He had rather beautiful eyes for a man, large and dark and yet always with that shade of laughter, as if he was never serious about the world. They caused a thrilling little twist in her stomach, as though a flock of butterflies had just taken wing.
She swallowed. “Yes, I must,” she said firmly.
“Then meet me again tomorrow.”
I can’t.
“Here?” he suggested.
She raised her eyebrows. “If you’re still hiding from your bailiffs.”
“Until tomorrow, then.” He raised his hand to her cheek, his fingertips just brushing her skin. A smile flickered across his lips and was gone as he lowered his head.
Her heart turned over, for his intention was obvious. She couldn’t allow this… But if she’d ever truly meant to avoid it, he was too quick. His mouth fastened to hers, gentle and sweet and melting. Her eyelids fluttered shut, and then it was over.
He raised his head, waiting, it seemed, for her reaction.
“Why did you do that?” she blurted.
“Well, I don’t often get the chance to kiss the women I really want to paint.”
She frowned. “I don’t know if I should be insulted or flattered.”
“Neither. I never flatter, you know, and I’d certainly never insult you. Until tomorrow.”
Forcing herself, she hurried away from him. At the end of the path, she couldn’t help turning back, but he’d already gone.
*
Rupert Gaunt, the impoverished Marquis of Tamar, walked back to Blackhaven from the castle with his vision full of the girl, Serena. She’d intrigued him first by the way she ran up the orchard hill and spun around with the sheer joy of living. There had been such energy in her, such a sense of escape and freedom that he’d found himself smiling. And then she’d run down the hill again before assuming a much more sedate posture that had almost made him laugh out loud.
And then the sunlight caught her hair and he’d had to stop her, to catch the image before it faded. She wasn’t just beautiful, she was enchanting…
He shouldn’t have kissed her, of course. That was hardly gentlemanly, however chaste the embrace. She’d just looked so lonely and sad and confoundedly sweet that he’d acted on instinct—which generally turned out badly for him. But she hadn’t thrown a fit of the vapors, and her lips had been deliciously soft…
Vaguely aware of people greeting him in the street as he strode through town, he merely lifted one hand in response, for he could not stop.
He lived in a small cottage by the shore, and as he turned onto the front road leading to it, he caught sight of Rivers, the bum-bailiff hastening up the street toward him. With aplomb, Tamar darted into the nearest cottage doorway.
Fortunately, the door was open.
“Sorry,” he muttered, diving inside.
The gentleman known as Smuggler Jack, nodded amiably at him from the table in the middle of the room, where he seemed to be mending a fishing net. “Law after you?”
“Bailiff. Wants money or intends to haul me off to debtors’ prison. Not sure which would make him happier.”
Jack rose to his feet and ambled to the door, where he inhaled deeply and stretched. “He’s been hanging around all day, sitting on your front step.” He glanced up and down the road. “He’s heading up toward the tavern now.”
“Thanks, Jack. I owe you.”
“Any time.”
Tamar clapped him on the back and stepped past him into the road. Then he strode on toward his own cottage, which he called his studio.
Entering, he carefully locked the door behind him, but he was reluctant to close the shutters and block out the light. Hopefully, Rivers had gone for the day.
Tamar threw his coat on the floor and set up his easel among the mess. He propped the canvas up on it and gazed at Serena’s beautiful hair in the dappled sunlight, shining and pretty. He had caught the color of the light, which had been his most urgent concern. Now he could finish it at his leisure.
Bending, he took the sketch book from his satchel and examined the hasty pencil sketch of her face. He could do a pair, Serena the un-serene beauty, front and back.
Smiling, he fetched more paint and began to mix.
Chapter Two
“I don’t often get the chance to kiss the women I really want to paint.” How many women, exactly, did he kiss—or want to kiss!
