by Grace Elliot
"Not so well, Ladyship, we're just now buying in hay to cover the shortfall. Cost a pretty penny it is."
Huntley's attention wandered to Miss Tyler, seeing her poised over the inkwell meant once again Charles had been let off the hook.
"And the cottages? How much will the repairs cost?"
Dickens scratched his head. "Not too bad—lost slates, that sort of thing. Nothing major."
"Well, thank heavens for that."
Covertly, Huntley studied Miss Tyler—from her glowing cheeks she was well aware of his presence. Despite his fatigue, a bolt of hot need shot to his groin. Miss Tyler with the looks of an angel—that pointed chin, plump lips and upturned nose—and yet she was no lady. Or was she? Huntley emptied a second glass, confused by the possibility of noble blood. Could there be any truth in his mother's fanciful story? He pushed the decanter away, clearly the brandy was affecting his judgment.
His mother shuffled the papers into a pile.
“Now, Hope. If you could attend to replies, it would be an immense help.”
“Yes, Lady Ryevale, my pleasure. When they are finished I'll bring them to you for signing.”
“Thank you, Miss Tyler, use the writing desk in the parlor.”
Huntley rolled his eyes. The chit was making herself indispensible, winkling her way deeper into his mother’s good books. Why was he the only one able to see her plan?
With something close to affection, Lady Ryevale smiled after Hope's retreating back.
"I'd best be off, Ladyship." Dickens touched his forelock and shuffled to the door, swinging an arm to counterbalance his stiff leg. Preoccupied by his bad thoughts, too late George realised he was now alone with his mother.
"I'm off for a wash." He mumbled and made to stand.
"Oh no you don’t, George Huntley. You stay right there until you explain your rudeness."
"I'm not a child." He countered sulkily.
"Then don't act like one."
Huntley stood and drew himself up to his full height. “I apologise if my manner offends, but I’ve been chasing shadows—no doubt due, in no small part, to our house guest.”
“Miss Tyler?”
“Yes! Miss Tyler.” Her name burnt like a brand on his tongue. He leaned on his fists on the desk, all the anger at how she made him feel turned into accusation. “While you were warm at home, five of His Majesty’s revenue men have been tramping across the marches trying to apprehend smugglers. Only someone tipped them off.”
“Well I’m sure it wasn’t Miss Tyler.”
“Humph.”
“Besides, you set a bad example for Dickens. Making an exhibition of yourself like this."
“It’s not me making an exhibition…” Too late, Huntley bit back the words.
“And by that you mean?”
His tone softened. “I'm just saying you should be wary of being used."
“If you are referring to Miss Tyler—she deserves a chance.”
“Mother, she’s a smuggler's daughter!”
“Ah well, that’s not wholly correct. Mr Tyler is not her blood relative and her mother was a member of the ton.”
“Not that again. You’re being obtuse, Mother, as well you know. I’m tired and right now, all I want is a bath. If you know something I don’t, you’d better tell me now.”
Huntley didn’t like how her face lit up, the unmistakable look of a woman with gossip to share.
“I’ve been doing some investigation of my own. I believe Hope’s mother was indeed Emma Castelle, the youngest daughter of a Baron.” She continued in hushed tones. “Hope's mother was victim to a rogue’s seduction and fell pregnant. When her parents found out, they were outraged and sent Emma away, to give birth secretly.”
“This is so much romantic twaddle, Mother.” Huntley rolled his eyes.
“Is it? I don’t think so. I made some inquiries and found out Miss Castelle spent her confinement not far from here on the south coast, where she went for long solitary walks…and met William Tyler.”
“About his smuggling business no doubt.”
A look of comprehension dawned across Lady Ryevale’s face. “I hadn’t thought of that, but quite possibly. Anyhow, they formed a friendship. Well, the baby, Hope, was born and the Castelle's ordered her removed to the parish. But Emma refused to give the child up and with William’s help, ran away to the Isle of Wight.”
Huntley stifled a mock yawn. “Where they fell in love and married.”
“Precisely!”
