Page 20 of The Smuggler & the Society Bride

If it were possible to entice her without causing harm, he wanted to. But the more he encountered her, the more she surprised and impressed him, the stronger grew his sense of responsibility toward her. Fiercely as he wanted to possess her, he also liked her enormously. If there were a chance of redemption for her, he didn’t want to jeopardize it. He’d have to proceed cautiously.

Because even if she were knowing, she was still gently-born and unmarried. Uncharted territory, that. His dalliances with ladies of quality had all been with widows or married ladies with indifferent spouses, if one didn’t count the single objecting husband he’d had to sweet-talk out of pistols at dawn.

What had happened to ruin this maiden of quality—if, indeed, she had been ruined, a fate that was still only wild conjecture. She might be entirely chaste.

Though her presence here argued against that.

What would happen to her now, assuming she’d not been sent here as Miss Foxe’s long-term companion? If she were indeed ruined, she might eventually be married off to someone obliging enough to overlook a loss of virtue in return for a sufficiently generous dowry. To a man who might never let her forget he thought she was soiled goods.

Or perhaps she’d end up an unpaid servant for her family, shuttled from one household to the next as births, illnesses or burgeoning nurseries dictated, her presence attended by whispers of past scandal, condescension, perhaps even covert, illicit offers by visiting lords of large appetite and small scruples.

His lip curled with disgust at envisioning such a sorry end for a lady of her spirit and wit. Whether ruined or chaste, she deserved a man who appreciated and valued her. Someone like—him?

That conclusion veered too close to the shoals of commitment, sounding the alarm bells again in his brain. Dalliance was one thing, but envisioning anything more permanent filled him with the need to trim his sails and tack off in the opposite direction.

Still, he was pleased to be able to involve himself in her scheme to sell the gloves made by her students. It would give him an excuse to talk with her, stay near her…though sea bathing would definitely be in order if he strayed too close. Even now, his fingers itched with a reprise of the desire to touch her cheek, bring her soft lips to his own.

He’d been far too long without a lady’s intimate embrace—and was far too attracted to this lady. So attracted, in fact, that slaking his desire with some other female didn’t really appeal, despite his need.

A shock went through him at that realization, followed by a vague sense of unease. Never had he fallen into such thrall to any one lady that he lost his taste for an agreeable substitute. His level of infatuation with and desire for Miss Foxe was disturbingly different from anything he’d previously experienced.

Uncharted waters indeed. Still, even if he had less inclination than usual to move on to another port, there was no need to ready the anchor chain. He couldn’t envision any future beyond dalliance between Miss Foxe of Foxeden and the man she saw as a law-breaking free-trader.

Or could there be?

Damn, he was veering between one heading and another like a ship in capricious winds. Abandoning any notion of drawing a final conclusion about his relationship with Miss Foxe, he’d concentrate simply on acquiring some trading contacts for her, thereby earning her gratitude—and if it later turned out to be agreeable to them both and not harmful to her, maybe something more.

A short time later, Gabe entered the inn. Calling for a mug of ale, he sat over it contemplating remarks he could utter to a certain golden-haired lass that might make her blue eyes widen with enthusiasm—or turn them a stormy grey with annoyance. He was still smiling about the delights of teasing her when raised voices at the front of the inn pulled him from his musings.

In this isolated village, the arrival of a newcomer was novelty enough that he glanced over to take a look at the stranger now speaking with Mr Kessel. Something odd about the conversation caught and held his attention.

The exchange seemed more animated than usual, the newcomer gesturing broadly and inclining his head, from which he’d just removed a fashionable beaver hat, revealing a sweep of long, wavy dark hair. His garments were of good quality and cut: chamois breeches, dark coat, elegant boots obviously from a skilled London maker and polished to high shine.

Yet, there was something faintly exotic about him. Perhaps it was the exuberant fall of linen at his throat from which winked some ornate stone. When the man turned, Gabe saw he wore a gold earring in his left ear.

The newcomer gestured up the stairs to a boy following in his wake, doubtless a servant of some sort, then followed him up, moving with the lithe grace of a dancer. His slightly olive skin and theatrical flair were most un-English. Did he spring from the tropics somewhere—India? The Caribbean? Was he maybe even a Gypsy, perhaps?

