Page 1 of The Spinster's Secret Scoundrel
THIERRY
AN EMBARRASSING PREDICAMENT
Cavalier Cove, Cornwall, 1815
Thierry Desmarais had met his fair share of comely ladies in his twenty-eight years. Not one had ever held a blade to his throat.
Waved one in the direction of his cock a time or two, perhaps. He didn’t keep count.
Left her door unlocked for him to sneak into her bed, most certainly.
One had even thrown a butcher’s cleaver after him. (She missed.)
But no one of the fairer sex—nor any man, for that matter—had ever caught Le Fantôme, prince of Cornwall’s infamous smugglers. Until now.
Which made this hard-eyed young woman inherently intriguing.
He tried a conciliatory approach. “Good lady, I did not mean to disturb your rest.”
The tip of her very sharp knife dug into his throat below his Adam’s apple.
“I was awake.” Her dark eyes flashed annoyance. “As you know perfectly well, or I wouldn’t have caught you sneaking into my storehouse.”
Of all the times to be caught. Of all theplacesto be caught! The sheer indignity of this wretched day kept compounding.
Thierry glanced around the small, stuffy space. The ancient stone walls were held together, barely, with crumbling mortar. There was nothing inside but cracked grain, an empty bucket, and stacks of firewood. The thatched roof kept out the elements, as evidenced by the dry dirt floor—an ideal surface, if this lunatic maiden summoned the courage to slice his throat.
He eyed her warily.
Thierry had anticipated his own death on many occasions, but never once had he thought he might bleed out on the dirt floor of a dilapidated outbuilding in a rustic seaside town in Cornwall.
Before today, he’d have guessed either drowning, the hangman’s noose, or a violent end at the hands of one of the many husbands he’d cuckolded on both sides of the channel. Death by demoiselle hardly ranked.
As a semi-regular visitor to Cavalier Cove who kept an ear out for local gossip, Thierry had heard of the reclusive woman who lived alone in Viscount Prescott’s old gardener’s cottage.
He assumed she’d be old. Surely, she’d be ugly. Yet, this woman was neither. Dark chestnut hair fell in rumpled waves about her unsmiling face. She looked to be a bit younger than he, perhaps in her early twenties.
Pity about the flat press of those pretty lips. Thierry could easily imagine them laughing, or kissing, or wrapped around his—
He doubted she would appreciate the direction of his thoughts. His lower anatomy was siphoning off much-needed blood from where it would be most useful at this particular moment: his brain.
“Who are you?” the lady demanded.
“Thomas. Thomas Davies—”
She tilted her head, considering. Thierry edged his hands down. The woman’s intelligent brown eyes flicked to them, then narrowed as she pressed the point of her weapon hard enough to make a drop of blood slide down his neck into his collar.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Why not?” he asked innocently.
“You look French.” The blade pressed harder. “Thomas Davies is a name as common as seaweed. The kind of name a villain would invent.”
“On my honor, I am not a smuggler,” he lied.
“Smugglers have no honor.”
Who in Cavalier Covewasn’tengaged in selling a little light contraband? Times were hard. The crown had levied high duties to fund decades of war—and the penalties for getting caught dodging His Majesty’s tax officers increased accordingly. Everyone in Cornwall indulged in the trade—though few participated with such reckless enthusiasm as he and his cousin, Rémy, did.
