She led the way out onto the terrace and paused, glancing around, her heart pounding in agitation. Whatever or whomever the shadow belonged to, it was gone now. Who could it have been? “Stay here, Mary,” she whispered, putting out one hand and touching her maid’s cloaked arm. “I’m just going up to the cliff to see if anything is going on.”
“I’m not letting you go alone,” Mary insisted, following her.
Anne crept down the garden in the moonlight, through the rickety gate and up the grassy slope to the bluff, huffing and puffing by the time she got there. She crouched and urged Mary to do the same, as they crept closer to the edge, near a stunted and twisted tree that clung to the edge of the cliff and shadowed the lip. It was too dark to see anything other than an impression of movement below. But when a lantern flashed for a moment, Anne could see that the beach was full of men.
But seconds later both Anne and Mary reared back in amazement as, out of the murky void on the cloudy night, a figure rose from beyond the edge of the cliff. It was the Barbary Ghost, so close they could almost reach out and touch it, if it truly was a substantial being! Mary shrieked in terror and started up. The Ghost whirled, howled in rage and drifted closer to them, the air between them lit up with fireworks, smoke, and flame blazing.
Mary grabbed Anne’s arm and yanked her back from the cliff edge, but Anne pulled away and strode closer, just in time to see the ghost flailing, men below on the beach scuttling away from a rowboat, as on the cliff opposite Anne and Mary—the bluff that topped the other side of the deep cut—men rose from the shadowy murk and swarmed down toward the beach.
“Milady, come away, please!” cried Mary, her voice a thin wail of terror.
“No, I have to see—” Anne’s words were drowned out by a burst of gunfire, then more fireworks. She tottered close to the edge, but the ghost was gone, disappeared in the drift of smoke that the sea breeze tugged and pulled, this way and that, particles glinting in the faint moonlight that peeped from behind a cloud.
“No more, milady,” Mary gasped, as some more shots rang out, and shouting alerted them to a tussle on the beach. “We’ve got to go back. Please!”
“Where did that ghost go? Did you see anything?”
“Nooo!” Mary wailed. “Please, milady, come away!”
At the bottom of the cut, Darkefell had been lurking in the shadows of the scrubby shrubs at the base of the cliff. Above him explosions crackled, echoing off the cliff face, while beyond him, in the open, the smugglers beetled up the shore, abandoning wooden crates, dumping whatever they carried in their haste to get away.
He had followed Johnny Quintrell as the young man snuck from the Barbary Ghost Inn that night, and this was his destination, directly below the St. James’s rented house, if he judged correctly. That answered Joseph’s questions about his son’s involvement. Darkefell was looking for an opportunity to snatch the boy back before the revenue men, who swarmed out of the cut, got to him, and arrested him.
But shots rang out again, and when he looked up in a flash of light from some explosive, it was to see Anne—his Anne—tottering on the edge of the cliff! After he had told her to stay out of it! That made his decision simple. Johnny would have to fend for himself; Darkefell was for rescuing Anne.
He slunk into the shadows and up the jagged cut, struggling against the wet sand, willing himself to not break out into the open. He was aware of men just to his left who were working their way down, likely the revenue men in a pitched battle with the smugglers. Shouts and confusion surrounded him, but he went unnoticed in the fray. There was only one direction for him, and that was up, toward Anne.
He finally topped the cliff face, and saw Anne, not alone, he was happy to see, but with her faithful maid, Mary. He raced to her, pulling her down. “What the devil are you doing out here?” he growled.
“Darkefell?” she cried.
He put his hand over her mouth, “For God’s sake, madam, keep your voice down. Mary, go back to the house,” he said, for in the ghostly light of the rising moon that slanted its pearly rays across the surface of the ocean, he could see that the Scottish maid was frightened out of her wits.
“Aye, milord,” she said, and scuttled away. But then she paused, looked back and said, “Take care of her, milord, please!”
“You know I will.” Once Mary was gone, he pulled Anne down to the ground, and whispered in her ear. “I’m going to let go of your mouth, but keep quiet!” He took his hand away.
“If I didn’t know better,” she hissed, gulping in air, “I would think you were trying to smother me.”
