“My father insisted on family guardianship—I’d rest easier if Thaddeus’s fate were not in Lord Thomas’s hands—what do you know of his intentions?”
“Not much.” Emmaus shrugged. “He’s shown special interest in the widow staying with the vicar. Beyond that, he appears to be content to be included with the bacchanal celebrations. Do you think you can pry answers in the village?”
“No. Any direct question asked in these parts isn’t likely to be answered. And the person probing would be lucky to leave with teeth intact.” He chewed on his lip as he thought. “When I was a boy, smugglers ruled this village. My father gave his blessing...and his permission to use the tunnels that led from the sea to Ithwick Castle’s ruins. Even His Grace—scion to the leadership of the House of Lords—was opposed to paying one hundred and twelve percent tax on his tea. But the smuggling ended when the tea tax was repealed.”
“What makes you think the smuggling stopped?”
“Dwindled, is perhaps more accurate. The duke closed the tunnels by setting off explosions within the entries. You’ve got to be pretty determined to climb up those cliffs, especially when there are easier ports of entry in Kent. And the profits can’t be nearly be as high.”
“Might I remind you we are at war? Demand for French brandy hasn’t exactly disappeared.”
Chev lifted his brows. Of course.
“Dwindled, is definitely more apt,” Emmaus continued. “And, don’t you think I cannot see what you are speculating, Captain. I’m not a part of any smuggling operation. Those insular villagers wouldn’t allow me within their ranks if I wished to join them. Just to be clear—I do not.”
“Because you respect tax laws?”
Emmaus grinned. “Because I don’t respect their navigation skills.”
Chev snorted.
“In all seriousness,” Emmaus continued, “you can’t possibly learn very much by simply sauntering through the village.”
“I’m not going to ask questions—I’m going to observe the militia, and whatever stragglers happen to be left.”
Emmaus nodded. “You won’t like what you see. I imagine they’re paid well to be at the wrong place at the right time.”
“I haven’t liked anything I’ve seen so far—Pensteague excepted. I’m not expecting that to change. If there’s time, I’d like to see if I can find what’s left of those tunnels.”
“I can’t help you there,” Emmaus replied. “This is the first I’m hearing about them.”
They resumed walking in silence, and then the fishermen’s cottages came into view, squat and tidy and tucked up into the crags as if they, too, had been formed by the sea. The houses were empty, of course. The men were out on the water. As for the women, today was washing day—they were all by the stream.
Apart from the militia, only the loafers, the old, and the lame remained.
As they stopped at the fountain in the village’s center, a herd of goats appeared around the bend.
The goatherd’s eyes narrowed on Emmaus. “I say! Didn’t I tell you you weren’t welcome here?”
“You did.” Emmaus did not move.
“Then what are you doing here?” the goatherd asked.
“The fountain,” Emmaus replied, “exists for the benefit of all, travelers and residents both old and new.”
“This man,” Chev added, “has as much right as any to be here. More, in truth. He fought to defend our shores.”
“Pah!” the boy scoffed. “And who are you—beggar-man? We don’t welcome the likes of you here, no matter what welcome that crazed harpy at Pensteague hands out. Mr. Anthony’s going to empty her madhouse of cripples one day. He says we must leave the weak behind.”
Chev’s rage—always at a slow burn—flared. In his mind, he grabbed the boy by the throat and squeezed until he spoke no more.
No. He inhaled deep. No matter what the lessons of war, death could not “win” over death.
“Silenced you, didn’t I?” The boy jeered.
Perhaps just push him down...
Chev glanced to Emmaus. Emmaus’s returned glance did little to hide his accusation—this is what happens when you shirk the duties of leadership.
Chev gathered remnants of remembered calm. He met Emmaus’s gaze, gauntlet accepted. If he didn’t want his family in danger, he must work to find the danger’s source.
“Anthony will fail.” Chev surprised himself with his even tone. “You cannot leave others ‘behind.’” What did ‘behind’ even mean? “If Anthony doesn’t want beggars, he must ensure work with adequate pay.”
