by Mary Brendan
Just that afternoon he’d found out that she’d demanded a warrant be issued for his arrest because he’d beaten her driver. She’d caused trouble in the past with her accusations, but never had she gone this far in speaking out against them to the authorities. Luckily the magistrate had known not to stir trouble for him. Even the local judiciary could be persuaded not to upset the smuggling brethren.
Seth had come back tonight not to spy on her, but to see if the stranger was still a guest of the Woodvilles. He’d told Zack what had gone on that afternoon, expecting some support and loyalty from his brother. What he’d got was a beating for not heeding Zack’s warning to keep away from the Woodvilles. He’d returned here from the village with a bruised jaw and a burning need to know more about the fancy cove who called himself Randolph Chadwicke.
The slight sound behind made Seth twist about, but he was too late to dodge the snaking hand that gripped ferociously at his throat and slammed his skull against bark, knocking him out.
* * *
Icy water brought him coughing and spluttering to his senses. He tried to escape it plunging into his stinging nostrils, but couldn’t move his head more than an inch. After a moment he realised that the weight on his neck, holding him face down in the stream, came from a man’s booted foot.
‘You’re making a habit of annoying me, Seth Luck-hurst,’ Randolph said quietly, ‘and it has to stop.’
Seth bucked and wriggled to escape the pressure on his neck. He bared his teeth in fury and mortification for he was as helpless as a speared fish. His show of defiance did nothing but fill his gaping mouth with freezing water. He coughed and choked and floundered about.
‘Let me up,’ Seth spluttered. ‘I’ll kill you; I swear it. Let me up. I’m drowning.’
‘I want you to stay away from Miss Woodville and her home. Do you understand?’ The callous force on Seth’s neck had intensified, as had the soft savagery in Randolph’s voice.
‘You’re drowning me,’ Seth bubbled, with mounting hysteria.
‘Do you understand?’ Randolph repeated.
Seth wobbled his head about.
‘I can’t hear you.’
‘Yes!’ Seth screamed in a gurgle.
Randolph lithely stooped and gripped the back of the man’s sodden collar, hauling him upright. He easily evaded Seth’s wildly swinging fists and rammed him, gasping and squirming, against the oak behind which he’d hidden.
‘If I find out you’ve been here trespassing again, or making a nuisance of yourself anywhere in the vicinity of Miss Woodville or her mother, or any of her servants, you’ll wish very much that I’d let you drown just now. Do you understand?’
Seth tried to lift his face up and away from where bark dug painfully in to an already bruised cheek, but the brutal fingers tightened on his neck so he could do no more than croak an agreement through his crushed windpipe.
Randolph let him go and stepped back a pace. Immediately Seth whipped about, his lips drawn back against his teeth in a bestial snarl, his fists primed.
Randolph looked untroubled by the risk of an imminent attack. ‘I see somebody’s already given you a lesson recently,’ he said with muted amusement as he spotted the bruise that ran the length of Seth’s jaw. ‘Was it Zack?’
‘What do you know about Zack?’ Seth spat with a mix of sullenness and suspicion, his fists dropping a fraction.
‘More importantly, what do you know about me, Seth Luckhurst?’ Randolph returned. ‘I suspect the answer to that is nothing or you wouldn’t be here putting me to this bother. Unfortunately I haven’t the time or inclination to presently rectify your ignorance. In time you’ll find out and you should heed very well what you hear about me.’
Seth shook his shaggy head to clear water from dripping into his eyes. The moon escaped its cover and he blinked rapidly, staring at the granite features of the tall man standing poised to strike at any time. Despite his elegant clothes and his cool correctness he didn’t seem like a dandy from a drawing room now. With some alarm Seth finally accepted that he was in the presence of a deadly opponent and that if he made an aggressive move he’d be punched pitilessly to the ground.
As shocked comprehension began to drop Seth’s sore jaw towards his barrel chest, Randolph gave him a sour smile. ‘So, perhaps you’ve guessed a little bit about me. Unfortunately it’s true. So be off with you before I change my mind about being lenient.’ Randolph gave an idle dismissing flick of his head. ‘And heed well what I’ve said. Don’t ever come back here if you value your life.’
