Counting on a Countess

by Eva Leigh

  Kit held up his index finger. “Hold a moment. You had smuggled goods in London? Where were they?”

  “In”—she cleared her throat—“the cellar at the house on Bruton Street.”

  “And the staff never suspected.”

  “Mr. Stockton and two footmen had to be brought into confidence,” she confessed. “I agreed to pay them a portion of the profits if they kept quiet.”

  His silence stretched on for an unbearable eternity.

  Finally, he said through clenched teeth. “Nessa, the butler, the footmen. They were in on it. Everyone was—except me.”

  She tried to speak, but no words made it past her lips.

  He planted his hands on his hips, and his scowl was so deep, she could see it in the darkness. “Why did you not ask me directly if you could buy the house?” he pressed.

  “It would have been a huge expense. We had been wed such a short time, and then we learned the condition in Lord Somerby’s will that gave me control of the money. I didn’t know how you would have felt if I’d said I needed to spend the lion’s share of our new fortune.” She spread her hands. “I was afraid, so I said nothing. And adhered to my plans in secret.”

  “I was your dupe.” The pain in his words cut her like a blade. “You used me.”

  “We used each other,” she said. “To you, I was a means to get Lord Somerby’s money. And what of your pleasure garden? You tried to make me care for you so I’d give you the funds to pay for it.” She spread her hands. “Neither of us are guiltless.”

  His chest moved up and down as he drew in shallow, furious breaths. “That’s your defense.”

  “It was for them,” she said, waving toward the village. “I did it for them.”

  She took a step toward him, but he backed away. He moved slightly, and then put more distance between them. Finally, he turned and began walking.

  “Kit? Where are you going?”

  He whirled back and strode to her. “Not to worry,” he said bitterly. “I won’t go to the authorities. I won’t have Lady Blakemere clapped in irons.” He opened his mouth as if to speak more, but then shook his head and marched off into the night’s shadows.

  Her feet would not move to follow him. Everything within her was cold as granite, and just as heavy. She sagged against the fence behind her, using it to prop her up when she would have surely sunk down to her knees.

  Fear gripped her throat tightly. Now that he’d learned the truth about her smuggling, he could destroy not only her, but Newcombe, as well. He was so bitter, so angry that she’d broken the law; there was every chance he’d change his mind and turn her in to the customs officers.

  Pain engulfed her like a smothering blanket. Everything they’d built together had been destroyed.

  What do I do?

  Chapter 28

  Like an avenging spirit, Kit roamed the surrounding countryside. Anger and sorrow and pain urged his legs into constant motion. Yet no matter what field he walked through, or bluff he stood atop, or crumbling castle keep he skirted, he never discovered the answers he sought—what to do about his wife and her smuggling.

  He strode away from the coast and its beating surf, seeking silence. As if impelled by memory, he found himself at the edge of the forest where she’d taken him earlier. With grim determination, he moved deeper into the woods, bittersweet thoughts of their earlier lovemaking pulsing through him.

  The hot wound of Tamsyn’s deception continued to throb as he pushed his body to its limits. From the beginning, she had lied to him, even using their home as a place to store her contraband goods. He remembered how, the morning after they’d first made love, she had been absent from bed. When he’d found her, coming up from the house’s lower floor, she’d said she had been handling a domestic emergency. Another fabrication.

  She’d defied the law, as well. Wasn’t that what he and his men fought to preserve? Had their injuries and deaths meant nothing to her?

  He stopped at the clearing where they had lain. They had shared pleasure, but not the truth. Slowly, he crouched down and placed his hand on the dew-covered grass that was still flattened.

  In the morass of his thoughts, one sang with a low and insistent note.

  You weren’t honest with her, either.

  His fingers brushed over the grass, and predawn damp coated his skin. The coolness of the moisture jolted him, waking him from the cloud of his thoughts.

  He stood and frowned at the leaves overhead, swaying in the darkness.

