Myriah Fire (27 page)

“That one be trouble fer sure,” Fletcher said quietly.

“Aye … he must have been the one her father insisted she marry … the one she was running from, my poor girl. Fletcher, I must find her. Did Tabby give you any clues … ever let anything slip?”

“Aye then, m’lord. Tabby thought ye might be wishful a knowin’ that she has a grand-dad not too far from ’ere.”

Kit suddenly brightened and rushed off, telling his man over his shoulder to saddle up his horse.

* * *

Myriah stood in the central hall, still in her ruined blue velvet riding habit. She fingered the yellow daffodils in the vase set on the round table, and silent tear after tear appeared.

Her grandfather, his arms outstretched, appeared first, rushing down the main staircase of Guildford House, saying her name. Just as he reached her, her father opened the door off the central hall and said, “What are you going on about … did you call—” He stopped short when he saw his daughter, and both men converged on her.

It took much tears and hugging before they were all composed sufficiently to pull her along to the library and sit her down.

Myriah played with the matching pillow of the gold brocade sofa she occupied and then looked up at the two men staring questioningly at her.

“There is … something … an urgent matter we must discuss immediately …”

“We will make it all better, Myriah … where have you been? What have you been doing?”

“I … oh, Papa … I have been so very bad …” And with that, she burst into tears.

Cajoling and cuddling ensured until the Guildford butler announced the arrival of Sir Roland.

* * *

Kit slammed the front doors closed with a resonance that shook the floors above. He crossed the hall, found the library doors, and gave them a powerful blow, but then he stood in the opening as he went into deep thought.

A moment later he was taking the stairs two by two to his brother’s room. “You know more than you let on. Myriah has confided in you … so tell me …”

“She told you, sort of … she doesn’t want to marry this brute, but he threatened her, and she had to go meet him, and I tell you what, Kit, I think she is more worried about him exposing us … than ruining her with scandal,” Billy said.

“Aye … he was just here and she is gone.”

“Right then, she must have gone off to her grandfather’s … said he lived not far down the road.”

“I’m off, Billy, for I mean to find her and make it right.”

“Good—what the deuce are you waiting for?”

* * *

Roland regarded Lord Whitney sourly before he sighed and said, “I regret, my lord, that your daughter has placed herself in a scandalous position from which I can see only one escape. We must immediately wed—before the rumors start.”

“And what scandalous position are you talking about?” stuck in Lord Guildford irritably.

“Apparently Myriah has been staying with Lord Wimborne and his brother, alone at Wimborne without the benefit of a chaperone of any sort.”

Father and grandfather turned to look at Myriah, who felt herself blush darkly, but she stood up and waved a hand at Roland. “He is a cad and will ruin me if I don’t marry him, but, Father … I don’t wish to marry him. I will to save you disgrace, but only for you and Grandfather.”

“Nonsense, what can he mean, saying you were alone, when Lady Tallant was with you the entire time?” Lord Guilford said.

Myriah turned stunned eyes to him, but he looked cool and unshakeable and she said nothing. She turned back and saw Roland was about to lose his temper.

“I see what it is … but, in addition to that, the Wimborne men are smugglers, and I will expose them to Corporal Stone if Myriah doesn’t marry me.”

“Then expose them. If they are smugglers, so you must,” Myriah’s father said impatiently. “I would not allow my daughter to marry you if you were the last man on earth. How dare you run her to ground like this? No wonder she ran away from the idea of marriage with you.”

Sir Roland was red-faced and furious. “Very well then, my lord, I bid you good-day and it will”—he turned to Myriah—“give me great pleasure to turn in the Wimbornes, scoundrels that they are!”

“No … no!” Myriah turned to her father and clutched his lapels. “Papa … I have to marry him … I can’t let him do that to Kit and Billy … I can’t!”

“Absolutely not—scoundrels, you say? Ha! If my daughter would rather marry you than let you hurt them, they could not be anything of the sort, and I will see your name dragged through the mud if you—”

“My lord,” a cool, authoritative voice said from the library doorway.

Myriah turned to see a tall, muscular man, dressed in navy riding attire, his hat in his hand and his wavy, honey-colored hair framing his handsome face, standing there taking command, and her heart melted. She ran to him, and they clutched one another’s hands.

“Kit … Kit you should not be here … he … he means you harm.”

“I know, beloved … but he can’t have his way, not today.” Lord Wimborne turned to Myriah’s father, ignoring the spluttering Sir Roland, and said, “If I may have a word with you”—he nodded also at Myriah’s grandfather—“and you, my Lord Guildford, in private …”

“No! I shall not be shut out of this,” Myriah declared.

Kit laughed. “No, and I don’t suppose you should be.” He turned to Sir Roland and sighed. “And on second thought, he might as well stay as well.”

“For what … what are you talking about?” Myriah frowned as he took her hand to his lips, led her to a ladies chair, and saw her seated.

