Ladies of Intrigue

by Michelle Griep

  Her head shook beneath his hand. “Not me.”

  “You.” He bent toward her, resting his brow against hers. “Tell me, Helen, what will you do now that your father is gone?”

  She edged back from him, the small space between them gaping like a wound. “Return to Ireland, I suppose. Though I hope you’ll help me with arrangements for a proper burial before I leave.”

  Blast! He could hardly bear the inches between them, let alone the entire North Sea. Loosening the reins, he let the horse walk at will and focused his entire attention—and heart—on the woman in front of him. “Of course I’ll help.”

  Her mouth curved into a half smile. “And a good deed requires a kiss, does it not?”

  She remembered? He cocked his head, studying her by the shadow of night. “Who told you that?”

  “You did.” She poked him in the shoulder. “That first night we met.”

  A charge shot through him, and he captured her hand, pressing it to his chest. Dare he hope the evening they’d met was as indelibly etched onto her heart as it was on his? “You are not as adept at discerning the truth as you claim, for that night I did not speak the full truth.”

  “Oh?”

  He swallowed. Was he ready for this? Was she? The timing was off, couldn’t be worse, in fact. But there was no stopping now.

  “A deed of such magnitude requires your hand in marriage.” His voice lowered to a rasp, not for want of asking, but for fear of the answer. “Will you give it?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Everything was overloud. The creak of saddle and jingle of tack as the horse shifted weight. Leftover drips of mist working their way down blades of the sward’s scrubby grass. Helen’s racing heart. How could she accept a proposal on the night of her father’s death?

  Isaac stared, waiting, rock still. Everything hinged on her answer—for them both. She’d never known such a kind man, such generosity and compassion, and to think he would offer to spend the rest of his days with her…. How could she not accept such a gift? Had not Father himself admonished her to open her heart to love? And she did. She loved this man more than life itself.

  Twisting her hand in Isaac’s grip, she laced her fingers through his, palm to palm—a perfect fit.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  A simple answer. Or was it? She tipped her face to his, straining to read Isaac’s response. And what she saw stole her breath.

  Despite the shadow of his hat brim, his eyes lit with an intense fire, with her the sole focus of a love so pure, it shimmied across her shoulders. Her lips parted, dumbstruck. How did one respond to such unbridled passion? She swallowed, fearing she might never be worthy of such adoration.

  And then his mouth was on hers.

  One taste, and she knew it would never be enough. She’d endured a stolen kiss before, but nothing like this. She leaned into him, clinging to his shirt, pulling him closer. He smelled of the sea, of wind and waves and distant horizons. Warmth spread through her body, driving off the pain of loss and hurt. By the time he pulled back, she nearly slipped from the horse.

  “Whoa, now.” He chuckled, bracing her up with his strong arms. “I know it is wrong of me to be so happy on the day of your bereavement, but you have made me so.” Cupping her face in his hands, he pressed a kiss to her brow. “I love you, more than life and air.”

  “Oh Isaac—” Her voice broke, and she licked her lips, the leftover taste of him still there. “I love you infinitely more.”

  She could live here, in this moment, his breath warming her skin. But despite the heat of the man and the fervor of the moment, the chill of her wet gown crept beneath her skin, and she shivered.

  He leaned back, gathering the reins. “Time we get you home.”

  She turned and nestled against his chest as he drove the horse into a canter. Her thoughts sped as quickly as the passing black landscape, too dizzying to sort through. Eventually, her head sank, and she stared at the woolen sleeve of the man—her future husband—holding the reins in a loose grip. It was fine fabric, that of a gentleman, but matted with sand and smelling of hard work. He was a contradiction, indeed, but he was her contradiction. How could a single day hold such exquisite pain and joy?

  “Nearly there,” Isaac’s voice rumbled close to her ear.

  The road rounded the swell of a hillock. They followed the curve, and once they cleared the mound, Isaac jerked the horse to a stop. Not far ahead, torches lit the night, four of which were gripped in the hands of mounted redcoats and bobbed alongside a wagon.

  Helen squinted at the bright offense. “Why would—?”

  “Shh,” Isaac warned.

  Too late.

