by Jane Feather
“Gatwell,” he said impatiently. “He’s behind this venture of yours, isn’t he?”
He watched her face, wishing it were light enough to see her eyes.
“What venture?”
“Smuggling,” he said. “You know the penalty, I presume. Transportation. Prison. Neither a pleasant future. But I’m not interested in you—or your family. I’m only interested in the earl of Gatwell. Smuggling is the least of his crimes, but we know he’s involved.”
“Then why don’t you arrest him?” Strength crept into her voice. She was beginning to realize she wasn’t as defenseless as she’d first thought.
But he wasn’t going to allow this bit of a girl to spoil his opportunity to see Gatwell brought to justice.
“He will be arrested,” Justin said. “One way or another. The question is how many people he’ll take down with him. You? Your family?”
She tried to pull away again but he kept her wrist imprisoned. She was seeking time, to think, to consider, and he didn’t want to give her that time.
“Are you so loyal then to Gatwell?” he asked softly. “So loyal you’ll risk your family? Your father? Your brother? I saw them both.”
A tremor racked her body, and his resolve melted under an unexpected, unfamiliar urge to protect. An urge that could destroy everything he’d been working toward these past fifteen years.
Fifteen years since his brother had put a gun to his own head and pulled the trigger. Justin still heard that shot in frequent nightmares. He knew he would keep hearing it until Gatwell paid for betraying Justin’s brother and their regiment.
But was he becoming as ruthless as the man he hunted? Was Gatwell’s downfall worth losing his own soul?
“You can’t prove anything,” she said suddenly, “because you won’t find anything.”
“No?” he asked. “Then I didn’t see lights and a boat, and four men and a woman unloading casks?”
A small cry came from her throat, and he knew she had hoped he’d been bluffing.
“Miss Hastings?” he prompted.
“I still don’t know what you want,” she finally said.
She spoke well, without the heavy accent of the tenant farmers and miners in Cornwall. He’d heard that she was the only daughter of a couple who thought highly of education.
“I want you to listen to me,” he said.
“Do I have a choice?” Her small but defiant voice made him wince inside.
“No,” he replied. “Gatwell has committed every crime known to God and man. I want him caught and punished.”
“You said you weren’t a preventive man.”
“I’m not. I work for Wellington.”
“The prime minister?”
Justin nodded. He shouldn’t have divulged that piece of information, but he wanted to assure her that his only target was Gatwell. “He has a debt to collect from Gatwell, too. Our interests, you might say, coincide.”
She looked around, as if expecting soldiers to rise out of the rough, rock-strewn cliff.
“The government is offering certain incentives to anyone who will help bring Gatwell to trial,” he continued, releasing her wrist. “Unfortunately, the man usually hides behind others, using them to protect himself. Too many seem to die in the process. He doesn’t leave witnesses.”
Emotions flitted across her face as he talked, then comprehension. “And you want me—my family—to be among those witnesses?”
“We have to catch him in the act,” Justin explained harshly. “You will be protected.”
She walked away from him toward the edge of the cliff, toward the sea. She looked so alone. He suddenly wanted to go to her, tell her to go home and forget this.
He remembered his brother, a young man not much older than she, and the sad burden placed on him. And he knew he had no heart for terrifying a young lady. He’d wanted to snare grown men who were responsible for their own actions, not an innocent who wanted to protect her family. He had to rethink his plan. Hell, he had to rethink his priorities.
Justin started toward her when he heard a noise behind him. He whirled around to confront whatever danger had presented itself.
CHAPTER THREE
HOLLY TRIED TO work things out in her mind, to comprehend what this man wanted from her. But all she saw was disaster.
Her blood was pulsing too fast. She put a hand into the pocket of her cloak and clasped the small bottle she had found on the rocky shore. If only it contained a genie that could whisk her away or make the man behind her disappear. She’d read about genies, just as she’d read about Prince Charming. She was obviously going to be disappointed in both regards.
Then she heard a noise behind her, and she turned.
Apparently feeling her mistress threatened, Georgette, head lowered, was charging toward the stranger. Holly could only watch as the animal rose up on rear legs and crashed into him, knocking him to the ground.
Holly wanted to run, to warn Da and Paul. But it would do no good. The stranger knew her name. He obviously knew her family. And where would they go without money? What would they do?
Run, her mind still argued.
But she couldn’t leave the stranger. Her pathetically soft heart wouldn’t allow it. What if Georgette had done real damage? A groan escaped the stranger’s lips, and his hands massaged his left leg. He tried to move, and she saw his face clench. His pain must be enormous. He was not the kind of man who would give in to it easily.
“Can I… help? “she said.
His head turned toward her. She was aware that he was studying her, and she felt herself flush.
“Why would you want to do that?” he asked.
“What?” she replied, startled.
“Help me?”
His voice had a certain intensity that made her pause. She was wondering herself why she didn’t run and tell others in the village about the stranger who was a preventive man or worse. They would probably dispose of him, and her family would be safe. The Cornishman had no love for authority.
“I don’t know,” she said. But she did know. She couldn’t bear to see anything hurt or wounded. That was as much a part of her as her love for her family.
