Kiss From a Rogue (18 page)

Tony drained his mug of cider, then leaned over to whisper to Jimmy. Seconds later, Jimmy had taken his mug and joined Trent and Corwin on a bench by the fire. Tony pushed back from the table and stood, leaning his forearm on the back of Sylvia’s chair. “Newlyweds, right?” he whispered in her ear.

She shivered down to her toes. “Yes.”

With one arm under her knees and one behind her shoulders, he scooped her up. She couldn’t help a startled yelp, which drew attention. She looped her arms around his neck to keep from falling, and hid her face against Tony’s chest as he settled her more securely in his grip and strode, not for the door, but for the staircase.

She heard the chuckles and whispers, didn’t need to open her eyes to see the knowing grins. Tony was halfway up the flight when she heard Mrs. Miggins shout “Give ’im a kiss for me, lass!” Laughter covered the sound of her mortified groan.

Tony kissed her forehead and kept climbing. He didn’t stop until he reached the bedchamber at the far end of the hall. “Can you turn the knob?”

“Put me down. I’m too heavy for you to be hauling about.”

“Just turn the knob.”

Sylvia reached down and opened the door. Tony strode through, made sure the room was unoccupied, and kicked the door shut with a resounding thud. The sound must have been audible all the way to the taproom.

Sylvia felt his heartbeat solid and steady beneath her cheek. His breathing was only slightly labored, his breath coming in gentle huffs against her hair. She could smell him, the clean scent of his sandalwood soap, a hint of lavender from the liniment she’d rubbed into his back, and something subtle underneath, uniquely Tony. When he spoke, she could feel his words as much as hear them, a comforting rumble.

This was entirely too pleasant. And…exhilarating. Really, she should insist he put her down. She couldn’t remember anyone ever carrying her like this. She’d never sprained her ankle. Certainly Hubert had never picked her up. “What now?”

He took a few more steps into the room, closer to the bed. The very large, very comfortable-looking bed. “Well, what would newlyweds do in a situation like this?”

H
er jaw worked, but no words came out. Images came to mind, though.

He chuckled, and set her feet down but kept his arm around her shoulders. The purse fell to the floor with a
clunk,
barely missing her toes. “Trust me?”

Him, yes, but not her voice. She nodded.

He cupped her cheeks with both hands, strong yet gentle, his fingertips stirring her hair, and emotions deep within her. Yearning, desire, a wish for impossible things.

“Then believe me when I say I would like nothing more right now than to do what newlyweds would.” He kissed her, long and thoroughly, until her toes curled and she locked her arms around his waist, drawing him even closer, surrounding herself in his warmth and strength. Much, much too soon he pulled back. “But we have to make sure your men aren’t caught by Tipton and Danielson,” he whispered against her cheek. “No telling how long they’ll stay in the taproom.”

Of course, her men. They were the reason for this little display. How could she forget about them? While she struggled to regain her poise, Tony tucked the purse into his waistcoat pocket. He flung open the window, looked out, then climbed through and leaned back in, holding out his hand.

“You can’t be serious. On the roof, in the dark?”

“Perfectly safe. I’ll keep you steady.”

Before she could think twice, Tony had grasped her under the arms and pulled her outside, then grabbed her hand and led the way across the slate tiles.

“You’ve spent entirely too much time on roofs.”

“Undoubtedly. And when you’re traipsing about on rooftops, it’s always good to know more than one way to reach the ground.” They worked their way down from one gable to another until Tony stepped down onto the roof of the privy and jumped to the ground. He held his hands up, his expression clearly confident that she would leap into his arms.

Sylvia sat down and swung her legs over the edge, judging how far she still had to go. She really liked the fact that she’d never sprained her ankle.

Tony patted her foot, which dangled next to his shoulder. “Jump, sweetheart. I’ll catch you.” Again he held his arms up.

She’d already admitted that she trusted him. With her physical safety, at least. Her heart was another matter. She jumped. He caught her as promised, though he did stagger backward a few steps. He squeezed her in an entirely-too-brief hug. “That’s my girl. Now, where do we find Hayden and Monroe?”

She led the way down the sunken lane to the cove where her band of smugglers were working, her steps confident despite the darkness, Tony holding her hand.

He’d called her sweetheart again. When no one else was around to hear.

Probably just a habit he’d formed from their subterfuge. It meant nothing.

Why did she wish it meant something to him? She’d known from the beginning that he was here only temporarily.

The men should be along here. The moonlight was too faint to see more than vague shapes looming in the darkness. She stopped to listen. Tony bumped into her, let go her hand to wrap his arms around her, and kept them around her waist even after he’d steadied them both.

