by Aston, Alexa
“May I help you wash these?” he asked once they were done eating.
“No. You may continue sitting up, though. It will do you some good. I’ve work to see to. I must wash the sheets first and then will see to your bath.”
Phoebe busied herself, making several trips to the well and heating water. She stripped the bed and scrubbed the sheets. Ever since she’d rented the cottage, she hadn’t minded hard labor but she hated what it did to her hands. The lye she used caused them to grow red and rough. She would have to use some of Letty’s lotions once she left Cornwall and hope her hands would lose their calluses in time. If not, she could always hide them with her gloves, which she would wear to every social occasion.
After the sheets were hanging in the sun, she began drawing more water from the well for Mr. Andrew’s bath. It was then she heard the hoofbeat of horses coming. Fear caught in her throat, tightening it.
Would they be looking for him? Would it be the law—or the man who tried to murder him?
She continued pulling on the rope as three men rode into the clearing in front of the cottage. She glanced at the door and saw it was still open. Phoebe only hoped Mr. Andrew would stay out of sight.
The bucket reached the top and she lifted it and placed it on the ground before facing her company.
“Good morning, gentlemen. How may I help you?”
She noticed they were all well-dressed and rode mounts that were sturdy.
“Be you Mrs. Smith?” the oldest of the three asked as he dismounted. The others did the same.
“I am. And you are, Sir?”
“I’m happy to introduce myself to you. I am Sir William Rankin, magistrate for this area. I was told that you are a widow and renting Falmouth Cottage.”
At least it was no one searching for Mr. Andrew. These men had to be here about the duke who’d vanished. Still, she hoped her guest would keep out of sight. As Mrs. Smith, she still had a reputation to maintain. A man spotted in her cottage, especially one half-dressed, wouldn’t do.
“Yes, Sir William. I have a six-month lease and will leave at that time and return to my sister. She is expecting her first child and I want to be present for that event.” Phoebe hoped her voice was steady as she asked, “Might you be here looking for the missing duke?”
His eyes lit with surprise. “You’ve heard of the situation?”
She chuckled. “Anyone who has been in Mrs. Butler’s presence will have heard the tale, Sir William.”
“Oh, yes. I see. Mrs. Butler has . . . spread the word, so to say. Have you by chance seen His Grace?”
“Not at all, my lord. You can tell I’m a bit isolated here. I like it that way. No misplaced dukes have wandered into my cottage. Have you been searching long?”
“For two days now. His Grace’s brother is worried sick about this disappearance. He fears highwaymen may have taken the duke. If so, it would be to ransom His Grace, no doubt. No note has been forthcoming, though. Mr. Graham has sent all the way to London for Bow Street Runners to aid in our search.”
“I’m sorry to hear His Grace is missing. I do wish you luck in finding him. He and his family will be in my prayers.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Smith. And if you see anything noteworthy?”
“I’ll be sure to speak up, Sir William.”
“Good day.”
The other two men, who’d never said a word, nodded politely at her. All three men mounted their horses and rode off. Phoebe finished filling the last bucket of water. She said a prayer for the missing man and entered the cottage.
Mr. Andrew stood just behind the door. “They’re gone?” he asked, concern on his face.
Phoebe knew he must have been worried that the men were there for him. It still amazed her that she had a fierce need to protect this outlaw.
“Yes. Please, have a seat.”
Instead, he took the buckets from her hands and took them to the stove, pouring them into the large pots on top. He shouldn’t be doing anything so physical yet but she sensed he was becoming restless so she didn’t say a word. She did retrieve the other two buckets and poured one of them into the wooden tub.
“Once the water has heated, you can bathe. Try to keep your bandage from getting wet, though, because I’d like to leave it on one more day before changing it.”
“I may need your help, Mrs. Smith. My shoulder is still stiff and somewhat immobile. You’ve secured it well. Tomorrow, when you change the bandages, I think I can fashion a sling to support it.”
