The Smuggler Wore Silk (26 page)

G
RACE STOOD IN
front of the library door, staring at the carved mahogany. In twenty-four hours she’d neither seen nor heard Julian. For all their interaction, he could have left for London already.

Except she could feel his presence in Thistledown. The partially eaten dishes on the sideboard at breakfast indicated he’d already come and gone. The embarrassed maid carrying a dinner tray. A solemn Starkweather slipping through the halls just after dark with a candelabra destined for the library.

The hole he’d left in her ached with misery. She wanted to weep and wail and rage at him. But she could do none of those things. Straightening her shoulders, she pushed open the door. She stopped short when she saw Julian’s valet, Roberts, pause in the act of brushing off Julian’s coat.

“Oh! I beg your pardon, Roberts.” Her cheeks flooded with mortified color. Her husband had taken up residence in the library, so much so that his valet attended to him there.

“Please don’t mind me, madam.” Roberts’s vowels were nasal. “His lordship is seated before the fire.” He gestured vaguely toward the fireplace.

She heard the scrape of metal on stone. One long, sinister sound that sent the hair on her arms rising. She looked around—and saw the blade.

Thin and much longer than the short knife in Julian’s boot, this dagger was honed to a wicked point. Bright firelight reflected on the beveled blade as it slid along the surface of a small whetstone.

He sat before the fire in an elegantly appointed room, wearing a fashionably tailored coat and boots polished to a gleam. He should have been taking tea, or sifting through the numerous accounts and ledgers of a landowner. Instead, he worked the weapon with ease, his movements purposeful, effortless and well practiced. Beneath his tight coat, she could see his muscles bunching, releasing.

She shivered, mesmerized by the moving blade. She’d forgotten this part of him. He so smoothly charmed everyone, but beneath that exterior lived a spy. She didn’t want to know what he’d done with that knife.

His brows rose in an elegant, unasked question as he lazily moved the blade over the stone.

“I shall see to it that the coat is properly cleaned, my lord,” Roberts intoned as he passed Grace in the doorway. “But do be more careful with your wardrobe in the future.”

“I will try, Roberts, but I sincerely doubt I shall succeed.”

“I know, my lord.” Roberts heaved a forlorn sigh. “I know.” He left the room carrying the coat as though it were a precious artifact.

“I assume this isn’t a social visit, since you’re wearing breeches.” The blade rasped over stone like an ominous warning. His gaze was cold, even disinterested, and the look darted into her heart and pierced it.

“I’ve had word from Jack.” She cleared her raw throat. “He wants to meet with us at the Jolly Smuggler.”

He carefully set aside the dagger. It was plain, she saw now. A plain, utilitarian weapon, without the scrollwork, engravings or jewels that so often appeared on such a blade. This was no dagger to brag about. This was a dagger for killing.

“He wants to meet tonight,” she whispered. “Immediately.”

__________

L
OW LAUGHTER AND
the sharp scent of hops spilled out of the Jolly Smuggler. Grace stepped inside, hoping the warmth of the roaring fires at either end of the room would ease the chill inside her. Before she was over the threshold the greetings started. Raised hands, calls, smiles, many of them directed to Julian as well as her.

They strode to the counter where Jack Blackbourn poured whiskey into a short glass. He looked comfortable and relaxed.

“Welcome, milord.” Jack swiped a wet cloth across the bar, eyeing Julian narrowly. Then he switched his gaze to Grace. “Are you well, my lovely? You’ve shadows under your eyes.”

“I’m fine.” As fine as she could be with her marriage crumbling. She propped her elbows on the counter. “It’s good to see you in the pub, Jack.”

“It’s good to be back.” He nodded at Julian. “I owe you for that, milord.”

A beat passed, two. In the background, laughter of the patrons and the clink of glasses sounded. Grace flicked her gaze between the two of them. Julian held Jack’s gaze for a moment, then each of them nodded, short and sharp, as though they had reached an agreement.

“A drink, then, milord?”

