The Smuggler Wore Silk (22 page)

The rock had not fallen from the limestone ceiling above. Nor did the killer accidentally hit John and flee the scene. There were multiple wounds, indicating repeated blows. Repeated blows implied purpose. And rage.

But that, she didn’t need to know.

“Oh, John’s poor wife,” Grace whispered. Her breath hitched, a sharp inhalation. “How am I going to tell her?”

“
We
are going to tell her,” Thomas said. He stepped beside Grace so that they stood side by side, looking down at the blacksmith’s bloodied body.

“We all will,” Jem added as he moved to Grace’s other side.

Thomas laid a hand on Julian’s shoulder. “Let’s take him home to his wife.”

Julian hooked his hands beneath the blacksmith’s lifeless arms and waited for Thomas to take his feet. They carried the body through the caves, Grace and Jem a step behind.

Beyond the caves, clouds obscured the moon and a chill rain fell. They maneuvered the blacksmith’s limp form up the rain-slicked cliff walk. Julian glanced only once at Grace and saw tears tracking down her cheeks, although she made no sound. His stomach twisted. He wanted to pull her into his arms and wipe those tears away.

T
HE DARKNESS OF
the night lay heavy on Julian. The bedchamber he’d so painstakingly redecorated to soothe and calm did neither of those things. Beside him in the bed, Grace lay on her side, her breathing slow and even.

She’d cried herself to sleep in his arms. Powerless to help, he could only hold her. He knew there was nothing he could say. Death was final. Murder was an atrocity. No one knew that better than he.

Beside him, Grace’s breathing quickened. She stirred, and he caught the scent of rain and lavender. He waited, uncertain whether he should draw her in and hold her or simply let her be.

Making the choice for him, she drew back the covers and slid from the bed. Curious, he stayed motionless when she disappeared into their shared dressing room. He heard fabric rustling, then the thump of something hitting the floor. She reappeared a few minutes later wearing breeches, with a pair of riding boots clutched in her hand.

He wanted to curse. Instead, he held himself perfectly still and kept his breathing deep and even. Through his lashes, he watched her tiptoe across the room, the boots still clutched in one hand. She put her hand on the knob and looked over her shoulder at him.

For a brief moment, he thought she would speak. Regret flashed across her face before she turned the knob and disappeared into the hall.

The minute the latch clicked, he leapt from the bed and sprinted to the dressing room. He knew how to dress quickly and quietly. Pulling on his breeches, he snatched a shirt, a coat and a cap. He also slid his pistol into his waistband and clenched his teeth over his knife. As Grace had, he carried his boots in one hand. But where she’d tiptoed across the room, he strode through it. He didn’t have a spouse to deceive.

He finished dressing as he stole through the silent house, shrugging into shirt and coat, settling the cap over his head. When he reached Thistledown’s side door, he tugged on his boots before stepping outside. Taking the knife from between his teeth, he slid the thin blade into his right boot.

The rain had subsided to a miserable drizzle that dribbled down his neck and past his collar. Julian blocked out the chill and scanned the grounds. Assuming she would saddle Demon, he started toward the stables. The crunch of gravel to his left made him stop. He tensed, waited, watched—and saw her. She was on foot, hurrying down Thistledown’s gravel drive.

He frowned. Not a particularly clandestine path, as she was out in the open, but perhaps she didn’t expect anyone to be watching.

He snorted. She shouldn’t have married a spy.

Staying off the gravel drive to mask his footfalls, he followed her from the shadows of the trees. She wasn’t traveling to Beer or to the smuggling caves, he mused, as they were too far away to travel on foot. Who could she be meeting? She turned onto the lane at the end of Thistledown’s drive, then eventually onto a narrow path, and finally a dirt track barely wide enough for a wagon.

The dilapidated cottage that finally came into view appeared to be crooked on its foundation. The roof sagged and its windows were little more than shards of glass.

Julian surged forward when he saw the barrel of a blunderbuss glinting in the window. He leapt over a fallen log, sprinted across the path—and stopped short when he heard a curse.

“Bloody hell, my lovely. Are you lookin’ to be shot?” The blunderbuss disappeared from view. It was replaced by a square face and wildly springing hair.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” Grace called softly. “I’ve some news. Can I come in?”

“Well, I’m not leaving you on the doorstep, though I’d hoped to have a full night of sleep,” Jack grumbled.

Jack Blackbourn’s head disappeared from view, then reappeared in the doorway of the ramshackle cottage. “Come in, my lovely. I’ll get the fire going.”

“There’s no need. I can’t stay long,” Grace responded as the door swung shut behind them.

