The Smuggler and the Society Bride

‘’Tis only a temporary occupation.’

‘Until?’ she probed.

‘Until I choose a more permanent one.’

He was no more forthcoming than she. Was he, too, running from something or someone? The wrath of the Irish authorities over some misdeed? The vengeance of a cuckolded husband?

Though Honoria realized she should recoil from one she knew to be a law-breaker, she could not sense emanating from this charming blue-eyed captain a hint of anything venal or sinister. She felt no threat at all.

But then, how much credence should she put in her senses? She’d thought she could handle Lord Barwick in the garden—and had trusted in Anthony’s support and loyalty.

Mr Hawksworth jolted her out of those unpleasant reflections by asking, ‘What are your plans, Miss Foxe? Do you make your aunt a long visit? With summer just coming into Cornwall, it’s particularly beautiful here.’

‘It is lovely,’ she agreed, sidestepping the question. ‘By the way, how did you know I liked flowers?’

‘Oh, I have my sources,’ he replied.

Had Tamsyn talked to him about her? Somehow she couldn’t believe that the maid, if she were granted audience with her hero, would waste it prattling about her employer’s niece. ‘A guess, then,’ she countered, ‘since most females like roses. Particularly females visiting a lady who possesses one of the finest gardens in the area. Though not this particular rose,’ she added, inspecting the blossom. ‘Perhaps I should take a cutting back to Foxeden. In a sheltered bed, it should thrive.’

‘Under your hands, anything would thrive.’

Honoria gave him a sharp glance. He was flirting again, which given the differences in their stations, he should not. But he persisted any way.

She should be angry, since his forwardness was almost forcing her to snub him, something she really didn’t wish to do. Nor, faced with his straightforward honesty, could she seem to hold on to her anger.

Unlike other men she’d known, he didn’t appear to practice deceit. He’d freely admitted who he was. If he were a rogue, at least he was an honest one.

Which made him a refreshing change from the London dissemblers who flattered to one’s face while plotting ruin behind one’s back.

Not that a girl could trust any man. But would it hurt to flirt a bit?

With the question barely formed, she caught herself up short. What was she thinking? Hadn’t she just forfeited the life to which she’d been born for not immediately fleeing the presence of one she’d known to be a rogue?

With her treacherous inclination toward the man, the wisest course would be to remove herself from this free-trader’s insidious influence.

‘Thank you for showing me the lovely roses, Mr Hawks-worth. But I mustn’t delay my aunt’s departure.’ Nodding a farewell, she set off quickly away down the path toward the street and her aunt’s waiting carriage.

As she’d feared, he simply fell into step beside her. ‘Lovely they are indeed. But not the loveliest thing I’ve seen today.’

‘You are a blatant charmer, Mr Hawksworth,’ she tossed over her shoulder. ‘I’d advise you to save your pretty compliments for those more desirous of receiving them.’

He cocked his head at her. ‘And you are not?’

‘Indeed no, sir. I prefer unvarnished truth.’

He laughed again, a deep, warm, shiver-inducing sound. ‘Then, Miss Foxe, you are the most exceptional lady I have ever met.’

‘I hardly think so,’ she replied as they exited the churchyard and regained the street. ‘Ah, Aunt Foxe,’ she called to that lady, who stood chatting with the vicar beside their carriage. ‘Were you looking for me?’

Before she could step away, Mr Hawksworth snagged her sleeve and made her an elegant bow. ‘I very much enjoyed our walk. Good day, Miss Foxe.’

Politeness required that she curtsy back. ‘Mr Hawksworth,’ she replied with a regal incline of the head. Conscious of his gaze resting upon her back, she stepped into the sanctuary of the carriage.

A great one she was to talk of preferring truth, she thought disgustedly as her aunt settled onto the seat beside her. She, who’d just identified herself to the entire community under a false name. Who’d wondered what Mr Hawksworth might be hiding when she’d not vouchsafed to any but her aunt her own reason for being here.

How much do we ever truly reveal of ourselves to others? she wondered, finding it hard to resist the impulse to look out the window and peer back at Gabriel Hawksworth.

Strangers and villains. Was he one—or both?

