Regency Proposal

Chapter Four

Selina thumped at her pillow, sure someone had put rocks in it instead of feathers. She tossed onto her back. If Dunstan’s plans came to fruition, Ian would find himself behind bars, or worse. The fool. How could he risk his life with so many relying on him?

The cottages in the village were in terrible shape—certainly much worse than when she’d left seven years ago. The children playing in the street hadn’t just been ragged and dirty, they’d been painfully thin. The people were slowly starving. He should be helping them sell their crops, not seeking wealth from criminal activities.

Potatoes and barley were the only crops suited to the poor soil in the Highlands. And they used the barley to make whisky instead of bread. It was one of the reasons her father despised them so—their preference for hard spirits over food.

The Highlanders swore by their whisky, attributing healing properties to the malted liquor. They even gave it to babies.

And it wasn’t only illiterate crofters who held fast to the old ideas. The nobles did it, too. A school, education, would bring them into the nineteenth century, but it wouldn’t get off the ground if Ian ended up deported or worse. Didn’t he realise that, by taking risks with his own life for a few barrels of brandy, he was risking their futures?

Or was he smuggling in order to put food in their bellies? Because her father cared not one whit for the people on this land.

Her blood ran cold. She didn’t want to believe it, but her father was completely ruthless when it came to money and power. It was what had made him so successful.

He’d be delighted to see the Gilvrys out of his way.

The memory of Ian’s strong arms around her shoulders, beneath her thighs, haunted her as if she was still some besotted schoolgirl. Only worse, because other sensations tormented her too, little pulses of desire she couldn’t seem to control.

And the way he had looked at her in the tithe barn had only made them worse.

Hot and bothered, she slid out of the bed and walked to the mullioned window. Clear. The rain clouds gone. Stars twinkled teasingly.

The perfect night for smuggling.

The perfect night for a trap.

She gazed in the direction of the village. Was it her imagination, or could she see men leading strings of ponies across the heather between here and the village?

Imagination. It was too dark to make out anything except the dark shape of the distant hills against the sky.

Was Ian out there? About to be caught in the hated Revenue men’s net? She should have gone to warn him this afternoon, instead of telling herself it was none of her business. She owed him more than a thank you for helping Alice. And even if Dunross’s people hated her, she had this strange feeling of responsibility. Dunross Keep might be her dowry, but Ian Gilvry was their laird. She would never be able to live with herself if she didn’t at least try to warn him.

A clock struck eleven. What had felt like hours was only a single turn of the hour hand. It might not be too late to tell them. It wasn’t as if everyone didn’t turn a blind eye to smuggling.

Good Lord, her own father had a cellar full of smuggled wines in London. As long as those responsible didn’t hurt anyone along the way, smuggling, while a crime in the eyes of the law, was seen as more of a game.

A game Ian should have avoided with her father in residence at the keep.

Hands shaking with the need for haste, she sorted through the clothes in her press. Stays. How would she lace her stays without her maid? She lifted up a gaudy skirt she’d worn to a masquerade in Lisbon. She’d played the part of a Portuguese dancer. Somewhere she had a peasant blouse and an overbodice, which laced up the front.

But if she wanted to ride Topaz, she would need breeches, because she’d have to ride astride. She dug out a pair she’d worn on her childhood adventures when Father had left her with servants and hadn’t cared what she did most of the time. Tonight she would wear them under her petticoats.

Anyone seeing her, such as the Revenue men for example, would take her for one of the village girls in such attire.

As long as she didn’t run into Dunstan.

Her stomach rolled in a most unpleasant way. If she was caught, it would be the end of all her hopes for a good marriage.

She would just have to make sure he didn’t see her. She was only going to the village and back. He would be waiting on the shore for the smugglers. Hopefully in vain.

She finished dressing swiftly, throwing an old woollen cloak around her shoulders and hurrying downstairs in bare feet, carrying her shoes. She put them on at the side door and went out to the stables.