  The two soldiers at the rear charged toward them. “Hands up! Behind yer heads!”

  Isaac stiffened. “Do as they say.”

  Slowly, she lifted her fingers to the back of her neck. The loss of Isaac’s arms around her felt like death.

  The larger of the two reached for the reins and led their horse. Were Isaac’s strong thighs and his back not a steadying rock, she’d surely have slipped from the saddle. What kind of trouble was this?

  A horse tethered to the back of the wagon pawed the ground when they passed. As they moved on, a low groan rumbled in Isaac’s chest. In the wagon bed, two men sat upright, torchlight doing crazy things to the whites of their eyes. Another man lay next to them, bloodied and still.

  Gooseflesh lifted along Helen’s arms. Were these the smugglers Isaac had come to help?

  Mr. Farris turned on the driver’s seat, a pistol lying beside him. A torch mounted on the wagon’s side tinted his face with devilish light. “What’s this?”

  “You’re the one who wanted me out here, and so you find me.” Isaac’s voice thundered at her back. “Now call down your men. You’re frightening Miss Fletcher.”

  “No, that one fears nothing.” Farris’s dark eyes landed on her. “Tell me, Miss Fletcher, what are you doing out here on such a wicked night?”

  “I—I—” The words stuck in her throat, trapped beneath the stare of the soldiers. Sucking in a breath, she tried again. “I was looking for Mr. Seaton when my horse threw me. My ankle turned, and he found me.”

  Mr. Farris narrowed his eyes. “A very pretty story, lady—yet I believe not a word of it. Dismount.”

  Behind her, Isaac shifted, and Mr. Farris snatched up the gun at his side, aiming it at them. “Ah-ah-ah, not you, Seaton.”

  “For the love of all that’s right, man, she’s hurt!” Isaac’s shout hung on the air, savage in intensity. “She’ll not be able to stand.”

  Farris cocked the hammer, the click of it as sharp as a bullet’s report. “That’s exactly what I intend to find out.”

  She lowered her hands, careful, like a piece of glass. One wrong move and the crack of gunfire might shatter bones and lives. Holding tightly to the saddle’s edge, she eased earthward. If she landed on her good foot, she could surely stand, for she’d played many a game of hopscotch with her charges.

  But at the last moment, the horse shied. She teetered. Hundreds of knives stabbed her foot and ankle. A fiery scream burned out her throat, and she crumpled.

  Before muddy gravel bit into her cheek, sturdy arms scooped her up.

  And the barrels of four more guns swung their way.

  Isaac clenched his jaw so hard, it crackled in his ears. How dare this upstart treat them like criminals? He hadn’t even done anything wrong this time! Helen gasped in his arms, from pain or fear, hard to say. Either way, Farris was to blame. Despite the brilliance of the flaming torches, rage painted the whole scene purple.

  “Tell your men to stand down!” Isaac’s voice shook like a peal of thunder. Good. May they all cower at his fury. “You can see the woman’s not playacting. Allow me to put her back on my horse.”

  “No.” Farris lifted his chin and stared down the length of his nose. “Put her up here with me.”

  Was the man mad? He’d as soon sit her next to the jaws of hell. “I will
do nothing of the sort!”

  Farris’s head lowered like a bull about to charge. The soldiers closed in, eyes bright with the promise of a fight. Farris cocked the hammer of his gun to full open. If that thing went off, Helen would bear the brunt.

  Isaac pivoted back a step, shielding her by exposing his own side. “I swear to God, if you so much as—”

  “Stop it!” Helen squirmed in his arms, shifting to face Farris.

  Isaac widened his stance.

  Farris widened his eyes.

  “Mr. Farris, there can be no hope for you and I.” Helen spoke as to a schoolboy, her tone confident yet instructive. And in that moment, Isaac couldn’t have been more proud. Any other woman would have swooned by now.

  “This very night I have committed my hand to Mr. Seaton,” she continued. “I am certain, however, that with your capture of these ruffians, you will be lauded a hero. Better women than I will vie for your attention.”

  What? Was she seriously complimenting the buffoon? Isaac cocked his head. So did Farris.

  “Why would you say …” The words died on Isaac’s lips as an interesting transformation took place up on the wagon seat.

