Practical Widow to Passionate Mistress (16 page)

Now, as Heneage threw open the front doors and Ross walked back into the hall, Meg went to check on the maids. She could have watched, seen the guests arrive, but somehow she did not want to, although the maids were all agog and had had to be chased back to their stations. Once, as Lieutenant Halgate’s wife, she would have been an eligible guest for a dinner party like this; now she must think herself grateful to be able to attend to the comfort of the ladies.

It was clear, as the footmen led one chattering group after another up to the ladies’ retiring rooms, that no one
was thinking of being fashionably late. They were all far too eager to see the new Lord Brandon presiding over his dinner table for that, Meg thought, half-amused, half-irritated by the prattle. She should have been attending to the married ladies, but the opportunity to size up the little flock of prospective brides was too much for her curiosity.

Ross had not been so obvious as to invite only those families with daughters, but even so, there were seven unmarried girls to fill the bedchamber with giggles and gossip as they prinked in front of the dressing-table mirror and the long cheval glass.

‘He isn’t at all handsome,’ Elizabeth Pennare remarked as she pinned up one of her elder sister’s curls.

‘Deliciously brooding, though,’ one girl Meg did not recognise countered. ‘Like a Byronic hero.’

‘And brave,’ another added. ‘He was a major, after all, and was wounded. I wish he was still wearing his scarlet uniform.’

The Rifle Brigade wears green, you ignorant chit.
Meg helped Jenny fold evening cloaks away, her tongue between her teeth.

‘And rich,’ one of the Pengilly girls remarked. ‘Papa says he owns mines and fishing boats and a warehouse in Falmouth.’

One or two of the young women exchanged glances, eyebrows raised, lips pursed, at this vulgar mention of money. But they are all interested, Meg thought. Money, title, looks.
What about the man? What about his character?

‘Well, I think it must be very hard to have to come back after years away in the army and find all your family gone and have to make a fresh start,’ one rather
mousy girl said. Meg smiled at her sensitivity and her soft voice, wondering who she was.

‘Not quite all,’ Anne Pengilly remarked, eyes wide with the scandal of it. ‘They do say there’s a boy who looks remarkably—’

‘Come along, girls.’ Lady Pennare swept in. ‘We must not keep our host waiting.’

They streamed out of the room, chattering and laughing, all except for the quiet one with the soft voice who hung back.

‘May I help?’ Meg asked. ‘I am sorry, I am afraid I did not hear your name. Would you like your mama?’

‘Oh, no, thank you. I’m Penelope Hawkins, the vicar’s niece,’ she said with her shy smile. ‘I just…They are a bit overwhelming,’ she added breathlessly. ‘Like a flock of birds all twittering and pecking. Poor Lord Brandon,’ she murmured as she slipped out of the door and followed in their wake.

She would do. Just so long as she isn’t frightened of him.

They are all impossible,
Ross thought. He scanned the length of the table while paying smiling attention to Lady Avise Westmoreland, who was regaling him with her opinions on the absolute necessity of visiting London at least four times a year. ‘Otherwise, how is one to dress?’ she enquired. Ross hoped she was not expecting a serious answer to that.

‘Absolutely,’ he agreed. ‘May I help you to some more of the fricassee?’ No, one day—let alone one night—with any of the pretty young things arrayed down the length of his dining table would result in him either strangling his new wife or shooting himself. All
except, perhaps, the little brown sparrow halfway down who was, if he remembered correctly, the vicar’s niece. He must have a predilection for the daughters of the church, he thought ruefully, although Miss Hawkins roused no stirring of desire in him. She just looked as though she would be tranquil company and had her fair share of common sense. Which, he was rapidly becoming convinced, Lady Avise singularly lacked.

It seemed an age, but at finally he stood on the front steps and saw off the last of his guests, their carriages clattering away down the drive in the moonlight. Ross rolled his shoulders to release some of the tension and took a cigarillo case out of an inner pocket. One of the footmen brought him a candle to light the thin cylinder. He nodded his thanks as he began to stroll along the terrace. ‘Tell Perrott not to sit up for me, will you?’

The air was still enough to hear the sea and on an impulse he began to make his way along the path that led towards the lane to the bay. He leaned on the gate, savouring the cigarillo, letting his mind wander as he looked down the moonlit lane.