“All right. When I washed the bedclothes, I also cleaned the strips of linen I used the first time. You may use some of them to make this sling.”
She washed the breakfast dishes as she waited for the water to simmer and had just finished drying the last plate when she noticed the water was almost ready.
“Let me get you a bath sheet, Mr. Andrew.”
Phoebe went to the bedchamber and withdrew one from the wardrobe, placing it on the bed. She turned and found him right behind her.
“You may use this. I’ll need to wash your breeches. I’ve already done so with your shirt and stockings though I need to sew closed the hole the bullet caused. I’ll go prepare your bath now.”
She closed the door firmly behind her, fighting the images of a naked Mr. Andrew from coming to mind as she poured the steaming water into the bath and swirled her hand around to mix it with the cool water already there. By then, he emerged, the towel slung low on his hips. He carried his pants and handed them to her.
“I’ll wash them in the tub once you finish with your bath. I’ll go fetch more water to heat in case you need more.”
Two more trips later, Phoebe was wearing down from all the morning’s physical activity. Mr. Andrew was in the tub, scrubbing himself. She avoided looking anywhere near him as she bustled about.
“I seem to be doing fine, Mrs. Smith, but I would like to have your help washing my hair.”
“Oh, of course. I’d be happy to do so.”
She set a large pan behind the tub, wishing she’d thought to move the tub outside. It was too late now. She sat to rest for a few minutes until he turned toward her.
“Can you help me now?”
“Certainly.”
Phoebe had him lean back as she poured fresh water over his dark brown hair. It was thick and slightly wavy. She took the soap and worked up a good lather, running her fingers through his hair and massaging his scalp. He let out a little noise of pleasure and she smiled, remembering how Nathan used to do the same. Tears misted her eyes. She missed her little boy so much. And the child she’d lost. She had to hold fast to the idea of one day having others.
“I think that’s good. I’ll rinse it now.”
“You have magic fingers, Mrs. Smith.”
“That is a lovely compliment, Mr. Andrew.”
After Phoebe finished rinsing his hair, she reached for the bath sheet he’d draped across a chair.
“Here you go. It might do you some good to sit in the sunshine for a few minutes.”
“Would you sit with me?” he asked softly.
She had far too much to do but the thought of resting next to him was hard to pass up.
“I will for a while. I will meet you outside.”
Two chairs sat just outside the door to the cottage and she sat in one of them. She could hear him stand, the water splashing, and thought of him drying that magnificently muscled body of his. Her throat went dry. Then he appeared in the doorway, the sun streaming down on him, like a Greek god chiseled into human flesh. Her breath caught as her eyes roamed his torso and then she quickly turned away as he took the seat next to her. She stared out across the clearing.
He took her hand again, his fingers threading through hers. Phoebe didn’t protest. She couldn’t. It felt too right. Besides, it brought him comfort.
She wasn’t about to admit what it brought her.
“I know how hard you have worked on my behalf,” he said, his voice low and rough. “I feel especially close to y
ou. Might I . . . might we call one another by our first names?”
She faced him. “I can agree to that. I am Phoebe.”
A beautiful smile touched his mouth. Unlike so many in Polite Society, his smile reached his eyes. She stared into them, losing herself for a moment in their deep warmth.
“And I am Andrew. Not Mr. Andrew. Just Andrew.”
Chapter Twelve
It had been the best two weeks of Andrew’s life.
Even if he’d had to be shot to experience them.
As the days passed and his strength grew, he and Phoebe had come to know quite a bit about each other. They still danced around specific details but he believed they were meant to be, despite their class difference. He knew she enjoyed strawberries and walking in the rain. That her father couldn’t abide pets in the house and her husband had been allergic to them, so Caesar was her first pet. He knew she had a quick wit and a strong grasp on current issues of the day, which had surprised him to no end.
