Against all her better judgement, that helpless gesture wrung her heart.
She looked up, tensing, eyes wide and instantly alert as she caught the scrunch of pebbles beneath booted feet. A figure strode across the beach towards them. Harriette promptly relaxed and raised a hand in greeting.
‘It went well, Harry.’ Her cousin, Alexander Ellerdine, his face full of wild energy, joined them. ‘A good run, in a quick time.’
‘Zan! Excellent.’ A brief clasp of hands. ‘And an equally good landing, all due to you. Monsieur Marcel is willing for another run within the month.’
‘We can do that.’ Alexander’s confidence was as bright as the lantern in the Tower Room window. ‘I’ll pass the word.’ He turned to go. ‘Who’s this?’ he asked, appraising the body.
Harriette’s lips parted to tell him. Then, uncertain as to why, she changed her mind. She wasn’t used to keeping secrets from Alexander, but she would keep her knowledge of this man with the haunting face and wicked crime tucked away. Just until she know more of him—and had made up her mind what to do with him.
‘An Englishman who fell on bad times,’ she announced. ‘We don’t know anything more, other than that his clothes suggest he’s got deep pockets. Marcel delivered him with the barrels and we brought him home.’ She ignored George Gadie’s angled glance, even as she felt quick colour rise in her face. Lies did not come easily to her.
‘Shall I take him?’ Zan offered with barely a glance and less interest. ‘I’ll hand him over to Sam Babbercombe at the Silver Boat.’
‘No.’ It came out sharper than she had intended. ‘I’ll take him.’
‘Why would you want to do that?’
‘No reason.’ She tightened her lips as she considered the helpless figure. Hand him over to the rough care of the innkeeper in Old Wincomlee, who would kill him with neglect before he put himself out for a penniless, injured man? Never. And besides…Harriette felt an uncomfortable response touch her spine as the man groaned, little more than a sigh, and turned his head. The wound was stark and ugly on his cheek. For some inexplicable reason she did not want to abandon him into Alexander’s care. ‘He’s halfdead already. It’s closer to take him to Lydyard’s Pride than the inn.’ When she saw Zan’s brows rise, she hurried on. ‘He might have information of use to us.’ Harriette cast about for logical reasons. ‘It might be in our interests to restore him to health.’ She chuckled to hide her discomfort. ‘We can always extort money from him for saving his life! Sam at the Silver Boat won’t care whether he lives or dies.’
‘I don’t see how he can know anything to our advantage…’ Harriette watched, all the tension returning to her tired muscles as Alexander knelt to turn the man’s face, to make what he could of the features. Harriette thought his frown deepened and caught his sharp, rather sly, glance. ‘Going to save his life, Harriette? Play the guardian angel to soothe his brow?’
‘Nothing of the sort. How foolish you are!’ She did not like the smooth teasing, nor the hint of malice, but summoned a smile. ‘We can’t stand here arguing the case, Zan,’ she responded lightly enough. ‘Have all the goods gone?’
Alexander stood, his face alight. ‘Yes. I kept some particularly fine lace for the fashionable ladies of Brighton. They’ll pay handsomely.’ To her inexplicable relief his interest in the man had died. ‘Do you need help?’ He wound a warm arm around her waist and pressed a quick kiss to her temple.
Momentarily Harriette leaned her head against her cousin’s shoulder in gratitude, then straightened. ‘No. George and Gabriel will take care of him. You can do one thing for me, Zan. Best if my brother doesn’t get wind of this, or my whereabouts tonight. You can head Wallace off if he wants to know where I am. Tell him I’ll stay the night at the Pride and return to Whitescar Hall tomorrow. It might save my skin from a rare tongue lashing. And then send Meggie to me, would you? She’ll know what to bring. And tell her—bring some linen and one of Wallace’s dressing gowns. I think we’ll need it.’
‘I’ll do that.’ Alexander again searched her face with a quizzical gleam and ran his hand down Harriette’s arm, an intimate little gesture that surprised her and impelled her to take a step away. Alexander had never treated her with anything but cousinly affection, not even a casual flirtation, certainly no attempt to engage her interest. Then the moment was gone, so fast that she thought she must have been mistaken. ‘Don’t waste too much energy on your bloody catch,’ he now added, nudging the man’s foot with the toe of his boot. ‘Probably not worth anything. I’d throw it back in the sea and have done with it.’
