Page 47 of The Smuggler & the Society Bride

Sometime later, his brain focused to the delightful reality of his lady reclining on his chest, her intimate moistness still cradling his satisfied member. He sighed deeply, thinking despite the sharpness of the rocks behind and beneath him, he could recline here forever, cradling her body and wrapped in her luxuriant heat.

Knowing his time to do so was rapidly running out, as she dozed against his chest, he caressed the softness of her naked thighs and bottom. It would be worth a smuggler’s boatload of gold, he thought dreamily as his fingers stroked and gentled, to wake every morning like this, with Honoria, his Honoria, dozing on his chest, his shaft nested deep within her.

Except she wasn’t his Honoria. He’d meant what he’d told her earlier. Though he guessed what she’d wanted to say—the same words that his heart cried to speak—it would be better if nothing were said, or promised, until after he’d finished untangling the mystery of her ruin. Though he would never be able to bring himself to regret loving her, it had been unwise. And if he could produce proof of her innocence and win her a chance to reclaim her former life, what they had shared here today would remain his cherished secret.

Even though he now began to suspect she’d deliberately misled him about that innocence. Though she had been as ardent as he could have imagined, as his brain gradually resumed functioning, he recalled her gasp and the sudden bite of her nails into his shoulders when she first welcomed him into her body. With a little frown, he realized he had almost certainly been the first to breach her maidenhead.

Should he take her to task over it? he wondered, nuzzling his chin against her hair. She’d understood him well enough to know he would have resisted her every attempt at seduction, had he believed she was still untouched.

That sense of awe and humility welled up in him again, that she not only desired him, but had entrusted him with such a gift. It also spoke to how little faith she had in her chances of vindication.

Which only made him that much more determined to obtain it for her. No matter how desperately he wanted her future given into his hands.

If she had a family worthy of the name, they must respond to evidence of the vile trickery perpetrated against her by mounting an all-out campaign to restore her to her rightful place. He’d deliberately refrained from voicing his feelings to forestall her making promises she’d later feel compelled to keep. If he made much of being the first to claim her, she might feel honour required that she not accept her family’s assistance, even though she’d hardly be the first maiden to go to her wedding couch no longer a virgin.

So he would say nothing. He’d bend every effort to giving her back a choice over what she wished to do with her life…and try to ignore the little voice within pleading for her choice to be him.

She woke then and stretched lazily, the movement creating a delectable caress of his nether regions that caused them to stir enthusiastically once again. Best that they both get dressed before the intoxicating elixir of desire she concocted so effortlessly bewitched him into taking her yet again.

‘Though I’d rather stay here all day, we should go back. Father Gryffd and Eva will be worried if you do not appear at the school.’

‘’Tis early yet,’ she whispered, her kiss-reddened lips impossibly seductive. ‘Once we arrive at the school, our time will be over. No—’ she put a finger over his lips ‘—don’t say anything. Most especially, don’t apologize or make me any noble speeches. You said it best: we will talk no more about this until after you’ve found the Gypsy. Now, I ask just one more thing.’

He would give her the moon to hang as a pearl broach at her throat, if she wanted it. ‘What, sweeting?’

She started unhooking the clasps of her habit’s jacket, each tug moving her against him in a series of small gliding motions that sent pulses of pleasure through his rapidly hardening member. Pulling off the jacket and tossing it aside, she shucked her shirt, then said, ‘Undo my stays. I want to feel your mouth on my nipples.’

As she arched her head back to give him access, fully erect once again, he bent to comply.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Three weeks later, a grimly determined Gabe rode back into London. After questioning everyone in Sennlack who’d been acquainted with the Gypsy, he’d worked his way from Penzance to Falmouth, Truro to Bodmin, Launceston to Exeter and from Cornwall along the route to London, finding evidence of Beshaley’s trading with jewellers and merchants, but not the man himself.

He’d searched out Gypsy encampments, too, and although one could never be sure they would give a straight answer to a gadje, he was reasonably certain none of them were harbouring the man. Which meant, unless he had overseas connections—Gabe recalled the massive turbaned butler—he must be in London. This time when he paid a call on Bloomsbury Square, Gabe would refuse to accept ‘not home, Sahib’ as an answer.

