Chapter Two
“I don’t often get the chance to kiss the women I really want to paint.” How many women, exactly, did he kiss—or want to kiss!
Even lying in bed, several hours later, she could still feel the soft pressure of his lips on hers. The kiss made her glad and tingly all over, and she really, really didn’t want to imagine she was one of many. She refused to be one of many. Which was why she had to pull herself together. If she ever encountered him again, she had to be distant enough to repel such familiarity. He would be a fun friend—if she could keep him secret from the household. A friend who neither took nor received the liberty he had today.
She should be angry with him. She would be, she thought, if he’d actually known who she was. He probably imagined her to be some maid, or perhaps the governess, which didn’t entitle him to liberties either, of course. But even the most rakish of gentlemen would think twice about offending the Earl of Braithwaite. And truly, she hadn’t given him much reason to doubt that his kiss would be acceptable.
Oh dear, he would think her a lightskirt! Although not perfectly sure what such a female did, she was sure it entailed granting kisses to strangers, and it was assuredly not a good thing to be.
Boredom, it seemed, was doing terrible things to her. Why did her mother and brother not realize this would happen? After all, it was boredom that had led to her flirting with Dax in the first place. How much more bored was she likely to get being stuck up here with nothing to do but distract the children from their lessons and placate Miss Grey with Cook’s treats from the kitchen?
In any case, when she met the artist again—if she met him again—in the orchard or anywhere else, dignified friendliness was the attitude she should aim for. And she had to tell him exactly who she was.
Her mind made up, she closed her eyes once more and found herself remembering his kiss. Which was a rather lovely way to fall asleep.
She woke with a thud, unsure if what she’d heard had been in her dream or in reality, or even if it was just the beat of her own heart.
But then she heard movement outside, a rolling, scraping sound in the old courtyard below her window. Hastily, she rose and felt her way to the window and pulled back the heavy curtain.
It was another clear night, the moon and stars illuminating the scene below like a vignette in a book. Two men and a barrel.
Smugglers. Hardly a rare sight around Blackhaven. Serena was aware they used Braithwaite Cove below the castle to land their contraband, though these days they generally only did it when the family was not in residence. She was fairly sure her brother received a generous amount of French brandy for his discretion, and he certainly wasn’t the only one in Blackhaven. Even the knowledge that many smugglers were now in the pay of the French didn’t stop the trade altogether.
What did surprise her was that they should have brought their goods this far up to the castle. In the old days, a keg or two of brandy was left on the beach below, or at the castle gates. It wasn’t right that they should treat her family’s home as their contraband store, however seldom any of the family were in residence these days. She should have a word with them…Gillie’s friend, Smuggler Jack, perhaps. Or her brother Bernard would surely know what was going on.
Sighing, she let the curtain fall back and padded back to bed.
Serena slept only fitfully for the rest of the night. She kept waking up, disturbed either by actual comings and goings or by her imagination. In the end, she gave in and rose early. Having washed and dressed—in a rather newer day gown of fine wool to counteract the castle draughts—she went in search of her sisters. They were discovered in their beds, all still sound asleep. Even Miss Grey was only just waking up, yawning owlishly at her when she stuck her head round her bedchamber door.
“Slugabeds, all of you!” Serena accused and went off to the kitchen instead to beg some warm, freshly baked bread from Cook. Cook cut her a thick slice and slathered it in butter, handing it to her with a tolerant wink and an apple.
Serena hugged her and danced off with her treasure, pausing only to seize her warm cloak on the way out the door.
It was going to be another beautiful morning. As it was, the sun hadn’t quite risen, and there was a hint of frost in the crunching of the grass beneath her feet. Serena considered breaking her confinement altogether and walking into Blackhaven. Only Gillie, her childhood friend was not there but with her husband at Wickenden where she awaited the birth of their first child.
Who would have thought it? The last time Serena had been home, it had been Gillie who was in disgrace, and Serena who’d won the brilliant match, or at least a respectable one. And yet here she was back on the marriage mart, while Gillie had everything.
Not that Serena begrudged her it, for she loved Gillie very much, and her friend’s wicked baron was a lot more exciting than Serena’s wealthy baronet. In fact, Gillie was a living lesson, that marriage needn’t be dull and constricting.
While thinking about Gillie, Serena’s footsteps seemed to have led to the orchard. She laughed at herself, for it was far too early to expect any visitors, let alone the eccentric artist. Besides, it would not do to be seen waiting for him.
As her hand stilled on the latch of the orchard door, a sound in the distance drew her attention and she glanced along the wide formal garden that ran along the orchard wall to the old courtyard entrance. Someone stood there, half turned away from her, apparently calling to someone else inside the courtyard.
