Page 11 of The Smuggler’s Escape

Chapter 3

Noelle gaped at Richard Boltwood’s dark form standing beside a holly not five yards away. Rage overtook her. “It was you?” She cursed at him in furious French, backing Snowflake heedlessly against the oak and almost knocking herself out of the saddle. She corrected the sidling mare and glared at Richard. “I had a feeling someone was following me. How dare you give me such a fright?” Her voice shook. “You deserve to be shot!”

“Without a doubt. Is that thing loaded?” Richard appropriated the pistol. Meanwhile the traitorous Snowflake flirted with Charger, Richard’s old roan.

“No,” Noelle said crossly. “It would have been, except I don’t have any powder or shot. How dare you spy on me? Why are you following me about?”

“So many questions,” Richard murmured. “I might pose a few of my own. For instance, where are you going on this chilly November night? And why?”

“It’s none of your business.” Noelle urged Snowflake away from the roan. “Give me my pistol. I’m going home.”

“Not just yet.” The hoofbeats, which had faded, grew steadily louder again.

“What in heaven’s name is going on?” Noelle let her hands drop and the horses’ muzzles drew together again.

“A race, I collect, from the alehouse to the highroad and back.”

“Along such a path at night? Mon Dieu, think of the danger to the horses!”

“There’s been cockfighting at the Pig in a Poke tonight. Wine and ale flow freely, and one sort of bet leads to another . . .” He ran his fingers over the heavily chased silver stock of the flintlock. “Quite an elegant pistol, if a trifle large for your delicate hands.”

“It was my father’s,” Noelle said. “It’s a Lamotte. He set great store by it. And yes, I know how to shoot it.” The revelers galloped by in a flurry of heaving flanks and blood-curdling yells. “Give me my pistol! I have to go home.”

“So soon? It’s not much farther to the alehouse. Going to watch the cockfight?”

She huffed. “My taste for low company does not include watching unfortunate birds tear each other to pieces.”

“No? Then what could it be? I can’t quite imagine you romantically involved with any of the rough and ready characters who generally frequent the Pig in a Poke, but perhaps one of those drunken bloods who just passed by?”

“Don’t be absurd,” Noelle said, her voice shaking in spite of herself. “My business is none of yours. Go away and leave me alone.” She held out her hand for the pistol.

Richard took her gloved hand in his, peeled back the leather, and kissed her wrist.

Immediately, she started melting. She snatched her hand away. “Not now!”

His grin flashed white in the darkness. “When, then?”

“Never!” Another shot reverberated through the trees, and once again hoof beats pounded in their direction. “This drunken revelry is most ill-timed. If you must know, I have to speak to Mr. Towne.” He was one of the leading smugglers, but she could hardly tell Richard that.

“At midnight?

“Uncle Matthew forbade me to go to the Pig because of the low company there, even though I have a commission to do pen-and-ink sketches for the kitchen and bar.” No need to tell Richard that the arrangement of these drawings informed the smugglers where to go on the night of a run. “I will not refuse paying work because of his stupid prejudices. If I want to consult with Mr. Towne about what else to draw, I have to meet him at night.”

“Once we are married, you will no longer need paid work,” Richard said.

“I like doing paid work,” she said. “I like being a useful contributor to society. And I like low company. And those are only three of the many reasons I don’t wish to marry you.”

“I have no objection to low company, nor to honest work,” Richard drawled. “Come then, let’s go to the alehouse together.” He handed her the pistol and swung himself onto the roan.

She peered at him in the gloom. “Accompany you to the alehouse?” The horses thundered past again, and her thoughts raced forward to the possibilities.

“Why not? You’re my affianced wife.”

“No, I’m not,” she said, thinking fast. Richard wouldn’t be shaken off, but perhaps while he watched the cockfight, she could snatch a few private words with the landlord about the contraband. Five minutes with Mr. Towne, maybe ten, and a new plan would be in place.

“You’re above such petty nonsense as reputations, remember?” Richard set the roan moving. “You can stay here if you’re afraid of what people will think. You should be safe enough from both drunks and excisemen if you remain hidden, and I’ll return sooner or later to escort you home.” Without looking back, he set his mount on a course diagonally to the road in the direction of the inn.

Mordieu. He knew perfectly well she wouldn’t go home, which gave her no choice but to accept his escort. “I don’t care what people think, and that includes you.” That last bit was a lie, but it shouldn’t be. She decided to work on this disturbing aspect of herself and followed in his wake.