The goatherd stepped back. “What’s this? Are you a beggar or a bloody MP?”
“Where are you taking those goats?” Cheverley demanded.
“I don’t have to answer you.”
Chev lifted his stick and pressed it to the center of the goatherd’s chest. “Your elders are due your respect.”
Goatherd’s hostile gaze moved between Emmaus and Chev. “To Ithwick, of course,” he replied. “Anthony pays good money. Gold, if I bring enough.”
Gold. The only accepted currency among smugglers.
“I suggest you get on, then,” Cheverley said.
“I’m going.” The goatherd lifted his chin. “But only because I cannot bear your stink.” He nodded to Emmaus. “His either.”
The animals brayed as the goatherd moved them away.
“He’ll take the ocean route,” Chev said. “Let’s return to Pensteague through the woods. I think it’s time I paid my cousin a visit.”
Emmaus smiled. “I couldn’t agree more.”
~~~
Mrs. Renton groaned and folded her arms, her eyes fixed on the lawn below. Penelope looked up from her reading.
“What game are Anthony, Thomas, and their guests playing now?”
“They’ve set goats loose in the courtyard. Anthony and Thomas appear to be judging a race.”
“Goat against man?”
She glanced back. “Hard to tell the difference between the animals and the men.”
Penelope smiled. “Well, it’s a change, anyway. Those weighted disks leave crevices in the earth. I’ve nearly tripped a dozen times.”
“And just what do you think those goats are leaving behind?”
Pen snorted. “We’ve a competent gamekeeper, remember? Emmaus will round up the goats when he comes.”
Mrs. Renton frowned. “Do you trust that man?”
“With my life.” Penelope set aside her book. “He was one of Cheverley’s crew. He went with the privateer they captured, and if it was not for him, I’d know little about Lord Cheverley’s last hours.” She’d only wished she’d met Emmaus sooner than at the recent trial.
“But how do you know he sailed with Lord Cheverley?”
“Really, Mrs. Renton. Emmaus accurately described the buttons on a shirt I had given Cheverley before he went to war.”
“I apologize.” Mrs. Renton sighed. “These days I just do not know who I can—” She stopped abruptly, leaning toward the window. “What is Anthony about, now?”
Penelope went to the window.
Thaddeus, arms crossed, had arrived at the edge of the courtyard. Anthony and Thomas were motioning to have him join the revelers. Still scowling, Thaddeus joined the fray to raucous applause.
“Thaddeus took charge last night,” Penelope said. “They’ve changed tactics and are trying to placate him.”
“I don’t like it,” Mrs. Renton breathed.
“Neither do I.” Penelope pursed her lips.
Thaddeus took a seat at a table apart from the others. He glanced back toward the forest and then broke into a wide smile.
Pen leaned forward, following Thaddeus’s gaze. “Can you see who he is looking at?”
“Emmaus, most like,” Mrs. Renton replied.
“I’m not sure.” Thaddeus respected Emmaus, but that smile... She’d never seen that smile.
“There he is!” Mrs. Renton exclaimed.
Emmaus was, indeed, heading toward Thadde
us. But Thaddeus’s smile had been for the man by Emmaus’s side—the captain. As he came into view of the other guests, he began to limp.
“Anthony,” Penelope said, “isn’t the only one up to something.”
Thaddeus motioned Emmaus and the captain to his table. After a brief discussion, they all sat. Then, the group caught Anthony and Thomas’s attention.
“I can’t hear what they are saying,” Penelope said.
“Open the window,” Mrs. Renton suggested.
“They’ll know right away why we opened the window,” Pen replied. “That won’t do. I’m going down to the conservatory.”
However, by the time she reached the conservatory, Thaddeus’s table had been overturned. Emmaus was restraining the captain and Thomas was restraining Anthony. As for Thaddeus...his expression was pure glee.
Silently, Penelope opened the door.
“Homeless vagabond,” Anthony sneered.
