Chapter Nine
She hadn’t expected that. She might have fantasized just a little that when the stranger had finally gone, Grant might lift her veil and kiss her. She never expected him to kiss her through it. And she certainly had no idea of the strange, arousing pleasure the barrier could conjure.
Enough of his hot, firm lips touched her for her to taste him. Through the gauze, his mouth opened hers, his warm breath on her tongue, which suddenly met the tip of his as he softly explored the gauze. A strange, sweet kiss, slowly engulfing and inflaming her.
Trapped between the cold stone behind her and his hard body, she kissed him back, lost in his heat, mouth, and her own unending lust. He made her feel things she never had before. Closeness, a desire so powerful she’d have accepted him there and then with joy, against a respected family’s tombstone.
“Kate,” he breathed into her mouth. “You tie me in knots…”
“Then you shouldn’t stand so close,” she managed.
“You didn’t appear to mind.”
“I don’t,” she said honestly.
He straightened a little, resting his forehead against hers and slowly detaching his body from hers. She felt cold and disappointed and exhilarated all at once. “Let’s find Cornelius,” he muttered. “And then…”
“Then?” she prompted as they moved between the stones, hand-in-hand.
“Take him to the cove,” Grant said with peculiar ruefulness.
He became instantly more businesslike, peering into the darkness, listening for movement before finally approaching the front door, opening it with a key, and slipping inside with Kate at his heels. It was black when he closed the door on the moonlight. She thought she could hear his heart and her own.
He moved away from her, fumbling with a tinder box and flint she couldn’t see. A moment later, light flared and he lit the three candles in the candelabra standing by the door. Holding it high, he walked through the public rooms on the ground floor.
“Cornelius?” he called softly. Finding no sign of him, they climbed the stairs to what had become his bedchamber. The door stood ajar, and Grant pushed it wide. It was in darkness and, when Grant shone the candles around it, quite empty.
“There’s mud on the floor,” Kate said. “I think the soldiers came.”
“But couldn’t find him,” Grant said. “And moved on to me.”
“They could have come back here for him after they lost you. They might have caught him unaware.”
Grant nodded acknowledgement of the possibility. “I’ll check my own chamber.” He lit a candle by the bedside and gave it to Kate. “Will you check the other bedrooms?”
“Of course.”
While he vanished around a corner at the end of the passage, Kate looked in the other bedrooms—one with a dressing room, belonging to the vicar and his wife, others for their two daughters. She even called Cornelius’s name a couple of times, but there was no sign of him.
She emerged into the passage again to find Grant opening the attic door. “Cornelius always went up when we played hide and seek.”
“Which way did you go?” she asked, following up some steps and into an attic storeroom.
“Out, if I could,” he replied, glancing into the servants’ bedrooms.
Kate prowled the storeroom, looking behind old chairs and desks and trunks and even a hobby horse.
“Cornelius,” she called.
Grant returned, shining a brighter light on the dusty treasure trove.
On impulse, Kate glanced upward, holding her candle higher to illuminate a square piece of wood in the ceiling. “Tristram. Is that a trap door? There must be a space above this.”
Grant handed her the candelabra and pulled a trunk under the possible trap door before jumping on top of it and reaching above his head. The wooden square shifted. Kate held her breath while he shoved it aside. She stepped closer, shining the candles upward and into the space above.
A low cry escaped her lips, for the light flickered over the pale, still figure of Cornelius.
Without a word, Grant reached up and hauled himself upward and into the roof space, no easy physical feat from so far below. Kate’s heart beat with uncertainty as he bent over his lifeless brother.
“Is he…?” she whispered.
“Dead?” Grant said. “God, no, he’s asleep, the bastard. Excuse my language.”
“Certainly,” Kate said in relief.
“There’s a ladder up here. I’m going to drop it down.”
A few seconds later, he simply slung his brother over his shoulder and began to climb down the ladder. Kate backed out of his way.
“He’s very sound asleep,” she observed.
“He always slept like the dead. In this case, I expect he exhausted himself getting up here.”
“Wouldn’t it have been easier to wake him up and make him climb down himself?” Kate suggested.
“Maybe, but I’d rather check his wound while he’s still unconscious.”
Kate lit the way down the attic stairs and back to Cornelius’s bedchamber, where Grant deposited his burden on the bed. Cornelius wore only shirt and breeches. Without ceremony, Grant pulled up the shirt. Beneath it, the bandages still looked pristine.
