The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel
Page 11
Marcus nodded. “He won’t be rising in the ranks, then—supplanting Charles then taking hold of the operation from …” He paused, as though searching for something. “I’m sorry, what was the ringleader’s name again?”
“I have no idea who the local smugglers report to,” Sarah answered simply, rubbing Buckingham’s nose. “I’m not even sure if Nigel does. It’s all become rather secretive over the last few months.”
“I wonder why,” Marcus mused, his tone carefully idle.
She patted the bay one last time before turning away, gesturing toward the exit. “I don’t know. Smuggling has always been a part of our coastal life—nearly an accepted vocation, much like fishing or trade. Perhaps the customs officials have grown weary with boredom and have finally decided to make inquiries.”
Marcus followed her down the aisle, cutting a wide swath when they passed Percival’s stall.
Charles, though not the man in charge, was a start. And perhaps Nigel knew more than he realized, Marcus thought. Following the boy might be worthwhile.
Sarah paused to blow out one of the lanterns, and then moved on before halting abruptly. She turned, her green gaze questioning as she searched Marcus’s face. “You seem keenly interested in the smuggling business, Lord Weston.”
“Caw.”
“It was Percival calling in the woods that day, wasn’t it?” Marcus asked, the bird’s call suddenly clicking in his mind, and not a moment too soon. He needed to distract her from her questions about his interest in smuggling.
“Yes, it was,” she answered. She frowned, clearly not swayed. “About the smuggling—” she continued.
“And you were in the woods as well?” he interrupted.
She blinked rapidly, her cheeks slowly pinkening as she stared at him. Then she turned on her heels and nearly ran toward the door. She barely paused to snuff out two more lanterns before hurrying on.
“Miss Tisdale, do you recall our bargain?” he said lazily, strolling in her wake.
She lifted a lantern from its spot on the broad windowsill.
“Our bargain?” she asked, retreating until her back was pressed against the rough, whitewashed wall.
“Yes,” Marcus confirmed, stalking slowly nearer. “The one we struck when I found you hiding from Mr. Dixon that day on the lawn.”
“I told you, Lord Weston, I do not hide.”
“Yes, well, in any case,” Marcus continued, enjoying himself far more than he should, “we made a bargain, whereby you are to grant me one wish, within reason.”
Only one lantern continued to glow, leaving them standing in a pool of golden light, the stable beyond cast in shadows. “Oh, yes, that bargain. Now I remember.”
Marcus halted in front of her. “I’d like to collect.”
He could see her pulse beating wildly at the base of her throat, her breasts moving with her quick breaths beneath her charming striped gown. She licked her lips and he thought she was going to answer.
And then she blew out the remaining lantern.
“Were you in the woods with Percival that day?” Marcus asked, leaning in so that his lips brushed the shell of her ear as he whispered.
“Is that all? I answer honestly and the debt is paid?” she countered, relief in her voice. “Why then, yes, it was I—and Percival, of course.”
Marcus threaded his fingers into the silky strands of her hair. “That was too easy,” he murmured.
“I know,” she agreed, then bit her lip. “That is, I’d assumed you would ask for more.”
“Such as …” Marcus licked her earlobe and nearly growled. “This?”
“Oh.”
“Or this …” He ran the tip of his tongue down her soft, warm throat and over the faint upper swell of her breasts just above the neckline of her gown. He tugged at the fabric with his teeth.
She dropped the lantern.
“Oh,” she whispered, voice dazed. “Um, yes, something like that.”
“Pity I’ve used my one wish.” His voice was deeper, rasping with arousal as he tested the frantic, pounding pulse at the base of her throat with his tongue, then brushed tender, damp kisses up the inward curve of her throat and the vulnerable, soft underside of her firm little chin. Unable to resist tasting her, he took her mouth with his in a searing, purely carnal kiss.
She moaned, wrapping her arms around his waist beneath Marcus’s coat and pulling him tighter until the cove of her hips cradled the harder angle of his.
