Smuggler's Lady Page 9

  “You did not send for the doctor, Lord Rutherford?”

  His lordship shook his head. “Walter is more skilled than any country sawbones, ma’am. His expertise once saved me from the surgeon’s knife in a field hospital. I’d trust him with a deal more than a sprain.”

  A frown appeared in her eyes and she gave him an interested, speculative look as if she would like to pursue the subject, but then turned back to Rob, saying matter-of-factly, “So, you managed not to break it this time.”

  Her brother grinned weakly. “I would have broke all of my bones if Lord Rutherford had not caught me.”

  “I fear that ‘caught’ is not quite the right word,” his lordship observed, turning from the sideboard where he was pouring two glasses of port. “Lady Blake?” He handed one to her. “You will find it restorative,” he said, seeing the look of refusal in her eyes. “I think you are in need of it.”

  There was a firmness behind the polite tone, but Merrie had the unmistakable impression that it arose simply out of concern for her. His expression bore none of the signs of annoyance, superiority, sarcasm that so offended her. And young Rob was regarding his lordship with worshipful, trusting eyes. He was a most puzzling man, one minute so odious she would be glad never to see him again, the next warm and compassionate. And when he smiled or laughed with genuine pleasure, it was as if the sun had come out on a rainy day. Her calm front with Rob had clearly not deceived him, and she could not deny the sense of relief that came from having a fellow adult concerning himself with her brother’s well-being, not to mention her own.

  Meredith took the wine with a word of thanks, having the strong suspicion that her host would not take no for an answer. “We appear to owe you a great deal, my lord,” she said. “Not only does my brother trespass on your property, but you are then obliged to pick up the pieces. I do not know how to apologize.”

  “It is a great deal too bad of you, Rob,” Hugo put in. “You have been told, I don’t know how many times, not to run with the village boys, but you do not care a jot for Merrie’s feelings. You have put her in a monstrous uncomfortable position. The story will be around the houses in no time and then she will have to listen to the old cats—”

  “That is enough, Hugo,” Merrie said quietly. “I know you mean well.” She patted his arm, fully sensible of the truth of his words, although wishing, as always, that he could be a little more tactful. “But it will not help Rob to hear those things at present.”

  “I hate Hugo!” Rob declared on a choked sob. “He’s always prosing on. I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I’d sooner have a thrashing than listen to Hugo going on about it for the next year!”

  Meredith raised her eyes to the ceiling. It occurred to Rutherford that she had probably had about as much as she could bear for one day. “We will leave these two to their own devices,” he said in accents that brooked no argument. “Let us take a turn about the garden.”

  “But I must take Rob home,” Merrie protested.

  “You shall do so shortly and I will escort you. For the moment, you are going to take a turn about the garden. I would like your advice on one or two matters.” Cupping her elbow, he propelled her with an almost indecent haste through the French doors and into the air.

  For some reason, Merrie found that she had no desire to argue with this decisive action. There was something most appealing about leaving decisions up to someone else for once. She smiled ruefully. “It is not at all kind to desert Rob. Hugo is determined to have his say.”

  “And it will do that young scamp no harm to hear it,” Rutherford declared forcefully. “Besides, I do not care to see you looking harassed. You are far too young to carry the burdens of the world upon your shoulders, Merrie Trelawney, for all your talk about widows of advanced years.” This last was said with sardonic emphasis. “It seems to me that, if you are not concerning yourself with the plight of baby birds, you are being plagued to death by those quarrelsome youngsters. I should inform you, ma’am, that I intend to do something about it.”

  Meredith was for a moment too taken aback by this forthright statement to reply. While it was a declaration of intent that ought to have enraged her with its cool assumption of command, his motives for making it could only be interpreted as friendly and concerned. Her elbow was still held in a firm clasp, so her feet were obliged to follow the direction dictated by her companion.

  “Has the cat run away with your tongue, Lady Blake?” he teased when the silence continued.

  “I think you delight in putting me at a disadvantage, sir,” she retorted. “You are quite sensible of the obligation I am under. I have no choice but to keep silent, for, if I replied to you, I fear I should be most impolite, and I cannot repay your kindness in such a manner.