She watched as he tried to move again. She heard the quick intake of breath as he started to stand. She offered a hand and, to her surprise, he took it.
A muscle knotted in his cheek and his lips clamped tight, but he slowly got to his feet and stood, swaying slightly. Using her as a crutch, he took a step, then another, until he reached the tree from which he’d emerged several minutes earlier. Then he leaned against it, just barely maintaining his stance.
Holly sensed movement behind her. Georgette, apparently miffed at being ignored, bumped her, sending her against the stranger.
His arms went around her, catching her, and heat radiated between them. Energy swirled like a storm, around and within, wild and hot and irresistible. His body, pressed against hers, was hard, unyielding, and Holly seemed rooted to the spot.
“Devil take it,” he said in a hoarse whisper. His voice was no longer impersonal. It resounded with feelings she couldn’t identify.
Blood rushed to her face as she continued to cling to him with a need she’d never felt before. The stranger groaned from deep inside his throat, and Holly felt a responding whimper escape her own mouth. She shouldn’t be here, she didn’t want to be in his arms, but she couldn’t force herself to move. It was as if she’d lost all will, all reason.
He shifted on his feet, then looked down just as she looked up, and their faces nearly touched. God help her, but something drew her to him. Fear, she told herself. Only fear.
She pulled away from him then, despair and shame swamping her. Hot tears blurred her eyes. She wanted to stay, to be with him, pressed up against him.
Yet he was a stranger. A member of the gentry who was a threat to all that she loved.
A cry wrenched from her as she backed up, but his hand reached out and caught her, and she felt like a trapped rabbit.
Then he let her go and shook his head, as if he too needed to toss off that intensity they’d shared.
She took several more steps backward. “Georgette,” she whispered. “I must get Georgette before she wanders off.”
“The watch goat?” he asked. “No wonder you don’t need anyone on guard.” Amusement changed his voice completely, so that it now sounded deep and gruff.
“She doesn’t like anyone near me,” Holly answered, wondering at his whimsy and tolerance for the offending animal.
He looked toward the goat. Georgette was grazing again, as if nothing amiss had occurred.
“I’ll remember that.”
Holly’s fingers crushed into a fist. She still didn’t know who he was, or what he wanted, or what kind of disaster he meant to her family. And yet, for a moment, an odd sense of familiarity, of companionship, passed between them, and with it a hot rush of expectation.
She was afraid of her own reactions to him. He had taken steps toward her, and his face was only inches away. She was aware of the spicy, clean scent of him, the fineness of his clothes. Whoever he was, he was miles above her in station, though the independent Cornishmen bowed to no one.
Despite the awareness between them, the warm humor that had made them equal for a pause in time, she wondered whether he was just another Barkley Haford, the earl’s son, who saw a peasant girl ripe for the picking. The thought was like an arrow in her heart, piercing through protective layers she’d built around it.
She recalled the times Barkley Haford had called upon her, the promises he’d made. She’d been but sixteen and honored by his attention. She’d even believed herself a bit in love with him, and him with her. Days after he’d declared undying devotion, she heard of his engagement to the daughter of a marquis. He hadn’t ruined her, but it wasn’t for lack of trying.
She’d vowed then she would never trust a member of the gentry again. To them, truth was no more than a throwaway word. And this stranger was surely from that class.
He reached for one of her hands, his fingers playing with the back until the tension left and her hand opened. She wanted to close it again. The palm was work-roughened, not soft like those of ladies who had servants to fetch water and wash clothes.
Unlike before, his grip was gentle and carried no threats. The clouds cleared the moon again, and she saw his face clearly, even the deep-set gray eyes framed by dark brows. A muscle moved in his cheek, then he leaned down and his lips brushed hers.
For a second, her lips responded instinctively. Then, horrified by her own behavior, she jerked away.
He straightened. “Bloody hell,” he swore softly. “Bloody hell.”
JUSTIN WAS appalled at himself. Not only had he frightened a young woman half to death, he had taken advantage of her. He’d never forced his attentions on an innocent before. Never!
“Go home,” he said.
“My family?”
“Don’t tell them anything,” he ordered. “And for God’s sake don’t let anyone go near that brandy.”
“But—”
His finger on her mouth stopped any further words. He wanted to tell her to forget this evening had ever happened. But he couldn’t quite do that. She was still the only chance he had. “I’ll meet you here this afternoon, after the noonday meal,” he said. “We’ll talk then.”
She hesitated, unsure of him and his intentions.
He needed another threat, though he was loath to convey it. “The captain of the troops in Polperro is a friend,” he warned grimly, “and he will have men stationed here shortly. Anyone approaching this cove will be arrested, as will anyone talking about what occurred between us tonight.”
She looked dubious. “Why didn’t you arrest us tonight?”
“I told you,” he said. “I don’t want you or your family or the others who are seeking to earn a few pence more. I only want Gatwell, and I’ll do whatever is necessary to get him. Now you’d better get home before someone comes looking for you.”
She nodded, then turned toward the goat.
“Don’t forget about this afternoon,” he warned.