“Who told you this?”
"When Hope was delirious with laudanum she gave me the bones of her past, not that she remembers telling me, the poor dear, and then I made my own inquiries.”
“And you believe it?” He scoffed.
"I do, because I remember the scandal! As a young married woman, I was on nodding terms with the Castelle's and remember Emma's disappearance. At the time, gossip linked her to Lord Roche—whose dark hair and green eyes bear a strong resemblance to Hope's.”
Huntley closed his eyes, determined to show patience with his mother despite his own lurching heart. “Then why didn’t she call upon her relatives rather than live in poverty as a fisherman's daughter?”
“Because she is stubborn and proud. Plus, Lord Roche died a bankrupt, and the Castelle’s swore never to have anything to do with Emma’s bastard.”
“And how do you know this, Mother?” Huntley quizzed, feeling uncomfortable that he already knew the answer.
“Because I wrote and asked them!”
Huntley sagged. “You did what?”
“Oh yes. The Castelle's are elderly now, but time hasn’t blunted their venom. Quite brusque, their reply. Didn’t deny a thing, but decidedly don’t want to be reminded.”
Huntley sank into a chair and pressed his forehead into his hands.
"I despair!”
“Well, I don’t see why.”
He took a deep breath—he didn’t want to hurt his mother’s feelings. “For all that Hope Tyler may have good blood, she's a smuggler and you’re too trusting.”
“Really George, sometimes you talk nonsense!”
“Mother, not everyone is an honest as you.”
“You over-complicate things. You feel uncomfortable around Hope and resent her being here.”
With effort Huntley kept his face impassive, as he wondered exactly what his mother had divined about his obsession with Miss Tyler.
“Her presence undermines my authority.”
“So it's not that you have a special liking for her?”
Hollowness filled his chest. The impossibility of it! To admit his partiality would grant the feeling a strength he couldn’t afford. To think of her with anything but hate was dangerous.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” He laughed.
Her head tipped to one side. “George dear, long ago I accepted my boys would make unconventional matches. Perhaps you should talk to your brother.”
“Charles?” He snorted. “You would have me to turn into a rake like Charles?”
“No,” she said patiently. “I mean Jack. Look how happy he and Eulogy are? Who’d ever had thought?”
In the absence of a reasoned argument, George grew angry. “Mother, I’d be grateful if you'd rein in your imagination. The very idea!" His heart raced alarmingly at the image of sharing the future with Hope. He felt hollow with longing and yet pushed the feeling away. "She’s scrawny and tanned and a common fisherman’s daughter…”
Lady Ryevale smiled patiently. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong—that child is far from ordinary.”
A sentiment with which George could only agree.
*****
Hope had become a fever running through Huntley's blood. She left a room and her presence lingered. She entered a room and his skin heated. She inhabited his dreams and haunted his waking hours. Within the privacy of his bedchamber, his frustration spilled over. He ground his head against the door, trying to dislodge her sea-green eyes from his mind. But despite
raising a bruise, she refused to be dislodged. Had he no shred of self-respect left? He had denied the truth for too long—Bennett was right and he was wrong. He was tormented, but the cure was within his grasp.
With a grunt, he had a solution. If Hope wouldn’t go, then he must.
Pulling up a chair, he took a piece of vellum from the desk drawer and spread it on the blotter. He tapped the quill against his lip, carefully composing his words to the Admiralty. The result was an immaculately argued letter summarising smuggling activity around Sandehope. He concluded it was not the dishonesty of local officers, but the widespread nature of the trade which made it difficult to stop the practice.
He carefully related his suspicion that those landing goods from the Island, had ports not just at Sandehope, but all along the Southwest coast. The net must be spread wider, and he had an idea where. Now confident of Bennett's integrity, he suggested leaving that officer in post at Sandehope, while he worked with officers in the Southwest, to coordinate the two forces.
The letter written, he folded it in three and sealed it with the Huntley crest. Suddenly, the fight went out of him and he felt empty. He stared at his hands—they were shaking. He closed his eyes. A new and unpalatable truth stuck in his craw. He was running away.
