The Smuggler Wore Silk

by Alyssa Alexander

  “I’ve been to the Continent, Mrs. Wargell. And if other men in this area spent more time there, they would have recognized my bride for the jewel she is instead of settling for something . . . less.” He sent a pointed look at an oblivious Michael Wargell.

  A titter sounded behind him and he knew his set-down had been overheard. Temper assuaged, he pulled Grace away without even a polite good-bye.

  Chapter 18

  THE MEAL WAS over, the guests departing. As Julian stood on the gravel drive beyond the front door saying farewell to their final guests, Grace found herself alone in the entrance of Thistledown. She crossed her arms, gripped her elbows and stared blankly around the entryway.

  She was mistress of Thistledown, she supposed. A countess. What did a countess do? For that matter, what did a wife do? She turned her head, watched through the front windows as Julian’s lean form crossed to the stables. She didn’t know what he expected from her. Perhaps he expected her to go straight to the bedroom so he could claim his marital rights.

  Her pulse leapt. She could accommodate that demand. She had already, after all, and discovered a range of delights. The feel of skin against skin was so unexpectedly delicious, the taste of him so utterly male. Something fluttered in her belly as she watched her husband walk up the gravel drive toward the manor. He moved with such fluidity, limbs loose and graceful, yet full of purpose as well. The sun played over his features, gilding them, and the autumn wind ruffled his hair. He was so handsome, so strong.

  And all hers.

  Desire coursed through her, sending a warm tingling low in her belly.

  On this day, Julian Travers was hers for the taking.

  When he entered the front hall again, windblown and cheerful, she was ready for him. Reaching out a hand, Grace sent him a provocative smile. “My lord? Shall we retire?”

  Instantly, his eyes went dark with desire. He returned her smile, though his was full of knowing amusement. “So early, my lady? It’s barely three o’clock in the afternoon.”

  Heat rushed her face. Was she supposed to wait until the evening? “I believe I mentioned this once before, Julian, but a smuggler is going to make a dreadful countess.”

  He took her hand, raising it to his lips. His eyes held hers as his lips pressed hot against her fingers. The heat shot up her arm and straight down to her belly. Her breath caught somewhere between her lungs and her throat because now she knew exactly how those lips would feel on her most sensitive skin.

  “Fair lady,” he said, drawing her toward the massive staircase that led to the second floor. “At the moment, I find myself grateful for a smuggling wife. My enthusiasm to retire knows no bounds.”

  Something within her clutched, then released, and she laughed as he drew her up the front stairs and toward their chambers. He stopped before a pair of doors and pushed them open. Bright sunshine warmed the room and gleamed over Julian’s hair.

  “Julian, the windows! How—?” They were everywhere. It was as though the walls had disappeared and all she could see were trees and lawn and sky.

  No, that wasn’t true, she corrected as Julian closed the door behind her. There were certainly more windows than there should have been. And between them, around them, were dozens of paintings of the sea, the tropics, lush gardens, and fields that sprawled forever.

  She whirled to face him. He must have seen the question in her eyes.

  “It was dark in here.” He shrugged. “I had the stonemason and glassmakers put in new windows and bought some paintings while I was in London. But it doesn’t signify.” His brows drew together and he stepped forward. “Unless you hate it?”

  “I love it. It’s beautiful, and so—” She didn’t know. Liberating wasn’t right. Open, perhaps. Spacious.

  “Good.”

  “Does the countess’s suite have so many windows? Oh—the bed!” How had she missed that mountain of white and blue and gold? Anticipation flooded her, sharp and sweet.

  “Ah yes. The bed. My favorite piece.” He drew her to him, his hand coming behind her to rest at the small of her back. “What’s your favorite painting, fair lady?”

  “There are so many, and each of them a different setting.” She looked around, studying the paintings. His hand began caressing small, light circles against her back. Just the lightest touch and yet her breath caught, then released on a sigh. “That one,” she breathed, nodding her head.

