Newest Book :: Coming Soon :: Back List :: Printable Book List :: Guide to Linked Characters
The Cinderella Spinsters :: Sisters of Scandal :: The Wellingfords :: Regency Silk and Scandal :: Ransleigh Rogues :: Hadley's Hellions :: Western Historicals
· Harlequin Historical · Available as an e-book at Amazon, B&N, Harlequin.com, and iBooks
|
Earl’s daughter Lady Honoria Carlow flees London after a scandalous disgrace to take refuge with her aunt in Cornwall and try to figure out who engineered her ruin and why. There, she encounters handsome Irishman Gabe Hawksworth, known locally as “the Hawk,” who is temporarily captaining a smuggling vessel as a favor for the army friend who saved his life. Though her family would be appalled at her attraction
to a “low-born free trader,” there’s something
about the well-spoken Gabe that calls out to the free-spirited
Honoria, even as Gabe wonders about the unexpected appearance
of this mysterious beauty. Until an attraction that should
never have been becomes a compulsion too strong for either
of them to resist!
· Learn
more about Honoria and Gabe |
"An engaging addition to the
Silk & Scandal miniseries." "I love a book filled with twists and
turns, and this book doesn't disappoint. Gabe and Marie
are complex characters who were meant for each other." |
 |
"From the
first page, readers are plunged into this captivating narrative
that sizzles with daring adventure, wicked secrets, powerful
emotions and red-hot passion. |
Sennlack Cove, Cornwall, May 1814
CHAPTER 1
The
shriek of gulls swooping overhead mingled with the crash of waves
against the rocks below as Lady Honoria Carlow halted on the cliff
walk to peer down at the cove. Noting with satisfaction that the
sea had receded enough for a long silvered sliver of sand to emerge
from beneath its high tide hiding place, she turned off the path
onto the winding track leading down to the beach.
Honoria had discovered this sheltered spot during one of the first
walks after her arrival here a month ago. Angry, despairing and
driven by frustrated energy, she’d accepted Aunt Foxe’s
mild suggestion that she expend some of her obvious agitation
in exploring the beauties of the cliff walk that edged the coastline
before her aunt’s stone manor a few miles from the small
Cornish village of Sennlach.
Scanning the wild vista, Honoria smiled ruefully.
When she fled London a month ago, she’d craved distance
and isolation, and she’d certainly found it. As her coach
had borne her past Penzance towards Land’s End and then
turned onto the track leading to Foxeden, her aunt’s home
overlooking the sea, it had seemed she had indeed reached the
end of the world.
Or at least a place worlds away from the society and the family
that had betrayed and abandoned her.
One might wonder that the sea’s violent pummeling against the rocky coast, the thunder of the surf, slap of wind-blown spray and raucous screeching of sea birds could soothe one’s spirit, but somehow they did, Honoria reflected as she picked her way down the trail to the beach. Maybe because the waves shattering themselves against the cliff somehow mirrored her own shattered life.
After having been hurtled onto the rocks and splintered, the water
rebounded from the depths in a boil of foam. Would there be any
remnants of her left to surface, once she had the heart to try
to pull her life back together?
Though Tamsyn, Aunt Foxe’s maid, had tacked up the skirts
of her riding habit, the only garb Honoria possessed after her
hasty journey from London suitable for vigorous country walking,
the hem of her skirt was stiff with sand when she reached the
beach. Here, out of the worst ravages of wind, she pulled back
the scarf anchoring her bonnet and gazed at the scene.
The water lapping at the beach in the cove looked peaceful, inviting
even. She smiled, recalling lazy summer afternoons as a child
when she’d pestered her older brother Hal to let her sneak
away with him to the pond in the lower meadows. Accompanied by
whichever of Hal’s friends were currently visiting, dressed
in borrowed boy’s shirt and breeches, she’d learned
to swim in the weed-infested waters, emerging triumphant and covered
with pond muck.
