When You Wish

by Jane Feather

  “Well, John Savage,” she said, “I will help you if I can.”

  Unbelieving, he stared at her. “Why?”

  “I might have a goat named for King George,” she said, “and I don’t like preventive men, but for all that I’m an Englishwoman. I don’t like those who prey on their own people.”

  He realized they had changed sides, and he didn’t like that fact one bit. He didn’t want to involve her, and now, astonishingly, she was asking him to do just that.

  God must have a sense of humor, but Justin didn’t appreciate it. He, who had set the trap, found himself saying, “No.”

  “You’ve been down there on the beach, haven’t you?” she asked.

  Justin just looked at her, not agreeing or disagreeing.

  “You didn’t find anything.”

  She seemed absolutely sure he hadn’t. Why?

  “No,” he finally said, “but I didn’t look carefully.”

  “You could look for a dozen years and never find anything.”

  He couldn’t trust her, Justin told himself. How could he? Her family smuggled goods, and she would do anything to protect them. He’d known that when she’d appeared this afternoon.

  Yet he did trust her, though he couldn’t understand why. He’d always been an astute judge of men; he’d spent the last fifteen years perfecting that skill. And he understood her reasoning. Most English hated Napoleon and anyone who dealt with him, particularly at the cost of the lives of their countrymen. Yet as much as he needed her help, he would lose the last shred of humanity in him if harm came to her.

  Curiosity, though, drove him to ask, “Why didn’t I find anything? There’s a cave, isn’t there?”

  “Perhaps,” she said, “but not the kind you know.”

  Her eyes were suddenly sparkling, full of challenge.

  He knew he should pursue the subject of the cave, but he couldn’t. He wanted her out of his scheme. “Tell me about your family,” he asked, instead. He pulled her down until they both sat on rocks overlooking the Channel sea.

  “’Tis but only four of us,” she said. “Da. My brother, Paul. My mother and I. My mother is sick. Consumption, the doctor said. A dryer climate might help, but the mines closed two years ago, and with them any chance of earning enough money to leave Cornwall.

  “My da never smuggled before,” she continued. “But he was promised he could make a year’s worth of good crops in one night. I didn’t want him to, but he and Paul saw it as the only way to sail to America.”

  “America, is it?” he said.

  She nodded. “I hear we can get some land there. Da’s a fine farmer, but we own nothing, and can earn nothing.” He heard yearning in her voice.

  “Why do you trust me?” His voice was rough even to his own ears,

  “I don’t,” she replied. “I only know you’re the only chance we have. And,” she added fiercely, “I don’t like traitors.”

  Should he accept what she was offering? He could protect her family from the Crown’s justice, but could he protect them from Gatwell? He had the authority to offer rewards to informants, enough to get the family to America, but he knew that wasn’t the reason she had offered to help. She would do what she believed was right; she couldn’t be bought.

  How did he know this? Especially since he had started to think the worst of everyone? A casualty of his profession as spy and spy-catcher.

  His throat tightened.

  “If Gatwell continues to smuggle,” she continued desperately, “he’ll draw my father and brother deeper and deeper into his schemes until it is too late for them to get out.” She looked him squarely in the eyes. “I think I know a way you can catch him and keep my family out of it. Swear you’ll protect them.”

  “Will you tell them about me?”

  “No,” she replied. “They wouldn’t understand. My da’s a Cornishman, and you’re a—”

  “Outsider,” he finished before she could say something less kind.

  “An outsider, yes,” she said, then suddenly grinned at him.

  His heart lurched crazily. After his brother killed himself, Justin had closed off his heart. Now he realized the doors could still be thrown open.

  Perhaps he could give her and her family their dream.

  And then what would he do? After he brought Gatwell to justice, what would he do? He’d never thought beyond that.

  His continued silence seemed to prod her. “I’ll show you where the brandy is. You can move it to a cave I know not far away. When Lord Gatwell sends his men for the brandy, they will find nothing. That should bring him down here.”

