The Smuggler Wore Silk

by Alyssa Alexander

  He could hear her breathing. Deep, deliberate breaths, as though control required great effort.

  “Grace.”

  “Quiet. This is the last stitch.” Deft fingers worked the needle. “I need you to snip the thread with the shears in my bag.”

  Surely his fingers were too large and clumsy for such delicate work. He was used to wielding a knife, a pistol. His blunt fist. Not a pair of small shears.

  Then it was done and he could breathe again.

  She dropped the needle and thread into the basin and picked up the linen. She started dabbing at the remaining dried blood on her arm.

  “Let me.” Julian took the linen from her hand.

  “I can do it—”

  “Just let me,” he snapped. Kneeling before her, he squeezed the long strip of linen and let the water run down her arm.

  He’d never been more terrified. In all his years of spying, in all the years he’d courted death, he had never been as scared as that moment when Grace had screamed. He had failed in his duty to protect her. His wife.

  “I should never have let you come with me.” He tried to keep the rage from his voice.

  “Julian.” She gripped his wrist. “It was a dinner party.”

  “Not that.” He dabbed at a stubborn spot on her wrist. “After. I should have made you stay in the carriage.”

  “You couldn’t have.”

  But he should have. “Then I shouldn’t have gone at all. Grace—” He looked down into wide silver eyes. “It’s my fault. You had to flee through the dark, through the woods.” He swallowed hard. “You were shot.”

  “I’m not seriously hurt, Julian.” She sucked in a breath as he wiped a tender area. “And we’ve discovered something useful tonight.”

  “Nothing worth your life.” The cloth dropped into the basin with a light splash.

  “Don’t be dramatic. We learned Michael is deeply into some game with a Frenchman. Just what isn’t clear. We’ll have to find out.” Grace stood and began pacing the room, her petticoats whispering again as she moved. “How do you settle, Julian?”

  “What?” He watched her, studying her quickened step, the erratic shrug of her shoulders. The gracefulness that usually defined her movements had vanished.

  “I can’t seem to focus.” Her restless pacing turned into prowling. “My heart is still racing. I’m on the edge of something and can’t quite step back from it. How do you settle down after a mission, or whatever you call it?”

  He understood how she felt. Blood pounding from the chase, nerves stretched thin. Alive and grateful to be so. Full of energy that had no outlet. To release that energy he usually turned to alcohol or a willing woman. Perhaps a boxing or fencing match if he could find a partner.

  “I find ways.” But she shouldn’t have to.

  “I can’t tell what I need.” She turned in a circle, surveying the master suite. When she stopped, she faced the armchairs that sat before the fire and the table between them. “Brandy.”

  “It might help.” He’d used it himself. So he poured two fingers and listened to her rapid footfalls as she came near.

  “Aren’t you having one?” The woman who took the glass from him seemed a stranger. Flushed cheeks, hard voice. Her fingers gripped the crystal.

  “No.”

  She raised the glass to her lips, drank deep then met his gaze. Her eyes left him breathless. The quiet silver gray was usually calm and soothing. Now, however, that gray was dark as thunderclouds, raging and wild.

  It didn’t belong there. That fierce and wild energy wasn’t Grace. He had dark secrets within him, and had taken her to dark places with this mission. She’d experienced murder and lies and heartache. His eyes fell to her arm. She’d experienced pain as well.

  He could bring her no further into espionage or the secrets he held deep within. It would forever change her. She had no place in his world—or he had no place in hers.

  He closed his eyes, breathed deep and let her go.

  __________

  "JULIAN?” CONFUSION FILTERED through the burn of brandy and energy. She reached for him, her fingers brushing against his chest.

  He shuddered at the touch. “You deserve more than I have for you, Grace.”

  “What are you talking about?” Alarm sharpened her words.

  “I’m a spy. It’s all I’ve been for a decade.”

  “I know that.” She set the brandy glass aside. “But Angel said you were retiring after this mission.”

  “I’m not.” His tone was flat. “The foreign secretary is reinstating me.”

