The Smuggler's Captive Bride Read online

  The Smuggler’s

  Captive Bride

  Christina Dodd

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2012 by Christina Dodd

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the express, written consent of the copyright holder.

  The Smuggler’s Captive Bride is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are fictitious and are not based on any real persons living or dead.

  Kent, England, 1813

  CHAPTER ONE

  MISS LAURA Haver groped her way toward the ocean cliff, guided only by the sound of the waves and scent of salt water on the breeze. Clouds streamed across the stars, blocking the feeble light, and her foot skidded down the first few inches of cliff before she realized she’d reached her goal.

  Sitting down hard, she pulled herself to safety, then scooted back and huddled in the rough sea grass. Pebbles skittered down the steep slope to the beach on the Hamilton estate, and she listened for the shouts that meant she’d been discovered.

  There was nothing. Just the endless rocking of the waves on the sandy beach below.

  It had been three months. Three months of lonely torment as she pored over her brother’s diary and tried to decipher his cryptic scrawls. Three months of futile visits to the London townhouse where Keefe Leighton, the earl of Hamilton, resided and kept an office. Three months of listening while Lord Hamilton assured her the government would avenge Ronald’s death.

  Three months of knowing that he lied.

  A boat crunched on the sand below as it drove onto the beach. Shivering with chill and fear, she pulled the dark hood over her brown hair and scooted back to the edge of the cliff. The night was moonless and so dark she could scarcely see her hand in front of her face, but she clearly saw the covered lanterns flashing like fireflies. They showed bits of light only as the men deemed necessary, and in their movement she counted at least twenty smugglers — eight unloading the boat, eight receiving on the beach, and three men just standing, apparently supervising the operation.

  One tall figure moved back and forth, and from the consideration all the men paid him, it was obvious he was the leader. Ronald’s diary mentioned him only as Jean, but Laura feared she knew his identity. She strained her eyes wide and prayed for a just one moment of light — and when it came, she stood, rigid with indignation.

  “He is the smuggler.”

  As if her words caught on the wind and blew to his ears alone, Lord Hamilton turned and looked up toward the top of the cliff. She saw the glint of his eyes, and with the instinct of a hunted creature, she crouched behind a rock and froze. She didn’t want Hamilton to see her here. She couldn’t let him find her here. All her ugly suspicions had been proved true, and if he had killed her brother to silence him, she doubted he would hesitate to murder her, too.

  Her heart pounded. She wanted to flee with unrestrained panic, but she’d come too far and too much was at stake for her to lose discipline now. Straining to listen, she could hear men’s voices above the lap of the waves, but no shout of discovery gave her reason to run. She had to keep her head, get back to the inn, and write her report to give to the authorities. It would be difficult to convince them that a member of the House of Lords was nothing but a common criminal, but with Ronald’s diary as corroboration, she’d do it.

  She had to, for Ronald’s sake.

  She crept backwards. Her skirt caught on her heels, rocks ground into the palms of her hands. She stood finally, and leaned to dust off her skirt. When she straightened and squinted toward the horizon, she realized a tall figure blocked out the stars. She stared, pinned by fear, then with a yelp and a start, she whirled and ran.

  She could hear the sound of thudding boots behind her. The gorse grabbed at her skirts and the ruts of the country road moved and twisted in snakelike guile. The wind gusted at her back and carried a man’s warm breath to touch the nape of her neck. Gooseflesh ran over her skin and she moaned softly, clutching the stitch that started in her side. When she could run no longer, she dared a look behind her.

  All she could see was black night. The stars had disappeared completely and the upcoming storm splattered the first raindrops in her face. She’d imagined Hamilton when he wasn’t there.

  With a ragged sigh of relief, she slowed to a walk and trudged toward the inn. How stupid and cowardly she’d been in her precipitous flight! But over and over, through the long, lonely nights since Ronald’s death, she had dreamed about Hamilton chasing her. She’d seen his face on every dark-haired man who walked the London streets, in the men who had traveled with her in the coach as she made her way to Kent — and justice.

