by Shana Galen
“A little girl like you can’t have that many sins to repent.” He gave her a roguish look. “Yet.”
She gaped at him, rosy mouth forming an O. “Lord Winterbourne—”
Ethan turned his head at the sound of approaching voices and tried silencing her with a wave.
“No, I will not be quiet! You have no right—Mmmpfh!”
In one fluid motion, he closed his hand over her lips and dragged her into the thick shrubs nearby, pushing her onto her stomach and coming down next to her.
She bucked against him wildly. She was small but strong, and he struggled to keep his arm around her. She bit his hand, and he swore soundlessly. Little hellion!
“Lie still!” He clamped his hand tighter to muffle her protests. “Stop fighting. There’s someone coming.”
She shook her head, elbowing him in the stomach.
“The devil take it!” He pulled her hard against him, where she’d be less able to inflict damage. “Listen,” he whispered against her ear.
Thankfully, she obeyed. Her petite body grew rigid as the men’s voices became louder. Wide-eyed, she craned her neck to look at him. He took a chance and uncovered her mouth, leaving his other arm securely around the curve of her waist. He put a finger to his lips.
She nodded.
Peering through the shrubbery into the clearing, he saw three men clamber through the trees on the clearing’s far side.
All three wore coarse wool trousers and gray homespun shirts, but one sported a bulky greatcoat while the others had no such protection from the November chill. Their hair was dirty, matted, and shaggy, their faces and clothes covered with dirt and grime. One wore a brown beaver hat, and his unkempt hair was plastered to his neck beneath it.
“I don’t see why I should be the only one that has to help the stinking Frenchie do the digging,” whined Beaver Hat. “It’ll go much faster if we all pitch in.”
The three stomped through the meadow, pausing a yard or so from where Ethan and the girl lay. Ethan scrunched down further. The contents of a haversack clunked loudly when the man in the coat tossed it aside, and Ethan felt the girl jump.
“You’ll do the digging because you and the Frenchie lost at cards last night. That was the wager,” Greatcoat answered in a hoarse voice. “And if I were you, I’d start now.”
Beaver Hat planted his hands on his hips. “What if I don’t want to start? What if I don’t want to work with no stinking Frenchie?”
Greatcoat stared at him. “Maybe you should have thought of that before you took this job.”
Ethan watched as the man reached into the coat and withdrew a pistol. The girl gasped, and Ethan glanced at her. Her eyes were riveted on the men, and against his body, he felt her heart pounding in her chest. He raised his hand to cover her mouth again but lowered it when she remained silent.
He looked back at the men, now certain they were the smugglers.
Beaver Hat backed down under the threat of the pistol. “No need for that. I’ll help the Frenchie.”
“Good.” Greatcoat nodded, still pointing the gun at his companion. “You’d better get to it. You-know-who will expect us to be ready to leave as soon as he returns.”
Beaver Hat turned and scurried in the direction the three had come.
Greatcoat and the other man sat on an old log. Greatcoat pulled out a flask, drank deeply, and passed it to the other. Ethan noticed the silent smuggler had a fresh bruise that would become a black eye in another day.
“I could do without his mouth.” The man with the black eye drank from the flask and handed it back.
“Won’t have to work with him much longer,” Greatcoat answered, voice still gravelly. “Be out of here tonight if all goes as planned.”
His companion nodded. “Let’s just hope you-know-who took care of his end. We don’t need any more meddling farmers.”
A reference to Skerrit, Ethan thought, glancing at the girl beside him. Her features were blank, giving no sign she understood the discussion.
“Can’t blame him for complaining.”
Ethan looked back at the smugglers.
The silent one touched his bruised eye gingerly. “Don’t like working with them Frenchies myself. Wouldn’t do it except I need the blunt.”
“Gagnon’s not so bad.” The smuggler drew his coat closed and drank from the flask again. “I’ve seen worse. Bad business across the water. Bloody bunch of barbarians if you ask me.”