The summer she turned seven, Anthony been one of those visitors,
Honoria recalled. A familiar nausea curdling in her gut, she thrust
away the memory of her erstwhile fiancé.
She wouldn’t tarnish one of the few enjoyments left to her
by recalling a wretched past she could do nothing to change.
Resolutely focusing on the beauty of the cove, Honoria considered
taking off her boots and wading into the water. With spring just
struggling into summer, unlike the sun-warmed pond back at Stanegate
Court, the water sluicing in the narrow inlet from the sea was
probably frigid.
As she glanced toward the cove’s rock-protected entrance,
a flash of sun reflecting a whiteness of sail caught her attention.
Narrowing her eyes against the glare, she watched a small boat
skim toward the cove entrance.
A second boat popped into view, apparently in pursuit of first,
which tacked sharply into the calmer waters of the cove before
coming about to fly back toward open water. In the next instant,
the following boat, now just inside the rocky outcropping that
separated cove from coastline, stopped as abruptly as if halted
by an unseen hand. While the first boat sailed out of sight, she
saw the dark form of a man tumble over the side of the second
skiff.
The boat must have struck a submerged rock, Honoria surmised as
she transferred her attention from the little vessel, now being
battered by the incoming waves, to the man who’d been flung
into the water. Seconds after submerging, the man surfaced, then
in a flail of arms, sank again.
Curiosity changed to concern. Though the waters of the cove were
shallow at low tide, the man would still need to swim some distance
before he’d be able to touch bottom. Had he been injured
by the fall-or did he not know how to swim?
She hesitated an instant longer, watching as the man bobbed back
to the surface and sank again, making no progress toward the shallows.
Murmuring one of Hal’s favorite oaths, Honoria looked wildly
about the beach. After spotting a driftwood plank, she swiftly
stripped off bonnet, cloak, jacket, stockings, shoes and the heavy
skirt of her habit, grabbed up the plank and charged into the
water.
Still encumbered by chemise, blouse and stays, she couldn’t
swim as well as she had in those childhood breeches, probably
not well enough to reach the man and bring him in. But she simply
couldn’t stand by and watch him drown without at least trying
to wade out, hoping she could get near enough for him to grab
hold of the plank and let her tow him in.
Shivering at the water’s icy bite, Honoria pushed through
the shallows as quickly as the sodden skirts of her chemise and
then upper garments allowed, battling toward the struggling sailor.
She had about concluded in despair that she would never reach
him in time when suddenly, from the rocks far above the water
at the trail side of the cove, a man dove in. Honoria halted,
gasping for breath as a rogue wave broke over her, and watched
the newcomer swim with swift, practiced strokes toward the downed
sailor. Moments later he grabbed the sinking man by one arm and
began swimming him toward shore.
Relieved, she turned to struggle back to the beach. Only then
did she notice the string of tubs bobbing near the cliff wall
on the walk side of the cove. Suddenly the game of racing boats
made sense.
Free-traders! Tethered in calm cove waters must be one of the
contraband cargoes about which she’d heard so much. The
first boat had apparently been trying to lead the second away
from where the cargo had been stashed under cover of night, to
be retrieved later.
Weighed down by her drenched clothing, Honoria stopped in the
shallows to catch her breath and observe the rescuer swim in his
human cargo.
Her admiration for his bravery turned to appreciation of different
sort as the man reached shallow water and stood. He, too, had
stripped down for his rescue attempt. Water dripped off his bare
torso, from his shoulders and strongly muscled chest down the
flat of his abdomen. From there, it trickled into and over the
waistband of his sodden trousers, which molded themselves over
an impressive-oh, my!
Face flaming, Honoria jerked her eyes upward, noting the long
white scar along his rib cage and another traversing his left
shoulder, before her scrutiny reached his face-and her gaze collided
with a piercing look from the most vivid deep blue eyes she had
ever seen.