  She didn’t like this obsession she had formed about the man, but something about Hamilton convinced her she should flee and never stop, because if she didn’t…

  Well. She couldn’t flee. She had her duty to Ronald.

  And it wasn’t as if she didn’t know why she dreamed about Hamilton, or why when he watched her, she worried for her virtue. Not because she feared he would force himself on her. No, indeed. It was not that easy.

  She feared she would fling herself at him.

  And when she did, he would take her on a erotic journey from which she would return changed, no longer levelheaded Laura Haver, but a creature drowning in sensuality … no, not even sensuality. Call this emotion by its true name — lust.

  It hadn’t always been thus.

  When Ronald was alive, he had spoken of Hamilton in dazzling terms. As Hamilton's personal secretary, Ronald proclaimed often that he had had learned much from his lordship about wealth, responsibility and personal honor.

  Yet Laura had never had occasion to meet Hamilton … until Ronald was killed.

  The grief. The anguish. The desperate days of mourning her only sibling and last living relative.

  At last she’d put those emotions aside and made an appointment to meet Hamilton, confident he would help her discover Ronald's killer and give her a measure of consolation.

  Only to discover Ronald had failed to report, or possibly even to notice, that Hamilton was … physically spectacular.

  Gray blue eyes, the color of the sea on a calm day. A wide, firm, placid mouth. A deep voice, tranquil, thoughtful, measured.

  Yet when his eyes rested on her, they grew intensely, vibrantly blue, almost angry in their ferocity, and his mouth was no longer placid, but carnal, beckoning. When his voice spoke her name, his voice grew low, warm, seductive.

  As for his body … he was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed always in absolutely the proper clothing for a gentleman and lord of his station.

  Yet he seemed intent on using his body to bully her. When she sat, he stood over her. When she stood, he loomed. He seemed to have a propensity for looming, and she found it irritating in that the tactic seemed to work so well. While he was standing and looming and being imposing, she found herself wanting to do as he told her, and go home and remain like a genteel lady, and when the proper time arrived the smugglers would be brought to justice.

  Yet after that first visit, when she arrived home she realized the extent of her own spinelessness. She knew no more about the circumstances of Ronald's death than she had before and she knew nothing about how Hamilton intended to see that the smugglers were brought to justice.

  So she went back again, and quickly realized that Hamilton was actively and personally repelling her inquiries.

  He was patronizing her.

  And she might nothing but a poor, plain gentlewoman who earned her living as a seamstress, but she couldn’t bear to be patronized, especially not by Hamilton.

  His superior air set her back up, so she clenched her teeth an
d faced up to him, ignoring the breadth of his shoulders, the sculptured perfection of his features, and her own untutored desire to hurl herself into his arms and let him care for her.

  From the very beginning some instinct told her that his placid exterior hid something deep, potent and deceptive. That was the key word about Hamilton … deceptive. She would do well to remember it in all future dealings with him.

  The rain began to fling itself to the ground with increasing conviction, and she wrapped her redingote, that coat which she’d sewn with her own fingers, tighter around her shoulders, and apprehensively glanced behind her again.

  Ronald had always said she was too straightforward to sneak around and too blunt for diplomacy, but now that she’d read his diary, she’d learned that her brother had led a secret life. He had her convinced he was nothing more than Hamilton’s secretary, when actually he had worked to uncover this ring of smugglers.

  A frown puckered her forehead. He hadn’t told her because he didn’t want her to know and worry. He’d been protecting her, and now she was alone with no one to avenge his death but her.

  She’d do it, too. She’d make sure those responsible suffered as she had suffered with his loss.

  When she saw the lights of the Bull and Eagle, she fixed on them as if they were her salvation. She knew, of course, that Hamilton might seek her, but not tonight. He had brandy to unload and reckless men to pay, and he would never imagine that she’d be on her way at first light, even if she had to walk.

