Книга - The Smuggler and the Society Bride

The Smuggler and the Society Bride
Julia Justiss


Had she fallen to the level of a common smuggler?Lady Honoria Carlow, leading Diamond of the Ton, daughter of the Earl of Narborough, was in disgrace. Her spirited nature had led her too far this time. And she was – in reputation at least – ruined. And it seemed, even on the storm-tossed coast of Cornwall, she was not free of temptation.Gabriel Hawksworth may be a gentleman by birth, but a smuggler was unlikely to rescue a Lady from scandal. Indeed Honoria began to suspect the dazzling blue eyes of the Irish sea captain were luring her right back to what she’d run from – trouble!Lady Honoria Carlow, leading Diamond of the Ton, daughter of the Earl of Narborough, was in disgrace. Her spirited nature had led her too far this time. And she was – in reputation at least – ruined. And it seemed, even on the storm-tossed coast of Cornwall, she was not free of temptation.Gabriel Hawksworth may be a gentleman by birth, but a smuggler was unlikely to rescue a Lady from scandal. Indeed Honoria began to suspect the dazzling blue eyes of the Irish sea captain were luring her right back to what she’d run from – trouble!










Praise for Julia Justiss

From Waif to Gentleman’s Wife


“Justiss has crafted another Wellington family tale featuring Hal and Nicky’s good friend Sir Edward ‘Ned’ Greaves. The story is emotionally charged and heartwarming, as two lonely hearts fall in love, only to be ripped asunder by secrets and betrayal.”

—RT Book Reviews




A Most Unconventional Match


“Justiss captures the true essence of the Regency period…The characters come to life with all the proper mannerisms and dialogue as they waltz around each other in a ‘most unconventional’ courtship.”

—RT Book Reviews




Rogue’s Lady


“With characters you care about, clever banter, a roguish hero and a captivating heroine, Justiss has written a charming and sensual love story.”

—RT Book Reviews




The Untamed Heiress


“Justiss rivals Georgette Heyer…by creating a riveting young woman of character and good humor…unexpected plot twists and layers also increase the reader’s enjoyment.”

—Booklist




My Lady’s Honor


“Julia Justiss has a knack for conveying emotional intensity and longing.”

—All About Romance




My Lady’s Trust


“With this exceptional Regency-era romance, Justiss adds another fine feather to her writing cap.”

—Publishers Weekly




London, 1814

A season of secrets, scandal and seduction!


A darkly dangerous stranger is out for revenge, delivering a silken rope as his calling card. Through him, a long-forgotten scandal is reawakened. The notorious events of 1794, which saw one man murdered and another hanged for the crime, are ripe gossip in the ton. Was the right culprit brought to justice or is there a treacherous murderer still at large?

As the murky waters of the past are disturbed, so servants find love with roguish lords, and proper ladies fall for rebellious outcasts until, finally, the true murderer and spy is revealed.




Regency Silk & Scandal


From glittering ballrooms to a Cornish smuggler’s cove; from the wilds of Scotland to a Romany camp—join with the highest and lowest in society as they find love in this thrilling new eight-book miniseries!




The Smuggler and the Society Bride

Julia Justiss






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Look for these novels in the Regency miniseries

SILK & SCANDAL


The Lord and the Wayward Lady by Louise Allen—June 2010

Paying the Virgin’s Price by Christine Merrill—July 2010

The Smuggler and the Society Bride by Julia Justiss—August 2010

Claiming the Forbidden Bride by Gayle Wilson—September 2010

The Viscount and the Virgin by Annie Burrows—October 2010

Unlacing the Innocent Miss by Margaret McPhee—November 2010

The Officer and the Proper Lady by Louise Allen—December 2010

Taken by the Wicked Rake by Christine Merrill—January 2011


To my fellow “continuista” authors, Louise, Chris, Gayle, Annie and Denise and to the editors for allowing me to participate in the most exciting and enjoyable writing experience of my career.


Dear Reader,



My story introduces Lady Honoria Carlow, daughter of spymaster George Carlow, Lord Narborough, whose best friend was convicted and hanged for the murder of a third colleague. Now, nearly twenty years after that tragedy, someone seems bent on exacting revenge against all the families involved in the scandal.



All Honoria knows is that some unknown enemy devised a ruthlessly effective plan to ruin her, one so clever even her family believes it was her own recklessness that brought it about. Stunned and furious with her relations for dismissing her protests of innocence, she flees to her eccentric aunt in Cornwall. Despairing, unsure what she can do with the remnants of her life, she encounters the dashing free-trader known as “The Hawk.”



Gabriel Hawksworth agreed to become temporary captain of the Flying Gull as a favor to the army friend who saved his life. Upon meeting “Miss Foxe,” he wonders immediately why such a beauty is residing on the Cornish coast instead of in London, dazzling suitors. Gabe scents a scandal…and if Miss Foxe has been banished for being less than a lady, he’s just the man to tempt her to a little dalliance.

But as he delves into the mystery of Honoria, desire for a brief affair turns to fascination and then a compulsion to find the truth behind the event that destroyed her life. Even if that knowledge might mean losing her forever.



I hope you’ll find their story compelling!



Julia




Chapter One


May 1814. Sennlack Cove, Cornwall

The shriek of gulls swooping overhead mingled with the crash of waves against the rocks below as Lady Honoria Carlow halted on the cliff walk to peer down at the cove. Noting with satisfaction that the sea had receded enough for a long silvered sliver of sand to emerge from beneath its high-tide hiding place, she turned off the path onto the winding track leading down to the beach.

Honoria had discovered this sheltered spot during one of the first walks after her arrival here a month ago. Angry, despairing and brimming with frustrated energy, she’d accepted Aunt Foxe’s mild suggestion that she expend some of her obvious agitation in exploring the beauties of the cliff walk that edged the coastline before her aunt’s stone manor a few miles from the small Cornish village of Sennlack.

Scanning the wild vista, Honoria smiled ruefully. When she fled London, she’d craved distance and isolation, and she’d certainly found it. As her coach had borne her past Penzance towards Land’s End and then turned onto the track leading to Foxeden, her great-aunt’s home overlooking the sea, it had seemed she had indeed reached the end of the world.

Or at least a place worlds away from the society and the family that had betrayed and abandoned her.

One might wonder that the sea’s violent pummelling against the rocky coast, the thunder of the surf, and the slap of windblown spray and raucous screeching of seabirds could soothe one’s spirit, but somehow they did, Honoria reflected as she picked her way down the trail to the beach. Maybe because the waves shattering themselves against the cliff somehow mirrored her own shattered life.

After having been hurtled onto the rocks and splintered, the water rebounded from the depths in a boil of foam. Would there be any remnants of her left to surface, once she had the heart to try to pull her life back together?

Though Tamsyn, Aunt Foxe’s maid, had tacked up the skirts of her riding habit, the only garb Honoria possessed suitable for vigorous country walking after her hasty journey from London, the hem of her skirt was stiff with sand when she reached the beach. Here, out of the worst ravages of wind, she pulled back the scarf anchoring her bonnet and gazed at the scene.

The water lapping at the beach in the cove looked peaceful, inviting, even. She smiled, recalling lazy summer afternoons as a child when she’d pestered her older brother Hal to let her sneak away with him to the pond in the lower meadows. Accompanied by whichever of Hal’s friends were currently visiting, dressed in borrowed boy’s shirt and breeches, she’d learned to swim in the weed-infested waters, emerging triumphant and covered with pond muck.

The summer she turned seven, Anthony had been one of those visitors, Honoria recalled. A familiar nausea curdling in her gut, she thrust away the memory of her erstwhile fiancé.

She wouldn’t tarnish one of the few enjoyments left to her by recalling a wretched past she could do nothing to change.

Resolutely focusing on the beauty of the cove, Honoria considered taking off her boots and wading into the water. With spring just struggling into summer, unlike the sun-warmed pond back at Stanegate Court, the water sluicing in the narrow inlet from the sea was probably frigid.

As she glanced toward the cove’s rock-protected entrance, a flash of sun reflecting a whiteness of sail caught her attention. Narrowing her eyes against the glare, she watched a small boat skim toward the cove.

A second boat popped into view, apparently in pursuit of the first, which tacked sharply into the calmer waters of the cove before coming about to fly back toward open water. In the next instant, the following boat, now just inside the rocky outcropping that separated cove from coastline, stopped as abruptly as if halted by an unseen hand. While the first boat sailed out of sight, she saw the dark form of a man tumble over the side of the second skiff.

The boat must have struck a submerged rock, Honoria surmised as she transferred her attention from the little vessel, now being battered by the incoming waves, to the man who’d been flung into the water. Seconds after submerging, the man surfaced, then in a flail of arms, sank again.

Curiosity changed to concern. Though the waters of the cove were shallow at low tide, the man would still need to swim some distance before he’d be able to touch bottom. Had he been injured by the fall—or did he not know how to swim?

She hesitated an instant longer, watching as the man bobbed back to the surface and sank again, making no progress toward the shallows.

Murmuring one of Hal’s favourite oaths, Honoria looked wildly about the beach. After spotting a driftwood plank, she swiftly stripped off bonnet, cloak, jacket, stockings, shoes and the heavy skirt of her habit, grabbed up the plank and charged into the water.

Still encumbered by chemise, blouse and stays, she couldn’t swim as well as she had in those childhood breeches, probably not well enough to reach the man and bring him in. But she simply couldn’t stand by and watch him drown without at least trying to wade out, hoping she could get near enough for him to grab hold of the plank and let her tow him in.

Shivering at the water’s icy bite, Honoria pushed through the shallows as quickly as the sodden skirts of her chemise allowed, battling toward the struggling sailor.

She had about concluded in despair that she would never reach him in time, when suddenly, from the rocks far above the water at the trail side of the cove, a man dove in. Honoria halted, gasping for breath as a rogue wave broke over her, and watched the newcomer swim with swift, practiced strokes toward the downed sailor. Moments later, he grabbed the sinking man by one arm and began swimming him toward shore.

Relieved, she turned to struggle back to the beach. Only then did she notice the string of tubs bobbing near the cliff wall on the walk side of the cove. Suddenly the game of racing boats made sense.

Free-traders! Tethered in calm cove waters must be one of the contraband cargoes about which she’d heard so much. The first boat had apparently been trying to lead the second away from where the cargo had been stashed under cover of night, to be retrieved later.

Weighed down by her drenched clothing, Honoria stopped in the shallows to catch her breath and observe the rescuer swim in his human cargo.

Her admiration for his bravery turned to appreciation of a different sort as the man reached shallow water and stood. He, too, had stripped down for his rescue attempt. Water dripped off his bare torso, from his shoulders and strongly muscled chest down the flat of his abdomen. From there, it trickled into and over the waistband of his sodden trousers, which moulded themselves over an impressive—oh, my!

Face flaming, Honoria jerked her eyes upward, noting the long white scar along his ribcage and another traversing his left shoulder, before her scrutiny reached his face—and her gaze collided with a piercing look from the most vivid deep blue eyes she had ever seen.

She felt a jolt reminiscent of the many times when, shuffling her feet over the Axminster carpet in Papa’s study after receiving a scolding about her latest exploit, she touched the metal door handle. Enduring that zing of pain had been a game, a silent demonstration to herself that she had the strength to bear chastisement stoically, despite Mama’s disdain and Papa’s disapproval. Though more lately, it had fallen to her eldest brother Marcus, de facto head of the family since father’s last illness, to deliver the reprimands.

There the resemblance ended, for the jolt induced by this man was both a stronger and a much more pleasant sensation. Indeed, she felt her lips curve into a smile as she took in the sharply crafted face and the dripping black hair framing it, sleek as a seal.

Even had he not just recklessly leapt off a cliff into swiftly moving tidal water, his commanding countenance with its determined chin, high cheekbones and full, sensual lips, would have proclaimed him a self-confident man of action. One strongly muscled arm still towing the coughing, sputtering mariner, the rescuer strode through the shallows, carrying himself with an aura of power that, like the long scars on his chest and shoulder, hinted of danger.