  “Won’t it endanger your family?”

  “I will get to Lord Gatwell first,” she said, “and tell him that preventive men were snooping around and my da decided to take the brandy to a safer place.”

  “And if someone goes to that location, then only Gatwell could be responsible,” he concluded. He’d hoped to go a more direct route, find someone who was involved to bear witness against the earl. But there was no direct trail to Gatwell. Her plan was more sure. The Crown would not have to rely on witnesses who might change their minds or just disappear. Gatwell would be caught in the act by the king’s own troops.

  He hesitated. “It can be dangerous,” he warned.

  “You could have had us all transported.”

  “I told you—”

  “Next time you might not be here,” she said.

  She was right. If she couldn’t convince her family to quit smuggling, and apparently she’d tried, he could guarantee nothing. But with her plan, he could take certain steps to keep her as safe as possible.

  She rose to her feet.

  He followed her up, marveling at her composure.

  But he soon realized she wasn’t as calm as she looked. He saw the tension in the set of her shoulders. One hand was deep in a pocket of her skirt, as if clutching something. Several strands of hair had escaped the braid she’d wound around her head, and her green eyes were as alive and turbulent as the sea below. Her cheeks were flushed and her chin set determinedly.

  He wanted to kiss her again, but his pride—and cheek—stopped him. He wasn’t sure why he was so attracted to her. His eye had always gone to women who, like himself, lived on the edge of society. He’d avoided married women and he avoided virgins. He hadn’t needed that kind of trouble.

  But suddenly he wanted this girl. Wanted her even more than he wanted the earl of Gatwell.

  HOLLY FINGERED the tiny bottle in her pocket as she stared up at John Savage. Perhaps it had been worth more than she first thought, for as she’d heard him speak, the message kept repeating itself in her mind. To thine own wish be true.

  Her deepest wish was to keep her family safe.

  Then the second line: Do not follow the moth to the star.

  Was John Savage the star?

  He certainly generated the heat of a star. She still felt the warmth of his lips on her mouth. Heat coursed through her every time she looked at him.

  But her mind warned that he might be manipulating her, using a velvet glove rather than an iron one. Even if he was, he offered the best chance her family had. She had no doubt that Gatwell, if caught, would implicate her da and Paul or even try to eliminate them to save his own skin.

  She pressed down the warning, wishing instead to believe in the stranger. He’d done his best to free her, and it had been she who refused.

  His cheek still bore the mark of her hand, and she let her fingers trail over the lingering redness. “I’m sorry.”

  “I had no right.”

  “But I wanted—”

  A muscle moved in his throat, and he smoothed back her hair. “Miss Hastings,” he said in a voice that made her name sound like a love song. “You shouldn’t even be out here with a rogue like me.”

  “You didn’t give me much choice.”

  A smile tugged at the side of his mouth. “No, I didn’t. Which should make you run like the devil’s on your tail.”

&n
bsp; She’d thought that at dawn. What had made her change her mind? His concern? His unexpected gentleness?

  Or had it been his tale about his brother, and the grief she’d seen in his eyes?

  Was it the odd message in the bottle?

  Whatever it was, she was struck by the intensity between them, as if they were alone on an island in a vast sea. Nothing else existed except the fog of inevitability that eclipsed the rest of the world.

  He touched her cheek, and she relished the feel of it. She wanted him to kiss her again, and now she would be willing, but instead only his fingers explored her face. Then his lips briefly brushed her lips before he wrenched back with a groan.

  As a deep yearning settled deep inside her, she swayed on legs that didn’t want to support her. She looked into his eyes. They were intense and scorching. A smile, part incredulous, part accusatory, gentled the hard lines of his lips. His face didn’t look so dangerous now.

  “You must be a sea witch,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  “No more than you’re a devil,” she said, wondering where her boldness was coming from.