For an ugly moment, jealousy streaked through Julian. Was Grace cuckolding him? Was his wife of mere days already a cheat? He closed his eyes, forced himself to think past the pressure in his chest. No. He knew she was not. Certainly not with Jack Blackbourn.

He looked through the window and saw Blackbourn pull Grace into his arms.

The evidence was damning.
And I’m just as damned
, he thought as the jealousy swelled again.

He fisted his hand on his thigh and watched the pair through the window, struggling to use his training to observe. Blackbourn patted Grace’s back as one might comfort a distressed child. The kiss he dropped on her temple was similarly platonic.

Julian pushed away the jealousy and resentment. When he looked again, he was steadier, calmer. Still, anger burned low in his belly. She may not be unfaithful, but she had lied to him. She knew where Blackbourn was hiding.

He stalked closer to the cottage, using sodden leaves and needles to mask his footsteps. With only a few swift movements he crouched in the thicket of ferns beneath the window. Above him, faint moonlight glinted on the remains of a broken windowpane. Voices carried easily through those broken panes of glass.

“I’m sorry, Jack. I know you and John were close.” Sympathy flowed from Grace’s words.

An answering grief filmed Blackbourn’s quiet, “Aye. He was a good man.”

“He was.”

“Hell.” Something thumped. A fist pounding on a hard surface. “John’s wife. Has anyone told—”

“She knows,” Grace interrupted quickly. Hurried footsteps clicked across the floor. “We took John’s body home to her.”

“And the black-hearted bastard that killed him? Did you find him?”

“No. We don’t know who he is. But I think—Julian thinks—it was the traitor.”

Chair legs scraped against a wooden floor. Footsteps paced.

Julian brushed away a feathery, wet fern tickling his neck. He leaned forward, straining to hear. Grace murmured something, and although her words were indecipherable, the soothing tone was obvious.

He waited. Fury built, sharp and tight in his chest.

She’d lied to him. Not outright, perhaps. Thinking back, he realized she’d never said she didn’t know where Jack Blackbourn was. She’d simply failed to answer him. She failed to trust him.

Why should she?
a voice inside him whispered. Because he was her husband, damn it. Still, that inner voice whispered, and the words stabbed into him.
But you’re a spy and a Travers, and barely worthy of her trust.
He ignored that voice—
had
to ignore it—and concentrated on the cottage.

He couldn’t understand the words that floated through the open window now. He only heard Grace’s smooth tones and Jack’s answering rumble. But he didn’t need to hear more. He knew enough.

Skittering backward, Julian retreated from the overgrown bushes and stood up so he could see into the window. Two figures huddled over a pathetically low fire emitting just enough light to see by, but certainly not enough heat to combat the chill fall night. He didn’t feel any sympathy.

Not bothering to keep his footfalls silent, he leapt to the front door of the cottage and threw it open. Blackbourn was already scrambling for his blunderbuss, but he’d left it at the window. Grace fumbled in her coat but she was far too late.

“Don’t. Move.” Julian aimed his pistol straight at Jack Blackbourn’s smuggling heart.

“Julian! I thought—God, I thought—” she trailed off when he didn’t lower the pistol. “Julian?”

Why, in God’s name, did he want to pull the trigger? He was certain Blackbourn was innocent of treason. Yet he still wanted to send a bullet into the man.

Do it. She’s your wife. Your property.
It was his father’s voice. Not a ghost or an apparition, but that part of his father that lived in him. His finger slid on the trigger as sweat coated his hands. He buried that voice and met Blackbourn’s gaze.

“My lovely, I think this is between the earl and me,” Blackbourn said slowly, his eyes somber. “Perhaps you should wait outside.”

“No.” She surged forward.

“Grace.” Blackbourn continued to gaze at Julian, unmoving. “Go—” He stopped speaking as Julian lowered the pistol.

“I might change my mind.” Julian kept the pistol in his hand, now pointing at the floor. “But for now, you’re not in danger.”

“Mighty glad I am about that, milord.” Jack offered a sardonic smile. “After all my escapes from the revenue officers, I’d hate to meet my fate at the wrong end of a pistol held by a jealous husband.”

“Jealous husband?” Grace jumped between them, her eyes wide. “Have you turned crazy, Julian? It’s Jack, for heaven’s sake. You know I wouldn’t—
couldn’t
—”

“Which is why you’re both still standing.” His finger itched on the trigger. He tried to ignore it. “You’ve known all along that Jack was in this cottage,” he said flatly.

“Yes.” Remorse moved over her face. Then she firmed her chin and straightened her shoulders. “I knew he was here.”

