Chapter Three
Kate yawned over her morning hot chocolate and leaned back into the comfortable pillows.
“What is today’s excitement, again?” she enquired of Little.
“Only the French prisoners being brought ashore,” the maid replied. Her eyes gleamed. “From Captain Alban’s ship.”
Kate had heard of Captain Alban, of course, a merchant captain with a mysterious piratical past, so it was rumored. In the last couple of years, he had taken on the French in quite dashing ways—running the French blockades, rescuing British prisoners from the French and Spanish coasts, and even joining in sea battles. A curious character she would be interested to meet. On the other hand, watching some poor, chained sailors being handed from one prison to the next wasn’t high on the list of Kate’s pleasures.
“What are the alternatives?” she asked.
“This morning? A visit to the pump room and the bath house. Or the gallery. Or the circulating library. Again.”
Kate sighed. She hadn’t finished the book she’d borrowed from the library yesterday afternoon. She looked forward with longing to the arrival of her horses. When she could ride, she could at least see more of the country.
“Very well,” she said. “Let us go and gawp at Captain Alban and hope his prisoners are not wretched enough to lower my spirits.” She took a sip of chocolate. “Although he might send some underling on such a dull task and then we shall be disappointed.”
“But the soldiers of the 44th will be there to take the prisoners,” Little said eagerly. “I hear the whole town will turn out to watch.”
Kate’s stomach gave a funny little flutter. Would the curate be above such a spectacle? Although she would not involve him in her affairs, she was far from averse to seeing him again. She liked his easy manners and his unexpected wit. In fact, he intrigued her as few men did these days, not least, she suspected cynically because he didn’t try to seduce her, despite admitting to liking her. The man was a challenge.
And, she acknowledged, sipping her chocolate, a mystery. A highly attractive mystery in clergyman’s clothes. A clergyman, forsooth! She’d never encountered one of the species quite like him. The ambitious, well-born ones who occasionally crossed her social path, she generally dismissed as hypocrites. The poorer ones, dependent on the favor of her family or Crowmore’s, tended to be obsequious and occasionally pitiful. There was certainly nothing obsequious or pitiful about Mr. Grant! Or hypocritical. He was, in fact, that rarity, a kind man who was not remotely boring.
Yet…
He talked and fought without flinching, amused her, ignored her reputation—and his own—and he made no assumptions. He was a novelty, and wicked Kate Crowmore loved nothing more. Who else would have smuggled her back to her hotel in a cart because her dress was dirty?
Laughter bubbled up once more. Of course that hadn’t been his reason any more than it was hers. He liked her. It wasn’t flirtation as she understood it. It was a lot more … exciting.
She set down her cup and saucer. “The turquoise dress, I think, Little, don’t you?”
An hour later, she sallied forth from the hotel and walked to the end of High Street and along to the docks. Annoyingly, the hair at the back of her neck prickled, a continued response to the recent attack that she couldn’t quite squash, despite the daylight and the safe throng of people around her.
And, of course, Little trailed in her wake, more because the maid was desperate to see the spectacle than because Kate wished to pander to her own fears, let alone the town’s sense of propriety.
It was easy to follow the flow of people from all classes who came to the harbor to jeer at the fallen enemy, and it wasn’t far.
Blackhaven Harbor, while pretty against the backdrop of surrounding hills and rugged cliffs, wasn’t suitable for larger vessels. According to the same friendly fisherman she’d spoken to yesterday. He pointed out Captain Alban’s ship anchored beyond the harbor and the two boats full of prisoners being rowed ashore toward the harbor steps.
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.
“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.”