In answer, he pulled her toward him and fastened his mouth over hers, grimly determined to silence her. He half expected her to bite his lip—she had done that before—but instead she returned the kiss, pushing him onto his back. The dormant sensuality he kept ruthlessly subdued roared to life as he felt her long hair streaming about him, and her warm, soft body covering his hard angularity. The sensation of her full lips pressed to his raised his heart rate to pounding. Hungry for more, he grabbed her hips and pulled her close, but she resisted.
“Happy?” she gasped. “Now, let me go.” She pushed out of his grasp and rolled away from him, then slithered to the edge of the cliff on her elbows and knees.
He rolled onto his side and cupped himself, adjusting, trying to make himself more comfortable, but to no avail. He would just have to let his turgidity subside naturally. Trying to ignore the physical discomfort her passionate kisses and voluptuous body had ignited, he crept to her side and collapsed.
“Darkefell, I saw it again, the Barbary ghost,” she muttered. “Then Mary shrieked, and I swear, the ghost stared right at us and howled!”
The scramble below was dissipating, but a shot rang out, and Darkefell pulled Anne back from the lip of the cliff. Holding her close, he murmured, “Do you think Mary’s scream alerted the smugglers to the revenue men?”
“I don’t know,” Anne whispered, in his ear.
His eyes rolled back at the intimate feel of her warm breath on his neck and ear, the murmur of her beautiful voice, and he supposed he unconsciously dug his fingers into her arm; she protested. He forced himself to relax. “I… I beg your pardon, my dearest Anne.” He nuzzled her thick veil of hair. “I had no idea your hair was so long,” he whispered, tangling his fingers in it, his voice oddly gruff. “And it smells so lovely.” He put his hand on her back and stroked, down to her bottom.
“Darkefell!” she said, swatting at his hand. “Stop being an idiot. What are you doing here, anyhow?”
He rolled away from her, cleared his throat and summoned coolness. “I was down on the beach watching the smugglers,” he said, deciding not divulge his reason for being there yet. He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked over the cliff edge. The beach below appeared deserted, from what could be sensed with the wan moonlight. There could be a battalion of men hugging the cliff, in the shadows, though. “Then I heard an altercation,” he whispered, “then the fireworks, and the excise men came swarming down from the cliff opposite here, on the other side of the cut. I saw you flailing about on the cliff’s edge, and began up the cut, staying in the shadows.”
“I wondered where you came from.”
“You were tottering about on the edge of the cliff, so I came up to make you heed common sense.”
He thought she would retort angrily, but her tone was thoughtful, when she said, “I hope no one was hurt.”
He remembered Johnny Quintrell, and fervently said, “I hope that too. But what the devil were you doing out? I specifically told you to stay in.” Even as he said it, he knew it was wrong; would he never learn that to command her was to alienate her? Or did he just enjoy being censured by her?
But again, she reacted coolly. “And I told you I had no intention of being bullied into doing what you think is suitable. Are you going to help me discover what this ghost is all about, or not?”
He made a quick decision. “I am indeed going to help you.” To stay out of trouble,
he finished in his mind.
“But we can do nothing right now,” she said. She peered over the edge of the cliff. “All’s quiet. They’re gone, I think, but it’s too dark right now to detect. I do hope no one was hurt.” Anne got to her feet and dusted off her dress. “Come back tomorrow, Darkefell. I want to have a look at this cliff side, and figure out how the ghost does his disappearing act. Then I want to find out what—or who—it is, and what his game is.”
“Kiss me,” the marquess said, taking her arm, “and I will agree to anything.”
So she did.
Acknowledgments
No author finishes a novel without incurring debt, and I owe many people heartfelt thanks: Michael, I deeply appreciate the time and care you take with every project, from start to finish; it’s the sign of a true professional, and you conduct yourself throughout with grace and perfect honor. Thank you.
Deb, there is no better moment for a writer than when she realizes an editor “gets” her, and I can’t thank you enough for sharing the enthusiasm I feel for Lady Anne.
Mick, there would quite simply be no published books without your love and support. You were the first to see a smidgen of ability, but without your encouragement, it would have stayed buried. There just aren’t enough words to express my appreciation to you, but I’ll say it anyway; thank you, from the bottom of my heart.
About the Author
Donna Lea Simpson is a nationally bestselling romance and mystery novelist with over twenty titles published in the last ten years and over 400,000 copies sold. Donna believes that a dash of mystery adds piquancy to a romantic tale, and a hint of romance adds humanity to a mystery story. Donna lives in Canada.
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