“I used to be rich,” the captain replied.
Deep, rough and somehow familiar, the captain’s voice sent shivers to Penelope’s toes.
“Your fortune, too,” he continued, “may change. Why do you complain? The others are unconcerned that this young man invited us to share his food.”
“Easy for them,” Anthony replied. “They give of the wealth I gave to them.”
“And what of you? Whose wealth do you give?”
“Get out!” Anthony roared.
He tossed his chair in the captain’s way.
Behind Penelope, Mrs. Renton gasped.
“Go!” Anthony commanded again.
“Only His Grace or His Grace’s heir can order me to go. What do you say, Lord Thaddeus?”
Thaddeus bowed heads with the captain, speaking in low tones. The captain listened and then nodded.
“Until we meet again.” Mockingly, he bowed to Anthony without looking down.
Fire-filled challenge emanated from his gaze.
“Mrs. Renton,” Penelope reached behind her for the housekeeper, “go out the back and stop them before they leave. I must meet this captain. I must meet with him at once.”
~~~
Pen swiveled as the door to the kitchen gardens opened.
“Oh,” she said, disappointed. “It’s you.”
Emmaus chuckled. “You wound me, Lady Chev.”
“I am sorry, Emmaus, it’s just that for a moment...” For a moment what? She’d thought something miraculous had happened. “I am a fool.”
Emmaus took her hand. “You are far from foolish.”
“I—I had hoped to meet the captain, he’s...” She frowned, “...singular.”
“That he is.” Emmaus cocked his head. “Would you like me to deliver the message he gave me?”
The hope that had deflated catapulted her heart back into her throat, fluttering like a fledgling. “Yes, please.”
“He did not acquiesce to your summons because he did not wish to cause more trouble with Anthony and Thomas at this time.”
At this time?
“However,” Emmaus continued, “The captain would like to meet you.”
“Where? When?” Now, thank you.
“I suggested fairy rocks—a place quiet and private that would not threaten your reputation. I will escort you there, and stay close enough to hear your call, that is, if you wish me to stay.”
The thrashing continued. “Do you trust the captain?”
Emmaus pursed his lips. “I do.” He turned. “I will await you by the stables. Make sure you bring your knife. Not for the captain, but for any other threat that might linger in the night.”
With that he left.
She gazed after him in stunned amazement.
Emmaus trusted no one.
Just who was this mysterious captain?
How had he so quickly captured the imaginations of Emmaus and her son?
And how was she to ensure that the same did not happen to her?
Chapter Eight
As Penelope approached the stone circle, she sensed the captain waiting for her in the shadow of the tallest rock.
She didn’t know how she recognized the captain’s presence, but she knew him. Just like she knew the captain was different from the other broken sailors she’d sheltered. He stood apart the same way the carefully placed stones stood apart from the pebbles littering the field.
Like the stones, he made her pause, part in wonder, part in fear.
“You came.”
The deep tenor of his voice disoriented, intrigued.
“I came,” she responded.
“And is Emmaus waiting down by the dip in the moor?”
“No,” she replied. “He said I could trust you.”
The captain stepped out from the shadows. Not enough to see him in full, but enough for the moon to illuminate the silver-and-sand hair falling past his shoulders. He was arresting, even in silhouette—so much more than Anthony, the excuse-for-a-man he had allowed to insult him.
“You could easily have put an end to Mr. Anthony’s persecution, if you had wished.” She imagined even Emmaus could not have restrained this man if he’d been intent on a fight. “Why did you let him taunt you?”
After a long silence he answered, “Why do you allow him to court you?”
She bristled. “I have not.”
“I heard you tell him you were a widow in need of protection.”
She sucked in chilled air through her teeth. “A gentleman doesn’t eavesdrop.”
“I was merely passing through the courtyard.” He dipped his head. “And what gave you the impression I am a gentleman?”
Sending him a wary glance. “Am I in danger?”
“No.” His voice softened. “And it was not my place to ask such an impertinent question. What is between you and that man is none of my concern. Consider me chastised.”
