Counting on a Countess

by Eva Leigh

  “No need for infamy,” she said gently. Her lips trembled as she spoke. “We only want to keep the village alive and thriving.”

  He ducked his head in acknowledgment. “Perhaps I got a little swept up. However,” he added more soberly, “in this field, you have more experience. I cede to your expert knowledge.”

  “I need to hear it again.” Her breath came quickly. “You aren’t going to report me to the customs officers? The smuggling doesn’t have to stop?”

  “Precisely right.” He wrapped his arms around her. “I’m here to help, however I can. Because it’s the right thing to do. And because I love you.”

  He brought his lips to hers, and, throwing her arms about him, she kissed him back with all the desire and joy and love that filled her like an ocean. Gratitude poured through her, leaving her giddy on thankfulness and Kit’s kisses.

  When they finally broke the kiss, she said in a hurried whisper, “We’ll have to act quickly. Jory keeps avoiding me, but he’ll talk to you. Tell him you want to speak with him about a business matter, then offer to buy Chei Owr. He’ll quote you an exorbitant price, but if you offer him a lump sum in cash, he’ll have to accept your offer.”

  Kit chuckled. “It’s a shame we didn’t have you on the Peninsula. With your clearheaded tactical expertise, the War would have been over in a fortnight.”

  “I had other battles to fight,” she said.

  “And you’ll go on fighting them,” he added. “But not alone.”

  Energy surged through her, making her feel as though she could lift the heaviest boulder or climb the steepest peak.

  Someone stood beside her. Someone loved her. Things she had yearned for, while believing that her wishes were hopeless, had finally come to pass.

  Chapter 29

  Much as Kit wanted to spirit Tamsyn off to the much-touted inns in Perranporth and share a bed—along with a night of athletic, imaginative lovemaking—he had to make an offer on the house as soon as possible.

  The first order of business after that would be getting Tamsyn’s aunt and uncle out. Once the loathsome Lord and Lady Shawe were gone, he and Tamsyn could concentrate on moving the latest shipment of contraband. There was also the matter of finally making repairs to the crumbling manor.

  When he’d been fighting overseas, he’d made certain that he had clearly defined objectives arranged in the most logical and achievable order. It saved him and his men from poorly executed, disastrous missions. He applied that same principle now. The stakes were just as high.

  He and Tamsyn had hoped to talk with Lord Shawe as soon as possible, but he was absent all day. And when Kit and Tamsyn went down to supper that night, Lord Shawe didn’t join them at the dining table.

  “Where’s Jory?” Tamsyn asked her aunt.

  Lady Shawe took a delicate sip of soup, dabbed her lips with a napkin, and then set the square of fabric down very deliberately before answering in a lofty voice, “He’s in Newquay. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Clearly, there was nothing to be done until the man himself was back from the neighboring town. So they endured another tedious dinner.

  When Lady Shawe excused herself to retire for the night, Kit rose and bowed with minimal politeness. Once the baroness had quit the room, he turned to Tamsyn. “How do you manage it?”

  “Manage what?”

  He glanced around, then spoke in a low voice. “Sharing a roof with these people when you’re hiding a secret from them. It makes my gut churn.”

  “My greatest challenge was keeping them from finding out,” she answered in a whisper. “For months, it gnawed at me. I barely ate and couldn’t sleep.”

  His heart contracted, imagining her so alone and so troubled, with little solace.

  “But I overcame that fear,” she continued lowly. “Because I had to.” Darkness crept into her eyes. “It’s not nearly as easy keeping a secret from someone you care about. It cuts you over and over again as though you’re plunging a knife into your own chest.”

  He strode to her and raised her chin for a kiss. “We’re done with hiding from each other. We’re a united front now.”

  “We are,” she answered.

  When Kit walked Tamsyn to her bedchamber, he lingered at the door.

  “Not sharing a bed with you is a bitter pill to swallow,” he muttered.

  “We could try evicting Gwen from her room,” Tamsyn suggested. “But even if we could get her to leave, I don’t want to sleep on a mattress they shared.” She shuddered.

