Her throat tightened; she knew how he felt about this place—the fields, the sky, the sea. There were no easy words she could offer him—would offer him—in the face of what she more than anyone understood had been his sacrifice. Small wonder those years had chipped and chiseled and separated the man from the superficial mask.
She was watching when he glanced down. His blue eyes met hers. For an instant, recognition and acceptance were simply there, as they so often had been in years past.
“Why didn’t you marry?”
The question took her aback, then she nearly laughed; it was typical of him to cut to the heart of things, blatantly ignoring all social convention. Her lips curved; she continued strolling. “As I’m sure your mother told you, I had four perfectly successful Seasons, but none of the gentlemen caught my eye.”
“As I heard it, you amply caught theirs. Several of theirs—a small platoon, it sounded like. So what didn’t you like about them—they can’t all have had warts.”
She laughed. “As far as I know none of them did.”
“So why were you so fussy?”
Why did he want to know? “You’re not going to give up, are you?”
He hesitated. She wondered, but then he said, “Not this time.”
She glanced at him, surprised at the undercurrent of steel in his tone, at a loss to account for it.
He caught her glance, lightly shrugged. “You were one of the things I was sure wouldn’t be here when I got back.”
She owed him no explanation, yet it was hardly a state secret. Looking ahead, she walked on. He walked beside her and didn’t press.
Eventually, she said, “I didn’t accept any of the offers for my hand because none of the gentlemen who made them could give me what I wanted.”
She’d known what she wanted from marriage from an early age. When it came to the point, she hadn’t been prepared to accept second best.
He didn’t pressure her for more. The riddle of what she’d wanted had stumped all her suitors; she doubted he’d understand any more than they had. Not that it mattered.
They reached the far end of the ramparts; they both stopped to look back one last time at the view.
Her senses flared a second before she felt his hand touch her waist, felt it slide around, strong and assured, turning her, effortlessly drawing her to him.
She placed her hands on his chest, but they weren’t any use with no strength behind them. But she remembered a few tricks; she kept her head down so he couldn’t kiss her—he was tall enough that that would work.
His arms closed around her, not trapping but simply holding her; she heard, and felt, his low laugh.
He bent his head to the side; his breath wafted over her ear. “Penny…”
She tensed against the temptation to glance his way, to give him the opening, the opportunity he was angling for. Her fingers locked in his coat as his lips, then the tip of his tongue languidly caressed her ear.
Then he did the one thing she’d prayed he wouldn’t. He switched to French, the language of his heritage, the language of love, the language he’d used in such interludes years ago—God help her, it was a language she understood very well.
He’d taught her.
“Mon ange… ”
He’d called her that once, his angel. She hadn’t heard the words that followed for thirteen years, yet they still had the same effect; uttered in his deep, purring voice, they slid over her like a tangible caress, then sank deeper, warming her to her bones. Unraveling her resistance.
His hands moved on her back, easing her closer, settling her against him. She caught her breath, sharp and shallow, realizing just how close they were, how truly he’d spoken when he’d warned her how little stood between them physically; when it came to him, she had no defenses to speak of.
Lifting her head only a little, she glanced sideways and met his eyes. A clear dark blue in the daylight, they held no hint of wicked triumph, but an intentness she didn’t understand.
The altered angle was enough; he leaned closer, slowly. When she didn’t duck away, he touched his lips to hers. Brushed them gently, temptingly, persuasively.
Oh, he was good, so very good at this; she gave up the battle, pushed her arms up around his neck, and lifted her lips to his.
The invitation was all he’d been waiting for; he accepted, took charge. For several long minutes, she simply let go, let herself flow on his tide, let him steer the kiss where he would, and greedily gathered to her lonely heart all the pleasures he willingly shared.
There was danger here, yes, but it was a danger she would dare. They were standing on the ramparts in full view of any who might chance to look that way; no matter how wild and reckless he was, no matter he had not a sexual inhibition to his name, in this setting, a kiss was as far as he would go.
She stood in no danger of him taking things too far; the danger did not lie there.
Just where it lay, and in what form, she wasn’t entirely sure. When he finally lifted his head and, looking down at her from under his long lashes, drew in a deep breath, and she felt his hands at her sides, thumbs artfully cruising the sensitive sides of her breasts, and felt her inevitable reaction, felt how swollen and tight her breasts were, she suddenly wasn’t sure of anything.
He was studying her far too intently. He’d warned her and was packing her off home so he wouldn’t seduce her, yet…
She drew a tight breath, captured his eyes. “Charles, listen to me—we are not, ever, traveling that road again.”
Planting her hands on his chest, she pushed back. He let her go, but the intensity of purpose behind his dark eyes didn’t fade.
