Wicked Captain, Wayward Wife

by Sarah Mallory

  ‘I will not see him!’ she said aloud. ‘He has treated me abominably. I shall not see him.’

  She walked over to the main door and bolted it. There was a wooden peg on the door to the servants’ stairs and she used it to secure the latch. She gave a long, deep sigh. There, it was done. Slowly she removed her pelisse, folded it neatly and placed it upon her trunk before returning to the table and picking up her glass of wine. The storm had passed and there was a still ness about the room. No noise filtered through to her from below and the air seemed to settle around her, calm and tranquil, in complete contrast to her own nerves, which were stretched tight as a bow string. Let him knock. Let him hammer on the door, she would not admit him.

  She stood in the middle of the room, facing the door, straining to hear the slightest sound. Clutching at her wine glass, she silently berated herself for her anxiety. No one could surprise her, the room was secure. Or was it? The scrape of wood on wood made her spin around in time to see one of the panels beside the fire place swing open and Nick Wylder step into the room. He still wore the frieze coat, but instead of the tattered coloured shirt he now wore a fresh white one, fastened with a froth of white lace at his throat, and a black ribbon at the nape of his neck confined his black hair, glossy as a raven’s wing. The baggy sailor’s trousers and worn shoes had been replaced by buck skins and topboots. With the skirts of his coat swinging around him the inconsequential thought came to her that he looked every inch a pirate. Nick gestured towards the panel.

  ‘The stair leads up directly from the alley. You need not be alarmed; I have bolted the door at the foot of the stairs; no one else can come in that way.’

  He stood, feet slightly apart, hands at his sides, watching her. Like a cat, she thought. Alert, wary. Eve’s heart had misssed a beat but now it was thudding painfully against her ribs. She did not know whether she was going to laugh or cry, to be thankful or furious.

  ‘You did not drown,’ she said at last.

  ‘No. Sweetheart, I am so sorry I was not there to help you when Sir Benjamin died.’

  ‘You lied to me.’

  ‘Evelina, I—’

  A red mist descended over Eve, blotting out reason. The wine glass flew from her hand, its contents leaving a dark trail across the floor. Nick side-stepped neatly and the glass sailed past him to smash against the wall.

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘Sweetheart, listen to me—’ He ducked as she snatched up the second glass and hurled it towards him. ‘Eve, I am sorry. Let me explain—’

  His words were lost as the glass shattered on the panelling and fell in tinkling shards to the floor. With a shriek of rage Eve picked up the carving knife and advanced upon him.

  ‘I hate you, Nick Wylder!’

  As she hurled herself at him he caught her arm, holding the lethal blade away.

  ‘Eve, I had no choice.’

  Unable to plunge the knife into his heart, Eve brought up her other hand, her fingers curled ready to scratch his eyes out. With an oath Nick caught at her arm, easily overpowering her.

  ‘I know you are angry, my love, but I am not going to let you kill me.’ His fingers tightened on her wrist; her grip loosened and the knife clattered harmlessly to the floor. ‘That’s better.’ He grinned and released her. ‘No wonder my father said never trust the carving to a woman!’

  ‘Are you never serious?’ She gave a sob of frustration and began to beat at his chest with her fists.

  Nick reached out and put his arms about her, pulling her closer. ‘I know,’ he said quietly as she continued to pound him. ‘I know I was a monster for doing this to you.’

  She hammered her fists against his hard, un yielding body until there was no strength left in her arms. Then, as her anger evaporated, it was replaced by tears. She found herself crying; huge, gulping sobs that could not be con trolled. She did not resist as Nick pulled her closer, stroking her head and murmuring softly. He continued to hold her while she cried herself out and at last she collapsed against him, taking deep, shuddering breaths. He reached into one of the capacious pockets of the old coat and pulled out a clean handkerchief.

  ‘I thought this might be needed,’ he murmured, pressing it into her hand. ‘I had no idea my wife had such a temper.’

  ‘Nor I,’ mumbled Eve from beneath the hand kerchief.