  “I have never heard such a Banbury story,” his lordship scoffed. “Nothing would prevent your saying whatever you wished to me, as well you know. The fact is, my lady, you cannot come up with a suitable reply.”

  “Oh, you are quite odious,” Merrie grumbled, unable to refute the charge. “But I am determined not to quarrel with you this afternoon. Your kindness to Rob forbids it. However, it will be much easier if you do not provoke me, as you seem to take so much pleasure in doing.”

  “I had rather thought it was the other way around,” Rutherford said evenly. “From the very first, you have never lost an opportunity to make some derogatory remark—by innuendo, I grant you, but I am neither deaf nor obtuse.”

  Merrie’s jaw dropped and she stopped in her tracks. “How can you possibly say that? I have merely been responding to intolerable ...” Memory of those kisses rose with unwelcome clarity. She bit her lip. “It is time I returned home, Lord Rutherford.”

  “Presently you shall. We will not pursue this topic for the moment, interesting though it is. I wish you to relax a little, and I do not think that that discussion will help you to do so,” he replied blandly. “Now, will you tell me what should be planted in this border? I know little of such things, but I was much struck by your flower garden at Pendennis.”

  There seemed little option but obedience. And in all truth, Meredith was loath to continue with the subject herself. There were some distinctly uncomfortable implications lurking in its depth, ones she would prefer to examine in privacy. She turned her attention to the noncombative matter of flowers and a good twenty minutes passed in this pleasant fashion until she recalled Rob.

  “I must return to Pendennis.” She turned back to the house. “I shall put Rob in Nan’s charge for the evening, which she will enjoy a great deal more than he, I daresay.”

  “Who is Nan?” his lordship inquired, keeping pace with her.

  “Oh, she was our nurse but now devotes most of her care to me.” Merrie laughed. “She is a veritable bully and my knees knock whenever she frowns, but I could not manage without her, and Rob will mind her.”

  “That is, indeed, fortunate,” his lordship observed and Merrie looked at him sharply.

  “It is only high spirits,” she said. “There is not an ounce of—”

  “Hush. I do not recall saying that there was.” Lord Rutherford, smiling, placed a long finger on her lips. “There is no call to rip up at me this time. I meant no criticism of Rob. He is neither better nor worse than any other boy his age. But do not tell me he is not a handful.”

  Since his finger remained pressed to her lips, Merrie was unable to tell him anything. Besides, when he smiled at her like that, all acerbity left her. He waited until the fire died in the sloe eyes before removing the finger, which he then placed beneath her chin.

  “No,” Merrie whispered, knowing what he was about to do. Her eyes darted wildly from side to side. “Not here.”

  “Somewhere else, then?” he asked gently, the gray eyes glinting.

  “No!” she almost shouted although she knew she had invited the mischievous question. With a little, choked gasp, she jerked herself away from the finger, turning back to the house almost at a run.

  Rutherfo
rd followed, chuckling to himself. Perhaps it was not gentlemanly to play with her in that manner, but it was quite irresistible—as irresistible as the urge to kiss her again, to feel that supple pliancy reaching against him.

  They reentered the library where the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a knife. Rob glowered resentfully at his sister. Hugo bore the mien of one who has satisfactorily discharged an unpleasant duty, and Lord Rutherford was hard pressed to keep a straight face. He dispatched Hugo to fetch the gig and tell the stable lad to saddle Saracen, then suggested briskly to the younger boy that he try his legs.

  Rob appeared much recovered. When his reproachful looks bore no fruit from either of the adults, he seemed to forget his grievance. He was soon installed in the gig beside Merrie who took the pony’s reins. Hugo, who was on horseback, rode ahead at his sister’s request, to alert the household to their impending arrival.

  “It is kind in you to escort us, Lord Rutherford, but I am sure you must have more pressing matters to attend to.” Merrie flicked the reins and the dappled pony shook its head with a chink of the bridle, snuffling disgustedly as she hauled her burden down the drive.

  “None that comes to mind,” Lord Rutherford replied with another of his bland smiles.