She felt a jolt reminiscent of the many times when, shuffling
her feet over the Axminster carpet in Papa’s study after
receiving a scolding about her latest exploit, she touched the
metal door handle. Enduring that zing of pain had been a game,
a silent demonstration to herself that she had the strength to
bear chastisement stoically, despite Mama’s disdain and
Papa’s disapproval. Though more lately, it had fallen to
her eldest brother Marcus, defacto head of the family since father’s
last illness, to deliver the reprimands.
There the resemblance ended, for the jolt induced by this man
was both a stronger and a much more pleasant sensation. Indeed,
she felt her lips curve into a smile as she took in the sharply-crafted
face and the dripping black hair framing it, sleek as a seal.
Even had he not just recklessly leapt off a cliff into swiftly-moving
tidal water, his commanding countenance with its determined chin,
high cheekbones and full, sensual lips, would have proclaimed
him a self-confidence man of action. One strongly muscled arm
still towing the coughing, sputtering mariner, the rescuer strode
through the shallows, carrying himself with an aura of power that,
like the long scar on his chest and shoulder, hinted of danger.
A commanding man, she saw belatedly, who was now subjecting her
to an inspection as intense as hers of him had been.
“Well, lass,” he said as he approached, his amused
voice carrying just a hint of a lilt. “Is it Aphrodite you
are, rising out of the sea?”
Honoria’s face flamed anew as his comment reminded her she
was standing in ankle-deep water, the soggy linen chemise that
clung to her legs and belly probably nearly transparent.
Tossing a “well done, sir,” over her shoulder, she
turned and ran. Upon gaining the shore, she dropped the plank
and hastily donned her sandy cloak, her numbed fingers struggling
with the ties. By the time she’d covered herself and bent
to retrieve her jacket, skirts and shoes, crowd of men was walking
toward her along the narrow beach.
Accomplices of the free-traders, come to help move the cargo inland,
she surmised as she chose a convenient rock upon which to perch
and put on her shoes. She’d just seated herself to begin
when the first of the men reached her.
Suddenly she realized their attention was fixed not on the rescuer
or the cargo waiting in the cove waters-but on her. She could
almost feel the avid gazes raking her body, from the seawater
dripping from the loose tendrils of hair to her bare feet, the
curiosity in their eyes overlaid by something hotter, more feral.
Horror filling her, she shrank back. Instead of the windswept
cliffs, she saw the darkness of a London townhouse garden, while
the cawing of seabirds was replaced by exclamations of shock and
surprise emanating from the path leading back to a brilliantly-lit
ballroom.
Eyes riveted on her, men closed in all around. Their gazes
lust-filled, their lips curled with disdain or anticipation, their
hot liquored breath assaulting her as she held the ripped edges
of her bodice together. Anthony, disgust in his eyes, running
up not to comfort and assist but to accuse and repudiate.
Panic sent her bolting to her feet. Abandoning boots and stockings,
ignoring the protest of the handsome rescuer who called upon her
to wait while he deposited his coughing cargo, she pushed through
the crowd and ran for the cliff path.
Gabriel Hawksworth’s admiring gaze followed the honey-haired
lass fleeing down the beach. After pulling the half-drowned mariner
onto the shore, he straightened, breathing heavily, while the
man at his feet retched up a bounty of Cornish seawater.
An instant later, some of the villagers reached them. Quickly
dragging the man inland, one held him fast while another applied
a blindfold and a third bound the man’s hands.
Gabe shook off like a dog, chilled now that his drenched body
was fanned by the wind. To his relief, darting toward him through
the gathering crowd was Richard Kessel, his old army friend “Dickin,”
owner of the vessel of which Gabe was currently, and temporarily,
the master.
“That was a fine swim you had,” Dickin said, handing
Gabe his jacket. “Mayhap ol’ George will be so happy
you saved his new revenue agent, he’ll take a smaller cut
of the cargo. Though the villagers hearabouts won’t be too
fond of your lending him assistance. Being a newcomer, our soggy
friend”-Kessel nodded toward the man being carried off by
the villagers-“is far too apt to point a pistol at one of
them-and you, too, if he’d known who it was that rescued
him.”