“Brandy, Jack. The good French sort.”

“Well, now, that wouldn’t be legal, and as I’ve turned over a new leaf I don’t have any French brandy.” But his eyes twinkled and he reached behind the counter for a glass and a bottle. “I do have some good brandy that looks and tastes just like the French sort.”

“That’ll do.”

Grace studied Julian’s lean features as he picked up the glass. She met his eyes and saw the shield he maintained slide over that gorgeous shade of midsummer. Anger simmered in her, and she blanked her own features. He would get no more from her expression than she was able to read in his.

“For you, my lovely? Your favorite wine?”

“Only if it’s the good French sort, Jack.”

When he had set the glass before Grace and she’d taken her first sip, Jack leaned companionably on the countertop. “An interesting business proposition was put about these last few days,” Jack said casually. “Passage for two to France, at night, with no questions asked.”

Wine sloshed over the rim of her glass. “Who’s making the offer?”

“Not sure. Word spread in the pubs, as word usually does. Anyone desiring the work was to leave a message for Mr. Smith at the Anchor’s Arms.”

Beside her, Julian’s muscles tensed and coiled in preparation to spring.

“Did you take the work, Blackbourn?” he asked.

“Happens this man offered a lot of money for safe passage. Being a businessman, I considered it.”

“Jack.” Grace sent him a quelling look. “What would your wife say if you got back into that kind of work?”

“She’d have my head on a platter, and perhaps some of my other parts as well.” He took a fortifying gulp of ale. “Which is why I decided against taking the work. But, seeing as how he might be your traitor, I thought to accept the job, set it up and give you a chance to meet Mr. Smith and his travel companion.”

“Jack, you’re brilliant!” Grace tipped forward in her seat and gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek.

“What would your husband say to your kissing me, my lovely?”

“Her husband is feeling like repeating the sentiment, except I don’t generally kiss the cheeks of other men.”

“’Tis a good thing, milord, as it would be premature. Seems someone else already accepted the work.”

Deflated, Grace sighed.

“Don’t be too sad, my lovely.” Jack nudged her hand aside and topped off her wine. “I wouldn’t bring you out on a cold night for nothing.”

“You know something.” Julian’s eyes turned cold, the blue becoming as sharp as shards of ice.

“I do, indeed.” Jack’s smile had a self-congratulatory quirk on one side. “I thought to myself, this Mr. Smith, he might be staying at the Anchor’s Arms.”

“It couldn’t be so simple,” Grace pointed out.

“It could be just that simple. A traitor needs a bed to sleep in as much as the rest of us.” Julian tapped his fingers on the counter. “Get to the point, Blackbourn.”

“I thought to inquire of the innkeeper. Unfortunately, there’s no Mr. Smith staying at the Arms, and in fact, no man staying there more than a night before he travels on his way. I asked the innkeeper to let me know when someone comes in inquiring about messages for Mr. Smith and to pay particular attention.”

“And?” Grace prompted.

“It so happens the innkeeper knew exactly what Mr. Smith looked like, as he’d inquired about messages not two hours earlier.”

“Oh.
Oh.
” Could they be this close to the traitor?

“Mr. Smith had a scarf over the bottom part of his face so the innkeeper couldn’t see his mouth. Had a cap on, too, pulled low, but he could see Mr. Smith’s eyes were brown.” He raised the tankard and sipped again. “He was a bit on the over-delicate side, too. Thin, narrow shoulders. Barely more than a boy, the innkeeper said.”

“Or a woman,” Julian murmured.

“Well, hell,” Jack spluttered. “That I didn’t think of.”

“If my wife can go around wearing breeches, so can any other female.”

Grace slanted a look at him and decided to ignore the bitterness in his tone, even though it rankled. “It could be anyone, then,” she said coolly.

“It could,” he agreed. His eyes were distant when they met hers. “But we have the advantage. Passage for two was requested, which means we are dealing with two people. And we know both of them are in or near Beer.”