  “That’s no assurance,” he replied. As if to confirm her words, a devilish smile tugged on his lips.

  She gulped. His charm was wretchedly disconcerting.

  But then, like a slate wiped clean of its marks, his face went almost blank. He turned away from her.

  Holly struggled for words. “I’ll … show you … where the brandy is.”

  He turned back to her, and she saw his eyes darken.

  “Three nights ago, Da and Paul dug a hole and lined its sides with animal hides and covered it with boards, then sand. Unless you have the exact bearings you could never find it.”

  “Gatwell has those bearings?”

  “The man who arranged the shipment does.”

  “When will they try to pick it up?”

  “Not for several days,” she said. “The ship might have been sighted and the coastal patrols alerted. Da said they might not come for a week or more, not until they’re sure of safety.”

  “Then give me the bearings,” he said. “FU have my men come over tonight and move the brandy.”

  “There is a cave in the next inlet,” she said. “But Da thought this might be safer. You can move the casks there.”

  “Can you draw me a map? Here in the dirt?”

  “I can show you,” she offered.

  “No,” he said roughly.

  Stung, she stepped back at his curt reply.

  He put a hand to her face. “You ruin my concentration,” he said. “And neither of us can afford that now.”

  She nodded slowly, found a twig, and in the dirt drew him the location of the cache and then the cave. She looked up to see whether he understood, and found him watching her instead.

  When he caught her gaze on him, he merely nodded. “I’ll find it. We’ll have it moved by morning.”

  “Be careful,” she said softly.

  “And you, sea witch.”

  She stood there, unable to move.

  He leaned down and lightly kissed her cheek. “You are a very exceptional young lady.”

  Then he turned and was gone down the path to the sea.

  CHAPTER SIX

  JUSTIN HAD NO trouble finding the spot indicated by Holly Hastings.

  But whether the cache of brandy was below him, he had no way of knowing without a long rod. He would have to bring in the troops tonight and trust that the information was reliable.

  He leaned against the side of the cliff. The tide was rolling in, but the water didn’t reach into the inlet where the brandy was concealed. In a storm, though, the waves might well uncover the contraband. The kegs must be buried deep.

  He looked toward the steep path Holly had scampered up and down with such ease. Pretty Holly. Gallant Holly. His heart had never been touched this way before, never been so totally invaded. The swiftness with which it had happened confused him.

  And even more bewildering was his reordering of priorities. Her safety—and that of her family, because it meant so much to her—came first now, not Gatwell’s destruction. He’d thought nothing could change his one goal in life. But then he’d never thought a girl could turn tender a heart and soul hardened by an occupation that left little room for compassion.

  His gaze moved upward. The sky was bluer than he’d noticed before, the sea more beautiful, the air fresher.

  Justin Talmadge was coming back to life, and John Savage, who saw only evil and felt little, was fading.

  HOLLY’S MOTHER was feeling better that evening, and smiles replaced worried frowns. Perhaps, Holly thought optimistically, the family’s fortunes were changing after all. Perhaps the bottle did have magical properties.

  Paul played his fiddle, Holly sang, and even her mother added her weak voice. Holly knew her brother and Da felt safe now that their part in the smuggling was done, and she tried to tuck away the apprehension that clawed up and down her spine. Was she betraying them? Would they think she’d betrayed them?

  In a few hours, the stranger and his men would be digging up the brandy. There was still time to tell Da, and let him make the decision. Would he ever forgive her? Knowing her lies of omission were meant to protect them did little to relieve her conscience.

  Finally, after all were asleep, she sat on the edge of her small bed, considering the possibility of going to the beach. But someone might see her. Instead she fingered the tiny bottle that somehow connected her with the stranger, with possibilities, with hope. She prayed for her family, and then she prayed for John Savage. His eyes had been so desolate when he’d told her about his troop, his brother, the suicide. He’d lost his soul that day, and that thought made her immeasurably sad.