Kit dropped his greatcoat, hat, and gloves on another chair and turned to her father and grandfather, ignoring Sir Roland. “Myriah is under the impression … indeed, it was the picture we painted, that we are smugglers. However, we are not, far from it, in fact.”

“What … impossible … I was with you … I saw …”

“You saw a façade. You see, when I sold out and returned home to care for Wimborne I found poor management had left it looking as though we were in debt. We were not. However, I allowed it to be circulated that we were, as I used this as a cover. Smuggling, you see, was an excellent disguise whilst we got our messages to and from France.”

“You are a spy.” Myriah almost whistled.

“He is lying! He is a smuggler, I know it!” Sir Roland spluttered.

“But if you were working for the Crown, why did they shoot Billy?” Myriah persisted.

“Precisely why I
made
up my mind it was time to pull out. The war is near its end, and seven years of my life and a year of Billy’s is quite enough for the Wimbornes.”

“Yes, but I don’t understand …”

“The problem was this. The Regent could only promise that if we were caught our names would be cleared … eventually. However, he had no way of keeping us from being shot during the process. We couldn’t take the excisemen and Riding Officers into our confidence because leaks do happen—many because the
gentlemen
slip a coin or two to one or two for information. Too much depended on the secrecy of the mission. It had to appear as though we were merely smugglers and nothing more. The men were in fact paid from the profits we derived.”

“But then, who was Dibbs?” Myriah asked, still amazed.

“He worked in the capacity of go-between. I had gone to London as usual
and
received the papers they wanted delivered to our agent in France, who by the way is a personal friend—we fought together in Spain.
How
ever, they had one last-minute item they wished to have delivered. Dibbs brought it and received the news from
me
that
I
would make no more trips.
By now, I
have been replaced.”

“Replaced?” Roland expostulated. “You should
be
hanged—a confessed smuggler doing it up brown with your wild tales!”

“Contrary to popular opinion,” Ignoring Roland, Kit continued, “the Wimborne estates are intact.” He turned to Sir Roland and said, “You have no business here. However, do stay.”

Sir Roland started to object when Kit waved him off and turned to Myriah’s father. “Lord Whitney, I would like your blessings and permission to marry your daughter, but make no mistake, marry her I will.”

“You have my blessings and my permission, but as to the rest, it is up to Myriah …”

Myriah was already diving into Kit’s arms, and her grandfather and father turned to one another and shook hands. Kit, however, turned back to Sir Roland and said quietly, “I understand your position in this … and have made a decision.” He took out a card from his inner pocket and handed it to Roland. “Send your collection of debts to me, and my man will attend to them. That should leave you free to set your estates in order and marry where you will.”

“My debts are substantial,” Roland said stiffly.

“I am sure, and my pockets are deep.”

“Why?”

“I have learned a thing or two in war. Desperate men do desperate things.” He sighed and added, “Just send me the papers.”

Roland inclined his head, but apparently he could not at that moment find any words, for he then rigidly turned and walked out.

Kit turned to Myriah and softly whispered, “Would you have married me even though you thought me a smuggler?”

“I would have done all I could to stop your evil work.” She giggled. “But I would have married you were you the King of Smugglers himself!”

He grinned broadly and kissed her lips. “Then order your gown … and, Myriah, make it soon … for I won’t be kept from you long …”

“You won’t be kept from me at all,” she peeped at him impishly.

And all three of her men threw back their heads and roared!

Here’s a sneak peek at Claudy’s latest Risqué Regency,

Taffeta & Hotspur

~ One ~

Spring 1813, Nottingham, England

Taffeta looked out the window as their well-sprung carriage rumbled languidly over the country road. It was a cool spring day, and the air held a fresh, crisp scent. She looked at her brother and uncle across from her. Although she could see they hadn’t paid the least heed to the sweet breeze as it wafted through their open window, she breathed it in and prepared for battle.

“Don’t pout, Taffy! It ain’t like you, and it won’t change my mind,” snapped Lord Nigel in a tone obviously meant to be suitably firm and effective.

She wasn’t pouting, but she couldn’t pull herself out of her ‘dream’ to tell him. She was too deeply engrossed in the vision being enacted in her mind as though actors were on a stage right before her eyes.

She saw a huge, muscular, and beautifully naked man with dark eyes that burned through her as he looked right at her—at least the ‘her’ on the stage. His black hair fell in waves around his handsome face, and she watched herself as she glanced at him from top to bottom and allowed her gaze to linger on his ready manhood.

Lady Taffeta lived in the country and from time to time had witnessed a stallion breeding. This incredible man was much like a stallion. She felt herself blush and wondered who he could be, and why she wasn’t shocked in her dream vision.

She had to get out of this vision. It was wrong—all wrong. She sucked in air and broke out of the dream as she pushed her golden tresses away from her face and tried to concentrate on the present. She didn’t know where this vision had come from—she was sure she had never seen such a man … yet. “What did you say? Pouting? I … I am not pouting,” she announced, doing a very good imitation of it. Taffeta had to direct her attention to the present.