  She sucked in a breath and fought against the need to sink down onto the bed. “You’re returning to spying.”

  “Marriage and children and family aren’t for me, Grace. We both know that.” He strode to the dark window and looked out. “When this is over, I’ll be leaving for London.”

  “And I stay here in Devon. In this house.” She spun away, prowled the room. “With only your mother’s ghost for company.”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw and his eyes went cold. She didn’t care. Something vicious and ugly was building in her, straining to be released.

  “I can’t take you with me.” Control hardened his tone and he turned away from the window. “I wouldn’t even if I could. Have you forgotten your injury?”

  “How does that signify?” She ran gentle fingers over her arm. It throbbed with a dull pain.

  “This is my life. Espionage, weapons, injuries, unseen enemies.” His eyes narrowed. “Secrets.”

  “Secrets are something I’m learning a lot about,” she said, hating the spite in her own voice. Needing to fill her hands before she began to tear at the rage clawing in her throat, she tossed the remaining linens into the basin.

  “We’re incompatible, Grace. Our lives are too different. When we catch the traitor, I’ll return to espionage and you can go back to your life—a better one, actually. You’ll have more freedom.” His face was impassive, cheekbones sharp against his lean cheeks. He spoke reasonably, almost automatically, as though it were the most natural step for their marriage. As though his words hadn’t scraped a raw wound inside her.

  “I should have known you would leave. You’re the Wandering Earl,” she said icily. Opening the door, she plunked the basin onto the hall floor before snapping the door shut again. “Does our marriage or the life we were building together mean anything to you, Julian? Or was it all for the sake of the mission?”

  “I never lied to you about who I was once we were married, Grace.” He grabbed her uninjured arm, held her in place when she would have swept past him.

  “No. You’re a Travers.” She spat the words and wrenched her arm from his grasp.

  He stiffened, and his eyes went bleak and flat. “Yes, I am a Travers. It’s something I never forget.”

  “They say blood tells, Julian.”

  “And I can never escape mine any more than you can escape yours.”

  Vicious rage streaked through her, drowning out the pang of grief that had tears stinging her eyes. “Get out.”

  He watched her steadily, summer sky eyes guarded. She couldn’t read what was in them, and it hurt that he was closed to her.

  She stalked to the brandy decanter and poured another glass. Liquid splashed over the crystal rim and onto the table. Behind her, there was nothing but silence from Julian. She tossed back the brandy, gulped and let the burn of it fill the emptiness in her.

  The sound of the door quietly closing seemed as loud and devastating as the gunshot had been. She whirled, staring at the door to the hall.

  She was in the earl’s chamber. Her husband’s chamber.

  And yet she had no husband.

  The brandy glass flew through the air. Fragile crystal shattered against the door’s wooden panels and shards of glass rained down, a thousand jagged splint
ers with no hope of coming together again.

  Chapter 25

  GRACE STOOD IN front of the library door, staring at the carved mahogany. In twenty-four hours she’d neither seen nor heard Julian. For all their interaction, he could have left for London already.

  Except she could feel his presence in Thistledown. The partially eaten dishes on the sideboard at breakfast indicated he’d already come and gone. The embarrassed maid carrying a dinner tray. A solemn Starkweather slipping through the halls just after dark with a candelabra destined for the library.

  The hole he’d left in her ached with misery. She wanted to weep and wail and rage at him. But she could do none of those things. Straightening her shoulders, she pushed open the door. She stopped short when she saw Julian’s valet, Roberts, pause in the act of brushing off Julian’s coat.

  “Oh! I beg your pardon, Roberts.” Her cheeks flooded with mortified color. Her husband had taken up residence in the library, so much so that his valet attended to him there.

  “Please don’t mind me, madam.” Roberts’s vowels were nasal. “His lordship is seated before the fire.” He gestured vaguely toward the fireplace.

  She heard the scrape of metal on stone. One long, sinister sound that sent the hair on her arms rising. She looked around—and saw the blade.

