“Do you at least know the destination?”
“St. Sennen. In Cornwall.”
Home!
Or at least as close to a home that he had. The only person he could think of who would command such a large order from Michel was Martin Doyle. He certainly had the resources to arrange his release from prison.
And the power to put him there in the first place…
The thought came to Nate unbidden as he scraped the sharp razor down his chin.
Grey eyes stared back at him.
That would be so like Doyle – not man enough to call Nate out for his affair with his wife. He’d rather throw around his influence than his weight.
And what better way to teach him a lesson than have him molder away in a goddamned French prison for eight months.
Bastard.
Lillian Doyle probably thought it was amusing, too.
Nate set the razor down and rinsed his face. God, he was a fool for ever taking up with her. That was a lesson learned the hard way.
He threw the bowl filled with soap and bristles out an open window before returning to the washstand. He poured fresh water into it and washed using Yvette’s lavender soap – a reminder that he was dallying with yet another woman who could be equally dangerous.
No. The next woman he pursued would be sweet, uncomplicated, and unattached. She’d come with no baggage from her past. They would do things the old-fashioned way, with courtship. Hell, he’d even entertain marriage if he ever found such a paragon.
Nate’s reflection responded with a wry, self-deprecating grin.
He was a fool and he knew it – he may as well wish for the moon.
Downstairs, he heard the sound of pots and pans banging in the kitchen, then a tentative knock at the door.
That was not Yvette. She never did anything tentatively. Nate found a cloth and wound it around his waist.
“Entrez-vous.”
There was a rattle of tray things, and the door opened. A young maid entered and started at seeing him unclothed. She blushed, keeping her eyes to the floor, and set down a tray on the bed. The welcome aroma of black coffee made its way to him. The girl returned a moment later with clothes which she put on the back of a chair, then bobbed a curtsy and left. Not once did she look directly at him.
Nate made his way to the tray and lifted the cover over a plate.
Bread, butter, and a small dish of preserves…
An English cooked breakfast with ham and eggs had been too much to hope for, he supposed.
He poured a coffee from the small pot and took one sip from the cup. The brew was bitter and soured his already diminished stomach. Nate dropped six lumps of sugar in the cup and turned to look at the clothes.
They were freshly laundered and his. Sitting by the door was his own satchel with a new pair of boots he’d ordered from the bootmakers before he was captured.
Nate’s mood lightened immediately. He lathered butter and strawberry preserves onto a thick slice of bread, folded it in half and shoved as much into his mouth as he could, then chewed. Then he swigged down as much of the cooling, sweetened coffee as he could manage.
He wanted to go down to the dock as soon as possible and check the Sprite for seaworthiness.
The more Nate thought about Martin Doyle, the more he was certain the magistrate had something to do with his imprisonment – not that he’d ever be able to prove it…
He’d been used.
Forty-two Channel crossings he’d done over the past seven years and never had there been a problem at the French end. He cursed the man – and his wife, too, for good measure.
Nate made himself another vow.
No more. No longer would he be at any man’s beck and call. If he were to risk his life and risk his boat, he would do so for his own profit, and for no one else’s.
Chapter Three
May 1805
“Hey ho! And a fine mornin’ to you, Mrs. Linwood!”
In the reflection of a newly cleaned window, Susannah could see a stocky, middle-aged man jauntily approach The Queen’s Head.
She set down her cleaning cloth and turned to greet Clem Pascoe.
Clem was aged in his mid-forties and owned the ironmonger’s in St. Sennen.
Susannah liked him – and not just because he was a regular customer at the inn. He was the type of chap to restore one’s faith in mankind. Nothing was ever too much trouble – advice, an extra pair of helping hands, even extending a little credit to them when they needed additional tins of whitewash for the walls. And if he could not help directly, he always knew someone who could.
More than that, Clem was rather sweet on Peggy. Despite the woman’s protestations and frequent rebuffs, Susannah suspected her friend was more than fond of him, too.
“Good morning, Mr. Pascoe. If you’re looking for Peggy, you’ll find her ’round the back tending the garden,” she said.
“Oh, after the way she treated me last night,” he began theatrically, “I think it’s the end for us, Mrs. Linwood, truly I do.”
Susannah laughed before lowering her voice conspiratorially. “If it’s any consolation, she spoke of no one else but you this morning.”
“Did she now?” Clem’s gap-toothed grin grew brighter.
“Hey ho! That’s somethin’ to cheer up a cove! But is there any chance of a pint? A man’s got to wet his whistle before he woos a pretty woman.”
“The bar isn’t allowed to serve until noon.”
For any other patron, Susannah would stand firm on her opening hours. She had no wish to draw herself to the attention of Magistrate Doyle. She had no wish to attract the attention of anyone.
Clem touched a finger to the side of his nose and gave her a wink.
With mock exasperation, she dropped her cleaning rag into the bucket of water and went inside. Clem chuckled, then followed her.
Prince, Susannah’s newly-acquired dog, raised his head from his place inside the door and beat a tattoo with his tail in recognition. Clem gave the half-breed pointer a pat in passing before slapping a couple of coins on the counter. He whistled a sea shanty while Susannah made her way to the service side of the bar and poured a tankard of ale.
