The Smuggler and the Society Bride

‘I don’t suppose you can involve her in too much mischief whilst walking about the churchyard in plain view, Mr Hawks-worth, but I do count on you to exhibit your most gentlemanly behaviour. My dear, make the most of this opportunity to become acquainted with a local legend.’

The brigand bowed low. ‘I am deeply in your debt, ma’am.’

‘See that you remember that the next time you price your cargo,’ her aunt replied.

Beginning to believe her aunt nearly as much a rogue as the man into whose charge she was being given, before she could think how to protest, with an elaborate bow, Mr Hawksworth claimed her hand and nudged her into motion.

Any thoughts of refusal were scattered to the wind by the little shock that leapt through her as he took her hand. Though after that jolt, her mind remained indignant over the Hawk’s effrontery, her treacherous feet followed his lead quite docilely—a reaction which only increased her irritation.

‘Sir, this is an abduction,’ she said in an undertone.

‘Hardly that! Not when I’ve agreed to be upon my best behaviour. I shall even refrain from detailing all the possible mischief one could get up to in a garden.’

His teasing remark doused her heated irritation as effectively as a cold sea wave. She knew all too well what mischief could occur in a garden. Because of it, she was no longer Lady Honoria, sought-after maiden of quality allowed to maintain exacting standards about whom she would and would not grace with her company.

Still, though in truth she might now rate even lower than a plain ‘Miss Foxe,’ that didn’t mean she had to swell this man’s vanity by swooning at his feet like all the other village girls—no matter how eagerly her senses responded to him.

The best way to deal with the stranger, she decided, was to show him how unimpressed she was by his charm and dashing manner. A man who had every maid from Padstow to Polperro sighing over him could probably use a good lesson in humility.

‘For that, you would need a willing partner,’ she replied at last.

He paused in mid-stride and looked at her, one eyebrow quirked. ‘And you think you wouldn’t be?’

As he bent upon her the intensive gaze she remembered so well from the beach, a warm melting feeling expanded in the pit of her stomach. ‘Certainly not,’ she replied in the most disdainful voice she could summon.

He shook his head disbelievingly. ‘I thought you had a fondness for mariners—or so it seemed when I saw you on the beach at Sennlack Cove. Most…intriguingly dressed, I might add,’ he said, sweeping his gaze from her legs to her belly, then letting it linger at the apex of her thighs.

Honoria felt her face burn as other parts of her tingled. ‘A gentleman would have forgotten my…unsuitable attire.’

He laughed, a warm, rich sound that was as engaging as his smile—drat him. ‘I thought we’d already established I’m no gentleman! But unsuitable as that might make me to accompany you, I did feel compelled to seek you out. A genteel young lady who knows how to swim is uncommon enough. ’Tis even more astounding to find one who was prepared to jeopardize her safety—and dignity—by plunging in to rescue a stranger.’

His unexpected admiration, as much as his sudden dropping of the overly gallant tone and manner, was making it difficult for her to maintain her haughteur. ‘I would hope any good Christian would do the same,’ she said.

‘You have a higher opinion of Christians than I. So why are you so disapproving of me?’

‘Of a smuggler and a law breaker?’ Who is way too attractive for my comfort, she added silently. ‘I would have deemed you intelligent enough to have already deduced the reason,’ she told him, deliberately using the most formal wording she could summon to display a superior education and breeding that was meant to put him in his place.

Instead, he laughed out loud. ‘Miss Foxe, you are a newcomer! If not upon that charge, then certainly upon aiding and abetting, you could convict half the congregation! Do you not remember seeing some of them among the group on the beach?’

A grudging honesty forced her to admit she’d noted that fact during services. ‘It’s a dangerous risk they all run—and for what, some bits of lace?’

Once again, he paused. After looking her up and down—setting her nerves humming wherever his gaze touched—he remarked, ‘That’s quite a disapproving tone for one who, if my eye for feminine finery remains true, is wearing no small bit of lace herself.’

Aghast, Honoria looked down at her pelisse. Warmer and heavier than those she’d brought from London, it was borrowed from her aunt, who was of almost the same size—and boasted a fine trimming of lace at the collar and cuffs.

With chagrin, she realized he was probably right—which made her almost as angry as the realization that, hard as she tried to will it otherwise, she was not immune to the appeal of that blue-eyed gaze or self-assured charm.

‘I shall take care not to do so in future,’ she said stiffly. ‘I don’t wish to enrich common brigands.’