A salute to her cheek, and Alexander strode off to where his horse waited on the shingle. The bloody catch, as he had put it with singular lack of compassion, was pushed ignominiously by Gabriel Gadie across the back of a pony, before George set off to lead the animal up the steep but well-worn track between the beach and Lydyard’s Pride, the house on the cliff where the lantern still beamed its welcome. And Harriette, walking at the side of the inert figure, resisted a temptation to smooth her fingers over the dark hair.
Chapter Two
At Lydyard’s Pride, the Gadies manhandled the man, with some rich cursing to accompany their efforts, into one of the many uninhabited bedchambers. Dusty, cold as a room in an unused house must be, at least it was furnished with a bed, chair and nightstand. Kindling was laid ready in the grate.
Harriette followed in their wake, wrapped around as she always was by a sense of belonging when she set foot in this house. Empty, shut up for the most part it might be, but Lydyard’s Pride was hers and the walls closed around her like the embrace of a lover. She felt her breathing slow, her pulse level. She was safe in this vast mausoleum, left to her by her Aunt Dorcas, because Lydyard’s Pride had always been passed from generation to generation of Lydyards through the female line. Harriette would have lived here if Wallace would only permit it, but Wallace thundered about her lack of years, her unmarried state, her need for a chaperone, whenever she raised the subject, insisting that she live under his authority at Whitescar Hall. How could she consider living alone and unprotected in this vast pile of a house that had had no money spent on its upkeep at any time in the past century. It would fall down around her ears and then where would she be? And since Harriette lacked the financial independence to defy her brother, Lydyard’s Pride was shut up and gathered dust under the eye of an elderly Lydyard retainer and two girls from the village. Its only use was to signal to the Free Traders from the lofty vantage point of the Tower Room.
But this was no time for wallowing in self-pity. Harriette turned her mind to the uninvited guest as the two men deposited their burden on the bed.
‘Gabriel—light the fire, then go below and send Wiggins up with hot water and cloths. Linen for bandages. And a bottle of brandy. Not a word of this, mind, outside this house.’ She rubbed her palms down her sides and approached the bed. ‘Let’s get him out of these sodden clothes, George.’ She turned back the collar of the ruined coat and began to ease it from the injured shoulder.
‘I’ll do it, Cap’n. It’s not seemly, Miss Harriette,’ George reprimanded.
Harriette smiled through her impatience. Despite her smuggler’s garb, she had suddenly in George Gadie’s mind been transformed from Captain to lady of the house. ‘Not seemly? He’s probably dying, and will surely do so if we leave him as he is.’
‘It’s not seemly for you to strip a man to his skin, Miss Harriette!’
‘I know the form of a man.’ Harriette continued to struggle to pull off the garment, noting in passing the fine cloth, its superb cut. ‘I’ve seen your spindle shanks often enough when you’ve been soaked to the skin and stripped off on the beach.’
Which raised a guffaw from Gabriel as he left the room.
‘Dare say. Not the same. This’n’s young and comely!’ Nevertheless George began to pull off the man’s boots. ‘Don’t blame me, Miss, when your brother hears and kicks up a fuss.’
‘I won’t. And with luck,
Sir Wallace won’t hear.’
Whilst George attended to the boots, Harriette struggled to ease the tight-fitting coat from her guest’s shoulders. Best to do it as fast as possible whilst he was still unconscious. Exasperated, she pulled a knife from her belt and began to use it against the seams—it was ruined anyway. The shirt, of the finest linen as she had suspected despite the muck and blood that soiled it, gave her no trouble. She had already used his once-elegant cravat as an impromptu padding. Her lips curved in contempt as they had on board Lydyard’s Ghost. Payment for state secrets must be high.
‘Miss Harriette, I think you should leave.’
‘Just do it, George.’
With a click of tongue against teeth, George stripped off the man’s breeches, undergarments and hose.