A commanding man, she saw belatedly, who was now subjecting her to an inspection as intense as hers of him had been.

‘Well, lass,’ he said as he approached, his amused voice carrying just a hint of a lilt. ‘Is it Aphrodite you are, rising out of the sea?’

Honoria’s face flamed anew as his comment reminded her she was standing in ankle-deep water, the soggy linen chemise that clung to her legs and belly probably nearly transparent.

Tossing a ‘well done, sir,’ over her shoulder, she turned and ran. Upon gaining the shore, she dropped the plank and hastily donned her sandy cloak, her numbed fingers struggling with the ties. By the time she’d covered herself and bent to retrieve her jacket, skirts and shoes, a crowd of men was walking toward her along the narrow beach.

Accomplices of the free-traders, come to help move the cargo inland, she surmised as she chose a convenient rock upon which to perch and put on her shoes. She’d just seated herself to begin when the first of the men reached her.

Suddenly she realized their attention was fixed not on the rescuer or the cargo waiting in the cove waters—but on her. She could almost feel the avid gazes raking her body, from the seawater dripping from the loose tendrils of hair to her bare feet, the curiosity in their eyes overlaid by something hotter, more feral.

Horror filling her, she shrank back. Instead of the windswept cliffs, she saw the darkness of a London town-house garden, while the cawing of seabirds was replaced by exclamations of shock and surprise emanating from the path leading back to a brilliantly lit ballroom.

Eyes riveted on her, men closed in all around. Their gazes lust-filled, their lips curled with disdain or anticipation, their hot liquored breath assaulting her as she held the ripped edges of her bodice together. Anthony, disgust in his eyes, running up not to comfort and assist but to accuse and repudiate.

Panic sent her bolting to her feet. Boots and stockings in hand, ignoring the protest of the handsome rescuer who called upon her to wait while he deposited his coughing cargo, she pushed through the crowd and ran for the cliff path.



Gabriel Hawksworth’s admiring gaze followed the honey-haired lass fleeing down the beach. After pulling the half-drowned mariner onto the shore, he straightened, breathing heavily, while the man at his feet retched up a bounty of Cornish seawater.

An instant later, some of the villagers reached them. Quickly dragging the man inland, one held him fast while another applied a blindfold and a third bound the man’s hands.

Gabe shook off like a dog, chilled now that his drenched body was fanned by the wind. To his relief, darting toward him through the gathering crowd was Richard Kessel, his old Army friend ‘Dickin,’ owner of the vessel of which Gabe was currently, and temporarily, the master.

‘That was a fine swim you had,’ Dickin said, handing Gabe his jacket. ‘Mayhap ol’ George will be so happy you saved his new revenue agent, he’ll take a smaller cut of the cargo. Though the villagers hereabouts won’t be too fond of your lending him assistance. Being a newcomer, our soggy friend—’ Kessel nodded toward the man being carried off by the villagers ‘—is far too apt to point a pistol at one of them—and you, too, if he’d known who it was that rescued him.’

‘Aye, better to have let the sea take him,’ declared another man as he halted beside them.

‘Well, the sea didn’t, Johnnie,’ Dickin said, ‘so ’tis no point repining it.’

‘Perhaps someone ought to give the sea a hand,’ the man muttered.

‘No thanks to you, the sea didn’t oblige, little brother,’ Dickin shot back. ‘What daft idea was it to call for the cargo to be moved inland in full daylight, with a new man on patrol? ’Tis nearly asking for a scrabble.’

‘I knew if the revenuer followed Tomas—not likely most times, as little as these English know the coastline—Tomas would still be able to lead him off the scent,’ John defended.

‘Aye—nearly drowning the man in the bargain,’ Dickin said.

‘What care you if there is one King’s man less?’ his brother replied angrily. ‘Besides, I’m the lander on this venture. ’Tis my place to decide how, when and where the cargo gets moved.’

‘If you’re going to put our men and boats at risk, mayhap you shouldn’t be the lander,’ Dickin replied.

‘Threatening to have Pa ease me out of operations?’ John demanded.

‘Nay, just trying to jaw some sense in your head,’ Dickin said placatingly.

‘Well, landing’s my business, not yours, and best you remember it,’ John said. Turning away, he called for the men holding the bound and blindfolded revenue agent to throw him into one of the carts.

After watching the brother pace away, Gabe said, ‘Promise me, Dickin, the revenuer will get safely back to town? What happens on the high seas is up to God. I’d hate to abandon you still needing a replacement skipper for the Flying Gull, but I’ll not be a party to murder.’

‘’Tis a most inconvenient conscience you’ve developed of late, Gabe my lad,’ Dickin remarked.

‘We used to share the same scruples,’ Gabe replied. ‘You’d never have shot a French prisoner back on the Peninsula. Nor have left one for the partisans, though Heaven knows the Spaniards had reason enough to torture the French.’ Smiling anew at the irony of it, Gabe continued, ‘Our former enemies…with whom you now trade for brandy, silk and lace!’

‘True,’ Dickin acknowledged cheerfully. ‘But war is war and commerce is commerce.’

‘Still, it wasn’t sporting of Tomas to sail so close to the cliffs. He knows where that underwater ledge is. Our new revenuer obviously didn’t.’

Kessel shrugged. ‘His own fault, giving chase in daylight. If he wishes to hamper the trade, he’ll have to get to know the coastline better.’

‘Or try to follow us at night, when we, too, show a healthier respect for the rocks.’

‘I doubt any of the revenuers wish to test the sea after dark,’ Kessel replied. ‘Few enough Cornishmen have your fool Irish daring. Or your expertise with a boat.’

‘I’ll ignore that jab at my heritage and accept your compliments on my skill,’ Gabe said with a grin.

‘Sure you’ll not consider staying on once Conan’s fit to resume command of the Gull?’ Kessel asked. ‘You’ve probably earned enough already from your cut of the profits to buy your own boat. We could make a good team, just as we did fighting Boney’s best! Unless you’ve changed your mind about returning home to be your brother’s pensioner?’

Gabe had a sudden vision of the family manor at Ballyclarig, windswept Irish hills—and his elder brother Nigel’s frowning face. ‘I’m not sure yet what I mean to do, but it won’t include staying on in Ireland. I was at the point of setting out…somewhere, when you came calling.’

‘Lucky I did, since with you fully recovered from your wounds, ’tis likely you and your brother would have murdered each other, if he’s as self-righteous as you’ve described him.’ Kessel clapped a hand on Gabe’s shoulder. ‘Though there’s naught to that. Brothers often fight—look at me and Johnnie! Especially when one holds the whip hand over the other. Did you never get on?’

For an instant, Gabe ran though his mind the whole history of his dealings with the older brother who, for as long as Gabe could remember, had criticized, tattled about or disapproved of everything he did or said. ‘No,’ he replied shortly.

‘Best that you move on, then,’ Dickin said. A mischievous light glowed in his eyes and he laughed. ‘Wouldn’t that fancy family of yours disown you forever if they found out exactly how you’ve been helping your old Army friend?’

Gabe pictured the horror that would doubtless come over his brother’s austere features, were the punctilious Sir Nigel Hawks-worth ever to discover the occupation his scapegrace younger brother was pursuing in Cornwall. After casting Gabe off permanently, he’d probably set the nearest King’s agents after him.

Shaking off the reflection, Gabe said, ‘Let us speak of pleasanter things. Who was the charming Aphrodite who launched herself into the water? I’ve not seen her before. After her display of sympathy for the revenuer, I assume she must not be from Cornwall.’

‘She isn’t,’ Dickin confirmed. ‘Don’t recall the name, but ’tis not Af-ro-dye—or whatever you said. My sister Tamsyn, who’s a maid up at Foxeden Manor, says she’s staying there with old Miss Foxe. Some relation or other. I’ve seen her on the cliff walk a time or two.’

Realizing a dame-schooled seaman-turned-soldier probably wouldn’t be acquainted with Greek mythology, Gabe didn’t pursue the allusion. For the first time, he felt a niggle of sympathy for the humourless cleric Papa had employed to try to beat into his mostly unappreciative younger son the rudiments of a gentleman’s education.

His rule-bound tutor provided just one example of the rigid parental discipline that had sent him fleeing into the Army at the first opportunity. How would he have escaped Papa’s heavy hand, Gabe mused, if Bonaparte’s desire for glory hadn’t pushed his nation into a war in which it was every Englishman’s patriotic duty to contribute a son to the regiments? Especially a rapscallion younger son no tutor had ever managed to break to bridle.

Shaking his mind back to the present, he repeated, ‘Some relation of Miss Foxe. Is she staying long, do you know?’

Dickin raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ll see if Tamsyn can find out. So, ’tis not enough you’ve all the maids hereabouts sighing over you—and barmaids at the Gull fighting each other to warm your bed. You must hunt fresh game?’

Gabe shrugged. ‘What can one do when he is young, daring, handsome—’ Breaking off with a chuckle, he ducked Dickin’s punch.

‘You’ll soon catch your death of a chill if you don’t get your handsome self into some dry clothes,’ Dickin retorted. ‘I’d as soon not lose my new skipper—or my closest Army comrade—just yet. Off with you, while I help the boys move the cargo inland. I’ll see 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 have remained at Foxeden Manor, her gown immaculate, nary a speck of grit marring her lovely face, decorating some altar cloth with her perfect tiny stitches and driving Aunt Foxe mad by offering, in a voice overlaid with solicitous concern, to pour her tea or fluff her cushions.

After her own disaster, she hoped Marc would keep a closer eye over her much-too-innocent sister, who would probably not recognize a sweet-talking villain for what he was until after he’d carried her off to ravish. Especially since Honoria, who had prided herself on her ability to accurately assess the character of the gentlemen she encountered, had barely escaped that fate.

A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold shook her. Verity might be a pattern card of perfection, Mama’s darling who was repeatedly held up as the repository of all the feminine virtues Honoria lacked, but Honoria would never wish any harm to befall her.

She’d probably like the girl better now that she didn’t have to live with her. Honoria smiled without humour. The parish priest at Stanegate, who’d often counselled her to charity during her growing-up years, would doubtless consider her exile a blessing, if it led her to think more tenderly of her sister.

Dismissing both the idea of improvement and Verity, Honoria turned her thoughts back to the scene at the beach. On the walk home, once she’d mastered her irrational reaction to the villagers’ understandable curiosity, she’d begun to feel rather proud of her efforts, despite the embarrassment at the end. After drifting aimlessly this last month, trying to find something to replace the continuous round of rides, calls, teas, routs, musicales, balls and other amusements that had defined her life in London, it had felt…liberating to throw herself heart and soul into some useful endeavour. Though if the stranger had not intervened, she doubted she could have reached the struggling mariner in time.

As she brought to mind that gentleman’s handsome countenance, another knock at the door interrupted her. Expecting the footmen with the tub, she was surprised when her Aunt Foxe walked in.

Looking her up and down, her aunt smiled. ‘I was coming to see you when Dawes told me you’d gone bathing! I’d have judged it a bit early yet; ’twill be equally invigorating but much more enjoyable in a month. Though one must take care to bathe in a sheltered spot. The tide in some of the coves is quite strong…nor would one wish to provide a show for the fishermen.’

Wincing at the reminder of her folly, Honoria said, ‘Actually, I didn’t set out to sea bathe.’ In a few short sentences, she described what had transpired at Sennlack Cove, then braced herself for her aunt’s reaction.

‘Admirable of you to attempt to help the man,’ Aunt Foxe said, and Honoria felt herself exhale the breath she’d not realized she’d been holding. ‘Though by the sound of it, you tried to assist a revenue agent—not an action that will win you the approval of the residents hereabouts.’

Honoria waited a moment, but her aunt added nothing else. Scarcely believing there were not to be any further recriminations, she said, ‘You aren’t angry with me?’