  He touched his lips to her hair. ‘Now will you listen to me? Will you let me try to explain?’ He guided her across to the sofa and they sat down together, Nick keeping one arm firmly around her shoulders. ‘I did not plan this, Eve. Believe me.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’ Angrily she shrugged off his arm and sat up very straight while she wiped her eyes. ‘You have lied to me from the beginning. You married me to gain control of Monkhurst, did you not?’

  ‘Richard told me you had gone there. Yes, it is true that I wanted access to Monkhurst. Marrying you was one way to get that.’

  Misery clutched at her heart. ‘You are des pi cable!’

  He sighed. ‘Perhaps I am, but I never meant to hurt you. I admit I went to Tunbridge Wells in search of your sheltered, knowing he owned Monkhurst. I soon learned that the property was part of your marriage settlement and that Sir Benjamin was looking for a husband for you.’ The irrepressible smile tugged at his mouth. ‘It all fitted neatly with my plan—and my family have been nagging me for years to settle down so I knew I would be pleasing them, too. So I accepted Sir Benjamin’s invitation to visit you at Makerham. What I had not anticipated was finding such an adorable young lady waiting to meet me.’

  Evelina stifled the traitorous surge of pleasure she felt at his words. She dare not consider them or her brittle self-control might shatter. She injected a touch of impatience into her voice. ‘And just what were your plans? Why did you need Monkhurst?’

  ‘I suspected Monkhurst was being used by smugglers.’

  ‘Very likely.’ She shrugged. ‘Nearly every house in the area would be the same.’

  ‘Yes, I know that, but—I think I should go back to the beginning.’ He paused and Eve waited, pulling his handkerchief through her restless fingers. ‘My—ah—adventurous career in the navy brought me to the attention of the Admiralty, and since returning to England I have been working for them, investigating certain…activities.’

  ‘Smuggling. You have said that.’

  ‘Yes, but not the innocuous practice carried out by Silas and his friends, a few barrels of French brandy and bundles of Brussels lace. The villains I seek are involved in a much bigger enterprise. Not only are they depriving the government of duty—and before you interrupt me let me say that I have heard all the arguments that the duty is too high! The people I seek are flooding the country with a tea that is, at best, illegal and at worst, poisonous.

  ‘They call it smouch. It is made from leaves gathered from the English hedgerows and mixed with chamber-lye, green vitriol and other choice ingredients, including, very often, sheep’s dung. Then it is baked and rubbed to a black dust. Quite,’ he said, observing her look of horror. ‘I traced the most recent consignments to this coast. It is being shipped to Boulogne, then sold to our—er—freetraders.’

  ‘But they wouldn’t,’ she ex claimed. ‘Silas would never carry such a cargo.’

  ‘Not knowingly, but he has been duped into bringing it ashore. Did you not think it odd that Mrs Brattee had no tea in her store cupboard when you arrived at Monkhurst? Now Silas knows the truth he will not trust any tea coming from the Continent.’

  Eve’s eyes darkened. ‘It is some horrid French plot to poison us!’

  Nick shook his head. ‘I wish I could say that was it; the evidence points to it being made in this country, and in this area.’

  ‘And you suspected Monkhurst? My house?’

  ‘One of the cargoes we intercepted contained a fragment of a letter. Monkhurst was mentioned in it. Silas swore there was no connection, but I wanted to see for myself.’

  ‘So you married me to gain access to my house.’ />
  ‘Yes.’

  She threw him another savage look. ‘You do not apologise for it.’

  He smiled. ‘I am not sorry I married you, Evelina. I never could be.’

  Her skin tingled when saw the glint in his blue eyes. It was difficult to remain angry when he smiled at her like that. She reminded herself that his smiles meant nothing. They were as worth less as his honeyed words. She looked away, scowling. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Once Silas was persuaded to let me into the house we searched it thoroughly. There are extensive cellars, and a very interesting under ground passage leading to the boat house on Monkhurst Drain, but no sign that it has been used in recent years.’

