Page 25 of The Smuggler & the Society Bride

An even more perfect spot to land a cargo than the other, Gabe noted, trying to recall the features of the coastline beyond and looking for some landmark that would alert him to the presence of the narrow entrance.

The ladies were already at the beach when he arrived, but since Miss Foxe had not deployed the sketchbook, he assumed they hadn’t yet reached the destination Eva desired to show them. True enough, as soon as he caught up to them, she trotted off again, leading them toward what appeared to be a solid rock face.

Not until he was only a few feet from the wall did he notice the narrow cave opening, set obliquely to the beach so it was difficult to make out. Eva halted there, beckoning them to advance.

Miss Foxe gave the opening a dubious glance. ‘Do you suppose it’s safe?’ she asked Gabe in a low voice.

‘Eva seems to think so,’ he answered. ‘Do you want to stay here while I follow her?’

‘And be thought a poor honey?’ she asked scornfully. ‘Never! I may not be very fond of low, underground places, but I shall manage.’

‘Good,’ he approved, noting that Miss Foxe was not one to let fear constrain her, a trait he admired—and possessed himself. ‘Lead on, Miss Eva.’

At the back of the cave, they paused where Eva indicated to gather up and light a torch from a stack evidently left for that purpose. By its flickering illumination, Eva picked her way into a low squared passage that sloped gradually upward, whose roughly geometrical shape and the drainage channel to one side indicated it had been purposely excavated.

They followed the tunnel for some time, finally emerging inside a small stone hut. Outside it, the desolate, windswept moor extended as far as the eye could see.

‘A smuggler’s trail!’ Miss Foxe exclaimed. ‘Ending at this hut—a perfect place to receive and conceal goods until they can be carried off. Eva, what a wonderful place! How my brother and I would have loved to have discovered such a treasure when we were young. I’d heard such things existed, but thought them mere legend.’

‘Not legend at all, as you’ve just seen,’ Gabe replied, amused by her almost childlike delight. ‘There are others even more clever—passages that lead into the cellars of public houses, into private homes more elaborate than this humble structure—even into the crypts of churches.’

‘Into churches?’ she asked, eying him narrowly, as if wondering whether this was just another smuggler’s tall tale.

‘Quite true,’ he confirmed with a smile. ‘In another village, there’s a tunnel leading to the stables used by the town coroner, who kindly allows his hearse to be borrowed to transport goods farther inland.’

She shook her head and laughed. ‘I begin to believe your claim that all Cornwall is involved in the trade! Was there anything else you wanted to show me, Eva?’ she asked, turning to the girl.

While the two walked the area around the hut, Eva pointing out various grasses and wildflowers, Gabe put a professional eye to evaluating the surroundings.

By his estimate of the distance they’d travelled south from Sennlack, this place must be several miles from the village, yet not on the main road, if one could dignify the rough track that more or less followed the coastline by so elevated a title. A flattened area in the mix of coarse grasses and low-growing plants suggested that cargo might have been moved over it in the past, though the absence of wagon tracks said no goods had passed here recently. Across the moors, a tor in the distance served as an excellent landmark.

Making a mental note of the surroundings, Gabe walked over to rejoin the ladies.

‘Though the flowers here are lovely,’ Miss Foxe was telling Eva, ‘I think I should prefer sketching the cove, where the high cliffs overhang that narrow inlet. Shall we go back?’

Apparently content after having shared her secret passage, the child followed docilely as Gabe relit their torch and led the little party back to the beach. While Miss Foxe searched for the perfect spot from which to sketch, he climbed the narrow trail back up the point where it emerged from the ravine. For a few moments, he stood there, studying with a seaman’s eye the configuration of the rocks that formed the narrow inlet, the characteristics of the waves washing through it and the direction of the prevailing wind.

His inspection complete, Gabe returned to the sun-dappled beach to find Miss Foxe seated on a rock, Eva sprawled on the sand beside her, watching avidly while she sketched. The pose, as if staged by some artist intent on painting a study of a mother and child, was somehow both tender and moving.