Aunt Foxe raised an eyebrow. ‘Heavens, no! Why should I be? The rescue of one revenuer is scarcely going to destroy the local economy.’

The lack of criticism was so unusual, Honoria felt momentarily disoriented. As her world settled back into place, a rush of affection for her aunt filled her. Oh, her instincts had been right when they urged her to come here, rather than retreat in humiliated disgrace to Stanegate Court!

While she stood silent as this succession of thoughts ran through her head, her aunt’s expression turned to one of concern. ‘Is something wrong, child? Are you feeling ill?’

Impulsively, Honoria ran over and hugged her aunt. ‘No, everything is fine! I’m just so glad I came here to you.’

‘Heavens, you’re getting salt all over me.’ Her aunt laughed, gently disentangling herself from Honoria’s embrace. ‘I’m glad you came, too, though I might wish for you to refrain from such tender gestures until you have bathed. By the way, Dawes tells me you created the flower arrangements in all the rooms today. Thank you, my dear; they are lovely.’

‘I’m glad you like them, for preparing the bouquets required such massive effort on my part.’ Shaking her head, Honoria laughed ruefully. ‘You were wise to have Mrs Dawes introduce me to the gardens. I do find it fascinating to study all the herbs’ uses, and picking, drying and arranging them and the flowers helps occupy my time. I wish I might do more for you. However, I’m hopeless at mending and needlework. I could do some sketches of the coves and meadows, though, if you like.’

‘I’d be delighted to have your sketches.’ Her aunt paused, looking at her thoughtfully. ‘It’s no wonder an energetic young lady like you finds herself at a loose end here. I’ve been afraid you would become rather bored, marooned so far from London, with no theatres or balls or parties, no shops to browse, no friends with whom to gossip.’

Honoria felt a wash of guilt—for once the initial distress had worn off, she had been bored. That was certainly not her aunt’s fault, however. ‘You mustn’t think I mean to complain! Truly, I don’t miss London—except the shops, perhaps.’

That much was true. Even the name London called up bitter memories. She’d discovered in the most painful fashion that, far from possessing good friends, someone in London had disliked her enough to construct an incredibly intricate scheme to ruin her. So incredibly intricate, not even her own brother had believed she’d had no part in it. And so ruthlessly effective that, even after a month, the mere thought of that night still made her so sick with humiliation and distress she could not yet bear to sort out exactly what had happened.

Shaking her thoughts free, she continued, ‘There may not be as many amusements here, but I love Cornwall. The cliffs, the sea, the countryside, the wild beauty of it. I can see why you decided to settle here.’

‘You’re sure? Certainly Foxeden, with its wide vistas overlooking the endlessly changing sea, suits me, but it’s not for everyone.’ Aunt Foxe chuckled. ‘It is, however, a very effective location if one wishes to keep one’s family from meddling in one’s affairs, for which I’ve always been grateful.’

‘As I am grateful to you for taking me in.’

Aunt Foxe gave her a fond look. ‘We reprobates must stick together, eh?’

The afternoon of her arrival, Honoria had confessed to her aunt every detail of her disaster in London, wanting that lady to fully understand the completeness of her disgrace, so she might send Honoria away immediately if she preferred not to be tainted by the scandal. After listening dispassionately, Aunt Foxe had embraced her and, to Honoria’s everlasting gratitude, told her she was welcome to stay for as long as she wished.

She was tempted now to ask her aunt how she had ended up in Cornwall. Growing up, Honoria had overheard only bits and pieces about a forbidden engagement, a dash to the border, capture, exile, her lover’s death at sea. But although Honoria had come to know her mother’s renegade aunt much better over the last month, she still didn’t feel comfortable baldly asking for intimate details that her aunt, a private person, had not yet volunteered.

The opportunity was lost anyway, for Aunt Foxe had started walking toward the door. ‘Tell Dawes to bring tea to my sitting room once you’ve dried and dressed.’ Pausing at the doorway, she turned back to add, ‘There might even be some new fashion journals from London for you to peruse.’

A momentary excitement distracted Honoria, for pouring over La Belle Assemblée had been one of her favourite occupations in London. ‘That would be delightful! I didn’t know you subscribed!’ Certainly Honoria hadn’t found any fashion journals in her aunt’s library when she’d first inspected the room a week or so after her arrival.

Aunt Foxe winked. ‘I must have something to amuse my guest, mustn’t I? I’ll see you shortly.’

As her aunt exited the room, Honoria’s heart warmed with gratitude. Aunt Foxe must have ordered the periodicals just for her. Once again, she was struck by that lady’s kindness.

She had known her great-aunt but slightly at the time of her impulsive decision to seek refuge here. During their few childhood visits, she’d noted only that Miss Alexandre Foxe seemed to answer to no one and that her relations with her niece, Honoria’s mother, seemed somewhat strained. Since her own relations with Mama had always been difficult and at the time she was sent out of London, staying with someone who had no connection to her paternal family held great appeal, Honoria had immediately thought of coming to Cornwall rather than proceeding, as directed by her brother Marcus, to the family estate in Hertforshire.

The fact that independent Miss Foxe was not beholden in any way to the Carlows was almost as appealing to Honoria as her recollection that, on one of those rare childhood visits, Aunt Foxe had pronounced Verity, already being held up to Honoria as a paragon of deportment, to be a dull, timid child.

Given the slightness of their previous acquaintance, Honoria still marvelled that her aunt had not sent her straight back to Stanegate Court, as John Coachman had darkly predicted when she’d ordered him to bring her to Foxeden.

She was deeply thankful to her aunt for taking her in and, even more, for giving credence to her story. Unlike her nearer relations in blood, that lady had both listened to and believed her, though she could come up with no more explanation than Honoria as to why someone would have wished to engineer her great-niece’s downfall.

Even after over a month, it still hurt like a dagger thrust in her breast to recall her final interview with Marcus. More furious than she’d ever seen him, her brother had raged that, rash as she’d always been, he’d have expected better of her than to have created a scandal that ruined her good name at the same time it compromised her innocent sister’s chances of a good match and distressed his newly pregnant wife. When he contemptuously cut off her protests of innocence, by now as angry as Marcus, she’d listened to the rest of his tirade in tight-lipped silence.

Despite their wrangling over the years, she would never have believed he would think her capable of lying about so important a matter. His lack of faith in her character was more painful than the humiliation of the scandal.

Marcus needn’t have bothered to order her to quit London. She’d had no desire to remain, an object of pity and speculation, gleefully pointed out by girls of lesser charm and beauty as the once-leading Diamond of the Ton brought low. After her fiancé’s repudiation and the final blow of her brother’s betrayal, she’d been seething with impatience to get as far away from London and everything Carlow as possible.

Wrapping the robe more tightly about her, she walked to the window, sighing as she watched the roll and pitch of the distant sea. As for Anthony—that engagement had been a mistake from the beginning, as the tragedy in the town-house garden had revealed only too clearly.

It was partly her fault for accepting the suit of a man she’d known since childhood, for whom she felt only a mild affection. A man she’d accepted mostly because she thought that if she acquiesced to an engagement Marc favoured, her elder brother might cease dogging her every step and transfer his scrutiny to Verity. The prospect of getting out from under his smothering wing was appealing, and if Anthony proved tiresome, she could always cry off later.

She smiled grimly. Well, she no longer needed to worry about crying off—or about wedding to please her family, binding herself for life to someone who was probably the wrong man. Unless some local fisherman fell in thrall to her celebrated beauty, she’d likely never receive another offer of marriage—certainly not from anyone who could call himself a gentleman.

’Twas amusing, really. She’d chosen Anthony Prescott, a mere Baron Readesdell, over a host of more elevated contenders because she’d thought that he, having known her from childhood, would be more likely to prize her independent spirit and restless, questing mind as much as her beauty and connections. Anthony’s speed in ridding himself of her after the scandal proved that a desire for a link to the powerful Carlow family and her sizeable dowry had been the true attractions.

If this boon companion from childhood who knew her so well was the wrong sort of man for her, who could be the right one?

The image of the blue-eyed, black-haired free-trader popped into her head. He certainly was handsome. Even with his hair slicked back and cold seawater dripping off that powerful chest and shoulders, he radiated a sheer masculine energy that had struck her in the pit of her stomach, setting off a fiery tingling in her core that warmed her all the way to her toes.

A resonant echo of that sensation heated her now, just remembering.

She had to chuckle. Wouldn’t Marcus sputter with outrage at the mere thought of her being attracted to such a low-born brigand?

’Twas good that Papa would never learn of it; she wouldn’t want to bring on another of the attacks to which he seemed increasingly prone. Mama had often rebuked her, claiming her unladylike behaviour caused him a distress that made such episodes more likely.

A familiar guilt stirred sourly in her belly. She only hoped her disgrace in London hadn’t precipitated one.

Marcus hadn’t allowed her to see Papa before leaving London, nor had she wished to. It pained her anew to think that her actions might harm him.

As someone had harmed her, though no one in her immediate family believed it. According to the diatribe with which Marcus had dismissed her, the entire Carlow family considered her a selfish, thoughtless, caper-witted chit without a care for the shame and humiliation her wild behaviour heaped on the family name.

On the other hand, given that assessment of her character, a low-born brigand was perfect for her, she thought in disgust. Though the stranger’s handsome face and attractive body probably hid a nature as perfidious and deceiving as every other man’s.

Except maybe Hal. A wave of longing for the brother who’d been almost her twin swept over her. If only Hal had been in London that evening, how differently the outcome might have been! He would not have dismissed or abandoned her.

But with Boney now on Elba, Hal had been off somewhere in Paris or Vienna, helping secure the peace, exploring new cities, seducing matrons and parlour maids and in general having the sort of adventures which had won him a reputation among his peers as a daring young buck.

Adventures which, openly criticize though they might, Honoria believed Papa and Marcus secretly admired. Adventures denied a young lady, who would find her reputation ruined by even a whiff of the scandal that settled so gracefully about her brother’s dashing shoulders.

A knock at the door was followed by the entrance of Mrs Dawes and the kitchen maid, both struggling with canisters of heated water. Wondering what had happened to the footmen who normally hefted such heavy loads, Honoria walked over to assist them. Life, she reflected wistfully and not for first time, as they poured hot water into the copper tub before the hearth, was distinctly unfair to those of the female gender.



Dawes stayed to assist her into the bath. By the time she’d scrubbed all the salt and sand out of her hair, the lady’s maid turned up to help her out of the rapidly cooling water, letting the housekeeper return to her duties.

‘So sorry I was absent when you needed me, miss,’ Tamsyn said. ‘Oh, but what a brave thing it was you done! I could hardly believe it when I seen you wading out into the water, for all the world like you was going to swim—’

‘You saw me?’ Honoria interrupted. Suddenly she understood the reason behind the maid’s absence and the lack of footmen: they must all have been assisting the free-traders in moving their cargo inland. ‘Tamsyn, surely you have not been taking part in illegal activities!’

‘Oh, course not, miss,’ the maid replied hastily, a telltale blush colouring her cheeks. ‘I, um, heard all about it from Alan the footman, who met some fishermen whilst walking back from the village. But you must take care, miss! The water in the cove looks peaceful, but there be a powerful current where it runs between them rocks back out to sea. If you’d gone out much farther, you mighta been swept away!’

In the agitation of the moment, struggling in her heavy, wet clothing and desperate to reach the drowning man, Honoria hadn’t particularly noticed. Now that she thought about it, she did recall how much stronger the outward tug had become as she reached deeper water. ‘Luckily I didn’t need to go out farther.’

‘Indeed, miss. But, oh, wasn’t he wonderful! Leaping off the rocks and swimming across the strongest part of undertow to haul out that worthless revenue agent! I swear, my heart was in my throat, wondering if the both of them would be sucked back out to sea,’ the maid exclaimed, obviously forgetting her contention that she’d not personally witnessed the drama.

Amused, Honoria tried to resist the curiosity pulling at her as insistently as that treacherous current. Losing that struggle, she asked casually, ‘Who was the young man who made the rescue?’