  Farris’s chest expanded a full two inches, and his shoulders stood at attention. A toad couldn’t have puffed up to a greater swell. “No doubt you are correct,” he sneered. Even so, he tripped the hammer closed on his gun. “Stand down, men. These two are not involved with the smugglers. Go ahead, Seaton. Hoist her up.”

  Isaac heaved a sigh and breathed out, “Well done,” into Helen’s ear, then he lifted her so that she could reach the saddle and released her when she sat secure.

  Turning from the horse, he caught a glimpse of Hawker and Rook, fettered in the wagon’s back. A sickening taste soured his mouth. He knew that wild-eyed look. He’d seen it the instant before he’d had to put down one of his best geldings. The comparison punched him in the gut, but what was he to do? Outmanned and outgunned, words and timing were his only allies.

  God, please. A little help, here.

  He faced Farris. “I would have a word with you. Alone.”

  Farris snorted. “I don’t trust you that far, Seaton. Whatever you have to say may be said here, in front of witnesses.”

  “Fine.” He shrugged. “Though sensitive information is usually heard by the commanding—”

  “Sensitive,” Farris drawled out the word. “Information?”

  Isaac strode the few steps to the wagon seat, acutely aware of the redcoats’ gazes stabbing him from all angles. “Besides my rescuing of Miss Fletcher, why do you think it took me so long to get out here? I gave my word to help you, and I have information to do just that.”

  Farris eyed him. Would he bite the bait? Isaac drew in a breath and held it.

  “Very well. Men, keep guard.” Farris jumped down from the wagon, his boots slogging hard into the mud as he landed. He kept his gun, but at least he tucked the barrel into his trousers.

  Isaac led him to the side of the road, making a show of taking the fool into his confidence—while stalling to come up with something to say.

  Farris folded his arms. “Well?”

  Exactly. Well what? He scrubbed his jaw, hoping to work loose a magical concoction of words—when a perfectly wonderful idea took root. And grew.

  Thank You, Lord.

  “These men you have”—he hitched his thumb over his shoulder—“while a fine catch, they are not the real villains.”

  Farris’s brow crumpled. “What do you mean?”

  “Look at that wagon. Do you really think those few crates are the sum of what was taken from that cargo? No.” He shook his head. “That ship of yours was first waylaid and picked over farther up the coast, four miles from here. The true smugglers are led by a man named Grimlox. Jack Grimlox. If you hurry, you can catch them in the act, with a far better haul than this sorry lot.”

  Farris stared at him, his gaze unreadable so far from the torches. Would this work?

  “So help me, Seaton,” Farris rumbled as he unfolded his arms. “If you are lying …”

  The threat twisted on the air like a rope from a gibbet.

  Isaac advanced, towering at least a hand span above the man and using that intimidation to the fullest. “This is the thanks I get for giving you intelligence? You offend me?”

  Farris retreated a step, uncertainty rippling across his large lips. “I—I—no, I never meant to offend. My apologies.”

  Isaac held the stance a breath longer, then backed off, allowing a slow smile to spread. “Well, don’t just stand here, man.” He swept out a hand. “Go get those lawbreakers!”

  “But I’ll need my men if I’m to capture an entire gang.” His head shook from side to side. “I cannot free the scoundrels I’ve already caught.”

  “Not to worry.” Isaac cuffed him on the back, the restraint of keeping the swat playful burning his muscles. “As local magistrate, I will see to these men.”

  “Single-handedly?”

  “You’ve already subdued them.” Playing to the man’s pride nearly choked him. He scrubbed the back of his neck to keep from tugging at his collar. “I’ll lock them up until the circuit judge arrives in Truro, then transport them with the help of a few tenants of mine. Naturally, I shall give you all the credit, for it was you who bagged them.”

  Farris’s eyes narrowed. “Why so accommodating?”

  He placed his hand on his heart. “I take my duty to God and country very seriously.”

  Farris gaped. “I fear I have misjudged you, Mr. Seaton. You are a true loyalist, sir, and I salute you.” He clacked his heels together and snapped his fingers to his brow.

