Page 2 of The Pirate's Stolen Bride
Lord Montague and the Riding Officers’ argument heated up. Harriet backed away with a long-suffering sigh. The other girl beckoned her behind the bar. “I’m Maggie,” she said.
“Harriet.”
“What’s a sweet girl like you doing with a toff like that?” she whispered.
“He’s my uncle. I am to be married. He’s taking me to Ireland.”
She didn’t mention that her uncle was a duke. Nor did she say that he was effectively getting rid of her after five failed Seasons. Harriet did not stand out. She was reasonably pretty but not what anyone would call a diamond of the first water. She wasn’t even a diamond in the rough. She was just boring, dependable Harriet Turner. A nobody, despite her elevated connections.
While she was capable of ladylike occupations such as singing, playing piano, and speaking a bit of French, she did so without demonstrating any particular talent, never mind enthusiasm. Her looks were passable, with straw-colored hair and wide hazel eyes, but her freckles were a liability. In short, she had failed to attract a suitor, and Uncle Monty had thus found one for her.
Lord Montague had particular ideas about what constituted an appropriate match for a relative born on the wrong side of the blanket. She would have been content with a mere Mister with an adequate income, as long as he liked her company well enough. She was, after all, a merely adequate Miss.
But her uncle wanted her to marry well, and to him, that meant a title.
Titled men wanted titled ladies.
She was not titled. Her dowry, while generous for an illegitimate girl with few prospects, was not enough to tempt rich men to overlook her stupid freckles.
Nor was she a clever conversationalist. She was shy and quiet, an attentive listener, who had learned to keep her thoughts to herself.
Men weren’t looking for wallflowers. They wanted fascinating, beautiful, clever brides with pots of money.
And so, Harriet had languished on the marriage mart for five long Seasons before being summoned to her uncle’s study one day and presented with a choice: to marry the Earl of Lucarran, of Ireland, or remain at Acton Heath, Lord Montague’s sprawling ducal estate, and accept that she was on the shelf. Forever.
She chose the first option. The Lucarran estate was situated to the southwest of Dublin, and she was assured that he spent most of his time in England, collecting rents as an absentee landlord. She had several opinions about this which left her uneasy about the match, but it was presented as take it or leave it, and despite her misgivings, she took it.
What else was she supposed to do? She longed for the security of a family and children. Even Harriet’s own parents hadn’t wanted her to exist. If not for Uncle Monty, who knew where her feckless parents would have left her. Harriet’s mother had gone on to marry a marquess on the condition that no one must ever learn of her youthful indiscretion, and the lady had complied with the order by all but forgetting her first, unwanted daughter. Harriet could count on one hand the number of times her mother had visited.
Lord Montague, never one to back down from an argument with those he considered his inferiors—which, being a duke, was almost everyone—raised his voice yet again. The three Guardsmen raised theirs in response, punctuated by honking from the agitated geese outside. Tension crackled in the air.
That was when she saw him.
A man clinging to the shadows in the hallway behind Maggie. He observed the events playing out in the main taproom of the Cock and Bull with a glint of mischief in his eye. Seeing he had attracted her attention, he raised one finger to his lips and winked.
Warmth coursed through her, sweeping through her midsection and heating her cheeks. Harriet jerked her attention away, but she couldn’t resist looking at him again.
“That’s Rémy. He’s the one they’re after. But we won’t let them catch him, will we?” the barmaid whispered.
Her pulse quickened at the thought that she was standing only a few feet away from a wanted criminal. A smuggler.
That didn’t sound quite so bad, honestly. Considering the way Leacham and his Riders were threatening Uncle Monty she couldn’t quite bring herself to feel too angry about cheating the Excise Officers. Times were hard after Napoleon’s wars had decimated trade. Didn’t ordinary people deserve a bit of affordable luxury, too?
But smuggling was wrong, and she was one to abide by the rules. She ought to say something.
She watched this Rémy from the periphery of her vision. He was remarkably good-looking with longish brown hair the color of a sandy beach at sunset and high cheekbones. Suffice it to say that her husband-to-be did not possess the kind of mouth that was made for passionate kisses. This stranger did.
Oh dear. She was waxing poetic over a pirate. Harriet gave herself a little shake.
“There is no reason to resort to violence. I assure you I am not affiliated with the man you seek,” said Uncle Monty. “You may not search my vehicle. I have rights.”
“Prove it,” sneered Leacham. “We know a toff like you is working hand-in-glove with Le Fantôme to transport smuggled goods. Am I supposed to take you at your word?”
It was the wrong tone to take. Uncle Monty’s sharp features scrunched into a thunderous scowl.
“I’d better fetch Pa before this gets out of hand,” Maggie said, and darted away.
Harriet chanced another glance at the smuggler. He caught her eye and smiled. A wave of heat started in her cheeks and rolled downward all the way to her toes.