“It looks like he didn’t open the wound again,” Grant said in relief. “I’ll leave it to Dr. Lampton later. Now, where’s that bowl of water?”
“Don’t you dare,” Cornelius said strongly, opening both eyes.
“I knew you were awake,” Grant said with satisfaction, “you lazy, ill-gotten—”
“Only just,” Cornelius protested. “There were soldiers swarming all over the house, Tris. Your Mrs. Walsh gave them what for, I can tell you.”
“I imagine she did. Are you up to a short walk, Cornelius?”
“Where to?” he asked suspiciously.
“To the beach,” Kate said. “It’s a wonderful night for a stroll.”
*
It was an unexpectedly hilarious journey, even though it could have ended badly at any moment. As they made their way through the churchyard, supporting Cornelius between them, Kate noticed a man walking past in the street.
“He’s a town watchman,” Grant murmured, dropping behind a much smaller tombstone than the one which had sheltered them on the way in. “Probably looking for us, if the soldiers involved them.”
“Is that why we stumbled about in the vicarage in the dark?” Kate asked.
“Yes.”
“Anyone would think you’d done this before.”
“Oh, he has,” Cornelius assured her. “He may be a prim-faced vicar these days, but he used to be amusing occasionally. Why does a lady with your charm and beauty spend even a moment with—”
“Shut up, Cornelius,” Grant interrupted. “If it wasn’t for her, you’d have been arrested before you even reached the vicarage.”
“I never said she wasn’t helpful. Only that she’s too beautiful for you.”
“Being a clergyman,” Kate explained. “And therefore, unable to appreciate mere fleshly beauty.”
“Don’t say fleshly when you’re so close to me,” Cornelius begged.
Grant slapped the back of his head. “Come on.”
In this way, starting and stopping, and occasionally hiding behind hedges and walls, they made their way away toward the beach and down the path to Blackhaven Cove. If any smuggling vessels lurked at sea, they showed no lights. On the other hand, neither was there any sign of Gillie or Wickenden.
“What time is it?” Kate asked.
Grant pulled out his fob watch, holding it up to the erratic moonlight. “Five minutes to midnight.”
Kate leaned against a rock and pushed back her hood and veil. “Well, we seem to have fitted a lot into the evening,” she observed. “Life is never dull in Blackhaven, is it?”
“Alas, you have turned so provincial, my dear,” drawled a quite different male voice.
“David?” Kate said, straightening and looking around rather wildly. She jumped as the figure loomed out of nowhere between her and Cornelius.
“Where the devil did you come from?” Grant demanded, throwing up one arm to shield his eyes from the sudden lantern light. Gillie emerged closely behind her husband.
Gillie grinned. “Cave,” she murmured. “In here.”
By the glow of her lantern, everyone followed her into what had seemed a shallow indent in the rock. It was, in fact, a good-sized cave.
“It’s well hidden,” Gillie said. “You can’t be seen from the sea or the road, or even from the beach so long as you don’t stick your head out.”
“It’s an excellent cave,” Grant approved. “And I thank you—we both thank you!—for showing it to us. We can stay here tonight and move on before it’s light.”
“You could,” Gillie allowed. “But that wasn’t really my plan. Do you need to rest, sir?” The last was spoken to Cornelius, who seemed to be leaning much more heavily on Grant.
“Sorry. Weak as a kitten.” Cornelius cast a pretty good effort at a smile, but it was clear he was exhausted.
Wickenden handed him a flask and won a better effort.
However, Cornelius paused with the flask at his lips, then swallowed and lowered it, staring. “Wickenden. You’re Lord Wickenden.”
“I confess,” Wickenden said easily. “And this lady is my wife. But you have the advantage.”
“Cornelius Fanshawe.” The injured man held out his hand, though when Wickenden took it, he used the grip to lever himself into a straighter position to bow to Lady Wickenden.
“Fanshawe?” Wickenden repeated. “Then you’re one of the Earl of Boulton’s sons?”
“Sadly, yes.”
Wickenden eased him back into a sitting position against the cave wall, glancing at Grant as though for confirmation.
Grant nodded once and looked away. It crossed Kate’s mind he was dreading the next revelation.
“I see.” Wickenden leaned one shoulder on the wall. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems there’s no point in your hiding. Just tell them who you are. Grant, clearly, can vouch for you. He’s a clergyman; his word will count.”
Or would have counted, before he’d bolted with the soldiers’ horses and carriage.