To her further annoyance, his grin only widened. ‘Ah, Miss Foxe, we are not at all common! Those who follow the sea are a hardy lot, braving wind, tide and storm, and those who do so while eluding pursuit are more resourceful still. I don’t wish to sound boastful, but ’tis a fact that quite a few ladies hereabouts admire us!’

‘Ladies?’ she echoed disbelievingly. ‘Now I know you are joking.’

‘Indeed, I am not!’ he protested. ‘Have you not heard of the landlady in West Looe who, when the preventives came to her establishment searching for free-trader cargo, concealed a keg beneath her skirts and sat calmly knitting until the agents departed? Indeed, even the customs collector of Penzance often calls fellows in the trade “honest men in all their dealings.”’

Honoria studied his smiling face, trying to decide whether he could be telling the truth. ‘I believe you are trying to cozen me,’ she said at last.

‘Absolutely not!’ he affirmed. ‘Ask anyone. Free-traders are considered quite respectable fellows hereabouts. It’s even said that the church spire at St Christopher’s—’ he gestured upward to the building she’d lately occupied ‘—had its tower built by special contribution from the local landowners, to make it high enough to serve as a navigation landmark for…mariners.’

‘The church tower?’ she exclaimed. ‘Now I know you are bamming me!’

‘Since the days of running wool to Flanders, smuggling has been a part of life here. Nearly everyone is involved, either as provider or customer, from the miners who buy the cheapest spirits to the rich landowners quaffing expensive brandy. Even your aunt.’

Though she suspected as much, Honoria still didn’t wish to admit it. ‘Surely not my Aunt Foxe!’

The brigand chuckled. ‘Do you think the local dressmaker provided the lace that trims those sleeves? Or the shop in town, the clarets that grace her dinner table—or the cognac that warms her coachman on a cold evening? If the Crown truly wished to bring illegal trade to a stop, they would abolish the tariffs.’

He must have seen the confusion in her eyes, for he continued, ‘But you shouldn’t think poorly of your aunt! With its proximity to France and Ireland and its abundance of natural harbours, Cornwall seems designed by the Almighty expressly to support the free-traders. One shouldn’t fault the logic of folk who choose to buy the more reasonably priced goods they provide, any more than one should blame the local men who aid the smugglers. The mines are a hard life, trying to coax a living out of this rocky, wind-swept soil no easier a task, nor is extracting fish from a capricious, often dangerous sea. You shouldn’t condemn men for taking an easier route to earning a few pence.’

‘It’s hardly easier, when those who participate may end up on the gallows or in a watery grave,’ she retorted.

He shrugged. ‘But all life’s a gamble, a vessel buffeted by winds and tides beyond one’s control. One cannot retreat; one must put the ship in trim and sail on.’

How does one meet disgrace and sail on? she wondered. Easy enough for men, who ruled the world, to urge bold action!

But her brigand was halting again. ‘Ah, there are the roses. Lovely, aren’t they? I’m told that, protected from the wind against this south-facing stone wall, the plants bloom earlier than anywhere else in England.’

At that moment Honoria spied them, too. With an exclamation of delight, she walked over and filled her nostrils with the rich spicy aroma of alba rose. Eyes closed, inhaling the heady scent, she was distracted for a moment from the curiously mingled sensations of attraction and avoidance inspired by the man beside her.

‘They are lovely,’ she exclaimed, reluctantly turning back to him. ‘So at least this part of your tale is true. Is it the lilt of Ireland I hear in your voice?’

He made her a bow. ‘Indeedyoudo. ’Tis a fine ear you have, Miss Foxe—which means it matches the rest of you.’

She felt her left ear warm, while the tendril of hair just above was stirred by his breath. Other parts of her began to warm and stir as well.

Blast the man! He made resisting his seemingly unstudied charm deuced difficult—and she had been wooed by some of London’s most accomplished. No wonder all the maids from Padstow to Polperro were smitten.

‘I’m convinced half of what you say is nonsense, but I’ll concede you spin a good story. My brother says Irish troopers tell the best tales of anyone in the Army.’

His lazy regard sharpened. ‘Your brother is an Army lad? In which regiment?’

Belatedly realizing her error, she said vaguely, ‘Oh, I don’t recall the number.’ As if she didn’t know to a man how many troopers Hal commanded in his company of the 11

Dragoons. ‘I’ve heard you were with the Army, too,’ she said, trying to turn the conversation back to him.

‘Yes.’

She waited, but he said nothing more. ‘That seems an odd choice for one who is…taken with the sea,’ she said finally.