The Smuggler Wore Silk

by Alyssa Alexander

  Julian held her gaze. There was no remorse now in those beautiful silver eyes—there was only defiance. “That’s all I need to know.”

  “’Tisn’t all. I—” Blackbourn began.

  Julian cut him off with one vicious oath. “I don’t care. Blackbourn, I’ve been working on your behalf to clear your name. The traitor is targeting you as a scapegoat. Stay hidden until I say otherwise.” He reached past Grace and snagged Blackbourn’s dirty shirt in his fist. Twisting, he jerked him up so their faces were only inches apart. “Do not run. If I find you’ve run again, I’ll hunt you down.”

  He could feel Grace’s small hands gripping his forearm and dimly heard her shout. His fist pulsed with the need to strike something. Or someone. Blackbourn’s breath was uneven, but his eyes were resigned. Julian could all but feel his fist plowing into the smuggler’s homely face.

  It would have been undeserved.

  He needed to leave before he did something he regretted. Dropping Blackbourn’s shirtfront, he stepped toward the door. “I’ll notify you when you’ve been cleared of all charges. Grace, I’ll be waiting to escort you back to Thistledown.”

  The cold night air burned in his lungs. Still, he gulped air greedily, unable to get enough. He was perilously close to losing control. Because of Grace.

  Betrayal. The word echoed through his mind, as rough and piercing as a jagged blade. He bent over, wheezing, his hands propped on his knees. It felt as though his chest were being crushed beneath an unbearable weight. He should be able to control himself. He was well trained and well seasoned. He should—

  The door of the cabin opened then slammed shut with a sharp crack. He jumped, his body jerking upright. He watched Grace search him out in the darkness and knew when she saw him. She stiffened, her shoulders twitching. He snorted derisively when he saw her chin jerk up. So she was angry? Well, she was in good company.

  Temper had him stalking forward.

  “Grace.”

  “My lord.”

  “Back to formality?” He lifted a brow.

  “When you’re being high-handed, arrogant and rude, yes.”

  “You lied to me.”

  “I did.” The angle of her chin didn’t change. “And I would do it again. I owe Jack more than I can say.” She swept past him, her boots scattering pine needles.

  “But you married me.”

  Her feet faltered, paused, then continued their forward march.

  So be it, he thought darkly. So be it.

  __________

  THE PRETTILY WRITTEN invitation slid across her worktable, propelled by Julian’s large, strong hand. The tension she’d carried with her the last week tightened her shoulders. Taking a moment to school her features, she eyed the stationery as it came to rest beside the small bowl she used to mix tonics.

  . . . kindly request your presence for dinner . . .

  She didn’t need to read more. “Another dinner to welcome the newly married couple into the fold?” she asked.

  Looking up, Grace met Julian’s sharp gaze. His eyes were distant, even cold—as they had been for days. The tiny vial in her hand slipped in her sweaty palm. She gripped it tighter and focused once more on the bowl, pouring the vial’s contents into it.

  “Indeed.” He leaned against her worktable and crossed his feet at the ankles. He looked elegantly casual, and so male, that she wanted to reach out and run her fingers over the broad sweep of his shoulders or the hard line of his jaw.

  That action was barred to her now, as certainly as if he were on the other side of a closed door.

  “Must we attend this dinner?”

  “Do you truly need to ask?”

  “No.” She struggled to keep her voice light and her words natural. “I’m simply weary of the sudden overabundance of invitations. We’ve attended a picnic, a dinner and a group outing into Beer this past week.”

  As weary as she was, the social engagements had at least proved a distraction from the cold and dreary halls of Thistledown—and her cold marriage bed. They hadn’t touched each other since the night he’d found her at Jack’s cottage. Instead, they were two polite strangers living in the same home and sleeping in the same bed.

  “We must attend.” His tone held no room for argument. “This invitation is from the Wargells.”

  She jerked, sending the bowl skittering across the tabletop to spill a few drops of the brown liquid swirling within.