“We know more than that.” Jack leaned an elbow on the counter. A cocky brow shot up. “I know when the boat will pick up its passengers.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

Energy spiked within her, sending her pulse scrambling. She reached out, gripped Jack’s forearm. “Where?”

“Off Brogan’s Pointe. There’s a narrow cove there at the base of the cliffs,” Jack explained to Julian. “The smugglers will anchor at the mouth of the cove and come to shore in a jolly boat to pick up the passengers.”

“We can stop them.” Grace turned to Julian. “We can stop the traitors before they get on the jolly boat.”

“
We?
” One brow rose, very slowly, very deliberately. “You’re not involved in this, Grace.”

“Exactly how do you expect me to stay
un
involved?” She narrowed her eyes. “This is my fight as much as it is yours. Jack was arrested and John the blacksmith was murdered.
Murdered.
”

“Exactly. It isn’t a game. It’s real. It’s dangerous.” His voice lowered to a menacing whisper. “You are not going, Grace.”

“I intend to see this through to the end.” She angled her chin and squared her shoulders, preparing for the fight.

“You’re a liability, Grace.” The harshness of his tone made her scowl.

“Aye, my lovely. He’s the right of it.”

“Jack?” Betrayal cut through her, keen and sharp.

“A man can’t be on the offensive when he has to defend his woman.” Jack’s square chin jutted out.

“His woman?” Fury leapt in her. She turned to Julian, pinned him with her gaze. “I am not his woman. I’m nothing more than a mistake.”

“You’re still my wife, Grace. I own you. Which means I have the final word.”

Jack’s hand snaked across the bar and gripped Julian’s wrist. “You bruise my lovely,” he said evenly, “and I’ll hunt down your black heart and skewer it.”

“Jack!” Grace choked out. “That’s—”

“Understood.” A muscle jumped in Julian’s jaw. “But what’s between Grace and me isn’t at issue right now. Capturing the traitor and Grace’s safety are.”

“We agree on that, then.” Jack waited a beat before releasing Julian’s wrist.

“Smuggling isn’t safe, but I’ve been doing that for years.” She pushed her empty glass across the counter.

“There may be a fight, Grace.” Julian’s features were hard and grim. “And it won’t be honorable. It will be dirty. Hand-to-hand combat, knives, pistols. I’m going to be outnumbered. I’m going to need to concentrate on catching the traitor and coming out alive, not on defending you.”

“I can defend myself, Julian.”

“The traitor will see you as the weakest one of us. He’ll use you to escape. He’d kill you to do it.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I would,” he said flatly. The lean angles of his face showed no emotion. And his eyes.

His eyes.

They were dead. There was simply nothing there. Is that how he lived with the knowledge that he may not live to see the next sunrise?

She shuddered as bitter, vicious cold pierced the marrow of her bones.

“You’ll need someone with you.” Jack was already untying his apron. “Someone who knows the land, the sea. I may even know some of the smugglers.” A crooked smile flashed. “If not, I’m good with a sword and a pistol. And I always have an escape plan.”

“I can’t ask another man to accept nearly certain death.”

“You accept it.” She surged to her feet, fueled by resentment.

“Because it’s my profession,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

And he valued his profession over his life. Over
her
. She turned away, swallowing her angry words.

“I’ll stay, then,” she snarled.

She had no intention of following through.

G
RACE STARED INTO
a glass of ruby red wine and let the laughter and camaraderie of the Jolly Smuggler’s common room swirl around her. Waiting was like being poised on the edge of a precipice, with her nerves stretched taut and her heart pumping as she stared into the unknown.

Except she was unable to step back from the edge. Nor could she jump off the cliff and end the agony. She could only wait, jittery and impatient.

At least long enough to give Julian a head start.

Gulping the last of the wine, she slid from the stool and strode through the common room. Instructions had already been issued for Demon to be saddled. She’d be less than fifteen minutes behind them.

A hand shot out, grasped her arm and pulled her back. She whirled, ready to strike out—and looked into the tawny eyes of the man with the code name Angel.