Cornelius gave a lopsided smile. “Grant doesn’t really want to vouch for me, and I can’t say I blame him. It’ll bring my father here post-haste and trust me, none of us want that.”
Gillie crouched down beside him, frowning. “You’re causing all this because you’re afraid of your father?”
“Petrified,” Cornelius confessed.
“Not entirely,” Grant said abruptly. “He’s covering for me.”
Kate stared at him. There was more here than just avoiding scandal. She hadn’t seen it before, hadn’t really looked beyond the French spy theory, because in truth, she just wanted to be with Grant.
“For you?” Wickenden frowned at Grant, his face particularly devilish in the upward light from the lantern.
“I’m his half-brother,” Grant said reluctantly. “On the wrong side of the blanket. I went into the Church without my father’s help and very much against his wishes.”
They were both scared of Lord Boulton? Well, so was Vernon, but Kate couldn’t help being very slightly disappointed in Grant.
“You’re both so afraid of him?” Gillie said aloud.
“I am,” Cornelius said cheerfully. “Tris ain’t. He just has some prideful notion of doing this on his own. And not letting my father spoil his position here.”
“Would Lord Boulton do that?” Gillie asked, amazed.
“Oh yes,” Cornelius said fervently. “If Tris don’t toe the line. Which he won’t, being as stubborn as the old man and quite devoted to the idea of frittering his life away in poverty as a lower clergyman.”
“It’s all appallingly selfish,” Grant said uncomfortably. “And I’m sorry for involving you. All of you. It isn’t really quite such a matter of life and death as you might have imagined, only I’d rather the soldiers didn’t shoot Cornelius on sight.”
“You’d rather?” Cornelius interjected.
Kate let out a breath of laughter and patted his arm in a sisterly kind of way. “We’d all rather, though God knows why. It all seems quite reasonable to me, Gillie. Families—some families—need to be kept much farther off than arm’s length.”
Gillie blinked at her. Grant turned his head in the gloom, gazing at her. Kate pretended not to see.
“You have a good family,” she told Gillie. “So does David, for the most part, as I’m sure you’re discovering. Not everyone is so fortunate. Some of us have to struggle to find our way in spite of family. We don’t all do it so well, or so gracefully, as Mr. Grant.”
In the silence, Cornelius peered at her. “You do like him, don’t you? Even as a vicar.”
“Curate,” Kate corrected mildly, and was rewarded by Grant’s snort of laughter.
“Who the devil are you?” Cornelius asked, glancing from his brother back to her.
“Since you ask so civilly, I’m Kate Crowmore.”
Cornelius blinked in clear amazement. “What, Vernon’s Kate?”
This time, the silence was a lot more tense than thoughtful. Cornelius had been in France for several months, isolated from family and friends, yet even he knew about the scandal.
Grant had gone very still. And Kate remembered all over again that Vernon had come to Blackhaven with the intention of marrying her. “I know you’re mine, Kate.”
“No,” she said between her teeth.
Wickenden stirred. “What a small world it is for the rich and privileged. Shall we move on?”
“Move on where?” Grant asked.
“Did you imagine we’d expect you to sleep in a cave?” Wickenden drawled. “Though it’s true you and I have slept in worse places. This is Gillie’s secret, so if any of you breathes a word, I’ll track you down and hurt you.”
“Even me?” Kate said lightly.
“Especially you. I’ll steal your horses.”
“Brute,” said Kate. “Oh my, is this a secret passage?”
“It is,” Gillie confessed, lighting the way to the back where she seemed to vanish into the rock, except for the lantern’s glow which showed the way into a widening stone passage.
Kate whistled, a trick learned from her brothers in childhood. “Where does it lead?”
“Into our cellar,” Gillie confessed. “Which isn’t actually too cold or damp at this time of year.”
“Gillie made you up some comfortable quarters there,” Wickenden said.
“Unfortunately, the house is quite full these days,” Gillie said apologetically, “and there are a couple of new servants whose silence we can’t quite rely on yet. Otherwise you could have stayed upstairs and just hidden when the Watch came round.”
Kate glanced at her with new curiosity. “Does the Watch come round a lot?”
“Used to,” Gillie said with a quick, rueful smile. “When Bernie and I held our card parties, and they tried to prove we were an illegal gambling house. And then we had to hide a wounded smuggler once.” She cast a glance over her shoulder at Cornelius. “He survived.”
Grant laughed.