  Thin and much longer than the short knife in Julian’s boot, this dagger was honed to a wicked point. Bright firelight reflected on the beveled blade as it slid along the surface of a small whetstone.

  He sat before the fire in an elegantly appointed room, wearing a fashionably tailored coat and boots polished to a gleam. He should have been taking tea, or sifting through the numerous accounts and ledgers of a landowner. Instead, he worked the weapon with ease, his movements purposeful, effortless and well practiced. Beneath his tight coat, she could see his muscles bunching, releasing.

  She shivered, mesmerized by the moving blade. She’d forgotten this part of him. He so smoothly charmed everyone, but beneath that exterior lived a spy. She didn’t want to know what he’d done with that knife.

  His brows rose in an elegant, unasked question as he lazily moved the blade over the stone.

  “I shall see to it that the coat is properly cleaned, my lord,” Roberts intoned as he passed Grace in the doorway. “But do be more careful with your wardrobe in the future.”

  “I will try, Roberts, but I sincerely doubt I shall succeed.”

  “I know, my lord.” Roberts heaved a forlorn sigh. “I know.” He left the room carrying the coat as though it were a precious artifact.

  “I assume this isn’t a social visit, since you’re wearing breeches.” The blade rasped over stone like an ominous warning. His gaze was cold, even disinterested, and the look darted into her heart and pierced it.

  “I’ve had word from Jack.” She cleared her raw throat. “He wants to meet with us at the Jolly Smuggler.”

  He carefully set aside the dagger. It was plain, she saw now. A plain, utilitarian weapon, without the scrollwork, engravings or jewels that so often appeared on such a blade. This was no dagger to brag about. This was a dagger for killing.

  “He wants to meet tonight,” she whispered. “Immediately.”

  __________

  LOW LAUGHTER AND the sharp scent of hops spilled out of the Jolly Smuggler. Grace stepped inside, hoping the warmth of the roaring fires at either end of the room would ease the chill inside her. Before she was over the threshold the greetings started. Raised hands, calls, smiles, many of them directed to Julian as well as her.

  They strode to the counter where Jack Blackbourn poured whiskey into a short glass. He looked comfortable and relaxed.

  “Welcome, milord.” Jack swiped a wet cloth across the bar, eyeing Julian narrowly. Then he switched his gaze to Grace. “Are you well, my lovely? You’ve shadows under your eyes.”

  “I’m fine.” As fine as she could be with her marriage crumbling. She propped her elbows on the counter. “It’s good to see you in the pub, Jack.”

  “It’s good to be back.” He nodded at Julian. “I owe you for that, milord.”

  A beat passed, two. In the background, laughter of the patrons and the clink of glasses sounded. Grace flicked her gaze between the two of them. Julian held Jack’s gaze for a moment, then each of them nodded, short and sharp, as though they had reached an agreement.

  “A drink, then, milord?”

  “Brandy, Jack. The good French sort.”

  “Well, now, that wouldn’t be legal, and as I’ve turned over a new leaf I don’t have any French brandy.” But his eyes twinkled and he reached behind the counter for a glass and a bottle. “I do have some good brandy that looks and tastes just like the French sort.”

  “That’ll do.”

  Grace studied Julian’s lean features as he picked up the glass. She met his eyes and saw the shield he maintained slide over that gorgeous shade of midsummer. Anger simmered in her, and she blanked her own features. He would get no more from her expression than she was able to read in his.

  “For you, my lovely? Your favorite wine?”

  “Only if it’s the good French sort, Jack.”

  When he had set the glass before Grace and she’d taken her first sip, Jack leaned companionably on the countertop. “An interesting business proposition was put about these last few days,” Jack said casually. “Passage for two to France, at night, with no questions asked.”

  Wine sloshed over the rim of her glass. “Who’s making the offer?”

  “Not sure. Word spread in the pubs, as word usually does. Anyone desiring the work was to leave a message for Mr. Smith at the Anchor’s Arms.”

