Page 30 of The Smuggler & the Society Bride

However, without being arrogant, he felt confident there was no cutter captain afloat who could capture the Gull on the high seas with wind in her sails and him at the helm.

But for the first time, there was someone back in England whose opinion of his ventures mattered. Someone he wanted to think well of him, someone he didn’t want worrying about his fate. Unlike the Cornish, Miss Foxe did not possess the contempt the locals had for customs laws or their blithe disregard for the consequences of breaking them.

Doubts about the wisdom of undertaking this enterprise, niggling at him from the first, had needled with increasing force in recent days. Miss Foxe’s knight, though perhaps forgiven his flouting of custom laws to the benefit of the poor or lowly, should have an equally noble but more legitimate goal.

The longer he dealt with smuggling operations, the clearer it became that, though Dickin and his father were men of integrity, not all those in the trade were as concerned about the welfare of their neighbours as they were about lining their own purses. Some were bullies with no compunction about hurting anyone who got in their way.

The image of Dickin’s brother John came to mind.

Shoving that thought aside, he turned to wondering what, for him, might a more noble pursuit be? He knew he’d won Miss Foxe’s approval by undertaking to establish a buyer for the goods produced by the schoolgirls.

But a close involvement with trade, however respectable, would be viewed with almost as much abhorrence by any genteel family—including his own—as a career as an outlaw.

Despite Dickin’s encouragement to establish a permanent partnership, he hadn’t from the beginning seen this as anything more than temporary, an exciting interlude that returned a favour to a friend while it bridged the gap between recovery from his wounds and—something else. Much as he’d kicked against traces of parental authority as a boy, after viewing the results of the lawlessness unleashed within French-conquered Spain and the necessity for discipline in the Army, he’d developed a new respect for the usefulness of order and regulation.

If his thoughts about the future hadn’t been murky enough, along came Miss Foxe to further muddy the waters.

His intentions had been simple enough at first: indulge in an agreeable flirtation with a lovely lady to pass the time and discourage pursuit by some of the bolder local girls. When had that straightforward aim begun to complicate itself into such a compelling…what? Obsession? Infatuation?

He only knew he went through his days inspired to smiles or desire or longing when some act or event triggered memories of her. That when he went to his bed, dreams of giving and receiving pleasure from her warmed his night. That he woke, often hard and aching, to begin thinking of her all over again.

Never with any woman had he considered anything more permanent than dalliance. If—only if—this craving for her didn’t fade, as had his craving for every other woman he’d ever fancied, and if he decided he wanted something more lasting, what did this knight have to offer his fair maiden?

The disconcerting conclusion was: not much. He had no profession, no land, not much income. He had expertise as a sailor, but no more interest than Dickin in living his life as a deep-water Navy man. And though he was glad to have contributed his part in ridding the world of the dictator Bonaparte, he’d seen enough of hunting men for prey that a permanent career in the Army did not appeal either.

For most of his life, he’d been driven to escape the bonds that pulled him into becoming a dull country gentleman like the father and brother whose strictures he’d sought to evade. He’d longed for adventure, and in the Army he’d found adventures aplenty. But a nagging imperative, building like a hard lump of indigestion in his gut, said that it was past time for him to decide on a calling and find a place for himself.

One he might be able to share with someone other than a short-term fancy woman.

He smiled, envisioning the real reason for his walk to the vicarage. Miss Foxe should be there, encouraging little girls at their primers and perhaps observing Eva make her first attempt in paints.

It would be easy to become quite fond of having Miss Foxe’s palm to lick citrus juice from of a morning, after a night spent pleasuring her in his bed, to be followed by a day going about his work energized by her needle-witted commentary, inspired by her sometimes surprising and always uninhibited interests.

He still could not decide whether he wished to make that pleasant dream a reality. Nor, having no occupation that would support a wife, did he know how he would be able to do so if he did decide upon it.

But then, he wasn’t compelled to decide right this moment. He had months yet to sail the Gull. It was another fresh spring morning, entirely too glorious to burden his spirits with such weighty reflections. For now, all he need do was anticipate the pleasure of chatting with Miss Foxe. Giving in to the need that pulled him toward her as relentlessly as the needle of the Gull’s compass sought north, Gabe turned down the lane to the vicarage.

