The Smuggler Wore Silk

by Alyssa Alexander

  “This isn’t a lark.”

  “It’s also not dangerous. Aside from that, you have no method of restricting me to the carriage. I’ll simply follow you.”

  He was silent and she wondered what he was thinking. She wished she could see his face clearly.

  “I’ll expect you to be quiet, and to follow my commands without question.” His tone was hard, and tolerated no argument.

  Exhilaration rushed through her. “I will.”

  He pushed open the carriage door and let in a rush of frigid air. She barely felt the cold as excitement sent her pulse pounding.

  He helped her out of the carriage before calling up to the coachman. “If we don’t return within thirty minutes, come looking for us near the Wargells’ home.”

  To her surprise, the coachman didn’t show even a flicker of hesitation. Then again, she mused, he was Julian’s coachman from London and presumably had obeyed similar strange requests. She supposed a spy needed a discreet driver.

  “Follow me.” He pulled Grace down the lane. Dry leaves crunched beneath their feet. Wind rushed through the trees, sounding like so many whispering voices. When they reached the drive connecting the Wargells’ home to the public lane, he stopped and looked both ways. As it was late for country hours, there was no sign of any other travelers.

  “We’ll walk beside the drive as long as we can,” he said. “When we come into view of the house we’ll need to circle around to the side gardens.”

  Grace nodded her understanding.

  He offered his hand. She hesitated, breathed in. Out. Then placed her hand into his. Even through their gloves, she could feel the heat sing up her arm. Closing her eyes, she forced it out of her mind.

  Walking on the grass beside the drive, they made no noise as they hurried toward the house. The sky was clear, the stars brilliant pinpricks against the black, but there was no moon to shed light on their path. Despite her eyes adjusting to the darkness, she could barely make out the direction of the path.

  Julian must have been able to, however, for he guided them well. Within minutes she could see the candlelight in the windows of the house. The golden glow illuminated the gravel path that rounded the side of the house and led to the gardens. She started in that direction but Julian pulled her away.

  “Your feet will make noise on the gravel,” he whispered into her ear. “We’ll cross the lawn.”

  They did so, once again striding beside the path but not using it. There were six windows on this side of the house. Candlelight lit four of them and two were dark. Julian passed the first two without pausing. On the third window, he slowed.

  Grace looked through the mullioned glass and into the drawing room. Mrs. Wargell reclined against a chaise much as she had during their visit, except now she flipped through La Belle Assemblée.

  Julian stepped away from her and moved on to the next window. He crooked a finger, beckoning to her. She lifted her skirts and jogged ahead to meet him. The fourth window was dark, so they moved on to the fifth—and saw Michael Wargell.

  He sat in an armchair in what Grace assumed was the estate room, elbows propped on knees, shoulders slumped. A half-empty brandy glass dangled from one hand. Even as they watched, he hung his head so low it sagged nearly between his knees.

  “Apparently he did not receive good news,” Julian said.

  “No.” She glanced at Julian. “I’m sorry we missed the Frenchman.”

  “I thought we might. Wargell was probably speaking with him before we even left the house. If the Frenchman was smart he would conclude his business quickly and leave.”

  “Assuming his business was illicit, of course.”

  Michael stood abruptly, interrupting their whispers. He tossed back his brandy in a single gulp and set the glass aside. He strode from the room and turned to the left. Julian pulled Grace in the same direction down the path. When they stood outside the drawing room, they stopped and peered in once more.

  Michael Wargell stood in the doorway, watching his wife turn the pages of La Belle Assemblée. She looked up and tossed the publication aside. She opened her arms and he was across the room in three strides. Dropping to his knees, he set his face against her breast. She ran her fingers through his hair, twisting the ends around her fingers.

  He spoke, though Grace couldn’t hear the words. Mrs. Wargell responded by gently kissing the top of his head. She laid her cheek where her lips had been, her face turned toward the window.

