Kiss From A Rogue

Chapter 8-1

Chapter 8

Tony went inside, where he found Sylvia seated at the corner table in the taproom, lunch for two spread before her. “Miss me?”

She gave him a forced smile and gestured with her chin toward the fireplace. One of Ruford’s men lounged on a bench near the fire.

Tony leaned down to give her a kiss on the cheek before taking his seat, and moved his chair to the side. The new position enabled him to better watch the sailor as well as cozy up to Sylvia. He dug into the crab, mackerel, cheese, and fresh vegetables. After the skimpy breakfast this morning and indifferent fare he’d been eating the last week while traveling, he almost moaned with pleasure. He could hardly wait to taste the apple tart for dessert.

“Like it?” Sylvia paused in her eating.

“I’ve died and gone to heaven.” He took another bite of crab puff, savoring the delicate flavor. “After the stew they served yesterday, I didn’t think the Spencers could cook like this.”

“For strangers, no.”

“So this is another benefit to being married?” The word rolled off his tongue as easily as the fine food slid down his throat. “I could become accustomed to this.” He grinned at her after swallowing a mouthful of savory fish.

Sylvia’s smile froze.

Tony glanced over his shoulder, following her gaze. The first mate had returned to the taproom, followed by a man Tony had never seen before.

Though of average height, the stranger seemed to leach the light from the room, and not just because his broad build blocked much of the doorway as he entered. He sat down at the far table, across from the first sailor, and they rested their elbows on the table, deep in quiet conversation.

“That’s Teague,” Sylvia whispered. “Leader of the Worbarrow Bay g**g. Why is he talking to Crowther?”

“Ruford’s first mate?”

Sylvia nodded. “It’s bad enough they want Jimmy’s beach to land their cargo, but now they want our cargo, as well?”

“You have an on-going disagreement with a smuggling g**g? An actual g**g?” As sweet and vulnerable as Sylvia was, the most hazardous disagreement she should be involved in should concern the accuracy of the butcher’s scale.

Her eyes narrowed. “We’re in a dangerous business. I thought you understood that.”

“Yes, but all your men are—” He cleared his throat, before he could stick his foot down it. “I just didn’t think of you and your men as being a gang.”

“What else would we be?” Her hand tightened on her fork, its sharp tines pointing upward.

He eyed her fork’s proximity to his thigh. “This fish is delicious. Have you tasted yours yet?”

Sylvia gave him another narrow stare, but let the matter drop and dug in to her own meal. They continued to eat in silence. He kept an eye on the men conversing in the corner. Just as he polished off his apple tart, the two men stood and shook hands.

“That can’t be good,” Sylvia muttered.

Crowther headed over to the fireplace, while Teague started for the door. He tipped his head toward Sylvia. “Lady Montgomery,” he said without breaking stride, looking smug.

“Mrs. Sinclair,” Tony corrected.

Teague stopped. “What?”

Tony pushed back his chair and stood, his hand resting on Sylvia’s shoulder. “My wife is properly addressed as Mrs. Sinclair.” He watched Crowther join the other sailor, but neither of them said a word as they shamelessly eavesdropped.

Teague stepped closer. “Wife?” He was only an inch or two taller than Tony, but nearly twice as wide. His coat seams strained over his chest and biceps, as though he spent his nights tossing casks of brandy as easily as other men tossed chunks of coal. “Felicitations, my lady. May I take it you’ve, ah, retired?”

He felt Sylvia tense. “Nothing of the sort, old chum,” Tony interrupted. “I was happy to join the family business.” He refused to back away, even as the brute across from him flexed his muscles, making his coat even tighter.

“Mr. Teague owns the Stone’s Throw Inn near Tyneham, Mr. Sinclair,” Sylvia said.

Tony gave her a fatuous smile, before turning his attention back to Teague. “Oh? Interested in selling, by chance? My brother is always looking to buy another inn.”

“Actually, I’m planning to expand my interests.” Teague glanced at Crowther.

Tony gave Sylvia’s shoulder a light squeeze of reassurance. “So, what brings you to our little cove?”

“Opportunity.” Teague folded his arms over his barrel chest.

Mrs. Spencer came out of the kitchen just then to clear the dishes from the table. When neither Tony nor Teague stepped aside, she spun around and headed back, hands empty.

“I’d wager young Lord Montgomery is none too happy, having another man about the house.”

“You’d lose.” Tony folded his arms, mirroring Teague’s cocky stance. “James is quite happy to have someone else to help shoulder the responsibilities.” Tony kept his tone level but couldn’t resist a little muscle-flexing himself.

Sylvia was suddenly at his side, tucking her hand in the crook of his arm. “We don’t wish to keep you from your business, Mr. Teague,” she said sweetly.

Teague gave a small nod, acknowledging his dismissal. “Good afternoon, then. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again, Sinclair.”

“Count on it.”

Together they watched Teague exit, and a few moments later heard hoofbeats as he rode out of the yard. Sylvia picked up her basket beside her chair and gave a tug on Tony’s arm, pulling him out the door.

“Such an eager bride,” he murmured, just loud enough for Crowther to hear. Sylvia’s cheeks turned red but her steps didn’t falter.

“We can’t let Teague take over Ruford’s shipments,” she said once they were on the curving High Street, headed uphill and inland, away from the inn.