  “I shall become quite puffed up, sir, if you continue to favor me with such attention,” Merrie murmured demurely, her eyes resolutely on the road ahead.

  “Have no fear, ma’am. Should that happen, I will not hesitate to deflate your self-consequence.”

  “My gratitude exceeds all bounds,” she returned.

  Lord Rutherford chuckled. “You are a worthy opponent, Merrie Trelawney. Shall we agree to fence in the future only with the foils buttoned?”

  “If you are able to be so restrained, sir, I am sure that I can,” she replied swiftly.

  “I do not understand what you are talking about.” Rob spoke up, an unusually petulant note in his voice. Merrie turned to him with instant comprehension.

  “Does your arm pain you, love?”

  “Yes, and my head aches.”

  “We shall be home soon,” she reassured him, patting his grubby hand comfortingly. “Then you shall go to bed and Nan will make you a posset.”

  Lord Rutherford, excluded from the family exchange and seeing again the pucker of her brow, resolved to separate Meredith Blake from her brothers whenever possible. He preferred her undivided attention just as he preferred to see her without that nagging frown. It was almost as bad as the lowered head, twisting hands, and slumped shoulders of the widow Blake, but at least he knew that was an act. The maternal role she played with her brothers was genuine enough and, in his lordship’s opinion, a totally unreasonable burden. He found himself smiling again as he realized that for the first time in many months his own concerns seemed remarkably unimportant. In fact, since he’d met this extraordinary creature, he had experienced a good many firsts, and this afternoon’s black mood had become a total irrelevancy.

  “Forgive my curiosity, Lord Rutherford.” Meredith unexpectedly broke into his reverie. “But did you say you were in the army?”

  “Did I?” He frowned. “I do not recall saying any such thing.”

  “I did not mean to pry,” she said stiffly, hearing the note of reluctance in his voice. “You said something about Walter saving you from a field hospital. I am sorry if it is a subject you prefer to keep to yourself.”

  Damian sighed. “I do not, in general, care to talk about it. But, yes. I was with Wellington in the Peninsula, until a shoulder wound earned me my furlough, some six months ago.”

  “Hence the hardships you referred to this morning,” Merrie said reflectively.

  “Just so,” he concurred in a voice as dry as dust.

  “Well, I suppose I must beg your pardon,” Merrie said matter-of-factly. “I had thought you to be an effete London buck.”

  “An opinion you did not scruple to hide,” he replied.

  “Attack is frequently the best form of defense, my lord. Did your soldiering not teach you that?”

  “It taught me many things but clearly not the best way of handling sharp-tongued widows,” he retorted.

  Merrie decided to side-step that. She was too interested in this new information to be diverted into another argumentative exchange. “You found it difficult to leave the army?” It was a guess, but somehow she knew it to be accurate.

  “Damnably!” His mouth twisted in the travesty of a smile. “I am a soldier and always have been. I cannot abide kicking my heels about town. But what’s a man to do if he’s fit for nothing but idle small talk, the gaming tables, and squiring the ladies?”

  “It must be quite dreadful,” she said. He looked at her, amazed at this instant recognition of a problem that no one else except Walter had begun to comprehend. Merrie was thinking how dreadfully dull she would find her own life if she were forced to give up her smuggling. That activity served two purposes. It brought much needed funds to swell her purse, but it also provided her with the excitement and satisfaction of using skills, physical and intellectual. Without that outlet, she would shrivel and fade in this ritual-bound, inbred backwater.

  “You must find something else to do,” she said briskly. “We must all have a purpose, a reason for existing.”

  “I think that perhaps I have found one,” Rutherford said softly.

  That premonitory shiver ran down her spine. Was he referring to unraveling conundrums again? “What is that?” she asked hesitantly.

  He smiled. “Restoring my inheritance.”

  Meredith considered this as they reached the driveway to Pendennis. Whether she believed him or not, it were best to respond blandly. “That is a worthy cause, sir, albeit a little limited. But it is a start.”

  “Oh, yes,” he agreed. “Most definitely a start.”

