Stephanie Laurens - A Lady of His Own

He watched her tug on her gloves. “I’m not taking you with me.”

Lifting her head, she looked at him. “I’ll follow you, then.”

With an exasperated hiss, he dropped his head back and looked up into a nearly cloudless sky. She knew the area almost as well as he did; with the moon shining down, she could follow him easily, and in any case she knew his destination—because he’d been idiot enough to tell her!

“All right!” He looked at her again, scanned her attire, shook his head. “You’re never going to pass for a male.”

“It’s not a disguise.” She smiled—a light, relaxed smile as if she’d never doubted his capitulation—and fell in beside him as he turned and strode for the stables. “Everyone in Polruan knows who I am. They know it’s easier to ride astride than sidesaddle around here, and they’re not the sort to be scandalized by my wearing breeches. They’ll barely notice.”

He glanced down at her long legs, booted to the knee, sleek thighs occasionally visible when the material of her breeches drew taut, and managed not to snort. The smugglers of Polruan were no more blind than he.

Exercising rigid control, he managed to keep his mind from contemplating her anatomy—any part of it—while he saddled their horses, then tossed her up to her saddle. On her mare, she trotted out of the stable beside him. Inwardly shaking his head—how had he let this happen?—he set course south, over the moonlit fields to Polruan.

A small fishing village situated on the easterly head of the Fowey estuary, Polruan consisted of little more than a cluster of tiny cottages and the obligatory tavern in which the men of the village, virtually all fishermen, usually spent their evenings, at least when they weren’t out running some illicit cargo through the breakers just east of the estuary mouth.

Although the area was riddled with smuggling gangs, each had its own patch, its own favored inlets and coves. While the Fowey Gallants, who had taken their name from the local pirate raiders who’d been the bane of the French coastal towns throughout the Hundred Years War, were the largest and best organized gang in the area, Charles suspected Granville might have used one of the smaller gangs for making contact with the French.

As Penny had said, Granville hadn’t been a fool. The fewer people who knew anything of his business, the better.

They reached the Duck and Drake and dismounted. Charles gave their horses to a towheaded lad from the crude stable beside the tavern. Returning to where Penny waited near the door, he yanked her hat low. A floppy, wide-brimmed affair sporting a pheasant’s feather, it would pass for a man’s hunting hat at first glance. “Keep your head down and do exactly as I say.”

She muttered something unintelligible; he didn’t think it was a compliment. Grasping her elbow, he opened the door, swiftly glanced around as he propelled her over the threshold. Giving thanks for the poor light, he steered her to an unoccupied table and benches in one corner.

He released her. “Slide in.”

She did. As he followed, forcing her along the bench into the corner, she murmured, “Am I allowed to speak?”

“No.” He looked around, noting familiar faces, nodding to two. He glanced at her. “Wait here—keep your head down. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Rising, he went to the bar, a simple wooden counter balanced atop two old kegs. He nodded to the barkeep, who recognized him; taciturn but friendly, the man murmured a “m’lord” and drew the two pints he requested.

Charles didn’t bother chatting—that wasn’t how things were done, how business was conducted with the gentlemen.

The barkeep thumped two frothing tankards on the counter. Charles tossed him some coins and a nod, picked up the tankards, and walked back to the corner table. Setting down the tankards, he slid in beside Penny, pushing one tankard her way. Raising the other, he sipped, then let his gaze wander the room. And settled to wait.

Penny, gaze still dutifully cast down, peered into the tankard before her. She assumed it was the local ale; it had a foamy froth on top. Mentally shrugging, using both hands she lifted the tankard and sipped.

Choked. Spluttered. Coughing, she put the tankard down the instant before Charles thumped her back.

Blinking rapidly, clearing her watering eyes, she met his. “That’s… disgusting .”

He rolled his eyes. “It was only supposed to be for show.”

“Oh.” She wondered if there was any other drink one could order in a tavern, but decided against asking. They were sitting shoulder to shoulder; she could feel a faint tension in him, even though outwardly he appeared relaxed.

He said nothing, simply drank the vile brew, and in between stared into his tankard, or into space.

She pretended to sip, and wished something would happen.

More than ten minutes dragged by, then two burly fishermen at the table before the fire nodded to their friends and rose. Straightening, the pair studied Charles and her, then slowly came their way.

Watching from beneath the brim of her hat, Penny kicked Charles’s ankle.

He kicked her back. Since he’d been staring into his ale for the past several minutes, she cast him a narrow-eyed glare.

The fishermen paused by the bench on the other side of the table.

“Evening, Master Charles—ah, no, that’d be m’lord now, I reckon.”

Charles looked up, his expression easy, and returned the men’s nods. “Shep. Seth. How’s buisness?”

Both men grinned, showing gaps in yellowed teeth.

“Fair to middling. Can’t complain.” Shep raised his brows. “We was wondering if you was after anything special-like?”

Charles waved them to sit, simultaneously shifting sideways, squashing Penny farther into the shadows of the corner. She moved as far as she could, but he crowded her, his hip and thigh against hers, trapping her, his shoulder partially screening her even from the men settling on the bench opposite.

Both had thus far rather pointedly kept their gazes from her.

Charles signaled the barkeep, who came, wiping his hands on his apron. Charles ordered three more pints; Seth and Shep were clearly pleased.

He waited until the tankards were delivered and Seth and Shep had taken a long draft before saying, “You’ll hear soon enough for it’s no secret. I’m down here looking for information on meetings Granville Selborne had with the French. Before I go on, I should explain that I was sent to ask the questions because the government has no interest in anyone who might have helped Granville meet the French. All the bods in Whitehall want is to know how he did it, anything I can learn about who he met, and about any English gentleman who might have been Granville’s associate in such matters.”

Both Seth and Shep held Charles’s gaze, then both lifted their tankards again. As they lowered them, they exchanged a sidelong glance. Then Seth, older and sitting more or less opposite Penny, said in his slow, ponderous way, “That’d be Master Granville as was killed at Waterloo.”

The implication was clear; neither Shep nor Seth wanted to speak ill of the dead, especially one who had died on that bloody field.

Especially with her sitting there; she was perfectly sure they knew who she was.

She drew in a breath, held it, and looked up. “Yes, that’s right. Granville, my brother.”

Her voice, so much lighter and clearer than the men’s deep rumbles, startled them. Both Seth and Shep blinked at her.

Beside her, she felt Charles’s muscles turn to steel.

She could almost hear his teeth grinding, but both Shep and Seth deferentially bobbed their heads to her.

“Lady Penelope. Thought as it was you.”