  Perhaps their respective crimes canceled each other out. He was no stranger to morally ambiguous deeds. In Belgium, he’d shot a man in the back—but the enemy had been running to warn his comrades of the advancing English soldiers. He’d acted in a way that made his heart shrivel, yet it had been for the greater good.

  She and the villagers defied the Crown and disregarded the law, but they had done so to survive. Adults could sometimes endure starvation, yet children could not. He’d seen the shriveled bodies of Spanish and Portuguese babies held in the arms of their wasted parents. That same fate could have befallen the children of Newcombe if Tamsyn hadn’t intervened.

  Whether or not that made his and Tamsyn’s actions right, he didn’t know.

  The forest oppressed him now, choking him with its lush foliage. He hurried out of the woods, his strides taking him away from thoughts of what they’d created, and what they’d lost.

  More landscape scrolled past him as he walked. The black night sky began to turn indigo with the coming of dawn, and shapes emerged from the darkness. Snug farmhouses and barns appeared. A handful of goats bleated at him as he passed their pasture.

  The route he traveled sloped downward, and buildings grew more plentiful, until he discovered himself walking down the village high street.

  Despite the earliness of the hour, people were already up and tending to their daily business. Women scrubbed at their washing or carried baskets. A sleepy child sat on the front step of a house, groggily playing with a doll. Out on the pier, men moved with familiarity on their docked boats, preparing their vessels before heading out for a day’s fishing. Distantly, Kit wondered if their catch had improved over the years or if they still hauled up empty nets at the end of the day.

  The people he passed continued to give him cautious looks. He couldn’t blame them. He had no business being up at this hour and roving through the village like a specter.

  They were smugglers, too. Their suspicion of him was well-founded. Yet no one knew that he was aware of their secret.

  “Morning, my lord,” one woman on her step murmured. She held a sleeping baby swaddled in a striped blanket, and gently jogged the infant up and down. Nessa came out of the house, watching Kit warily. The child and its mother looked perfectly healthy.

  Nessa had lied to him, too.

  He moved on without speaking.

  No one in the village appeared gaunt or ill. There were no listless children dragging themselves along the street, followed by hollow-eyed mothers. Men weren’t hunched with anger because their families’ bellies were empty.

  Kit had seen what famine did to people. So many villages on the Peninsula had been decimated by hunger. One little boy in Portugal had followed Kit’s unit for miles, begging for something to eat. Kit had given the boy his remaining bread and a hunk of cheese—though not before scraping off the mold.

  The child’s haunted dark eyes looked at Kit now, through the veil of time.

  Starvation had come to this village, too. Eight years ago, it had withered flesh on bone and made stomachs angry caverns echoing with want.

  Rescue had come in the form of one redheaded sixteen-year-old girl with an audacious plan. She had conceived and executed it, saving the lives of hundreds of people. Despite the losses she’d faced and the neglect she suffered at home, she did not abandon her need to help others. She persisted.

  Kit walked to the seawall and sat down, looking out at the ink-dark ocean. At once, images of Tamsyn filled him—watching the
water, inhaling its brine, walking along the edge of the foam on the beach. There had been so much life and joy in her, he couldn’t help but share that happiness. Its reverberations continued even now, his heart lifting in time with the waves.

  She had committed many crimes against his country, the one he’d been sworn to defend against enemies. Could he fly in the face of the law? Yet the government had taken from this village in the form of punishing taxation, endangering everyone. That wasn’t right, either.

  Uncertainty was a chasm, surrounding him on all sides.

  Would he have done the same in her place? She’d taken a massive risk in order to help the villagers. She’d imperiled her own life. For them.

  He studied the churning sea. He wasn’t a waterman, but he understood enough to know that the ocean was never idle. It changed from day to day, from moment to moment. Yet it was eternal, too, despite—or because of—its constantly shifting nature. One could try to predict its moods and movements, but there were times when there was no choice but to surrender to its changeability. It was either that or drown.

  Making a choice was difficult and thorny. Yet he had to make one.