“Where’s the Shadow?” The words were delivered close to her ear in a low, urgent baritone.

He wasn’t dressed in elegant breeches and coat as he had been when she first met him. Instead, his masculine beauty was hidden behind common, homespun clothes. The scent of wet wool clung to him.

“Angel?”

“Hush.” He sent a quick glance at the young man working behind the counter. “When I called at Thistledown, they directed me here. Where is Langford?”

“He’s—” How to explain? “Unavailable.”

“I need to speak with him.
Immediately.
” His touch was firm. Tension radiated from him.

“What’s the matter? What’s wrong?” Icy fear lanced through her.

“We know who the traitor is. He’s on the run.”

“Who is he?”

“Someone Langford won’t expect.” Gold hair slid out of its restraining queue and he pushed impatiently at it. “A person he trusts.”

Her mouth went dry and she swallowed hard. “We received word this morning that someone was hiring a smuggling ship for safe passage to France. Julian and Jack are trying to intercept them. Tonight. Now.” The sweet flavor of wine still on her tongue turned acidic.

Angel cursed. “Where?”

“The smugglers are anchoring at the mouth of a cove about three miles west. The cliffs are high there, so it’s isolated.” She sidestepped as a pair of patrons bumped past them, then lowered her voice. “The path is impossible to find if you don’t know it. I’ll take you. I can show you.”

“Langford will have my head on a pike if I let you come.”

The words faded from her hearing. She was already striding through the dark toward her horse. When she glanced back, he was two steps behind her.

“I won’t let them be ambushed and there isn’t time to argue. Get your horse,” she tossed over her shoulder.

Demon raced across the lanes and fields, hooves thundering on the frozen earth. Angel’s rented horse followed close behind.

Near the cove, Grace slowed as they entered the last stand of trees before the cliffs. Angel moved up beside her. Together, they peered between the branches and tree trunks.

“We need to go on foot from here.” Her breath rose in puffs of vapor that writhed on the cold night air. “There’s nowhere to tie the horses between here and the cliff edge.”

Angel studied the grassy field between the trees and the cliff. It rolled out before them, ending in a drop into darkness. “We’ll be unprotected when we cross the field to the cliff.”

“There’s no way to avoid it. Only one path leads from the cliffs down to the water. We would have to go another two miles to find a way down, then travel back on foot along the coast. There isn’t time.”

“Then we run fast,” Angel said as he dismounted and tethered his horse.

They did. Grateful for her boots and the freedom of breeches, Grace pumped her legs. She waited for a shout, perhaps the harsh report from a pistol, and was relieved when no sound came.

She clambered over the rocks at the cliff edge, then slipped and shimmied down the jagged slope. The ocean roared and crashed below and she prayed she didn’t tumble into it. She fell the last few feet and dropped onto the narrow shingle beach. Angel landed beside her, sure-footed and barely winded.

Boulders formed a rough wall between cliffs and shingle, tossed there centuries before by the relentless ocean. They crouched among them and scanned the cove. Crescent shaped, it narrowed at the opening to the ocean and ended on two sharp spits of land. A clipper was anchored between those points. It rose and fell with the huge ocean waves, an undulating shadow against the night horizon.

The smugglers had arrived.

She scanned the surface of the water in the cove, then the shingle beach. She saw no one. No boat, no smugglers. No traitor.

No Julian.

“I don’t know where Julian and Jack are,” she whispered to Angel.

“The cove’s entrance.” Angel nodded toward the boulders that littered the farthest point of land. They were full of shadowy hiding places. “If I were a smuggler picking up passengers, I’d meet them at the point of land farthest into the water rather than come into the cove.”

“Then that’s where Julian would be as well.”

“Follow me,” Angel said. “And
be careful
.”

He pushed up from his crouch, but stayed low. She copied his movements as they picked their way among the rocks. When they reached the tiny spit of land, Grace scanned the beach and water.