“Why not? Wouldn’t you rather do business with someone, anyone, other than that stinking lecher?”

“Of course I would.” Sylvia let out a deep breath. “But no one else would do business with us. Jimmy and I, that is. Few captains would even speak with us, and most of those held the meeting just so they could have a laugh at our expense.”

“But now it’s not just you and Jimmy.” Tony stopped in the street and turned her, his hands on her shoulders so he could look into her sea-green eyes, let her see the sincerity in his. He’d promised to stay a week at least, but now he was seriously considering staying beyond that. And not merely because he’d just had his first decent meal since leaving London.

He’d been looking for a direction, an avocation, a cause to take up. In the short time he’d been here, the people of this tiny village, and their struggle to survive, had made an impression on him. They needed help. Tony’s help. At least through the next few shipments. He gave Sylvia a gentle squeeze. “You have me now.”

Sylvia’s heart pounded in her chest. She wanted to believe him, believe in him. But he was from a different world, belonged elsewhere. He’d soon grow tired of their scrabbling existence and move on. He’d let her down, just as the other men in her life had let her down. “You can’t stay here indefinitely. I’m sure you have obligations. What about the friend you were traveling with? And won’t your family be concerned with your prolonged absence?”

Tony shook his head. “Alistair is on a pilgrimage to study big telescopes, my mother is surrounded with suitors these days, and my brother just married his secretary.”

“He— I beg your pardon?” Sylvia thought of her father’s secretary, back when she was in pigtails. Papa and Mr. Dryden had both been bald and wore spectacles.

Tony held out his arm, and they began walking again. “The new Lady Sinclair had disguised herself as a young man in order to get the job with Ben. It’s a long story but ends well. They’re nauseatingly happy with each other.”

Sylvia couldn’t imagine trying to pretend to be a young man. “She wore breeches, in public?” What a shocking creature Tony’s sister-in-law must be.

On second thought… what a brilliant idea. How much simpler would it be, to conduct business and not have to fend off unwanted advances from the likes of Ruford? She glanced down at herself, trying to picture her figure in breeches and tailcoat.

When she looked up, Tony was staring at her with a speculative gleam in his eyes, as though he too were picturing her in breeches. She coughed. He raised his gaze to her face, the picture of innocence.

Thinking of Tony’s family reminded her of one of his earlier comments. “What did you mean, your brother is looking to buy inns?”

Tony shrugged. “Call it a hobby of his.”

“Hobby?” Sylvia’s mind raced with the implications. Tony’s brother was wealthy enough to buy inns, plural, for a hobby? She looked down at her threadbare dress, remembered the condition of the house he’d seen, the sparse breakfast Galen had undoubtedly fed him this morning.

Her cheeks burned with mortification. What must he think of her? Of Jimmy, Doyle, Baxter, and the others. She had become accustomed to the village and its poverty since she had taken up residence four years ago. It was just the way things were.

She glanced at Tony’s fine attire. His coat alone must have cost more than all the gowns in her dressing room combined.

Why was he willing to play along with their charade?

Was this all just a lark to him? A rake pursuing another conquest? The rich, idle aristocrat amusing himself at their expense?

She thought of his hands when she’d touched him last night, checking his injuries. She’d felt his calluses. Sensed the coiled strength in his muscles, all over his powerful body. Aristocrat, yes, but not an idle one.

She gave herself a mental shake. She couldn’t allow herself to be distracted by the attractive package. His presence was a gift that would only be taken away again, and she would not become attached to it.

They reached the turnoff from the main road, the manor house visible on the bluff. The day had grown dark again, clouds obscuring the sun. The gloom concealed the manor’s peeling paint. Shadows filled in the missing mortar between bricks, hiding decades of damage from winter storms and blustery winds. Ornate shrubs and flowers in the formal garden out front had required gardeners to maintain, and when there was no longer money to pay gardeners, Sylvia had replaced them with mint, comfrey, yarrow, and other herbs with healing properties. The plants grew with wild abandon, and from a distance looked like a sea of green.

“What a grand house.”

Sylvia followed Tony’s gaze, staring at the manor. “Grand?” A falling piece of the ceiling in the gold salon had almost knocked her senseless last week.

“It was once, and could be again. Notice the intricacy of the frontispiece, the pedimented windows?” Still facing the house, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, tilted his head close to hers and gestured with one hand, his voice low. “Picture it with fresh paint on the portico columns. An army of gardeners trimming back the greenery. A phaeton tooling along the graveled drive, pulled by a matching set of bays. Do you see it, Sylvia?”

Almost. What was clearer to her was his thumb stroking the bare skin at the hollow between her neck and shoulder. He had shifted closer so their bodies touched, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. She turned her head to face him, a rebuke on her lips, but he was still staring straight ahead at the house, his focus a hundred years away. His gaze flicked to her then back to the house so quickly, it might have been her imagination.

His strong arm around her was thrilling, his faint scent — sandalwood soap and him — intoxicating. The heat from his body scorched her skin. If she tilted her chin, she could kiss his smooth-shaven cheek. If he turned his head, their lips would meet.

What was she doing? She had no business thinking about kissing him. “You’re right, it probably was grand, a generation or two ago. Now, though, I think the dairy cattle have better shelter than we do.” She shrugged out of his loose embrace and veered off the path toward the barns, taking a shortcut across the field.