Page 5 of The Smuggler’s Escape

Chapter 2

“Betrothal?” she said. “You must be mad. I’m not going to marry you.”

Richard blinked down at her. Two years and a little more than five months ago—he’d counted the days—she had agreed to marry him. Admittedly, he’d been away from Sussex ever since, so perhaps she’d had second thoughts.

But she hadn’t wed anyone else, and surely marriage to him was better than going to prison for smuggling—or worse, being hanged for espionage. He didn’t believe that she was spying for France, but he had to admit to himself that he didn’t know her well. He’d fallen head over heels for her when they’d first met and asked her to marry him only a few weeks later.

And then his irate father had taken him willy-nilly to Amsterdam, where he’d been forced to remain under orders from the Home Office, to serve as a spy.

Which he’d done unwillingly but to the best of his ability—and rather well, both there and for the last month or two in London. Sir Frederick Darsington had given him one last mission to perform, since he had to return to Sussex to attend his father’s deathbed.

For which, thank God, he had arrived a few hours too late.

The Home Office knew somebody was passing information to the French from his charming little Sussex village, and an unnamed source had informed them that Noelle de Vallon was the obvious culprit—a French refugee with revolutionary ideals who was also involved in smuggling.

Confronted with this appalling news, Richard had hoped his fury didn’t show. “Noelle de Vallon, a spy? That’s nonsense. Her so-called revolutionary views have to do with improving conditions for the poor, educating women, and so on. She wouldn’t serve the bloodthirsty regime that killed her father.”

“Humph.” Sir Frederick was a spare individual with a deceptively affable mien and a stoop. “You haven’t seen the chit for over two years. People do change, you realize. And if she’s a smuggler, well . . .”

“Everyone in the village dabbles in smuggling,” Richard said.

“Humph,” Sir Frederick said again, tamping down the tobacco in his pipe. “We’ve been planting false information, and we now know it leaks out by way of Sir William Luttrow. But he’s an old friend of mine, damn it, incapable of treason! Think of the scandal, the effect on England’s morale, if a highly placed government official were found to be a traitor. I’d much rather the girl were a spy.”

“She’s a well-bred lady, sir, and half English. The aunt with whom she resides is a cousin of some marquess or other. She has no reason to get involved in smuggling.” Unless for the fun of it. That sounded like the lively Noelle he had fallen in love with.

“Nevertheless, my source says she is.” Sir Frederick waved his pipe at Richard. “Off you go, and don’t let a pretty face turn you from the truth.”

Certain it wasn’t the truth, Richard had bowed and left, promising to unmask the real malefactor.

So far, he’d been proven wrong. She was definitely smuggling. But she wasn’t—she couldn’t possibly be—a spy. For now, betrothal to him would give Noelle protection from the excisemen, but he couldn’t protect her from the Home Office for long.

She dropped her hands to her sides, her fists still clenched and her voice furious. “You don’t want to marry me either, so stop being chivalrous and help me find a way out of this fix.”

“Much as it pains me to contradict you—”

She snorted, muttering something Gallic and unladylike under her breath.

“I don’t have a chivalrous bone in my body,” he continued, letting his eyes roam from her face, framed by a cascade of dark, unleashed curls, down her nightdress, remembering the delights that lay beneath it. “I do exactly as I please.” He’d been forced to do otherwise for the last few years, but now that the old man was dead, he was his own master at last. Or he would be once this final mission was over. “And it would please me very much to have you back in my bed.”

“I was never in your bed.” She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, teeth chattering.

Richard stripped off his coat and placed it around her shoulders. He gripped the lapels and pulled her close, and when she pushed his chest in protest, he tugged her even closer. “Bluebell wood or bedchamber, what difference does it make?” Lord in heaven, she smelled delicious.

She still shook, whether from cold or anger he couldn’t tell. She might well be upset with him for leaving for so long, but he’d had no choice. He bent and said softly into her ear, “Noelle, don’t be foolish. After what just took place, we have no alternative but to wed.” He breathed in her scent, gave in to temptation and nuzzled her ear, and when she drew back, protesting, he lifted her off her feet and took her mouth instead.

Her lips were cold but her breath was hot and sweet. Her mouth relaxed briefly beneath his, then she clamped it shut and turned her face away. With a sigh he let her go. Once he got her into his bed—a real bed, this time—she would change her mind. But first he had to get her properly out of this mess.

God damn it to hell, if she’d really been expecting a lover tonight . . . Once a girl lost her virginity—which he frankly acknowledged to be his fault—it became that much easier for some loose fish to take advantage of her.

If anyone had so much as touched her, he would kill him.

Footsteps sounded on the gravel path. Hale’s minions arrived with the lantern and key. Noelle snatched the key and slung it around her neck as if she suspected Richard might even now interfere. He took the lantern, and she thanked the excisemen with a charming smile.

“No word of thanks for me?” he asked plaintively as they marched away. “You wouldn’t have liked it in the lockup, sweetheart.”

“Thank you,” she said in a hard, little voice. “But I still won’t marry you.”

Striving for patience, he said, “If you don’t marry me, your reputation will be in shreds.”