In addition to inquiring about William Darby, he did need to check on Eva, he told himself. Though he’d need to consult some print dealers to be certain, he’d bet the coloured sketches Miss Foxe had proposed having her do would sell more quickly than charcoal ones, and for a better price. If the elder Miss Foxe hadn’t had any supplies on hand, he’d have to nip up to London immediately to talk with those dealers and obtain the art supplies needed before the Gull was called back to sea.

He was pacing through the garden, heading for the glass-house schoolroom, when he saw Miss Marie Foxe with the vicar’s servant, who was leading out her horse.

His gaze devoured her, lovingly noting each detail. The dark blue riding habit that brought out the sea hue in her eyes. The trim, graceful figure. The intricate arrangement of braids beneath her riding hat, gleaming honey-gold in the sun.

He knew the exact moment she noticed his regard. As if by some unspoken signal—for he hadn’t said a word, nor had the horse or servant yet remarked him—she turned. Her rose-pink lips parted in a slight bow of surprise, then curved into the same brilliant smile that had blazed straight to his heart on the moor.

In an instant, he was transported back to the cliffs, to that fraught moment they had gazed at each other: the scent, the taste of her, and oranges sweet and heady in his nose, on his tongue, his every muscle primed to kiss her.

As if mesmerized, he walked to her, took the hand she offered, and brought it to his lips, barely repressing a groan as he brushed his mouth against her gloved fingers. His eager ears caught her whisper of a sigh, his eyes the quick inhale of breath that lifted her breasts closer to his chest.

So entirely focused was he on her, her smile, her nearness, that Father Gryffd’s voice behind him made him jump.

She must have been equally entranced, at least he hoped so, for she startled as well.

‘…Captain,’ the vicar was saying, ‘I expect you wanted to check on Eva’s progress? I regret to say you just missed her, but I’m sure Miss Foxe can acquaint you with the details.’

‘Y-yes,’ he answered, befuddled by her nearness. Shaking his head in bemusement, he tried to clear his muzzy brain. ‘Indeed, Miss Foxe, I meant to ask you about Eva straightaway. Did your aunt have any paints you were able to borrow?’

‘No paints, unfortunately, but she lent us an old set of pastels and Eva demonstrated she could soon become just as skilled in their use as she is with charcoal. Shall I show you her sketches from this morning? Father, if we may?’ She gestured toward the schoolroom.

Father Gryffd shook his head. ‘Regretfully, I’ve some parish business I must attend to. But you are both welcome to return to the schoolroom and view Miss Eva’s work. Shall I have Mrs Wells send over some tea?’

‘Thank you, but I mustn’t linger,’ Miss Foxe replied. ‘My aunt is expecting me home early today.’

No leisurely tête-à-tête? Gabe thought in disappointment. But if a brief chat was all he could get, he’d take it.

‘I would like to view the sketches, if you can spare that much time, Miss Foxe.’

To Gabe’s surprise, she looked unexpectedly uncertain. As her silence stretched on, he even began to fear she might refuse. The smile he’d surprised from her a moment ago had been as brilliant as yesterday’s. What could have produced the sudden chill?

He had no doubt she’d felt the connection—and the potent desire—between them yesterday as keenly as he. Had the power of it disturbed her? Though possessing none of the same reservations about acting upon that attraction that might afflict an unmarried maiden, he supposed he could appreciate her uncertainty about how to handle so potentially dangerous a temptation.

Somehow, he’d have to reassure her that he would never take advantage of her partiality for him to lure her into something she would later regret.

And make sure his eager body understood that promise.

Finally, to his relief, she nodded. ‘I expect I could remain a bit longer. Shall we go, then?’

Through their walk to the schoolroom and initial inspection of the drawings, her manner remained constrained, as if she were uneasy about being alone with him. But thankfully—for her hesitance and the retreat back to the cautious, reserved politeness with which she’d first treated him dismayed him more than he wanted to acknowledge—her enthusiasm for Eva’s pastel sketches eventually dissipated that constraint.

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