The maid stared at her. ‘You don’t know? Why, ’twas the Hawk! My brother Dickin, who’s a dab hand of a captain himself, says he’s the best, most fearless mariner he’s ever seen! Eyes like a cat, he has, able to navigate despite tides and rough sea even on the blackest night. Gabriel Hawksworth’s his real name. He’s only been captain of the Flying Gull for a few months, but folks hereabouts already dubbed him Hawk for the way he can steer his cutter sharp into land and back out again, like some bird swooping in to seize his prey.’

‘He’s not local, then?’ Honoria asked.

‘No, miss. Not rightly sure where he hails from, though with that hint of blarney in his voice, I’d guess he’s Irish.’

‘Do the Irish also fish these waters?’ she asked. Though the Hawk seemed too confident and commanding a man to have spent his life on a fishing boat.

‘Don’t know what he done before the war. He was an Army mate of Dickin’s. While with Wellington’s forces in Spain, far from the sea, they used to talk about sailing, my brother told me. Even took a boat out together a few times when they got to Lisbon, and Dickin said he’d never met a man who could handle a small craft better. When the former captain of the Gull was injured, Dickin asked the Hawk to come sail her.’

An Army man. That would explain his decisive air of command. Her brother Hal possessed the quality in abundance. ‘If he is so fond of sea, I wonder he didn’t end up in the Navy.’

‘Don’t know about the Hawk, but Dickin had no wish to be gone for months deep-water sailing. Said if the navvies ever found out how well he could handle a tiller, he’d be gang-pressed onto a frigate and never see land again! So when the Army recruiters come through, he jumped up to volunteer. Didn’t mind doing his part to put Boney away, but wanted to be able to come home afterward, take care of Ma and us kids and tend the family business.’

‘The family business being free-trading?’ Honoria asked.

Tamsyn blushed again. ‘Helping Pa run the inn, mostly, along with some fishing, miss. As for anything else, as folks around here will tell you, ’tis best if you don’t look too close nor ask too many questions. In general, the revenuers leave everyone alone, long as old Mr Marshall gets his cut regular. That man who ran his skiff on the rocks today was a new man.’

‘Who wouldn’t be around to look closely or ask questions any longer, if Mr Hawksworth hadn’t intervened.’

‘True, but the Hawk being such a good captain, I don’t think anyone hereabouts will hold it against him.’

Before Honoria could exclaim about someone being censored for saving, rather than taking, a life, Tamsyn paused to utter a sigh. ‘And he’s as handsome as he is skilful! So tall, with them big broad shoulders and eyes so blue, you’d think they held the whole sky inside.’

‘Why, Tamsyn, you’re quite the poet!’

The maid’s blush deepened. ‘They are ever so blue. All the maids—not just here, but from Padstow to Polperro, Dickin says!—have set their caps for him. Though as yet, he’s not shown a partiality for any particular lass,’ she added, her expression brightening.

So Tamsyn was among those smitten by the handsome captain. As for singling out one particular lady among the many apparently vying for his attention, Honoria suspected dryly that Mr Hawksworth wasn’t in any hurry to make a choice.

Replaying in her mind’s eye that bold dive into the swift-moving water and the tricky swim towing the struggling mariner, she had to agree that in this instance, he had lived up to the dashing image Tamsyn had described.

Recalling the intimate lilt of his voice, the admittedly intense blue of his gaze, she felt another quiver in the pit of her stomach. She sighed, unable to help sympathizing a bit with all the infatuated maidens.

Not that she had any intention of following their lead. Besides, except for that chance encounter at the beach, it was highly unlikely that the niece of Miss Foxe of Foxeden Manor would be rubbing shoulders with the captain of a smuggling vessel, no matter how locally celebrated.

As she pulled her chemise over her blessedly warm, clean, naked body, for an instant she felt again the brigand’s intense blue-eyed gaze, unabashedly staring at her through that all-too-thin drape of wet linen.

A little sizzle hissed and burned across her skin.

Resolutely, she shook off the sensation. Dismissing any further thoughts of the rogue who’d inspired it, she let Tamsyn lace her stays.




Chapter Three


Two days later, Honoria accompanied Aunt Foxe to church in Sennlack. A local curate normally served the small parish, but occasionally the bishop from Exeter came to conduct the services. In honour of that visiting dignitary, an acquaintance of many years, Miss Foxe had elected to drive to town rather than remain at home to conduct her own private devotions, as she had the previous Sundays since Honoria’s arrival.

Having been through the village only when her carriage halted at the Gull’s Roost for directions to Foxeden Manor the day of her arrival, Honoria was looking forward to visiting the town and viewing the inside of the rustic stone church. Except for her walks along the cliffs, she’d not left the manor’s grounds since her arrival.

After the service, the congregation filed out, shaking hands with the rector and the bishop before they departed or stood in small groups chatting. Honoria recognized the man currently speaking with the vicar as the innkeeper from whom John Coachman had obtained directions to Foxeden—the man Tamsyn later identified as her father. The senior Mr Kessel was flanked by two young men who bore him a striking resemblance, one of whom must be Tamsyn’s fishing boat captain brother, Dickin.

The curate laughed and joked with the men, much friendlier than Honoria would have expected a clergyman would be with individuals whose true occupation, she suspected, involved activities of more dubious legality than innkeeping or fishery.

‘I wonder that the vicar is on such good terms with free-traders,’ she murmured to her aunt as they made their way down the aisle.

Miss Foxe laughed. ‘A Welshman likes his brandy and spirits as well as the next man. You won’t find any hereabouts who don’t do business with free-traders. I’ve even heard there’s a smuggler’s tunnel that leads into the basement under the sacristy of this church.’

‘Surely not!’ Honoria replied, properly shocked—as, from the twinkle in her aunt’s eye, that lady had meant her to be. Was it true? she wondered.

They reached the vestibule, where her aunt’s attention was immediately claimed by the visiting bishop. Realizing that she would soon be introduced to him and probably a number of members of the local community, Honoria’s initial enthusiasm for the excursion vanished. Hoping to postpone the moment as long as possible, she turned aside, ostensibly to allow her aunt a moment of private conversation.

Remote as Sennlack—and even Exeter—were from London, she suddenly felt sick with apprehension that the bishop might, upon being given her name, have heard about her disgrace.

Her anxiety over how to counter that possibility was interrupted by a little girl tugging at her sleeve. Having claimed her attention, the child smiled, bobbed a curtsy and held out a handful of flowers that wafted up to her the delicious odour of primroses.

‘For me?’ Honoria asked.

The girl nodded. Thin, with ragged blonde hair and dressed in a worn, simple gown, she appeared to be about ten years old.

As Honoria looked from the flowers to the child, she noticed with a small shock that while the girl’s one blue eye stared directly at her, the other, grey in hue, seemed to be inspecting the distance beyond. The mismatched colour and wandering eye gave the child an unsettling, other-worldly look.

‘How very kind of you…’ As she paused, waiting for the child to supply her name, a woman hurried over.

‘Sorry, miss, I didn’t mean for her to bother you! Come with Mama, now, Eva,’ the woman coaxed.

‘She’s no bother. It was sweet of her to give me flowers,’ Honoria replied.

Pulling free of her mother, the girl wiggled her fingers like a flowing sea, then made a dog-paddling motion.

‘She brought them because she thought you were so brave, trying to help the man who looked to drown,’ the mother explained.

Giving Honoria a lopsided smile as slightly off-kilter as her eyes, the girl nodded.

Honoria felt both charmed and embarrassed. ‘I’m not brave at all, but thank you, Eva. The primroses are lovely!’

The little girl patted the skirt of Honoria’s gown and made another gesture, to which her mother nodded.

‘She thinks you are lovely, too, miss.’

When the mother’s fond smile abruptly vanished, Honoria glanced in the direction of the woman’s gaze. One of the innkeeper’s sons was bearing down on them, an angry scowl on his face.

‘I thought you’d been warned not to bring her here,’ he snarled at the mother.

‘Sorry, Mr John,’ the woman said, curtsying as she grabbed the girl’s hand. ‘We was just going.’

Seeming content now that her errand was discharged, the child let her mother lead her off.

Honoria watched them go, frowning.

The innkeeper’s son shook his head. ‘Not right for her to bring that halfwit here among normal people. Bad luck, it is.’

‘She didn’t seem half-witted to me,’ Honoria retorted, her temper stirred by the man’s harshness to the child.

He gave her a dismissive look. ‘Meaning no disrespect, miss, but you’re a stranger here, and probably ought not to talk on things you don’t know nothing about.’

Truly angry now, Honoria was about to return a sharp remark when she heard her aunt’s voice from just behind her. ‘Ah, here you are, my dear. Come, let me present you to my good friend, His Eminence Bishop Richards, and the vicar, Father Gryffd.’

Dread tightened her chest as Honoria turned to face them. When Miss Foxe continued, ‘Gentlemen, my kinswoman—’ she found herself blurting ‘—Miss Foxe. Miss Marie Foxe,’ she added, in deference to her aunt as an elder Miss Foxe.

As ashamed as she might be of the desperation that had produced the lie, her feelings of relief were stronger. Until she figured out what to do with her life, she’d just as lief the bishop—and the rest of Sennlack—were not aware of her true surname, in case some word of the scandal made it here from London. And with the nature of that scandal making the name Honoria sound too much like mockery to her ears, she’d might as well make the falsehood complete by using a middle name.

To Honoria’s relief, after only a slight rise of her eyebrows, Aunt Foxe fell in with the deception. ‘My niece is presently on an…extended visit.’

‘Welcome, Miss Foxe,’ the bishop said. ‘Sennlack may be only a small village, but I’m sure your aunt will make you quite comfortable. The views from the coastal walk are breathtaking, her gardens lovely, and Foxeden Manor boasts a fine library.’

‘Thank you, sir. I’m sure my stay will be most enjoyable.’

‘Shall we tempt you to Exeter for the summer festival, Miss Foxe?’ the bishop addressed her aunt. As the two began discussing this event, Honoria turned her attention to the vicar.

‘Father, who is that little girl walking off with her mother?’ she asked, pointing down the lane.

As if somehow knowing she was being discussed, the child paused at the bend in the road to look back and wave. With a defiant glance in the direction of the innkeeper’s son, Honoria waved back.

‘Eva Steavens,’ the vicar replied. ‘And her mother, Mrs Steavens, a recent widow. Her husband and the child’s father, a fisherman, was lost at sea last winter.’

‘Poor child—and poor wife,’ Honoria murmured. ‘Does the girl never speak?’

‘Not that I know,’ Father Gryffd replied.

‘That still doesn’t make her a halfwit—no matter what some people might think,’ Honoria asserted.

‘No, indeed,’ the vicar agreed. ‘But many of the folk hereabouts are superstitious. It’s her eyes, I suppose, and that crooked smile. Fearing what they do not understand, some think it the devil’s mark and avoid her. Especially…’ he hesitated, as if searching for the correct word ‘…watermen like John Kessel, who shooed her away. It seems she gave a pretty rock or some such trifle to a friend of his, the captain of one of the local, um, fishing boats, just before he set off on a voyage. There was a storm; the ship was lost at sea with all hands. Kessel believes she possesses the evil eye and brought his friend ill luck.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Honoria said flatly.

The vicar nodded. ‘Indeed, but the sea is a hard mistress. One can understand that those who ply her depths would wish to avoid anything they think might increase her dangers.’

Unable to disagree with that argument, Honoria said instead, ‘Is the child a halfwit?’

‘’Tis difficult to know for sure when one is unable to speak with her. But she appears intelligent. You must have noticed the language of gestures she has developed to communicate with her mother.’

Her newly-acquired sympathy for the innocent ignited on the girl’s behalf. ‘But it’s so unfair! ’Tis no fault of hers that she entered life with mismatched eyes and a crooked smile.’