  He spun them around and through beams of sunshine toward the painting until she stood before it.

  “An island in the ocean.” His voice purred in her ear. He was just behind her, pressed against her back, his cravat tickling her bare neck. His arm came around her, his hand resting on her stomach. His fingers splayed out, hot arrows against her belly. “Not the green shores of England?”

  “No.” She ran her thumb along the shoreline in the painting, just at the line of beautiful turquoise water and luminous white sand. “It’s so exotic. So different from what I know. The palm trees, the greenery, the bright tropical flowers—it all seems so lush and vibrant.”

  “Perhaps the smuggling captain should take his consort there.”

  She smiled at the memory of their first kiss, and the smuggling captain he’d claimed to be.

  Lips touched her shoulder, pressing against that sensitive flesh where shoulder curved to neck. And now she was breathless, her body taut with anticipation. Aware of his every breath, she tipped her head. Those clever, clever lips drifted up until they were pressed just below her jaw.

  “Perhaps,” she whispered, “she’s ready to be swept away.”

  “To an island in the southern seas then, where the sand is white and hot and the ocean is blue as a bluebell.”

  She turned to face him, pressing herself against him. Her lips tipped up of their own accord as she looked up into his lean features. And his eyes. Oh, how she loved those eyes.

  “I would say the ocean is the brilliant blue of the sky in midsummer,” she murmured.

  He looked puzzled for a moment. Then the expression faded as she rose on her toes and kissed him.

  Hungrily. She was hungry for him, for his body, for his laughter. For the light. Pouring herself into the kiss, she ran her fingers across his broad shoulders. Even as she touched the smooth cloth of his coat, even as she tasted him, she could feel his nimble fingers fluttering over the buttons at her back. The gown loosened, the bodice slipping and sliding from her breasts. If she shrugged, even a little, the gown would simply slither to the floor.

  His gaze flicked down, lingering on the round swells of her breasts. She saw his lips curve, ever so slightly, in pleasure. She went hot. Her skin, her blood, her body. And so she shrugged, letting the gown fall away. Fingers worked at her stays, until those too fell away and she was standing in only her thin cotton chemise.

  She could hear his breathing turn ragged as he gazed at her, as his eyes went dark with desire.

  “What would they do on that tropical island?” she demanded softly. “Show me.”

  “He would sweep her away, as promised.”

  He scooped her up, so quickly she gasped and gripped his arms. He was carrying her, she thought in wonderment. It made her feel foolish to revel in the strength and fluidity of his lean muscles.

  “He would lay her down in the waves, just at the place where the warm, salty ocean kisses the shore.”

  Gently, he settled her on the bed among the plush pillows and silk coverlet. Beneath her, the soft mattress gave way, cradling her body as she watched him disrobe. His clothes fell to the floor, coat then shirt then breeches.

  She smiled in invitation. “He would join her there in the ocean, and let the waves lap against both of them,” she murmured as she reached out to draw him to her.

  “So he would.” Then he was there beside her, propped against the pillows and looking down at her. With the tip of one finger crooked unde
r the edge of her chemise, he pulled at the light fabric. “He would bare her skin to the hot sunshine, inch by tantalizing inch, and would kiss that smooth and creamy skin.”

  His head tipped forward and when his lips touched the skin of her collarbone she sighed. Her breathing quickened as the chemise slipped down her arms and bared her breasts to him. Though she could hear a fire crackling somewhere in the room, the air felt cool on her heated flesh.

  Her nipples stood erect, exquisitely sensitive to the air. It was torture when his thumb brushed across the point, then again when his mouth closed over it. Needing something to ground her, she threaded her fingers through his thick hair.

  He raised his head, brushed his lips against hers.

  “The water would lap at his woman’s toes,” he said. “Then her calves, then her thighs.”

  Fingers tickled her toes, then slid slowly up her calf. His touch was so gentle, yet she felt every ridge of the calluses on his palm. He grazed the back of her knee, then moved up under her chemise to skim along her thigh. Her muscles quivered under his touch.