Frowning, Serena released the latch and hurried toward the courtyard instead. There was no real reason for any of the servants to be there, except to go to the wine cellar, which was extremely unlikely at this time of day. It crossed Serena’s mind that the man was not a Braithwaite servant, but a smuggler, and if so, he needed to understand where the boundary line was drawn. She would not report their activities or even put an end to them—after all, most of the town was complicit to one degree or another. But smugglers could not be running tame about the castle.
As if he heard her footsteps, the man glanced around, saw her, and immediately bolted inside the courtyard. She’d been right. He was no servant. Picking up her skirts, she ran after him, but when she reached the courtyard, there was no sign of anyone at all. And the cellar, when she tried the outside door, was locked.
Were they on the inside? Her blood ran cold. Were they running loose about the castle? Were they living here? Surely, the servants would be aware of such a thing. Walking into the middle of the courtyard, she gazed up at the windows, including that of her own bedchamber, and turned to those disused parts on the left-hand side. On the third side was merely an ancient wall, partially ruined and rebuilt, in which a newer, cast iron gate had been added. And it seemed to be ajar.
She darted toward it, but before she even swung it open, she saw through the bars, the unmistakable figure of a man bolting into the woods.
Well at least he’s not inside the castle, she thought with relief, hurrying after him. She opened her mouth to yell to him to stop, before it struck her that neither of them really wanted to draw attention. She ran faster, and was rewarded when, from the line of trees, he glanced over his shoulder and saw her.
She waved. But rather than waiting for her, her quarry simply delved into the trees and vanished.
“Oh, for the love of—” But no, he was being sensible. They would talk where no passing gardener would notice them.
When she reached the spot from where he’d seen her, there was no sign of him. Peering through the trees all around her, she crept forward, twigs crunching and snapping beneath her feet.
“Hello?” she hazarded and then, getting no response. “I need to talk to you, but I’m not here to threaten.”
Twigs crackled to her right, drawing her further in. And then, when she was just about to give up, a man stepped out of the trees—surely the man she’d followed from the courtyard—and he lunged at her. He’d have caught her, too, if her reflexes hadn’t been so quick. She leapt back beyond his reach and bolted in sudden terror, for she’d glimpsed the glittering steel in his hand. He didn’t want to talk. He meant her harm.
As she ran through the trees, she heard him pounding after her, crashing through the undergrowth. But it was hard to locate him now, for she kept changing direction in an effort to fool him and her heart thundered too loudly in her ears, eclipsing everything but her own desperately panting breath.
Branches moved to her right and she swerved left, thudding into a hard, male body. Hands seized her. She made a pathetic sound in her throat that she’d meant to be a scream and lashed out at the region of his chest with her balled fists. His grip only tightened.
“Hush, I’m not going to hurt you,” a soothing and familiar voice said.
The artist.
She gasped, her hands opening and clutching his coat in her relief. “On thank God it’s you! I thought…”
“What did you think?” he asked. He held her comfortingly in one arm, but he seemed to be looking over her head, scouring the surrounding trees.
“There’s a man,” she said urgently, “a smuggler with a knife, a dagger of some kind. I don’t suppose you’re armed, sir, so we should flee!”
“Discretion is certainly the better part of valor,” he agreed, still scanning the woods. “Although you should know I am the very devil with a stick.” As she finally lifted her puzzled head from his too comfortable chest, he seized what looked like a trimmed branch which was propped up against the nearest tree, and made swift fencing motions with it. “See?”
“I see that you are just as mad as I remember,” she said shakily.
“No, no, it’s a perfectly sensible defense,” he assured her, still with his arm around her shoulder as he began to walk with her toward the edge of the wood. “Only why is a smuggler attacking you?”
“I followed him from the castle,” she confessed.
“How do you know he’s a smuggler?”
She frowned. “Who else could he be? I saw them last night, hiding barrels in the castle cellar and that is not something Braithwaite would approve of, so when I saw him again this morning. I tried to tell him so, only he wouldn’t stop to talk and then he just lunged at me, with a knife.”
“Good God,” the artist said, casting her a startled glance. “He actually attacked you?”
She nodded. For some reason, with his large person at her side, his arm around her, it no longer seemed too scary.
“Did he hurt you?”
“No, my reflexes are quick. Too many games of tag when we were children. I was the champion.”
“Excellent practice for life, tag,” he murmured. “Um, are you acquainted with this man?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never seen him before in my life.”
“Well they do say, the “gentlemen” are no longer gentlemen. Bonaparte has made it a much dirtier business than merely avoiding duty. We should go and visit my neighbor, who knows about such things.”
