Eyes riveted on her, men closed in all around. Their gazes lust-filled, their lips curled with disdain or anticipation, their hot liquored breath assaulting her as she held the ripped edges of her bodice together. Anthony, disgust in his eyes, running up not to comfort and assist but to accuse and repudiate.
Panic sent her bolting to her feet. Boots and stockings in hand, ignoring the protest of the handsome rescuer who called upon her to wait while he deposited his coughing cargo, she pushed through the crowd and ran for the cliff path.
Gabriel Hawksworth’s admiring gaze followed the honey-haired lass fleeing down the beach. After pulling the half-drowned mariner onto the shore, he straightened, breathing heavily, while the man at his feet retched up a bounty of Cornish seawater.
An instant later, some of the villagers reached them. Quickly dragging the man inland, one held him fast while another applied a blindfold and a third bound the man’s hands.
Gabe shook off like a dog, chilled now that his drenched body was fanned by the wind. To his relief, darting toward him through the gathering crowd was Richard Kessel, his old Army friend ‘Dickin,’ owner of the vessel of which Gabe was currently, and temporarily, the master.
‘That was a fine swim you had,’ Dickin said, handing Gabe his jacket. ‘Mayhap ol’ George will be so happy you saved his new revenue agent, he’ll take a smaller cut of the cargo. Though the villagers hereabouts won’t be too fond of your lending him assistance. Being a newcomer, our soggy friend—’ Kessel nodded toward the man being carried off by the villagers ‘—is far too apt to point a pistol at one of them—and you, too, if he’d known who it was that rescued him.’
‘Aye, better to have let the sea take him,’ declared another man as he halted beside them.
‘Well, the sea didn’t, Johnnie,’ Dickin said, ‘so ’tis no point repining it.’
‘Perhaps someone ought to give the sea a hand,’ the man muttered.
‘No thanks to you, the sea didn’t oblige, little brother,’ Dickin shot back. ‘What daft idea was it to call for the cargo to be moved inland in full daylight, with a new man on patrol? ’Tis nearly asking for a scrabble.’
‘I knew if the revenuer followed Tomas—not likely most times, as little as these English know the coastline—Tomas would still be able to lead him off the scent,’ John defended.
‘Aye—nearly drowning the man in the bargain,’ Dickin said.
‘What care you if there is one King’s man less?’ his brother replied angrily. ‘Besides, I’m the lander on this venture. ’Tis my place to decide how, when and where the cargo gets moved.’
‘If you’re going to put our men and boats at risk, mayhap you shouldn’t be the lander,’ Dickin replied.
‘Threatening to have Pa ease me out of operations?’ John demanded.
‘Nay, just trying to jaw some sense in your head,’ Dickin said placatingly.
‘Well, landing’s my business, not yours, and best you remember it,’ John said. Turning away, he called for the men holding the bound and blindfolded revenue agent to throw him into one of the carts.
After watching the brother pace away, Gabe said, ‘Promise me, Dickin, the revenuer will get safely back to town? What happens on the high seas is up to God. I’d hate to abandon you still needing a replacement skipper for the Flying Gull, but I’ll not be a party to murder.’
‘’Tis a most inconvenient conscience you’ve developed of late, Gabe my lad,’ Dickin remarked.
‘We used to share the same scruples,’ Gabe replied. ‘You’d never have shot a French prisoner back on the Peninsula. Nor have left one for the partisans, though Heaven knows the Spaniards had reason enough to torture the French.’ Smiling anew at the irony of it, Gabe continued, ‘Our former enemies…with whom you now trade for brandy, silk and lace!’
‘True,’ Dickin acknowledged cheerfully. ‘But war is war and commerce is commerce.’
‘Still, it wasn’t sporting of Tomas to sail so close to the cliffs. He knows where that underwater ledge is. Our new revenuer obviously didn’t.’
Kessel shrugged. ‘His own fault, giving chase in daylight. If he wishes to hamper the trade, he’ll have to get to know the coastline better.’
‘Or try to follow us at night, when we, too, show a healthier respect for the rocks.’
‘I doubt any of the revenuers wish to test the sea after dark,’ Kessel replied. ‘Few enough Cornishmen have your fool Irish daring. Or your expertise with a boat.’
‘I’ll ignore that jab at my heritage and accept your compliments on my skill,’ Gabe said with a grin.
‘Sure you’ll not consider staying on once Conan’s fit to resume command of the Gull?’ Kessel asked. ‘You’ve probably earned enough already from your cut of the profits to buy your own boat. We could make a good team, just as we did fighting Boney’s best! Unless you’ve changed your mind about returning home to be your brother’s pensioner?’
Gabe had a sudden vision of the family manor at Ballyclarig, windswept Irish hills—and his elder brother Nigel’s frowning face. ‘I’m not sure yet what I mean to do, but it won’t include staying on in Ireland. I was at the point of setting out…somewhere, when you came calling.’
‘Lucky I did, since with you fully recovered from your wounds, ’tis likely you and your brother would have murdered each other, if he’s as self-righteous as you’ve described him.’ Kessel clapped a hand on Gabe’s shoulder. ‘Though there’s naught to that. Brothers often fight—look at me and Johnnie! Especially when one holds the whip hand over the other. Did you never get on?’
For an instant, Gabe ran though his mind the whole history of his dealings with the older brother who, for as long as Gabe could remember, had criticized, tattled about or disapproved of everything he did or said. ‘No,’ he replied shortly.
‘Best that you move on, then,’ Dickin said. A mischievous light glowed in his eyes and he laughed. ‘Wouldn’t that fancy family of yours disown you forever if they found out exactly how you’ve been helping your old Army friend?’
Gabe pictured the horror that would doubtless come over his brother’s austere features, were the punctilious Sir Nigel Hawks-worth ever to discover the occupation his scapegrace younger brother was pursuing in Cornwall. After casting Gabe off permanently, he’d probably set the nearest King’s agents after him.
Shaking off the reflection, Gabe said, ‘Let us speak of pleasanter things. Who was the charming Aphrodite who launched herself into the water? I’ve not seen her before. After her display of sympathy for the revenuer, I assume she must not be from Cornwall.’
‘She isn’t,’ Dickin confirmed. ‘Don’t recall the name, but ’tis not Af-ro-dye—or whatever you said. My sister Tamsyn, who’s a maid up at Foxeden Manor, says she’s staying there with old Miss Foxe. Some relation or other. I’ve seen her on the cliff walk a time or two.’
Realizing a dame-schooled seaman-turned-soldier probably wouldn’t be acquainted with Greek mythology, Gabe didn’t pursue the allusion. For the first time, he felt a niggle of sympathy for the humourless cleric Papa had employed to try to beat into his mostly unappreciative younger son the rudiments of a gentleman’s education.
His rule-bound tutor provided just one example of the rigid parental discipline that had sent him fleeing into the Army at the first opportunity. How would he have escaped Papa’s heavy hand, Gabe mused, if Bonaparte’s desire for glory hadn’t pushed his nation into a war in which it was every Englishman’s patriotic duty to contribute a son to the regiments? Especially a rapscallion younger son no tutor had ever managed to break to bridle.
Shaking his mind back to the present, he repeated, ‘Some relation of Miss Foxe. Is she staying