Julian held her gaze. There was no remorse now in those beautiful silver eyes—there was only defiance. “That’s all I need to know.”

“’Tisn’t all. I—” Blackbourn began.

Julian cut him off with one vicious oath. “I don’t care. Blackbourn, I’ve been working on your behalf to clear your name. The traitor is targeting you as a scapegoat. Stay hidden until I say otherwise.” He reached past Grace and snagged Blackbourn’s dirty shirt in his fist. Twisting, he jerked him up so their faces were only inches apart. “Do not run. If I find you’ve run again, I’ll hunt you down.”

He could feel Grace’s small hands gripping his forearm and dimly heard her shout. His fist pulsed with the need to strike something. Or someone. Blackbourn’s breath was uneven, but his eyes were resigned. Julian could all but feel his fist plowing into the smuggler’s homely face.

It would have been undeserved.

He needed to leave before he did something he regretted. Dropping Blackbourn’s shirtfront, he stepped toward the door. “I’ll notify you when you’ve been cleared of all charges. Grace, I’ll be waiting to escort you back to Thistledown.”

The cold night air burned in his lungs. Still, he gulped air greedily, unable to get enough. He was perilously close to losing control. Because of Grace.

Betrayal. The word echoed through his mind, as rough and piercing as a jagged blade. He bent over, wheezing, his hands propped on his knees. It felt as though his chest were being crushed beneath an unbearable weight. He should be able to control himself. He was well trained and well seasoned. He should—

The door of the cabin opened then slammed shut with a sharp crack. He jumped, his body jerking upright. He watched Grace search him out in the darkness and knew when she saw him. She stiffened, her shoulders twitching. He snorted derisively when he saw her chin jerk up. So she was angry? Well, she was in good company.

Temper had him stalking forward.

“Grace.”

“My lord.”

“Back to formality?” He lifted a brow.

“When you’re being high-handed, arrogant and rude, yes.”

“You lied to me.”

“I did.” The angle of her chin didn’t change. “And I would do it again. I owe Jack more than I can say.” She swept past him, her boots scattering pine needles.

“But you married
me
.”

Her feet faltered, paused, then continued their forward march.

So be it, he thought darkly. So be it.

__________

T
HE PRETTILY WRITTEN
invitation slid across her worktable, propelled by Julian’s large, strong hand. The tension she’d carried with her the last week tightened her shoulders. Taking a moment to school her features, she eyed the stationery as it came to rest beside the small bowl she used to mix tonics.

. . . kindly request your presence for dinner . . .

She didn’t need to read more. “Another dinner to welcome the newly married couple into the fold?” she asked.

Looking up, Grace met Julian’s sharp gaze. His eyes were distant, even cold—as they had been for days. The tiny vial in her hand slipped in her sweaty palm. She gripped it tighter and focused once more on the bowl, pouring the vial’s contents into it.

“Indeed.” He leaned against her worktable and crossed his feet at the ankles. He looked elegantly casual, and so
male
, that she wanted to reach out and run her fingers over the broad sweep of his shoulders or the hard line of his jaw.

That action was barred to her now, as certainly as if he were on the other side of a closed door.

“Must we attend this dinner?”

“Do you truly need to ask?”

“No.” She struggled to keep her voice light and her words natural. “I’m simply weary of the sudden overabundance of invitations. We’ve attended a picnic, a dinner and a group outing into Beer this past week.”

As weary as she was, the social engagements had at least proved a distraction from the cold and dreary halls of Thistledown—and her cold marriage bed. They hadn’t touched each other since the night he’d found her at Jack’s cottage. Instead, they were two polite strangers living in the same home and sleeping in the same bed.

“We must attend.” His tone held no room for argument. “This invitation is from the Wargells.”

She jerked, sending the bowl skittering across the tabletop to spill a few drops of the brown liquid swirling within.

“Very well.” Deciding her hands weren’t steady enough to work with a liquid, she set aside the bowl. Reaching for her mortar and pestle, she started grinding the next ingredient into a dissolvable powder. Her skin prickled. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Julian watching her. Not moving, not talking. Just watching. She fought the urge to say something.

She
hated
this awkwardness between them. His absence was a physical ache. Whatever tenuous connection they’d created had been severed as though it were an illusion.

“Why do you suppose they would invite us after you snubbed Clotilde?” She cleared her throat. “And nearly called out Michael.”

“To maintain the social connection. We’ll be crossing paths here and in London regularly enough.” He retrieved the invitation and tapped it thoughtfully against the palm of one hand. “I intend to create an opportunity to obtain a sample of Wargell’s handwriting.”