“Two hours at most. We won’t sail all the way to Falmouth Harbor. We’ll anchor off Graeb Point and hire a carriage at St. Mawes to take us to Wilde Castle, where Lady Isabella lives. Her estate is close to the village of Gerrans.”
She glanced at Deverill with curiosity. “Have you visited her castle before?”
“No, although I’ve docked at Falmouth a number of times, for refurbishing and to take on supplies. And I’m familiar with this stretch of coast.” He gestured toward the shore. “It’s riddled with smuggling coves and secret hideaways for French spies.”
Antonia’s glance turned amused. “It wouldn’t surprise me to find you on terms with all the local criminals.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a smile. “At least I’m normally on the correct side of the law. I’ve been called on several times to help contain the local smuggling rings.”
That surprised her. “Why you? I thought your specialty was fighting pirates.”
“Because smugglers’ luggers are small and fast and difficult to apprehend, and my ships have the swiftness and maneuverability that few Royal British Navy vessels possess. Thanks to your father’s designs, of course.”
At the mention of her father, Antonia felt another sharp arrow of pain shoot through her.
Deverill must have seen her flinch, for he quickly changed the subject. “I’m certain Isabella will welcome you.”
“And I will be glad to arrive,” Antonia said, striving for lightness, “if only for the opportunity to borrow a fresh gown. I wonder, however, if Lady Isabella will be as welcoming to you once she learns how barbarously you treated me.”
He ignored her provoking gibe. “Captain Lloyd tells me the castle has some magnificent grounds and overlooks a spectacular cove that is ideal for swimming.”
Her mouth quirked. “I consider that fortuitous. If I must languish there for several weeks or more, then I mean to learn how to swim. If I had known how the other night, I could have jumped ship and escaped from your clutches, foiling your abduction.”
Deverill’s grin was slow and lazy. “Where is your gratitude, princess? I saved you from a wretched fate with Heward, you must admit.”
“So you did.” She shuddered to think how close she had come to wedding Heward. “But I don’t intend to award you a halo just yet, Deverill. Not until he confesses to his crimes and is locked away in prison for life.”
“Trust me, I intend to see to it. Meanwhile . . . come below with me. I will change your bandages.”
Antonia hesitated, not wanting to be alone with Deverill. He was clearly an expert at seduction, and she knew very well he would try again to persuade her to accept his marriage proposal. But she could also use the opportunity for her own purposes: chiefly, to quiz him about his plans for proving Heward’s guilt in her father’s death and the Cyprian’s murder. Moreover, although her hands didn’t pain her much and seemed to be healing, she suspected it was wiser to apply fresh bandages.
Without protest, she accompanied Deverill below to his cabin, where he proceeded to unwrap the gauze on her hands. His merest touch brought a rush of memories of their passion last evening, but despite the pleasure he had given her, Antonia was determined not to give in to him. She was through being a pawn to men who sought to control her. Her main goal now was resolving her father’s death and acquiring justice for him. If Heward had committed murder, she would see that he paid for it, whatever the personal cost.
Dragging any information out of Deverill, however, was another matter altogether. When she asked him how he specifically meant to gather evidence against Heward and expose him, Deverill merely repeated that he had surrogates in London who would be investigating.
“Yes, but what will they do? I think I have the right to know,” Antonia asserted. “After all, it is my father’s death at issue.”
At her passionate declaration, Deverill pursed his mouth as he considered how much he should tell her. There was little risk Antonia could misuse any information he gave her, since for the immediate future she would be isolated in Cornwall, out of touch with anyone in London. And it was indeed her father whose life had been forfeit, Deverill reminded himself, along with the ill-fated young beauty who’d been his companion that night at the pleasure club. He could certainly share enough details to reassure Antonia of his intentions. Even though he had to act through his fellow Guardians, now that she was out of danger he intended to do everything in his power to bring Heward down.