Well, now! Harriette was not ignorant of a degree of male nakedness. On board the cutter, when sailors stripped off their shirts to haul and pull on rope and sails, she had watched without embarrassment the play of smooth, welldefined muscle as arms and backs took the strain, when thighs had braced, sinews taut, against the drag of wind and wave. As a member of the crew, it was an occurrence that no longer disturbed her. A man was a creature of blood and bone and muscle, much like a horse, superbly crafted to carry out a task against the elements.
She had seen a half-naked man before. But nothing like this man, fully naked. Harriette found herself locked in a moment of splendid appreciation.
His fine skin was smooth, unweathered, his physique magnificent, lean and rangy. Broad shoulders, superbly muscled under the skin, informed her unequivocally that the condition of his body mattered to him. Perhaps he fenced, she thought. Or sparred at Gentleman Jackson’s saloon. Arms sleekly powerful, from using the reins if he was wealthy enough to own his own curricle or phaeton. She could imagine him looping the leathers, controlling and steadying the power of a pair of blood horses. He might be rich, but he was not idle, sinking beneath rolls of fat as did some of her brother’s associates, who spent their lives doing little but eating, drinking and hunting.
Harriette’s eyes lingered, moved on to the flat planes of hard flesh as his chest narrowed to a slim waist, a light smattering of silky dark hair arrowing towards a firm belly. Narrow hips, strong thighs, his powerful masculinity obvious, strong and impressively formed even though unaroused. She felt heat rise in her cheeks and her mouth dry, shocked by her very physical reaction to this man, whom she ought to despise—until George flung a sheet over the man’s lower limbs with a frown, a curse and a muttered comment on what was right and not right for well-brought-up young women to see.
Still Harriette stood and simply looked, drawn by a force beyond her control. If she ever visualised the sort of man she would wish to marry, this man would take centre stage in her dreams. And here he was under her hands, within her power. Unfortunately unconscious. Perhaps just as well, she decided, blinking and ordering her wayward thoughts back into line as Wiggins delivered the requested items. She was hardly at her society best in fisherman’s smock, boots and breeches, to capture a wealthy and handsome man as a husband. To capture any husband. So far in her twenty-three years she had proved a dismal failure.
Not that she would want this one, of course, with dubious morals and treacherous intent.
Consigning George to wash the mud and sand from his abused body, Harriette applied herself to his injuries. Any remaining bleeding was sluggish, and on cursory examination, the wounds looked far worse then they actually were. A hard blow to the head had broken the skin, hard enough to cause the confusion and the lack of consciousness, but she did not think there would be permanent damage. A crust of dried blood had already formed. Bruising spread over one shoulder, dark and ugly, as if he had been beaten with a club. A thin blade had split his cheek, not deep, not dangerous, and would heal well enough—although it might leave a scar. Most worrying was a bullet wound in his upper left arm—thank God, not his shoulder or chest—but the bullet had passed through the flesh, so no need to cause more damage by digging it out, which George would have had to do with more enthusiasm than skill since there was no doctor in Old Wincomlee. With luck, it too would heal well if cleaned and bound up.
Harriette set to work with water and cloth and gentle hands to cleanse and bind, wrapping his arm tight, applying a compress to his shoulder. Only when she was satisfied that she had done all she could did she allow herself to perch on the side of the bed and investigate his face.
He was handsome, a face that could lodge in a woman’s mind, in her private longings. A striking male beauty. Blessed with a fine straight nose, straight brows, a lean face to match his body with fine planes and sharply elegant cheekbones. His lips, now soft and relaxed, were masterfully carved. Harriette could imagine them curving in a smile, or firm with temper. Softly she drew her fingertip across and along, a mere breath of touch. They were cold and unresponsive.
What would it be like to press her own lips to his? To warm them into life, to feel them heat and respond…? She had no idea.
Harriette Lydyard had never been kissed.
As if aware of her regard, and causing Harriette to snatch her hand away, his eyelids fluttered, then slitted open, a shine of green, yet blurred as they had been in the cutter. A murmur, a slur of words.
‘Where is she? You promised…Had an agreement…’
Harriette leaned forwards to listen, smoothing her palm over his forehead, down his uninjured cheek.