Prince went back to sleep.
As Clem savored his first mouthful of beer, Susannah caught a glimpse of Peggy coming around the front of the inn bearing a basket of vegetables from their garden.
“We’ve got a lovely crop of cucumbers and asparagus,” Peggy began as she entered the bar. Her face brightened at seeing Clem.
On hearing her voice, the merchant set down his mug with an emphatic bang on the counter.
“How’s the prettiest girl in five counties?” he said, turning around to greet her.
Susannah hid a smile as Peggy set a dismissive look on her face.
“Last night you said six.”
“Ah, it’s because I haven’t had enough of your smiles – and a big slab of your hevva cake.”
“Oooh, the cheek of it!” exclaimed Peggy. She turned to Susannah. “Have you ever heard the like?”
“I’m certain you took a cake out of the oven just this morning, didn’t you?” Susannah replied, innocently. She reached forward to take the produce basket from Peggy.
“You’re both in it together!” said Peggy. She opened the hinged countertop. Clem picked up his tankard and bowed to indicate the ladies should precede him into the kitchen beyond.
Susannah set the basket at the end of the table and started sorting the vegetables. Some would be used for meals at the inn for the next couple of nights. Others would be pickled and preserved. If the autumn harvest fared well, they would be able to make it through the winter on their stores.
Clem settled himself at the kitchen table, eyeing off the fruit-filled cake which had been set to cool. Peggy carved out a few slices. He reached out to take one when she slapped his wrist.
“None of that until you’ve washed your hands,” announced Peggy.
Clem meandered outside to
the pump, rinsed his hands and returned.
“The paper there at your elbow is a list of things we’ll be needing to enlarge the chicken coop,” Peggy continued, “and to fence off the area for the fruit trees before we buy the goats.”
Clem slipped the paper into his pocket without even looking at it. “I’ll get my lad on it when I get back to the shop.”
He picked up the thickest slice of cake and took an enormous bite.
“No plate and no fork! I despair of you, Clem Pascoe!” Peggy exclaimed.
“Enough of that, Lady Muck,” he responded around a mouthful of food.
“Go on, you uncouth fool! Just finish that and I’ll show you the idea I’ve had for shelving in the cellars for our preserves.”
Susannah let them carry on like an old married couple. Her attention was caught through the window by a large flash of white between the trees. Was that a sail?
Indeed, it was. Before now, she’d only ever seen the occasional angler in a rowboat venturing this far upstream to wet a line or set a lobster pot, but this boat had a sail. Had its skipper chosen the wrong tributary? The harbor at St. Sennen was near the mouth of the Pengellan – a much larger waterway than this.
Yet, it did not sail past. In fact, inch-by-inch, the sail dropped below the willow trees that lined the bank.
Susannah glanced behind her. Clem and Peggy were gone. The sound of Peggy’s voice was muted, coming from the cellar below.
Susannah looked back toward the creek.
“Prince! Come!” She opened the door and, with the pointer at her heels, headed past the pump and the kitchen gardens, then into the paddock which lay between the inn and the river.
This was the first stranger she had seen around here for months. Perhaps this would be their first lodger. The boat was anchored by the boathouse.
She heard the sound of the skipper’s voice before she saw him, singing a Cornish folk song she recognized.
My sweetheart, come along!
Don’t you hear the fond song,
The sweet notes of the nightingale flow?
Don’t you hear the fond tale
Of the sweet nightingale,
As she sings in those valleys below?
So be not afraid
To walk in the shade,
Nor yet in those valleys below.
She walked a wide berth until she could safely see the boathouse, the boat, and The Queen’s Head all in one.
A ten-foot long plank bridged the river between the boat and the small jetty. The jetty was not in a good state of repair, but had been low on her list of priorities to fix.
The stranger had overcome the structure’s failings by adding a plank to span three broken timbers.
Both boathouse doors were flung wide open. A padlock dangled open on the chain which had kept both doors shut. More shocking was the fact that the lock still had a key in it, exactly like the one on the keyring she saw not a minute before hanging on a peg on the kitchen wall.
Susannah glanced back to the inn. She ought to run back now and fetch Clem. The song became louder as the singer approached.
Pretty lady, don’t fail,
For I’ll carry your pail,
Safe home to your cot as we go;
You shall hear the fond tale…
The second verse trailed away as the stranger emerged from the shed.
He was taller than her by several good inches. Dark hair fluttered in the breeze. His clothes were already sweat-stained, evidence of hours of work already although it was not yet noon.
“Good morning, Miss,” he greeted her with the confidence of a man who was sure of his right to be there. “I’ve not seen you around here before. Are you one of the maids from old Gilliam’s inn over there?”
Anger was her first reaction. It was not an unexpected emotion, but one so long repressed it made it difficult to find her tongue. And then, if this man did not like what she had to say, she would see the stranger off with a command to Prince.