He stopped short, surprised by his reaction. He couldn’t recall having been touched by such a scene before, certainly not while observing his sister with one of her squalling brats. Perhaps it was the obvious connection between the mute fisherman’s daughter and the gentlewoman, who in the eyes of the world would seem to have so little in common. Yet in their intensity, their exile from society and their uninhibited joy, both were so alike.

That delicate but tenacious sense of cherishing wrapped its tendrils around his heart again. Though he still yearned to possess Miss Foxe, he was drawn almost as powerfully by the fierce spirit that championed a child her own community had rejected, fearlessly rushed to attack a drunken miner abusing a lone woman and waded neck-deep to try to save a drowning stranger.

Who would rescue her?

His runaway thoughts jerked to a sudden halt. He had no certain knowledge yet that Miss Foxe needed rescuing. But he couldn’t deny that, though he’d enjoyed playing the role of dashing captain thrust upon him by the admiring local community, he wished even more to act the part for her, to be in truth a valiant knight whom she could depend upon, admire and appreciate.

From that realization, it was a short leap back to recalling the most satisfying way she might express that appreciation. This time, instead of reefing the sails of imagination as he had previously whenever his thoughts had blown him in this direction, he allowed his mind to fly free.

He envisioned bringing her to the cliffs on another such glorious day when the sky formed a cave of blue above them. He’d kiss her as it seemed he’d been longing to forever, arouse her with strokes and touches, then lower her onto a blanket of tiny wildflowers and make love to her, warmed by the sun, caressed by the sweep of the wind across the moors, serenaded by roar and hiss of the surf.

He imagined she would respond with all the uninhibited fierceness and passion that had sent her wading into a cold sea or chasing after an abusive drunk. A passion he yearned to ignite and inflame and enjoy.

The two were becoming inextricably linked, he realized: admiration for her fierce spirit leading to desire and desire for her deepened by his admiration. Which was quite unique, since he’d previously placed ‘admirable women’ and ‘desirable women’ in two entirely separate categories.

The prospect of having both meet in one woman was disconcerting. He wasn’t at all sure what to do about it, but as he made his way to the ladies, one thing he did know for certain: winning such a bright soul cloaked in such a sensual body was well worth taking as much time and effort as necessary.

He crossed the beach toward them, but absorbed in their work, with the sound of his footsteps lost in the murmur of wind and shushing of waves, they didn’t notice his approach. Not wishing to startle them, he halted a short distance away and said, ‘Forgive me for interrupting! Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments.’

Miss Foxe looked up from her sketch and smiled. ‘Very prettily said. Shakespeare, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, from the sonnets,’ he replied, wondering, as he seated himself on a broad rock behind her, if she recognized the rest of quote—and how it described the passionate, unshakeable love of two kindred spirits.

Setting down her sketchbook and charcoal, she said, ‘Did you study with the Bard in one hand and the ship’s wheel in the other?’

He smiled at the image of trying to read a book while conning a ship through a rough sea. ‘No, in the Army, actually. There wasn’t much to do in winter quarters in Portugal. Some of the lads had brought books, which I borrowed.’ He chuckled. ‘An action that would have astonished some of the harried clerics who attempted to cane some knowledge into me as a boy.’

She nodded an agreement. ‘As a child, I hadn’t much use for books either, being much more interested in horses, dogs and tagging after my brother. Oh, I read a few of the more fantastical novels in London, along with the daily newspapers and La Belle Assemblée. Aunt Foxe, bless her, even ordered some fashion periodicals to be sent here.’

Her smile faltered. ‘Though I haven’t much use for the latest fashions now. But Aunt has coaxed me into reading some of her favourite novels and poetry, which to my surprise, I am enjoying. Not as much, I suspect, as Eva will, once she is able to read them.’

She glanced back at the child, to discover her busily plying a stick of charcoal over a blank page in the sketchbook, her face a study in concentration. When she gazed back up and saw them watching her, she dropped both charcoal and sketchbook with a little inarticulate moan of distress.

Springing to her feet, she backed away, hands up as if to ward off a blow, shaking her head, her expression a study in remorse and apology. After throwing him a look of consternation over what Eva’s response told them about how the child had been treated, Miss Foxe spoke to her gently, reassuring the girl that everything was all right and that she was welcome to borrow the materials.

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