Beside him, the girl had begun to shiver. She was frightened, and he didn’t blame her. When her teeth began to chatter, he pressed his hand over her mouth. If they were very quiet and moved slowly, they could back out of the shrubbery without the smugglers seeing.
But they had to go now before much more was revealed. The less the girl knew, the better. Devil take him! He was so close. He knew these were the smugglers. Knew the man had gone to unearth the arms they’d be smuggling to France. He had them. But his first responsibility was to see the girl safely home.
The girl squirmed, twisting her head under his hand. Ethan clenched his jaw. He scowled at her, angry at having to let the smugglers go. “Come,” he mouthed silently. He removed his hand from her mouth and again put a finger to his lips.
She glared at him. He ignored her, releasing her waist and backing out of their hiding place. He’d escort her home and return. If he was lucky, he’d see the man he really wanted—the smuggler’s superior.
Ethan had known from the first someone besides Skerrit was involved. Someone funding the operation. Soon he’d know the man’s identity.
The girl watched him, the expression on her face confused and irritated. He pulled at her arm until his mouth brushed her ear. “Stay low and follow me,” he whispered. “Don’t make a sound.”
“But—”
He gave her a warning look. She pursed her lips, and he crawled backward, out of the undergrowth. She followed.
They backed into a clump of trees that sheltered the clearing, then he took her arm and pulled her toward the area where he’d hobbled Destrehan. A few yards away, he could hear the smugglers laughing, unaware they’d been observed. Ethan and the girl were, hidden from sight by the trees, but the smugglers were still too close for Ethan to relax.
He tugged her arm. “Let’s go,” he murmured.
“Wait!” she hissed. She shook free and squared her shoulders, facing him. “I want to know who those men were and what they were doing.”
“Not now,” he whispered, nodding at the clearing. “I’ll fetch my horse and take you home.”
She gave him a withering look. “Don’t you owe me an explanation? Something more believable than the story you told last night.” She walked away from him—heading the wrong way.
He gritted his teeth, took two steps, and turned her around. “This way.” He nodded his head toward Destrehan.
She glared at him, pushed the recalcitrant ribbon out of her eyes, and started off again. “Lost a shoe,” she muttered. “And he expects me to believe that?”
Ethan almost reached out to strangle her but checked the impulse. She’d obviously figured out his lie last night and wouldn’t accept half-truths and vague explanations for what they’d seen today. He didn’t have time for this.
She swung around and looked over her shoulder. “Are you coming?”
Ethan glared at her. No wonder the girl had been praying. She would need divine intervention to keep him from killing her.
Six
“This is really quite unnecessary, Lord Winterbourne,” Francesca argued, desperation causing her pitch to rise.
“So you’ve said.”
Together they climbed the last hill before Tanglewilde, he leading his sorrel gelding by the halter and looking as annoyed as he sounded. Francesca knew this was her last chance to dissuade him. After they’d retrieved his horse from a copse of trees off the main road a half hour before, she’d expected to part ways. The marquess, however, had other ideas. Still had them.
Yesterday she co
uldn’t make him look at her twice. Today he was practically stitched to her side. Was he concerned for her welfare? Worrying for her safety and escorting her home were acts far too chivalrous for Winter—he wasn’t so nicknamed without reason. He was not a nice man.
Then another thought struck her. “Do you think that man in the clearing would have actually shot the other?”
Francesca would freely admit she had been terrified when the man drew his pistol on his companion. If Winterbourne wasn’t being so surly, she might have expressed gratitude that he’d appeared in the meadow when he did. Perhaps she had sensed those men nearby and that was why she’d felt uneasy earlier.
He hadn’t answered her, but she went on anyway. “I suppose they’re highwaymen who’ve hidden their spoils near the clearing.”
“Hmm.”
She frowned at his response. “If we hadn’t hidden, would they have demanded our money or our lives?”
“Only in a novel, Miss Dashing.”