He held her gaze, caught her hand, raised it to his lips. Kissed. “Yes, we are. Just not as we did last time.”
His tone screamed arrogant self-assurance; she would have argued, but he turned and whistled for the dogs. They came bounding up. Her hand locked in his, he gestured to the house. “Come—we should go in.”
Lips setting, she consented, leaving her hand in his as they walked back to the house through the slanting rays of the slowly setting sun. No matter what he thought, what he believed, he and she together as they once had been was never going to happen again; he’d learn his error soon enough.
CHAPTER
7
LATER, OVER DINNER, SHE WONDERED IF HE’D KISSED HER to distract her from his evening’s appointment, or perhaps make her sufficiently wary about returning alone with him late at night to change her mind about accompanying him in the first place. Either way, he’d misjudged.
When they rose from the table, she went with him to the library. Selecting a book of poetry, she settled in one of the chairs before the fire.
He eyed her darkly, then picked up a book left on a side table, sprawled with typical loose-limbed grace in the chair that was the mate of hers, and settled to read, too. The hounds collapsed in twin heaps at his feet.
She noticed he began some way into the book; the way he was holding it, she couldn’t read the title. After ten minutes of reading the same ode and not taking it in, she asked, “What is that?”
He glanced at her, then murmured, “A Recent History of France.”
“How recent?”
“From the beginning of Louis XIV’s reign to the Terror.”
That span included many of the years during which her father had been “collecting” pillboxes.
Charles continued without prompting, “It’s by a French historian, one who belonged to the Academie and was quite pleased to see the end of the aristocracy. There’s a lot of detail here from the French point of view.”
“Do you think you’ll find any reference to Amberly, or to secrets he and Papa sold?”
“No. I’m not sure I’d recognize what might have been a secret all those years ago.” He returned his gaze to the book. “I’m looking for mention of some covert source—that’s probably the most we can hope for.”
She watched him read for a minute, then returned to her ode;
this time, it drew her in.
He didn’t stir when the clock struck nine, but when it started to chime the hour again, he shut his book, looked up, and caught her eye. “Time to go.”
They went upstairs to change; she hurried, not wanting to risk his losing patience and riding off without her, but he was waiting at the head of the stairs when she rushed into the gallery. She slowed. His gaze raked her from her crown, over her jacket and breeches, to her boots; his lips tightened as she joined him, but he said nothing, merely waved her down the stairs.
Ten minutes later, they were mounted and cantering along the road to Fowey. The Fowey Gallants were the oldest, largest, and best-organized smuggling gang in the area, not least because the group included all those who sailed as privateers whenever matters of state permitted it. In many ways they were a more professional crew, yet equally only one remove from pirates.
Charles fitted right in. Penny saw that the instant they set foot in the Cock and Bull, the dimly lit tavern on Fowey’s dockside that the senior members of the Gallants frequented when not on the waves. Three of Mother Gibbs’s sons were there, in company with five others. None were gentle simple souls like Shep and Seth; these were seafarers of a quite different ilk.
They’d all turned, suspicious and wary, to eye the new arrivals; at sight of Charles, their closed faces split into wide grins. They stood to welcome him, clapping him on the shoulder, asking all manner of questions. She hung back in Charles’s shadow, wary of being clapped on the shoulder, too. Such a blow from one of these ham-fisted men would probably floor her.
It was Dennis Gibbs who, looking past Charles, noticed her. Nearly as tall as Charles and broader, his hard eyes narrowed. “What’ve we here, then?”
The other men shifted to look at her, eyes widening as they took in her garb. Before she could step back, as she was tempted to, Charles reached behind him and manacled her wrist. “Lady Penelope,” he said, “who you haven’t seen.”
All eight Gallants looked at him, then Dennis asked, “Why’s that?”
Charles gestured to their table and the deserted benches. “Let’s order another round, and I’ll tell you.”
She was again squashed into a corner; this time she could barely expand her lungs enough to breathe. But the Gallants weren’t anywhere near as friendly as Shep and Seth, nor even the Bodinnick crew, even though they knew her rather better. She recognized the son of the head gardener at Wallingham; he worked on the estate, yet there he sat, scowling blackly whenever he glanced her way.
This time it was Charles who carried the day. The Gallants listened to his explanation of his mission, then answered the questions he put to them freely; they knew and, it was patently obvious, respected him. She was relegated to a mere cipher; Charles explained her presence in terms of reassuring them over any reticence they might feel over speaking ill of her dead brother. They looked at her; all she was required to do was nod.
Their attention deflected immediately to Charles.
The tale the Gallants told was similar to what they’d heard at Polruan and Bodinnick, except that the Gallants were more specific about the lugger—a French vessel running no colors and always holding well back from their faster, lighter ships, ready to turn tail if they’d made any move to draw near.