Blast. A light shone from a window above the stalls where Angus lived. He’d hear her and stop her if she tried to take Topaz.

Then she’d walk. The gate, of course, was locked and barred. Anyone would think they were at war, the way they locked up the keep at night.

There was another way out. The old sally port—an escape route for if the keep was ever besieged. Long ago it had been her route to freedom and a few secret meetings with Ian.

Hopefully no one had blocked it up in the meantime. She took the stairs down to the ancient undercroft. In medieval times the kitchen was located here; nowadays the space was used for storage.

The next flight of stairs was barely wide enough for her feet and twisted in tight circles. She wished she’d thought to bring a lantern. Damp and musty-smelling air filled her lungs and tainted her tongue as she felt her way down in the dark until she reached the door at the bottom.

The last time she’d been down here she’d hidden the key up on the lintel. She groped around and shuddered at the clingy touch of spider webs. Her fingers touched a metal object. She grinned. It seemed her old way out remained undiscovered.

The key turned easily in the lock and she slipped it in her pocket and entered the tunnel, a dank place, smelling of earth, dug into the hillside. It came out among a pile of rocks some distance from the keep.

Once outside, the air was fresh and even felt warm compared to the dank chill below ground. As she hurried down the hill to the village, the stars gave her just enough light to avoid the worst of the ruts and it wasn’t many minutes before she was standing outside Ian’s house.

A light in both ground-floor windows gave her hope she was in time. She banged on the door.

From inside she heard the sound of coughing, but no one came to the door.

She banged again.

‘Come in,’ a woman’s voice called out and the coughing started again. Mrs Gilvry. Did that mean Ian had left already?

What should she say? Accuse this woman’s son of being a criminal? No doubt that would be well received. Perhaps she should just leave.

‘Come in,’ the voice called again, stronger this time.

She could hardly leave the woman wondering who had knocked on her door and fearing for her safety. She pressed the latch and the door swung open.

‘In here,’ the voice said through an open door on her right.

Selina entered the chamber, expecting a drawing room, and instead found a large four-poster bed containing a pallid-faced woman with greying hair tucked beneath a plain cap propped up against a pile of pillows.

‘Mrs Gilvry?’

‘Aye.’ Pale fingers tightened on the sheets under her chin. A pair of eyes the colour of spring grass regarded her gravely. Andrew and Logan had inherited those eyes. Ian must take after his father. ‘And who is it who comes calling in the dead of night?’ Her voice was wheezy, breathless.

‘Selina Albright. I am looking for your son, Ian. Is he home?’

The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Ian, is it? And what would Albright’s daughter be doing looking for him at this time of night? Hasn’t your family done enough to our people?’

The sins of the fathers were still being visited upon the children. ‘I need to give him a message.’

The green eyes sharpened. ‘Is there trouble?’

Selina nodded. ‘The Revenue men are out tonight.’

The woman in the bed twisted her thin hands together. ‘I told him not to go.’

‘Ian?’

‘No, Logan. My youngest. He was supposed to stay with me, but he couldna’ resist. He followed his brothers not more than a half-hour ago. He’ll no listen to me any more. Am I to lose all of my sons?’

Selina’s heart ached for the torture she heard in the woman’s voice. ‘Do you know where they went? I … I could warn them.’

The woman looked at her with suspicion in her gaze. ‘Why would you do that?’

She shrugged. ‘Ian is a friend.’ It was true, if not quite reflecting the nuance of their relationship. An uneasy friendship.

The woman turned her head upon the pillow, staring at the fire, her mouth a thin straight line. Then she turned back to Selina. ‘It goes against the grain to trust an Albright. If you play me false, I will curse you for all of my days, however few they are.’

Selina recoiled at the bitterness in the woman’s eyes. ‘Tell me where they are.’

‘Balnaen Cove.’