  His thoughts wove through a labyrinth like Theseus searching for the minotaur. At the center of the maze, the beast awaited him. Did he kill it or learn how to live with the creature?

  The answer came to him with sudden clarity.

  He got to his feet, causing several heads to turn in his direction, but he paid them no heed. Instead, he traveled back up the high street, back on the road that led to Shawe’s house—and Tamsyn.

  Tamsyn paced moodily through the derelict garden her mother had labored over, as if trying to outrun her thoughts.

  Soon after her mother’s death, Tamsyn had tried to maintain the garden herself. She’d pulled weeds and pruned hedges to the best of her ability, but her knowledge about gardens was scarce, and she hadn’t her mother’s patience and skill in coaxing the plants to thrive. The books she’d studied had told her precisely what to do. Despite her following their instructions, the garden had withered.

  It wasn’t dead, but it didn’t flourish. Whatever managed to remain alive did so out of sheer obstinacy.

  We’re much alike, she thought, stopping long enough to touch the jagged leaves of a shrub. She and the plant continued to exist because there was no other option other than surrender. It was said that the barony had been given to her ancestor because he’d fought against Cromwell at Worcester. Perhaps there was a little of the first Lord Shawe’s blood left in her, keeping her on her feet when all she wanted to do was crumple to the ground.

  Yet how was she to move forward? There was no enemy, no obstacle to overcome. Her fate, and the fate of the village, was in Kit’s hands. She didn’t know what he would do. Unsettled misery sat on her shoulders like a gargoyle, its claws digging into her flesh as it weighed her down.

  Footfalls approached, the gravel crunching beneath the newcomer’s feet. Tamsyn’s body went still as her heart pounded. The footsteps were too heavy to be Gwen’s, too quick to be Jory’s. None of the male servants ever sought her out, since Gwen was the mistress of the house.

  There was only one person who moved with such speed and purpose.

  She forced herself to turn and face Kit, struggling to compose herself. Yet her heart sprang into her throat at seeing him approach, his gaze fixed on her.

  He stopped a few feet from her and said nothing, studying her face for a long time. All the while, her breath came fast and the ground felt unsteady beneath her feet.

  “I don’t regret what I’ve done,” she said evenly. “Not when it comes to the villagers. They were suffering and I had the means to alleviate that suffering. Perhaps another person, a better person, might have found another solution, but this was the one that seemed the best to me.”

  A muscle moved in his jaw, but he remained silent.

  “In eight years,” she said, her words low but insistent, “there have been seventeen weddings. Twenty-four children have been born. Fifteen burials took place. No one died because they didn’t have enough to eat or because they couldn’t pay a doctor. That was my doing, and I would gladly steal the diamonds from the Prince’s waistcoat buttons if it meant Newcombe’s survival.”

  Planting his hands on his hips, his gaze never strayed from her face. He looked like the soldier he was, sharply assessing the situation. Was she the enemy to him, or an ally? Perhaps she was something more complicated.

  “If I have any regret,” she went on, her eyes burning, “it’s that I hurt you. I never desired that. I only wanted . . .” She blinked hard to stem the tears that wanted to run. “I had hoped that somehow, we could find a way to be together, to be happy, even as my deception drove a wedge between us.” She quickly dashed her hand across her eyes. “Something occurred after you asked me to marry you. Something unexpected. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted it to happen. But it did.”

  Summoning all her courage, she stepped closer to him. He didn’t move when she placed her hand on his chest—but he didn’t embrace her, either.

  “I fell in love with you, Kit.” Her smile was a fragile thing, easily broken. “The man who I’d wed as a means to an end was also the man I came to love. I love your clever mind, and the joy you find in the world, and the size of your heart. I love the way you cultivate friendships because you genuinely like people. I love that you never tried to make me into someone I wasn’t.”

  His eyes were shining now, bright with emotion, and his chest heaved beneath her palm.