He’d also learned she was a talented artist. As he’d moved about the small cottage, he’d come across drawings she’d done resting atop the desk. When asked about them, Phoebe said she enjoyed making up children’s stories and illustrating them. He had her tell him a few and found them delightful. She had been working on a story of two fish in the sea, Freddie the Flounder and Walter the Whale, who became close friends. Both her tales and drawings had the right touch of whimsy and he thought them worthy of publication. She admitted she had thought of trying to see them published and Andrew encouraged her to pursue the matter.
With each passing day, he began moving about more, helping her with household chores. They began walking to the beach and along the shoreline, each day going a bit further. She always allowed him to take her hand. He supposed she told herself that it was to make sure he didn’t lose his balance and hurt himself. Still, walking hand in hand with Phoebe Smith was the highlight of his day.
Andrew now felt physically fit and had abandoned the sling this morning. His shoulder was still stiff but he believed there were no lasting ill effects from the bullet wound he’d suffered. His mind told him it was time for him to confront Francis yet his heart wanted to avoid going home and stay with Phoebe in the cottage that had become more a home to him than anywhere he’d ever lived.
He determined that during their afternoon walk along the beach today that he would tell her who he was—and ask her to marry him. It would certainly be a shock but he sensed her trust in him. If Andrew the smuggler had won her over, surely Andrew the duke could keep her.
Restless, he paced the small cottage while waiting for her to return. She’d walked into Falmouth again for fresh supplies and planned to post a package of her stories and drawings to someone associated with her husband. She’d confided how nervous she was to do this but Andrew had encouraged her, telling her how talented she was. He could imagine them both going to the nursery one day, one of her books in hand, and reading it to their child. It should seem odd that he was so willing to settle into such a domestic life after his years at war and then time spent in the glittering ballrooms of London.
Andrew knew his own mind, though. Phoebe Smith was the one for him.
He followed Caesar out the door. The cat strolled across the open space and settled in a patch of grass, the sun shining on his glossy coat. Having never been around a cat before, it surprised him how much he’d taken to the tabby. When they left Falmouth Cottage, Caesar was certain to accompany them.
Glancing in the distance, he saw Phoebe coming, pushing her small cart. Eagerly, he went to meet her and took over, bringing the cart back to the cottage. Once there, he unloaded its contents as she put the items away.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
For you.
“I could certainly stand to eat,” he replied. “Shall I put on the tea?”
They prepared a simple meal together, sandwiches on fresh rolls from the bakery, slices from a small round of cheese, and sliced pears. Thinking how happy he’d been here, getting to know her, Andrew decided to purchase Falmouth Cottage. Perhaps once a year, during the summer, they could return and spend a few weeks. Just the two of them.
“How was your trip into the village? What did the gossiping Mrs. Butler have to say?” he asked.
She chuckled. “Full of news, as usual. More on the missing duke with whom she is endlessly fascinated with.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes. A body washed up on shore, found by none other than His Grace’s brother.”
His gut tightened. “Go on.”
“I feel terribly sorry for this brother. To be so close to a beloved sibling and then to lose him—and then to be the one to discover the body.” She shuddered.
“Where was it found?”
“Not far from where they found His Grace’s horse. The body had been in the water some time. From what Mrs. Butler implied, it was rather bloated. Still, Mr. Graham, I believe that’s his name, was able to identify the duke from a scar on his back. Something that remained from a childhood accident, Mrs. Butler surmised.”
Rage rippled through Andrew. A so-called body being produced and identified by Francis meant a dead Duke of Windham.
And his title passing to his nearest relation. Francis.
Andrew would have to reappear sooner than later. It was a good thing he’d decided to tell Phoebe who he was today. It would allow him to return to Moreland Hall and confront his half-brother. He wondered if he should summon the magistrate first. If there was a body, then Francis had most likely murdered some poor fellow in order to claim he was Andrew. It appalled him how vile Francis was. He also hated that Phoebe would be mixed up in the affair. Perhaps he would tell her who he was and explain what had to be done, confronting Francis and seeing him handed over to the authorities.