Then, just at the bend before the lane ran on to the beach, there was a flicker of white. Something, or someone, was down there. Tregarne had accused Billy of smuggling. He had put off confronting the old man about it; now he realised that this was a perfect night for landing casks. If he found evidence, then he must act.

Ross pinched out the cigarillo between fingers and thumb and tossed it aside, pulled the lapels of his coat together across the betraying white of his shirt, climbed the gate and trod silently down the lane to the beach.

R
oss kept to the ridge of grass in the centre of the lane, his evening shoes silent on the soft turf. There was no further movement ahead. At the bend before the beach he stopped, listening, but the sound of the surf was too loud to make out any other sound.

Slowly he eased around the corner, the fragrance of bluebells competing with the smell of the sea as he brushed close to the bank. The beach seemed deserted, the sand bleached white and the foam on the small breakers glinting, but even as he studied it in the moonlight he knew he was not alone.

The old instincts refined by years of hunting the enemy, not rabbits, were sending prickles of awareness down his spine. Ross realised he was smiling, teeth bared, as his blood stirred. God, but he had missed this, the
frisson
of danger, the skill of stalking, the challenge of outwitting the other man. If there was another man out here and it was not just his imagination.

If the other man was Billy Gillan, then it was likely that he was stalking Ross and could have brought him
down five minutes ago, if he was so inclined. But although Billy might enjoy teasing his old pupil, he was no danger. It was not the poacher making every one of his senses alert to peril.

Here, now, he was the man he had been trying to hide under the civilised trappings of a country gentleman. He was the killer again, the man with blood on his hands and death in his heart. He shivered, partly appalled at the bone-deep rightness of what he was feeling, partly sliding easily into the skin of his old self. The difference now was that he was defending his own turf, not fighting his country’s enemies.

It was perhaps not the most prudent thing to be searching for an unknown danger unarmed and in evening dress, but it added to the challenge and he was sick of being prudent.

The caves were around the corner. To approach them he would have to leave the cover of the bank and work his way around under the edge of the low cliff, across tumbled rocks and numerous rock pools. He eased off his evening shoes and removed his stockings, his bare feet flexing on the sand as he stripped off all his upper garments. His darkly tanned torso was less likely to show up than the stark white of a shirt he could not completely cover.

Half-naked Ross slid round the corner and headed for the caves. There was a splash, a creak, a sudden flash of light offshore, gone so rapidly that if he had not been alert for just those signs he would have missed them. A boat was rowing in, very cautiously. He crept on a little further to where a jumble of bigger rocks would give him cover.

Someone was humming. Ross flattened himself
against the rock as the sound came closer and a figure emerged from the shelter of the rocks.

It was a woman clad only in a shift, her legs visible from the knee down, her arms bare as she walked towards the edge of the sea where the wavelets were breaking in silver foam on the sand. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head and she was humming, it seemed, out of sheer pleasure for she gave a little skip and a low laugh as the first waves touched her toes.

Meg? Here in her shift?
Ross straightened up, opened his mouth to shout. If whoever it was in that boat heard him they would turn back, not knowing how many men were waiting for them on the beach. But even as he drew the breath into his lungs Meg ran into the surf to her waist, laughing and gasping with the shock of the cold water. Then she began to swim.

The dark shape of the boat loomed out of the darkness, right on top of her. Meg gave a startled shriek, someone swore and the shutter of a dark lantern opened, revealing six men at the oars and a seventh in the bows holding the lantern. Ross bit back the shout.

‘Shutter that damned light.’ The growled order carried clear over the water.

‘It’s a woman—row harder, boys, catch her.’ The man in the bows held the light up, illuminating Meg’s frantic efforts to swim ashore. She staggered to her feet, still waist deep as Ross reached the water’s edge.

‘Meg, to me!’ She changed direction, floundering towards him as she recognised his voice. ‘Run.’ Up to his thighs in water he grabbed her, pushed her behind him towards the beach and faced the boat.

One unarmed man against seven with oars, knives and possibly pistols did not seem good odds. Ross
showed his teeth; if they touched Meg, he’d kill the lot of them with his bare hands. ‘I am Brandon. Get off this beach.’

‘Going to stop us, are you?’ A big man vaulted over the side into the surf, knife in hand. ‘You and your mermaid?’

