The Wicked Lady (Blackhaven Brides Book 2) Page 4

  An officer and about ten soldiers from the local regiment were waiting to greet them, resplendent in their red coats with gleaming swords and buttons. And watching the spectacle, the town gentry and visiting ladies and gentlemen of quality rubbed shoulders with tradesman, shopkeepers, clerks, fishermen and general riff-raff. Kate found the whole scene pleasantly anonymous; for once, she was not the spectacle.

  It gave her opportunity, while the boats of prisoners drew nearer, to scan the crowd for any sign of her attackers. Even if they’d remained in Blackhaven, she didn’t think they’d be foolish enough to show their faces in daylight, since Mr. Grant was also bound to recognize them … if he was here.

  Finding a vantage point on a rocky step by the harbor wall, she felt the ripple of excitement as the crowd pointed out the man presumed to be Captain Alban himself in the first boat, a tall, straight individual with his hat pulled low over his forehead.

  “He doesn’t look like a pirate to me,” a child close to Kate said doubtfully.

  “That’s ’cause he isn’t one anymore,” a slightly older companion explained.

  As the first boat approached the steps, the captain stood up and leapt nimbly ashore, while one of the sailors threw a rope to a soldier to tie the boat in place. The crowd quieted, listening avidly.

  The officer waiting for him at the top of the stairs greeted him with a click of the heels and a bow. “Captain Alban?”

  Alban nodded curtly.

  “Major Doverton of the 44th,” the officer introduced himself.

  Alban handed over some documents, presumably concerning his prisoners, and cast a quick glance at watching crowd around the harbor. Which is when Kate noticed Mr. Grant standing to the other side of the steps.

  He wore a sober suit of black, as befitted his calling, and in the light of day his lean, handsome face still seemed almost ascetic. Beyond that, he looked nothing like a curate, or any other clergyman of her acquaintance. His hair was just a little wild, his dark eyes and expressive mouth ready to smile as he greeted people with a nod or a few words. However, behind that apparent openness, she was sure he kept secrets.

  The old lady at the pump room had been right. Despite his good works, he seemed more a man of the world than of the cloth. And yet he’d stepped back from her boldness on the night of the attack, even though everything about him had betrayed his temptation. For once, she might have meant her offer.

  Her stomach gave a little roll of excitement. She looked forward to whiling away a few minutes of the morning with a little more banter. However, his attention appeared to be on the prisoners being nudged up the steps by the sailors.

  The prisoners’ hands were bound, their shoulders slumped in defeat. Some wore the signs of injury, although their wounds appeared to have been tended and bandaged. At least they bore no obvious signs of ill treatment in captivity.

  A hiss of hatred swelled among the crowd. A few ladies affected fear of such monsters, which Kate found merely annoying. They were hardly threatening.

  The first boat crew, having unloaded all their prisoners, untied and rowed away to make room for the second boat. Idly, Kate glanced once more at Grant, to see if he’d noticed her yet. After all, she stood in a prominent position, above the heads of most of the crowd.

  The curate was staring down at the disembarking captives. His body was still, his lips parted in something very like shock.

  But she might have imagined it, for an instant later, his head came up once more as he scanned the crowd, and found her at last.

  His smile was spontaneous enough to lift her heart. And it was a devastating smile. Butterflies soared in her stomach in a way she hadn’t known since before her marriage. Dear God, the women of this town, young and old, must be hurling themselves at his feet.

  Kate was too used to her power over men to feel any astonishment that he began to stroll through the crowd toward her. It was her own quickened pulse that surprised her.

  The last of the captives staggered ashore, and to the clear disappointment of the crowd, Captain Alban bade a curt farewell to Major Doverton.

  “Watch out for the fair one,” he advised, his voice drifting clearly on the breeze as he nodded to the prisoner at the back of the line. “He looks angelic but he’ll turn on you like a savage if you give him an inch.”

  “Understood,” the major said cheerfully, and ordered his men to begin the march in Kate’s direction.

  She watched them rather than Grant. A surge of pity welled up in her, not just for the French captives, but for those British detained in France, and for the wounded and dead on both sides. Such a huge thing as war only touched people like her at moments like these.

  As though seeking someone in the crowd, Grant walked carelessly backward a few steps, and bumped into the prisoner at the end of the line. They both stumbled, and then Grant jumped away again with a sheepish apology to the soldier at the back. The soldier merely shrugged and grinned.

  It seemed the distraction was just what the captive had been waiting for. Without warning, he sprinted straight toward Kate. Her heart thudded once, paralyzing her, but the prisoner veered at the last moment and vaulted over the railing, straight into the water below.

  Women screamed and men shouted. Some of the soldiers ran toward the railings, until in fury, Doverton ordered them back to guard the remaining prisoners. He himself ran forward, shouting to Alban’s boat and pointing out the desperately swimming prisoner, whose hands were clearly free.

  Kate’s lips parted involuntarily, her gaze seeking Grant in quick, surely impossible suspicion. The curate jumped up beside her on the rock, gazing with clear consternation after the escaping prisoner. Doverton shouted again to Alban, who, however, didn’t even change direction. His responsibility for the prisoners had ended, and he was obviously not going to put himself out. However, he seemed to be looking in Kate’s direction. Or in Grant’s.