When Mr Kessel returned to the tap room, Gabe called him over. ‘I see you have a new patron. An interesting-looking fellow.’

‘Aye, he’s unusual,’ Kessel said with a grimace. ‘A Gypsy, one of the Argentari.’

So his guess was correct, Gabe thought, trying to remember the name of the troop he’d encountered as a child. Seeking some of the famous Irish horses for trade, a group had camped near the sea at the outskirts of Hawksworth land the summer he turned ten, much to his delight and his father’s disgruntlement.

‘Comes a few times a year,’ the landlord was saying. ‘Buys copper and silver for his tribe. He’s bought a cargo or two from Dickin in the past as well. Claims he deals in a variety of goods and has contacts with merchants in London, but being a Gypsy, one can’t credit anything he might say.’

‘Contacts in London?’ Gabe repeated, his interest further piqued.

‘So he claims. I know he paid cash straightaway for the cargoes; sent a crew of his own men to move it. If you’re thinking of dealing with him, I’d proceed warily. He seems civilized enough, but there’s an air about him. I wouldn’t try to cross that one. Walking home some dark night, you might find yourself with a knife between your shoulder blades!’

With that cogent advice, Mr Kessel bustled off.

Should he approach the trader, Gabe wondered, sipping his ale thoughtfully. He had to admit, part of his urge to do so was a carryover from that fascination with Gypsy life he’d acquired as boy.

Warned by his father not to have anything to do with the foreign interlopers, he had, of course, run off to their encampment at the first opportunity. Kinder than his father, they’d not chased off the impertinent gadje child, but let him watch them as they tended fires, hammered out jewellery, or gentled their horses with an expertise he admired to this day. He’d even picked up a bit of language, enough to understand some of their sayings and the gist of the stories and songs sung around the campfire.

After a few weeks, they vanished as silently as they’d arrived. For the next few summers, he’d hoped they might return. They never did, but his curiosity about them remained.

The question about whether or not to approach the man was settled a few minutes later, when the Gypsy himself strode with a confident swagger across the tap room to Gabe and bowed.

‘Captain Hawksworth,’ he said, extending a hand to shake. ‘Stephano Beshaley. You will allow me to buy a drink for the man whose fame I’ve heard celebrated everywhere since arriving back in Cornwall?’

When Gabe allowed that he would, Beshaley made another flamboyant gesture toward the bar. Flashing Gabe an irritated glance over Beshaley’s head, Mr Kessel called, ‘Sadie, where are you, girl? We’ve got customers to serve.’

A moment later Sadie came in. Visibly brightening when she spied Gabe and the Gypsy, she hurried over to the table.

‘Sir, what a pleasure to see you again,’ she exclaimed.

Beshaley leapt to his feet and made her an elaborate bow. ‘The pleasure is entirely mine, lovely lady. Ah, how long we have been parted! My eyes have looked upon nothing but desolation, deprived of your beauty.’

Gabe thought the speech a bit extravagant, but appearing well-pleased, Sadie giggled and preened like a parrot. ‘I do swear, Mr B, you could talk the bees from their honey. As if I don’t know you been charming dozens of pretty girls since last you was here!’

‘None so pretty as you, fair Sadie. Or so worthy of adornment.’ Reaching up, he slid his fingers through her hair, pulled out a shiny gold clip and presented it to her.

‘Why—how’d you do that? Oh, how pretty!’

Winking at her, he said, ‘’Tis magic, my sweet—a little treasure for one whose regard I treasure. Now, you will bring me a mug of ale and I will thrill to hold it, knowing it was warmed by your touch. And ale for my friend the Hawk, too, eh?’

He flipped her a gold coin, which she snatched in mid-air and tucked into her ample bosom. ‘I’ll get them drinks over here straightaway. Always a pleasure to help a handsome gent like you. Or you, Mr Gabe,’ she added, as if belatedly remembering that, though generous, the Gypsy was transient and she ought not to neglect her regular customer—the usual target of her amorous glances.

Beshaley kissed his fingers to her. ‘I rejoice in your good will, my angel, and carry the vision of your enchanting face in my heart.’

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