The Perfect Wife

1808
 

Awareness teased the corners of his mind. Damp, dank air weighed heavy on his skin. The salty, rotted scent of the sea assailed his nostrils. Dimly, the roar of the ocean and crash of the waves sounded. Distant... hollow. A steady drip splashed and echoed. All in the blackest black. Was this a dream? Or death?

He jerked his head and hot pain lanced through the back of his skull. A gasp escaped his lips, but the ache cleansed his mind. His senses sharpened. His disorientation vanished.

A wide scarf covered his eyes and face and his hands were bound behind his back, his feet tied at his ankles. He tested the bonds. There was only enough give to allow him to touch the rough wooden planks behind and beneath him. He sat propped upright, his head cradled by what he immediately assumed were crates of some type.

That made sense; much of a smuggler’s contraband was transported by crate. And only a fool would fail to realize he had discovered the band of smugglers he’d searched for.

Or rather, they had discovered him.

He remembered watching the illegal activity on the beach far below his vantage point on the rocky cliffs. Now that he had finally determined their methods and, more importantly, the location of their operations, he planned to return with reinforcements and catch them in the act. He cursed himself for coming alone, for the arrogance and stupidity that had brought him to this point. Judging by the pain in his head, he’d been spotted and rendered unconscious.

A low murmur of voices caught his attention and he strained to hear. The unmistakable lilt of a woman’s voice tempered rough, heavy, male conversation. In spite of his precarious position, a spire of exhilaration shot through him. He had indeed found the band that had long eluded him and other agents of the Crown. Not as large as many smuggling rings, but clever and tenacious and, up to now, invulnerable. And they were led by a woman.

A woman.

Even after weeks of surveillance, of clandestine midnight meetings that brought little of worth, of dressing and living in disguise, he still could not quite believe it. In his world there were only two kinds of women: those meant to be charming ornaments and produce heirs, and those with the appropriate talents for enjoyable nocturnal entertainment. He had considerable experience with both. His pleasant, undemanding wife had obediently provided him with a son and then conveniently died. As for the other kind ... well, they usually lived up to his expectations.

But this woman defied any of the categories he reserved for the fairer sex. Obviously, she was intelligent. The frustrating fox-and-hounds game he’d played, and lost, was proof of that. She also seemed to elicit the kind of loyalty monarchs expected and generals demanded. In spite of his best efforts, including the making of bribes and threats, not one soul in this rough, tiny seacoast village would give him so much as a morsel of information.

They called her Lady B, and most of what he had learned was more fancy than fact. Try as he might, he could not find a noblewoman in the area who might be the mysterious lady. Grudgingly, he’d developed a certain amount of respect for her and her people. Times were hard and smuggling was an opportunity to put food on the table. Still and all, it was hardly legal. And demoralizing to the efforts to defeat the French as well. But this was a dangerous business, and he could not question her courage. He hoped she was not ruthless as well.

The voices grew louder but remained indistinct. He clenched his teeth in frustration. Whatever he could learn here would only help his pursuit of the smugglers. If he survived.

He sensed movement around him. Hushed voices brushed past. Activity seemed to increase. He tilted his head slightly, a mere fraction, in an effort to decipher the muttering.

“Milady,” a low voice rumbled in his direction, “I think our friend has awakened.”

“Hold your tongue, man.” Another voice sounded impatiently. “We don’t want him able to recognize us if he should come upon us later.”

“And will there be a later?” he said in a loud, authoritative tone, with all the strength of a man who knew he had nothing to lose.

A ripple of female laughter echoed around him.

“There is always a later, my lord.” The feminine voice was low, slightly husky.

It might have been the damp in the air, it might have been the way she always spoke, but he was stunned to note that the voice fired his blood and smart enough to realize it wasn’t merely because he was finally in the presence of his quarry. His hunt for this woman had become an obsession. And now revelation struck him. In spite of the impropriety and absurdity of his sudden desire, he wanted nothing more than to take her as his own. Then, he would clap her in irons.

“I fear though ...” A vague, spicy scent wafted around him. “There will be no later for us.”

“Oh?” He arched an eyebrow under the blindfold.

“Alas, my lord.” She sighed, a breathy, provocative sound. Her voice seemed to circle him. “You have made life far too difficult for our feeble efforts. Tonight is our final run.”

A tentative touch lingered below his right ear. Cool, gentle fingers, light and teasing, traced the faint, silvered scar that ran the length of his neck. Typically, his high collars and cravats disguised the mark. But he was not wearing his usual attire. A delicious shiver ran through him at the unexpected contact.

“A badge of honor, my lord?”

“Merely a boyhood misadventure.” He shrugged nonchalantly, struggling within himself to regain control of his heretofore unsuspected response to this woman. “Do not let yourself believe, even if you cease your activity, that I will stop attempting to apprehend you and your men.”

She laughed again. “You are no fool, my lord. You have proved that full well in our little game these past weeks. And I am certain you have already realized, if we discontinue our operation, there is very little chance you will discover us. Ever.”

She was right. If the smugglers disbanded, they would fade into the fabric of village life. They would disappear. Frustration swelled within him. She would disappear. His mission would fail. And failure was the one thing he could not allow.

“I warn you,” he said, a growl in his voice, “I do not accept defeat easily.”

“And I, my lord—” Her breath, fragrant with an intoxicating promise, caressed his face. “—do not accept defeat at all.”

She paused, and he wondered at the tension between them. Wondered if she sensed it as well. He caught her breath once more upon his upturned face and, faintly, her lips brushed against his. He started, then involuntarily strained toward her. Her lips parted and her tongue teased the inner edge of his mouth. Desire pounded through his veins. His mind worked feverishly. What kind of woman kissed so boldly as this? Perhaps ... it no longer mattered.

Her lips withdrew and disappointment surged through him. Her presence still lingered on his face and her voice was soft.

“I regret more than ever, my lord, that there will be no later for us.” She sighed. “Only now, only this moment.”

Her voice turned brisk. “And we have much to finish this night. So, my charming prisoner, I will bid you
adieu.”

“What do you—” In his last moment of consciousness before succumbing to the darkness brought by the crash of something on his head for the second time that night, he too regretted ... there would be no later.