  Kate stared up at the frowning curate. “You did this,” she whispered in amazement.

  *

  Grant, devoutly hoping no one else had made the connection, conjured up a sigh. “Sadly, I seem to have given him the opportunity. I expect he’ll drown now, poor fellow.” But it was hard to drag his gaze away from the water, where the prisoner seemed to have vanished, perhaps unconscious, having knocked his head against the rocks…

  He forced himself to straighten. “Well, the fun appears to be over. Major Doverton will march the other twenty to their prison. The mysterious Captain Alban will return to his trade. Might I escort you anywhere?”

  The sultry dark eyes regarded him with confusion, and in spite of everything, his heart twisted because she would never trust him now. She might not have seen how, but she knew he’d freed the prisoner. And he could say nothing until he knew what the devil Cornelius had been doing there, and if he lived.

  His heart twisted harder.

  “Only if you answer my questions,” Lady Crowmore drawled. “Honestly.”

  She was indeed full of surprises.

  “I will try,” he said, unwisely.

  “Then I would like to walk on the beach toward Blackhaven Cove.” She began to walk in that direction.

  Grant, who more than half expected the escaped prisoner to wash up on the rocks between the harbor and the cove, had planned to walk there himself once the excitement was over.

  Two of the soldiers still peered over the harbor wall, searching, rifles aimed at the water. Alban’s boats were rowing toward his ship, and the sailors paid no attention whatsoever to the lost captive.

  Don’t be dead. It was all he could think, as he walked blindly after Lady Crowmore and her maid.

  “You are quiet this morning,” the lady observed at last.

  They were walking side by side. Grant, who was amazed she still spoke to him at all, suspecting him as he did, could only summon the faintest smile in response.

  “One would think,” Lady Crowmore said, “that you have had a shock.”

  “I have,” he admitted.
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  “Did you cut the Frenchman’s ropes?” she asked bluntly.

  “I cut the prisoner’s ropes,” he admitted with care.

  Her eyes narrowed, as if she noticed the nice distinction. “Why?”

  “It seemed the right thing to do.”

  “Because he was the most troublesome? According to the man I took to be Captain Alban.”

  “No,” Grant replied honestly.

  “And you had no inclination to free any of the other prisoners?”

  “None, though I suppose I feel sorry for the brutes.”

  She halted at the head of the path. “Then why that one?”

  Grant licked his dry lips. “He isn’t French.”

  She frowned. “Then what was he doing with a gaggle of French prisoners of war?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Shouldn’t you have found out before you freed him?”

  “Possibly,” Grant said vaguely. He rubbed his forehead, then offered his arm to Lady Crowmore. Again, he was surprised when she took it.

  “Who is he?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “It isn’t my place to tell.” He drew in his breath. “Listen. I don’t believe my action has caused any harm to our country. If I’m wrong, and if … if he’s still alive, I’ll hunt him down myself and deliver him to Major Doverton.”

  “How will you find out?” she challenged.

  Something moved among the rocks. Deliberately, he didn’t look but continued down the path. “Oh, I’ll find out,” he assured her. “All news comes to me at the vicarage.”

  He sat down on the nearest rock, and under her amused gaze, pulled off his boots and stockings.

  “Join me,” he invited. “No one will see.”

  “Can your reputation withstand being caught running barefoot on the beach with the wicked Widow of Crowmore?” she inquired.

  “Why do you call yourself wicked?” he asked, as she leaned against the rock beside him and allowed the disapproving maid to remove her shoes. She had enchantingly slender ankles and slim, elegant little feet.

  “It’s the judgement of the world,” she said lightly. “And in truth, it gives me a certain cachet. Or did. Avert your gaze,” she added sardonically, her hand on her stockinged ankle, “lest you become inflamed.”

  He let out a choke of laughter. If only she knew he was already inflamed, despite everything else. He rose, picked up his boots, and ran across the sand away from her, trying to get his wayward desires under control, while his past fought with his present.

  She didn’t run after him. But when he swerved back the way he’d come, she was striding in his wake, as graceful barefoot as she’d been in the ballroom. Or on that ridiculous cart.

  “You really are the strangest curate,” she observed as he slowed and turned to walk with her, his boots dangling from one hand. The maid trotted after both of them, stumbling a little in the sand. “What do your parishioners make of your very odd behavior?”

  “They’ve already decided I’m eccentric, but fortunately they seem to like me. So far.”

  “I expect you charm them,” she murmured. “You are very charming.”

  He cast her a quick smile. “For a curate.”

  “Of course. Heaven forfend anyone actually regard you as a man.”

  He glanced at her. “Would you rather I were not a clergyman?”

  As if startled, she met his gaze, searching. “No.” She sounded surprised. “I just don’t come across many priests who flirt with me. You, sir, are a novelty.”

  “Is that good?”

  “So far.”

  He let a few moments go by in silence before he said, “I like to help. I would help you if I could.”

  “You can’t,” she said lightly. “But I thank you for the thought.”

  “You asked the men who attacked you who sent them. As if you expected them. As if you knew they were more than mere footpads.”