Then once things calmed down, he could introduce her as his fiancée and they could wed.
“Are you going to nap?” Phoebe asked.
“No. I’d like to stroll on the beach.”
“Let me get my bonnet.”
They set out, the September day cool but the sun plentiful. Andrew was grateful the cottage and surrounding beach was as isolated as it was because they had yet to see anyone along the stretch of the beach they walked. Because of that, he sought her hand and threaded his fingers through hers, amazed at how right the simple gesture seemed. He would want to hold this woman’s hand half a century from now, happy to look back at the decades they had spent together.
They reached the beach and stopped for several minutes, watching the waves roll in and out. Andrew gave thanks to a God that had allowed him to live. To wash up on this shore and be found by this woman. Francis had no idea that his attempt at murder would lead to Andrew finding a wife.
Slowly, they made their way to a grouping of rocks where they stopped every day and removed their boots and stockings. Usually, they did for themselves but as Phoebe sat today, Andrew knelt before her.
“Allow me,” he said, propping her foot against his thigh.
She hitched her gown up slightly and he unlaced and then slipped off her boot. One hand held firm to her ankle as he set the boot aside. Her eyes were as round as saucers as she gazed at him. Andrew smiled and slipped his fingers under the hem of her gown, unfastening her stockings and rolling them down. He knew she held her breath because he did the same, their gazes focused on one another. Her tongue darted out and licked her lips nervously.
He planned to lick them soon.
Removing her other boot and stocking, he rose and reached out his hands. She took them and he pulled her to her feet. They stared at one another a long moment. He saw desire in her eyes and knew they would be fortunate to always keep the blaze lit between them.
It was time to test the waters. Slowly, Andrew lowered his mouth to hers for a sweet, tender kiss. Her soft lips were the perfect match to his. Instead of pressing forward, he broke the kiss and merely smiled, releasing her hands and sitting on the rock.
“Let me help you,” Phoebe said, bending to pull his boots off, giving him a nice view of her cleavage.
She rested both boots next to one another and then pulled his stockings down. The feel of her fingers against his calves heated his blood. He told himself to be patient. It had worked so far. He didn’t want to frighten her off.
Folding each stocking, she placed them atop his boots and rose. He did the same and took her hand in his. Together, they strolled silently down the beach. When they reached a pair of seagulls diving into the water, they paused. Phoebe delighted in seeing seagulls hunting for food or playing together. She’d revealed she could watch them for hours.
The gulls got lucky and recovered several fish, swallowing them whole, and then they rose through the air and flew out across the water.
“They mate for life,” she said. “So do wolves. Beavers. Swans.”
“I didn’t know that.”
She shrugged. “Sometimes, I retain the oddest of facts.”
He released her hand and slipped his arms about her waist. “It’s one of the things that makes you so interesting.”
“Me?” Color rose on her cheeks. “I don’t believe I am interesting at all.”
“You are to me, Phoebe,” he said huskily and lowered his mouth to hers.
His kiss was gentle, once again not wanting to startle her. Giving her time to pull away and tell him no if that’s what she wished. Instead, her hands touched his chest. Slid up it. Gripped his shoulders.
And her lips parted.
Andrew needed no further invitation. He slipped his tongue inside her mouth, tasting her sweetness—and goodness. His friends would have laughed about that but Phoebe did taste both sweet and good. Better than any woman ever had. She was good for him. He wanted to be the same for her.
He pulled her to him, his arms imprisoning her. She had answered his call. Made her decision. There would be no going back. She was to be his.
His hands roamed her back and slipped to her buttocks, cupping them. She gasped into his mouth but didn’t protest. He squeezed and kneaded them, thinking of the time he could do so with no clothing in the way. His hands moved back up her back, one arm going about her waist, securing her to him, as his other hand found the long, single braid and tugged on it, tilting her head back so that he could deepen their kiss.