‘It is indeed wrong for innocents to suffer for the mistaken perceptions of the world,’ Aunt Foxe said, rejoining their conversation as the bishop’s attention was claimed by another parishioner. ‘But, alas, ’tis often the case.’

Her kind eyes and the look she directed to Honoria were so filled with sympathy, Honoria’s own eyes pricked with tears.

‘One waits in hope for a just God to right matters in the end,’ the vicar said.

‘Amen to that,’ Aunt Foxe agreed.

Honoria had nearly regained her composure when a velvet-timbred, lilting voice emanating from just behind made her jump.

‘Father Gryffd, Miss Foxe, good day. I heard we had a new visitor at services.’



A wave of sensation rippled across her skin. Honoria turned toward the voice that, although she had heard it only once before, already seemed familiar. Standing before her, a smile on his handsome face, was the rescuer from the beach.

Something about that smile made her stomach go soft as blancmange while little ripples darted across her nerves. Before she could figure out why a man’s expression could have elicited such an absurd reaction, the man himself bowed to her aunt. ‘Miss Foxe, might I have the temerity to beg an introduction?’

Her aunt hesitated. Honoria held her breath, wondering how that lady would respond. A smuggler was not a fit person for Lady Honoria Carlow to know, but snubbing a renowned local personage in so small a village hardly seemed warranted—especially on behalf of a mere Miss Foxe whose aunt was apparently on familiar terms with him.

Obviously drawing the same conclusion, with an amused smile, her aunt nodded. ‘My dear, allow me to introduce Mr Gabriel Hawksworth, a…mariner lately come to our shores. Mr Hawksworth, my niece, ah, Miss Marie Foxe.’

‘A breathtaking addition to our local congregation, ma’am. I’ve heard Miss Marie is an admirer of gardens. Would you permit me the further liberty of escorting your niece to view the roses in the churchyard? They are just coming into bloom.’

Honoria nearly sputtered with indignation as her aunt weighed that request. Had the man in question been an eligible gentleman of rank, the inquiry would have been bold enough, but for an out-and-out rogue to solicit the company of an earl’s daughter was audacious beyond belief!

Perhaps it was her certain knowledge that the Carlow men would go into fits, were they to know Honoria was strolling about with a free-trader, but Aunt Foxe nodded her head.

‘I don’t suppose you can involve her in too much mischief whilst walking about the churchyard in plain view, Mr Hawks-worth, but I do count on you to exhibit your most gentlemanly behaviour. My dear, make the most of this opportunity to become acquainted with a local legend.’

The brigand bowed low. ‘I am deeply in your debt, ma’am.’

‘See that you remember that the next time you price your cargo,’ her aunt replied.

Beginning to believe her aunt nearly as much a rogue as the man into whose charge she was being given, before she could think how to protest, with an elaborate bow, Mr Hawksworth claimed her hand and nudged her into motion.

Any thoughts of refusal were scattered to the wind by the little shock that leapt through her as he took her hand. Though after that jolt, her mind remained indignant over the Hawk’s effrontery, her treacherous feet followed his lead quite docilely—a reaction which only increased her irritation.

‘Sir, this is an abduction,’ she said in an undertone.

‘Hardly that! Not when I’ve agreed to be upon my best behaviour. I shall even refrain from detailing all the possible mischief one could get up to in a garden.’

His teasing remark doused her heated irritation as effectively as a cold sea wave. She knew all too well what mischief could occur in a garden. Because of it, she was no longer Lady Honoria, sought-after maiden of quality allowed to maintain exacting standards about whom she would and would not grace with her company.

Still, though in truth she might now rate even lower than a plain ‘Miss Foxe,’ that didn’t mean she had to swell this man’s vanity by swooning at his feet like all the other village girls—no matter how eagerly her senses responded to him.

The best way to deal with the stranger, she decided, was to show him how unimpressed she was by his charm and dashing manner. A man who had every maid from Padstow to Polperro sighing over him could probably use a good lesson in humility.

‘For that, you would need a willing partner,’ she replied at last.

He paused in mid-stride and looked at her, one eyebrow quirked. ‘And you think you wouldn’t be?’

As he bent upon her the intensive gaze she remembered so well from the beach, a warm melting feeling expanded in the pit of her stomach. ‘Certainly not,’ she replied in the most disdainful voice she could summon.

He shook his head disbelievingly. ‘I thought you had a fondness for mariners—or so it seemed when I saw you on the beach at Sennlack Cove. Most…intriguingly dressed, I might add,’ he said, sweeping his gaze from her legs to her belly, then letting it linger at the apex of her thighs.

Honoria felt her face burn as other parts of her tingled. ‘A gentleman would have forgotten my…unsuitable attire.’

He laughed, a warm, rich sound that was as engaging as his smile—drat him. ‘I thought we’d already established I’m no gentleman! But unsuitable as that might make me to accompany you, I did feel compelled to seek you out. A genteel young lady who knows how to swim is uncommon enough. ’Tis even more astounding to find one who was prepared to jeopardize her safety—and dignity—by plunging in to rescue a stranger.’

His unexpected admiration, as much as his sudden dropping of the overly gallant tone and manner, was making it difficult for her to maintain her haughteur. ‘I would hope any good Christian would do the same,’ she said.

‘You have a higher opinion of Christians than I. So why are you so disapproving of me?’

‘Of a smuggler and a law breaker?’ Who is way too attractive for my comfort, she added silently. ‘I would have deemed you intelligent enough to have already deduced the reason,’ she told him, deliberately using the most formal wording she could summon to display a superior education and breeding that was meant to put him in his place.

Instead, he laughed out loud. ‘Miss Foxe, you are a newcomer! If not upon that charge, then certainly upon aiding and abetting, you could convict half the congregation! Do you not remember seeing some of them among the group on the beach?’

A grudging honesty forced her to admit she’d noted that fact during services. ‘It’s a dangerous risk they all run—and for what, some bits of lace?’

Once again, he paused. After looking her up and down—setting her nerves humming wherever his gaze touched—he remarked, ‘That’s quite a disapproving tone for one who, if my eye for feminine finery remains true, is wearing no small bit of lace herself.’

Aghast, Honoria looked down at her pelisse. Warmer and heavier than those she’d brought from London, it was borrowed from her aunt, who was of almost the same size—and boasted a fine trimming of lace at the collar and cuffs.

With chagrin, she realized he was probably right—which made her almost as angry as the realization that, hard as she tried to will it otherwise, she was not immune to the appeal of that blue-eyed gaze or self-assured charm.

‘I shall take care not to do so in future,’ she said stiffly. ‘I don’t wish to enrich common brigands.’

To her further annoyance, his grin only widened. ‘Ah, Miss Foxe, we are not at all common! Those who follow the sea are a hardy lot, braving wind, tide and storm, and those who do so while eluding pursuit are more resourceful still. I don’t wish to sound boastful, but ’tis a fact that quite a few ladies hereabouts admire us!’

‘Ladies?’ she echoed disbelievingly. ‘Now I know you are joking.’

‘Indeed, I am not!’ he protested. ‘Have you not heard of the landlady in West Looe who, when the preventives came to her establishment searching for free-trader cargo, concealed a keg beneath her skirts and sat calmly knitting until the agents departed? Indeed, even the customs collector of Penzance often calls fellows in the trade “honest men in all their dealings.”’

Honoria studied his smiling face, trying to decide whether he could be telling the truth. ‘I believe you are trying to cozen me,’ she said at last.

‘Absolutely not!’ he affirmed. ‘Ask anyone. Free-traders are considered quite respectable fellows hereabouts. It’s even said that the church spire at St Christopher’s—’ he gestured upward to the building she’d lately occupied ‘—had its tower built by special contribution from the local landowners, to make it high enough to serve as a navigation landmark for…mariners.’

‘The church tower?’ she exclaimed. ‘Now I know you are bamming me!’

‘Since the days of running wool to Flanders, smuggling has been a part of life here. Nearly everyone is involved, either as provider or customer, from the miners who buy the cheapest spirits to the rich landowners quaffing expensive brandy. Even your aunt.’

Though she suspected as much, Honoria still didn’t wish to admit it. ‘Surely not my Aunt Foxe!’

The brigand chuckled. ‘Do you think the local dressmaker provided the lace that trims those sleeves? Or the shop in town, the clarets that grace her dinner table—or the cognac that warms her coachman on a cold evening? If the Crown truly wished to bring illegal trade to a stop, they would abolish the tariffs.’

He must have seen the confusion in her eyes, for he continued, ‘But you shouldn’t think poorly of your aunt! With its proximity to France and Ireland and its abundance of natural harbours, Cornwall seems designed by the Almighty expressly to support the free-traders. One shouldn’t fault the logic of folk who choose to buy the more reasonably priced goods they provide, any more than one should blame the local men who aid the smugglers. The mines are a hard life, trying to coax a living out of this rocky, wind-swept soil no easier a task, nor is extracting fish from a capricious, often dangerous sea. You shouldn’t condemn men for taking an easier route to earning a few pence.’

‘It’s hardly easier, when those who participate may end up on the gallows or in a watery grave,’ she retorted.

He shrugged. ‘But all life’s a gamble, a vessel buffeted by winds and tides beyond one’s control. One cannot retreat; one must put the ship in trim and sail on.’

How does one meet disgrace and sail on? she wondered. Easy enough for men, who ruled the world, to urge bold action!

But her brigand was halting again. ‘Ah, there are the roses. Lovely, aren’t they? I’m told that, protected from the wind against this south-facing stone wall, the plants bloom earlier than anywhere else in England.’

At that moment Honoria spied them, too. With an exclamation of delight, she walked over and filled her nostrils with the rich spicy aroma of alba rose. Eyes closed, inhaling the heady scent, she was distracted for a moment from the curiously mingled sensations of attraction and avoidance inspired by the man beside her.

‘They are lovely,’ she exclaimed, reluctantly turning back to him. ‘So at least this part of your tale is true. Is it the lilt of Ireland I hear in your voice?’

He made her a bow. ‘Indeedyoudo. ’Tis a fine ear you have, Miss Foxe—which means it matches the rest of you.’

She felt her left ear warm, while the tendril of hair just above was stirred by his breath. Other parts of her began to warm and stir as well.

Blast the man! He made resisting his seemingly unstudied charm deuced difficult—and she had been wooed by some of London’s most accomplished. No wonder all the maids from Padstow to Polperro were smitten.

‘I’m convinced half of what you say is nonsense, but I’ll concede you spin a good story. My brother says Irish troopers tell the best tales of anyone in the Army.’

His lazy regard sharpened. ‘Your brother is an Army lad? In which regiment?’

Belatedly realizing her error, she said vaguely, ‘Oh, I don’t recall the number.’ As if she didn’t know to a man how many troopers Hal commanded in his company of the 11


Dragoons. ‘I’ve heard you were with the Army, too,’ she said, trying to turn the conversation back to him.

‘Yes.’

She waited, but he said nothing more. ‘That seems an odd choice for one who is…taken with the sea,’ she said finally.

‘’Tis only a temporary occupation.’

‘Until?’ she probed.

‘Until I choose a more permanent one.’

He was no more forthcoming than she. Was he, too, running from something or someone? The wrath of the Irish authorities over some misdeed? The vengeance of a cuckolded husband?

Though Honoria realized she should recoil from one she knew to be a law-breaker, she could not sense emanating from this charming blue-eyed captain a hint of anything venal or sinister. She felt no threat at all.

But then, how much credence should she put in her senses? She’d thought she could handle Lord Barwick in the garden—and had trusted in Anthony’s support and loyalty.

Mr Hawksworth jolted her out of those unpleasant reflections by asking, ‘What are your plans, Miss Foxe? Do you make your aunt a long visit? With summer just coming into Cornwall, it’s particularly beautiful here.’

‘It is lovely,’ she agreed, sidestepping the question. ‘By the way, how did you know I liked flowers?’

‘Oh, I have my sources,’ he replied.