“It’s fairly simple,” Deverill said finally. “Not only must we show that Baron Heward is a murderer, but the evidence must be solid enough to convict him in the Lords.” As a nobleman, Heward could be tried only by the House of Lords, by a jury of his peers.
Her blue eyes gazed up at Deverill solemnly, with trust and expectation. “How will you manage to find such evidence?”
“To start with, we’ll try to locate the ruffians who killed the young woman I was with and confirm they were hired by Heward.”
“That will be very difficult, won’t it?”
“Possibly not. One of them has a vivid facial scar, which clearly distinguishes him. And the London underworld is not so large that he can hide forever.” Deverill concentrated on washing the raw areas on her palms. “As for your father, I admit it will be harder to prove a crime that happened more than a year ago. And I don’t want to raise your hopes too high. But it might be feasible to discover how Heward acquired the poison he used to kill your father. It’s curious that Heward’s own personal physician pronounced the cause of death. And it should be simple to learn from a reputable doctor or apothecary what poisons would cause heart failure.”
When Antonia’s brow furrowed in contemplation, Deverill could see the wheels turning in her head. He almost smiled, gratified to have given her a new problem to chew on.
“I would never have thought of trying to determine how he was poisoned,” she acknowledged. “What else?”
“I want to know what hold, if any, Heward has over the Director of Maitland Shipping. If there is something, then we could perhaps use it to persuade Trant to turn against Heward.”
Antonia nodded slowly, observing with a hint of admiration, “Those seem like shrewd steps. I should have trusted that you would devise an able plan.”
“I am gratified you approve,” Deverill observed wryly, although not as sanguine as his tone implied. His immediate plan might be a good start, but he was accustomed to taking command, not having others execute for him. He was not about to let fate dictate to him, but being unable to return to London tied his hands and put him at a severe disadvantage. It meant forcibly summoning the patience to oversee events from a distance when he was gnawing at the bit to act.
On her part, Antonia was struggling with both impatience and a new wave of guilt, for it occurred to her that Deverill had left out one very important element while explaining his strategy: He was wanted for murder.
Another painful twinge hit her. She was to blame for his predicament, at least in part. Deverill had likely been dragged into her affairs and unjustly accused of a deadly crime because he had dared champion her. He was now a criminal simply for trying to protect her.
Her jaw tightened in determination. She wanted to clear his name as much as she wanted to see Heward in prison. She would have to ponder possible ways she could help Deverill prove Heward’s guilt and his own innocence as well.
The difficulty, no doubt, would be in persuading Deverill to accept her help. He had seemed adamant when he said he wouldn’t allow her to return to London with him.
But if he thought she would meekly remain behind, Antonia mused silently, he didn’t know her well.
The reflection, however, was driven from her mind when Deverill finished with the bandages.
“This should suffice,” he said, returning the medical supplies to the cupboard. “And we’ve had enough solemn contemplation.”
Startling Antonia where she sat, he took her face in his hands and bent down to kiss her.
She drew back sharply at the burning contact, glaring, although her pulse was racing and her voice was far too breathless when she exclaimed, “Deverill! I’ll thank you to stop assaulting me!”
The rogue merely grinned. “You had best become accustomed to it, love, for I don’t intend to let up until you accept my proposal.”
She tried to rise from the chair, but he trapped her by bracing his hands on the wooden arms on either side of her. Then he bent lower, brushing his mouth seductively along her jaw to her cheekbone.
Antonia clenched her teeth, struggling for the willpower to resist him.
“You can’t fool me by claiming to be unaffected, sweeting,” he whispered against her ear. “I know how hot and wet you become the moment I touch you.”
It was true, she realized with dismay. Already she felt a damp heat between her thighs at his merest touch. When he lifted one hand and ran his thumb teasingly over her lips, her entire body shivered.
His low murmur stroked her like his fingertips. “I am half inclined to take you back to bed and resume where we left off last night.”