She lifted her chin, disregarding his scorn. He was obviously in a bad temper, and perhaps it was just as well. His anger distracted her from noticing how his tight trousers molded against the muscles of his thighs above his riding boots, and from remembering how hard and solid his body had felt when he’d held her against him as they watched the highwaymen.
He was still scowling at her. If he hated her so much, why did he insist on seeing her home? They were well away from the men and presumably she was safe now.
Or she would be if she could prevent him from taking her home.
She needed to distract him. She stopped walking, forcing him to turn to look at her. “I think you owe me some answers, especially after lying to me last night.”
“I see.” He didn’t look distracted. His eyes, hardened amber, judged and assessed her.
She shifted from one foot to the other, waiting for him to answer. He didn’t.
She couldn’t stand it any longer. “You said your horse lost a shoe”—she pointed to his mount—“and he obviously hadn’t.”
“And?” He didn’t even blink.
Did the man have no shame? “And,” she went on, waving her hands in frustration, “you lied!”
“Yes.”
Francesca wanted to scream. “Is that all you’re—Wait a minute.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “What were you really doing at Mr. Skerrit’s, Lord Winterbourne?”
He didn’t answer, his face a blank canvas, but for once she didn’t mind. “Are you some sort of spy?” It was the first thought that popped into her head.
“You have an active imagination, Miss Dashing.”
She couldn’t deny it, but she’d said something that struck a mark. She had seen the quick tensing of his jaw when she’d said the word spy—the hard set of his lips before they’d relaxed back into deceptive detachment. She had seen that look before, in another lifetime, when the two of them had danced at the Harcourts’ ball.
“You were doing more than riding by Skerrit’s farm yesterday, weren’t you, Lord Winterbourne?” She took a step toward him, trying to find the best angle to judge the expression on his face. “No wonder you were so quick to buy Thunder. You were trying to rid yourself of me!”
“I’m beginning to think that’s an impossibility,” he muttered.
Francesca huffed. It all made sense now—his annoyance with her, his eagerness to buy a horse he didn’t want. What if her guess was true? What if she’d interrupted him in the midst of a mission for the Foreign Office, perhaps even for Prime Minister Pitt himself? She’d allowed her imagination to run wild, and now she couldn’t seem to rein it in.
“Is Mr. Skerrit a threat? Is he an agent for the French? Oh!” She put her hands to her throat. “Those men we just saw kept talking about a Frenchie.” She took another step forward and grasped Winterbourne’s forearm. She clutched him, feeling the security of solid muscle under her fingers. “Hampshire hasn’t been” —she swallowed—“invaded? Has it?”
“No.” His voice was harsh with exasperation. “The French have not invaded the Hampshire countryside.”
She took his arm with her other hand, holding him with both now. “Oh, thank God!”
He glanced at her hands, ungloved and red from cold against the dark material of his greatcoat. Suddenly aware of his warmth seeping through the material and the hard, sculpted feel of his muscles beneath her hands, she released him and stepped away.
She glanced in the direction of Tanglewilde, then back at him.
“Miss Dashing, either lead the way, or I’ll pick you up, throw you over my shoulders, and carry you home.”
“No!” She held up her hands to ward him off. “You can’t do that.”
“Watch me.”
He was so close, she felt his breath caress her cheek. When she met his gaze, he stared right back, and she realized he meant what he said.
It had been bad enough imagining arriving at Tanglewilde—traipsing past all the servants and God knew who else—with the notorious Marquess of Winterbourne at her side. That in itself would create enough scandal among her bored, sleepy neighbors for a year. Probably more. But if she showed up, tossed over his shoulder like a soldier’s spoils of war, she’d die from the shame. She’d already been the source of gossip once because of him.
He gestured for her to begin walking.
Francesca winced. She could not return to Tanglewilde with the Marquess of Winterbourne. She was already out of her father’s favor because of Thunder; she could only imagine the array of colors he’d turn if she brought Winterbourne to dinner.