Chapter Four

Smiling, Gabe watched the shapely sway of Miss Marie Foxe as she entered her carriage. She was a little too deliberate about not even glancing in his direction as the vehicle set off.

He was reasonably confident she liked him. She most definitely responded to him, he thought, absently rubbing the hand that had been shocked by touching hers. She might not want to admit the attraction, but he was experienced enough to read, in the silent gasp that escaped her lips and the shudder that had passed through her body, that his touch had affected her as strongly as hers had him.

He grinned. Armed with that knowledge, he hadn’t been able to refrain from provoking her a bit. It was much too enjoyable to watch her face burn as he let his gaze linger on those parts of her body he’d almost seen that day on the beach.

Parts he’d like to see much more clearly…and touch and caress and kiss.

Her face had crimsoned as if she knew what he’d been thinking. Had she been wishing it, too?

He sighed. Such contemplation set off quite a conflagration within him as well. What a shame Miss Foxe was not Sadie, the barmaid at the Gull whose amorous advances Gabe was having increasing difficulty dodging.

Not that he was at all adverse to the pleasures offered by an ample bosom and hot thighs. But living in an inn operated by a friend of Sadie’s father, in a village where practically everyone was kin to everyone else, a maid who had three stout brothers to guard her virtue did not inspire a man to succumb to her blandishments. Even if she tempted him, which, in truth, she did not—particularly not since he’d had his first look at the lovely Marie Foxe. In any event, the enjoyment of a quick tumble with Sadie could not compensate for the trouble it would certainly cause.

Trouble or not, were Miss Foxe the lass making advances, he suspected he wouldn’t resist.

He did ache for the sweetness of a woman, the bliss of release and the satisfaction of pleasing her in an intimate embrace. As he set off walking to the Gull, his thoughts drifted to Caitlyn back in Ireland, the knowing widow who’d been happy to ease the pain and boredom of his recovery with a little discreet dalliance.

He’d be better able to keep his unruly urges under control—and resist tempting young ladies he shouldn’t even approach—if he paid her a visit. But he didn’t want to risk having his brother discover him and piece together exactly what he was doing in Cornwall. Nor did he want to involve that lovely, compliant lady in what might be a damaging association if he were apprehended—or worse—during his sojourn in Cornwall.

With a smile, his thoughts returned to the lady who had been anything but compliant. He didn’t know how well-connected the Foxe family might be, but from the arrogance of the niece, it was apparent she considered a smuggling captain to be vastly beneath her. Her irritation at his effrontery in approaching her was obvious in her haughty tone and elevated words, both of which, he felt sure, were designed to put him off.

They hadn’t, of course. He found it amusing to reflect that unless the Foxe family were very well-connected indeed, by birth if not current occupation, he was probably her equal. Even more gratifying was the knowledge that, hard as she’d been trying to resist him, she hadn’t been able to mask the fact that she found him attractive.

What was such a lady doing in Sennlack? It was hardly the sort of place a lovely, unmarried miss would linger longer than the few days necessary to pay a call on a beloved aunt. Indeed, his memory was vague on the point, but wasn’t the London social Season still in full cry?

He walked into the tap room and motioned Kessel to bring him a mug. Why, he continued to muse as he dropped into a seat, would a young lady whose family—if not the lady herself—should be concentrating on catching her a well-breeched husband, be wasting her beauty and her wiles on brigands like him, rather than in London, enticing more eligible gentlemen?

Perhaps her family, unable to afford the dowry necessary to marry her off, had sent her to be her aunt’s companion.

Recalling her haughty demeanor—the attitude and bearing of someone accustomed to having her own desires catered to, rather than catering to others—Gabe had to laugh. She was hardly the meek, biddable sort able to adapt to living her life at the beck and call of some richer relation.

If she had been sent here by a family needing to reduce expenses, Gabe thought, frowning, they could have at least given her a maid to accompany her. Sennlack was a law-abiding town, but a luscious lamb like that needed some protection from the wolves of the world.

Like him, he thought with a grin.

Or had some mishap left her with no family but Miss Foxe? From some hitherto unknown place deep within him, an unprecedented sense of protectiveness seeped out.