The name tore at a scar she thought long ago healed, yet was now raw and fresh. Ian had taken her there once, the last time they’d met. They’d shared a kiss, a moment full of magic and dizzying sensations and walked the sand hand in hand, until his brothers had come across them. Then he’d heaped scorn on her head.

She forced herself not to think of that day, but the task at hand. The cove was at least three miles from the village. She would not reach it by midnight. ‘Do you have a horse?’

‘There’s one in the stables. Take it if you must,’ Mrs Gilvry croaked. ‘But ‘tis no a friendly horse and there’s no one to help.’

Of course it wasn’t. Nothing about the Gilvrys was friendly or helpful.

‘I’ll manage.’

‘Go through the kitchen and out of the back door.’

The directions took her straight to the stable where a lantern flickered above the door. She took it inside with her and found three empty stalls and one full of a large black stallion. It shifted uneasily as she entered.

A small shadow came out of the gloom, wagging its plumed tail. ‘You,’ she said, staring at her nemesis of a dog. ‘I might have guessed you’d be along to cause trouble.’

She hung the lantern on a beam, found a bridle and bit and took them into the stall. The horse showed her the whites of its eyes. Not a good sign. Nor were the bared teeth.

‘Easy,’ she said softly. ‘I’m not here to hurt you.’ She patted its cheek and ran a hand down its wither. The blasted dog came wandering in. Troublesome creature. The dog sat at her feet and leant up against her leg.

The stallion eyed it, then lowered its head. Nose to nose, the creatures greeted each other.

The stallion calmed.

She patted the dog’s head. ‘Well, now, is this some sort of formal introduction to your friend?’ It seemed so, for while the dog sat grinning, the great black horse allowed her to put on a bridle. But would he accept her on his back? Or was she just wasting time here? She might have walked a good way along the road by now.

No time for a saddle. Nor could she do it by herself. A blanket she found over a rail would have to do. Riding a horse bareback? She wasn’t even sure she could. But she had to try. She led the stallion out to the mounting block in the yard and lunged onto its back, one hand gripping the reins, the other grasping the long black mane before it could object. It shifted, but didn’t bolt.

The dog barked encouragement and shot out of the courtyard and into the lane. The horse followed.

She kept the stallion at a trot. She daren’t go any faster through the village in case she attracted unwanted attention. The dog ran alongside.

The bouncing made her teeth clack together and jarred her spine. As they passed the last cottage, she urged the horse into a gentle canter. Its long stride smoothed out and she felt a lot less like a sack of potatoes. Perhaps she really could make three miles without falling off.

At the crossroads she hesitated. The right fork led to the path along the cliffs and a long gentle slope down to the cove. Straight ahead and she’d have to cut across country. The way down to the beach there was difficult and steep. It was quicker.

Nose to the ground, the dog dashed straight ahead. The horse followed. It seemed as though her decision was made. Shorter and quicker was better.

She let the stallion have his head and concentrated on retaining her balance and watching out for danger. After ten minutes or so, the dog veered off towards the sea. If there was a path, she couldn’t see it, but she urged the horse to follow and in no time at all, she could hear the steady roar and crash of surf. Salt coated her lips and she licked it away, inhaling the tang of seaweed. ‘Tangle’, the locals called that smell.

If she remembered correctly, the rest of the way was rocky. Dangerous to a horse. She brought the animal to a halt and slid down. Her bottom was sore, but her injured leg easily held her weight. Riding astride, even bareback, was apparently easier on her leg than a ladies’ saddle.

‘Where are they, boy?’ she asked the dog, looking around warily. One thing she did not want to do was run into the Revenue men or, worse yet, Dunstan’s company of militia.

The dog set off at a trot. She followed, leading the horse. Would she be in time?

The dog circled her as if to assure her everything was all right. Or was he, in the nature of his breed, trying to herd her in the direction he wanted her to go?

Stumbling on the rough ground, Selina followed Gilly, hoping he would lead her to his master and not on a rabbit hunt.