“I won’t,” she agreed reluctantly.
“And you’ll say nothing?”
She glared at him. Even in the darkness, he felt her eyes skewering him.
“Nothing,” she finally agreed.
Letting her go like this was foolish, but he needed time to map out his strategy. Perhaps he could even earn her trust. Or had he already destroyed that possibility with his threats?
“Go,” he said.
She didn’t waste time arguing. He watched as she moved over to the white goat, found its rope, and started across the rocky path. He watched until she disappeared, then he found his cane, discovering he did need it now.
First time he’d been bettered by a blasted goat.
But then it was also the first time he’d felt this kind of moral uncertainty about his plans, or allowed a pretty face to distract him. And influence him.
He tried to tell himself she hadn’t. He still had the control he needed. But he was taking one hell of a chance in trusting her to remain silent, in believing his story about nearby troops. He had no intention of calling in Gavin yet, not until he knew exactly how to trap Gatwell.
He only knew he needed help. Her help. He had to lure Gatwell back to Cornwall, into taking overt action, and he couldn’t do it on his own. He didn’t particularly fear that Gatwell would recognize him; the two had last seen each other only briefly fifteen years earlier. But a stranger would put the man on guard. Even a stranger named John Savage, who had a legitimate reason to be here.
On and off for the past fifteen years, Justin had been playing the role of John Savage, gentleman gambler. It was Savage who held the notes to Gatwell’s son’s debts. His game leg, he’d told everyone, came from a childhood riding injury, though it had actually resulted from a French ambush on the eve of Waterloo.
Justin placed some weight on his hurt leg, took a step, then another. Steeling himself against pain, and the rumblings of a long-dormant conscience, he hurried to the inn.
AN INCREASING coldness filled Holly’s heart as she journeyed home. What if she had condemned her entire family by showing up at the cliffs? What if she had led the stranger to them? What if he was lying about wanting only Lord Gatwell? Would he really care if others were caught in his trap?
Her heart beating hard with uncertainty, she glimpsed her brother on the path, obviously coming to look for her. She had never hidden anything from him before, and now she had to conceal from him knowledge that endangered them all.
He was carrying a lantern, but already the first fingers of dawn were poking through the sky.
“We were worried about you, Holly,” he said.
She tugged on Georgette’s rope. “She wanted to eat the whole way here. You know how stubborn she gets.”
“Serve her right to end up a stew.” He too had been the recipient of Georgette’s butts.
“You did not see anyone?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “It’s safe enough. Tim Bailey made sure of that. Paid off the constabulary.”
“But the troops?”
“Most likely paid them off, too,” Paul said. “Now stop your worrying. Our part’s over now, and we have nothing more to do with them. We told you it was safe enough.”
“Lord Gatwell—”
“We don’t know it’s Gatwell,” he said. “Be careful how you use his name.”
“Will we have enough, then, for America?”
He didn’t answer right away, and she knew by his silence they did not. Another night of smuggling, then, or perhaps more. Fear squirmed inside her again.
Cornishmen had never considered smuggling wrong. Most of the families had been involved from time to time, and everyone shared the booty. Kegs of French brandy appeared regularly at grand events such as weddings and births, and from the sly laughter, Holly had known taxes were paid on none of them. This time it was different.
She fingered the bottle in the pocket of her cloak. That bottle was every bit as odd as the stranger who’d accosted her on the cliffs. She couldn’t satisfy her curiosity—and apprehension—about him, but the bottle begged inspection.
When Holly reached the cottage, she secured Georgette in the pen. She hoped the animal had had more than enough adventure for one night. She knew that she had.
Da was waiting at the door, his face pinched with anxiety—and anger.
“Mother?” she asked.
“Sleeping, no thanks to you,” he said with rare censure. “’Tis time you chose a husband. Then you won’t be running wild.”
“I want to go to America with you,” she argued.
“That might be years yet,” he said, suddenly sounding weary, “and I want to see you settled. Daniel Gray asked me just last week for permission to call. I told him I would talk to you.”
“But he’s …” She’d started to say old, but then stopped. Daniel was her da’s age, with three spoiled children. His second wife had died in childbirth two years earlier.
“He can provide well for you,” Da said of the blacksmith. “You won’t be finding any lords wanting the hand of a tenant’s child.”
He was, she realized, remembering the hurt she’d felt at Barkley Haford’s desertion.
“I know,” she replied, “but maybe it is different in America.”
“You are too choosy. You’ve had some fine suitors. Love grows, Daughter.”
“But you and Mother …”
He seemed to age in front of her. He had married a woman above his station, the daughter of a wealthy merchant. She’d been groomed for a better match, but she’d eloped with Jonathon Hastings and her father had disowned her.
“Aye, and your mother is the reason I long to see you settled in a good marriage,” he said. “I don’t want you to struggle as she has had to do.”
“I don’t think she would change a moment.” She remembered the way her mother and Da had once laughed together, the way they’d touched so often, and even now the way their gazes seldom left the other when they were together. She wanted the same kind of love, not the stilted politeness she saw between so many other couples.
