A Most Unsuitable Groom by Kasey Michaels (10 page)

"It's...it's beautiful," Mariah said honestly and
walked over to the railing, placing her palms on the cool stone. How did Spencer see this view? Did he rec-ognize it for its own beauty or stand here to look long-ingly toward the water and all that lay beyond if? "Oh,
and two ships. Aren't they sleek-looking?"

Callie also looked to her left to where the sloops rode at anchor offshore, about one hundred yards apart, their sails rolled up and firmly lashed to the masts. "The first is Papa's
Respite,
and the other is Chance's
Spectre."

"Spectre? You mean, as in
ghost?"

Callie's smile suddenly seemed awfully bright. "Yes, that's it. Chance, um, Chance says that with a wife and two children now and his estate to oversee, he has only the
ghost
of a chance to go sailing on her more than twice a year. He says that and then Julia gives
him
the hairy eyeball and he laughs."

"The hairy eyeball and an anchor firmly tied to his ankle. Well, -they're beautiful ships." She leaned forward slightly, still looking to her left, to see a few peaked roofs peeking up behind a rise in the land. "And there's the village, I suppose. I'd like to walk over there someday, but not just yet."

She then looked to her right where there was— nothing. Only some tall grasses waving in what must be a constant breeze from the water. Even the shingle slowly faded away, leaving only a wide stretch of sand.

"You aren't allowed to walk there," Callie said, suddenly serious, as if she knew where Mariah was looking. "The sands can shift and swallow you whole, the way the whale swallowed Jonah. But the sands never spit you out again. Long ago, someone told me, some local freetraders taking their wool across the Channel used the sands to beach their boats where the Waterguard wouldn't dare follow, and then offloaded the contraband they brought back with them. There are so many
legends. But the smugglers knew the sands and we don't. They're not safe. Nobody goes there. And nobody smuggles from these shores anymore, of course. Not for years and years."

"Really?" Mariah asked, still looking at the sands, fascinated by them for some reason she didn't understand. Perhaps it was the stark beauty of waving grass and sand and water.. .and the danger hidden beneath that beauty. Or perhaps it was the rushed way in which Callie had told her small story and then added even more warnings.

"Oh, yes. There's no smuggling here. There's no need."

"But it must have been so very exciting, don't you think, Callie?"

Callie sniffed. Quite an adult sniff, at that. "That's just romantical. Smuggling is...smuggling was what they did to survive, nothing more. Nobody smuggles, for the adventure of the thing. That would be silly."

"Yes, of course it would be," Mariah said, stepping back from the railing, ready to return to the house, as she was beginning to feel as if her legs were fashioned out of sponges. But then she caught a movement in the
distance, and moments later Spencer Becket appeared out of the tall grasses. He was striding surefootedly
across the sands toward Becket Hall, a staff taller than himself in his right hand. The young man she recognized as Rian Becket from that first night walked along behind him.

Rian Becket had a small wooden cask hefted up and onto his shoulder and he was whistling. The sound carried to her on the stiff breeze.

She felt Callie's hand on her arm. "We should go inside now."

Mariah blinked, closed her mouth, which had fallen open at the sight of the two men. "Yes, yes we should. I'm afraid I've done too much too soon" She allowed herself to be led back across the wide terrace to the French doors they had used earlier, turning only at the last moment to take one last look to the beach.

He
carries the staff in case the sands try to take him. To either hold out to a rescuer, or brace it lengthwise against the sands and employ it to crawl to safety. But he carries it carelessly, because he already knows the way.

What had she asked him? How did he amuse himself here on Romney Marsh? And what had he answered?

Oh yes, she remembered now.
"We keep ourselves busy...."

"She saw me, saw what I was doing."

"Is that so? And precisely what did she see you doing, Spencer?" Ainsley asked coolly as he continued to slowly move the magnifying glass across the map on the table.

Spencer fisted his hands at his sides, trying to hold on to some semblance of calm, remaining at least marginally civilized. "I saw her hair. That damn hair, burning in the sunlight. She was on the terrace when I came through the sands, and Callie with her."

He closed his eyes. Yes, he'd seen her hair. He'd seen considerably more of her earlier. No wonder his eyeballs burned in his head. Just as his soul should be burning in hell for lusting after a woman who'd just given birth. To his
son.
And he couldn't even remember impregnating her. What a damnable mess. He could barely wait to be shed of this place for a space, concentrate on something other than his own confused feelings. And if that made him a coward, then so be it.

Ainsley put down the magnifying glass and looked at his son who, as he'd expected, didn't so much as blink, even as he was sure Spencer would like to be pacing, seething, perhaps even shouting—anything but standing still in front of Jacko and his father. Standing tall, never cringing. Personal bravery had never been an issue with Spencer. Good sense, however, had. Still, he had gone away a lad, and come home a man. "How nice that Mariah feels strong enough to be up and about so soon. You'll arrange for the wedding now, of course."

