blooded barmaid at the Gull. He didn’t think he’d try very hard to escape her pursuit.

Responding with a wave to Mr Kessel’s greeting, and calling out for hot water as he trotted up the stairs to his room, Gabe wondered what Aphrodite’s real name might be and whether she was as ignorant as his friend of the story behind the name he’d called her. Might she be learned—or wicked—enough to have understood the reference: the goddess of love rising naked from the sea?

Unlikely as that prospect was, the possibility put a smile on his face and a lilt in his step. Once inside his room, waiting for his water to be delivered so he might pull off his soggy garments, Gabe tried to keep his mind from imagining how her hands might feel against his bare skin.

All he knew thus far about his Aphrodite was that she was unconventional and courageous enough to try to swim out and save a stranger.

He intended to learn a great deal more.

Chapter Two

Shivering in every limb, Honoria rang for Tamsyn to help her out of her clinging wet clothes before hurrying to huddle over the remains of the morning fire. Some time later, no maid having yet appeared, she rang again and began divesting herself of as many garments as her reach and the numbness of her fingers permitted. After wrapping herself in her nightgown, too chilled to care if she soiled it with damp and grit, she strode to the bell pull. She was about to ring once again when, after a short knock, the housekeeper entered.

‘What be you need—’ the woman began, before halting abruptly, her eyes widening as she took in the heap of wet clothing, Honoria’s robe-clad form and her damp, wind-tangled tresses.

‘I know ’tis an odd time to request one, Mrs Dawes, but could I have a bath, please?’