  “Every lie I told you was like performing an amputation on myself,” she whispered. “Cutting away perfectly healthy flesh while I fought to keep from screaming. But I had to choose—loving you, or the life of the village.” She pressed her lips together. “So I made my choice. I made it, and I’m ready to face the consequences.”

  She dropped her hand and knotted it. Her fingers wrapped around her thumb and her fingernails dug into the flesh of her palm. “I can tell Mr. Flowers that I’m granting you complete, unrestricted access to our fortune. Bring a CrimCon suit against me. Say I was unfaithful. I won’t contest it.” Pain tore through her as she spoke, but she made herself go on. “All I ask is that you don’t hurt the people of Newcombe.”

  A long moment passed. Tamsyn died and was reborn a hundred times as she gazed at Kit, her soul in her eyes and her fate in his hands. She searched his face for some sign, anything at all that revealed what he thought, he felt. Yet he remained steadfastly opaque.

  Finally, his gaze fixed to hers, he cupped his hand around hers and slowly, carefully, uncurled her fingers.

  “You’ll break your thumb if you throw a punch with it tucked under your fingers,” he said lowly. He arranged her hand so that it formed a strong fist. “Better. More force and less chance of injuring yourself.”

  She frowned. “Are you asking me to strike you?”

  “I want you to be able to defend yourself,” he answered. “Firearms are good for only one shot, and they aren’t very reliable. Plus there’s a chance you could kill someone, which is a crime punishable by death. If there isn’t anything around to use as a weapon, effective use of this”—he lifted up her fist—“can be devastating. Don’t be afraid to use it on a customs officer if he’s coming after you. Aim for his nose or throat. Hitting the solar plexus,” he continued, resting her hand on the center of his chest, “can knock the wind out of someone and give you an opportunity to run like hell.”

  She stared at him as her pulse raced. A tutorial in self-defense was not what she had expected from him.

  “There’s always a knee to the groin,” she said lowly.

  He grimaced. “Brutal and devastating.”

  “Generally,” she said, failing to keep her words level, “when the lawbreaker is advised on better ways to defeat the law, it’s seen as an endorsement of their illegal activities.” She licked her dry lips. “Is that what you’re saying, Kit?”

  He wrapped both his hands around her upraised
fist. “As you said, neither of us is guiltless. We’ve both done things . . . things that aren’t necessarily right, but they aren’t wrong, either.” He exhaled. “It’s a complex world. We try to control it with laws and Thou Shalt Nots and etiquette manuals. We try . . . but when it comes down to it . . . we can only do the best we can. Hope we hurt as few people as possible. Sometimes it can’t be avoided.” His lips formed a small, wry smile. “Sometimes it’s necessary. Like what you’ve done here, for the village.”

  Her chest began loosening, the knot in her belly unraveling, but she was afraid to look too closely at what she felt, and what he meant.

  “I was responsible for hundreds of lives, too,” he went on softly. “Each time one of my men died, they took a piece of me with them—because I hadn’t been able to protect all of them. But had it been in my power, I would have done anything to make sure they returned to their families. I fought and planned and killed, for my country, yes, but for my men, as well.”

  “Kit.” She imbued his name with all her aching hope.

  “My love,” he answered. His gaze was warm, and he lowered her fist before cupping the side of her face. His palm was warm against her chilled flesh. “I’m here. I understand. And I know what has to be done.”

  She had been the one responsible for everything for so long. The burden eased from her shoulders, yet her heart refused to fly free until it knew for certain what Kit intended.

  He pressed his lips against her forehead before tilting her head back so their gazes met. “On my way back here, I realized what we have to do. We’ll stick with your plan to buy this house from your uncle.” He smiled down at her. “The smuggling must continue. And, if you’ll have me, I’ll serve as your second-in-command.”

  She gazed at him with wide eyes. “You speak truly?”

  “I jest about many things,” he murmured, “but not this. Not you. My sweet, brave, scofflaw bride.” He permitted himself a scoundrel’s smile. “They’ll sing ballads about us and sell prints of our daring, infamous exploits in the shops on Paternoster Row.”