“Sarah,” Nigel’s voice called across the lawn.
She stiffened, her mouth going still beneath Marcus’s before she pushed back, taking her lips from his.
“Hurry,” she hissed, grabbing his hand to tug him with her out of the darkened stables.
“There you are,” the boy said, running up to meet them. “Mother caught me sneaking in and insisted that I fetch you at once.” Nigel gestured wildly. “Come along. Before she accuses Lord Weston of compromising you and insists on a wedding in the morn,” he joked.
“Really, Nigel,” Sarah chastened as the three approached the house. “You’ve quite the imagination.”
If this was the current state of smuggling, Marcus found himself thinking as he followed the three boys through the moonlit wood later that night, then Napoleon hadn’t a prayer of succeeding.
Pokey picked his way along the path quietly, obeying Marcus’s slightest cue. But his habitual stealth was wasted on the boys—Marcus doubted they would have noticed a Highland clan painted for war.
The three were far too busy contemplating the excitement of the night and Charles’s promise of a task much more worthy of their ability—if they proved themselves ready.
The conversation dissolved into stories of amazing feats, each boy attempting to outdo the other.
Marcus had said his good-byes to the Tisdales and mounted Pokey, following the drive as far as the bend, then doubling back and waiting for the boy near the quiet stables. He’d been rewarded for his patience when Nigel finally appeared, running as fast as his lanky legs would carry him across the lawn, past the stables, and deep into the wood, where his two friends waited.
But now the memory of Sarah Tisdale’s sweet, hot mouth beneath his tormented Marcus. The feel of her soft curves against him when she pulled him close. The scent and taste of her skin beneath his tongue—God, the woman made him as randy as a youth.
And that made her dangerous. She threatened the very aspects of his personality that he’d fought to hide for so long—and won.
The ton had wondered at his self-control when he’d first arrived in London, as though every Scotsman worthy to wear a tartan was a ravenous animal waiting for the opportunity to strike.
He’d proven them wrong with his accomplished charm and self-control.
But Miss Tisdale, whether she intended to or not, was systematically destroying years of hard-won control.
In the barn, earlier, he’d wanted nothing more than to raise her skirts and bury himself deep within her.
And sensing that she’d wanted the same had only made him burn hotter.
A woman had never pushed him to the brink of control like Miss Sarah Tisdale.
He’d seduced before in the interest of the Corinthians, and he’d do it again, of that Marcus was sure.
He had to be. He was a Corinthian.
Marcus watched as the boys walked into a clearing, the sound of the sea informing him they’d arrived at the cove. The three ceased talking, the light from Nigel’s lantern suddenly disappearing from view.
Marcus waited for a few minutes until the boys moved out of sight, then he urged Pokey slowly forward. They were next to the cliffs, the smell of salt and seaweed filling Marcus’s nostrils as he peered down.
He eased himself from Pokey’s back, landing silently on the hard-packed earth, and tied him in a concealing copse of green brush and woods. Stealthily, he moved from the shelter of one tree trunk to the next until he could peer out into the clearing where he’d last seen the boys.
A small fire burned on the shore, and the low voices of men traveled over the sound of the waves, the rough murmur reaching Marcus’s ears.
He craved a closer look but knew his injured leg would not withstand the demands of the rocky path.
Marcus turned back, reaching Pokey and pulling himself into the saddle. “It’s a start,” he whispered to the chestnut, then returned to the woods from which he’d come.
“Sarah, wake up.”
Sarah wrapped her arms around her feather pillow and burrowed farther into its downy softness.
“Sarah, now. Please.”
She reluctantly opened her eyes. The dim light filtering through the edges of the heavy damask bed curtains told her it was barely morning.
The grave look on Nigel’s face told her it was not going to be a good day.
“Nigel, what is it?” she asked, sitting up hastily.
Her brother swiped the hair from his eyes, revealing anguish and fear. “It’s Jasper. I can’t find him.”