  ‘Well there is nothing secret about that! Mama showed me the tunnel when I was a child. She told me her sheltered had built it so that the family need not get wet walking to the boat house on rainy days, but if that was the case why does it come up into the kitchen? And why is the entrance hidden behind the panelling at the back of the boat house? From the outside the tunnel is well hidden; it appears that the boat house is built into the bank.’ Eve shook her head. ‘I always believed it was built for smuggling goods into the house, but Mama would never admit it.’ She forgot her anger as a half-for got ten memory surfaced. ‘I remember having nightmares about people stealing into the house through the tunnel, so Papa took me down there. He showed me the iron grating at the far end. It had a big lock and the key was kept on a hook in the tunnel, so that anyone from the house could get out, but no one could get in.’

  ‘That is still the case, Eve, so you may still rest easy. But the boat house is in a sad state of repair.’

  ‘When Mama and Papa died the boats were sold. Grandpapa kept the house in order, but we only visited Monkhurst once or twice after that.’

  Nick had stretched his arm along the back of the sofa. His fingers were playing with one of the curls at her neck. It was a great temptation to turn her head and rest her cheek against his hand, but she resisted it.

  ‘And what about you, Eve?’ he said softly. ‘Do you dislike the house?’

  ‘Oh, no, it holds only good memories for me. We lived there until I was about nine, you see, then I went to stay with Grandpapa while my parents went abroad and…they never came back. They died in Italy.’

  His fingers left the curl and squeezed her shoulder. ‘I know, you told me they caught a fever. I am sorry.’

  ‘So, too, am I, but it was a long time ago.’

  ‘I am sorry, too, about your sheltered, and even sorrier that I could not be with you.’

  She drew herself up, not prepared to accept his sympathy. She hunched her shoulder to shake off his hand, yet was disappointed when he removed it. She said gruffly, ‘We are straying from the point, sir. Why did you leave Makerham so suddenly?’

  ‘My enquiries had led me to suspect that Lord Chelston was involved in this business. He owns a sizeable property near Northiam and keeps a yacht at Hastings. I have had people watching him for some time now, but he is very elusive. On the morning after our wedding I received word that a rendezvous had been arranged. After so many months of work I could not leave my men to deal with it alone, so I had to come here to the coast.’

  ‘But you have not arrested Lord Chelston?

  ‘He is a powerful man. We need hard evidence before we make our suspicions known. Besides, I want to catch all the main players and close down the whole operation. If we move too soon they will merely go under ground, move production to a new location.

  ‘These people are clever; they have a ware house in Boulogne. The French are not averse to helping anyone who is working against England. You said yourself, smuggling is a way of life in these parts; the local gangs are trusted by their regular customers who believe they are purchasing good Black Bohea.’ He leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘There were reports that a consignment of smouch was ready to be shipped out of Hastings on a brigantine and transferred to a French lugger cruising off this coast. We thought it would be possible to catch Chelston’s men red-handed with the goods; with their evidence we could convict him. Captain George has a cutter at his disposal, the Argos, but on the night of the rendezvous some of us were in disguise on a small fishing smack, hoping to get close enough to the brigantine to board and over power the crew, but they discovered the plot.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Eve, enthralled in spite of herself.

  ‘In the fighting I was shot and toppled into the water.’

  ‘Shot!’

  ‘A flesh wound, just below the ribs. Nothing serious, but it carried me over the side. Thankfully I managed to swim to the Argos, but having been lost over board it was decided it would be to our advantage to let everyone else think I had perished.’

  Eve kept her eyes on his profile, noting the fine laughter lines etched at the corner of his eye and at the side of his fine, curving lips. It would be so easy to lose her heart to him all over again. She squared her shoulders, determined to resist the temptation.

  ‘I under stand that you would not want these villains to know you were alive, but what of me?’ she said quietly. ‘Why did you send Granby to tell me you were dead?’

  He turned his head to look at her and for once there was no smile in his blue eyes. ‘I never intended to tell you. I thought we could wrap up this matter quickly and there would be no need for you to know. Then I received your note, saying your sheltered had died, and I knew I would have to send Granby to you.’

  ‘But why? I do not under stand.’