A dark rift in the rocks where a small burn ran in a gully down to the sea told her she had remembered correctly. She’d climbed down beside the stream to the beach on one of her forbidden explorations.

A sound behind her. Cracking of twigs. She whirled around, hand to her heart.

A large figure loomed out of the low brush off to her left, an outline against the empty sea and starry sky. It lumbered towards her.

‘Hold,’ a male voice whispered loudly.

Why hadn’t the dog warned her? Friend or foe? Could she take a chance?

She turned to flee.

The man threw himself at her legs and flung her down.

Pain. Her shoulder wrenched. Her cheek scratched by heather. She cried out.

He cursed.

A hand came over her mouth. Heart racing wildly, she kicked out. Missed. Kicked again.

A brawny arm lifted and set her squarely on her feet. ‘Hist, now,’ he said in a low murmur. Scottish, she thought.

‘Silence, man,’ someone whispered from not far away. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘Ah,’ her captor said. ‘It seems I have caught myself a spy.’

Chapter Five

The taste of salt was strong in the back of Ian’s throat. He stared into the dark, catching the occasional glimmer of foam-crested waves. The steady crash and hiss of waves breaking on sand and the louder roar of water pounding the rocks filled his ears.

But his mind kept wandering. Hell. He had almost kissed Selina back in the tithe barn. The urge to taste her full lips, to feel her body pressed against his, to explore her soft curves with his hands had run hot in his blood. And if he wasn’t mistaken in the way those lips parted and her gaze had softened, she would have let him, too.

The attraction between them had not diminished over time. Indeed, if he wasn’t badly mistaken, it had increased exponentially. Damn it all, he had betrayed his family for her once. He would not do it again.

To be so distracted at such a time as this was insane. He forced his mind back to the job at hand. This last run of brandy would give him the money he needed to buy all the copper required for the still.

Everything was ready for the boat. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

He glanced at the man standing at the very edge of the promontory with a lantern at the ready. ‘Any sign of her?’

Gordy, the signalman, shook his head. ‘Nought.’

Ian grimaced. Time was wasting. He narrowed his eyes to look back across the rocks and the strip of beach into the gully where the men and ponies awaited the signal. They would come out on to the open beach only when the boat was almost aground. Well versed in their respective tasks, they would unload a boat and have the goods travelling back up on to the cliffs in less than ten minutes.

He scanned the cliff tops. No sign of his guards. And nor should there be. But they were there, ready to warn of intruders. He smiled grimly. As usual they’d outwitted the gaugers. Everything was going according to plan. Except the damned boat was late.

Hairs stirred on the back of his neck. The sensation had nothing to do with the stiff breeze hurling itself off the waves. He tried to shake off the feeling all was not well. Over the years, he’d learned to trust his instincts. Why would he ignore them now?

He glanced out to sea. Still no light from the ship. ‘I’m going up top to take a look around.’

Gordy nodded without turning, then stiffened, pointing. ‘There!’ he whispered. He fumbled with the lantern cover. ‘The light dipped beneath the waves, but … yes, there she is.’ Ian, too, could see the faint twinkle far out on the water.

Gordy flashed four times. Two flashes came back.

‘That’s them,’ Ian said. ‘Guide them in, lad. Any trouble, flash two long and two short, out there and up towards the cliffs, as well.’

‘I ken my job, Laird.’

Ian slapped him on the shoulder. ‘That you do, lad. Just reminding myself. I’ll let the men know we’ve sighted the ship.’ Then he’d climb the cliff to check on his guards.

He clambered across the rocks guarding each side of the small bay, keeping to the shadow. Once in the gully, out of the light of the stars and sheltered from the offshore breeze, he smelled the ponies. Manure and the smell of hardworking horse. And hardworking men. A familiar pungent smell. It had surrounded him most of his life. That and the danger. But the joy had gone out of it since Andrew had gone. His brother had loved the adventure of it.