For several minutes he sat very still, unable to move. What kind of spell had Miss Tyler put on him? Never before had a woman affected him thus —he had known plenty, but always with detachment. Never had a woman got stuck in his brain, and made him want to behave in such an irrational and impulsive manner as if he was losing his mind. It was, he decided, a form of insanity.
Chapter Nine
While waiting for the Admiralty's reply, Captain Huntley threw himself into his work. He scheduled extra patrols, working alongside his men—no weather too harsh, no shift too late that Captain Huntley would not share it. Being outdoors eased his mind, and he was never so much at peace as with a sea-breeze in his hair As the days passed, even the constant aching need for Hope's company began to dull.
His skin still aglow from the wind, humming under his breath, Huntley returned home from a patrol, with a mind to find a particular map of the west coast. He could picture it in his head; an old map which pre-dated his father's time, with quaint annotations of the inlets and rivers around Plymouth. He couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t thought about it earlier, but assuming his reposting went through, the information would be invaluable. He breezed into the library, past the first stand of bookshelves…and froze.
The Grange's library was extensive and books lined the walls from floor to ceiling. To reach those above head height there was a stepladder, and perilously close to the top of that ladder, balanced Miss Tyler. She appeared not to have heard him enter, intent on reaching a particular volume.
He stared. He knew have should have announced himself but he was entranced.
The muslin gown draped her figure, outlining the curve of her bottom in a way which made warmth spread over his skin. He wanted to look away, but the stolen moment was too delicious and his heart twisted in his chest, and his breathing locked.
He watched as if hypnotised, battling to gain control of his emotions, as she stepped higher, the skirt hobbling her legs. With one hand she gripped the ladder, the other reached for a book which was too far away. Hesitant, her slippered foot searched for the last wrung. Huntley cleared his throat.
"Miss Tyler."
Then two things happened at once.
Miss Tyler half-turned and her leg caught in her skirts. It seemed to Huntley that everything happened in slow motion as all havoc broke loose. Her arms flailed on empty air...the ladder swayed dangerously...and she lost her footing. His heart rammed against his chest as he sprang across the room. Above his head, her skirts fluttered as the stepladder rocked. Grabbing the wooden uprights he hauled it against himself, using his muscular bulk to dampen the oscillations. The moment of danger passed...and slowly...a wrung at a time...she descended, the ladder visibly shaking with her trembles.
"Don’t let go." Her voice small.
"I won’t."
He steadied the ladder as she dismounted, trapped within the cage of his arms. Both breathless, his eyes slid along her jaw to those tempting lips.
"Are you alright?"
"Thanks to you." She nodded weakly. "I don't like heights."
"Then what were you doing up there?" He spoke softly, as if murmuring words of love, rather than a question.
She tried to smile but her lips quivered. "Fetching a book for Her Ladyship."
Huntley knew he should release the ladder and step away, but their eyes locked and he couldn't. Ripples of desire echoed to his core at her soft curves so close to his chest.
"You are trembling." He was lost in Hope's huge dark eyes. He saw his own desire mirrored in her face and it unnerved him. All he knew was that with her warm body pressed against his, his resolve not to ravish her...hung by a thread. A pulse throbbed at the base of her throat and it took all his self-control not to taste it with his lips.
"Hope?"
She grew still, flighty as a startled bird, and he held his breath. Then, slowly—with a soft sigh—she settled deeper, resting her head against his chest. It felt so right, as if he had found the missing piece of him. Without thinking, he embraced her shoulders, and she didn’t draw away. His lungs seized, every nerve taut as a bowstring. Time slowed to a crawl, his senses focused where her body met his, on her heat against his, and when she tipped her face upwards, he showered kisses on her cheeks. Hope let out a soft moan and his heart sang with joy. He felt her arms around his waist, and his body hardened in response.