“Who is your neighbor?”
“His name is Jack and he and his family have a cottage on the shore, just a few yards along the street from mine.”
“Smuggler Jack?” she said in surprise.
“With such a well-known name, I’m surprised the authorities haven’t clapped him up.”
“Well, the authorities are local, too,” she pointed out as they emerged from the trees. “Besides, I think Jack might have retired from the trade. The excise men shot him a few months back and his wife works for the Muirs now.”
He cast her a glance sparkling with sudden amusement. “You are surprisingly knowledgeable in such matters.”
His laughing eyes would be her undoing. She became aware of his nearness, of his unconventional escort with his arm still warm around her shoulders. Whatever had happened to the dignified friendliness she’s been so determined to show him? Wretched smuggler.
Trying to squash the silly butterflies in her stomach, she drew away from the artist until his arm fell casually back to his side. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Well, the Muirs are friends of mine,” she said hastily. “Gillie Muir is now Lady Wickenden.” That should give him some warning of her status at least.
“I know,” he said.
She blinked. Well, everyone in town must know of Gillie’s brilliant marriage. All the same, his words brought to mind something he’d said yesterday, after she’d mentioned her troubles stemming from flirting with Lord Daxton. Well, he’s a fun person to be with. I’d probably flirt with him myself.
Daxton had a lot of odd and quite unrespectable friends. She shouldn’t be surprised that one of them should be him. But it was now more urgent than ever that he understand her position.
With a very deliberate carelessness, she said, “You do know, then, that I am Serena Conway, Lord Braithwaite’s sister?”
She wasn’t quite sure what she expected. Possibly a blanching of his face, or a look of horror, almost certainly an apology for his familiarity to call it no worse. And a change in his manner that she would, in spite of everything, be sorry for.
But the artist only smiled faintly, without much obvious interest in her words. “Yes, I know.”
She blinked. “You do?”
“Well, yes. It didn’t register just at first, but you seemed so at home here and there had been talk in town of your arrival at the castle.”
“Then…then it does not…bother you that I am Lady Serena?” she demanded.
At last, his eyebrows rose in surprise. “Of course not. It’s who you are.”
“Like the back of my head?” she said with a hint of tartness.
He grinned. “The back of your head is very charming, your nape delightful. I’m sure you already know how beautiful you are from the front.”
“You are outrageous!” she exclaimed.
“If you mean I should apologize for kissing you, I’m afraid I can’t regret that, for I liked it excessively. On the other hand, if I offended you, I am sorry—I meant it to have the opposite effect.”
Speechless, Serena merely stared at him, though laughter seemed to be rising up from her stomach. Perhaps she was hysterical.
“About your smuggler, though, you need to involve the magistrate, or the soldiers, or both. You can’t have armed strangers running tame about your home.”
“I know, and I ought to inform against them, only first I need to get rid of whatever they’re hiding in the cellar, or Braithwaite will get the blame.”
He veered across toward the orchard, which was a short cut to the castle from this part of the wood. “Well, let’s go and see, now. I can help your servants shift the contraband elsewhere—or tip it into the sea, which might be better.”
She stopped in her tracks at the orchard door, catching his arm. “No, no, you can’t come to the castle!”
“I can’t?”
“I’m not allowed to receive male visitors, for my only chaperones are my sisters, Mrs. Gaskell the housekeeper, and Miss Grey the governess. In fact,” she confided, “I’m not meant to receive any visitors at all. I’m not even meant to be outdoors.”
Opening the door, he paused, frowning down at her. “Because you danced with Dax?”
She sailed past him. “Because my engagement to Sir Arthur is ended. No one can hold Dax responsible for that. It is my fault.”
“Sounds like Sir Arthur’s fault to me,” the artist said disgustedly, his long, easy strides catching up with her. “I think you had a narrow escape and are much better off being not engaged to him.”
“Well, to be frank, I have felt rather relieved,” she confided, strolling along the path. Then her breath caught. There was something too comforting about the orchard walls, or perhaps it was the artist’s large presence. “Oh drat, I’m doing it again.”
“What?”
“Blabbering,” she said ruefully.
“I shall be discreet enough for both of us,” he assured her. “Our main problem is your smugglers.”
“Well surely they won’t come back now they know I’ve seen them?”
He made a noncommittal noise. “Is there direct access to the rest of the castle from the cellar?”
“No, it’s quite inconvenient, actually. Braithwaite keeps talking about moving the wine cellar elsewhere, but so far, he hasn’t. The only entrance is through the door in the old courtyard.”
“So as long as your staff lock the rest of the doors, you should be safe?”