“Aye, better to have let the sea take him,” declared
another man as he halted beside them.
“Well, the sea didn’t, Johnnie,” Dickin said,
“so ‘tis no point repining it.”
“Perhaps someone ought to give the sea a hand,” the
man muttered.
“No thanks to you the sea didn’t oblige, little brother,”
Dickin shot back. “What daft idea was it to call for the
cargo to be moved inland in full daylight, with a new man on patrol?
‘Tis nearly asking for a scrabble.”
“I knew if the revenuer followed Tomas-not likely most times,
as little as these English know the coastline--Tomas would still
be able to lead him off the scent,” John defended.
“Aye-nearly drowning the man in the bargain,” Dickin
said.
“What care you if there is one King’s man less?”
his brother replied angrily. “Besides, I’m the lander
on this venture. ‘Tis my place to decide how, when and where
the cargo gets moved.”
“If you’re going to put our men and boats at risk,
mayhap you shouldn’t be the lander,” Dickin replied.
“Threatening to have Pa ease me out of operations?”
John demanded.
“Nay, just trying to jaw some sense in your head,”
Dickin said placatingly.
“Well, landing’s my business, not yours, and best
you remember it,” John said. Turning away, he called for
the men holding the bound and blindfolded revenue agent to throw
him into one of the carts.
After watching the brother pace away, Gabe said, “Promise
me, Dickin, the revenuer will get safely back to town? What happens
on the high seas is up to God. I’d hate to abandon you still
needing a replacement skipper for the ‘Flying Gull,’
but I’ll not be a party to murder.”
“‘Tis a most inconvenient conscience you’ve
developed of late, Gabe my lad,” Dickin remarked.
“We used to share the same scruples,” Gabe replied.
“You’d never have shot a French prisoner back on the
Peninsula. Nor have left one for the partisans, though Heaven
knows the Spaniards had reason enough to torture the French.”
Smiling anew at the irony of it, Gabe continued, “Our former
enemies…with whom you now trade for brandy, silk and lace!”
“True,” Dickin acknowledged cheerfully. “But
war is war and commerce is commerce.”
“Still, it wasn’t sporting of Tomas to sail so close
to the cliffs. He knows where that underwater ledge is. Our new
revenuer obviously didn’t.”
Kessel shrugged. “His own fault, giving chase in daylight.
If he wishes to hamper the trade, he’ll have to get to know
the coastline better.”
“Or try to follow us at night, when we too show a healthier
respect for the rocks.”
“I doubt any of the revenuers wish to test the sea after
dark,” Kessel replied. “Few enough Cornishmen have
your fool Irish daring. Or expertise with a boat.”
“I’ll ignore that jab at my heritage and accept your
compliments on my skill,” Gabe said with a grin.
“Sure you’ll not consider staying on once Conan’s
fit to resume command of the ‘Gull?’” Kessel
asked. “You’ve probably earned enough already from
your cut of the profits to buy your own boat. We could make a
good team, just as we did fighting Boney’s best! Unless
you’ve changed your mind about returning home to be your
brother’s pensioner?”
Gabe had a sudden vision of the family manor at Ballyclarig, windswept
Irish hills-and his elder brother Nigel’s frowning face.
“I’m not sure yet what I mean to do, but it won’t
include staying on in Ireland. I was at the point of setting out…somewhere
when you came calling.”
“Lucky I did, since with you fully recovered from your wounds,
‘tis likely you and your brother would have murdered each
other, if he’s as self-righteous as you’ve described
him.” Kessel clapped a hand on Gabe’s shoulder. “Though
there’s naught to that. Brothers often fight-look at me
and Johnnie! Especially when one holds the whip hand over the
other. Did you never get on?”