“Do you see—”

A hand slapped over her mouth, shooting panic through her. She reared back, clawing at the arm that pulled her into shadows of the boulders.

“Quiet.” The word was an urgent whisper in her ear.

But it was the scent that revealed her captor. Man, leather and soap. Her body relaxed, but her heart still beat wildly in her chest.

Julian.

__________

"W
HAT ARE YOU
doing here?” Julian hissed when Grace crouched beside him among the boulders. “And why did you let her come?” he demanded of Angel.

“I needed to find you,” Angel said simply.

“I keep telling you, boy, my Gracie doesn’t get left behind.” Jack’s laughter echoed lightly between the rocks.

Julian pinched the bridge of his nose. Even the scent of her was distracting him from the mission. “Grace, you agreed—”

“Angel knows who the traitor is.” Her hand shot out, gripping the front of his shirt.

His muscles tightened and coiled, ready for the verbal blow. He swiveled to face Angel. “Who?”

“It’s Miles Butler,” Angel spat viciously.

“
Butler?
” Shock rippled through Julian as Butler’s face flashed in his memory. Young, fashionable, earnest and eager to please.

“Who is he, Julian?” Grace asked.

“My commander’s clerk.” A trusted man, he thought. A man who knew how to hide behind a mask.

“How insidious,” she whispered.

“Angel, who’s the second man operating as the middleman in Beer?” Julian asked.

“We don’t know yet.”

“Wait.” Julian held up a hand. Filtering out the thrum of the ocean and the furious rush of wind, he focused on the sounds above those low hums. Had he heard something? Yes, there it was again. Pebbles pinging against rock as they fell.

A voice floated out of the darkness. “Be careful, now.”

He waited for more but the voice was silent. Still, pebbles continued to clatter and fall.

“Someone is coming down the cliff path. To the left,” he whispered.

Steadying his breathing to slow the rhythm of his heart, he waited. His senses sharpened so that everything came clear around him. The rush of the ocean’s waves. Jack’s heavy breath whooshing in and out behind him. Below that, Grace’s quiet, even breath.

He took comfort in the sound of her breathing, the steadiness of it. Even though he knew tonight would be the last time he heard it.

Then he blocked it out and concentrated on the two shadows struggling down the remaining feet of cliff and emerging onto the beach. One was tall and lean, the other petite and wearing skirts.

The second traitor was a woman.

“I can breathe easier now that you’re down the cliff,” said Butler.

“Darling, we’re fine. You don’t need to pamper us.” The woman’s voice was sweet and amused. And familiar.

“You’re carrying my babe.” The man leaned down and kissed the woman, his hands cupping her cheeks. “I promise, when we reach France, I’ll pamper you daily.”

“I don’t need to be pampered. I only need you.” The woman sighed. “Where will we go?”

“Paris. I need to speak with members of the government there. Then my mother’s family will help us disappear into the countryside. There’s a family farm where we can live for a while.” He paused. “I’m sorry we can’t return to England.”

“I don’t care.” Her voice turned petulant. “I hate this godforsaken country and my idiot of a husband.”

The woman turned her face toward the sea, and the silver light of the three-quarter moon set her delicate features into relief.

Beside Julian, Grace let out a shocked gasp. He tensed as she clutched at his thigh, her nails digging into flesh. She knew something. He turned his head to the side so he could just see her. She set lips against his ear.

“It’s Lady Elliott. Marie,” she whispered, her breath light against his skin. “Sir Richard’s wife.”

Recognition flared, warring with shock. Sad-eyed Lady Elliott? A traitor? An adulteress?

“Look,” Lady Elliott said from the beach. She pointed to the ocean.

Beside the clipper, a jolly boat bobbed on the waves. A lantern flared to life in the bow of the boat, creating a small gold beacon across the water. The light blinked once, twice, three times.

“There’s the signal,” Butler said.

Julian used the lantern light to count smugglers in the boat. Eight. Damn. “It has to be now.”

“Agreed.” Angel began unbuttoning his coat.