  “Very well.” Deciding her hands weren’t steady enough to work with a liquid, she set aside the bowl. Reaching for her mortar and pestle, she started grinding the next ingredient into a dissolvable powder. Her skin prickled. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Julian watching her. Not moving, not talking. Just watching. She fought the urge to say something.

  She hated this awkwardness between them. His absence was a physical ache. Whatever tenuous connection they’d created had been severed as though it were an illusion.

  “Why do you suppose they would invite us after you snubbed Clotilde?” She cleared her throat. “And nearly called out Michael.”

  “To maintain the social connection. We’ll be crossing paths here and in London regularly enough.” He retrieved the invitation and tapped it thoughtfully against the palm of one hand. “I intend to create an opportunity to obtain a sample of Wargell’s handwriting.”

  “How?”

  “An opportunity will usually present itself, if one is watching for it. But it can be created as well. I might be able to manufacture a pretense for leaving the group to search Wargell’s study.” He leaned forward and sniffed at the thick brown liquid she’d been mixing when he’d arrived. “What is that?” he asked, frowning.

  “Cough syrup.”

  “It smells like rotten eggs and fermented fruit. Together.” He gave a mock shudder. “Disgusting.”

  When their gazes met and held, something passed between them. She couldn’t quite name it, but it felt as though the door had opened just the tiniest crack.

  Her hand stilled and the rhythmic grinding faded into silence.

  “I owe you an explanation,” she said quietly. His smile died and his eyes turned cold again, but she doggedly continued. “About Jack.”

  “You made your choice.” He turned away from her, leaving her facing only the broad expanse of his back.

  “Please. Just listen.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Grace.” He looked over his shoulder, his eyes unreadable. “You’ll be happy to know he’s been declared innocent of all charges of treason. I received a missive this morning and have already been to the cottage to inform Blackbourn.”

  “Oh,” she breathed. She looked down at her fingers, still limply holding the unmoving pestle. Her knees threatened to buckle as relief flooded through her. “Thank you.”

  “I didn’t do anything to assist. I simply gave my superiors my opinion and the evidence I had.”

  “Still, I must explain. I—”

  “Grace.” He swung around to face her. “It doesn’t matter to me. It’s in the past and doesn’t affect this moment. Or the choices you make today.”

  “Doesn’t it? Doesn’t your past dictate parts of your present? You are who you are today because of your past.” She swallowed to ease her dry throat. He was watching her so carefully, his beautiful eyes guarded. “I owe Jack so much. When I came here after my parents died, I was lost. I’d never been so lonely. Uncle Thaddeus was . . . well, not exactly welcoming. It was years before I met Jack. When I did, it was like finding my place here. Finally. Somewhere I could just be me.”

  She lifted her gaze to meet his, afraid of what she might see there.

  Blue. Bright and brilliant and filled with wary curiosity.

  “How did you meet Jack?”

  “He had to sink his goods to retrieve later because the revenue officers were watching him. They chased him af
ter he put ashore. He escaped—as usual—but he was shot. He hid in the smuggling caves and sent for me, since he couldn’t go to the surgeon without being caught by the revenue officers.”

  “You cared for him. Healed him.”

  “I went back every day for weeks with poultices and ointments and provisions.” She smiled slightly at the memory. “For all his charm, Jack is a horrible patient. At any rate, when the others pulled up the goods and brought them to the caves they needed someone to tally them and divide the payment. Jack usually did it, you see.”

  “And so you were asked to take his place.” His voice was still hard, but he tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her cheek, the rough calluses rubbing gently over her skin.

  She wanted to weep. She wanted to turn her face into his cupped palm and let the tears flow. Breathing deep, she blinked them back.

  “I just happened to be in the caves when the shipment came in. It was that simple—and it was that significant. Jack and his wife, Anna, brought me into their family. Jack reminded me who I was and where I came from. They saved me from drowning myself in the misery of loneliness.” Now the tears did well. She couldn’t hold them back.