“No, Deverill.” Grasping his hand in desperation, Antonia pushed it away and slipped out from between the chair and his arms, making for the door. “I intend to find Fletcher. He will protect me from your lecherous advances, I hope.”
“Perhaps for now, but you can’t escape me forever.”
“We shall see about that,” Antonia retorted.
She heard Deverill’s low chuckle follow her, even when she shut the cabin door forcefully behind her.
The remainder of the morning was supremely trying for Antonia, what with Deverill’s continued attempts to shake her resolve against wedding him. She was hard-pressed not to succumb to his charm when he wielded it so ruthlessly, but she knew she couldn’t let him make such a sacrifice merely to protect her honor, especially when she was capable of seeing to her own future.
Concluding that she needed a stronger declaration of refusal, however, Antonia decided to venture another bluff. She just hoped it worked better than the first time when she’d threatened to jump overboard. Regardless, it would at least show Deverill she was serious.
When the crew began lowering sails, she knew they were nearing their destination. She searched the galley for the pistol she’d seen there, then went to her cabin for her cloak and returned to find Deverill on deck.
“Before we disembark,” Antonia said calmly, drawing the pistol from her cloak pocket, “we have an issue to settle.”
Deverill’s eyebrows snapped together as he gave her a piercing look. “Where did you get that?”
“I found it in the galley. It belongs to Fletcher, I believe, but I’m of half a mind to use it on you.”
“Is it loaded?”
She sidestepped the question and aimed the muzzle at Deverill. “I want your word that you will cease pestering me about marrying you.”
His arms crossed over his chest, the picture of lazy defiance. “You won’t shoot me.”
Antonia hesitated, her frustration mounting. “Not fatally, but I could certainly wound you. Enough so that you would be bedridden and unable to pursue me.” Letting her gaze slide lower, she pointedly considered his loins encased in buff leather breaches. “Or perhaps I might aim for a more . . . strategic area. If your manly attributes were damaged, you would have difficulty acting the lover, I expect.”
Deverill stared at her, consternation warring with amusement and admiration. She had surprised him once again, threatening to shoot him if he wouldn’t stop pressuring her to accept his marriage proposal—and he suspected she had the skill to back up her threat. The determination in her gaze was challenge incarnate and had a distinctly arousing affect on his loins, but Antonia armed with a weapon was more than he wanted to deal with.
He grinned, appreciating the fearlessness of her manner, but raised his hands in temporary surrender. “Very well, you have the advantage for the moment.”
“I want your word that you will leave me alone, Deverill.”
“I’m sorry, love, but I can’t comply. I suppose that means you will just have to shoot me.”
For a heartbeat she looked as if she might take him up on his dare. Then she pinched her lips together in obvious resignation, apparently accepting that they were at a standoff.
“The pistol isn’t loaded just now,” she muttered. “But I will shoot you someday, I swear it.”
When she turned and stomped away, Deverill shook his head, unable to quell his grin. Antonia riled was magnificent, but if he wasn’t careful, he might wind up with a cherished part of his anatomy in serious distress.
Their standoff held for the time being.
Once the schooner anchored, they rowed to shore and hired a carriage for the three-mile drive to Wilde Castle. The name was somewhat misleading, since Lady Isabella’s summer residence was more grand manor house than castle. From the ship, Antonia had glimpsed the magnificent mansion of mellow stone perched on a bluff overlooking the sea, but it was even more impressive at close range—large enough to contain at least sixty rooms, she suspected.
Promisingly, Lady Isabella was at home. And when Antonia and Deverill were shown into the parlor, they were greeted with surprise and delight.
Half Spanish, half English, Isabella was a sultry beauty with jet hair and sparkling black eyes. Although she was well past her fortieth year and thrice widowed, she possessed an allure that stemmed as much from her earthy vivacity and joie de vivre as her striking, aristocratic features and curvaceous figure.