  Beside her, Julian’s muscles tensed and coiled in preparation to spring.

  “Did you take the work, Blackbourn?” he asked.

  “Happens this man offered a lot of money for safe passage. Being a businessman, I considered it.”

  “Jack.” Grace sent him a quelling look. “What would your wife say if you got back into that kind of work?”

  “She’d have my head on a platter, and perhaps some of my other parts as well.” He took a fortifying gulp of ale. “Which is why I decided against taking the work. But, seeing as how he might be your traitor, I thought to accept the job, set it up and give you a chance to meet Mr. Smith and his travel companion.”

  “Jack, you’re brilliant!” Grace tipped forward in her seat and gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek.

  “What would your husband say to your kissing me, my lovely?”

  “Her husband is feeling like repeating the sentiment, except I don’t generally kiss the cheeks of other men.”

  “’Tis a good thing, milord, as it would be premature. Seems someone else already accepted the work.”

  Deflated, Grace sighed.

  “Don’t be too sad, my lovely.” Jack nudged her hand aside and topped off her wine. “I wouldn’t bring you out on a cold night for nothing.”

  “You know something.” Julian’s eyes turned cold, the blue becoming as sharp as shards of ice.

  “I do, indeed.” Jack’s smile had a self-congratulatory quirk on one side. “I thought to myself, this Mr. Smith, he might be staying at the Anchor’s Arms.”

  “It couldn’t be so simple,” Grace pointed out.

  “It could be just that simple. A traitor needs a bed to sleep in as much as the rest of us.” Julian tapped his fingers on the counter. “Get to the point, Blackbourn.”

  “I thought to inquire of the innkeeper. Unfortunately, there’s no Mr. Smith staying at the Arms, and in fact, no man staying there more than a night before he travels on his way. I asked the innkeeper to let me know when someone comes in inquiring about messages for Mr. Smith and to pay particular attention.”

  “And?” Grace prompted.

  “It so happens the innkeeper knew exactly what Mr. Smith looked like, as he’d inq
uired about messages not two hours earlier.”

  “Oh. Oh.” Could they be this close to the traitor?

  “Mr. Smith had a scarf over the bottom part of his face so the innkeeper couldn’t see his mouth. Had a cap on, too, pulled low, but he could see Mr. Smith’s eyes were brown.” He raised the tankard and sipped again. “He was a bit on the over-delicate side, too. Thin, narrow shoulders. Barely more than a boy, the innkeeper said.”

  “Or a woman,” Julian murmured.

  “Well, hell,” Jack spluttered. “That I didn’t think of.”

  “If my wife can go around wearing breeches, so can any other female.”

  Grace slanted a look at him and decided to ignore the bitterness in his tone, even though it rankled. “It could be anyone, then,” she said coolly.

  “It could,” he agreed. His eyes were distant when they met hers. “But we have the advantage. Passage for two was requested, which means we are dealing with two people. And we know both of them are in or near Beer.”

  “We know more than that.” Jack leaned an elbow on the counter. A cocky brow shot up. “I know when the boat will pick up its passengers.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  Energy spiked within her, sending her pulse scrambling. She reached out, gripped Jack’s forearm. “Where?”

  “Off Brogan’s Pointe. There’s a narrow cove there at the base of the cliffs,” Jack explained to Julian. “The smugglers will anchor at the mouth of the cove and come to shore in a jolly boat to pick up the passengers.”

  “We can stop them.” Grace turned to Julian. “We can stop the traitors before they get on the jolly boat.”

  “We?” One brow rose, very slowly, very deliberately. “You’re not involved in this, Grace.”

  “Exactly how do you expect me to stay uninvolved?” She narrowed her eyes. “This is my fight as much as it is yours. Jack was arrested and John the blacksmith was murdered. Murdered.”

  “Exactly. It isn’t a game. It’s real. It’s dangerous.” His voice lowered to a menacing whisper. “You are not going, Grace.”

  “I intend to see this through to the end.” She angled her chin and squared her shoulders, preparing for the fight.