He did not sound chastised in the least.
“I did not allow Anthony to court me. I repeated his words to me.”
“He told you that you were in need of protection?” Anger vibrated through his voice. Anger he barely contained. “In an overt threat?”
She nodded.
“I hadn’t considered—”
Her huff interrupted him. “Of course you hadn’t. No man can understand what it is to be a woman alone. To need escort or approval for the simplest—”
“I’ve been imprisoned,” he interrupted back. “You cannot imagine what I understand, Lady Cheverley.”
The edge in his voice rendered her mute.
“Would you explain?” he asked more softly.
“The duke is not yet well, and I haven’t the authority to oust Mr. Anthony or Lord Thomas. Mr. Anthony is serving as the steward. Lord Thomas is Thaddeus’s guardian per my husband’s will. The rest are their invited guests.”
“Can’t you depart? Turn to someone for help?”
“I cannot leave...not without abandoning—” Blast! She hadn’t expected the swell in her throat. The sting in her eyes.
“Without abandoning what?” he whispered.
“Without abandoning my son’s inheritance. Without abandoning my husband’s”—her voice cracked—“home.”
That was why she could not leave, wasn’t it? Because leaving meant abandoning all hope. And some small part of her expected Cheverley to return.
Some small part of her had even hoped—she eyed the captain and then shook her head.
“I...” He stopped. “I see.”
Did he? She doubted. “And you? I asked a question, and you have yet to answer.” She did not even care how petulant that sounded. “Why did you suffer Anthony’s taunts?”
“You could say I lost a battle to win the war.” He tilted his head. “The humblest are often underestimated.”
“But why? Why bother engaging him in the first place?”
“He made me angry on your behalf—sitting there, acting as if he had every right to claim what—” He twisted his shoulders—not so much a shrug as a sign of discomfort. “You—th
rough Emmaus—gave me shelter.”
“I gave you nothing,” she replied, uncomfortable with the idea of giving anything to this man. “Pensteague was built for shelter.”
A trivial distinction perhaps, but necessary.
Necessary because—for reasons she could not fathom—she wished to give the captain more than shelter. She wanted to draw him out of the shadows, to brush his hair from his face, and to look into his eyes...
“Pensteague.” He looked out over the field. “Beautiful Headland.”
“That’s right,” she said slowly. “Most people think it was named for me.”
“Yes, well.” He rolled his shoulder again. “I picked up bits of many languages on the seas—Cornish included.”
“Who are you really”—she took a step closer—“Captain?”
“Do you doubt my name?”
“No, but your name tells me little.” If only she could see his eyes. But their color—and their secrets—were veiled by the mist and by twilight’s subduing grey. “Where were you born? Who are your parents?”
“Please do not ask me of my past.” His coiled-spring stillness belied the supplication in his voice. “There is too much grief.”
“Grief,” she repeated. “I do not wish to intrude on your grief, Captain Smith, but I’m afraid I must insist on knowing something of your past. If, that is, you intend to spend time with my son.”
He moved fully into the moonlight. Her gaze settled on his shoulder.
He’d changed clothes since he’d sparred with Anthony in the courtyard. Though nowhere close to a gentleman’s finery, his shirt, coat, and breeches were clean and fitted. On his right—the side of his injury—his sleeve had been cut short and sewn shut.
She frowned.
Shrugging into that coat must have been awkward. The seams, as sewn, would restrain his ability to balance. Couldn’t his tailor have come up with a design more suited to his comfort? A more liberal cut, perhaps. And a seam that would allow him to—
Abruptly, she cut off her thoughts.
First, she’d wanted to give him whatever he asked. Now, she was mentally designing him clothes. What would the captain think if he knew?
The night—thank God—hid her blush.
“Far be it from me to dishonor a mother’s instinct,” he said finally. “I suggest an agreement. A trade, if you will.”
His Duchess at Eventide: A Legend to Love (Mythic Dukes Book 2) Page 8