Even lying in bed, several hours later, she could still feel the soft pressure of his lips on hers. The kiss made her glad and tingly all over, and she really, really didn’t want to imagine she was one of many. She refused to be one of many. Which was why she had to pull herself together. If she ever encountered him again, she had to be distant enough to repel such familiarity. He would be a fun friend—if she could keep him secret from the household. A friend who neither took nor received the liberty he had today.
She should be angry with him. She would be, she thought, if he’d actually known who she was. He probably imagined her to be some maid, or perhaps the governess, which didn’t entitle him to liberties either, of course. But even the most rakish of gentlemen would think twice about offending the Earl of Braithwaite. And truly, she hadn’t given him much reason to doubt that his kiss would be acceptable.
Oh dear, he would think her a lightskirt! Although not perfectly sure what such a female did, she was sure it entailed granting kisses to strangers, and it was assuredly not a good thing to be.
Boredom, it seemed, was doing terrible things to her. Why did her mother and brother not realize this would happen? After all, it was boredom that had led to her flirting with Dax in the first place. How much more bored was she likely to get being stuck up here with nothing to do but distract the children from their lessons and placate Miss Grey with Cook’s treats from the kitchen?
In any case, when she met the artist again—if she met him again—in the orchard or anywhere else, dignified friendliness was the attitude she should aim for. And she had to tell him exactly who she was.
Her mind made up, she closed her eyes once more and found herself remembering his kiss. Which was a rather lovely way to fall asleep.
She woke with a thud, unsure if what she’d heard had been in her dream or in reality, or even if it was just the beat of her own heart.
But then she heard movement outside, a rolling, scraping sound in the old courtyard below her window. Hastily, she rose and felt her way to the window and pulled back the heavy curtain.
It was another clear night, the moon and stars illuminating the scene below like a vignette in a book. Two men and a barrel.
Smugglers. Hardly a rare sight around Blackhaven. Serena was aware they used Braithwaite Cove below the castle to land their contraband, though these days they generally only did it when the family was not in residence. She was fairly sure her brother received a generous amount of French brandy for his discretion, and he certainly wasn’t the only one in Blackhaven. Even the knowledge that many smugglers were now in the pay of the French didn’t stop the trade altogether.
What did surprise her was that they should have brought their goods this far up to the castle. In the old days, a keg or two of brandy was left on the beach below, or at the castle gates. It wasn’t right that they should treat her family’s home as their contraband store, however seldom any of the family were in residence these days. She should have a word with them…Gillie’s friend, Smuggler Jack, perhaps. Or her brother Bernard would surely know what was going on.
Sighing, she let the curtain fall back and padded back to bed.
Serena slept only fitfully for the rest of the night. She kept waking up, disturbed either by actual comings and goings or by her imagination. In the end, she gave in and rose early. Having washed and dressed—in a rather newer day gown of fine wool to counteract the castle draughts—she went in search of her sisters. They were discovered in their beds, all still sound asleep. Even Miss Grey was only just waking up, yawning owlishly at her when she stuck her head round her bedchamber door.
&
nbsp; “Slugabeds, all of you!” Serena accused and went off to the kitchen instead to beg some warm, freshly baked bread from Cook. Cook cut her a thick slice and slathered it in butter, handing it to her with a tolerant wink and an apple.
Serena hugged her and danced off with her treasure, pausing only to seize her warm cloak on the way out the door.
It was going to be another beautiful morning. As it was, the sun hadn’t quite risen, and there was a hint of frost in the crunching of the grass beneath her feet. Serena considered breaking her confinement altogether and walking into Blackhaven. Only Gillie, her childhood friend was not there but with her husband at Wickenden where she awaited the birth of their first child.
Who would have thought it? The last time Serena had been home, it had been Gillie who was in disgrace, and Serena who’d won the brilliant match, or at least a respectable one. And yet here she was back on the marriage mart, while Gillie had everything.