Ross backed up. There was no point in heroics yet—if he was knifed, Meg would be at their mercy. He had to buy her enough time to run clear. If he could lure the man in close enough to grapple with him…

Then something flew past his ear and hit the big man square on the chest, something else splashed into the water beside him as he roared with rage. Ross looked over his shoulder. Far from running, Meg was on the beach hurling stones at the boat.

He turned and made for her, hearing the creak of oars as the boat was driven towards the beach. ‘Get behind me,’ he ordered as he reached the sand. He backed up the beach, assessing the situation. There were too many of them, he was in a completely indefensible position and already they were splitting up, flanking him to cut off his retreat to the lane.

At his back Meg was silent, although he could hear her breathing. ‘Listen. In a moment they will attack. You run, do you hear me? Tell Heneage to open the gun room, arm the footmen, grooms, tell them to get down here and make as much noise as they can as they come.’ If he could provoke them to all go for him, she might have a chance to get away. By the time she returned with any help this unequal battle on the beach would be long over…

‘Leave you? I—’

Whatever Meg was going to say was lost in the blast
of a shotgun. The men turned as one towards the caves as a figure walked out on to the sand, gun in hand.

‘Billy.’

‘Aye. Damn fool time to go fossicking about in the water, boy. You lot, get out before I blow someone’s thick head off.’

‘What about the casks? You promised delivery today.’ The big man took a step forwards and the barrels of the shotgun lifted. He stopped.

‘You can whistle for them. You don’t threaten my boy and his maid and still do business with me. Go on, shift and take your money with you. I’ve got both barrels loaded if you want them.’

The language and the threats they hurled were predictable, but they backed down, shambling back to the boat. Ross reached out a hand and pulled Meg to him, wet and shivering, but he watched the sea until the rowers were swallowed up by the darkness.

With Meg tight against his side, he looked at Billy. ‘Thank you.’ There was not a great deal more to say, not in front of Meg. He could strangle the old ruffian for getting involved with smugglers and he could kiss him for saving Meg.

The old man grunted. ‘You take that maid back home and her clothes with her. Catch her death, she will, water’s that cold.’ He stooped and picked up a bundle. ‘Here’s her clothes. And where’s yours, boy? Downright indecent, the pair of you.’

Meg gave a choked laugh. ‘He sounds like my father,’ she whispered. There was a shake in her voice, Ross could hear it under the bravado, and it was nothing to do with the temperature. He felt like shaking himself, with her near-naked body so close.

‘Mine are at the foot of the lane—make a bundle of the lot, would you, Billy?’ Ross bent and scooped Meg up in his arms before she could protest. Her chilled wet body against his bare chest made him catch his breath. That was nothing to do with temperature either.

‘Ross? What are you doing?’ Her voice was breathy now, both her vulnerability and her bravery making him want to kiss her. His heart was pounding from the aftermath of action and the unfulfilled violence that he had been ready to unleash.

‘Carrying you home. Can you manage the clothes?’ She nodded as Billy dumped the bundle into her arms, her wet hair clinging to Ross’s skin. ‘I’ll come and talk to you tomorrow, you old fool.’

The poacher had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Not going anywhere,’ he muttered as he melted into the shadows.

‘You can’t carry me.’ Meg was beginning to wriggle. ‘Your leg—’

‘I’m not limping any more.’ It was half-true. If he concentrated and ignored the deep ache that still came back when he was tired, he did not limp. And it gave him a ridiculous pleasure to be able to carry Meg in his arms, although he expected her to start protesting and struggling at any moment. Instead she gave a little sigh and snuggled in to him.

‘Are you all right?’ Ross asked, suspicious of her sudden docility.

‘I am sorry,’ Meg said, so softly that he had to bend his head to hear her. ‘I should never have gone down to the sea at night.’

‘I had no idea you could swim.’ Ross slowed and looked up at the house. There was a light in the hall, but he could hardly march in through the front door
half-naked with his equally undressed housekeeper in his arms. ‘Have you got a back-door key?’

‘Yes, in my pocket.’ She fell silent, then, as he veered off the path towards the rear of the house, added, ‘I learned to swim in the millpond when I was very small, when Mama was still alive. I thought I might be able to remember how and I wanted to…to get away for a while.’

‘So did I.’

‘Penelope Hawkins might do. The Vicar’s niece,’ Meg suggested, following his unspoken meaning. ‘I liked her. She seems rather sweet.’

