to lead the animal up the steep but well-worn track between the beach and Lydyard’s Pride, the house on the cliff where the lantern still beamed its welcome. And Harriette, walking at the side of the inert figure, resisted a temptation to smooth her fingers over the dark hair.
Chapter Two
At Lydyard’s Pride, the Gadies manhandled the man, with some rich cursing to accompany their efforts, into one of the many uninhabited bedchambers. Dusty, cold as a room in an unused house must be, at least it was furnished with a bed, chair and nightstand. Kindling was laid ready in the grate.
Harriette followed in their wake, wrapped around as she always was by a sense of belonging when she set foot in this house. Empty, shut up for the most part it might be, but Lydyard’s Pride was hers and the walls closed around her like the embrace of a lover. She felt her breathing slow, her pulse level. She was safe in this vast mausoleum, left to her by her Aunt Dorcas, because Lydyard’s Pride had always been passed from generation to generation of Lydyards through the female line. Harriette would have lived here if Wallace would only permit it, but Wallace thundered about her lack of years, her unmarried state, her need for a chaperone, whenever she raised the subject, insisting that she live under his authority at Whitescar Hall. How could she consider living alone and unprotected in this vast pile of a house that had had no money spent on its upkeep at any time in the past century. It would fall down around her ears and then where would she be? And since Harriette lacked the financial independence to defy her brother, Lydyard’s Pride was shut up and gathered dust under the eye of an elderly Lydyard retainer and two girls from the village. Its only use was to signal to the Free Traders from the lofty vantage point of the Tower Room.
But this was no time for wallowing in self-pity. Harriette turned her mind to the uninvited guest as the two men deposited their burden on the bed.
‘Gabriel—light the fire, then go below and send Wiggins up with hot water and cloths. Linen for bandages. And a bottle of brandy. Not a word of this, mind, outside this house.’ She rubbed her palms down her sides and approached the bed. ‘Let’s get him out of these sodden clothes, George.’ She turned back the collar of the ruined coat and began to ease it from the injured shoulder.
‘I’ll do it, Cap’n. It’s not seemly, Miss Harriette,’ George reprimanded.
Harriette smiled through her impatience. Despite her smuggler’s garb, she had suddenly in George Gadie’s mind been transformed from Captain to lady of the house. ‘Not seemly? He’s probably dying, and will surely do so if we leave him as he is.’
‘It’s not seemly for you to strip a man to his skin, Miss Harriette!’
‘I know the form of a man.’ Harriette continued to struggle to pull off the garment, noting in passing the fine cloth, its superb cut. ‘I’ve seen your spindle shanks often enough when you’ve been soaked to the skin and stripped off on the beach.’
Which raised a guffaw from Gabriel as he left the room.
‘Dare say. Not the same. This’n’s young and comely!’ Nevertheless George began to pull off the man’s boots. ‘Don’t blame me, Miss, when your brother hears and kicks up a fuss.’
‘I won’t. And with luck, Sir Wallace won’t hear.’
Whilst George attended to the boots, Harriette struggled to ease the tight-fitting coat from her guest’s shoulders. Best to do it as fast as possible whilst he was still unconscious. Exasperated, she pulled a knife from her belt and began to use it against the seams—it was ruined anyway. The shirt, of the finest linen as she had suspected despite the muck and blood that soiled it, gave her no trouble. She had already used his once-elegant cravat as an impromptu padding. Her lips curved in contempt as they had on board Lydyard’s Ghost. Payment for state secrets must be high.
‘Miss Harriette, I think you should leave.’
‘Just do it, George.’
With a click of tongue against teeth, George stripped off the man’s breeches, undergarments and hose.
Well, now! Harriette was not ignorant of a degree of male nakedness. On board the cutter, when sailors stripped off their shirts to haul and pull on rope and sails, she had watched without embarrassment the play of smooth, welldefined muscle as arms and backs took the strain, when thighs had braced, sinews taut, against the drag of wind and wave. As a member of the crew, it was an occurrence that no longer disturbed her. A man was a creature of blood and bone and muscle, much like a horse, superbly crafted to carry out a task against the elements.
She had seen a half-naked man before. But nothing like this man, fully naked. Harriette found herself locked in a moment of splendid appreciation.
His fine skin was smooth, unweathered, his physique magnificent, lean and rangy. Broad shoulders, superbly muscled under the skin, informed her unequivocally that the condition of his body mattered to him. Perhaps he fenced, she thought. Or sparred at Gentleman Jackson’s saloon. Arms sleekly powerful, from using the reins if he was wealthy enough to own his own curricle or phaeton. She could imagine him looping the leathers, controlling and steadying the power of a pair of blood horses. He might be rich, but he was not idle, sinking beneath rolls of fat as did some of her brother’s associates, who spent their lives doing little but eating, drinking and hunting.
Harriette’s eyes lingered, moved on to the flat planes of hard flesh as his chest narrowed to a slim waist, a light smattering of silky dark hair arrowing towards a firm belly. Narrow hips, strong thighs, his powerful masculinity obvious, strong and impressively formed even though unaroused. She felt heat rise in her cheeks and her mouth dry, shocked by her very physical reaction to this man, whom she ought to despise—until George flung a sheet over the man’s lower limbs with a frown, a curse and a muttered comment on what was right and not right for well-brought-up young women to see.
Still Harriette stood and simply looked, drawn by a force beyond her control. If she ever visualised the sort of man she would wish to marry, this man would take centre stage in her dreams. And here he was under her hands, within her power. Unfortunately unconscious. Perhaps just as well, she decided, blinking and ordering her wayward thoughts back into line as Wiggins delivered the requested items. She was hardly at her society best in fisherman’s smock, boots and breeches, to capture a wealthy and handsome man as a husband. To capture any husband. So far in her twenty-three years she had proved a dismal failure.
Not that she would want this one, of course, with dubious morals and treacherous intent.
Consigning George to wash the mud and sand from his abused body, Harriette applied herself to his injuries. Any remaining bleeding was sluggish, and on cursory examination, the wounds looked far worse then they actually were. A hard blow to the head had broken the skin, hard enough to cause the confusion and the lack of consciousness, but she did not think there would be permanent damage. A crust of dried blood had already formed. Bruising spread over one shoulder, dark and ugly, as if he had been beaten with a club. A thin blade had split his cheek, not deep, not dangerous, and would heal well enough—although it might leave a scar. Most worrying was a bullet wound in his upper left arm—thank God, not his shoulder or chest—but the bullet had passed through the flesh, so no need to cause more damage by digging it out, which George would have had to do with more enthusiasm than skill since there was no doctor in Old Wincomlee. With luck, it too would heal well if cleaned and bound up.
Harriette set to work with water and cloth and gentle hands to cleanse and bind, wrapping his arm tight, applying a compress to his shoulder. Only when she was satisfied that she had done all she could did she allow herself to perch on the side of the bed and investigate
