Page 22 of The Smuggler’s Escape

She followed him into the stable and lingered as he unbuckled the girths. “Richard, do you really have a plan?”

“I have a few good notions.” Richard removed Snowflake’s saddle. “Don’t worry, my sweet. We’ll manage fine. Go get your beauty sleep.”

“We can’t wait until tomorrow night. They may have found some of the goods by then.” And I need the money now.

“We won’t wait. Considering there’s to be no touching and no kissing, night is a poor time for us to be together. We’ll move them in broad daylight, right under their long, twitching noses.”

She had no idea how he meant to do this, but she was too weary to protest. She dropped the key to the stable into his open palm—no touching—and told him where to hide it when he left.

“I remember where it belongs.” Richard took a shriveled apple from his pocket and offered it to Snowflake.

Noelle walked sadly away. If only I weren’t so tired, she thought, Iwouldn’t feel this way. Or at least she’d have the strength to shrug away foolish sentiment and look forward to her new life. She had plans. She would flee to the continent, set herself up someplace far, far away, and begin a salon like her mother’s in those blessed years in Paris before the world had fallen apart. It would be a center for discussion of important matters. A place where people cared about changing society for the better.

She was halfway to the house when an idea struck her, so she had no choice but to return and suggest it to him. “Bulbs. Have your mother send Uncle Matthew some flower bulbs.”

Richard glanced up from rubbing Snowflake down.

“As an excuse for getting into the garden,” she said. “My uncle may well keep it locked, unless there’s work to be done in there. He won’t want to risk offending your mother.”

“You are a prize among conspirators,” Richard said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Noelle went to the door, then stopped. “Wait. What’s the second condition?” When he didn’t respond, she added, “The second condition for your help moving the goods. You never told me.”

His lips twisted. “That you genuinely consider marrying me.” He held up a hand before she could speak. “That you set aside your reasons for refusing my offer, whatever they are, and instead consider the reasons you should accept it instead.”

Noelle blurted, “I can’t!”

“Nevertheless, that is my condition. Seriously, with mind, heart and soul, imagine marriage with me.” He paused. “Think about it. Please.”

Without looking at her again, he turned away.

Noelle slipped in by the kitchen door, bolted it, and tiptoed upstairs to bed, where she changed into her cold nightdress, crept between even colder sheets, and wept.

~ ~ ~

About a half mile down the main road and just over the property line onto his own land, Richard detoured down a rutted track into the wood. Spot, the old retriever, slipped from the trees to offer a silent escort into the clearing where Johnny had set up camp. His familiar wagon, listing more than usual, stood before the campfire, from which rose the comforting aroma of coffee. A series of grunts and curses emerging from a holly bush signaled the whereabouts of Johnny Magee.

“St. Patrick be praised, you’re here at last. Put your young shoulders to use, lad.” Johnny shoved a tub of brandy through the prickly leaves, followed by another attached to the first by a leather strap.

Richard dismounted and retrieved the tubs. The big black draft horse already bore eight of them. Richard loaded his two on Charger’s back and returned for more.

“That’s the last of them.” Johnny climbed out of the holly bush after passing the remaining two tubs through. “Here’s me covered in scratches from hiding the tubs in the hollies, blood running down my face, and all the silly bastards can think of is to smash my cart.” He limped heavily toward the campfire and eased himself onto an upturned log. “It’ll take a week to repair it.”

“Confound it,” Richard said, “you’re injured.”

“Naught but some shot lodged in my leg,” Johnny said. “Bloody English devils, may their pricks fall off. The whiskey’s under my bed. They broke the lantern, but there’s a candle on the table.”

Richard climbed into the canvas-covered wagon, found and lit the candle, and fetched a bottle of Irish whiskey from under Johnny’s bed. He filled a tin cup with coffee, added a dollop of whiskey, and passed the cup to Johnny. “We’d best get that shot dug out.”

The tinker drank deep and returned the cup to Richard. “Drink up. Have to move the brandy first.” He stood, wincing and sucking in a breath.

Richard eyed a dark patch on Johnny’s trouser leg. “You’re bleeding. Drop your trousers and sit down.” He yanked at his cravat.

“For the Lord’s sake, lad, it’s nothing.” Johnny complied nevertheless, peeling his sticky trouser leg away from a blood-soaked rag tied around the wound.

Richard moved a fallen log to prop Johnny’s leg and gently unwound the strips of petticoat, or perhaps it was the flounce from a nightdress, binding an ugly, seeping wound in Johnny’s thigh.

No surprise. Johnny, at not much above forty, was in his prime. Richard raised amused eyes to Johnny’s and received an annoyed, “Get on with it, will you?” in return.