Kiss From A Rogue

Chapter 4-1

Chapter 4

Sylvia sat at the dressing table in her bedchamber, staring at the flame of the single lit candle. Her meeting with Captain Ruford was only a few hours away. Cold dread settled in the pit of her stomach.

There was one way to avoid meeting with Ruford ever again. She fingered the travel-stained letter that lay among the hairpins and ribbons on her dressing table. Now that her year of mourning was over, Uncle Walcott had invited her to come back and live with him. His wife was busy with the new baby – their tenth – and their governess had left without giving notice. She was the fifth to depart in as many months. Walcott was confident Sylvia would prefer his well-maintained house in Manchester to Jimmy’s decaying manor in the wilds of Dorset.

Unpaid servant, or smuggler. Surely there had to be more options?

She tossed the letter into a drawer and slammed it shut.

She picked up her hairbrush and ran it through her unruly curls, preparing for her meeting on the beach. Realizing her fingers were trembling, she balled them into fists in her lap. She would not allow Captain Ruford to unnerve her like this.

How would she fend him off this time? She must find some way to curtail his cheating them and deter his advances, without putting their business relationship in jeopardy. Her men, and their families, were relying on her to keep some small amount of money coming into their pockets for food on their tables, thatch on their roofs.

There had to be a way. She would have to look beyond her upbringing as a genteel young lady, her education in how to be a dutiful wife, mother, and run a household. Those traditional skills had proven useless when it came to hiding casks of brandy, transporting the goods to their customers past the noses of the Revenue agents, or finding customers in the first place. Her less conventional skills, like knowing how to stop the bleeding of a dagger wound, had proved invaluable of late. She would have to go further, be even more unorthodox.

She would have to think more like a smuggler. Act more like a smuggler.

What did a smuggler do that she did not?

She glanced out her window. The crescent moon was hidden by clouds, with enough rain and wind blowing to make even the most determined Revenue agent prefer to stay by his own hearth. A perfect night for landing illicit cargo.

Right about now, her men would be gathering in the taproom of the Happy Jack for a pint before setting out for their vigil on the beach in the storm, waiting for the signal, when the real work would begin.

She’d join them. A half-pint might settle her nerves. They might be surprised at first to see her, but she had no doubt they’d try to make her feel welcome.

She grabbed her bonnet and left her room.

She paused outside the door to Hubert’s bedchamber. After a moment’s hesitation, she entered and felt her way to the desk near the window and opened the top drawer. There, just where she’d put it after his funeral, was the short dagger he’d always kept tucked inside his boot.

The steel was cold in her hands. Heavy. She’d never concealed a knife on her person before. Had never so much as gutted a fish. But in the thirteen months since Montgomery’s death, she’d had to do a lot of things she’d never thought she would. Like lead a group of smugglers.

Her men all carried a knife or two, as well as a pistol.

She tucked the knife into her half-boot. After a cautious step, and an adjustment to make sure she wasn’t going to cut her own ankle, she strode determinedly down the stairs.

Galen was in the front hall, preparing to leave for her weekly cribbage game with Mrs. Spencer. Three of her men were there as well, waiting to escort Sylvia down to the beach.

“Evening, my lady.” Monroe tipped his hat as she came down the stairs, and stepped back so that his bulk didn’t block the hall. Trent and Corwin also doffed their hats.

“Slight change in plans,” she called as she joined them. “I feel like going down for a half-pint.”

“Beg pardon, missy?” Only Galen called her that.

Trent harrumphed.

“Excellent suggestion, m’lady.” Monroe tugged his hat down around his ears. “I could do with a pint meself on a night like this.”

Sylvia grabbed her basket, already loaded with her pistol, bandages and other medical supplies, and they headed out into the night.

The group split up when they reached the Happy Jack. The men entered the taproom, while Galen went around to the kitchen door. Sylvia followed her, to learn from Mrs. Spencer what the reaction of the inn’s patrons had been to the cheese Sylvia had traded this afternoon in exchange for other supplies. The cupboard had been frightfully empty. As she stepped indoors, memories of her encounter with the two strange gentlemen came flooding back.

The one who’d introduced himself, the viscount, was obviously a gentleman in every sense of the word. His companion was something else entirely. Her cheeks heated at the memory of how the rogue had touched her. He’d managed to take something as innocuous as tying the ribbons of her bonnet and turn it into an attempt at seduction. She might have been flattered by his attentions, had he not made her feel as though she were being stripped bare by his eyes.

His soulful brown eyes…

The inn’s kitchen was warm chaos, as usual. Spencer and his daughter hurried to fill orders for the villagers in the taproom, and Mrs. Spencer caught Galen up on the latest gossip as she took the last batch of the day’s bread out of the oven. Sylvia took off her bonnet, torn between listening to the ladies and joining her men in the taproom.

“You can’t be none too careful these days.” Mrs. Spencer wagged her finger. “Them city fellows think they can get away with anything. Got no right harassing good country folk.” She had to raise her voice at the end, to be heard over a sudden commotion outside. “Time to put my feet up for a spell.” Mrs. Spencer gestured for Galen and Sylvia to follow her to the private parlor, with an invitation for a nip of sherry.

