Hope's Betrayal (13 page)

"I'm off
for a wash." He mumbled  and made to stand.

"Oh no you
don’t, George Huntley. You stay right there until you explain your
rudeness."

"I'm not a
child." He countered sulkily.

"Then don't
act like one."

Huntley stood
and drew himself up to his full height. “I apologise if my manner offends, but
I’ve been chasing shadows—no doubt due, in no small part, to our house guest.”

“Miss Tyler?”

“Yes! Miss
Tyler.” Her name burnt like a brand on his tongue. He leaned on his fists on
the desk, all the anger at how she made him feel turned into accusation. “While
you were warm at home, five of His Majesty’s revenue men have been tramping
across the marches trying to apprehend smugglers. Only someone tipped them
off.”

“Well I’m sure
it wasn’t Miss Tyler.”

“Humph.”

“Besides, you
set a bad example for Dickens. Making an exhibition of yourself like
this."

“It’s not me
making an exhibition…” Too late, Huntley bit back the words.

“And by that you
mean?”

His tone
softened. “I'm just saying you should be wary of being used."

“If you are
referring to Miss Tyler—she deserves a chance.”

“Mother, she’s a
smuggler's daughter!”

“Ah well, that’s
not wholly correct. Mr Tyler is not her blood relative and her mother was a
member of the ton.”

“Not that again.
You’re being obtuse, Mother, as well you know. I’m tired and right now, all I
want is a bath. If you know something I don’t, you’d better tell me now.”

Huntley didn’t
like how her face lit up, the unmistakable look of a woman with gossip to
share.

“I’ve been doing
some investigation of my own. I believe Hope’s mother was indeed Emma Castelle,
the youngest daughter of a Baron.” She continued in hushed tones. “Hope's
mother was victim to a rogue’s seduction and fell pregnant. When her parents
found out, they were outraged and sent Emma away, to give birth secretly.”

“This is so much
romantic twaddle, Mother.” Huntley rolled his eyes.

“Is it? I don’t
think so. I made some inquiries and found out Miss Castelle spent her
confinement not far from here on the south coast, where she went for long
solitary walks…and met William Tyler.”

“About his
smuggling business no doubt.”

A look of
comprehension dawned across Lady Ryevale’s face. “I hadn’t thought of that, but
quite possibly. Anyhow, they formed a friendship. Well, the baby, Hope, was
born and the Castelle's ordered her removed to the parish. But Emma refused to
give the child up and with William’s help, ran away to the Isle of Wight.”

Huntley stifled
a mock yawn. “Where they fell in love and married.”

“Precisely!”

“Who told you
this?”

"When Hope
was delirious with laudanum she gave me the bones of her past, not that she
remembers telling me, the poor dear, and then I made my own inquiries.”

“And you believe
it?” He scoffed.

"I do,
because I remember the scandal! As a young married woman, I was on nodding
terms with the Castelle's and remember Emma's disappearance. At the time,
gossip linked her to Lord Roche—whose dark hair and green eyes bear a strong
resemblance to Hope's.”

Huntley closed
his eyes, determined to show patience with his mother despite his own lurching
heart. “Then why didn’t she call upon her relatives rather than live in poverty
as a fisherman's daughter?”

“Because she is
stubborn and proud. Plus, Lord Roche died a bankrupt, and the Castelle’s swore
never to have anything to do with Emma’s bastard.”

“And how do you
know this, Mother?” Huntley quizzed, feeling uncomfortable that he already knew
the answer.

“Because I wrote
and asked them!”

Huntley sagged.
“You did what?”

“Oh yes. The
Castelle's are elderly now, but time hasn’t blunted their venom. Quite brusque,
their reply. Didn’t deny a thing, but decidedly don’t want to be reminded.”

Huntley sank
into a chair and pressed his forehead into his hands.

"I
despair!”

“Well, I don’t
see why.”

He took a deep
breath—he didn’t want to hurt his mother’s feelings. “For all that Hope Tyler
may have good blood, she's a smuggler and you’re too trusting.”

“Really George,
sometimes you talk nonsense!”

 “Mother, not
everyone is an honest as you.”

“You
over-complicate things. You feel uncomfortable around Hope and resent her being
here.”

 With effort
Huntley kept his face impassive, as he wondered exactly what his mother had
divined about his obsession with Miss Tyler.

 “Her presence
undermines my authority.”

“So it's not
that you have a special liking for her?”

Hollowness
filled his chest. The impossibility of it! To admit his partiality would grant
the feeling a strength he couldn’t afford. To think of her with anything but
hate was dangerous. 

“Don’t be
ridiculous.” He laughed.

Her head tipped
to one side. “George dear, long ago I accepted my boys would make
unconventional matches. Perhaps you should talk to your brother.”

“Charles?” He
snorted. “You would have me to turn into a rake like Charles?”

“No,” she said
patiently. “I mean Jack. Look how happy he and Eulogy are? Who’d ever had
thought?”

In the absence
of a reasoned argument, George grew angry. “Mother, I’d be grateful if you'd
rein in your imagination. The very idea!" His heart raced alarmingly at
the image of sharing the future with Hope. He felt hollow with longing and yet
pushed the feeling away. "She’s scrawny and tanned and a common
fisherman’s daughter…”

Lady Ryevale
smiled patiently. “Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong—that child is far from
ordinary.” 

A sentiment with
which George could only agree.

*****

Hope had become
a fever running through Huntley's blood. She left a room and her presence
lingered. She entered a room and his skin heated. She inhabited his dreams and
haunted his waking hours. Within the privacy of his bedchamber, his frustration
spilled over. He ground his head against the door, trying to dislodge her
sea-green eyes from his mind. But despite raising a bruise, she refused to be
dislodged. Had he no shred of self-respect left? He had denied the truth for
too long—Bennett was right and he was wrong. He was tormented, but the cure was
within his grasp.