Not that Serena begrudged her it, for she loved Gillie very much, and her friend’s wicked baron was a lot more exciting than Serena’s wealthy baronet. In fact, Gillie was a living lesson, that marriage needn’t be dull and constricting.
While thinking about Gillie, Serena’s footsteps seemed to have led to the orchard. She laughed at herself, for it was far too early to expect any visitors, let alone the eccentric artist. Besides, it would not do to be seen waiting for him.
As her hand stilled on the latch of the orchard door, a sound in the distance drew her attention and she glanced along the wide formal garden that ran along the orchard wall to the old courtyard entrance. Someone stood there, half turned away from her, apparently calling to someone else inside the courtyard.
Frowning, Serena released the latch and hurried toward the courtyard instead. There was no real reason for any of the servants to be there, except to go to the wine cellar, which was extremely unlikely at this time of day. It crossed Serena’s mind that the man was not a Braithwaite servant, but a smuggler, and if so, he needed to understand where the boundary line was drawn. She would not report their activities or even put an end to them—after all, most of the town was complicit to one degree or another. But smugglers could not be running tame about the castle.
As if he heard her footsteps, the man glanced around, saw her, and immediately bolted inside the courtyard. She’d been right. He was no servant. Picking up her skirts, she ran after him, but when she reached the courtyard, there was no sign of anyone at all. And the cellar, when she tried the outside door, was locked.
Were they on the inside? Her blood ran cold. Were they running loose about the castle? Were they living here? Surely, the servants would be aware of such a thing. Walking into the middle of the courtyard, she gazed up at the windows, including that of her own bedchamber, and turned to those disused parts on the left-hand side. On the third side was merely an ancient wall, partially ruined and rebuilt, in which a newer, cast iron gate had been added. And it seemed to be ajar.
She darted toward it, but before she even swung it open, she saw through the bars, the unmistakable figure of a man bolting into the woods.
Well at least he’s not inside the castle, she thought with relief, hurrying after him. She opened her mouth to yell to him to stop, before it struck her that neither of them really wanted to draw attention. She ran faster, and was rewarded when, from the line of trees, he glanced over his shoulder and saw her.
She waved. But rather than waiting for her, her quarry simply delved into the trees and vanished.
“Oh, for the love of—” But no, he was being sensible. They would talk where no passing gardener would notice them.
When she reached the spot from where he’d seen her, there was no sign of him. Peering through the trees all around her, she crept forward, twigs crunching and snapping beneath her feet.
“Hello?” she hazarded and then, getting no response. “I need to talk to you, but I’m not here to threaten.”
Twigs crackled to her right, drawing her further in. And then, when she was just about to give up, a man stepped out of the trees—surely the man she’d followed from the courtyard—and he lunged at her. He’d have caught her, too, if her reflexes hadn’t been so quick. She leapt back beyond his reach and bolted in sudden terror, for she’d glimpsed the glittering steel in his hand. He didn’t want to talk. He meant her harm.
As she ran through the trees, she heard him pounding after her, crashing through the undergrowth. But it was hard to locate him now, for she kept changing direction in an effort to fool him and her heart thundered too loudly in her ears, eclipsing everything but her own desperately panting breath.
Branches moved to her right and she swerved left, thudding into a hard, male body. Hands seized her. She made a pathetic sound in her throat that she’d meant to be a scream and lashed out at the region of his chest with her balled fists. His grip only tightened.
“Hush, I’m not going to hurt you,” a soothing and familiar voice said.
The artist.
She gasped, her hands opening and clutching his coat in her relief. “On thank God it’s you! I thought…”
“What did you think?” he asked. He held her comfortingly in one arm, but he seemed to be looking over her head, scouring the surrounding trees.
“There’s a man,” she said urgently, “a smuggler with a knife, a dagger of some kind. I don’t suppose you’re armed, sir, so we should flee!”