Had Tamsyn talked to him about her? Somehow she couldn’t believe that the maid, if she were granted audience with her hero, would waste it prattling about her employer’s niece. ‘A guess, then,’ she countered, ‘since most females like roses. Particularly females visiting a lady who possesses one of the finest gardens in the area. Though not this particular rose,’ she added, inspecting the blossom. ‘Perhaps I should take a cutting back to Foxeden. In a sheltered bed, it should thrive.’

‘Under your hands, anything would thrive.’

Honoria gave him a sharp glance. He was flirting again, which given the differences in their stations, he should not. But he persisted any way.

She should be angry, since his forwardness was almost forcing her to snub him, something she really didn’t wish to do. Nor, faced with his straightforward honesty, could she seem to hold on to her anger.

Unlike other men she’d known, he didn’t appear to practice deceit. He’d freely admitted who he was. If he were a rogue, at least he was an honest one.

Which made him a refreshing change from the London dissemblers who flattered to one’s face while plotting ruin behind one’s back.

Not that a girl could trust any man. But would it hurt to flirt a bit?

With the question barely formed, she caught herself up short. What was she thinking? Hadn’t she just forfeited the life to which she’d been born for not immediately fleeing the presence of one she’d known to be a rogue?

With her treacherous inclination toward the man, the wisest course would be to remove herself from this free-trader’s insidious influence.

‘Thank you for showing me the lovely roses, Mr Hawks-worth. But I mustn’t delay my aunt’s departure.’ Nodding a farewell, she set off quickly away down the path toward the street and her aunt’s waiting carriage.

As she’d feared, he simply fell into step beside her. ‘Lovely they are indeed. But not the loveliest thing I’ve seen today.’

‘You are a blatant charmer, Mr Hawksworth,’ she tossed over her shoulder. ‘I’d advise you to save your pretty compliments for those more desirous of receiving them.’

He cocked his head at her. ‘And you are not?’

‘Indeed no, sir. I prefer unvarnished truth.’

He laughed again, a deep, warm, shiver-inducing sound. ‘Then, Miss Foxe, you are the most exceptional lady I have ever met.’

‘I hardly think so,’ she replied as they exited the churchyard and regained the street. ‘Ah, Aunt Foxe,’ she called to that lady, who stood chatting with the vicar beside their carriage. ‘Were you looking for me?’

Before she could step away, Mr Hawksworth snagged her sleeve and made her an elegant bow. ‘I very much enjoyed our walk. Good day, Miss Foxe.’

Politeness required that she curtsy back. ‘Mr Hawksworth,’ she replied with a regal incline of the head. Conscious of his gaze resting upon her back, she stepped into the sanctuary of the carriage.

A great one she was to talk of preferring truth, she thought disgustedly as her aunt settled onto the seat beside her. She, who’d just identified herself to the entire community under a false name. Who’d wondered what Mr Hawksworth might be hiding when she’d not vouchsafed to any but her aunt her own reason for being here.

How much do we ever truly reveal of ourselves to others? she wondered, finding it hard to resist the impulse to look out the window and peer back at Gabriel Hawksworth.

Strangers and villains. Was he one—or both?




Chapter Four


Smiling, Gabe watched the shapely sway of Miss Marie Foxe as she entered her carriage. She was a little too deliberate about not even glancing in his direction as the vehicle set off.

He was reasonably confident she liked him. She most definitely responded to him, he thought, absently rubbing the hand that had been shocked by touching hers. She might not want to admit the attraction, but he was experienced enough to read, in the silent gasp that escaped her lips and the shudder that had passed through her body, that his touch had affected her as strongly as hers had him.

He grinned. Armed with that knowledge, he hadn’t been able to refrain from provoking her a bit. It was much too enjoyable to watch her face burn as he let his gaze linger on those parts of her body he’d almost seen that day on the beach.

Parts he’d like to see much more clearly…and touch and caress and kiss.

Her face had crimsoned as if she knew what he’d been thinking. Had she been wishing it, too?

He sighed. Such contemplation set off quite a conflagration within him as well. What a shame Miss Foxe was not Sadie, the barmaid at the Gull whose amorous advances Gabe was having increasing difficulty dodging.

Not that he was at all adverse to the pleasures offered by an ample bosom and hot thighs. But living in an inn operated by a friend of Sadie’s father, in a village where practically everyone was kin to everyone else, a maid who had three stout brothers to guard her virtue did not inspire a man to succumb to her blandishments. Even if she tempted him, which, in truth, she did not—particularly not since he’d had his first look at the lovely Marie Foxe. In any event, the enjoyment of a quick tumble with Sadie could not compensate for the trouble it would certainly cause.

Trouble or not, were Miss Foxe the lass making advances, he suspected he wouldn’t resist.

He did ache for the sweetness of a woman, the bliss of release and the satisfaction of pleasing her in an intimate embrace. As he set off walking to the Gull, his thoughts drifted to Caitlyn back in Ireland, the knowing widow who’d been happy to ease the pain and boredom of his recovery with a little discreet dalliance.

He’d be better able to keep his unruly urges under control—and resist tempting young ladies he shouldn’t even approach—if he paid her a visit. But he didn’t want to risk having his brother discover him and piece together exactly what he was doing in Cornwall. Nor did he want to involve that lovely, compliant lady in what might be a damaging association if he were apprehended—or worse—during his sojourn in Cornwall.

With a smile, his thoughts returned to the lady who had been anything but compliant. He didn’t know how well-connected the Foxe family might be, but from the arrogance of the niece, it was apparent she considered a smuggling captain to be vastly beneath her. Her irritation at his effrontery in approaching her was obvious in her haughty tone and elevated words, both of which, he felt sure, were designed to put him off.

They hadn’t, of course. He found it amusing to reflect that unless the Foxe family were very well-connected indeed, by birth if not current occupation, he was probably her equal. Even more gratifying was the knowledge that, hard as she’d been trying to resist him, she hadn’t been able to mask the fact that she found him attractive.

What was such a lady doing in Sennlack? It was hardly the sort of place a lovely, unmarried miss would linger longer than the few days necessary to pay a call on a beloved aunt. Indeed, his memory was vague on the point, but wasn’t the London social Season still in full cry?

He walked into the tap room and motioned Kessel to bring him a mug. Why, he continued to muse as he dropped into a seat, would a young lady whose family—if not the lady herself—should be concentrating on catching her a well-breeched husband, be wasting her beauty and her wiles on brigands like him, rather than in London, enticing more eligible gentlemen?

Perhaps her family, unable to afford the dowry necessary to marry her off, had sent her to be her aunt’s companion.

Recalling her haughty demeanor—the attitude and bearing of someone accustomed to having her own desires catered to, rather than catering to others—Gabe had to laugh. She was hardly the meek, biddable sort able to adapt to living her life at the beck and call of some richer relation.

If she had been sent here by a family needing to reduce expenses, Gabe thought, frowning, they could have at least given her a maid to accompany her. Sennlack was a law-abiding town, but a luscious lamb like that needed some protection from the wolves of the world.

Like him, he thought with a grin.

Or had some mishap left her with no family but Miss Foxe? From some hitherto unknown place deep within him, an unprecedented sense of protectiveness seeped out.

The first day they’d met, he’d found the idea of pursuing the water sprite diverting. Tempting her with the attraction that ran so strongly between them might be more satisfying still.

Gabe sensed snobbery rather than fear in her reluctance to associate with him; even for diversion, he’d never pursue a truly unwilling lady. If his instincts were mistaken and he was unable to melt that frosty demeanour, after a few attempts, he’d reluctantly abandon the game. Until then, however, he meant to apply his not inconsiderable charm into getting her to lower that ferocious guard and allow her true partiality to emerge.

He pictured her countenance, the silken texture of her face that begged for the touch of his finger, the large, expressive blue-grey eyes that could mirror the sky when she exclaimed over the roses or turn storm-cloud grey when she sought to depress his pretensions. The velvet look of those plump lips that seemed to just beg for a kiss—or two or three.

The desire she’d incited from first glance spiked, tightening his body and making sweat break out on his brow.

Just a kiss, of course, for she was a maid. Still, when the maid in question was the tantalizing Miss Foxe, even a simple kiss was a prize worth savouring.

Instead of chafing, as he usually did, at having to kick his heels in port until it was time to pick up the next cargo, now he had the charming Miss Foxe and an irresistible challenge to distract him. In these next few weeks, could he charm her out of her resistance…and into his arms?



As she’d spent the evening playing backgammon with her aunt, Honoria had tried to convince herself she had banished the dashing Captain Hawksworth from her mind. Though she was moderately successful at pretending that he was not always teasing just at the edge of her thoughts, the subject of the handsome free-trader was dragged forcibly before her the following morning when Tamsyn, who’d gone to visit her family Sunday evening, brought in her chocolate.

‘Dickin tells me you met the Hawk after services yesterday. That he even walked with you in churchyard!’ she said, reverence in her voice at being accorded such a high honour. ‘Isn’t he just the most handsome, charming man you’ve ever met?’

Knowing of the girl’s obvious infatuation, Honoria might have expected to hear jealousy in her voice, and was struck to realize she heard none. Perhaps to Tamsyn, her brother’s friend—a man with whom Lady Honoria Carlow might disdain to associate—seemed a personage too elevated to pay attention to a mere maid from a tiny village like Sennlack.

And perhaps Gabriel Hawksworth wasn’t the only one who needed a lesson in humility.

‘Yes, he is both handsome and charming. Though I suspect his design is to bedazzle every maid in Cornwall.’

‘I figure he’s already done that! He’s greeted me polite enough, coming or going with Dickin, but I done never had all his attention fixed just on me. I’d probably swoon straight away!’ Sighing, Tamsyn stared dreamy-eyed as she extracted Honoria’s gown from the wardrobe. ‘Do…do you think he might call on you?’

The tightness in Honoria’s chest eased. If the maid thought he might, her deception must be safe. Even a girl from a small Cornish village, her head filled with a romantic vision of the dashing captain, would know a common smuggler would never have the effrontery to call upon someone as far above him socially as Lady Honoria Carlow.

Though still bold, for such a famous local personage to pay his respects to ‘Miss Foxe’ was not beyond possibility, particularly after having been introduced by the lady’s own aunt.

Honoria was not sure whether to be relieved or alarmed by that fact.

In an urgent, low-toned discussion during the carriage ride home from church, her aunt had already assured her that her true identity was unlikely to be discovered. The conversation with Tamsyn had sealed her relief. She’d feared the rash announcement of a false name might backfire if the servants around whom she’d lived for the last month told a different tale.

However, as her aunt had reminded her, with her arrival being unexpected, Miss Foxe had not primed the servants to prepare for ‘Lady Honoria’s’ visit. And having learned immediately upon her arrival of the delicacy of her situation, Aunt Foxe had been careful to refer to her as a niece or kinswoman, and to address her simply as ‘my dear.’

Jerking her thoughts back to the girl’s question, Honoria realized the maid’s tone this time did hold a bit of an edge. Perhaps Tamsyn was not totally without hope in the captain’s direction after all. Was she trying to determine whether Miss Foxe intended to set herself up as a contender for the rogue’s attentions?

If so, she could speedily disabuse Tamsyn of that notion. ‘I hardly think he will call,’ she replied. ‘He wished to politely welcome a newcomer, but I expect he enjoys feminine attention far too much to show partiality to any one lady.’ Though she was piqued to discover she’d be a bit disappointed if the first assessment were true, she was quite certain of the second.

She’d met enough rakes in London to recognize a man who enjoyed and understood women. Gabe Hawksworth possessed that certain appreciative sparkle in his eye, along with an almost uncomfortably intense focus that, for the time it lasted, made a girl fancy he saw her as the most attractive and fascinating being in the universe.

Indeed, his gaze might be the most discerning she’d ever encountered. She shifted uncomfortably, hoping the rogue hadn’t been able to tell just how attractive she found him.

Apparently she’d said the right thing, for the maid brightened. ‘Pro’bly true, miss. Well, that gives me hope to keep trying to find the courage to flirt with him.’

