The Smuggler and the Society Bride Read Free Page A

him as they passed by.
    â€™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 months’ run as skipper of the Flying Gull that he’d promised his 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 was over.
    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 that 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 seagoing ruffian.
    If Nigel knew Gabe was skippering a boat for a free-trader, he would probably suffer apoplexy. 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 favour 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 seldom occurred 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 someof the bolder local girls, it should also prove an amusing diversion. The lass on the beach today had been as attractive as her behaviour in attempting to rescue the sailor had been unusual.
    Gabe