This would be the last run. There was enough money in the coffers to buy the new still. A still that would be legal anywhere else in Britain but here in the Highlands.

‘Tammy,’ he called in a low voice. The man rose up from a rock. ‘She’s coming in.’

‘Aye,’ Tammy said. He nudged the man beside him. ‘Pass the word.’

‘I’ll be back down before she lands.’ Ian walked past the line of horses and men. Men he had trusted with his life more than once. Good men, who trusted him and who’d lose their homes if they didn’t bring this off safely. One or two of them muttered greetings as he passed.

At the end of the line, he passed a slight figure holding the bridle of an ass. Ian frowned. That made nine men. He’d thought there were eight. Was this the source of the troubled feeling he’d had out on the point? The man had a cap pulled down over his eyes and was trying to hide on the other side of his wee beast. Another thing that wasn’t right. They used ponies because they were more docile.

Ian reached over the animal and grabbed the man by the collar. A familiar face grinned up at him.

‘What the hell? Damn it, Logan, you are supposed to be caring for our mother.’

His brother shrugged him off. ‘It is a woman’s job,’ he said sullenly.

Ian closed his eyes in silent prayer for patience. ‘You know what Mother will do if anything happens to you. Make sure you stay out of trouble.’

‘She knows where I am. I’m no child to be left at home. You were out here at eighteen and I’m near twenty.’

‘That was different.’ In those days there hadn’t been anyone else to go. The clan had relied on him and Andrew to help them get through the winter. But for all his slight stature, Logan was right, he was old enough. And another pair of hands wouldn’t hurt.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘But if the gaugers come, you are to run. I’m relying on you not to get caught. You’ll need to warn the village.’

Logan grinned, his teeth a quick white flash in the dark. ‘Aye. I’ll run like the wind. You can count on me.’

Ian knew he could. And if he tried to protect him, Logan would rebel and go his own way as Andrew had. ‘See you keep that damned beastie quiet.’

A dog whined. It jumped up at Logan, who pushed him down.

‘What in the devil’s name is Gilly doing here?’ Ian asked.

‘I dinna ken. I locked him in with Beau. He must have escaped.’

‘Carelessness,’ Ian said. ‘Keep the damn animal quiet.’

Logan glowered and made a grab for the dog. It darted out of reach.

The man next in line chuckled.

Ian smothered a cursed and left his brother to it.

The prickles on his neck had not subsided. If anything, they were worse. He climbed the steep path up the wall of the gully instead of following the track beside the burn tumbling down to the sea.

As he raised his head over the brow, a whiff of pipe smoke tickled his nostrils. ‘Damn it, man. Put that out. It can be seen for miles.’

Davey had brawn, but no brain. He knocked the bowl on his heel and stamped on the embers. “Tis all right for them down in the gully. The wind’s damn cold up here, Laird.’

‘It’ll be hot in hell if you get yourself shot.’ Ian swept his gaze around the surrounding countryside. ‘Hear anything?’

Davey gave a smug laugh. ‘Aye, I heard something, all right. At first I thought it was a rabbit. I walked back along the path a ways.’

‘And?’

‘I caught a lass creeping up on us. Ranald has her.’

What had been a faint unease across his skin was now a full-fledged alert in his gut. ‘A woman?’

‘A Sassenach by her voice.’

This really wasn’t good. ‘Stay here and keep a sharp look-out.’

‘Aye, Laird.’

Ian strode along the stream bank, until he came to the place where it disappeared underground. ‘Ranald?’

The burly innkeeper rose up out of the heather. ‘Here.’

‘Davey said you caught a wench spying.’

‘Aye, Laird, I have her tied up over there beside the horse.’

Definitely not good. And yet something lightened inside him. It was the oddest sensation. Shoving it aside, he strode to the cluster of rocks indicated by Ranald. He held up his lamp and looked into a pair of very angry brown eyes.