Tamsyn finished helping her dress and went out. Honoria followed her, pausing to sniff appreciatively at the primroses Eva given her, displayed in a crystal bowl. She’d not seen any in Foxeden’s herb garden and wondered if the plant might grow somewhere on the property. Aunt Foxe would probably enjoy having some of the fragrant blossoms in her rooms. Perhaps Honoria would go search for some.

She sighed. It wasn’t as if she had any more pressing matters to attend to. But after the interlude at the beach and the excitement of meeting Mr Hawksworth, having nothing more stimulating to look forward to than picking a few posies made the day seem rather flat.

Good Heavens, why was she repining? She rallied herself immediately. Had Aunt Foxe not taken her in, she’d be at Stanegate Court, being viewed with pity or reproach by the staff and the neighbours, to say nothing of the lectures she would likely endure from Marcus each time he visited the estate. She couldn’t bear to think about hearing what Mama, Papa—or her younger sister—might have to say to her.

Unexpected tears stung her eyes. How arrogantly sure she’d always been of being so much more worldly, knowledgeable and competent to look after herself than Verity! Pride goeth before a fall indeed.

No, she should sink to her knees and bless a kind Providence that she was here in Cornwall, under her aunt’s benevolent eye and free to go gathering spring flowers.

After a solitary breakfast, her aunt keeping to her chamber as she usually did, Honoria went to consult the housekeeper, whom she found in the stillroom, hanging herbs to dry.

‘I wanted to gather some primroses, Mrs Dawes. Are there any on this property?’

‘I don’t believe so, miss. If there are, they’d be growing down by the old stream bed near the copse. I’ve always thought one could plant a pretty wet garden there, with mints, foxglove, monarda and such. But the herb and kitchen gardens keep the boys busy enough, so I never tried anything there. The best place to find some, though, would be next to the brook that runs behind St Christopher’s Church.’

That must have been where Eva Steavens had picked hers, Honoria thought. ‘Thank you, Mrs Dawes. If there aren’t any in the copse, perhaps I’ll ride into the village and ask Father Gryffd if I might dig up a few plants from beside the brook to bring back.’

‘I’m sure he wouldn’t object. It’s quite an interest you’ve taken in the plants, miss. Made some very pretty bouquets, too. The whole household is enjoying them. Now, let me find you some trugs to hold the flowers.’

After thanking the housekeeper and fetching a cloak, gloves and pattens to keep her hem and shoes dry, Honoria set out. She had a pleasant walk down the lane past the stables, its sheltered roadbed winding between lichen-covered stone walls, but upon reaching the lower meadow where an occasionally overflowing brook left the ground soggy, found no primroses. Heading back, she decided to ask Aunt Foxe if she might borrow her mare and pay a visit to St Christopher’s.

Excitement fluttered in her chest at the realization that she could go there without fear of unpleasantness. Although she loved the cliff walk, she had confined her explorations to that solitary trail mainly because there was little chance of encountering anyone.

But as far as this community knew, she was not the disgraced Lady Honoria Carlow, but simply Miss Marie Foxe, kinswoman to a well-respected local gentlewoman. She might walk where others gathered, encounter villagers or fishermen, or converse with the vicar or the shopkeepers, safe from the dread of discovery and embarrassment.

After a month of living burdened by the weight of scandal and disapprobation, a giddy sense of freedom made her spirits soar. Laughing, she ran in circles about the meadow, whooping with the sheer joy of being alive and startling a peregrine falcon into taking flight in a reproachful flurry of wings.

Of course, she couldn’t remain here hiding under a false name forever. But that harmless bit of subterfuge would provide a welcome respite, allowing her to move about freely while she figured out what to do next.

Even if ‘next’ was returning to Stanegate, being pressed to marry some obscure connection in the farthest hinterlands who could be induced to take a woman of large dowry and stained reputation, or living quietly on her own somewhere, forever banished from Society.

She shrugged off those dreary possibilities to be dealt with later. For now, it was enough just to anticipate the simple pleasure of a ride into town and the paying of an uncomplicated call upon the vicar.

Her buoyant sense of optimism persisted as she returned to the manor to seek out her aunt, whom she found bent over a book in her sitting room. ‘Aunt Foxe, might I borrow your mare? I’ve so enjoyed the primroses Eva Steavens gave me yesterday, I thought to go ask the vicar if I might transplant some from a patch Mrs Dawes tells me grows by St Christopher’s.’

‘Of course, my dear. The ride would do both you and Mischief good. I’m so glad to see your spirits reviving! While in the village, you should shop for some trifles and stop for a glass of Mrs Kessel’s cider. It’s not right for a lovely, lively young girl to live in a hermit’s isolation.’

Her aunt’s words made Honoria wonder again why Miss Foxe—and at an age not much older than her own—had chosen to live in just such isolation. However, the inquiry still seemed too invasive of her aunt’s privacy to pose at present.

‘“Miss Marie Foxe” need not fear visiting the village,’ she said instead. ‘Thank you for allowing me that little deception.’

Her aunt nodded. ‘Your name will still be yours, once you’ve decided how and where you wish to resume it.’

‘May I ride into village immediately?’ A sudden thought struck her and she frowned. ‘Although I suppose I shall have to wait until later. The footmen are all occupied, and Tamsyn has not yet finished her duties.’

‘Even Lady Honoria need not worry about riding unescorted here,’ her aunt said. ‘Especially not on my mare, which is everywhere recognized. I wouldn’t advise that you ride alone after dark, or even in daylight past the kiddley winks—the local beer halls—down by the harbour, where the miners congregate. ’Tis a hard life, and many seek to soften its edges with drink. Men whose wits—or morals—are dulled by spirits are unpredictable and possibly dangerous.’

‘I shall go at once, then, and take care to avoid the harbour.’

‘Could you discharge some small commissions for me? I’ve an order to deliver to the draper and several letters waiting at the post.’

‘Of course, Aunt Foxe.’

‘Enjoy your ride, then, dear. I will see you at dinner.’

Honoria set off a short time later in high good spirits. Her aunt’s equally spirited mare, once given her head, seemed as delighted as Honoria to begin with a good gallop. Urging the animal on, revelling in the sweet, sun-scented air rushing past her, Honoria savoured the simple joy of being young and outside on a glorious early summer day as if she’d never experienced it before.

Perhaps, in a way, she hadn’t. Until a month ago, a carefree canter through the countryside had been so ordinary an event she would never have thought to take note of it. How short-sighted she had been to prize it so little!

She slowed the mare to a trot along the route the carriage had followed yesterday, her anticipation heightening as she approached the village. Though she tried to tell herself she was only mildly curious about him, she found herself hoping that during her time in Sennlack, she would encounter one charming Irish free-trader.




Chapter Five


A short time later, Honoria pulled up the mare before the vicarage. She was about to ring the bell when she spied Father Gryffd in the distance, descending the church steps.

‘Miss Foxe, how nice to see you,’ he said, walking over to meet her. ‘Won’t you step in to the vicarage and let me offer you some tea?’

‘Thank you, Father, but I have several commissions to complete for my aunt. I wished to inquire about primroses. After speaking with Mrs Dawes, I believe Eva Steavens may have found the flowers near your brook.’

The vicar nodded. ‘I seem to remember a riot of them blooming there when I walked by last week.’

‘If there are enough, would you permit me to carry some home?’

‘Of course. Help yourself to as many as you wish. I must say, I am glad you stopped by. Might I walk along with you for a bit? It so happens that I’ve been thinking about you.’

Dread twisted in her gut as the prospect of discovery flashed through her mind. ‘Of course,’ she managed through a suddenly dry throat.

He fell into step beside her. ‘I have a project in mind I’ve been thinking of implementing for some time. If you could lend a hand during your stay with Miss Foxe, I might be able to begin it.’

Relief washed through Honoria. ‘What sort of project?’

‘Since the old master retired, there’s not been a school in the village. Some of the boys attend grammar school in St Just, but there’s nothing for the girls. I’ve been wanting to establish one in which they might be taught to read and write and do simple sums. Despite what some might think, with mines and manufacturers hiring both sexes, it’s as necessary for females as it is for the boys to understand the words on an employment list or to total their wages correctly. And to read their Bible, of course, should they earn enough to purchase one.’

‘Why, Father Gryffd, I believe you are a Methodist!’

A light flush coloured the vicar’s cheeks. ‘I had the honour of hearing a disciple of Charles Wesley speak once, and was much struck by his message to do as much good to as many as one can. A directive I have tried to implement.’

‘Establishing a school for girls would do much good,’ Honoria said, immediately drawn to anything that would better the lot of females. ‘How can I help?’

‘I know you are well educated—and kind, judging by your treatment of Eva Steavens. Would you consent to helping the girls learn their letters? I’m sure they would admire you as much as Eva does and put forth their best efforts, in order to earn your approval.’

She, the bane of several governesses—to become a sort of schoolmistress? She suppressed a giggle at the thought.

Misinterpreting her silence, the vicar went on quickly, ‘You might think such a task below your station, but truly it is but a variation on the service genteel ladies have always performed in making calls upon the poor.’

Given her present circumstances, not much would be considered beneath her station, Honoria thought. ‘Indeed, I know it is not!’ she assured him, smiling at the irony of it.

At this hour, Lady Honoria Carlow, Diamond of the Ton, would usually have been yawning over her chocolate while she flipped through a stack of invitations, all begging her presence at the most select functions offered by Society. She would have dressed, and paid calls and shopped, later stopping each evening at several events where she would be trailed by a crowd of admiring gentlemen and a bevy of ladies anxious to divert a share of those gentlemen’s attentions.

If anyone had suggested that in a few short weeks she would count it a blessing to fill her idle hours assisting a bespectacled Welsh vicar to teach a passel of grubby Cornish children their letters, she would have laughed herself silly.

Even though, if one truly considered the matter, helping children learn to read was far more worthy of her time than listening to a buxom soprano sing arias or some infatuated moonling intone bad verses to her eyebrows.

As worthwhile as attempting to rescue a drowning man, she thought, feeling again the glow of satisfaction that had warmed her after that effort.

Offering village girls the gift of literacy would give them a bit more control over lives now wholly controlled by men. To females even more dependent for their welfare upon the whims of that gender than she was, that was a precious gift indeed.

She’d already decided to agree when the thought struck her. ‘Will Eva Steavens be able to attend?’

The vicar considered the question. ‘I don’t see why not. The other children might tease her, though—or their parents might object.’

Honoria recalled the disagreeable man at church who had snarled at the child. ‘Are Mr John Kessel’s views widely held?’

Father Gryffd sighed. ‘I’m afraid they are more widespread than a good Christian would like.’

Trying to alter deeply ingrained prejudices would be a difficult task, she suspected. ‘What if Eva were to come after the other children went home?’

‘We don’t know that she’d be responsive to teaching,’ the vicar reminded her gently.

‘But you said yourself you don’t believe her to be a halfwit. Certainly she communicates with her mother, albeit in a way none but the two of them understands. I think she might be very quick to learn.’

The vicar nodded. ‘She might well be, and you are correct to remind me it is Eva’s welfare, rather than the townspeople’s prejudices, with which we should concern ourselves. I am willing to try, if you are. After you’ve dug your flowers, would you like to accompany me to the Gull’s Roost? Eva’s sister Laurie works there. We could ask her about Eva attending the school while I offer you a mug of cider as my thanks for agreeing to help with the children. And you should still have time to complete your commissions for Miss Foxe.’

Honoria smiled. ‘That sounds delightful.’



And so it was, after digging up several prime specimens of primroses and having the vicar’s housekeeper wrap them in newsprint for the transit back to Foxeden, Honoria found herself walking with the vicar into the tap room of the Gull’s Roost.

With its low-timbered roof, wide hearth, kegs of ale by the bar and the luscious scent of roasting meat emanating from the kitchen, the inn reminded her of those she’d visited in the villages near Stanegate Court.