With a grunt, he
had a solution. If Hope wouldn’t go, then he must.

Pulling up a
chair, he took a piece of vellum from the desk drawer and spread it on the
blotter. He tapped the quill against his lip, carefully composing his words to
the Admiralty. The result was an immaculately argued letter summarising
smuggling activity around Sandehope. He concluded it was not the dishonesty of
local officers, but the widespread nature of the trade which made it difficult to
stop the practice.

He carefully
related his suspicion that those landing goods from the Island, had ports not
just at Sandehope, but all along the Southwest coast. The net must be spread
wider, and he had an idea where. Now confident of Bennett's integrity, he
suggested leaving that officer in post at Sandehope, while he worked with
officers in the Southwest, to coordinate the two forces.

The letter
written, he folded it in three and sealed it with the Huntley crest. Suddenly,
the fight went out of him and he felt empty. He stared at his hands—they were
shaking. He closed his eyes. A new and unpalatable truth stuck in his craw. He
was running away.

For several
minutes he sat very still, unable to move. What kind of spell had Miss Tyler
put on him? Never before had a woman affected him thus —he had known plenty,
but always with detachment. Never had a woman got stuck in his brain, and made
him want to behave in such an irrational and impulsive manner as if he was
losing his mind. It was, he decided, a form of insanity.

While waiting
for the Admiralty's reply, Captain Huntley threw himself into his work. He
scheduled extra patrols, working alongside his men—no weather too harsh, no
shift too late that Captain Huntley would not share it. Being outdoors eased
his mind, and he was never so much at peace as with a sea-breeze in his hair As
the days passed, even the constant aching need for Hope's company began to
dull.

His skin still
aglow from the wind, humming under his breath, Huntley returned home from a
patrol, with a mind to find a particular map of the west coast. He could
picture it in his head; an old map which pre-dated his father's time, with
quaint annotations of the inlets and rivers around Plymouth. He couldn’t
imagine why he hadn’t thought about it earlier, but assuming his reposting went
through, the information would be invaluable. He breezed into the library, past
the first stand of bookshelves…and froze.

The Grange's
library was extensive and books lined the walls from floor to ceiling. To reach
those above head height there was a stepladder, and perilously close to the top
of that ladder, balanced Miss Tyler. She appeared not to have heard him enter,
intent on reaching a particular volume.

He stared. He
knew have should have announced himself but he was entranced.

The muslin gown
draped her figure, outlining the curve of her bottom in a way which made warmth
spread over his skin. He wanted to look away, but the stolen moment was too
delicious and his heart twisted in his chest, and his breathing locked.

He watched as if
hypnotised, battling to gain control of his emotions, as she stepped higher,
the skirt hobbling her legs. With one hand she gripped the ladder, the other
reached for a book which was too far away. Hesitant, her slippered foot
searched for the last wrung. Huntley cleared his throat.

"Miss
Tyler."

Then two things
happened at once.

Miss Tyler
half-turned and her leg caught in her skirts.  It seemed to Huntley that
everything happened in slow motion as all havoc broke loose. Her arms flailed
on empty air...the ladder swayed dangerously...and she lost her footing. His
heart rammed against his chest as he sprang across the room. Above his head,
her skirts fluttered as the stepladder rocked. Grabbing the wooden uprights he
hauled it against himself, using his muscular bulk to dampen the oscillations.
The moment of danger passed...and slowly...a wrung at a time...she descended,
the ladder visibly shaking with her trembles.

"Don’t let
go." Her voice small.

"I
won’t."

He steadied the
ladder as she dismounted, trapped within the cage of his arms. Both breathless,
his eyes slid along her jaw to those tempting lips.

"Are you
alright?"

"Thanks to
you." She nodded weakly. "I don't like heights."

"Then what
were you doing up there?" He spoke softly, as if murmuring words of love,
rather than a question.

She tried to
smile but her lips quivered. "Fetching a book for Her Ladyship."

Huntley knew he
should release the ladder and step away, but their eyes locked and he couldn't.
Ripples of desire echoed to his core at her soft curves so close to his chest.

"You are
trembling." He was lost in Hope's huge dark eyes. He saw his own desire
mirrored in her face and it unnerved him. All he knew was that with her warm
body pressed against his, his resolve not to ravish her...hung by a thread. A
pulse throbbed at the base of her throat and it took all his self-control not
to taste it with his lips.

"Hope?"

She grew still,
flighty as a startled bird, and he held his breath. Then, slowly—with a soft
sigh—she settled deeper, resting her head against his chest. It felt so right,
as if he had found the missing piece of him. Without thinking, he embraced her
shoulders, and she didn’t draw away. His lungs seized, every nerve taut as a
bowstring. Time slowed to a crawl, his senses focused where her body met his,
on her heat against his, and when she tipped her face upwards, he showered
kisses on her cheeks. Hope let out a soft moan and his heart sang with joy. He
felt her arms around his waist, and his body hardened in response.

 He brushed his
lips against hers and heat flooded his body, alight with passion as she
returned his touch. And yet he held himself in check. Both breathing heavily,
when he pulled away—she reclaimed his mouth. With a low groan, he licked the
sensitised surface of her lips, gently at first then harder and more urgent.
She responded tentatively, then as her confidence grew, it thrilled him that
she matched his ardor. Her mouth tasted sweet, of honey and herbs, and his
dizzied mind wanted to taste every part of her. He was enthralled by everything
about her, and it felt dangerously like addiction. A small part of his mind
detached itself, shouting in his ear that this was wrong, that he shouldn’t
have let this happen. Reluctantly, he drew away.