  “A fair point,” he conceded. “But I have a solution. It isn’t perfect, but I’m used to conditions that aren’t ideal.” With that, he strode to his bedroom, gathered up armfuls of bedding, and marched back to Tamsyn’s room.

  “What are you doing?” she asked as he arranged the blankets and a pillow on the floor next to her bed.

  “Making up a pallet, of course.”

  “But the floor is bare wood,” she protested. “That can’t be comfortable.”

  He shot her a look. “Compared to some of the places I slept on the Continent, this is luxurious.”

  “Kit,” she said, her hands on her hips, “you cannot sleep on my floor when a somewhat-decent bed is just down the hall.”

  He curved his hands over her shoulders. “Now you’re just offending my soldier’s pride. Besides,” he added after pressing a quick kiss to her mouth, “from now on, I never want us to sleep apart.”

  “I want the same,” she said ardently. Then she gave a massive yawn.

  He chuckled. “Weary is the woman who fights many battles.”

  “There are so many.” She stretched out her arms and he avidly watched the lithe movements of her body. “I’m wrung out, but my mind is spinning like a pinwheel.”

  “The night before a battle was never easy,” he said with a nod. As he spoke, he undid the fastenings of her clothes, stripping her down bit by bit. “I knew that if I didn’t get enough rest, I’d be in even more danger. Weariness makes a man clumsy and unable to react quickly.” He peeled off her gown, and then worked on her underthings. “So when I’d lie down in my tent, I’d imagine I was in the safest place I could picture. In my case, that was a little dell near my family’s country estate. I’d go there to climb trees and watch clouds.”

  He slipped her loosened stays off her body and set them aside. Soon, she only wore her shift. All the while, she kept her gaze trained on him. He continued, “I’d picture myself there, lying on my back, the warm breeze on my face and the scent of green growing things all around me. Nothing and no one could harm me there. I was safe.”

  She went to the bed, pulled back the covers, then patted the mattress.

  “You don’t have to sleep on the floor,” she murmured. “We’ll be snug in bed together.”

  He didn’t need to be asked twice.

  Her eyes were shining as she watched him quickly disrobe. Though he normally slept in the nude, it seemed a wiser course of action to leave on his smallclothes, just in case something happened during the night. Still, it made him grin to see Tamsyn’s gaze linger on his torso, and then drift lower.

  He growled when she licked her lips. “Insatiable,” he accused.

  “Give me a taste of something delicious,” she replied, “and I’ll want it again and again.”

  She stretched out on the bed and he climbed in beside her. The bed complained loudly at the extra weight, but he didn’t care. He doused the candle, then gathered her close in his arms. She was silken and sleek, and his body roared its demands. “It won’t be long,” he vowed. “Then we’ll have an enormous bed of our own, and not leave it for at least a fortnight.”

  “Two fortnights,” she murmured. “Three.” Within seconds, her breath deepened and came slowly. She was asleep.

  Smiling ruefully, Kit closed his eyes. There would be other nights for them to create pleasure together. For now, he’d content himself with the simple, glorious pleasure of holding her.

  Moments later, he slept.


  Breakfast came and went and still no sign of Jory. Tamsyn felt ready to scream and tear logs apart with her bare hands. Instead, she made herself sit peaceably in the drawing room and attempt to read a book.

  “I’ve read the same paragraph half a dozen times,” she complained to Kit. “My concentration isn’t helped by your pacing, I might add.”

  “It’s either this or whittle something,” he answered as he made another circuit of the chamber. He took a slim knife from his pocket and eyed the leg of a table. “Don’t suppose anyone will miss this.”

  She held up a hand. “Keep pacing, if you must. Better that than you turning the house into kindling.”

  Kit slid the knife back into his pocket and resumed pacing. Ceding defeat, Tamsyn set her book aside and stared moodily out the window. It was a breezy day and the oaks and elms outside shook with the force of the wind. Normally, she loved windy days—they filled everything with life, even mundane little clumps of weeds—but today her nerves jangled and jarred with each gust.