Mr Kessel hurried over to greet them, calling for the barmaid to bring a mug of ale for the vicar and a glass of cider for the lady. After a few minutes’ chat, Father Gryffd asked if the innkeeper might spare Laurie Steavens for a moment, as he wished to speak with her.

Mr Kessel stiffened. ‘If you’re wanting to chastise her, I promise you, I got nothing to do—’

‘No, not at all!’ the vicar interrupted. ‘I hope you think better of me than to believe I would take you to task for another’s failings.’

The innkeeper’s face reddened. ‘Aye, you’re right. My apologies, Father. I’ll get the wife to fetch Laurie for you. Sadie,’ he called to the barmaid, ‘see that you keep their mugs filled.’

With a bow, the innkeeper went off to the kitchen. A few minutes later, wiping her reddened hands on an apron, a girl entered the tap room. Slender but lushly curved, with blonde hair and a matching set of bright blue eyes, there was a sweetness about her face that reminded Honoria of her little sister.

After looking Laurie up and down with a disdainful sniff, the barmaid walked out.

‘You wanted to see me, Father Gryffd?’ the girl asked, her face guarded.

‘Yes, Laurie. I wanted to ask about Eva.’

Then Laurie’s eyes widened in concern. ‘Nothing done happened to her, did it?’

‘No, she’s fine,’ Father Gryffd assured her. ‘At least, she was when I saw her after church yesterday.’

Laurie sighed with relief. ‘Thank goodness. Ever since the Lizzie D went down, I’ve worried about her every minute. Last week some of the village boys chased her, throwing stones.’ After glancing over her shoulder, she added in a lowered voice, ‘Johnnie Kessel urged ’em to it, the varmint.’

As Honoria’s dislike for the innkeeper’s son deepened, the vicar shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Laurie. I’ll speak to him.’

The girl tossed her head. ‘You do that, vicar, though it won’t do no good. Thinks he knows better ’n everybody. And won’t let nothing or no one get in his way, neither. So, what did you want to say about Evie?’

‘I’m opening a school for the village girls and wanted your sister to attend—after the others have gone, perhaps, so she wouldn’t be subjected to any unpleasantness. Would your mama agree? And do you think Eva would be, ah, receptive to learning?’

Laurie’s face lit. ‘Evie would love it! She’s so much smarter than anybody hereabouts could credit! Ma would be thrilled to have her go—’ she broke off suddenly, the smile fading ‘—but sorry, Father, we just can’t afford it. I barely earn enough here to keep food on the table and the…other—’ the girl lifted her chin, a defiant look on her face ‘—it don’t pay regular.’

‘There won’t be any charge, Laurie.’

The girl stared at them. ‘You’d let her come…for nuthin’?’ she asked incredulously. ‘Why, when Maimie Crawford went to school in St Just, her da complained every time he stopped for a brew about how it cost the trees to keep her there!’

‘Fortunately, since Sennlack has so few of them, it won’t cost the trees here,’ Father Gryffd answered, smiling. ‘With Miss Foxe’s help, I think I can manage without paying a teacher.’

Laurie gestured toward Honoria. ‘What does she know about my sister’s…trouble?’

‘I met Eva at church yesterday,’ Honoria replied.

Laurie gave her a speculative look. ‘And you’re still willing to teach her? Why?’

‘She seemed very bright to me,’ Honoria replied. ‘Deserving of the same chance to learn as the other girls.’ She smiled. ‘And she gave me flowers.’

Laurie subjected her to a hard scrutiny. Honoria returned her stare without flinching.

Finally, Eva’s sister nodded. ‘Don’t see how you could—a rich, manor-born lady like you—but maybe you do understand. Thank you, then. You, too, Father.’

The vicar nodded. ‘We’re all here to help each other, Laurie. There’s a place in God’s heart for everyone.’

The girl swallowed hard. ‘God and I ain’t exactly been on speaking terms of late, Father, but if you’re willing to do this for Evie, I might have to rethink that.’

The vicar smiled. ‘I hope you will. And you’ll speak to your mother about Eva coming to school?’

‘Aye, I will. Best be getting back to work now, though.’

With another nod, the girl disappeared up the stairs. Turning to Honoria, the vicar said, ‘I ought to stop and check on Mr Kessel’s ailing mother. Will you be all right waiting here, Miss Foxe, until I return?’

‘You needn’t feel you must escort me back to the vicarage,’ Honoria assured him. ‘Sennlack is small enough that I’ll have no difficulty finding my way back to retrieve my horse after I complete Aunt Foxe’s errands.’

After proposing that they discuss the school again after services the next Sunday, Father Gryffd thanked her for her help and walked out. Watching him go, Honoria reflected with amusement that, though the vicar had thanked her, it was really he who was doing her the kindness.

Satisfaction filled her at the thought that, while she was marooned here unscrambling her future, she might use such modest talents as she possessed to help other girls—especially Eva. Something about the little girl touched her heart, even beyond the fact that they had both been cast out of the societies into which they’d been born by circumstances over which neither had had any control.

She was surprised how cheering the idea of being useful was. She didn’t think herself a particularly selfish person, but for all her life up to this point, she’d filled a role—daughter, sister, gentlewoman in the country, member of Society in London. She’d always been busy with a variety of activities—but never, that she could recall, with any tasks she would describe as being truly useful to anyone.

Since her ability to choose which role she would play in future had recently been drastically restricted, perhaps she ought to seek out other ways to be useful. Once her true identity was discovered, which was bound to happen eventually, Father Gryffd might have second thoughts about employing her to assist in a school for innocent girls.

She’d like to have accomplished something towards improving Eva’s situation before that happened.

Sipping the last of her cider, she was wondering over her unexpected connection to an illiterate Cornish child when a deep, melodic voice tickled her ear, stirring every nerve as the sound resonated through her body.

‘Why, Miss Foxe! How delightful to see you again.’




Chapter Six


After spending the morning supervising the crew repairing rigging on the Flying Gull, Gabe walked into the inn to find the very woman whose voice and image had been teasing his thoughts.

She’d been playing an active part in some very lusty dreams, too, he thought with a sigh, but he’d do better to suppress those memories, particularly if he wanted to beguile her into speaking with him. Since he had nothing better to do the rest of the afternoon than read the week-old London papers, attempting to charm this luscious and resistant lady would be a welcome diversion.

Obviously not aware that he resided in one of the inn’s bedchambers, as he addressed her, she gasped in surprise. He had to give her credit, though, for she quickly recovered her countenance and assumed the faintly haughty air she’d employed in the churchyard.

He barely suppressed a grin. Her reaction was like the dropping of a handkerchief at the start of a race: he couldn’t wait to charge forward.

‘Mr Hawksworth,’ she replied with a regal nod. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be off somewhere robbing someone?’

‘Nay, lass, ’tis full daylight. I endeavour to constrain my nefarious activities until after dark,’ he replied.

She stiffened when he called her ‘lass,’ and he could almost see her rapidly reviewing phrases to find one biting enough to put him in his place. She looked so intent—and so indignant, he was hard put not to laugh.

He hadn’t encountered a chick with feathers this easy to ruffle since leaving his brother’s home.

Before she could unfurl her blighting phrase of choice, he continued, ‘Mrs Kessel brews a superior cider. Won’t you share one with me before you leave? It would be entirely proper, I assure you.’ He gestured around the room. ‘We have the whole inn to act as chaperones.’

‘There is such comfort in numbers,’ she replied, irony in her tone as she nodded toward the currently deserted tap room.

To his disappointment, their tête-à-tête ended practically before it began as Sadie rushed in. ‘Mr Hawksworth, sir, what can I do for you? Some ale? The missus be cooking a fine roast. If you’ve a mind for a bite, I’ll see if I can persuade her to fix you a plate now.’

Gabe suspected the persistent tavern maid had been lolling about the corridor, watching for him as she’d developed an irritating tendency to do—and was not at all interested in assisting the inn’s other customer. ‘Just a mug of your finest, Sadie. And a bit more cider for the lady.’

The distinctly unfriendly look Sadie cast at Miss Foxe confirmed Gabe’s suspicion. ‘Think she was about leaving, weren’t you, miss?’

‘Nay, no one could resist a wee bit more of Mrs Kessel’s excellent brew. Why, ’twould be near an unforgiveable insult to that good lady’s skill, and I’m certain you wouldn’t wish to insult the innkeeper’s wife, would you, Miss Foxe?’

The girl’s expression said she was about to do just that when the lady herself walked in. ‘Welcome, Mr Gabe, and you, too, miss! How go things with the Gull?’

‘Tolerable, ma’am. She’ll be ready to hoist sail by nightfall, should it be needful.’

Mrs Kessel nodded. ‘Dickin said his ship’d be ready any day now and he just awaiting word. What can I get you?’

‘Some ale, please. Mrs Kessel, have you met Miss Marie Foxe, Miss Foxe’s niece?’

‘Why, no! Excuse me, miss, I had no idea—’ Breaking off hastily, the innkeeper’s wife dipped her a curtsy, clearly distressed at having perhaps given offence to the relation of such an important area resident. ‘A pleasure to welcome you! Your aunt’s always been good enough to honour us with her custom.’

‘I’ve just been telling her she needs another mug of your cider, which is the best on the coast. Did you not find it so, Miss Foxe?’ Gabe looked at her, grinning.

‘It is excellent, ma’am,’ she allowed, darting him a dagger glance.

‘Why, thank ye kindly, miss. Sadie,’ Mrs Kessel called to the girl lounging near the bar, a sullen look on her face. ‘Another cider for Miss Foxe, and be quick about it!’

There was no way now she could politely refuse, a fact of which she was well aware. Gabe watched her almost grind her teeth in frustration before her expression cleared and she gave the innkeeper’s wife a smile, so unexpected that its warmth and brilliance dazzled him.

‘Thank you, ma’am. I should enjoy one very much.’

Still bedazzled, he scarcely heard her reply, his brain unable to progress beyond thinking that he’d never seen her truly smile before and that, when she smiled like that, half the gentlemen on the Cornish coast would fight each other for the honour of throwing themselves at her feet.

How had she ever escaped London unwed?

Along with his realization of the feet-worshipping power of that smile came a wholly unexpected flash of emotion that felt uncomfortably like jealousy. Quite understandable, he told himself: he had seen the goddess first, and it was only natural to dislike the notion of other acolytes trying to join the procession.

Fortunately, he reflected, after mentally ticking off the possibilities, only a handful of gentlemen resided in the area, half of them already married and the other half attending the Season in Penzance or London. Unless, like some Lady Bountiful, she liked to cast her lovely smiles like coins to the poor, his only competition hereabouts for the pleasure of crossing wits with her would be fishermen, farmers and day labourers.

From Sadie’s expression as she returned with their mugs, the barmaid didn’t like Miss Foxe sharing her brilliant smile with him any more than he liked the idea of some other gentleman basking in its glow. The barmaid tossed Miss Foxe’s mug on the table, splashing a bit of cider on her gown, then sidled up to Gabe and bent low to give him a good view of the assets bulging out the top of her tight bodice as she carefully placed his mug before him.

‘Here ye be, Mr Hawks worth. Anything else you be needing, you holler.’ Slowly she traced her lips with her tongue and smiled. ‘Just…anything.’

Gabe might be sitting across the table from a lovely lady who possessed the most dazzling smile he’d ever beheld; he might be mindful that three strapping brothers with strong protective instincts stood between him and accepting the invitation the wayward Sadie had just tendered him—which truly didn’t interest him in any event. But he was still man enough to enjoy the hip-swaying show Sadie put on as she sashayed back to bar.

He looked up to see Miss Foxe rolling her eyes. ‘Don’t let me keep you from pursuing more satisfying company, Mr Hawksworth,’ she said sweetly.

Her knowing expression said she’d understood perfectly just what sort of offer Sadie had laid on the table with his mug. Whatever her past, she was not a total innocent, then. Her aunt might receive such information with alarm, but for Gabe, interest—and a significant part of his anatomy—stirred at that pleasing conclusion.





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