  Chapter Seven

  “What think you, Bart?” Merrie nibbled her thumb as she posed the question to the fisherman who sat on a rock in a corner of the cavern, puffing thoughtfully on a clay pipe.

  “I don’t like it,” he said with his usual directness. “It’s asking for trouble with the revenue the way they are now. Two runs a month means two deliveries. That’s four nights in a month we’ll be running the gauntlet.”

  “There’s those in Fowey who’d be glad of regular deliveries,” Merrie said. “What if we were to deliver to one place where those who are buying know to go? There is less risk than in making individual calls as we do around here.”

  “What place?” Bart’s eyes narrowed against the blue curl of pipe smoke. He knew Merrie well enough to be sure that this was no vague, unthought-out idea she was presenting.

  “The Eagle and Child in Fowey. I hear the landlord would be willing to receive and dispense the goods in exchange for a—a consideration, shall we say?”

  “Who tells you that?”

  “Jacques.” Merrie chuckled. “He was in there two months ago, sampling mine host’s brew. You know Jacques, my friend! They fell into conversation about brandy and ...” She shrugged expressively.

  Bart cradled the warm bowl of his pipe in a cupped hand, considering in silence. Merrie made no attempt to disturb his cogitations. Bart could never be hurried and without his support she’d do well to forget the idea.

  “I’ll talk to the others,” he said finally. “They’re family men for the most part, Merrie. The money comes in handy enough, but they’d as lief keep their necks the length they are now.”

  “I also,” she agreed.

  “Sometimes I wonder.” Bart snorted, then tamped down the glowing tobacco with a callused thumb before getting to his feet. “We’ll be delivering that lot tomorrow night, then?” He jerked his head toward the casks and bundles ranged against the wall.

  “Unless our friend in the custom house can give us a reason not to,” Merrie replied.

  Bart grinned. “We struck lucky there. Fancy Luke’s brother-in-law clerking for the revenue.” He shook his head in mock wonder. “There’ll be something extra spe
cial in there for him, I’ll be bound.”

  Merrie nodded. “Jacques recommends the madeira. I have it in mind to broach a case for our friend. If we had not had warning of that last ambush, we’d be in a pretty pickle now.”

  “Aye. Well, I’ll be off then. Unless we get a cautionary word from Greg, we’ll have the ponies here by eleven tomorrow night.”

  “Don’t forget to pass the word in the village,” Merrie reminded him. “We’ll want no watchers from windows or accidental meetings on the roads.” That had already happened once too often, but she was not about to alarm Bart with that piece of information.

  “ ’Tis done already,” Bart replied laconically, going into the narrow tunnel leading to the smaller cave, Merrie following. The village grapevine was amazingly efficient. A servant in one of the great houses would happen to hear on the wind that the Gentlemen would be riding on a certain night and the word would spread, always via the kitchens and stables, so that all remained within doors, and, if a dog barked for any reason, it was ignored. In the morning, in barn or stableyard, would be found a cask, a well-wrapped parcel, a case of the finest burgundy in exchange for the small packet that had gone out with the cat when the household retired. It was all most satisfactory. No one was compromised, no one knew anything, and no one ventured to ask the questions for which they would receive no truthful answers.

  Meredith waited in the outside cave until Bart had had a ten-minute start, then sauntered out onto the path that led downward to the beach, upward to the cliff top at the rear of Pendennis. She had not used the secret passage because the household had been still awake when she had left for the rendezvous. Besides, she could not make the scramble in petticoats, and the sight of their mistress in britches would have certainly given the servants cause for speculation.

  It was a balmy evening and she decided to wander down to the beach before returning to the house and bed. All in all, it had been an aggravating day: coastguard spying in the Falcon, Rob’s adventures, Hugo’s lectures, Lord Rutherford. What was she to do about Lord Rutherford? If only she still found him utterly dislikeable as she had done the night of the ball, there would be no problem. He was still possessed of disagreeable traits, certainly. He seemed to delight in teasing her, but there was little teasing in his manner when he issued directives or pronouncements of intention. And there was nothing remotely amusing, either, about the way she seemed obliged to follow the directives or about the alarming way in which he managed to fulfill his intentions.