“Yes,” she agreed, “although it must be said they lock the cellar door, too.”
His frown deepened. “Then, our smugglers have at least one key. Serena, you have to go and stay somewhere else. Get your own people to move the contraband if you won’t allow me, and then report this to—”
“I’m not leaving,” she interrupted. “This is my home. Besides, if they haven’t murdered my servants, why should they go out of their way to murder me?”
“Because the servants don’t chase them through the woods?” he suggested.
“Well,” she said, allowing him the point. “I expect they won’t come back, for they’ll surely expect to be confronted by excisemen, soldiers, and magistrates.”
“I suppose it depends if they were merely leaving brandy for his lordship or up to something else entirely.”
“What else could they possibly be up to?”
“I have no idea, but this behavior does not seem natural for Blackhaven smugglers.”
She mulled that over and had to concede he was right. “Then, if you would be so good as to consult with Smuggler Jack on what is going on, I shall investigate the cellar.”
“Do you have a very large footman employed at the castle?” he asked.
“Why?”
“Take him with you,” the artist advised.
“Perhaps you’d lend him your stick?” she said innocently.
He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t mock me, madam, or I might be forced to kiss you again.”
“You can’t kiss me again!” she all but gasped. “I’m the Earl’s sister.”
“You were always the Earl’s sister.”
She dropped her gaze before the dangerous glint in his. “You are most improper, sir.”
“I suspect that’s why you like me.”
“I’m not perfectly sure I do like you,” she retorted.
“Well, take my advice and don’t go around kissing men you don’t like.”
She glared at him in outrage until she saw the laughter in his eyes. “You are impossible,” she said crossly. “Do you take nothing seriously?”
“Actually, yes, but you don’t pay attention when I’m serious.”
His care for her safety was genuine, at least. Touched, she assured him she had a household full of devoted retainers. “And I’m sure Miss Grey could reduce twenty armed men to obedience,” she added. “They’d probably be improving their letters before they escaped.”
He laughed, and she thought there might be a hint of admiration in his smiling eyes. “You’re not afraid of anything, are you, Serena?”
“How can you say that when you’ve just seen me terrified?”
“It was very temporary, and understandable to the point of being necessary to survival.” He took an old-fashioned pocket watch from his coat and glanced it before giving it a shake. “Wretched thing’s stopped again,” he said, shoving it back in his pocket. “You don’t know what the time is, do you? I have a hopeful worthy wanting to sit for his portrait at nine o’clock.”
“It can only be around eight,” Serena guessed, “but the gardeners will be abroad soon. You should go.”
“The gardeners are mostly used to me.”
She regarded him. “You are quite…insidious, aren’t you?”
“You make me sound like a plague.”
“I’m not perfectly sure you aren’t. This castle was in perfect order when I left in the spring, and within a few months, it’s become rife with smugglers and artists and I don’t know who else. Bailiffs, probably, looking for you!”
“Don’t say that,” he begged.
“Are they still after you?” she asked with more sympathy.
“He sat on my doorstep all day yesterday, but I crept in when he left, and out before he came back.”
“Is that why you’re here so early?”
He smiled into her eyes, depriving her of breath. “No, that’s because I wanted to see you.”
“Stop that,” she said severely. “And go and paint your worthy portrait. Goodbye!”
Before he could have any chance of repeating his outrageous behavior of yesterday, she hurried down the path toward the bottom door. He didn’t follow.
However, her triumph was short-lived, quickly drowned in relentless disappointment. Truly, she would have liked him to kiss her again, whatever resolutions she’d given herself away from his company. And she should, in all decency, have thanked him for his support against the armed smuggler, for she was sure it was his presence that had scared the villain away. As well as being curiously necessary to her at the time.
She paused and turned back. He still stood where she’d left him, the familiar satchel over one shoulder, the stick still by his side. She lifted her hand in a wave and smiled with relief when he waved back.
With gladness now, she began to run down the rest of the hill, just as the bottom door opened and a large man walked in.
She skidded to a halt.
“Morning, m’lady.”
It spoke volumes for her earlier fright that it took her so long to recognize an old childhood friend.
“Why, Jem! How are you?”
“Very well, m’lady. Good to see you home.”
“It’s good to be home,” she assured him, and it was true, despite her annoying confinement. “How is your mother?”
“Keeping busy. She asked to be remembered to you, should I happen upon you.”
“I’ll call on her,” Serena promised.
He smiled and raised his rake in salute. “She’d like that.”
Jem, whom she’d once beaten at tag, had grown into a big, strapping young man. “Jem?” she called after him. “When you’ve finished here, could you help me with something else?”