  A handkerchief appeared in his long fingers. Smooth silk brushed away her tears. Then his lips touched her forehead, soft and warm, and his arms came around her. In that deepest place of her heart, something clutched and released.

  “When Jack asked me to keep his hiding place a secret, I had to make a choice between old loyalties or new.”

  “You chose Jack.”

  “I chose old loyalties,” she corrected. “What would you have done, Julian?”

  “You should have trusted me.”

  “Trust?” She pushed at the arms that encircled her until he stepped away from her. “You had another nightmare last night, Julian. Why don’t you trust me with that?”

  “Because you don’t need to know.” A muscle in his temple twitched.

  “I do need to know.” She spun away from him. Picking up the pestle, she began to grind the herb in the mortar with sharp, jerking movements. “If I’m going to sleep beside you for the rest of my lifetime and wake up hearing you screaming or sobbing, I need to know what’s happened.”

  “Don’t ask, Grace. It’s not for you—”

  “It is for me.” She slammed the pestle down, surprised when the stone didn’t shatter. “You expect me to trust you. With my friends, my life, my body. Yet you won’t trust me with anything.”

  “That’s not true. I’ve trusted you with my body and my life, just as you have. I’ve trusted you with my position with the government.” His eyes became bright blue flames.

  “You had no choice but to tell me about your position. But when it comes to us—to you and me and our marriage—you withhold your trust. There’s a wall between us.” She let out a furious breath. “No, it’s not a wall. It’s a door. I lie beside you every night in the chamber we share, staring at your mother’s door and listening to you sobbing in your sleep.”

  He stiffened, and the faint color in his cheeks darkened. “I’ll find another room if you can’t sleep.”

  “No, that’s not what I want. I want—” Despair choked her.

  “What do you want, Grace?”

  Your heart. Your love. The words caught in her throat. She couldn’t possibly expect his heart when she didn’t give him hers.

  “I don’t know,” she finished miserably.

  “Whatever it is, I don’t seem to be it.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging slightly.

  “I’m not expecting you to be anything but yourself.” She couldn’t give him her love, she thought again. Not without exposing herself. But she could give him the tenderness and affection that had grown within her. Swallowing hard, she took the leap. “I care deeply for you, Julian. I can share this burden with you. Tell me what haunts you.”

  She reached for his hand, but he jerked away so that her fingers found nothing but empty air. He strode to the door, his footfalls deafening in the silent room.

  Anger and hurt tore through her, twin claws that stole her breath and scored her throat.

  He stopped at the door, his hand resting on the knob. “I’ll move my things out of our bedchamber this afternoon.” He didn’t look her, but opened the door and strode through it, leaving her alone in the stillroom.

  Chapter 23

  “I’LL FIND SOME way to get Wargell into his estate room.” Julian jerked at his cravat, trying to loosen the uncomfortable silk. His valet must have tied it too tight.

  “Very well.” Grace’s words were polite, her face pinched.

  “Don’t say anything that might hint that my reason may be pretense.”

  “Of course not.” She looked offended for a moment before her face blanked. She turned away from him to look out the window.

  Silence engulfed the carriage and Julian gritted his teeth against the urge to fill it. In the past two days, she hadn’t spoken a word that wasn’t an answer to a direct question. Even those were single syllables.

  Julian shifted uncomfortably on the carriage seat. He’d slept two nights on the library settee and his back had suffered—as had his mind. The dreams were worse. Now it wasn’t just his mother, it was Grace as well. He woke up drenched in sweat and aching to touch her. He wanted to see her lying beside him.

  I care deeply for you, Julian, she’d said. He’d ignored her.

  It was better this way. It would only make his choice easier.

  At dinner, he watched her across the Wargells’ table. He couldn’t look away from her pale cheeks and the full lips she had pressed together so tightly. Her fingers fluttered nervously around her dinner plate. She barely spoke a word to any of the guests.

  Beside Julian, Lady Lintell was anything but monosyllabic.