“He’s most likely in bed,” Sarah answered, swinging her legs off the four-poster bed and standing.
“I’ve been to his house, and Clive’s. No one’s seen him since we left last night.”
Sarah put her arm around Nigel’s shoulders, her worry growing as the boy accepted the support with uncharacteristic ease. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“Well,” he began, sagging against Sarah, “when we arrived, Charles was in a nasty temper—going on about a lord’s demands or some such nonsense. He asked Jasper to stay behind while he sent Clive and me off to the Boot. By the time we returned Jasper was gone and Charles told us to go home.”
Sarah squeezed Nigel’s shoulder. “And?”
“The two of us did as we were told, but I …” Nigel paused, his cheeks growing red.
“You were worried about Jasper, as any true friend would be,” Sarah finished for him. “So you went looking for him.”
Nigel nodded. “As I said, he’s not with Clive or at his home.”
“And the cove?” Sarah asked.
“I didn’t want to go alone,” Nigel whispered, tears welling up in his eyes.
Sarah released her brother and rushed behind a dressing screen, quickly removing her night rail then slipping into the breeches and shirt she kept on hand. Quickly returning, she cradled Nigel’s face in her palms, tilting his head to search his eyes. “You did the right thing, Nigel. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.
“Come.” She reached for her boots and took his hand, padding across the blue and rose carpet. Silently easing the door open, she peered up and down the hall, sighing with relief when she found it empty.
The two crept silently down the hallway to the stairs, avoiding the third step from the bottom, which always squeaked on contact. Reaching the landing, Sarah checked the longcase clock in the hall, reading half past four.
Nigel had spent nearly the entire night searching for his friend.
Despite her brother’s obvious distress, however, Sarah was certain Jasper would be found. Most likely asleep in his father’s barn, she thought. This was not the first time one of the boys had gone missing, only to be found the next morning snoring peacefully in a farmer’s hay field. Nevertheless, the sooner Jasper was found, the better for all concerned.
She grasped the front door’s brass handle and noiselessly eased the heavy oaken door open enough to slip through, waiting until Nigel was standing outside before carefully pulling it shut.
Nigel took off at a trot. Sarah hastily donned her boots then followed closely behind. The woods were dark, the faint morning light barely strong enough to seep between the thickly growing trees.
At last, they broke through the tree line and into the clearing, the sound of the waves reaching their ears.
“Come along, then,” Sarah said coaxingly to Nigel as she carefully began to pick her way down the narrow rocky path.
The two reached the cove and looked about, but saw only the charred remains of a doused fire to tell them the smugglers had been there.
“Check the caves,” Sarah instructed, gesturing down the beach toward the favorite haunt of Lulworth’s youth, “and I’ll go this way.”
Nigel nodded solemnly and turned north.
Sarah watched him go, his shoulders slumped as he walked away. There was every chance that Jasper had fallen asleep in the cave. She expected to hear a rousing “Oy!” from Nigel once he reached his destination and found the boy.
Still, she turned to her task, making her way across the rocks and onto the soft sand. The tide was just beginning to turn. With every step she took, the incoming waves wiped the small indentation left by her boot clean away. Normally she was entranced by the sea life here on the shore, but this morning she barely noticed the small crabs scuttling sideways in an attempt to avoid being swept away with the next lapping wave.
Sarah picked her way carefully around an outcropping of rocks. She’d played on the rocks as a child and gazed upon them perhaps a million times since. They were as familiar to her as Lulworth itself, and something in the small tide pool just near the junction of the two main outcroppings did not seem right.
She stepped closer, squinting to bring the scene into focus.
The sight that met her made no sense at all. Sarah closed her eyes tightly and gritted her teeth, willing the truth before her to reshape itself.
And when she opened her eyes, Sarah found it had altered, though not in the way she’d wanted. The truth of it was still the same: Sarah had found Jasper Wilmington’s lifeless body. Only now, he appeared to her in deeper, more disturbing tones, as if the longer she looked, the more of the tragedy would be revealed.