  Carefully she crept through the now-muddy inn yard and pushed the outside door open. In the two days she’d stayed here, she’d ascertained that it squeaked if not handled properly, and that brought Ernest bustling out of his quarters to smile and bow and greet her as if she were the salvation of Hamilton Village.

  And all because of one little lie she’d been driven to tell.

  CHAPTER TWO

  GOD WOULD forgive her, she was sure, for she’d told her lie in pursuit of truth and justice — but she didn’t know if hearty, bald-headed Ernest ever would.

  The hinges didn’t make a sound. The taproom was empty, as it had been when she left, and she didn’t understand how her luck had held. She didn’t want anyone to know she’d been out, yet at the same time, last night the townsfolk had congregated in the taproom for ale and conversation. Briefly she wondered what kept them away, why the fire burned low and place looked abandoned. Then a burst of angry shouting from the kitchen sent her fleeing up the stairs.

  When no one stormed into the taproom, when no one pursued her up the stairs, she paused at the top and listened.

  Ernest’s voice she could recognize, and he sounded both agitated and afraid. The other voice was a man’s, lower, less distinct, but with a tone that raised the hair on the back of her head.

  Who was it? Gripping the rail in both hands, she crept down two steps and listened attentively.

  Why did the stranger sound so menacing?

  Heedlessly, she stepped on the edge of the third step and it creaked beneath her shoe. The conversation in the kitchen stopped and she froze.

  Footsteps sounded on the floorboards and Ernest stepped into the common room.

  She tried to melt into the shadows.

  He stared up at her.

  He saw her; she would have sworn he saw her, but he shrugged and walked back into the kitchen without any indication that he’d noted her presence.

  The conversation began again, lower this time, and she sneaked to her room. Silently, she took the key from her reticule and unlocked the door. Slipping inside, she shut the dark oak panels behind her and turned the key again, protecting herself from all comers.

  It was exactly as she’d left it. This was, as Ernest had told her the night she arrived, the best bedchamber in the inn and the one which had served Henry the Eighth when he’d been stranded here in a storm. Laura didn’t know if she believed that, but certainly a gigantic old-fashioned bed dominated the room. It rested on a dais in the corner, and the canopy was hung with velvet curtains which could be drawn to keep in the warmth. Gargoyles decorated every bedpost and each rail between had been sanded and polished until it shone. Ernest had proudly told her that over two thousand geese had been plucked to stuff that feather mattress. She only knew she’d been lost in it when she slept.

  The fire in her fireplace burned, piled high with sweet-smelling logs. On one side was a settle, a bench whose high back protected her from drafts when she sat there. On the other stood a desk and a chair.

  As she always did, she went to the desk first. The candles had burned down while she was gone, but they still illuminated the papers that were strewn in artful disarray. Beneath them rested a diary. Ronald’s diary, bound in gleaming red leather and containing so many secrets.

  His diary was the one reason she knew to be in Hamilton Village now, tonight. It was the reason she’d scouted the area earlier in the day and had deducted that the cove would be the landing place.

  She reassured herself the diary remained safe, then thoroughly covered it with the papers again. Ronald had taught her that. Always hide things in plain sight, he said. He’d learned that while in service to Hamilton, and she’d found it good advice.

  Flushed with guilt, she opened the desk drawer and pushed her hand all the way to the back. Her fingertips touched the cold metal, and she drew out a small silver pistol.

  On this matter, she ignored Ronald and his advice. She couldn’t bear to leave the deadly thing out. She’d stressed her need for privacy to Ernest and been careful to lock the door whenever she left, but possession of such a firearm made her nervous. It was Ronald’s, and until he’d been killed, she’d never imagined she would want to carry one. She knew how to use it, of course. Her father had stressed the need for self-defense while they lived in India. Once back in England, she’d believed herself inviolate. Now, with Ronald’s death, her veil of security had been ripped and she trusted no fellow being.