*
The space Gillie had made up for the fugitives was just behind the main cellar. There were two truckle beds with sheets and blankets, a slightly rusty lamp, a selection of books, a washing bowl on top of an upturned barrel, and a small table with a jug of water, a loaf of bread, and some cold meats and cheese.
Cornelius all but tumbled onto one of the beds. Grant pulled off his brother’s boots and covered him.
“I wish Dr. Morton had not been sent abroad,” Gillie said anxiously. “I know he would have looked after Mr. Fanshawe with discretion.”
“Dr. Lampton has seen him,” Grant assured her. “I think he’s just exhausted and will be fine after more rest. If he gets worse, I’ll fetch Lampton to him—he is also the soul of discretion.” He straightened and took Gillie’s hand. “Thank you for everything. It can hardly be the homecoming you wished for.”
Gillie laughed. “Actually, your adventures make it seem a lot more like home. Is there anything else you require?”
“Nothing. Thank you.”
“Then we’ll leave you to sleep.”
Taking the lantern, she led the way out to the main cellar.
“Thank you, Kate,” Grant said softly. “Again.”
She didn’t want thanks. She wanted a moment, several moments, or even hours, alone with him. But Gillie and Wickenden waited for her.
“Thank you,” she said. “I haven’t had so much fun since my brothers and I hid from the gamekeeper.”
“I won’t ask why.”
“Best not. Good night, Mr. Grant. I’ll call back in the morning … from one direction or another.”
“Be careful,” he warned.
“Oh, I always am,” she said, tapping her reticule where the pistol lay. Since it was all she could do, she gave him a smile and a mocking bow, and walked away, past Wickenden who waited with another lantern.
“Keith?” Grant said behind her. “Make sure she gets home safely?”
“Of course.”
For the second time that evening, Kate left the Muirs’ house in Cliff Crescent, this time escorted only by Wickenden. She had tried to dissuade him, though to no avail.
“He’s afraid for you,” Wickenden observed as they walked around the crescent. “Beyond the normal protective instincts of a gentleman.”
“Surely not.”
“Are you in trouble, Kate?”
She didn’t want him or Gillie involved with the Crowmores, so she turned it off with humor. “Beyond the scandal that seems less and less important? And aiding fugitives, of course. You’ll note I combat those in the guise of a prostrate widow.”
“It’s very good,” Wickenden allowed, casting a glance over her veil, hood, and bent demeanor. “Though since you are the least prostrate widow I have ever met, it makes me want to laugh.”
“Don’t,” she said flippantly. “You’ll spoil everything.”
“And what exactly is everything? What is Tris Grant to you?”
“A good friend.”
Wickenden looked at her. “You won’t hurt him, will you?”
She drew in her breath. “Of course I will. It’s what I do.”
“Kate.”
“What?” she said aggressively. Then, perhaps tiredness caught up with her, for uncharacteristic tears struggled into her throat. She fought them back fiercely. “I should leave him alone, shouldn’t I?”
“If you’re playing with him, yes. He’s Vernon’s brother, for God’s sake.”
“Don’t remind me,” she whispered. “Oh God, David, how have I made such a mess of everything?”
Although she couldn’t look at him, lest he saw the tears she couldn’t prevent swelling in her eyes, she felt his perceptive gaze on her face.
“I don’t believe you have,” he murmured. “Yet.”
Yet. She laughed, a short, brittle sound she didn’t much care for, though it was the best she could do.
“Vernon is here,” she said abruptly. “He turned up without a word, let alone invitation. He says he wants to marry me.”
“It would be the best way to silence the scandal,” he allowed.
“To be admitted back into the fashionable world of hedonism and polite deceit? Where no one is ever truly your friend? Why does that not sound as tempting as it used to?”
“Because you’re bored with it?” he suggested.
She glanced at him at last. “As you were?”
“I was only ever pretending.”
“If it’s any consolation,” she said with difficulty. “I hurt myself more than I hurt you.”
“I know. And if we’d married, I’d never have met Gillie.”
“Yes, you would. You’d just have loved her from afar. One way or another, we’d have made each other miserable in the end.”
“We would.” He turned the corner in silence. “But I don’t believe you’d make Tris miserable. If you loved him.”
The tears surged back into her throat, but she spoke through the ache. “I am not capable of love.”
Wickenden only smiled. She could hear it in his voice. “You mean you haven’t encountered many people worthy of it. It’s not the same thing.”