  Grace gasped as understanding dawned. Mrs. Wargell’s lashes fluttered closed, and she murmured something to her husband. The love there, the intensity of it, had Grace’s throat clogging with tears. Shock rippled through her. All these years, she hadn’t known why Michael had turned from her.

  “It’s a love match,” she whispered.

  “So it seems.”

  Michael tipped his face up and kissed his wife hungrily. She responded in kind, cupping his face in her hands. His drew up and pressed her back against the chaise, his hands on her breasts, her belly. She arched her back to meet him, her lips opening on a cry.

  “I believe it’s time to go,” Julian breathed in her ear.

  “I would say so.” But she shivered as his warm breath tickled her ear. It seemed like a lifetime ago that they’d last made love.

  They ran back through the lawns and out to the road. Just out of sight of the house, Julian slowed. Grace bent slightly to catch her breath.

  “Are you cold?”

  “I’m fine, just a little winded. We’ll be in the carriage soon enough.” She straightened and reached for Julian’s hand.

  Crack!

  Fire singed her upper arm and burning pain followed a moment later. She barely had time to hiss before Julian leaped onto her and sent her tumbling into the grass. Landing hard on her left side, Grace yelped as pain exploded in her arm.

  “Quiet. Stay down.”

  His whispered words were short and urgent. She obeyed, gulping back the cry that filled her throat. She knew as well as he what the noise had been.

  A gunshot.

  His weight pinned her to the earth. Branches stabbed into her back and rough grasses scratched at her face. But it was the throbbing pain in her arm that held her focus. How bad? The material of her sleeve was warm and wet with blood, but that was no indication.

  She waited, breathless, listening to the woods around them. The flap of wings from disturbed birds, the whinny of their horses down the lane.

  Julian rolled off her and crawled toward the lane. Grace gritted her teeth, unable to tell him of her injury as even a whisper could give away their position. She tucked her arm close to her body and followed, digging her fingertips into the cold, damp dirt. It clumped under her palm, a hard ball of wet earth. Using her elbows and feet to propel her forward, she pulled herself toward him.

  Renewed pain sang down her arm. But she could move it, she thought, flexing her elbow slightly. No permanent damage to the arm. She bit her lip as her fingers skimmed over the wound. The bullet didn’t even penetrate. Just a graze across the skin. A superficial injury, then. Relief warred with the cold burn of pain.

  They lay side by side at the edge of the lane. She followed Julian’s example and looked right, left.

  Shadows. Nothing but black on black stretching on either side, with little moonlight to reveal their attacker. Looking through the trees to the side, Grace could see the lights of the Wargells’ home sparkling through the trees and wondered if they should run back that way.

  Julian leaned toward her. She could see the grim planes of his face in the night shadows. “Stay in the trees. Stay low. Run for the carriage. If we’re separated go to the nearest inhabited cottage or manor house for help, but don’t go back to the Wargells’ home. Do you understand?”

  “What about you?”

  “Do you understand?” Urgency underscored his to
ne and sent fear threading through her.

  She nodded sharply. Julian pushed to his feet. Grace did the same, choking down the faceless fear. He darted into the trees. She followed, staying as low to the ground as she could. Her feet scraped through dry leaves and brush. Small trees and bushes caught in the skirts of her gown, slowing her footsteps. Wishing she wore her breeches, Grace reached down with her uninjured arm and pulled up as much of the gown and petticoats as she could.

  Without the moon to guide her, she could barely see the ground before her and hoped no stray root would jump up to trip her. Keeping her eyes on Julian’s back, she raced through the trees parallel to the lane. It couldn’t be much farther.

  Julian curved to the right toward the lane and Grace followed. Her breath was coming in gasps now. He stopped at the edge of the trees and Grace could only be grateful. He held up a hand.

  She could hear the swoosh and rustle of dry leaves. Someone was running through the trees, just as they had.