“Discretion is certainly the better part of valor,” he agreed, still scanning the woods. “Although you should know I am the very devil with a stick.” As she finally lifted her puzzled head from his too comfortable chest, he seized what looked like a trimmed branch which was propped up against the nearest tree, and made swift fencing motions with it. “See?”
“I see that you are just as mad as I remember,” she said shakily.
“No, no, it’s a perfectly sensible defense,” he assured her, still with his arm around her shoulder as he began to walk with her toward the edge of the wood. “Only why is a smuggler attacking you?”
“I followed him from the castle,” she confessed.
“How do you know he’s a smuggler?”
She frowned. “Who else could he be? I saw them last night, hiding barrels in the castle cellar and that is not something Braithwaite would approve of, so when I saw him again this morning. I tried to tell him so, only he wouldn’t stop to talk and then he just lunged at me, with a knife.”
“Good God,” the artist said, casting her a startled glance. “He actually attacked you?”
She nodded. For some reason, with his large person at her side, his arm around her, it no longer seemed too scary.
“Did he hurt you?”
“No, my reflexes are quick. Too many games of tag when we were children. I was the champion.”
“Excellent practice for life, tag,” he murmured. “Um, are you acquainted with this man?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
“Well they do say, the “gentlemen” are no longer gentlemen. Bonaparte has made it a much dirtier business than merely avoiding duty. We should go and visit my neighbor, who knows about such things.”
“Who is your neighbor?”
“His name is Jack and he and his family have a cottage on the shore, just a few yards along the street from mine.”
“Smuggler Jack?” she said in surprise.
“With such a well-known name, I’m surprised the authorities haven’t clapped him up.”
“Well, the authorities are local, too,” she pointed out as they emerged from the trees. “Besides, I think Jack might have retired from the trade. The excise men shot him a few months back and his wife works for the Muirs now.”
He cast her a glance sparkling with sudden amusement. “You are surprisingly knowledgeable in such matters.”
His laughing eyes would be her undoing. She became aware of his nearness, of his unconventional escort with his arm still warm around her shoulders. Whatever had happe
ned to the dignified friendliness she’s been so determined to show him? Wretched smuggler.
Trying to squash the silly butterflies in her stomach, she drew away from the artist until his arm fell casually back to his side. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Well, the Muirs are friends of mine,” she said hastily. “Gillie Muir is now Lady Wickenden.” That should give him some warning of her status at least.
“I know,” he said.
She blinked. Well, everyone in town must know of Gillie’s brilliant marriage. All the same, his words brought to mind something he’d said yesterday, after she’d mentioned her troubles stemming from flirting with Lord Daxton. Well, he’s a fun person to be with. I’d probably flirt with him myself.
Daxton had a lot of odd and quite unrespectable friends. She shouldn’t be surprised that one of them should be him. But it was now more urgent than ever that he understand her position.
With a very deliberate carelessness, she said, “You do know, then, that I am Serena Conway, Lord Braithwaite’s sister?”
She wasn’t quite sure what she expected. Possibly a blanching of his face, or a look of horror, almost certainly an apology for his familiarity to call it no worse. And a change in his manner that she would, in spite of everything, be sorry for.
But the artist only smiled faintly, without much obvious interest in her words. “Yes, I know.”
She blinked. “You do?”
“Well, yes. It didn’t register just at first, but you seemed so at home here and there had been talk in town of your arrival at the castle.”
“Then…then it does not…bother you that I am Lady Serena?” she demanded.
At last, his eyebrows rose in surprise. “Of course not. It’s who you are.”
“Like the back of my head?” she said with a hint of tartness.
He grinned. “The back of your head is very charming, your nape delightful. I’m sure you already know how beautiful you are from the front.”
“You are outrageous!” she exclaimed.
“If you mean I should apologize for kissing you, I’m afraid I can’t regret that, for I liked it excessively. On the other hand, if I offended you, I am sorry—I meant it to have the opposite effect.”
Blackhaven Brides (Books 5–8) Page 2