Lord! Thunder! She still had to find a place for her baby. She eyed Winterbourne. Now that she knew the real reason he’d been at Skerrit’s and bought the horse, it seemed unlikely he’d be willing to take the colt, even temporarily.
“Lord Winterbourne,” she began, not sure what she was about to say.
A warning flashed in his eyes, and she grasped her skirts in her hand, scurrying out of his reach and onto the road. He followed her.
Even worse than her father would be her mother. Though he’d treated her abominably at the Harcourts’ ball, the marquess was prime marriage material. A juicy fly for her mother to trap in her web. A snack to feed her mother’s obsession with Francesca’s unmarried state. Despite her mother’s love of gossip, she cared almost nothing for the marquess’s tainted reputation. Like the rest of the ton, she could forgive almost anything if the gentleman had enough money, power, or good looks. Winterbourne had all three—in abundance.
And Francesca did not want to imagine what Winterbourne’s impression of her mother would be. The viscountess would probably collapse in utter delight at the sight of him. She’d certainly waste no time bringing up the topic of marriage and making not-so-subtle hints that he should consider her daughter as a prospective bride.
Francesca felt terror creeping in as they topped the final rise. At the summit, they’d have a full view of Tanglewilde.
She turned abruptly and came to a full stop, holding up her hand to stall his progress. “I wish to extend my most fervent thanks for the escort you have provided me today, but I fear I must insist upon traversing the last quarter mile alone.” She gave the speech in her most authoritative tone and curtsied prettily, thinking it a nice touch. It was actually one of her more graceful curtseys, until Winterbourne led his horse past her and she almost fell over.
“W-where are you going?” she stammered, regaining her footing and stumbling after him.
“I want to see what it is you’re trying to hide.”
He strode the last few feet and topped the small hill, then paused, put his hands on his hips, and frowned.
Francesca knew what he saw without having to look.
Tanglewilde lay on the slight rise of a broad verdant valley, surrounded by the sloping hills of the Hampshire countryside. She and Winterbourne faced the south side from this angle, which meant they had to cross an expanse of grassy pastures dotted with white sheep and goats to reach the rear of the house it
self. From this vantage point, one could see the stables and the various smaller storage and work buildings of the estate as well as some of the tenants’ cottages.
The north façade offered a more impressive view of the house, but she’d always preferred this charming, if simple, view from the south. She looked at Winterbourne to gauge his reaction.
But he was staring at her, his brow creased in a bewildered expression that she almost found endearing. She had the momentary urge to take her thumb and smooth the wrinkle between his eyebrows.
She bit her lip hard, reminding herself that she was irritated with him.
“—work here?”
He’d asked her a question, something about the house. She paused for a moment, trying to fill in what she’d missed.
“Oh, I believe our staff numbered forty at last count,” Francesca answered, wondering why he wanted to know. If he was that interested in the estate, she’d never convince him to leave her on the rise.
Keep calm, she told herself. Don’t panic.
“Our staff?” Winterbourne asked, regaining her attention. “What exactly is your position here? You have ample free time for a maid, and you’re a little young to be the housekeeper.”
“What?” Maid? Housekeeper? What could he possibly—?
She staggered backward as she realized. She would have fallen straight down the hillside, too, if he hadn’t released the reins of his horse and reached out at the last minute to steady her.
She swatted at his hand. “Don’t touch me.”
He jerked away. “What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” she screamed. The horse skittered to the side, and Winterbourne grasped his bridle to steady him.
Now she’d scared the poor horse.
“Maybe you’d better sit down a moment,” Winterbourne said when he had the gelding under control again.
Her cheeks heated with embarrassment. He probably thought her half-mad, which, at that point, wasn’t far from the truth. She could kill him. She wanted to kill him.
Not only did he not recall walking away from her on the dance floor—leaving her at the mercy of the ton’s ridicule—at the Harcourts’ ball, he didn’t even remember her. Mistook her for one of Tanglewilde’s maids!