Before they had taken two steps, the kitchen door burst open and slammed against the wall, quivering on its rusty hinges. Four men clustered on the stoop, a large cloth bundle at their feet.

Hayden kept the door from swinging shut again. “I caught one, my lady!”

“What do you mean, you caught him? I caught him!” Doyle poked Hayden in the chest. “‘Twas my blow that knocked him out.”

“We all caught him, you twits.” Baxter, ever the voice of reason, gave both men a shove backward.

Sawyer stepped up into the space vacated by Doyle and Hayden. With his stooped shoulders, Sylvia hadn’t seen him at first. “What would you like us to do with the bugger, my lady?”

“Him, who?” Sylvia looked from one weathered face to another. She shared a glance with Galen, who looked just as puzzled.

“A Revenue agent, my lady.” Doyle gave the lump at their feet a jab with the toe of his boot.

“He’s been sniffing around all afternoon, asking all sorts o’ questions.” Sawyer took off his cap, ran gnarled fingers through his short silver spikes, and slipped his cap back on.

Monroe came to the taproom doorway, tankard in his hand, saw the bundle, and called for Trent and Corwin.

Sylvia clutched her bonnet, her knuckles white. They’d had a few close calls with the local Revenue agent, but so far no confrontations. Their operation was too small to pay any attention to when there were much larger, more dangerous gangs to contend with. Last month a Revenue man had been found face down in Worbarrow Bay, a knife in his neck.

“Didn’t want this one interfering tonight.” Baxter gave the lump another kick. “Sawyer wanted to slit his throat and dump him in the bay.”

“Did not. Wanted to tie him on his horse, point him at the cliff, and slap the mount’s flank.”

“That’s not very nice to the horse,” Doyle muttered.

“He didn’t come on no horse,” Hayden interrupted. “Spencer said so.”

“We could still take him up to Worbarrow,” Corwin suggested.

“Gentlemen!” Sylvia shouted. All the men were instantly still, their full attention on her.

In the sudden quiet, they heard a low groan emanate from the bundle of muddy cloth at their feet.

Sylvia set her bonnet on the table. “We may be desperate, but we are not the Worbarrow Bay g**g. No blood will be shed, do you understand?”

All seven men clutched their hat or cap to their chest, nodding. A chorus of reluctant “Yes, my lady,” and “Aye, milady,” echoed through the kitchen.

Sylvia nodded. “Take him into the parlor, and we’ll see how badly he’s injured. Then we’ll decide what to do with him.” She turned to Mrs. Spencer. “If you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. Haul ‘im to the parlor, lads!”

The seven men, each old enough to be her father or even grandfather, picked up part of the flour-dusted bundle and scuttled through the doorway, down the back hall, and into the parlor. Mrs. Spencer hurried ahead to toss a sheet over the sofa before they set down their dirty burden. The men grumbled and pushed each other, and Sylvia heard more than one muttered curse as they untied the knots.

Finally they all stepped back, ropes and various flour sacks in their hands, and Sylvia had her first look at the unconscious man on the sofa.

Blast. She should have known. It was the rogue who’d accosted her this afternoon.

Before today, she’d almost forgotten what a handsome, healthy young man could look like. Well, perhaps not so healthy anymore. Better see what damage, if any, her men had done to him.

On his left side, knees drawn up, wrists still together though no longer bound, his body just fit between the arms of the sofa. The dusting of flour from the sacks made him look like a statue, hard and cold as marble, but a quick glance confirmed that his chest still rose and fell in a steady rhythm. She clucked with impatience, fished a handkerchief out of her reticule and dampened it with water from the vase on a side table, and began to wipe his face. His long lashes brushed his cheeks, hiding his eyes that had distracted her so much during their first encounter.

“Careful, my lady, he’s a wily one.” Doyle rubbed his shin.

“I’m sure we can subdue him again if necessary.” Sylvia stared at the stranger’s chest again to confirm he was still breathing. He wore an embroidered cream silk waistcoat and fine linen cravat, and his shoulders were encased in finest wool, an elegant dark brown before it had been defaced by the flour.

She knelt beside the sofa and returned to cleaning his face. Strong jaw, chiseled nose, high cheekbones, full lips set in a mouth that looked like it smiled often. She remembered how he’d smiled at her this afternoon, remembered how her stomach had fluttered.

He needed a shave, but aside from the stubble his skin was smooth, not lined by weather or time. He appeared to be only a couple years older than she, at least a decade younger than her husband had been. Montgomery had smelled of the ocean, of salty air and hemp ropes. The only scent emanating from the stranger, aside from the flour, was a hint of sandalwood soap.

She tipped more water onto the handkerchief and smoothed the hair near his brow, revealing a rich chestnut brown. Not a single strand of gray marred his temple.

All the Revenue men she’d seen or heard of were much older than this. Sylvia slid her gaze down the rest of his body. Light brown breeches hugged his well-formed legs, the fabric equally as fine as his coat, both with perfectly neat stitching. His leather boots, with the tops turned down, showed some wear but had recently been well polished. Sylvia recognized the same style and material of footgear that Montgomery had once ordered from an exclusive bootmaker in London, at a cost that would have fed the fully staffed household for a month.