One thing Heather did know, Maxim’s visit to Cornwall had absolutely nothing to do with a wish to see her again. That ship had foundered on the rocks long ago and been smashed into many irretrievable pieces.
Did she, now that she was no longer James’s wife but his widow, wish to see Maxim again?
Absolutely not. He had been allowed to break her heart once. He would not do so again. It was a lesson she had learned through much pain and tears.
“Very well.” She gave a stiff nod. “I will go and see about providing you with tea while I check on the progress of the preparation of your rooms.”
Maxim waited until Heather had swept out of the room before releasing a deep breath that sounded more like a sigh. Seeing and speaking with her again, after so many years, had taken more of a toll on his emotions than he might have wished or hoped for.
Six years ago, Heather had been as wild and unpredictable as the Cornish coast. A beautiful young woman of nineteen summers, whose siren call he had been unable to resist.
Now, as Lady Heather Smythe, Dowager Countess of Carlton, and the widow of his own father, she wore the added maturity of motherhood and the newfound confidence of being a countess as an impenetrable shield.
A shield Maxim admitted he felt challenged to breach.
As he felt challenged to breach and conquer the woman beneath that shield?
Therein lay the danger, the temptation, he had been trying to avoid by not coming to Cornwall in the first place.
Now that he was here?
Heather was even more beautiful than he remembered. Even more desirable. He also doubted the wildness in her, which had once caused passion to blaze out of control between the two of them, had ever been fully extinguished.
“I trust your rooms are to your satisfaction?” Heather prompted politely once she and Maxim had finished eating dinner together in the small family dining room.
A tense and uncomfortable meal during which they had initially attempted, and ultimately failed, to make stilted conversation before both falling silent.
Until now, when Heather felt compelled to at least appear to be an attentive hostess.
“No,” Maxim answered her curtly.
It was totally unacceptable to Maxim that he had been given rooms at the back of the house overlooking the stables rather than the magnificent rocky coastline visible from all the rooms looking out from the front of the gray-stoned Treganon House.
He could see two possible reasons for that.
The first, it was not suitable for him to occupy the bedchamber and dressing room adjoining Heather’s, which would normally be the rooms of the earl.
Which he totally agreed with. Having Heather in the bedchamber adjoining his own would be far too much of a temptation.
Second, Heather had deliberately assigned him rooms at the back of the house so he would be unable to see or witness any nocturnal activities down in the rocky cove beneath Treganon House.
Which he understood but could not allow.
There was also a third reason for Heather’s obvious aversion to his visit, and that was she was indeed the traitor to the English Crown they were seeking. Treganon House was situated as conveniently for passing information by ship to France and farther afield as it was for smuggling.
Maxim’s heart sank at that possibly being the case.
Heather’s brows rose at his bluntness. “No?”
He gave a dismissive shrug. “My valet should by now have moved my things into the blue bedchamber.”
Richards had arrived an hour or so ago in the coach carrying Maxim’s trunk and other belongings he would need for his stay. The valet’s first duty, after assisting Maxim in dressing for dinner, was to move all of Maxim’s things to the unoccupied blue bedchamber two doors down from the countess’s rooms. A bedchamber that gave Maxim an unrestricted view of the Treganon Cove and the Cornish coastline.
Heather bit back the sharp reply she wished to make. Maxim’s visit was going to be even more unpleasant if he insisted upon rescinding her instructions in favor of his own. “I thought you might welcome the quiet at the back of the house.”
Maxim’s mouth twisted derisively. “The stables are far from quiet first thing in the morning when I might wish to remain asleep.”
He was right, of course. But Heather had hoped, despite Maxim’s unexpected arrival, they might still be able to receive shipment of the smuggled goods expected later tonight. His change of bedchamber meant that would no longer be possible. Which also meant she would have to quickly send word to her brothers and hope they could redirect the ship before Maxim had a chance to see it and guess its purpose.
“It is your home. You are at liberty to use whichever bedchamber you choose,” she accepted with a graciousness she was far from feeling.
“Including your own?” he prompted softly.
Her eyes narrowed to guarded slits. “Your humor is in extremely bad taste.”
Dark blond brows rose over chilling gray eyes. “I rarely, if ever, resort to humor.”
“And it shows.” Her chin tilted challengingly as she rose to her feet. “If you will excuse me? I have a headache”—by the name of Maxim—“and now wish to retire to my bedchamber and lie down.” She turned on her heel and hurried toward the door, disconcerted by the intimacy of Maxim’s remark, but also anxious to get that letter off to her brothers as soon as possible.
“Shall we both cease pretending there is even politeness between the two of us and discuss the real reason for my visit?”
Heather froze with her hand on the door handle as Maxim spoke quietly behind her. Her heart was surely beating loudly enough for him to hear. Her pulse was racing.
The real reason for his visit?
Chapter 3
“You have grown even more beautiful than you were six years ago.” Maxim was now standing so close behind her that Heather could feel the heat of his breath against her exposed nape.