“Jack, are you armed?” Julian asked.

“Aye. A pistol and a dagger.”

“Good. Do what you can. Grace, stay here.”

“I can count the number of men in that jolly boat as well as you.” Grace dipped a hand into her coat pocket and came out with her pistol. “You need me.”

Frustrated, Julian pushed the weapon away. “If I stop arguing with you, we can overpower Butler and Lady Elliott before
the smugglers reach the shore. We might even come out of this alive.
Stay here.
”

“Hurry up, Langford.” Angel was already rising from his crouch, eyes on the beach. “The boat is on the move.”

Grace’s breathing quickened. “Fine. Go.”

The jolly boat was barely three hundred meters from the shore now. They’d argued too long. He hoped the smugglers’ fee for the passengers wasn’t worth a fight.

He waited one more second to memorize her face. Just the way she angled her chin, the high cheekbones that caught the moonlight. Even the way the wind whipped her white-blond hair around her face. And the pistol gripped in her hand.

He would carry that image with him. For however long he lived.

Julian shifted, muscles tightening as he gathered his energy to rush the beach. He focused on the dark shape of Miles Butler’s back.

Fury pumped through him. He rode the rush of it and sprang forward, racing across the shingle. His breath wheezed out as he slammed into Butler’s back. Pebbles scattered as they tumbled to the ground.

Dimly, Julian heard a shout go up from the jolly boat and Lady Elliott’s shrieks as Angel seized her. But Julian could only see Butler’s face. He drew back and let his fist fly, felt it connect with flesh. Pain radiated up his arm as Butler’s head snapped back.

“
Traitor!
” Julian spat. He balled his aching fingers to strike again, but Butler bucked him off. Julian thudded to the ground. Stars exploded in his vision as his skull rapped against stone.

__________

G
RACE BIT HER
tongue to hold back her scream as Julian landed hard. His body jerked, and she saw his head snap back. Fear bloomed and she curled her fingers around her pistol.

But when Butler would have leapt on him, Julian rolled away, kicking up pebbles.
He wasn’t hurt.
Relief flooded her but it lasted only seconds.

A scream rent the air as Lady Elliott reared back against Angel. Her feet kicked out as she bucked against him. The back of her head slammed against his face. She broke his hold, darted away. Angel reached for her, missed, even as blood spurted from his nose.

Grace could only stand on the fringe of the scene. Her choices had been limited. The argument with Julian would have wasted precious minutes.

But she wasn’t helpless, and the battle wasn’t over.

Grace raised her pistol and steadied it on the boulder in front of her.

She would bide her time.

__________

B
UTLER’S KNIFE ARCED
toward Julian’s throat, so close he felt the rush of air as it passed by. He rolled over, scrabbling across the shingle. Pushing onto his feet, Julian fumbled in his boot for his own knife. The familiar metal hilt fit easily into his hand and he struck out, the knife an extension of his body.

But he wasn’t quick enough.

Pain seared across his arm, a line of fire left by Butler’s blade. The metallic scent that filled Julian’s nostrils was as familiar as the knife in his hand. Blood ran warm down his arm, slicking the knife hilt.

“First blood belongs to me, Langford.”

“It’s not first blood that counts, Butler. It’s last blood.” Blocking out the pain, Julian shifted his knife from his dominant right hand to his left hand. The weapon felt comfortable there, but he knew he would be slower.

“It seems you’re at a bit of a disadvantage,” Butler mocked. “Sorry about that, old man.”

They circled, thrust, parried. Evenly matched, Julian thought. So it would be luck that won the fight.

__________

E
VEN AS
J
ULIAN
evaded Butler’s knife, Grace saw the smugglers’ jolly boat ram the shore. Men scrambled out, their movement like so many insects spilling from beneath a newly turned rock. Footsteps pounded on shingle as they fanned out across the beach.

Her heart slammed into her throat as the report of a pistol echoed between the cliffs. A scream followed and one of the smugglers near the boat crumpled.