  She straightened and Kit stopped pacing when someone came through the front door. Judging by the footsteps, it was more than one person. Male voices conferred lowly, then two people walked deeper into the house. More footsteps grew louder as someone came nearer and nearer to the drawing room.

  The door opened and Jory strode in. Tamsyn immediately got to her feet. She didn’t like the smirk her uncle wore—particularly because he aimed that same smirk at Kit, rather than Jory’s usual obsequiousness and toadying in Kit’s presence.

  “Home from a first-rate trip,” he announced smugly, shutting the door behind him. He tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. “Dined with excellent company and we had much to talk about.”

  Kit came straight to it. “I understand that you plan on selling the house. We want to purchase it.”

  Jory’s grin widened. “Oh, do you now? I find that right fascinating, so I do. I’ll warn you now, Blakemere, my terms are steep.”

  “Doubtful you’ll get more money than we’ll offer,” Tamsyn said, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Her uncle ambled with deliberate slowness to the fireplace, ran a finger down the mantel, then wiped the dust off on his trouser leg. “Here’s how it’s going to work,” he said, turning back to face them. “You’re going to give me twenty thousand pounds—”

  “What?” she yelped. The house couldn’t be worth more than ten thousand.

  “And then,” Jory went on, “the next year, you’ll give me twenty thousand more. And so forth.”

  Tamsyn’s stomach dropped.

  “You’re fit for Bedlam,” Kit growled.

  “Maybe so,” Jory agreed pleasantly. “But then, I’m not the one running a smuggling gang, am I?”

  She barely resisted the urge to slam her fist into Jory’s face. The need to fight tightened her muscles, and her neck protested when she turned her head to look at Kit. The cold fury in his face was terrifying as he stood poised to fight, balancing on the balls of his feet and his hands forming fists at his sides.

  “A wild accusation,” Tamsyn said, her voice seething with fear and fury.

  Jory threw her a contemptuous look. “You’d been acting strange ever since his lordship arrived. Something was afoot. I followed you out to the garden yesterday. Heard a few things. Heard what you’ve been doing beneath my own roof.”

  Tamsyn’s stomach pitched. In the garden, she’d been too consumed with her thoughts, and hadn’t heard Jory at all.

  Her uncle vied for a sorrowful expression. “Fair broke my heart,” he said mournfully. “The gel I’d fed and clothed and kept out of the rain wasn’t nothing but a viper. An ungrateful viper at my bosom.”

  Anger was a living thing that raged within her, demanding release. He had ignored her for years, and now he saw her only as something to be exploited.

  “Must say,” he went on, “eight years is a damned long time. Me and Gwen didn’t have a crumb of knowledge about it.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and his look of woeful reproach faded. “That time’s over. Now you pay me.” His voice hardened with his threat.

  “The hell we will,” Kit spat.

  “Ah,” Jory sighed, “I thought you’d give me trouble. So I took myself to Newquay yesterday and brought back with me two customs officers.”

  Shock reverberated through her as if someone had detonated a bomb. Jory didn’t give a damn that they were of the same blood. Her uncle couldn’t wait to betray her.

  “As we speak,” he continued blithely, “they’re having a spot of tea in the parlor with Lady Shawe.”

  “Blackmail,” Kit snarled.

  Jory shook his head. “No need for ugly words.”

  “But that’s what it is,” Tamsyn insisted hotly. “We don’t agree to your demands, you sic the customs officers on us.”

  “I invited them to Chei Owr,” Jory acknowledged. “For tea. Just being polite to the local law. And if it happens that you don’t agree to my terms, then”—he shrugged as if the matter was out of his hands—“I tell them everything.”

  Tamsyn’s rage grew as her mind desperately searched for a way out. But none came.

  Jory threw up his arms as a shield when Kit took a threatening step toward him.

  “What’s to stop me from beating you senseless?” Kit said tightly.

