The Smuggler and the Society Bride. Julia Justiss
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what Tamsyn can turn up about the lady.’
Gabe bowed with a flourish. ‘I’d be most appreciative.’
‘Aye, well, see that you show me how much on your next run. We’ll meet at the inn later, as usual.’
Clapping Gabe on the back, his friend trotted off. Gabe made his way up the cliff walk, pausing to watch as the well-organized team of farmers, sailors and townsmen quickly freed the tubs from their temporary moorings, floated them to shore, then hefted them onto carts to be pushed and dragged up the slope to the waiting wagons. While one or two of the men nodded an acknowledgment, most ignored him as they passed by.
’Twas the way of the free-traders, he knew. Don’t watch too closely, don’t look a man in the face, so if the law ever questions you, you can truthfully reply that you know nothing.
At the top of the cliff, Gabe retrieved his horse and set off for what currently constituted home—the room he rented at the Gull’s Roost, the inn at Sennlack owned by Richard and John’s father, Perran.
The six months’ run as skipper of the Flying Gull that he’d promised his comrade who’d saved his life at Vittoria would expire at summer’s end, Gabe mused, setting the horse to a companionable trot. He had as yet not settled what he meant to do once his time in Cornwall was over.
He’d given his brother Nigel no promise of return and only the briefest of explanations before going off with Dickin, leaving Nigel to remark scornfully that he hoped after Gabe had scoured off the smudges he’d made on the family escutcheon with some honest soldiering, he wouldn’t proceed to soil it again indulging in some disgraceful exploit with that seagoing ruffian.
If Nigel knew Gabe was skippering a boat for a free-trader, he would probably suffer apoplexy. How could one explain to a man whose whole world revolved around his position among the Anglo-Irish aristocracy the bond a man forms with a fellow soldier, one who’s shared his hardships and saved his life? A bond beyond law and social standing, that held despite the fact that Gabe’s closest Army friend had risen through the ranks to become an officer and sprang not, as Gabe did, from the gentry.
When Dickin had come begging a favour involving acts of dubious legality, Gabe had not hesitated to agree.
He had to admit part of the appeal had been escaping the stifling expectations heaped upon the brother of Sir Nigel Hawksworth, magistrate and most important dignitary for miles along the windswept southern Irish coast. After months spent cooped up recovering from his wounds, it had been exhilarating to escape back to his childhood love, the sea, to feel health and strength returning on the sharp southwestern wind and to once again have a purpose, albeit a somewhat less than legitimate one, for his life.
If he were being scrupulously honest, he admitted as he guided the horse into the stable yard of Gull’s Roost, having lived on the sword’s edge for so many years, he’d found life back in Ireland almost painfully dull. He relished matching his wits against the sea and the danger that lurked around every bend of coastline, where wicked shoals—or unexpected revenue agents—might mean pursuit or death.
Despite the massive collusion between local King’s officer George Marshall, who complacently ignored free-trader activity as long as he got his cut from every cargo, there were always newcomers, like the fellow who’d foundered on the rocks today, who took their duties to stop the illegal trade more seriously. Although trials seldom occurred and convictions by a Cornish jury were rarer still, a man might still end up in Newgate, on the scaffold—or in the nearest cemetery, victim of revenuer’s shot, for attempting to chouse the Crown out of the duties levied on foreign lace and spirits.
Still, Gabe was optimistic that his luck would hold for at least six months.
For a man unsure of what he would be doing at the end of that time, he’d considered it wise to dampen the enthusiasm of the more ardent local lasses—almost uniformly admiring of free-traders—by treating all with equal gallantry.
However, toward a lady whose tenure in the area was likely to be even briefer than his own, he might get away with paying more particular attention. While serving to discourage some of the bolder local girls, it should also prove an amusing diversion. The lass on the beach today had been as attractive as her behaviour in attempting to rescue the sailor had been unusual.
Gabe pictured her again, water lapping about her ankles while the sheer wet linen chemise provided tantalizing glimpses of long limbs, a sweet rounded belly and the hint of gold at the apex of her thighs. His breath caught, and more than just his thoughts began to rise.
With a sigh, he forced the image away. Too bad this one was a lady born rather than a hot-blooded barmaid at the Gull. He didn’t think he’d try very hard to escape her pursuit.
Responding with a wave to Mr Kessel’s greeting, and calling out for hot water as he trotted up the stairs to his room, Gabe wondered what Aphrodite’s real name might be and whether she was as ignorant as his friend of the story behind the name he’d called her. Might she be learned—or wicked—enough to have understood the reference: the goddess of love rising naked from the sea?
Unlikely as that prospect was, the possibility put a smile on his face and a lilt in his step. Once inside his room, waiting for his water to be delivered so he might pull off his soggy garments, Gabe tried to keep his mind from imagining how her hands might feel against his bare skin.
All he knew thus far about his Aphrodite was that she was unconventional and courageous enough to try to swim out and save a stranger.
He intended to learn a great deal more.
Chapter Two
Shivering in every limb, Honoria rang for Tamsyn to help her out of her clinging wet clothes before hurrying to huddle over the remains of the morning fire. Some time later, no maid having yet appeared, she rang again and began divesting herself of as many garments as her reach and the numbness of her fingers permitted. After wrapping herself in her nightgown, too chilled to care if she soiled it with damp and grit, she strode to the bell pull. She was about to ring once again when, after a short knock, the housekeeper entered.
‘What be you need—’ the woman began, before halting abruptly, her eyes widening as she took in the heap of wet clothing, Honoria’s robe-clad form and her damp, wind-tangled tresses.
‘I know ’tis an odd time to request one, Mrs Dawes, but could I have a bath, please?’
After a quick roll of the eyes at the vagarities of the Quality, the housekeeper curtsyed. ‘I’ll have a footman bring up the tub and water, miss. I’d best add some chamomile to it to warm your joints and send along some hot tea with horehound to ward off a chill.’
Smiling through what were probably blue lips, Honoria nodded. ‘Thank you, Mrs Dawes, that would be most welcome.’
Without further comment, the housekeeper withdrew. Accustomed to receiving swift chastisement for her impulsive actions, she blessed the fact that Mama and Marcus were far away in London. One—or both—of them would have had far more to say about this latest exploit than the disapproving housekeeper.
She refused to acknowledge the pang of distress and grief that thrummed through her at the thought of the family that had banished her.
She didn’t need their censure—or Dawes’s unspoken disdain—to realize she had once again failed to act like the gently-born maiden she was supposed to be. Honoria doubted her younger sister would ever have stripped down and flung herself recklessly into the sea, emerging later with her dripping chemise clinging to her body, a spectacle for the locals to gawk at. No, Verity would have fluttered a handkerchief and tried to summon some gentleman to come to her assistance.
Honoria smiled bitterly. Her own experience had robbed her of any belief in the existence of noble knights ready to gallop to a lady’s rescue. But Verity was still naïve enough to hold tenaciously to the idea.
Nor would her paragon of a sister have been out walking the beach on a blustery day, getting her hem sandy and her curls windblown. Her sister would