  “The carriage is there,” Julian said, pointing across the lane to the small turnoff. The coachman had turned the carriage and it was standing just at the opening. “Run to it. I’ll be behind you.”

  “But—”

  “Go, Grace. There isn’t time to argue. He’s just behind us.”

  With one sharp nod, Grace leapt onto the road and sprinted across it. She felt naked, vulnerable, running across the open dirt lane. She shot a look behind her. Julian was still standing at the edge of the lane, a tall, lean shadow between her and their unseen attacker.

  “John!” she shouted to the groom as she neared the carriage. “Get ready!”

  “Aye, milady!” He stood and brought his whip up, ready to snap it.

  Grace pulled open the carriage door with her good arm and tumbled inside. Sticking her head out the open door, she squinted into the darkness. For a moment she couldn’t see Julian and panic sent her heart into her throat. Then she saw his shadow, racing across the lane.

  Crack! Another gunshot. Grace prayed Julian wasn’t hit. The whip cracked above and the carriage jerked forward. Julian dove through the open door as the carriage careened around the hedgerows and sped down the lane.

  Julian slid onto the rear seat and pushed back the curtain that hung at the back window.

  “Can you see him?” Grace gasped. She gritted her teeth, willing away the dull throb in her arm.

  “Only an outline of a man in the road. It’s too dark for even a brief description. I wish I could have stalked him, but I had to get you to safety. I couldn’t bear it if you were hurt.”

  She opened her mouth to tell him of the injury, but he swung back to face her. “It seems someone was spying on us spying on Michael Wargell.” Breathing ragged, he propped his elbows on his knees.

  “Ah, Julian?” Grace pulled her arm closer to her side. She could feel the blood trickling down her forearm now and knew she needed to stanch it.

  “Fair lady, you were magnificent.” His head came up and she saw his grin flash. “Not a scream, not a faint. Not a hint of the vapors. A veritable Amazon!”

  He reached out in a gesture she knew well—he meant to lavish her hand with kisses. Grace tried to move away, but she wasn’t fast enough. He grabbed her hand and pulled her arm toward him.

  She yelped as bright agony shot up her arm. He dropped her hand as though he, too, could feel the searing pain.

  “Oh, God. Grace.” Springing across the carriage, Julian slid onto the seat beside her.

  “Don’t touch my arm. Please,” she hissed through her teeth. Breathe, she ordered herself. Don’t let the pain turn to panic. It’s just a flesh wound.

  “Where are you hit? How bad?”

  “Not bad—” she huffed out. “Until you touch it. I need to stanch the blood.”

  “With what?”

  “Anything.”

  He began to untie his cravat.

  Chapter 24

  JULIAN SMASHED HIS foot into the double doors of Thistledown. The panels flew open and slammed against the wall with a resounding crash.

  “Starkweather!” he bellowed into the dim entryway.

  Grace weighed nothing in his arms. He pulled her closer to his chest, encircling her with his arms. To protect her. Even if it was too late.

  The butler rounded the corner of the front hall at a dead run, his livery flapping behind him. Feet skidded on the polished parquet floor. “My lord?” he puffed. His eyes widened when he saw Julian’s burden.

  “Get a fire burning in the earl’s chamber,” Julian barked. “Bring hot water and linens.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Starkweather sped into the recesses of the manor.

  “Julian, there’s no need to trouble the staff with fetching items,” Grace said. “It’s my arm that’s injured, not my legs. I can walk.” Still, her good arm tightened around his neck.

  “If you insist on doctoring yourself, then you’re damn well going to do so on my terms,” he answered. “You’re not walking.”

  Fear lent urgency to his steps as he stalked up the stairs and through the halls to the earl’s bedchamber—Grace’s bedchamber now. A banked fire already burned in anticipation of her return home. Good, he thought. It would be warm. Laying her gently on the bed, he swept his gaze over her body, searching for injuries they may have missed in the dark.

  As soon as he released her, she popped up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The cravat she’d pressed against the wound dropped into her lap. He could see a bright crimson stain on the sleeve of her pelisse, a stark contrast against the white trim.