Ross grunted. ‘I do not want a wife who might do. I wish I did know what I want—other than to make love to you.’ She gave a little gasp, but did not struggle in his arms. ‘Here we are. Home. Can you stand up a moment and find the key?’

Meg slid out of his arms and handed him the bundle of clothes while she rummaged for the key. ‘That’s the second time you have said it tonight—did you realise? Home. You have stopped saying
the Court.’

‘So I have.’ And he was thinking of it as home now, too. The whole atmosphere of the place had changed since Meg had begun to work her magic on it. The door opened on to a dimly lit passageway and Meg slipped in ahead of him. He must ask her to look at his bedroom next—then he might be able to sleep without feeling he was in his father’s bed surrounded by ghosts.

Bedrooms. No, he was not thinking about interior decoration, or ghosts as he reached the door to the housekeeper’s rooms, with her standing there, her limbs pale in the gloom, her chemise clinging damply to every curve. Hot, dark, desires flooded his body.

‘I’ll take my clothes.’ The after-effects of the incident
were making themselves felt now. He could feel the tension in the nape of his neck, the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had been wound up for action and violence and what he had got was a safe anticlimax.
God, am I so addicted to killing that I cannot even be grateful that Meg was spared seeing fighting and bloodshed?

‘Ross?’ She looked up at him and the self-loathing gripped him. If he didn’t get a grip on the animal inside himself he would just bundle her into that room and take her like the savage he was. Meg was frowning a little, her underlip caught by her teeth, her eyes questioning in the dim light of the passageway lamp.

‘Go to bed,’ he said. ‘Give me my clothes.’ He saw her flinch at the brutality of his tone, but he was beyond caring. He just needed to get away from her.

‘Here.’ Meg thrust the top bundle of clothes into his hands. ‘Thank you. We could have been killed, just now, because I was so foolish.’ She could feel the doorknob behind her and she turned it, stepping back into the dark of her room without taking her eyes from his face. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’ And he was gone.

He was angry with her, of course, and quite rightly so. Meg put down her damp and sandy clothes and went to find towels and the water jug. She got as far as filling the basin and then sank down on the end of the bed, wrapped her arms around herself and shook.

Ross had stood there, protected her in the certain knowledge that he would be severely beaten, if not killed, as a result. She loved him, she wanted him and he had walked away just now with angry finality. She deserved that.

In the silence she gradually became aware of a soft
tick
she did not recognise. Puzzled, Meg got up and searched for it. There, tangled in her stockings by its chain, was Ross’s pocket watch.
Tick, tick,
the smooth gold case with its worn engraving of a coat of arms lay in the palm of her hand. She must give it back to him first thing in the morning. Meg reached out to put it safely on the table, then stopped. It was old, an heirloom. What if he missed it, went out again to search for it? What if the smugglers had returned?

She would go upstairs now, open his door a crack and just hang the watch by the chain over the inner door knob. Then he could not fail to find it. Meg pulled off her wet shift, scrubbed herself with a towel and put on a nightgown and her wrapper. The house was still as she padded on bare feet out of the servants’ quarters and up the stairs towards his room.

There was no light showing around his door. Meg eased the handle round and opened it, just enough to slide her hand in with the watch.

‘Blood. God, so much blood. Blood and guts and mud.’

She froze at the sound of Ross’s voice, angry and anguished and cracked as though speaking hurt him. For a moment she did not understand, then the deep voice dropped to a confused mutter: he was having a nightmare.

Meg stood there, transfixed, listening. She felt like an eavesdropper and yet she could not close the door and step away. There was so much pain and self-disgust in his voice. He was hurting so badly—how could she leave him? Meg pushed the door open and went in. The click as she shut it did not wake him, nor did the sound of her bare feet brushing over the carpet as she approached the bed.

The moonlight struck through the uncurtained window across the bed where Ross lay, naked in a tangle of sheets, his head turning restlessly on the pillow, his big fists clenched, one of them pounding into the mattress.

‘Not dead…can’t even manage a decent headshot. He’s screaming…like a stuck pig. Die, damn it. Shoot again. Yes, at last. Dead. Another one dead. Come on men, reload, faster, you bastards. They’ve all got to be killed. Giles, Mother, the French. Killed them all. I’ve killed them all and they still keep coming.’