“Always hovered nervous, and hoisted sail the instant their man was back aboard.”
“Did you ever get any indication of what Granville was doing?”
Dennis looked around the group, then shook his head. “Truth be told, I always assumed they—the Selbornes—were taking in information. I never imagined it was going the other way.”
Jammed against Charles, she felt him still. Then he murmured, “Actually, we don’t know which way it was going, not for certain. That’s why I’m here, trying to work out what was going on.”
“What about this new bugger, Arbry, then?” Dennis described the overtures Nicholas had made to the group, somewhat more definite than with the other crews, not least because, as Dennis put it, the Gallants had strung him along. “A good source of ale, he is, when he comes in.”
Charles made a less-than-civilized comment, then, laughing, called for another round. As earlier, he didn’t order anything for her. Although she was thirsty, she wasn’t game to mention it.
“You can rest assured, though”—for the first time, Dennis met her eyes—“we ain’t told Arbry anything. Nor likely to.”
Penny nodded, not even sure she was supposed to do that.
Charles asked, “Have any of you ever been involved in, or ever heard tell, of how Granville set up these meets? We’ve learned he went out with one or other of the Fowey gangs, and therefore at different points along the coast, twice or three times a year, yet each time the lugger was there, waiting.”
The eight Gallants exchanged glances, then shook their heads.
Charles persisted. “Could the lugger have been on more or less permanent station?”
“Nah.” Dennis lifted his head. “If that had been the way of it, we’d’ve come across it often enough, and we never did—not once except it was a run for Master Granville or the old earl.”
“It was the same arrangement even back then?”
“As long as I’ve been leading the Gallants, and even in my da’s day, back before then.”
Charles nodded. “So there had to be some way Granville sent word to the lugger to meet him.”
“Aye.” There were nods all around.
“It’d be through the Isles, most like.”
Charles grimaced. Attempting to trace any connection through the Channel Isles would be almost certainly wasted effort. Besides…“There still has to be some connection here—someone who took the message to the Isles, if that was how it was done.”
The Gallants agreed; they offered to ask around. “Quiet-like,” Dennis said. “Just a friendly natter here and there. We’ll see what we can learn. Meanwhiles, do you want to know if Arbry asks to do a run?”
“Yes. I doubt he will, but if he does, send word to the Abbey.”
With assurances all around, the men stood. She slid out of her corner; absorbed with farewelling Charles, none of the Gallants so much as registered her presence, then she remembered they weren’t supposed to see her.
She slipped through the shadows to the door and waited there. Two old sailors, long past the age of going to sea, had been hunched over a table a few feet from the Gallants; they watched her—when she noticed, one bobbed his head her way. Uncertain, she nodded briefly in reply.
With one last slap on the back for Dennis, Charles joined her.
“Come on.” He gripped her arm and hustled her outside, releasing her only when they were in the stable yard.
She headed to where her mare was tethered, then spotted a rain barrel; it even had a dipper. She detoured. Lifting the heavy lid, she ducked her shoulder under it so she could pour water into her hand. Charles appeared beside her; with exceedingly thin lips but not a word he held the lid for her.
When she’d drunk her fill, she glanced at him as he replaced the lid. “Why the devil are you all glowering? Brendan Mattock scowled at me the entire time we were in there.”
Charles looked at her, she sensed in exasperation. “I’d scowl at you the entire time if I thought there was anything to be gained by it. The only difference between Brendan and me is that I know you and he doesn’t.”
With what sounded like a suppressed growl, he swung away, striding toward their horses. She was about to follow when the old sailor who’d nodded to her hobbled out of the shadows. He raised a hand; when she hesitated, he beckoned.
“Charles…”
He was back by her side in an instant. “Let’s see what he wants.”
Together they retraced their steps to where the old man waited, leaning heavily on his cane.
He ducked his head to them both. “Couldn’t help but overhear ye in there. You was asking after how young Master Granville might have got messages to a French lugger.”
Charles merely nodded.
Penny asked, “Do you know something?”
“May do, not that I’m sure, mind, but I doubt there’s many left would think of ’em to tell ye.” The old man regarded her through eyes still sharp and shrewd. “ ’Twas your father, m’lady, what brought them over—or rather, it were just the one man, a Frenchie he was, but from somewhere on the coast—Breton, maybe. Came here with your pa when he came home from abroad years ago. Smollet was the name he went by. François, or something frenchified like that.”
“Is this Smollet still alive?” Charles asked.
The old man shook his head. “Nah. Married a local lass he did, but then she up and left him—left their lad, too, but the lad—Gimby he’s called—he’s still here. He ain’t all that bright. A bit slow, you might say. Not dangerous, but not one for company.”
A Lady of His Own Page 14