‘Are you a free-trader?’
‘Let’s leave explanations for another day. I’ve told you where to find me. In case you’ve forgotten, I’m staying at the Woolpack in Rye. Now get on your way.’
Instinctively Seth moved to obey, then stopped when he realised his mistake. A moment later inquisitiveness overcame caution. ‘What’s Miss Woodville to you?’ He jerked a nod at the house. ‘She hates all smugglers. A dragoon she was about to marry was murdered by one of us.’
‘Which one of you?’
‘Ah, now, that’d be telling,’ Seth said with a sly squint.
‘I’d like you to tell me.’ The gleam of menace in Randolph’s eyes belied the lazy humour in his voice. He took a step forwards.
‘Snowy, he was called. It got took care of before the search for him started and dragoons started banging on doors,’ Seth quickly supplied. ‘You can’t be her kin; if you were, she’d have nothing to do with you if I’m right in thinking you a free-trader. So if you’re not related, what is she to you?’ he dared to ask.
‘Miss Woodville is under my protection, as are all the people she cares about. That’s all you need to know.’ Randolph’s eyes were a hawkish gleam between narrowed lids.
Still Seth stared at him as though he was ruminating on what he’d been told to make sense of it.
‘Let me simplify it for you,’ Randolph drawled on a skewed smile. ‘She’s mine. Do you understand me now, Luckhurst?’
A leer contorted Seth’s scowl, but he was unable to completely conceal his frustration. Every time he thought the haughty beauty was becoming vulnerable, and he might have a chance to have her, a fellow appeared to give her shelter. But this was no regular arrangement with rings on fingers. He knew what Chadwicke meant now—the lucky dog was slyly bedding the little wanton. And her so high and mighty and looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.
‘Be off, then, before I give you the beating you deserve.’ Randolph made another languid advance.
Seth matched his movement with spontaneous aggression before he remembered…With puffed chest he swaggered past and disappeared into the woodland.
Randolph rubbed a thumb over a bruised knuckle and pulled in mild irritation at his cuffs on realising they were dripping wet. He shook his hands to dry them, then plunged his fists in to his pockets. His head dropped back to study the stars through a canopy of dry, whispering leaves. He stood quietly like that for some moments until he heard twigs cracking beneath clumsy running feet and a corner of his mouth tugged into a grim smile. He turned back towards the house, collecting the torch from behind the yew hedge as he went.
‘Thought I heard a noise coming from the woods,’ Basham puffed out as he came towards Randolph at a limping jog. ‘Got here quick as I could, sir.’ Basham swerved a look past Randolph’s tall figure. He squinted warily at the looming fringe of trees in the distance as though he expected a marauding horde might burst forth. He then glanced up at the face of the fellow standing at his ease in front of him. Mr Chadwicke had come from that direction. If he’d had a run in with somebody in the woods, he’d obviously come off best and hadn’t needed any help whatsoever. He looked as cool and unruffled as he had when they’d set out on watch over an hour ago. ‘Was there anybody about, sir?’ Basham blurted, but less stressfully.
‘Whoever it was has run off.’ Randolph started across the lawns with Basham trotting unevenly in his wake. ‘He turned tail quickly.’
‘No doubt you’re right about it being a poacher,’ Randolph interrupted Basham as he started up the stone steps. ‘I know the fellow was by the stream. Perhaps he fancied doing a bit of night fishing…’
A hint of dry humour in Mr Chadwicke’s words caused Basham to tilt his head to get a better look at his profile and see what amused him.
‘It might be wise to say nothing to your mistress about a poacher,’ Randolph cautioned. ‘Mrs Woodville is already upset about what occurred this afternoon. There’s no point in worrying her again needlessly.’
