LITMIR.BIZ

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of your aunt! With its proximity to France and Ireland and its abundance of natural harbours, Cornwall seems designed by the Almighty expressly to support the free-traders. One shouldn’t fault the logic of folk who choose to buy the more reasonably priced goods they provide, any more than one should blame the local men who aid the smugglers. The mines are a hard life, trying to coax a living out of this rocky, wind-swept soil no easier a task, nor is extracting fish from a capricious, often dangerous sea. You shouldn’t condemn men for taking an easier route to earning a few pence.’

      ‘It’s hardly easier, when those who participate may end up on the gallows or in a watery grave,’ she retorted.

      He shrugged. ‘But all life’s a gamble, a vessel buffeted by winds and tides beyond one’s control. One cannot retreat; one must put the ship in trim and sail on.’

      How does one meet disgrace and sail on? she wondered. Easy enough for men, who ruled the world, to urge bold action!

      But her brigand was halting again. ‘Ah, there are the roses. Lovely, aren’t they? I’m told that, protected from the wind against this south-facing stone wall, the plants bloom earlier than anywhere else in England.’

      At that moment Honoria spied them, too. With an exclamation of delight, she walked over and filled her nostrils with the rich spicy aroma of alba rose. Eyes closed, inhaling the heady scent, she was distracted for a moment from the curiously mingled sensations of attraction and avoidance inspired by the man beside her.

      ‘They are lovely,’ she exclaimed, reluctantly turning back to him. ‘So at least this part of your tale is true. Is it the lilt of Ireland I hear in your voice?’

      He made her a bow. ‘Indeedyoudo. ’Tis a fine ear you have, Miss Foxe—which means it matches the rest of you.’

      She felt her left ear warm, while the tendril of hair just above was stirred by his breath. Other parts of her began to warm and stir as well.

      Blast the man! He made resisting his seemingly unstudied charm deuced difficult—and she had been wooed by some of London’s most accomplished. No wonder all the maids from Padstow to Polperro were smitten.

      ‘I’m convinced half of what you say is nonsense, but I’ll concede you spin a good story. My brother says Irish troopers tell the best tales of anyone in the Army.’

      His lazy regard sharpened. ‘Your brother is an Army lad? In which regiment?’

      Belatedly realizing her error, she said vaguely, ‘Oh, I don’t recall the number.’ As if she didn’t know to a man how many troopers Hal commanded in his company of the 11^th Dragoons. ‘I’ve heard you were with the Army, too,’ she said, trying to turn the conversation back to him.

      ‘Yes.’

      She waited, but he said nothing more. ‘That seems an odd choice for one who is…taken with the sea,’ she said finally.

      ‘’Tis only a temporary occupation.’

      ‘Until?’ she probed.

      ‘Until I choose a more permanent one.’

      He was no more forthcoming than she. Was he, too, running from something or someone? The wrath of the Irish authorities over some misdeed? The vengeance of a cuckolded husband?

      Though Honoria realized she should recoil from one she knew to be a law-breaker, she could not sense emanating from this charming blue-eyed captain a hint of anything venal or sinister. She felt no threat at all.

      But then, how much credence should she put in her senses? She’d thought she could handle Lord Barwick in the garden—and had trusted in Anthony’s support and loyalty.

      Mr Hawksworth jolted her out of those unpleasant reflections by asking, ‘What are your plans, Miss Foxe? Do you make your aunt a long visit? With summer just coming into Cornwall, it’s particularly beautiful here.’

      ‘It is lovely,’ she agreed, sidestepping the question. ‘By the way, how did you know I liked flowers?’

      ‘Oh, I have my sources,’ he replied.

      Had Tamsyn talked to him about her? Somehow she couldn’t believe that the maid, if she were granted audience with her hero, would waste it prattling about her employer’s niece. ‘A guess, then,’ she countered, ‘since most females like roses. Particularly females visiting a lady who possesses one of the finest gardens in the area. Though not this particular rose,’ she added, inspecting the blossom. ‘Perhaps I should take a cutting back to Foxeden. In a sheltered bed, it should thrive.’

      ‘Under your hands, anything would thrive.’

      Honoria gave him a sharp glance. He was flirting again, which given the differences in their stations, he should not. But he persisted any way.

      She should be angry, since his forwardness was almost forcing her to snub him, something she really didn’t wish to do. Nor, faced with his straightforward honesty, could she seem to hold on to her anger.

      Unlike other men she’d known, he didn’t appear to practice deceit. He’d freely admitted who he was. If he were a rogue, at least he was an honest one.

      Which made him a refreshing change from the London dissemblers who flattered to one’s face while plotting ruin behind one’s back.

      Not that a girl could trust any man. But would it hurt to flirt a bit?

      With the question barely formed, she caught herself up short. What was she thinking? Hadn’t she just forfeited the life to which she’d been born for not immediately fleeing the presence of one she’d known to be a rogue?

      With her treacherous inclination toward the man, the wisest course would be to remove herself from this free-trader’s insidious influence.

      ‘Thank you for showing me the lovely roses, Mr Hawks-worth. But I mustn’t delay my aunt’s departure.’ Nodding a farewell, she set off quickly away down the path toward the street and her aunt’s waiting carriage.

      As she’d feared, he simply fell into step beside her. ‘Lovely they are indeed. But not the loveliest thing I’ve seen today.’

      ‘You are a blatant charmer, Mr Hawksworth,’ she tossed over her shoulder. ‘I’d advise you to save your pretty compliments for those more desirous of receiving them.’

      He cocked his head at her. ‘And you are not?’

      ‘Indeed no, sir. I prefer unvarnished truth.’

      He laughed again, a deep, warm, shiver-inducing sound. ‘Then, Miss Foxe, you are the most exceptional lady I have ever met.’

      ‘I hardly think so,’ she replied as they exited the churchyard and regained the street. ‘Ah, Aunt Foxe,’ she called to that lady, who stood chatting with the vicar beside their carriage. ‘Were you looking for me?’

      Before she could step away, Mr Hawksworth snagged her sleeve and made her an elegant bow. ‘I very much enjoyed our walk. Good day, Miss Foxe.’

      Politeness required that she curtsy back. ‘Mr Hawksworth,’ she replied with a regal incline of the head. Conscious of his gaze resting upon her back, she stepped into the sanctuary of the carriage.

      A great one she was to talk of preferring truth, she thought disgustedly as her aunt settled onto the seat beside her. She, who’d just identified herself to the entire community under a false name. Who’d wondered what Mr Hawksworth might be hiding when she’d not vouchsafed to any but her aunt her own reason for being here.

      How much do we ever truly reveal of ourselves to others? she wondered, finding it hard to resist the impulse to look out the window and peer back at Gabriel Hawksworth.

      Strangers and villains. Was he one—or both?

      Chapter Four

      Smiling, Gabe watched the shapely sway of Miss Marie Foxe as she entered her carriage.

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