Much as he tried to concentrate only on his quest, Honoria’s lovely face kept recurring in his mind’s eye, the echo of her laughter murmuring in his ear. Speculation about where she was and what she was doing crept back into his consciousness whenever he relaxed his vigilance. Each time his disobedient thoughts returned to her, he ached with longing—probably a hopeless longing—that she might one day be his.

In the dark of the few hours he allowed himself to sleep, dreams invaded his mind, transporting him back to the cove. He awoke to vivid images of reclining once again on a bed of moss-covered rocks, joined with her, her soft body straddling his, her cries of pleasure thrilling him as he emptied himself into her.

A wave of guilt flooded him. It truly had been madness to succumb to her. If a child were to result, she might have no alternative but to throw in her lot with him, forfeiting the opportunity to regain her former life he was working so hard to give her.

However, after three weeks of fruitless searching, an insidious little voice had begun urging him to give up the quest, acknowledge the Gypsy was not to be found and accept there was nothing further he could do. It urged him to return to Cornwall, inwardly rejoicing that, with Honoria still disgraced, her high-born family might actually countenance the suit of a commoner like him.

Thinking of the vast gap in rank between the Earl of Narborough and titleless, landless Gabriel Hawksworth, he smiled grimly. But just what position did a disgraced gentlewoman occupy?

Perhaps one not so far above his, that same voice whispered.

Impatiently, he shut it out. He would think no more of the future until he had tracked down the Gypsy. If Beshaley were not now in London, he would almost certainly return there sometime. Gabe could wait—what else had he to do, now that the Gull had been taken back by her previous captain? While he waited, he could look into purchasing a ship of his own, establish trading contacts, contemplate where he might set up his business so as to have ready access to his sources—mitten-making schoolgirls and a certain precociously gifted artist—without embarrassing his family.

But even if he were eventually successful in proving Honoria’s innocence and seeing her restored to her former status, a growing sense that they belonged together, strengthened a hundredfold after lying with her, had started gnawing away at his resolve to do the honourable thing and walk away. A certainty welling up from deep within had begun asserting that they were as inextricably linked as a ship and the sea. Despite the fact that he could never offer her the advantages that were hers by birth, he was growing less and less certain he could, or should, leave her without first confessing his love.

Truly giving her a choice between her old world—and his.

But first, he must find the key to the past that only the Gypsy possessed.

Not bothering to check in first at a hotel, Gabe rode directly to Phillips Jewellers on Bond Street. Anticipation and excitement mounted in his chest when the proprietor confirmed he had indeed dealt with Mr Hebden recently. In fact, he’d just purchased some exquisite gems—if Gabe cared to see them?

Gabe did not. Thanking the man and promising to return upon another occasion, he reclaimed his horse and set off for Bloomsbury Square.

By the time he reined in before the modest town house, blood lust, frustration, longing and righteous rage had him primed and more than ready for a fight. If that butler did try to fob him off, he intended to discover just how good the Indian was with his dagger.

The same turbaned servant answered the door. ‘Is Mr Hebden at home?’ Gabe demanded.

After looking him over carefully, the butler replied, ‘I regret, but the Master Sahib is not at home.’

Shouldering past him into the house, a feat possible only because the Indian had clearly not anticipated he would attempt such a move, Gabe said, ‘I’m sorry, too, but that’s not good enough. You will please tell “Sahib” that Gabriel Hawksworth is here to see him on behalf of Lady Honoria Carlow. If he truly isn’t at home, I shall wait. You are, of course, welcome to try to prevent me.’

Shifting his weight onto the balls of his feet, hands fisting at his sides, Gabe waited expectantly for the Indian to reach for his dagger.

Before the man could move, however, a voice behind him said, ‘Stay, Akshat. I will receive Captain Hawksworth.’

Garbed in an immaculate black coat, spotless cravat and tight buff breeches, seeming, but for the lilt in his voice and the slight exotic darkness of his skin, every inch the English gentleman, Stephano Beshaley—Steven Hebden—walked into the entrance.

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