  “CLEVER,” GAVIN Karr said. “Very, very clever. We never would have found it on our own.”

  Gavin was out of uniform, as were four of his most-trusted men. All were swathed in dark clothes and sworn to secrecy about this night’s work.

  Justin nodded in the dim light of the lantern tucked well within the small inlet. He held a shovel in his hand, having just unearthed the cache of brandy.

  Gavin was a friend of long standing, a lieutenant in the king’s army. Still, Gavin knew him only as John Savage, one of the prime minister’s special agents. He did know, however, that Savage wanted Gatwell’s hide.

  “You might get him this time,” Gavin said. “Who in the hell did you bribe to find this place? Must have cost a king’s ransom. Everyone is terrified of Gatwell.”

  Justin allowed himself a small, stiff smile. It was going to cost the government a pretty pence, just not the way Gavin thought.

  “Going to keep your secrets?” Gavin probed. “I can use an informant down here. Damned Cornishmen are as tight-lipped as a man cheating on a rich wife.”

  Justin shook his head. “Sorry.”

  “You fit right in with them. You always want my assistance, but—”

  “Blast,” Justin said. “You know you enjoy it. It’s a bloody sight better than patrolling the streets of Polperro. And consider the laurels for taking down Gatwell. A promotion at the very least,” he added, seeking to take his friend’s mind from the informant’s identity.

  Gavin’s face brightened. “A captaincy at least,” he said, “if I can haul in a fish like Gatwell.” Gavin was well aware that Justin would slip away, unnoticed, once his task was accomplished. He was a man whose anonymity was essential. “Especially if I can bag the whole lot.”

  “Remember your oath,” Justin warned. “Only those caught red-handed at the cave.”

  “And Gatwell?”

  “And Gatwell,” Justin agreed.

  They both bent their backs then. The kegs would be loaded into a sloop and carried to a cave on the other side of a jutting cliff.

  The last keg was transferred and the hole covered again just as the first streaks of dawn stretched across the sky. Gavin summoned a young lad, who looked no more than fifteen. “I’m sending Denny with you,” he told
Justin. “You can say he’s your valet arrived from London. Send him for me when Gatwell returns.”

  Justin nodded and held out his hand. “My thanks, Gavin. Again.”

  “One of these days you’ll find another man to do your dirty work, and I’ll retire into boredom. You keep things interesting, John.”

  Justin grinned. “I think you’ll always find your own amusements.”

  “If I’m not cashiered first,” Gavin said, wading out into the sea before setting foot into the sloop. “Take care, John.”

  Justin inclined his head in acknowledgement, then leaned against the cliff as he watched the sloop head out.

  GATWELL HAD returned.

  Holly heard the news when she took some eggs to sell in the village. Her blood started to pulse with excitement. Even a little terror.

  A full week it had been since John Savage had moved the casks of brandy, and six days since she’d last seen him on the cliffs.

  He’d been waiting as she expected, as if he’d known she would be there, even though they had made no arrangements.

  Though he must have been up all night moving the casks, his face held no sign of weariness. As she approached, his arms had opened, and she’d slid into them without words.

  He’d held her, and they’d communicated by touch, not by declarations. The embrace was natural, as inevitable as the sun rising at dawn. No doubts pestered her when she felt his arms around her.

  “It’s done,” he’d whispered. His arms had hugged her reassuringly, then hungrily, and again their lips had met, and she’d felt the rush of reckless desire.

  But he’d stopped and stepped back. “You are so young and … innocent.” His eyes had burned into her like hot brands. He had taken her hand and lifted it to his lips in a totally romantic gesture. “And altogether too lovely.”

  Her fingers touched his stark face. Then they trembled and she moved them away, lest he realize what was happening to her. He was far above her, too far ever to consider her more than a fling. But these were magic moments, ones she would remember all her life. She was regarded tenderly by a man who made her heart take wing. She would always treasure these days.

  “You should not be here,” he said.