For an instant, Gabe ran though his mind the whole history of
his dealings with the older brother who, for as long as Gabe could
remember, had criticized, tattled about or disapproved of everything
he did or said. “No,” he replied shortly.
“Best that you move on, then,” Dickin said. A mischievous
light glowed in his eyes and he laughed. “Wouldn’t
that fancy family of yours disown you forever if they found out
exactly how you’ve been helping your old army friend?”
Gabe pictured the horror that would doubtless come over his brother’s
austere features, were the punctilious Sir Nigel Hawksworth ever
to discover the occupation his scapegrace younger brother was
pursuing in Cornwall. After casting Gabe off permanently, he’d
probably set the nearest King’s agents after him.
Shaking off the reflection, Gabe said, “Let us speak of
pleasanter things. Who was the charming Aphrodite who launched
herself into the water? I’ve not seen her before. After
her display of sympathy for the revenuer, I assume she must not
be from Cornwall.”
“She isn’t,” Dickin confirmed. “Don’t
recall the name, but ‘tis not Af-ro-dye--or whatever you
said. My sister Tamsyn, who’s a maid up at Foxeden Manor,
says she’s staying there with old Miss Foxe. Some relation
or other. I’ve seen her on the cliff walk a time or two.”
Realizing a dame-schooled seaman-turned-soldier probably wouldn’t
be acquainted with Greek mythology, Gabe didn’t pursue the
allusion. For the first time, he felt a niggle of sympathy for
the humorless cleric Papa had employed to try to beat into his
mostly unappreciative younger son the rudiments of gentleman’s
education.
His rule-bound tutor provided just one example of the rigid parental
discipline that had sent him fleeing into the army at the first
opportunity. How would he have escaped Papa’s heavy hand,
Gabe mused, if Bonaparte’s desire for glory hadn’t
pushed his nation into a war in which it was every Englishman’s
patriotic duty to contribute a son to the regiments? Especially
a rapscallion younger son no tutor had ever managed to break to
bridle.
Shaking his mind back to the present, he repeated, “Some
relation of Miss Foxe. Is she staying long, do you know?”
Dickin raised an eyebrow. “I’ll see if Tasmyn can
find out. So, ‘tis not enough you’ve all the maids
hereabouts sighing over you-and barmaids at the Gull fighting
each other to warm your bed. You must hunt fresh game?”
Gabe shrugged. “What can one do when he is young, daring,
handsome-“ Breaking off with a chuckle, he ducked Dickin’s
punch.
“You’ll soon catch your death of a chill if don’t
get your ‘handsome’ self into some dry clothes,”
Dickin retorted. “I’d as soon not lose my new skipper-or
my closest army comrade-just yet. Off with you while I help the
boys move the cargo inland. I’ll see what Tasmyn can turn
up about the lady.”
Gabe bowed with a flourish. “I’d be most appreciative.”
“Aye, well, see that you show me how much on your next run.
We’ll meet at the inn later, as usual.”
Clapping Gabe on the back, his friend trotted off. Gabe made his
way up the cliff walk, pausing to watch as the well-organized
team of farmers, sailors and townsmen quickly freed the tubs from
their temporary moorings, floated them to shore, then hefted them
onto carts to be pushed and dragged up the slope to the waiting
wagons. While one or two of the men nodded an acknowledgment,
most ignored him as they passed by.
‘Twas the way of the free-traders, he knew. Don’t
watch too closely, don’t look a man in the face, so if the
law ever questions you, you can truthfully reply that you know
nothing.
At the top of the cliff, Gabe retrieved his horse and set off
for what currently constituted home--the room he rented at the
Gull’s Roost, the inn at Sennlack owned by Richard and John’s
father Perran.
The six month’s run as skipper of the “Flying Gull”
he’d promised the army comrade who’d saved his life
at Vittoria would expire at summer’s end, Gabe mused, setting
the horse to a companionable trot. He had as yet not settled what
he meant to do once his time in Cornwall expired.