  “Lady Shawe also knows about your smuggling,” Jory muttered. “Told her yesterday. If anything happens to me, she’ll spill everything to the customs officers.” He lowered his arms and breathed with relief when Kit backed off.

  “You’re a son of a bitch,” Tamsyn spat.

  Her uncle clicked his tongue. “Here I thought going to London would make a lady out of you.”

  “Go bugger yourself,” she snarled.

  Jory strode to the door and opened it. “Two minutes. That’s all the time you get to make your decision. I hope it’s the right choice.”

  Her uncle walked away.

  Kit slammed the door behind him. He looked around the chamber, his eyes burning. “Anything here you don’t value?”

  “The vase,” she answered bitingly after a moment. “It’s Gwen’s.”

  Without a word, Kit strode to the painted china vase, then threw it against the wall. It shattered loudly, filling the room with noise and pieces of ceramic.

  “That should be his fucking head,” Kit growled.

  Panic and anger and desperation clashed within her. “If we pay him, he’ll just keep coming back for more and more.”

  “If we say no,” Kit concluded grimly, “he’ll turn us over to the authorities. Because of my title, we might not be hanged, but we could be transported. Damn it.” He dragged his hands through his hair. “All he did was overhear us. He might not have proof.”

  “Maybe he found some.” She rubbed at her face. “Or he’s hoping that his threat is enough to make us bow to his demands. Even if we wanted to, we couldn’t meet his terms.”

  Kit said through clenched teeth, “Wish I had a goddamn bayonet to ram into his chest.”

  She straightened her shoulders, drawing on the courage that had kept her going all these years. “I think I know what we have to do.”

  “Tell Shawe to go hang?” Kit suggested with a vicious snarl.

  “Exactly.” She prayed she was making the right decision.

  Her husband gave one clipped nod.

  A moment later, the door to the drawing room opened. Jory entered, followed by two men wearing riding officers’ uniforms.

  Tamsyn’s heart seized at the sight of them. She had fled men like this on more than one occasion, but here they were, in her home.

  “Lord and Lady Blakemere,” Jory said snidely. “This is Chief Inspector Edwards and District Officer Wright.”

  The customs men bowed. She stiffly nodded in response.

  Her uncle looked back and forth between Kit and Tamsyn with a gleeful, expectant look. “Well?”

  Kit gave her another slight nod. She took a deep breath.

  “No,
” she answered.

  “As you like,” Jory said brightly. He turned to the customs officers. “Arrest these two in the name of His Majesty. The charge is smuggling.”

  Tamsyn’s heart pounded as her uncle pronounced her fate. Yet she held her ground.

  Edwards and Wright murmured in surprise, and Kit swore softly under his breath. The air in the room became charged.

  After a moment, Edwards said slowly, “These are serious charges to be brought against a nobleman and his wife.”

  “Their title didn’t stop ’em from smuggling contraband,” Jory answered.

  Wright asked, “Have you any proof?”

  A calculating look crept into Jory’s face, and hope within Tamsyn died.

  “I do,” he answered. “Come with me, and I’ll show you everything.”

  Chapter 30

  “Follow me, all of you,” Jory said. He left the drawing room and headed toward the front door. Wright trailed after him.

  Tamsyn’s feet were bolted to the floor. She couldn’t move.

  Kit was at her side in an instant, wrapping one arm around her waist, supporting her. “Love—”

  “My lord, my lady,” Edwards said, gesturing toward the door. He wore a stern expression, one that would brook no argument.

  She and Kit couldn’t flee and they couldn’t thrash her uncle. There was nothing to be done but move forward—and pray that she could find an explanation for whatever evidence Jory provided.

  Tamsyn had always kept an alibi ready if ever she was caught. She had planned to admit to the charge, but say that she’d been coerced by a ruthless criminal overlord to commit the crime.

  Her old alibi wouldn’t work, though, not with Kit included in the accusation.

  “My lady,” Edwards said more insistently.

  Tamsyn exhaled, then moved out of Kit’s protective hold.

  “After you,” the senior officer said, glancing at the door meaningfully.