  She wanted to writhe, to move against him. She wanted something. Spreading her fingers across his chest, she tugged gently at the sprinkling of hair there. Beneath his smooth skin and lean muscle, she felt his heart pounding hard. The quick beat matched her own frantic pulse.

  “Can you hear the rhythm of the ocean?” she whispered. Taking his hand, she pressed it against her breasts. Against her frenzied heartbeat. “Can you feel the beat of it?”

  “Grace,” he groaned.

  His lips swooped down to hers, demanding and greedy. A moment later he drew off her chemise. When he ranged himself over her, his gaze locked on hers. Held, even as he kissed her. Mouth to mouth, skin to skin.

  Heart to heart.

  As he loved her, as their bodies joined, something powerful rushed through her. It filled her heart so that the essence of her seemed saturated with it. The wonder of that sensation, the sheer enormity of it, left her breathless.

  She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him with all the tenderness she possessed. Wrapping herself around him, she met him thrust for thrust, beat for beat, until it seemed they were flooded by the thrum and pulse of the ocean.

  __________

  CURLED AGAINST HIM and warmed by the heat of his skin, Grace woke in darkness.

  She’d been wanton—the first time and the second time. And the third time, after their cold supper in his room. Now she lay quiet, exploring the sensation of Julian’s skin against hers, his chest against her back. His breath fluttered in her ear, his heart beat slow and steady.

  How strange, she thought. Flesh to flesh. So close, so intimate.

  The fire had faded to only the faintest glowing of embers in the hearth. Yet cocooned by the silk coverlet and Julian’s arms, she barely felt the cool night air. Instead, she felt limber and loose. And oddly foolish.

  It seemed as though their hearts had beat as one. But surely that was impossible. Yet in that moment she’d never felt so close to another person.

  It was thrilling and terrifying and wonderful.

  Julian’s arm slid around her belly and tightened, pulling her closer. “Are you well?” The words were thick with sleep and barely understandable.

  “Yes.” She stroked the arm that held her close.

  “Good,” he whispered. She felt his lips brush against her bare shoulder, the lightest of kisses.

  Content, she sighed and settled herself against him. She’d just drifted to the edges of sleep when she heard the sounds.

  A rough scrape, then a thud.

  Julian’s muscles hardened, his body stiffened, and she knew that he, too, had heard it. He shifted and his lips touched her ear. “Stay here. Stay quiet.”

  He pushed back the coverlet and moved away from her, leaving nothing but cool night air behind him. She rolled over to watch him slip soundlessly from the bed. Naked, he stalked across the room to the pile of clothing that had fallen to the floor hours before. His movements quick and silent, Julian drew on his breeches. He bent again, paused, drew something from beneath the remaining pile of fabric.

  Moonlight flashed on a short, thin blade.

  Her eyes widened. Where had that knife been hiding? Had he carried it during the wedding ceremony?

  Then she couldn’t think at all. He turned to look at her, the color of his eyes indistinguishable in the moonlight, but the intensity in his gaze mesmerized her. Sharp, cunning, hard. Not the gentle eyes of the man she’d married that morning or the man she’d made love to.

  These were the eyes of a spy.

  He melted into the deep shadows across the room. She heard no sound, not even his breath, and it was as though she were alone in the room. Muscles tensed and poised to leap, she waited. Endless minutes passed where there was no sound beyond the bump of her own heart and the rushing in her ears.

  Her breath caught when he stepped to the windowed door leading to the narrow balcony outside their room. His shape stood out in relief against the night sky as he opened the door and slipped through. A quiet click sounded as the latch caught and it closed again. Julian merged with the shadows on the other side of the glass and he was gone.

  Stay here, he’d said. She understood the intent behind his command was to keep her safe. But she refused to stay in the bed, naked and vulnerable, waiting.