He’d given his brother Nigel no promise of return and only
the briefest of explanations before going off with Dickin, leaving
Nigel to remark scornfully he hoped, after Gabe had scoured off
the smudges he’d made on the family escutcheon with some
honest soldiering, he wouldn’t proceed to soil it again
indulging in some disgraceful exploit with that sea-going ruffian.
If Nigel knew he was skippering a boat for a free-trader, his
brother would probably suffer apoplexy, Gabe reflected. How could
one explain to a man whose whole world revolved around his position
among the Anglo-Irish aristocracy the bond a man forms with a
fellow soldier, one who’s shared his hardships and saved
his life? A bond beyond law and social standing, that held despite
the fact that Gabe’s closest army friend had risen through
the ranks to become an officer and sprang not, as Gabe did, from
the gentry.
When Dickin had come begging a favor involving acts of dubious
legality, Gabe had not hesitated to agree.
He had to admit part of the appeal had been escaping the stifling
expectations heaped upon the brother of Sir Nigel Hawksworth,
magistrate and most important dignitary for miles along the windswept
southern Irish coast. After months spent cooped up recovering
from his wounds, it had been exhilarating to escape back to his
childhood love, the sea, to feel health and strength returning
on the sharp southwestern wind and to once again have a purpose,
albeit a somewhat less than legitimate one, for his life.
If he were being scrupulously honest, he admitted as he guided
the horse into the stable yard of “Gull’s Roost,”
having lived on the sword’s edge for so many years, he’d
found life back in Ireland almost painfully dull. He relished
matching his wits against the sea and the danger that lurked around
every bend of coastline, where wicked shoals-or unexpected revenue
agents-might mean pursuit or death.
Despite the massive collusion between local King’s officer
George Marshall, who complacently ignored free trader activity
as long as he got his cut from every cargo, there were always
newcomers, like the fellow who’d foundered on the rocks
today, who took their duties to stop the illegal trade more seriously.
Although trials occurred seldom and convictions by a Cornish jury
were rarer still, a man might still end up in Newgate, on the
scaffold-or in the nearest cemetery, victim of revenuer’s
shot, for attempting to chouse the Crown out of the duties levied
on foreign lace and spirits.
Still, Gabe was optimistic that his luck would hold for at least
six months.
For a man unsure of what he would be doing at the end of that
time, he’d considered it wise to dampen the enthusiasm of
the more ardent local lasses-almost uniformly admiring of free-traders--by
treating all with equal gallantry.
However, toward a lady whose tenure in the area was likely to
be even briefer than his own, he might get away with paying more
particular attention. While serving to discourage some of the
bolder local girls, it should also prove an amusing diversion.
The lass on the beach today had been as attractive as her behavior
in attempting to rescue the sailor had been unusual.
Gabe pictured her again, water lapping about her ankles while
the sheer wet linen chemise provided tantalizing glimpses of long
limbs, a sweet rounded belly and the hint of gold at the apex
of her thighs. His breath caught and more than just his thoughts
began to rise.
With a sigh, he forced the image away. Too bad this one was a
lady born rather than a hot-blooded barmaid at the Gull. He didn’t
think he’d try very hard to escape her pursuit.
Responding with a wave to Mr. Kessell’s greeting and calling
out for hot water as he trotted up the stairs to his room, Gabe
wondered what Aphrodite’s real name might be and whether
she was as ignorant as his friend of the story behind the name
he’d called her. Might she be learned-or wicked-enough to
have understood the reference-the goddess of love rising naked
from the sea?
Unlikely as that prospect was, the possibility put a smile on
his face and a lilt in his step. Once inside his room, waiting
for his water to be delivered so he might pull off his soggy garments,
Gabe tried to keep his mind from imagining how her hands might
feel against his bare skin.
All he knew thus far about his Aphrodite was that she was unconventional
and courageous enough to try to swim out and save a stranger.
He intended to learn a great deal more.
Copyright © 2010 Julia Justiss
- top -