Basham looked thoughtful at that. He knew this fellow would soon be gone. If Mrs Woodville got a bee in her bonnet that someone was seriously snooping about the place, he’d be sent out alone tomorrow evening, and probably every evening for the rest of the week. Basham rubbed nervously at the bridge of his nose. As Mr Chad-wicke said, no need to say anything and worry the ladies unnecessarily.
Chapter Eight
‘Have you been waiting up for me?’
Deborah blinked in incomprehension as a shadowy masculine face close to hers shimmied out of focus. Her eyelids felt cumbersome but she forced them to again lift so she might properly see him. Through the fog in her mind she remembered moments ago a touch on her cheek and realised that his brushing fingers had brought her to her senses. She struggled to sit straight in the fireside chair where she’d drifted into slumber. Her warm, curled position, with her legs tucked under her, was too comfortable to be completely abandoned. The glow in the grate had already made her complexion rosy; now its bloom deepened. How long had he been watching her sleeping before he’d stroked her awake?
‘Will you go to bed now if I promise to go and sleep in the stables?’
‘What? No…you…you must not do that!’ Deborah garbled, pressing her knuckles to her eyes. ‘You have been invited to stay the night, sir.’ Her words seemed awkward to eject, her tongue clumsy in her arid mouth.
‘That doesn’t answer my question, Deborah,’ Randolph softly said. ‘I know you’d sooner I was miles away. Can you deny you hoped I’d return to Rye tonight?’
Indeed she could not, but never would she admit to it. He’d again done her and her mother a very good turn. Repaying him with honesty was beyond her breeding. Her intelligence was still dulled by sleep, so she shied away from participating in a verbal duel and settled instead on ignoring his challenge.
‘You were a long while,’ she murmured whilst a few unsteady fingers raked back pale tangles from her brow. ‘Was there something suspicious that needed investigation?’
‘You’ve nothing to fear. If I understand the likes of Luckhurst, he’ll be about now in the local tavern.’
‘Do you understand the likes of him?’ Deborah frowned and a bleary blue gaze was raised to his face.
‘Yes…I understand him.’
‘He might instead be on the beach collecting kegs.’ Deborah sighed sleepily, feeling reassured by his indolent attitude.
‘True…he might be up to his nefarious activities,’ Randolph concurred with half a smile.
After her mother had gone to bed Deborah had asked Lottie to direct Mr Chadwicke to the parlour when he returned from outside, after which duty the maid had permission to go to bed.
When an hour had passed, and no sign of him, she hadn’t known whether to feel indignant or relieved at the possibility that he might have chosen to be shown to the guest chamber rather than join her in the parlour. Having decided to tarry just ten minutes more for him and give him the benefit of the doubt, Deborah had taken a few fortifying sips of port to liven her up; she had begun to feel quite light-headed with fatigue. Unfortunately the alcohol had had the opposite effect and the last thing she recalled was a cosy contentment settling on her as she watched the slowly swaying pendulum on the wall clock opposite. She stared at it again now as it chimed eleven times. She had dozed for almost an hour.
‘My bedchamber faces the woods. Sometimes I see the lights moving in the trees when contraband is coming ashore,’ she told him, smothering a small yawn with slender fingers.
‘There’s nothing out there now to worry you. Apart from an owl hooting, everything is quiet and still.’
‘An owl?’ A slight shiver undulated through Deborah and her fist, rubbing at her eyes, fell to her lap.
‘Does an owl bother you?’ he asked, gently amused. Slowly he moved a hand to her face to remove the persistent curl that again had flopped forwards to corkscrew on her lashes.
‘Of course not.’ She gave a tiny diffident smile. ‘But Basham has told me a bit about local history. The smugglers of old—owlers, they were named—would use the call of the owl as a signal. I expect some still do.’
‘It’s not very original or secret then,’ he remarked wryly.
‘No…but…’
‘It was definitely an owl,’ he reassured her with a finger brushing against a soft pink cheek. ‘It was sitting watching me from a tree and looking very wise too.’