  Isaac bowed, hiding a smile. “Godspeed, Mr. Farris. May your return to London be victorious.”

  “Oh, that it shall be. I vow it.” Shoving his hand into his greatcoat, he pulled out a key and handed it over, then he pivoted and sprinted away, shouting out orders and untethering his horse from the back of the wagon.

  Isaac watched the man go, certain that he was the real victor in this … or rather God was.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mr. Farris and the soldiers thundered off, but despite the danger disappearing into the dark, Helen’s heart still beat an irregular tattoo, for Isaac strode toward her. Determined of gait and singularly focused on her, she nearly shrank from the force of his gaze.

  He grasped the horse’s headstall and shushed away the skittishness of her mount, all while searching her from head to toe with a fearsome eye. “Are you all right?”

  “I am.” The words were weak. Her smile weaker. But after the events of the day, it was a wonder she functioned at all.

  She lifted a hand toward the retreating men. “How on earth did you manage that?”

  His teeth shone white in the dark, the only torch remaining on the wagon seat. “Some things aren’t black and white, but one thing is for certain—the arrogance in Mr. Farris. I simply used his pride to my advantage.”

  She couldn’t help but return Isaac’s grin. “You, sir, are a rogue.”

  “Is that a step up or down from a smuggler?” He winked, then wheeled about and swung himself up into the back of the wagon.

  He worked with sure yet gentle movements while caring for the wounded men. What a husband he would be. What a father.

  Father.

  Her shoulders sagged. No, her whole body did. Her own father yet lay cold in the cottage, alone but not forgotten. A fresh wave of tears blurred the world, and she forced herself to the present, anchoring her gaze on Isaac’s broad back as he moved from man to man.

  He squeezed the arm of one. “Bear up, Rook. We’ll soon get you to a doctor.” Then he crouched in front of another and pulled out a key.

  “So, yer a miracle worker now, eh?” The man, all sharp angles and shadows, lifted his face toward Isaac. “Don’t know how ye did it, but I thank ye.”

  “Save your thanks, for your other wagon is lost to the tide, and it was your information I gave to Farris. Now hold out your h
ands.”

  The fellow complied but not without complaint. “Flit! What ye goin’ on about?”

  The sound of shackles clacked onto the wagon bed. Isaac and only one of the other men stood.

  Isaac clapped the fellow on the shoulder. “I let it slip that Grimlox and his gang were the true culprits. If Farris is able to haul them in, Brannigan will be implicated. Maybe not a killing blow, but a blow nonetheless.”

  “Fitting end to ’em both, I say.”

  Isaac released the man. “Drive this rig onward, Hawker. See that Tegwyn and Rook get care and fast. I’ve a lady to attend to.”

  “And a right fine one at that.” The dark eyes of the thin man met her across the gap between wagon and horse. “Ma’am.” He tugged the brim of his hat.

  Helen dipped her head in greeting. “Mister …?”

  Isaac hoisted himself up behind her, snugging her back against him. “That’s Billy Hawker. Hawker, meet the soon-to-be Mrs. Isaac Seaton.”

  The pile of bones crawled onto the wagon seat and faced them. “Ho-ho! Welcome to the ranks, m’lady.” With a nod of his head, he reached for the reins and nudged the horses into action.

  Helen turned to Isaac. She shouldn’t be surprised if she awoke from this scene to find it was all a dream. Lifting her hand, she ran her fingers along the cheek of the man who would be her husband, the rasp of unshaved whiskers very real beneath her touch.

  “You know, as impoverished as I was, I never thought I’d marry such a fine gentleman as you, so I used to pretend I was a grand lady,” she murmured, afraid that if she spoke too loudly, this moment would dissolve. “But you have made it so.”

  He shook his head. “Once again, you have it wrong, my love. You …” He bent, and his lips brushed against her cheek. “Always have …” His mouth moved to the hollow near her temple. “And always will be …” Heat traced a line down her jaw. “A lady.”

  He kissed her soundly then turned her from him, enfolding his strong arms around her. She smiled shamelessly as they rode off into the night. Weeks ago he’d been a smuggler—and now she was his lady. Despite the heartache of the day, the irony of it all released a small laugh.