Sarah staggered back, her hand pressed to her mouth to hold back the scream of protest welling within her. She heard the suck and squish of someone running along the wet sand. Twisting about, she saw Nigel racing toward her.
“Go and get Father,” she shouted, pointing toward the cliff path.
But Nigel continued to race straight toward her. “Is it Jasper?” he yelled, panic thick in his voice.
“Go, now!” Sarah replied, dashing toward him. She restrained him from going any farther, her hands gripping his arms tightly. “Do as I tell you.”
Nigel struggled against her hold, desperately trying to peer past her.
“Nigel.” Sarah instilled as much command into her voice as she could, willing it to remain firm as she forced her brother to meet her gaze. “Go. Now.”
He stilled, the hurt on his face nearly undoing Sarah.
And then he broke her hold and ran for the path, throwing himself up the narrow cliff trail as if the Devil himself followed.
Sarah turned and walked back to the tide pool. Jasper’s bloated body moved softly with the ebb and flow of the water, his arm awkwardly crooked over the edge. She crossed the sharp rocks; she could no longer feel their sting through her soles.
Sarah knelt near Jasper’s head where it rested against the rocks. The brash young boy with the cheerful smile that she’d known so well was nowhere to be found here. His body was battered and broken, black bruises and dried blood all that remained.
Sarah instinctively reached out and touched his brow, tracing the length of it with her fingers.
Days before she’d threatened to kiss Jasper and he’d run for his life, his young, fit body allowing him to flee what was the most clear and present danger any young boy could encounter.
Sarah bent her head to Jasper’s and placed a light, sorrowful kiss on his cheek.
And then she began to cry, wondering if she’d have the strength to stop.
That moment in Miss Sarah Tisdale’s barn had ruined any hopes Marcus had harbored for sleep. After tossing and turning for what felt like hours, he’d gone and saddled Pokey at daw
n and rode aimlessly along the cliff tops. Miss Tisdale dominated his thoughts. The last thing on his mind was Nigel’s late-night wanderings with his friends.
Until the youth nearly unseated him when he appeared from the mouth of the cove path and launched himself toward Marcus.
“My father. I need to find my father,” the boy said, a troubling quaver to his cadence.
Marcus reassuringly patted his horse then swung his leg over Pokey and dismounted. “Nigel, what are you doing out of your bed at this hour?” he asked firmly.
The boy grabbed Marcus’s arm and pulled, urging him toward the cliff path. “It’s Sarah. She’s on the beach. I don’t know what happened—she wouldn’t let me near. You’ve got to help.”
Marcus’s gut clenched at Nigel’s words. He swiftly handed the reins to Nigel and backed the boy and horse up to a safer distance from the cliff. “Take Pokey. And ask that your father fetch the constable as well.”
Marcus waited long enough for the boy to nod before he took off for the path, navigating the drop with as much speed and precision as his leg would allow.
He reached the beach and looked about the cove, catching sight of Miss Tisdale near a rocky outcrop. Ignoring the pain in his damaged leg, he ran across the pebbled verge and onto the wet sand, cutting a direct line to where she sat.
He slowed as he drew near, relief flooding him when a closer view told him the woman was not injured. She appeared to be wearing men’s clothing, the cotton fabric of her white linen shirt soaked and streaked with muddy sand. She stared at a tide pool just beyond her.
“Sarah—Miss Tisdale,” he corrected himself, calling softly to her.
Her hands lowered slowly from her face as she turned to look at him. The movement allowed Marcus a better view of the tide pool beyond.
A body lay twisted and still, half in, half out of the water.
Marcus closed the space between them and pulled Sarah into his arms. He turned her to shield her body with his own. “Are ye all right?” he demanded roughly, his Scottish burr becoming more pronounced.
She buried her face against his coat, nodding wordlessly.