“Cat got your tongue?” the man inquired in a mildly mocking tone. But he didn’t seem interested in an answer. He turned to cross the damaged jetty. “I’ll be done here shortly. Let the old man know that Nate’s back, will you?”
The sailor pressed a heel down onto one of the damaged jetty treads. It squeaked, then splintered.
Prince stood and gave an emphatic “woof” in protest at the sound. Susannah laid a hand on the dog’s head. The pointer sat but was still watchful.
“He’ll have to do something about the landing here. The boards are pretty rotten. I nearly fell through this one.”
“Mr. Gilliam is in no position to do anything.”
The stranger gave her an absent glance. “Ah, the quiet woman speaks after all.”
She ignored the barb and worked to put a lid on the simmering pot of her temper.
“What’s wrong with the old man, anyway?” the stranger inquired.
“He’s dead,” Susannah answered.
*
Nate was too late to hide his expression from the woman on the river bank.
He was stunned. Gilliam had been as ancient as Methuselah, but he was hale and hearty. The man often joked that he would outlive them all.
The woman now regarded him with more sympathy and slightly less suspicion.
She wasn’t as young as he initially supposed. A faded grey work dress hinted at a pleasant figure beneath. Her not-unattractive face was rather appealing. The morning sun highlighted strands of gold in her light brown hair which had escaped from a threadbare scarf.
“When did that happen?” he asked soberly.
“About nine months ago,” she answered and not unkindly. “I was told he fell down the stairs overnight and wasn’t found until some of the locals were concerned the inn hadn’t opened. I take it Mr. Gilliam was a friend of yours? I… I’m sorry for your loss.”
“We were, um… business partners.”
The woman’s expression closed and the suspicion returned.
Pity. He could grow to rather like the “nice” woman.
“Who owns the place now?”
“I do, Mr. Nate.”
The flint returned to her voice.
Damn, he had miscalculated all ’round. The female before him was a gentlewoman, despite her faded working clothes. She was well-spoken with an accent which marked her from being from a county further to the east.
He needed her cooperation in order to quietly store Doyle’s contraband, and she was not likely to give it now.
Something which looked like triumph spread across her face.
“Cat got your tongue?” she asked sweetly.
If he couldn’t order her about, perhaps he could win her over with some charm.
Nate gave an obvious slump to his shoulders and heaved a theatrical sigh.
Did he detect there the hint of a smile?
“Nathaniel… Nate Payne, at your service… Miss?”
“Mrs.”
Nate quelled his disappointment.
“Mrs. Linwood.”
“Does Mrs. Linwood have a first name?” he inquired.
He watched her consider the question while she patted the dog, a pointer whose intimidating size seemed to be more for show. But he’d rather not get close enough to discover whether its bite was worse than its bark.
“Susannah.”
He breathed out, feeling he’d won a victory of sorts. A little flattery would go a long way, he suspected, so Nate offered his most winning smile.
“Then, Mrs. Susannah Linwood, please accept my profound apologies for calling unannounced. Gilliam would allow me to rent out his boathouse as a store. I hope you would allow me to continue the custom – with financial consideration, of course.”
For the first time since he first saw her, she moved. With a mistrustful, but faintly amused expression fixed, she approached the boatshed.
He met her at the door and watched as she took in the four barrels of brandy and two crates of tea.
W
hat she did not know was that still on board the Sprite, were another half-dozen barrels, bolts of silks, lengths of lace, and several small chests of spices.
He observed the woman in profile. She had an aristocratic face – finely proportioned features, pale skin that suggested she did not habitually work outdoors. He glanced down to her gloveless hands folded in front of her. Long and slender fingers with nails cut short. Hers were the hands of a lady newly introduced to labor.
Who was she? How did someone who ought to be gracing the drawing rooms of fine houses end up owning a smugglers’ inn?
He would not dream of insulting her intelligence by pretending the goods before her were anything other than contraband. He waited for Susannah Linwood to name her price. She couldn’t be any more avaricious than Gilliam.
The silence stretched on a moment before she seemed to return to herself, embarrassed to have two sets of eyes looking at her, for the dog gazed up at her, too, his tail sweeping the ground. She dropped a hand on its head.
Her eyes, a deep blue, met Nate’s for a moment.
“I want these gone by the end of the day,” she said quietly, almost apologetically, before turning away.
“You what?” he yelled.
Susannah Linwood took a few steps back, the look of fear written clearly on her face. Even her canine companion barked his disapproval.
If Nate wasn’t already bone weary from his midnight voyage across the Channel, every joint still aching from his long imprisonment, he might have controlled his temper better. He certainly regretted the outburst now. The woman’s fearful reaction to his raised voice dismayed him and he sought to quickly make amends.
“Forgive my imposition, Mrs. Linwood,” he said softly with bitter resignation. “I won’t bother you again.”
To make good on his promise, he shouldered a barrel of brandy. The edge of it rested on a deep bruise. He winced away the pain and moved past the woman, making sure to give that dog of hers a wide berth.
He squinted against the glare of the sun on the water which instantly set off a headache. His stomach reminded him it had been more than twelve hours since he’d last eaten and longer still since he had slept.
Spyfall Page 3