He brushed his lips against hers and heat flooded his body, alight with passion as she returned his touch. And yet he held himself in check. Both breathing heavily, when he pulled away—she reclaimed his mouth. With a low groan, he licked the sensitised surface of her lips, gently at first then harder and more urgent. She responded tentatively, then as her confidence grew, it thrilled him that she matched his ardor. Her mouth tasted sweet, of honey and herbs, and his dizzied mind wanted to taste every part of her. He was enthralled by everything about her, and it felt dangerously like addiction. A small part of his mind detached itself, shouting in his ear that this was wrong, that he shouldn’t have let this happen. Reluctantly, he drew away.
"Hope, what have you done to me?"
Her hands explored the steely muscles of his shoulder and his body responded with a thrill of lust. Half-drunk on passion, he pulled away.
"Miss Tyler, it was wrong of me to take advantage." Panting heavily, he stepped aside. "I apologise for my ungentlemanly behavior. It was totally unacceptable and will not happen again."
He stared into the distance, a pulse pounding in his temple as Miss Tyler adjusted her gown. He hung his head. As far as his sanity was concerned, the Admiralty's reply couldn’t come soon enough.
*****
Nero's heaving flanks were mottled with sweat after their ride, as Huntley pulled up. Beneath a sapphire sky, bright with the promise of summer, it had been an exhilarating ride—a headlong gallop for no reason other than to glory in the cob's great muscles. They had traveled for miles until Huntley's commonsense prevailed, and wary of overheating his mount in the midday sun, they turned for home.
In the stable yard, as Nero submerged his velvet nose in the horse trough and drank deeply, Huntley cupped his hands to douse his own neck with water. Rubbing his wet face on his sleeve, he looked up at the sound of voices. Jim, the stable lad, took the reins of a messenger's horse as the rider jumped down and made for Huntley.
"Captain Huntley?"
"That's me."
"A despatch for you, sir."
Huntley recognised the Admiralty's crest and pushed the letter into his pocket.
Only once he was alone, did Huntley break the seal. His eyes skipped over the words and he slumped with relief. He reread the missive; he was to hand command back to Bennett and leave immediately for the Southwest. He nodded with si
lent acceptance. While his ship was still in refit, he would continue his secondment to the Excise services—but working out of Plymouth. He'd gotten what he wanted, so why this empty feeling of loss?
Anyhow, there wasn’t time for that now. He pushed the letter back into his pocket. First, he must break the news to his mother—that wouldn’t be easy—there was every possibility he'd be recalled direct from Plymouth once the Swann was ready. Entirely possible, depending on events, that he might not return to The Grange for years. He stared at the sky, suddenly lacking the heart to distress his mother on such a fine day. He was hot after the ride, let him first visit his favorite childhood haunt, perhaps even cool off in the sea, a memory to treasure in the years to come.
As boys the three Huntley brothers liked to play in the woods; climbing trees, building dens or else go down to the estate's private cove. It was this secluded beach, through the woods on the far side of The Grange, that was George's private place and even now as a grown man, remained his preferred place to think.
A brisk walk later, Huntley ran a finger around his collar to loosen it. In the shade of the leafy canopy, the path was soft underfoot, moist with leaf mulch. There was a smell of damp earth, and as he walked, Huntley smiled to see a blackbird drilling for worms. He emerged into a small clearing where the ground shelved down to the beach. The view was breathtaking; the sea calm, miraculous in its many opalescent shades and suddenly Huntley longed to swim.
"Damn it, why not?"
This afternoon he would swim, and tonight he would break the news of his posting. This time was his alone and in the name of nostalgia, he would explore the rock pools where as a child he'd searched out cockles, crabs and mussels.
With a spring in his step, Huntley headed down the steep path to the shore. In places, the cliff had crumbled and rocks slumped into the sea forming several natural groynes. He reached the beach as the tide was just running off—the rocks slippery with bladderwrack. Seagulls wheeled overhead as Huntley jumped from rock to rock, loosening his jacket as he went. It was as he clambered over the last ridge into the private bay, that his heart catapulted against his ribs. For there, walking away from him along the water's edge, was Hope Tyler.