“What is it?” he whispered. He rested his chin on her shoulder, his warm breath against her ear sending delicious shivers down her spine. She rested her hands on top of his, held snug against her belly. Strong and secure. She could get used to this.

She shook herself. “Monroe!” she called softly, as loud as she dared.

One of the shadows separated from the others, and moved toward her. “My lady?”

Other shadows moved, shapes shifted, and soon more of her men were there on the path beside them. Sylvia started to explain about Tipton and Danielson, but footsteps on the path had everyone diving for cover. Tony held her close, wrapping his black cape around them both to better conceal them.

Her heart pounded. Much as she enjoyed the closeness, they could not be caught. They could not use the same subterfuge they had the other night on the cliff. There was no logical,
legal
reason for them to have left their room with its big soft bed, and come outdoors for a tryst.

Footsteps drew closer. “Syl?”

Sylvia stood, breathing a sigh of relief. “Jimmy!” Everyone else came back to the path as well, brushing themselves off.

Jimmy pointed over his shoulder, toward the inn. “Trent is spinning a yarn for everyone in the taproom, including Danielson and Tipton. Should keep them occupied for a bit. Corwin left after I did—he’ll be along shortly.”

“Right here, my lord. Figured the lads could use a hand.”

With the Revenue agents occupied and their whereabouts confirmed, it was too good an opportunity to pass up. The men quickly re-formed their brigade for moving the half-ankers of brandy up from the caves. Tony joined the formation, and handled the casks with ease and grace. “Might as well help while I’m here,” he said when she glanced at him.

Sylvia tore herself away from watching him long enough to enter the back door of the kitchen, and confirm with Mrs. Spencer that the Revenue agents were indeed still in the taproom. They arranged for a signal in case the agents left.

They had just moved the last casks from one of the caves, and stowed them in the regular storage places—the inn’s cellar and the church’s rafters—when the signal came. Jimmy and Baxter accompanied Tony and Sylvia up to the manor house on the sunken path, while the rest of the men scattered to their own homes.

The next morning, Sylvia stood between Jimmy and Tony on the cliff overlooking the beach well in advance of the scheduled meeting time. Ruford’s ship, the
Polly Anne,
bobbed on the gentle waves out in the cove, her sails furled. Gulls and plovers dipped and soared in the air above them. She envied their carefree existence.

“As a last resort, Jimmy. The money was supposed to be offered only as a last resort. I thought you understood what that meant.” She fidgeted with the fichu tucked into her neckline. It was too warm for a pelisse, but she wasn’t going to let Ruford see any more skin than necessary.

“I know, I know. How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?” Jimmy threw a rock over the cliff’s edge.

Tony lowered the spyglass from where he’d been staring off to the east, and let out a frustrated sigh. “I still don’t see any sign of him.” He handed her the spyglass, and she tucked it into the pocket sewn into her skirt for it.

“The captain? He’s probably still snoring belowdecks.” Jimmy tossed another rock.

“Not Ruford. Teague.”

Sylvia froze. “Why do you expect to see Teague?”

“If I were in his shoes, I’d want to make sure no one mucked up the deal I’d made with Ruford.”

Jimmy hefted another rock but didn’t throw it. “You’d be around to counter the counteroffer?”

“Precisely. And he wasn’t at the inn last night.”

Baxter arrived then, out of breath from running. “Here’s the cheese you asked for, my lady.”

Sylvia checked the cloth in the basket he’d brought, the basket she’d had to leave behind last night. “This isn’t the same round we left on the table.”

“No, that one, um, got eaten.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “I took this one from the batch that’s ripening in the cave by Stair Hole.”

Several of the caves in the Portland stone cliffs around the cove were too small to hide more than a few tubs, but were just right for keeping the cheese in a cool, dark place while they ripened. She was also interested to see—and taste—the effect of their proximity to the sea, and the constant cool temperature. She’d planned to let this batch go another month, but the immature blue vinny was still good, if a bit crumbly.

“There’s Ruford’s skiff,” Tony said, pointing to the cove. Four sailors were pulling on oars, bringing the captain ashore.

Baxter headed inland, presumably back to the inn where everyone anxiously waited for news, while the three of them went down to the beach.

Sylvia struggled to maintain her composure during the obligatory greetings and posturing by the three men. How could Tony joke and smile at a time like this? The fate of the village hung in the balance of whether or not Ruford liked her cheese.

They were prepared to offer smoked mackerel, and a bit more coin. Everyone had agreed to take a smaller percentage of the profits if necessary. Something was better than nothing. But they were all counting on the cheese to sway the captain to their side.

At last Ruford took the chunk Tony offered, and placed it in his mouth.