  She slid from the bed and crossed the room, trying to be as quiet as Julian had been. In the silent night it seemed she could hear the loud drumming of her own heart. Drawing on her cotton dressing gown, she crept to a window. Inching the drape aside, she peered through the glass at the dark night beyond.

  The white limestone balcony gleamed in the moonlight, its shape a sharp contrast against the soft landscape beyond. Lawn and trees were only outlines, black shapes against the night sky. Stars winked from behind gray clouds, and a low-hanging sliver of moon brushed the treetops on the horizon.

  She searched the darkness for Julian. Though the balcony was nearly ten feet long, it was only a few feet wide. He could not have gone far.

  It wasn’t long before she saw the black figure climb over the railing and slip onto the balcony, but it wasn’t Julian. It dropped to a crouch, the figure’s head moving side to side as though scanning the terrace. She didn’t dare move the curtain, didn’t dare breathe. She waited, wondering where her trunks were. Her pistol was in the bottom of the smallest trunk, wrapped in a shawl.

  Another figure appeared, momentarily silhouetted against the sky. Grace recognized the second figure as Julian. Yet he seemed like nothing but smoke, dark and lean and lithe, a sinuous shadow that hovered above the white limestone and moved with fluid grace.

  The shadow leapt.

  She gasped as she saw Julian slam into the intruder, knocking him back against the balustrade. The intruder recovered quickly. He pushed back against Julian, raised an arm to strike. Julian dodged the blow before kicking out, driving his foot into the intruder’s stomach. The man wheezed but didn’t fall. Taking advantage of the intruder’s gasping breath, Julian lunged.

  The two shadows grappled, arms locked around each other in a macabre dance. They seemed evenly matched, neither gaining ground as they circled and shifted.

  Grace’s heart thumped in her chest. What should she do? She stepped to the balcony door and reached out, her damp palm slippery on the latch.

  Pausing, she glanced around the room behind her. She needed a weapon. She mentally considered and discarded half a dozen objects before settling on a heavy candlestick. Flying across the room, she snatched the candlestick from the mantel. The unlit candle toppled to the floor. She left it there as she ran to the balcony door and flung it open.

  Cool September air rushed over her as she darted across the narrow balcony. She could hear grunts, labored breathing, a gasp of pain. Running forward, Grace drew the candlestick above her head, waiting
for an opening to strike.

  “Shadow.” The intruder grunted as Julian’s fist connected with his stomach. “Langford,” he gasped.

  They paused, their dance halted midstep.

  “Angel?” Julian said. They broke apart and he stepped back. “Bloody hell, I was going to kill you.”

  The second man rubbed at his belly, wincing. “I thought as much,” he answered.

  Frowning, Grace dropped her arms to her sides. Who was this intruder? She could see no more than strong features and thick hair brushing broad shoulders.

  “Julian?” she asked tentatively.

  “Grace.” Julian turned, held out a hand to her. “Let’s get back inside. Angel, you’ll join us?”

  “Of course.” Deep, smooth tones. Grace felt the man’s speculative gaze on her.

  As Julian closed and locked the balcony door behind them, she replaced her makeshift weapon on the mantel. She returned the candle to its place and lit it, then its mate.

  Turning back to the room, she glanced at the intruder and nearly gasped. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. Golden and gorgeous, with hair the color of honey and eyes a tawny gold. What had Julian called him? Angel? Not his real name clearly, but he certainly had the face of an angel.

  And he was a spy. She was certain of it.

  She pulled her thin cotton wrap closer around her naked body and watched as Julian strode forward, his hand outstretched. Did he realize he wore no shirt?

  “You’re getting sloppy, Angel. Not only did I hear you, but my wife did as well.” He grasped the other man’s hand in greeting.

  “And you’re getting soft. Another minute and I’d have had you on your back.” Angel shook Julian’s hand, a grin spreading across his beautiful face. “Wife?” Brows raised, he turned his gaze on her.

  “She knows who I am, and why I’m in Devon,” Julian said softly.

  “I see. I didn’t realize you were married.”