‘…you must let her go…let her come with me…’
So he had lost someone, a woman it seemed. Harriette allowed herself another soft caress as a keen regret settled in her heart. Searching for her was important enough to cause him anxiety. What would it be like to have this man search for her, raging at her loss? Her cheeks flushed, her heart fluttered a little. What would it be like to be prized enough by so desirable a man that he must seek you out, even to the point of wounding, even near death. What would it be like to feel those arms close around her and hold her body against his…?
How foolish! How shocking! What would Wallace say if he could read her entirely unseemly thoughts? Harriette snatched her hands away and pushed herself to her feet. A silly girl’s dreaming. She would end up wed to one of Wallace’s drinking, hunting, entirely unattractive cronies if he had his way. No future in wishing and sighing over a handsome man as if she were a child barely out of the schoolroom. And where would she possibly meet such a one as he? She was hardly likely to persuade Wallace to give her a Season in London. Or even Brighton.
‘Where is she? You promised…I can’t leave her!’
Against her will, lured by the undoubted anguish, Harriette was drawn back again to push the tangled hair from his face.
‘Hush now. I’ll care for you.’ So racked and troubled. But who wouldn’t be with a dent in his skull and a bullet through his arm? Yet a strange tenderness was stirred.
‘I’m afraid for her….’
‘There’s no need to fear.’ Empty words, but she must reassure him.
‘Help me…’With a deep sigh, almost a groan, he lapsed into silence again, dark lashes heavy against his pale skin.
‘I will. Sleep now…’ She closed her hand around his and felt an instant response, weak, in truth, but a curl of his fingers around her own as if in ownership, as if an unbreakable bond existed between them.
Harriette’s heart bounded heavily within her chest. Her breathing shuddered. In that one moment all she could desire was to stay beside him and comfort him, soothe his pain.
You love him! The words whispered in her ears, lodging in her mind. You have fallen in love with him!
‘No, I have not! Of course I have not!’ she remarked aloud, thrusting her hands behind her back like a small child caught out in some misdemeanour. As if she might reach out to touch him again because every instinct insisted that she do so, flesh against flesh. ‘How could I possibly have done anything so ridiculous!’ But her breath was short, as if she had just climbed the path to Lydyard’s Pride, her skin
heated, the blood singing through her veins to make her aware of every inch of her body.
‘What’s that, Miss Harriette? Regret bringing him back here already?’ George Gadie came to stand at her side. ‘He’ll live, I reckon.’
‘And that’s the best we can do for now,’ Harriette remarked, furious with herself, but working hard to keep her voice calm, unconcerned. She drew her tongue over dry lips and prayed for a cold dose of common sense to cool her blood. ‘We’ll leave him to see if he recovers. One of the maids—Jenny—can sit by him.’
‘Then I’ll be back tomorrow, Cap’n, if you don’t want me now.’
‘You’ve done more than enough for me today.’ She touched his arm in thanks. ‘Go and let your wife know you’re safe. It was a good night’s run.’
‘Aye, it was. Hope he doesn’t cause you more trouble than he’s worth. Should’ve passed him over to the Silver Boat, as Mr Alexander said.’
Harriette angled a glance. ‘Would you have left Gabriel there under Sam Babbercombe’s care, if he was wounded?’ A grunt was all the reply she got as George opened the door for the maid, but she sensed his agreement. ‘Come for me if he wakes, or takes a turn for the worse,’ Harriette instructed Jenny, who settled herself on the only chair with a basket of stitching to keep watch. ‘I expect he’ll sleep through the rest of the night and much of the day.’
As Harriette walked slowly down the staircase, her thoughts remaining fixed on the man who astonishingly had the power to light a flame in her blood, she came upon Meggie climbing ponderously towards her, a deep wicker basket on each arm.
‘Well, Miss Harriette. Now what?’ She puffed out a breath, cheeks red with exertion.
Harriette beckoned. ‘Come with me and I’ll tell you.’ Retracing her steps to the first floor, she opened the door of the bedchamber she used when she could escape from Wallace and his overbearing wife, Augusta, and spend a night there. For furnishings and cleanliness it was little better than the one she had just left, but familiar with its lack of comfort she paid that no heed, walking immediately across the room to one of the windows, for the windows of the chamber looked out across the bay, offering a spectacular sweep of coastline.
Compromised Miss Page 2