He was still crouching down in front of her chair, his face level with hers, mere inches separating them. From beneath a curtain of inky lashes she noticed that his tawny eyes, half-concealed behind his lids, had dropped to her slightly parted mouth. He looked quite wise, too, she realised with a thrill of alarm, and able to swoop as quickly as could that owl. Quickly she brought together her lips and turned her head towards the port bottle and glass. The table was still between the two chairs, positioned precisely where she had left it earlier that day when she had served him tea.
‘My mother has gone to bed with a headache, but has asked me to convey her thanks and her goodnights to you,’ she announced breathily. ‘Also she’d like to offer you a nightcap to warm you.’ Now her faculties were reviving Deborah could sense the fresh scent of frost that clung to his clothes. She sent a darting glance sideways at him and with clearer vision noticed that the raw night air had stolen colour from his tanned complexion, and made lank the long, fawn hair that trailed on his high collar.
‘You look chilled, sir,’ she said with husky concern. ‘You should take some port and warm yourself by the fire.’
In a fluid motion he stood up and a few paces brought him to the hearth. He held his palms towards the meagre flames and with the toe of a damp boot stirred a little more life into the smouldering embers. A log was selected from the pile and pitched on to fledgling flames.
‘Are you tolerating my company to please your mother?’
‘Have you heard of the owlers?’ Deborah asked, ignoring his harsh demand. She was more mentally alert now and didn’t intend to allow any leading questions to draw them into a passionate dispute. With a hand still weak from sleep she upended the weighty bottle of port. Glass and bottle clattered clumsily together, drawing his attention. An instant later long fingers had sprung to cover hers, steadying them, before the rocking goblet toppled over.
A soft cry of dismay escaped her and she twisted on her knees on the seat so she might quickly attend to the blood-red droplets she’d caused to spatter the mahogany.
Randolph extracted a linen handkerchief from a pocket and dried her stained fingers before he let it drift on to the spillage.
He had sq
uatted down in front of her chair again and watched her until she capitulated and allowed her eyes to be dragged to his golden gaze.
‘I know I acted like a lecherous brute earlier today, but you’ve nothing to fear from me, Deborah. I swear it won’t happen again. Nevertheless, I think it best I sleep in the stables.’ He smoothed the satiny skin of her wrist, soothing her quivering. ‘It’s as much for my benefit as yours,’ he added with a rueful smile at his caressing thumb.
‘There is no need to go outside, sir, I have a lock on my door,’ Deborah artlessly rattled off whilst dabbing at spilled port with her free hand.
‘And every intention of using it tonight, I’m sure,’ Randolph muttered sardonically. A mirthless sound grazed his throat, then he lifted her fingers, skimming her warm knuckles against his cool lips. Swiping the bottle and glass from the table, he came upright in a fluid movement, casually pouring a measure of port as he did so. In a swallow he despatched it and the glass and bottle found the mantelpiece in a thump. A double-handed grip enclosed the marble edge before he shoved himself back and turned to face her. ‘There…your duty’s done,’ he said with hard irony. ‘You’ve waited up, thanked me, given me a drink and as I imagine a goodnight kiss is out of the question…what else is there?’
‘I’ll have Lottie wash this for you tomorrow.’ Deborah kept her face averted as, done with mopping, she carefully folded the stained linen. His gentle amusement on having found her asleep was obviously evaporating and a stronger emotion was taking its place, causing him to be sarcastic.
‘It’s not important,’ Randolph said roughly and started for the door.
‘Where are you off to?’ Deborah rose up on her knees and twisted about on the seat to watch him. ‘You surely can’t really intend to spend the night outside.’
‘Why not? I’ve done so before. Straw makes a reasonable bed.’
‘But you can’t!’ she cried and emphasised her indignation by thumping the back of the chair with a small fist. ‘Do you know how upset my mother will be if you do that? How insulted she will feel if you spurn her hospitality and choose to bed down with the horses?’ With a hint of desperation she offered, ‘I should like it if the evening ends more appropriately. You were offered a little entertainment after dinner. It is not too late for a game of cards, if you would like.’