Which was making it difficult for her to breathe, let alone form a coherent reply to Maxim’s totally inappropriate flattery to his father’s widow. Not only inappropriate, but also unwelcome.
As a very young girl, she had believed herself in love with Maxim. When she reached the age of nineteen, he had led her to believe he returned that love. Not in actual words, but in deeds.
Six years ago, as a captain in Wellington’s army, Maxim had come to Cornwall for several weeks’ leave. From the moment he’d arrived, their desire for each other had burned as out of control as a forest fire. Unquenchable. Always leaving them wanting, craving more.
Until Maxim had returned to his regiment and did not come back to Cornwall again for almost a year. During this time, Heather did not receive so much as a word of affection or reassurance from him, by letter or in any other form.
By the time Maxim did finally deign to return to Cornwall, Heather was married to his father, and they had a newborn son, Ralph.
That had been a tense and unhappy visit Heather would prefer to forget.
She would prefer Maxim not be here in Cornwall again now either, stirring up long-forgotten memories that had had no place in her life five years ago and could not do so now either. She had allowed herself to love this man once, and almost been destroyed by that love. Now she felt nothing but contempt for him.
Maxim had taken advantage of her girlhood feelings for him all those years ago, amused himself with her for the summer, and then left again. His long, silent absence afterward showed he had only used her and had never intended to return to her or their relationship.
She gave a dismissive snort. “My beauty, or otherwise, is none of your concern. Now I advise you to stand away from me, before I am forced to make you do so.”
“Try,” Maxim invited softly.
Arrogant bastard!
Whatever Maxim might think to the contrary, Heather was no longer that young, headstrong girl who had once given him her heart, only to have him trample all over it with his cruel indifference. She was now the Dowager Countess of Carlto
n, a mother and a widow, and as such, she would not allow Maxim to treat her with a lack of the respect that was her due.
She turned so quickly, he had no time to avoid the knee she raised to strike him in the groin. She smiled her satisfaction as Maxim gasped his surprise at the attack, his eyes wide with shock as he staggered back before doubling over from the pain.
“I hope that was trying hard enough for you,” she said with feigned sweetness. “And whatever your real reason for being here, I can only hope you conclude that business quickly and return to London. There is no place for you here in Cornwall.” She flung open the door and swept from the dining room before Maxim had time to recover from the blow.
Not that she expected the injury to keep him occupied for long, but hopefully long enough for her to go to her private sitting room, write her letter, and instruct Coombe to have one of the footmen deliver it to her brothers. Hopefully in time to stop the ship carrying their illegal goods from entering Treganon Cove later tonight.
Maxim winced slightly as he lowered his body into the chair he had placed in front of the window of the newly occupied blue bedchamber. The twinge of discomfort he still felt was a reminder of the injury Heather had earlier delivered without mercy.
As if he had needed the wince as a reminder.
It was equally impossible for Maxim not to admire the ruthless deliberation with which she had delivered the debilitating blow.
It was evidence, as he had suspected, the headstrong and passionate Heather he remembered still existed behind that shield of matronly and frosty politeness with which she had treated him since his arrival.
He gave a snort. As Heather Turner, she had not possessed a matronly or polite bone in her body, and her physical set-down tonight had shown him that wildness still existed behind the façade of the widowed dowager countess.
His father’s widowed countess.
How that knowledge still smarted!
Maxim and Heather had been inseparable that summer six years ago, and unable to keep their hands off each other whenever they were alone together. Which, through their own machinations, was often. Admittedly, no declarations of love had been made by either of them, or promises made. Maxim had not considered it fair to Heather do so when, as an agent for the Crown, he remained so active in the private war against Napoleon and spent much of his time away from England.
But Maxim had been deeply shocked when he returned to Cornwall after almost a year’s absence to find Heather married to his father. Not only were the two married, but they also had a newborn son, Maxim’s half brother, Ralph.
It had been a visit fraught with tension. Maxim speechless at his father’s marriage and choice of bride, and Heather had avoided any opportunity Maxim might have found to talk with her alone regarding the marriage. His father had seemed quieter than normal, but had obviously been proud of his young and beautiful wife and newborn son.
Maxim had excused himself as soon as it was polite to do so and returned to London, after which he had accepted mission after mission as a way to be absent from England as often as possible. As a result, Maxim had rarely seen or spoken to his father and stepmother in the years that followed.
Now his father was dead, Heather a widow, and Maxim had been forced to return to Treganon House, and for quite another reason entirely.
Heather’s initial choice of bedchamber for him was as questionable as her manner had seemed to him after dinner this evening. He had not believed for a minute her excuse of a headache for retiring early to her bedchamber.
Had he arrived on the exact day the Turners were expecting a delivery of illegal goods by sea?
Or was it because Heather was expecting to make contact with her French counterpart to deliver information regarding Napoleon’s ongoing voyage to St. Helena?
Either way, Maxim suspected that at some time during the darkness of night, Heather intended to leave Treganon House and go down to the sandy cove below the rocky tor and wait for the arrival of a ship. And when she did, Maxim had every intention of following her.