  Strange, but her sense of being threatened by Hamilton had started long before her suspicions that he was the smuggler congealed into a certainty.

  Once she had caught him contemplating her with a look she’d seen only one other time. When her parents were alive and the whole family lived in India, she’d seen a tiger concealing itself in high grass, waiting for his prey. Hamilton’s mien betrayed a tiger-like confidence in himself. He was sure he could have her if he wanted, but the time wasn’t yet right.

  As the months had worn on, she sometimes thought she could sense the impatient twitch of his tail and the way he crouched, waiting to pounce.

  Shivering, she replaced the pistol. Stripping off her wet redingote, she flung it over the back of the settle, then laid her gloves by the feeble flames. She slipped out of her practical boots, now covered with mud, and placed them neatly by the gloves. Her dark blue walking dress, so suitable for the city and for the occupation of seamstress, was bedraggled from the night’s ill-use, and she touched the hem with trembling fingers. She hadn’t the money to replace it; every cent she had had gone into this trip to Kent.

  Still — she firmed her chin — it was worth the loss of a mere gown to bring Ronald’s murderer to justice.

  Kneeling, she repaired the fire so it burned brightly again, warming her hands all the while. As her hair dried, the short strands sprang away from her head and curled in wild abandon, but she didn’t care tonight, for who would see it?

  CHAPTER THREE

  “SHE’S AT the Bull and Eagle.” Keefe Leighton, the earl of Hamilton, gave the boy a push. “Go back and tell the others, then return and wait in the stable. I’ll be out when I’ve got the information.”

  In the dark and the rain, he couldn’t see Franklin leave, but he knew he would be obeyed. Everyone of his men were loyal to him, and only to him, but tonight something had gone wrong. As he kicked the door of the Bull and Eagle, he cursed the woman he’d seen silhouetted against the stars.

  His instincts told him it was Miss Laura Haver, and where she was
concerned, his instincts were very active.

  What was Laura doing here on this precise night? What did she know, and how did she know it? What had her brother told her that he hadn’t been able to communicate to Hamilton?

  Hamilton needed to know the answers, so he’d abandoned his men as they unloaded casks of brandy and hid them in the caves on the cliffs above the beach. Hamilton had to follow the woman.

  The taproom was empty. Not even Ernest stood before the fire that sputtered on the hearth, and Hamilton’s gaze probed every corner as he scraped mud off his boots. Then the innkeeper bustled out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron. “Hey, what are ye doing out tonight?” he demanded roughly. “Ye know—”

  Hamilton swept his hat off and Ernest stopped in his tracks. Something that looked like horror flashed briefly across his rotund face, then his expression cleared and a slow grin built. Hurrying forward, he took Hamilton’s cloak. “M’lord. How delightful! M’lady assured me ye’d arrive.”

  “M’lady?”

  “Lady Hamilton arrived yesterday, but said she didn’t expect ye for several days.”

  What was the man babbling about? His mother was dead, his grandmother seldom left the manor, and they were the only noblewomen Ernest called M’lady. In a neutral tone, Hamilton asked, “Didn’t she?”

  Chuckling, Ernest slipped behind the bar and opened the tap on a cask of Hamilton’s favorite ale. Brown liquid splashed into the mug while Ernest said, “Aye, ‘twill be a surprise sure to please her. Almost as pleasant as the surprise ye’ve given us.” He winked and passed Hamilton the glass. “Marrying the young lady, and at Gretna Green, too! We’d never have thought it of ye, m’lord, but when love strikes as sudden as all that, a man’s got to leg-shackle the heifer before she’s had a chance to think.”

  “My opinion exactly.” Hamilton kept his face carefully blank. He’d come in, furious and determined, and been knocked completely awry by Ernest’s babblings. Now he found he was supposed to have married — and at Gretna Green.