  “I’m certain our Gracie is the finest of wives,” Lady Lintell burbled. “She’ll take proper care of you and Thistledown, my lord.”

  Lord Lintell leaned across the table, his fork waving dangerously in the air. “Such a bother, all the decorating a new bride does. Especially a young bride!” He cocked his head. “Not that you’re all that young, of course, Gracie.”

  Julian choked on his creamed spinach. Beside him, Mrs. Wargell hid a titter behind her hand. Down the table, Lady Hammond murmured, “Really, Archie. Most inappropriate.”

  Grace, however, only gave Lord Lintell a small, polite smile. “No. I’m not so young.”

  “And how is Thistledown holding up?” Sir Richard stabbed a small, round potato as though it were a thief attempting to abscond with his beef. “That old house has been empty for, what, twenty years? Twenty-five years?”

  “Yes, Gracie,” Mrs. Wargell chimed in. “Being a countess must be vastly different than living at Cannon Manor.”

  “Not particularly.” Grace’s eyes remained on her plate.

  “Given the little cottage you were born in, I’m sure you’ve no training to be the mistress of such a house, have you? And, of course, you’re unused to a title and all the obligations that go with it.” Mrs. Wargell’s voice was low and snide. “Gracie.”

  Enough.

  “Her ladyship,” Julian corrected smoothly, “is taking up the reins as Thistledown’s mistress with ease.”

  “And so she should.” Lady Lintell seemed oblivious to the undercurrents. “There’s no doubt about our Gracie. I’m sure she’ll do fine after you leave, eh?”

  He stilled. “Leave?”

  Grace’s fork jerked in its ascent to her lips.

  “Of course!” Lady Lintell sipped her wine. “You’ll be going to London soon, I’m sure, and then off to the Continent. The Wandering Earl and all that.”

  Grace’s expressionless face tore at him. She deliberately laid her fork and knife across the plate. It was like watching her surrender her weapons.

 
; She didn’t seem to care whether he stayed or left. But without her, there was no reason to stay. He wanted to snatch her away from the table—away from Devon—and go somewhere the rest of the world wouldn’t intrude. He could be alone with Grace, with nothing between them.

  He struggled to think beyond that vision. This wasn’t an innocuous dinner party.

  “And leave my wife and her charms so quickly?” Julian met Michael Wargell’s eyes. “I think not. Perhaps we’ll go to London for the Season, but I believe we’ll stay here for now. I’ve an idea to try my hand at farming.”

  “Isn’t that interesting,” Mrs. Wargell murmured.

  He watched Grace, hoping for a reaction he could read, but she only continued to stare at her plate.

  “Joining us landowners, eh, Langford? Have you had a chance to look at your south fields? If they’re like mine were, they’re under-producing.” Sir Richard leaned back in his chair and noisily wiped his mouth with his napkin. Beside him, Lady Marie winced and turned away as Sir Richard barreled on. “Talk to Mr. Wargell, here. His advice assisted me in increasing production.”

  At the head of the table, Wargell watched him warily.

  “Fascinating,” Julian said.

  “I have some theories that have proved successful thus far.” Wargell relaxed slightly and signaled to the footmen that the meal was over. “I’ve been corresponding with the Agrarian Society about my theories. They’ve been warmly received. I’ve garnered a number of enthusiastic letters from members of the Society.”

  “I’d like to hear your theories and read the responses.” Julian kept his tone neutral. “If you would be so kind.”

  “Then let’s leave the ladies to their tea and take our port in my estate room.” Wargell pushed back from the table. “I’ll show you those letters. Gentlemen, would you care to join us?”

  It was the opportunity he had hoped for. Julian sent a quick look at Grace as he rose from his seat. Their gazes met and he recognized her understanding of the mission—but there was nothing in her eyes for him.

  __________

  "A LOVELY DINNER, Mrs. Wargell, as always,” Lady Hammond said, sipping tea from a delicate pink cup.