Sylvia held her breath.

Ruford spat it out, his face wrinkled with disgust. “What the hell kind of bilge waste are you offering?” He spit a few more times and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “That’s the most vile—I wouldn’t feed that to my dog, if I had one! It tastes like the bottom of the harbor at low tide!”

“What?” Tony cut another chunk and took a bite. And immediately spat it out. He fought to keep his features from twisting. “All right,
that
batch didn’t turn out so well, but you heard what Tipton said last night about—”

“I’m very sorry, my dear.” Ruford lifted her hand for a kiss. “But I cannot accept your counteroffer. Our agreement is at an end.” He almost ran for the skiff waiting at the water’s edge. “I wish you the best of luck in finding another captain. You shouldn’t have any trouble now, with your new husband to act on your behalf.” The last line was practically shouted, as they were already several feet from shore, his men pulling the oars with powerful strokes.

“But…” It was useless. Ruford had his back to her, and the wind carried her words in the wrong direction.

“He didn’t even give us a chance to offer the fish!” Jimmy went on to describe the captain’s dubious parentage.

How could it all go so terribly wrong, so fast? How could they get another captain in time? It had taken months of searching filthy, smoke-filled dockside taverns to find Ruford. She couldn’t go through that again.

Ruford had implied that Tony would act on their behalf, make it easier this time to find other ships, other captains. But Tony would never stay. He’d given his word he’d help her deal with Ruford, and the lecherous captain no longer presented a problem. At least, not the problem Tony had agreed to help with. And since she had no intention of giving in to his charms and falling into his bed, he’d probably be on his way soon.

Today, even.

She shivered, suddenly cold to her bones.

Tony was about to leave, and Ruford’s skiff was receding from view, a small dot in the distance, just as their chances of survival were fading.

Suddenly Tony’s arms were around her shoulders, drawing her in close. She buried her face against his cravat, feeling the hot prick of tears. She refused to let them fall.

“Here, sweetheart.” He kissed her temple and ran his hands up and down her back in a vain attempt to soothe her. She clutched his lapels, holding on for dear life.

“What do we do now?” Jimmy sounded as young and forlorn as when he’d received news of the shipwreck and Hubert’s death.

“It will be all right,” Tony whispered.

It was not all right. Things would never be all right again.

“Well, I suppose that’s that. I might as well join my cousin in Canada.” Sawyer was the first to break the stunned silence in the crowded taproom after Jimmy had relayed the news.

Sylvia sat on one of the benches before the cold, empty fireplace, Tony next to her, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. He hadn’t broken physical contact since their hug on the beach.

“My nevvy’s been after me to move in with him and his passel of brats,” Mrs. Pitsnoggle said. “He says Dorchester will be better for me health than living by the sea, but I knows he just wants someone else to help look after them ankle-biters.”

There were a few other mutterings in a similar vein. After the storm in April, a few villagers had moved away rather than try to rebuild. Several had left last year, after the shipwreck. Those who stayed had done so because of the promise of reward from smuggling. A chance to rebuild their lives, their homes, their village.

And now that hope was gone.

Uncle Walcott had written again last week, renewing his offer to let her come live with him in Manchester. Practically insisted. And if she was staying out of loyalty to Jimmy, he could take care of that—as Jimmy’s guardian, he could force the boy to move to Manchester, as well.

Sylvia gazed out the window at the rolling sea, the windswept cliffs, the twisting High Street lined with rhododendrons, neat little cottages and their gardens. Even the roofless cottages had a stark beauty.

She’d left Manchester on a cold November day. A dense yellow fog had hung low over the city, shrouding the smoke-belching cotton factories the coach rolled past on her way to the port. She had struggled to grow anything in the tiny garden of Walcott’s town house. She’d missed her parents’ cozy home in the Cotswolds, where she and her mother had grown all the herbs they needed without any difficulty. All except the herbs that would save them from the smallpox epidemic that had swept through.

A few years later, marrying Uncle Walcott’s business partner and moving to the remote Dorset coast, leaving behind the houseful of rambunctious cousins and crowded, dirty city, had seemed like a godsend.

Now her husband was gone, and their method of supporting the remaining villagers seemed to be gone, as well. But she would not allow Jimmy to be torn from his ancestral home, crumbling edifice that it was. The two fishing boats could bring in enough fish to keep them all from starving. She would find out what went wrong with the cheese, and go back to the boring traditional methods of production.

Life was about moving forward. She was not going back.

She would find a way to survive. Here.

Tony slipped out of the taproom and headed down to the beach. The villagers were all so busy crying into their ale, he doubted anyone would miss him. Even Sylvia could barely look at anything but her fists clenched in her lap.