  ‘Because the man who shot me was your cousin, Bernard Shawcross.’

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Either the world has gone mad or I have lost my wits!’ Eve put her hands to her cheeks. ‘Confess you are joking me.’

  ‘It is no joke, Eve,’ Nick said quietly. ‘When you wrote to tell me of Sir Benjamin’s death, I knew Shawcross would go to Makerham. When your note reached me I was too weak to leave my bed or I promise you I would have found some way to get to you. Instead I had to send Richard to protect you.’ With a sudden, impulsive move he slid from the sofa to kneel on the floor before her, taking her hands and looking up earnestly into her face. ‘I never meant to cause you such pain, Evelina; we had known each other less than a month, only one night married—I did not think you could care for me so very much.’

  ‘Well, you were wrong,’ she muttered, pulling her hands away. She rose and walked about the room, trying to make sense of all he had told her.

  Nick sat back down on the sofa, watching her. At last he said, ‘You are looking very pale, love. Are you hungry? When did you last eat?’

  She stopped her pacing, frowning as if she did not under stand his words. ‘At break fast.’

  ‘Then we must dine.’ He jumped up. ‘But first, my little termagant, we need to call your maid.’

  Martha was quickly summoned and came into the room, dipping a slight curtsey towards Nick as she did so.

  ‘I am very pleased to see you looking so well, Captain Wylder.’

  ‘Thank you, Martha,’ he responded cheer fully. ‘Would you be good enough to bring up some fresh glasses? We had a—er—little accident with the others. But mind, not a word to anyone that I am here.’

  She nodded solemnly. ‘No sir, I’ll keep mum, my word on it.’

  Nick smiled at her and Eve noted with a stab of irritation how her usually stern-faced maid servant softened under the force of his charm.

  ‘And I’ll fetch a brush to clear up the glass in the corner, too, Cap’n.’

  When she had gone Nick shrugged off his coat and tossed it aside. ‘I hope you do not object to me dining in my shirt sleeves, sweet heart, but this is a very rough, workaday garment, not at all suitable for sitting down to dinner with a lady.’

  He was not wearing a waist coat, and the linen shirt fell softly over his powerful shoulders. Eve observed the contrast between the billowing white shirt and tight-fitting buck skins that hugged his narrow hips and powerful thighs. Memories of that str
ong, athletic body pressed against hers made her tremble and she resolutely pushed them aside. As Nick came to the table she realised that he was not walking with his usual grace.

  ‘Your wound,’ she said. ‘Is it very painful?’

  ‘Only if I move too quickly.’ The corners of his mouth lifted. ‘Or if I have to fight off an angry lady.’

  She ignored that. ‘May I see it?’

  ‘There is little to see,’ he said, pulling his shirt away from the waist band of his buck skins. ‘It is almost healed.’

  ‘Then why is it still bandaged?’

  ‘Protection,’ he told her. ‘The wound still bleeds occasionally.’ He lifted his shirt away and Eve gazed down at the white linen strips that were bound around his body. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘do you want me to remove the bandages, so that you may see I am telling the truth?’

  Eve flushed. ‘I believe you.’ She waved her hand at him. ‘Pray, tuck in your shirt.’

  He un but toned the waist band of his buck skins and she could not resist the temptation to look at the exposed skin on his stomach and abdomen, smooth and taut with a shadow of crisp black hairs, a shadow that continued on down towards—

  Eve dragged her eyes away. She must not think of such things because it made the excitement stir deep inside and her knees grew weak. She sat down abruptly at the table, her hands clasped tightly in her lap while he finished tidying his clothes. Nick Wylder was a scoundrel. She must not think of him as anything else.

  Martha bustled back into the room and while she busied herself sweeping up the broken glass, Eve tried to concentrate upon Nick’s story, and not upon his body. The mere thought of dining together made her mouth dry; the little table was so small their knees would almost be touching beneath it. She watched Nick follow the maid to the door and lock it after her. She was not sure if that made her feel more or less safe; might as well be locked in with a tiger, she thought as he prowled back towards her.