Page 2 of The Spinster's Secret Scoundrel
“And what else would a man be doing stumbling through my yard at daybreak, if not sneaking up the hill to Viscount Prescott’s land?”
She had him dead to rights. Thierry had, in fact, been taking a shortcut through the yard in question when an unseemly number of Prescott’s precious geese began honking and hissing. At least twenty of the noisy, ill-tempered birds chased him so persistently that he was forced to take cover in the tumbledown outbuilding—only to be surprised by this woman, brandishing a thin double-bladed knife about as long as his forearm. Some ancient variety of short sword, by the looks of it.
“Perhaps I had planned to cower in your outbuilding until afternoon, whereupon I might pay you a proper call.” He winked.
She snorted.
Thierry let a smirk tug up the corner of his mouth. She could be charmed like any other female, and he was nothing if not charming.
“Yesterday I passed by and was so enraptured by your divine beauty that I took refuge on your property in hopes of catching you at daybreak, when you would presumably come out and—what is it you do with all this grain, anyway?—and feed the flock of fowl. I would then entreat you to join me this evening for a dram at the Cock and Bull.”
It sounded something like a reasonable plan. To a fool.
His captor, unfortunately, was no fool.
“Speaking of cock and bull, you flatter like a Frenchman,Thomas,” she replied scornfully. “Which is to say, obsequiously and without merit.”
“The Ram’s Head, instead?” he tried again, grinning. The other tavern in Cavalier Cove was known for good lodgings and better food. Both establishments were well supplied with goods smuggled through the hidden passageways that ran from Cavalier Cove’s seaside caves directly into town.
Today, Thierry had a special delivery to make to the viscount himself. Not that Prescott would be there to receive his delivery of precious cognac. The viscount couldn’t be involved in receiving contraband goods, but the man had developed a taste for a particular vintage and would pay any sum to obtain it through his housekeeper, Mrs. Gosling.
Yes, Mrs. Gosling was the keeper of the Prescott geese. Of which an unusual number were gathered in this not-ancient, not-ugly, overly suspicious woman’s yard.
Why?
“I am not going anywhere with you,” his captor declared. “Give me one reason not to turn you over to the nearest Riding Officer.”
Thierry could think of many reasons not to turn him over. Firstly, he might be hanged, and he was both too handsome and too young to die. Secondly, in his twelve years of smuggling, there had been many opportunities to be caught. He took daring risks and evaded them all. He wasThierry Desmarais, Le Fantôme. Captain of theSpectre. Not Thomas the Twat Who Gets Cornered by Excitable Geese.
This was merely an aberration. An oversight. An accident. Even the wiliest bandits had off-days. He was simply going to have to talk his way out of this.
His unbending captor was starting to grate on his nerves. Women were never immune to his charm. Perhaps he could appeal to her sense of righteousness.
“A lovely lady such as yourself would not wish to commit a grave injustice by sending an innocent man to the gallows, would you, Miss…?”
Her eyes narrowed; no name was forthcoming.
“‘Grave injustice?’” she echoed, snatching a folded paper peeking out from his waistcoat pocket and flipping it open with her free hand. “And what, pray tell, do you call this?”
It was a tide table and a list of boat names. At the top, in looping scrawl, was written,Spectre. The French spelling came with the ship when he acquired it.
“Everyone in Cornwall carries those nowadays, Miss…”
The press of her blade at his throat eased, so Thierry reached up and gently nudged it away. She let him. Beautiful, unwary girl…
She dropped the blade, kicked it out of reach and brought out a pistol, without so much as glancing at him.
“Naughton. Adeline Naughton is my name, not that it’s any concern of yours.” She kept the gun trained on him while she pocketed the incontrovertible proof of his true occupation and indicated that he should step outside. “Keep your hands where I can see them,Thomas.You are one sudden move away from needing the services of a surgeon. Infection from a gunshot wound is such an excruciating way to die. I’d hate to see it happen to anyone.”
“You are a merciful angel, Miss Naughty Naughton.”
He was fairly certain the weapon was unloaded. She hadn’t cocked it. She did so now.
“Except, perhaps, you,” she amended, prodding him in the back.
He smiled faintly. Thierry knew he was pushing his luck. It was what he did. Miss Naughton strode to the door of the cottage. She couldn’t be entirely immune to his charm if she was letting him into her home.
Or so he thought, until Miss Naughton bade him sit in a chair and began tying him to it. The lady did know her way around a knot. One could have a great deal of fun with ropes.