Rising, the countess offered her fingers for Deverill to kiss, then warmly reached for Antonia’s hands in welcome. “It is so good to see you again, my dear—” She gave a start upon noting her guest’s bandaged palms and then her bruised forehead. “Merciful heavens, whatever happened? No, wait.” She held up an imperative hand. “I suspect this will be a long tale. First I will ring for tea and we will be comfortably seated, and then you will tell me all.”
After the butler was summoned and asked to fetch the tea tray, Deverill gave the noblewoman a brief
account of the past three days, explaining why it
had been imperative to spirit Antonia away from London and to protect her from her murderous betrothed.
“That I understand,” Isabella said, frowning. “But how could you have allowed her to be hurt so?”
Antonia couldn’t refrain from sending Deverill a smug look before she came to his defense. “In all fairness, Deverill thought he had no choice. I wouldn’t listen when he tried to convince me of Lord Heward’s malevolence, so he felt compelled to use unconventional methods to get me on board his ship. And he is not to blame for my hands. I hurt them myself when I was learning to raise a sail. My palms merely suffered rope burns.”
“But to take you away with only the gown on your back! It is shameful.”
The countess’s indignant tone gave Antonia confidence that she might have a champion in Lady
Isabella—one who might be inclined to lend her support on a broader matter. “Truthfully, my lady, none of that concerns me as much as Deverill’s insistence that I wed him.”
“Indeed? Deverill proposed marriage to you?”
When Isabella’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment, Deverill supplied a further explanation. “In my zeal to protect Antonia, I fear that I compromised her reputation beyond salvaging.”
“That is your embroidered version,” Antonia observed.
“It is the same version the ton would support if your circumstances became known.”
“I’m certain I will find a suitable husband eventually.”
“You don’t want a complacent, boring mate. You would be less discontent with me.”
Isabella looked curiously from Antonia to Deverill and back again.
“The fact remains,” Antonia said firmly, “that I don’t want to be forced to wed you simply to safeguard my reputation.”
“I do not think well of forced marriages,” Isabella interjected
lightly. “My first marriage was arranged by my illustrious father. However, my next two were love matches and I was extremely happy. In my experience, it is far better to marry for love.”
Antonia would have replied that she and Deverill were certainly not in love, but the tea tray arrived just then, and she was required to wait until the servants had withdrawn before continuing the discussion. “I do intend to marry for convenience, Lady Isabella. It was my own father’s greatest wish that I wed a nobleman, and I intend to honor his request.”
Isabella gave her a shrewd glance. “But what do you wish, my dear? You mean to tell me that you do not want Deverill for your husband?”
Antonia found the question too complex to answer easily. Undoubtedly it was difficult for the countess to understand why any woman would refuse to wed Deverill, a man of smoldering vitality and irresistible appeal. But Antonia didn’t want to chain him to her in marriage, knowing he could very well come to resent her for causing him to lose his cherished freedom. Moreover, the prospect of becoming his wife, in what would undoubtedly be an unsettlingly stormy union, was frankly unnerving. She would be far more comfortable with a gentle, pliable husband than a powerful, charismatic adventurer who would overwhelm her senses and drive her to distraction.
“No, I do not want Deverill for my husband,” she said, pleased with the conviction in her voice.
“Very well,” Isabella replied as if making a royal pronouncement. “You shan’t have to wed him if you don’t wish to.”
Antonia gave a sigh of relief and forcibly ignored the odd twinge of disappointment she felt at having escaped the prospect of marrying Deverill. “I would also be grateful if you will allow me to take refuge here for a time, my lady.”
“Pray address me as Isabella. And of course you must stay. It will be a delight to have you.”
“If events go as arranged, my companion, Miss Tottle, should arrive in a few days.”
“She is welcome here as well. You, Mr. Deverill, are not,” Isabella said, turning to him. “Since you are not betrothed, it will be better for appearances if you stay at an inn. There is an adequate one in the village and a better one in St. Mawes.”
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