  His fists clenched. His fault. He should never have taken her. Guilt flooded him, violent and heavy. “I’m calling the surgeon.”

  “That would be a waste of time. It’s only a few sutures. I’ve set hundreds of them.” Hair straggled down from her once elegantly curled coiffure and stuck to her face and neck. He pushed aside a curl caked with mud. “I need my satchel from the stillroom.”

  He swallowed hard. She could do it. He’d seen soldiers stitch their own wounds on the battlefield. Hell, he’d done it himself, though it had been a poor job. And she had been a healer for as long as he’d been a spy.

  “We’ll send the Starkweathers for it. Here, let me,” he said, unclasping the fastener on her pelisse. His fingers felt thick and clumsy.

  A quick knock sounded on the door. Mrs. Starkweather opened it without waiting for an answer. She carried a basin of water in her hands. Behind her, Mr. Starkweather held Grace’s satchel and a bundle of linens.

  “We thought she might need her healing things as well,” Mrs. Starkweather said. “Is she well, my lord?”

  “I’m fine!” Grace called from the interior of the room. “It’s just a small scratch.”

  The housekeeper peered around the doorframe. She sucked in her breath, then let it whoosh out again. “Lord, Miss Gracie! You poor dear.”

  “It’s nothing.” Careful fingers probed the injury. Julian’s belly clutched when Grace winced. “Though it is painful,” she muttered.

  “I’d ask if it was one of the revenue officers that did it, Miss Gracie, but you’re not dressed for smuggling.” Mrs. Starkweather cocked her head. She was clearly hoping for an explanation.

  “I just need to wash up and I’ll be fine,” Grace said.

  Julian took the basin and other items and shut the door again. When he turned around, Grace was fingering the sleeve of her gown.

  “I need to get the gown off. At the very least I need to remove the sleeve, which is so tight it must be cut off,” she said.

  “The vagaries of fashion,” he muttered, shaking his head. Propping his boot on the edge of the bed, he slid his fingers in and pulled out his knife. It was short, wide and meant for stealth. He gripped the hilt. The carved ridges were comfortable in his hand.

  “Do you always carry a knife in your boot?
” she asked.

  “Yes. Stand up.”

  She complied with slow and deliberate movements, keeping her wounded arm pressed tight against her side. He lifted the fabric away from her breasts, pierced the rose silk and began to slide the knife from neck to hem.

  The silk split with a whisper. He kept his hands gentle as he pushed open the gown and slid the right sleeve from her arm. But the sleeves were tight and he couldn’t pull the one off her left arm without causing her pain. It had to be done, he thought, and gritted his teeth.

  Sweat rolled down his back when her breathing became shallow.

  “What can I give you for pain?” he asked as she sank onto the edge of the bed.

  “Nothing.” The word was short, terse. “Nothing for now. Brandy for after, please.”

  “What next?”

  “Set the basin beside me.”

  She picked up a strip of thin linen, dipped it in the water and began to sponge the wound. Her head was bent over her work, her breath whistling between her teeth.

  “Five or six sutures. No more than that.” The cloth she had been using plopped into the basin, splashing water over the edge and onto the dry linens stacked beneath it. “My needle and the thread are in the bag.”

  He retrieved both, then stepped back and studied the wound. It was a red crease running across her arm just below the shoulder. He’d seen gunshot wounds before and knew this was shallow. Certainly not life threatening. But there was always the risk of a fatal infection. A chill settled over him.

  “The interrupted or knotted suture is performed with any needle armed with a waxed thread . . .”

  He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The London Medical Dictionary. I’ve read it dozens of times.” Her breath hitched as the needle pierced skin. “Carry the needle and ligature to the bottom of the wound, so as to avoid but little chance of matter collecting under it.” She looked up. Her eyes seemed huge in her face. “It’s a different thing altogether when it’s your own wound.”