Heather received word back from her brothers that they had been able to contact the ship in time to advise the captain to drop anchor in a different cove. It was far from as convenient for them to do so, the new cove having no caves in which to store the illegal goods as Treganon Cove did. Instead, her brothers, Daveth and Jory, had arranged for several men from the village to come with carts, oxen, and horses. This way, they could haul the cargo up the hill and store it in the old and long-abandoned Wheal Anne, so named for Maxim’s great-grandmother, until it was safe for them to move those goods on to the buyers.
Heather waited for silence to fall over the house, as indication the household had retired for the night, before dressing appropriately and extinguishing the candle in her bedchamber to move stealthily out into the hallway. She was at great pains not to alert Maxim to her nocturnal activities as she crept down the hallway and stairs, relieved when she reached the candlelit and cavernous entrance hallway without mishap.
Adjusting her cap, she headed toward the back of the house, letting herself out through the kitchen before moving around the garden to the well-trodden pathway along the headland and to the cove beyond this one. There she would meet up with her brothers in good time for when the ship arrived, probably within the next hour or so.
“He’s back, then,” Daveth, her eldest brother, greeted her gruffly.
Heather had no need to ask who “he” was, when the whole purpose of her letter had been to inform her brothers of Maxim’s unexpected arrival. “Yes.”
“Why?” Jory prompted gruffly.
“He did not say.” She winced at the memory of why she had not given Maxim the opportunity to explain himself. At the time she had been more interested in distancing herself from him than in learning the real reason for his visit.
“Does he know—”
“No.” She sharply forestalled Jory’s question. “Nor will he. I suspect his reason for being here is to act as an agent for the Crown and investigate smuggling in the area. Papa has obviously not transported enough men in the area, nor ceased enough contraband these past eighteen months, to satisfy the Prince Regent’s greed for gold,” she added contemptuously.
Everyone knew, even those living in Cornwall, that the Regent’s extravagant lifestyle required the royal coffers be kept constantly filled. Especially as he was currently adding wings to Buckingham House and having the architect Nash transform it inside into the opulent palace it had not been during the prince’s childhood, when his more austere parents and their children had all lived there.
“Fucking traitor,” Daveth muttered.
Heather laughed softly. “Hardly that when Maxim fought for England for so many years.”
“Doesn’t mean he isn’t a traitor to the Cornish way of life,” her brother insisted.
Which, as the locals accepted, involved the right to smuggle into the country whatever they damn well pleased. And which, with the closing of so many mines, for some was their only means of income.
“Here she comes,” Jory announced with satisfaction as he stared out to sea.
Heather turned to watch as the huge sailing ship made its way into the entrance to the cove before dropping anchor. It was too low in the water to enter any farther without fear of damaging the vessel, and the cargo would now be brought ashore by the dozen or so men waiting to go out to the ship in their small rowboats.
It was a long and arduous task, and it took several hours to transport all the goods ashore. Even longer to then have them taken up to Wheal Anne by the carts.
The latter Heather held Maxim totally responsible for. If he had not come to Cornwall, their contraband would have been quickly stored away in the caves of Treganon Cove, and all of them would have been safely back in their beds hours ago.
Dawn was starting to break, the ship long gone on its way, by the time the goods were safely stored and Heather was able to make her way wearily back to Treganon House.
A
morning asleep in her bed beckoned as she quietly closed her bedchamber door behind her to gaze longingly at her bed, the covers turned back invitingly on one side.
“Is there any need for me to ask where you have been?”
Heather’s head snapped up as she turned quickly toward the window, easily recognizing the silhouette—and voice—of the man standing there with the first of the morning’s light behind him, throwing his face into shadow and so hiding his expression.
“What the hell are you wearing?” Maxim demanded incredulously as he took in Heather’s appearance in men’s thin leather, figure-hugging riding breeches and boots, with a loose white shirt and short jerkin worn over it. Her glorious red-brown hair was hidden beneath a flat fisherman’s cap. “Good God, Heather, you are now a dowager countess and no longer that nineteen-year-old hoyden who went about the countryside dressed in her brothers’ old clothing!”
Her chin rose. “I do not recall your ever having complained about my wearing this attire before now.”
Maxim was not complaining about it now either, per se. It was only…
Six years ago, Heather had been boyishly slender, and the men’s clothing she had chosen to wear then whenever she roamed around the countryside had been acceptable, in as much as she was, for the most part, unrecognizable as being female. Those six years, and the birth of her son, had given her voluptuous curves where before there had been none.
The dark leather pantaloons clung to her so tightly, they looked positively indecent, indicating she wore little or nothing beneath them. They showed the length of her slender legs, outlined the delectable shape of her ass when she stood with her back toward him, and the feminine cleft between her thighs when she turned to face him.
Maxim’s cock stirred and thickened in response to the latter. “You have been out in public in that attire.” It was a statement, not a question, a tide of anger washing over him at the thought of other men ogling Heather in the unsuitable clothing. Rough and basic men, if his guess as to where she had been and what she had been doing proved to be a correct one.
Wicked Deception Page 2