  She shrugged. “Blackhaven is not known for footpads.”

  “Who do you think sent them?” he pursued.

  The silence stretched so long that he was sure she wouldn’t answer. Then her breath seemed to catch and she said, “My late husband, of course.”

  He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  Her laughter held more than a hint of mockery. “I thought the Church believed in life after death.”

  “Not quite like that. How could your husband hurt you from beyond the grave?”

  “With his tools here on earth,” she said flippantly. “More precisely, his heirs.” She held his gaze, doubt and something very like despair in her beautiful eyes, catching at his heart. Then she looked away and laughed. “The world knows I married Crowmore for his money and for the generous settlement my father extracted from him. I keep that settlement for my lifetime. What’s more, I have control of my children’s fortune—whatever small amount Crowmore left of that—until they are of age.”

  Grant frowned. “I didn’t know you had children.”

  “I don’t. Yet.” She lifted her gaze once more, mocking and defiant. “But don’t you know where they found me, the morning Crowmore finally obliged the world and turned up his toes? With my lover. The new lord of Crowmore wants to make sure I don’t produce a bastard and pass it off as my husband’s.”

  She meant to shock him, and she succeeded, though not for the reasons she clearly imagined.

  He stopped, staring at her. “You expected this attack. You knew it would come. Christ, can your own family not protect you?”

  She shrugged, as if she didn’t care. “It was they who hustled me out of London. They would have sent me to Ireland, since the wretched war makes going abroad more or less impossible, but I held out for the backwater that is Blackhaven.”

  “Why?”

  Her smile was twisted. “I thought I might have friends here.”

  “You do,” Grant said.

  A faint, almost confused frown tugged at her beautiful brow.

  He smiled. “At the very least, an eccentric curate with a cloud over his patriotism. You need to be protected.”

  With something very like wonder, she said, “By whom?”

  “The town is full of retired soldiers looking for work.”

  “Do you mean them to march up and down the passage in my hotel?”

  “I was thinking of the street outside your hotel. If we caught any ruffians, we could connect them to their masters.”

  She stared at him. “Why do you still want to help me? The scandal over my head is real. Even before Crowmore died, it was real. I’ve never been a good woman and I never will be. You should run before I destroy your career, too.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of destroying my own career.”

  Understanding seemed to dawn. She laughed, a musical and yet brittle sound. “But, of course! You are sincere, Master Curate. You have always been sincere. You do wish to save my soul!”

  “Actually, I wish to marry you,” he said frankly. “But I’m a realist. I’ll settle for saving your body while God takes care of your soul.”

  Chapter Four

  Kate was not easily wrong-footed, but at those words, she stumbled, all but losing her balance in the shifting sand. His hand shot out and caught her elbow, steadying her. The warmth of his fingers burned through the fabric of her light, silk pelisse, reminding her there was more than one reason for her panic. But attraction to the very odd curate was the least of them.

  “I’m happy to trust body and soul to God,” she said tartly. “But marriage is strictly my own business now, and you may trust me when I tell you I am quite finished with it. I plan to enjoy being a widow.”

  “I hope you do,” he murmured.

  “Do what?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Enjoy it. Come, let’s sit in the cove and make ourselves respectable once more.”

  “No,” she said perversely, although she’d once planned to suggest the same thing. His mention of marriage had rattled her. “I’m going to walk back along the beach to
the town. Come, Little. Goodbye, Mr. Grant.”

  He paused, frowning. “At least let me walk back with you.”

  “No. I have an assignation at twelve,” she lied.

  Without waiting to see the effect of that, she tripped away from him, Little scampering along at her heels. She didn’t put it past him to follow her anyway, but when she glanced back at last, he was climbing up the path to the road. Pique was an unusual sensation, and she wasn’t sure she liked it.

  Scowling, she tramped across the beach in silence for several minutes, before turning on Little. “Why would any reputable gentleman want to marry me?”

  Little cast her a glance of disbelief. “Do you not look in your mirror?”

  She waved that aside. “Gentlemen don’t marry beauty, real or imagined. They marry land, fortunes, portions.” And pure reputations.

  “There you are, then. You have all of those.”

  That didn’t make her happy either. She didn’t want to think such worldly matters weighed with her charming curate. Any more than she wanted to believe he was some traitor serving the French. And yet, both could be true. For two days, she’d had to fight against the instinct to trust him. And today, despite the escaped prisoner, she’d told him some of her troubles. He hadn’t doubted her. Yet now she doubted the reasons behind his desire to help.

  If he’d only wanted her body, she might have given it, and gladly. He already had a powerful effect on her that she couldn’t account for beyond his good looks and lean, highly desirable person. If only he hadn’t mentioned marriage.

  She’d never conducted a flirtation with a clergyman before, real or rumored. With Tristram Grant, it would have to be completely secret so that it didn’t damage his position here, and… Dash it, why was she even considering such a thing? He wanted marriage, which she’d never give.

  Or he said he wanted marriage. Why would he lie? Was it just a throw away joke? Her stomach gave a sickening lurch. Or was he trying to buy and keep her silence about the French prisoner?