"No, not yet," Spencer said, thinking back on the promise he'd made to Mariah. "She'd, um, she expressed a wish to be fully recovered from the birth before we hold the ceremony."

"I see. And you've agreed?"

"I've agreed. Hell, it was the least I could do."

Ainsley nodded. "Very well. Was there anything ^ else?"

Spencer dropped unceremoniously onto the leather couch, taking a moment to glare at Jacko, who sat at the other end. He loathed subterfuge, and Ainsley was so very good at it. "Don't pretend you both don't know what I've been planning, Papa. You made it clear the other night that you knew and warned me against it"

Ainsley looked levelly at him and then smiled slightly. "Clearly my powers of intimidation have gone sadly missing then, because you still plan to leave for Calais tonight to arrange for the first smuggling shipment."

"You know even that? Clovis told you " Spencer said, smacking his fist against his thigh. Mariah's arrival had delayed his first trip across the Channel, but he would go tonight or know the reason why. "He's turned into an old woman, afraid we'll all be caught and hanged. But I never thought he'd betray me."

"And I doubt he ever would," Ainsley said, lifting the wine decanter, wordlessly offering the other men a drink, which only Jacko accepted with a nod of his head. "Please allow me to flatter myself that I still hold the loyalty of my own people, who are kind enough to keep me informed when they consider I should know what goes on beneath my own roof. And beneath the roof of The Last Voyage. Now, as you already know I will not discuss my sources any further, tell me about your soon-to-be bride. Exactly what did she see?"

Spencer would not involve Rian. "I was told that there were still a few casks hidden away beneath a hollowed-out log just beyond the sands, left behind from one of the last runs. I went looking for them and found only one, its contents ruined, of course, but felt it better that the cask be disposed of before anyone else stumbled over it. Mariah saw me carrying it across the sands."

"Takes you back, doesn't it, Cap'n? Like Chance's Julia all over again, and him needing to find a way to keep her silent," Jacko said, chuckling. "Except Spencer's already bedded this one, Cap'n, so we'll have to think of something else."

Spencer leaped to his feet and turned to physically confront Jacko; why, he didn't precisely know.

"I think we're done with reminiscences, Jacko, thank you," Ainsley said, seating himself behind his desk. "Spencer, sit down if you will? We've more to discuss than your Miss Rutledge, who is here in any case and not going anywhere else anytime soon. Let her busy herself making brides-clothes or whatever she might feel it necessary to do before your wedding. I'm confident Eleanor will keep her occupied."

Spencer sat again, but only reluctantly. "You're going to order me not to go to Calais. Not to ride out as the Black Ghost. Not...not to involve Rian or anyone else in my mad attempt to amuse myself with a dangerous enterprise before I blow out my brains from sheer boredom."

Ainsley smiled, surprising Spencer by suddenly looking much younger than his more than fifty years. Perhaps it was the slight gleam in the man's eyes? "Not really, no."

"No? Wait a moment. You
want
me to go to Calais. Why?"

Ainsley picked up the heavy brass paperweight and began to turn it in one hand. "It has come to my attention that there are more than a few Frenchmen—and others—who are not happy to see Bonaparte exiled on his minuscule new empire of Elba. If you don't know the island's location, there are maps on that table, not that this is important for the moment, except to know that if Bonaparte were to leave that island he could make landfall in Cannes in rather short order, where he could rally his former soldiers to march on Paris. Perhaps before his lax jailers can notify anyone that he has even escaped."

Spencer sat up straight, his arguments as to why he wanted to help the smugglers forgotten. "He actually could do this? I thought he was chained to Elba."

Ainsley sat forward on his chair. "We've heard that he advised the Bourbons to change nothing but the palace sheets, sure the people of France will call him back to Paris within six months. That leaves five months, at my count, before all hell could break loose on the continent."

Spencer nodded. "And us? Where would Bonaparte's escape put us?"

"France, far from thriving, is falling into dire straits with their Emperor gone. There are those here in England who would like nothing more than to see the mad king and his proliferate, spendthrift Regent son sent to the Tower and beheaded, and a new order come to power. For some, a freed Bonaparte begins to look like a viable option to many Frenchmen. And many Englishmen."

"For some, you say? Some Englishmen? Those who see Bonaparte's power as their power, correct? And their profit," Spencer said, his mind now fully engaged. "That's all very interesting. But Bonaparte, if he did escape, would have his hands fully occupied solidifying his hold on France, without planning another invasion here, on England's southern coast. No, I don't see it The two don't really connect, not unless it's from a great distance. This has nothing to do with us, our safety."