in pain. “I have a bullet in my shoulder.”
Chapter Nine
Merther Cove, four days earlier
Griffin stood above the shingle beach as the wind whipped about him. His lantern light flickered as the shadows enveloped the landscape. The salty air felt thick, the cold cutting like the knife that gunrunner had wielded through Griffin’s caped coat. The sun had set an hour ago and his impatience grew to see the signal that the ship had arrived.
“What could be keeping them?” he grumbled at last.
“Can’t predict the waves an’ ocean streams. They should be here soon, sir.” Jacca thrust his hands in his jacket pockets. Griffin’s trusted bailiff pulled out a clay pipe and struggled to light it in the wind. “Hopefully the revenue men won’t be sniffing up our arses.”
“That’s part of the game, now isn’t it, Jacca?” Griffin shifted in his jackboots. He held out his cape flap to shield his bailiff, who finally raised a spark with his steel and flint and lit his clay pipe. “The excitement of the sneak, the chase, the undermining of the local authorities.”
The surf swooshed against the edges of the cove. A Nightjar trebled as a tamarisk willow whipped its branches.
“Pardon me for mentioning it, sir, but don’t ‘ee feel a mite guilty not payin’ the import taxes?” Jacca puffed on his pipe, the tobacco smell pungent. “Bein’ a gentleman an’ all.”
“Haven’t we had this conversation numerous times before?” Griffin raised his spy glass, but could see little out on the dark sea. “George III overtaxed his colonies, and he lost America, didn’t he? Then he overtaxed his gentry, which includes me, to pay for the war to bring those rebels under control. Rather, he taxed us before he lost the colonies, to pay for his army and navy to secure the colonies, but you understand my meaning. No one likes too many taxes.”
“But what’s in it for a poor blighter like me?” Smoke swirled about the bailiff’s balding head, which was hidden under his round beaver hat whose edges rippled in the gusts.
“You know full well the Cornish profit from smuggling.” Griffin wrapped his cloak close. “And you call yourself ‘poor?’ Are you insinuating that I don’t pay you enough?”
“‘Tis only a figure o’ speech. Damme, ‘ee quality is too touchy.” Jacca hunched his round shoulders. “An’ me wife complains we don’t has enough blunt to buy her what she’d like to buy if she was richer. I get an earful o’ that every night.”
A cormorant screeched off to the right.
“Women, they are a trial to any right-thinking man.” Griffin frowned as the face of Lady Pencavel slipped into his mind: her soft pouty lips, golden hair, bright blue eyes, and even softer, svelte body. Why did she disrupt his life? He clenched his fingers around the spy glass. “Why should we tie ourselves up in knots and marry at all?”
“To pass on our name, so to speak.” Jacca took another long puff from his pipe. “O’ course, ‘ee has more reason to want a son, to pass on Merther Manor, an’ the hoity toity name o’ Lambrick.”
“Ah, deuce it all, don’t distract me with common sense.” Griffin sighed and scuffed his boot along the ground. A pebble skittered down the rocky slope. “Lambrick was lan-bron-wyk , my father told me. An ‘enclosure of hill wood’, of all the bucolic things. The illustrious name is traced to a knight in the thirteenth century.”
“Me ancestor were a horse thief in the fourteenth century.” Jacca chuckled.
Griffin laughed for the first time in a long while. “Now ‘Merther’ means a place claiming relics...a saint’s relics it’s said. And I’m far from a saint.” He stared off over the dark sea again, his thoughts in turmoil. “If I can’t eradicate the devil from my soul, what right do I have to drag a frail woman into this morass I call my life?”
“‘Ee need a hale an’ hearty woman, sir. One who wouldn’t be afeared o’
Chapter Nine
Merther Cove, four days earlier
Griffin stood above the shingle beach as the wind whipped about him. His lantern light flickered as the shadows enveloped the landscape. The salty air felt thick, the cold cutting like the knife that gunrunner had wielded through Griffin’s caped coat. The sun had set an hour ago and his impatience grew to see the signal that the ship had arrived.
“What could be keeping them?” he grumbled at last.
“Can’t predict the waves an’ ocean streams. They should be here soon, sir.” Jacca thrust his hands in his jacket pockets. Griffin’s trusted bailiff pulled out a clay pipe and struggled to light it in the wind. “Hopefully the revenue men won’t be sniffing up our arses.”
“That’s part of the game, now isn’t it, Jacca?” Griffin shifted in his jackboots. He held out his cape flap to shield his bailiff, who finally raised a spark with his steel and flint and lit his clay pipe. “The excitement of the sneak, the chase, the undermining of the local authorities.”
The surf swooshed against the edges of the cove. A Nightjar trebled as a tamarisk willow whipped its branches.
“Pardon me for mentioning it, sir, but don’t ‘ee feel a mite guilty not payin’ the import taxes?” Jacca puffed on his pipe, the tobacco smell pungent. “Bein’ a gentleman an’ all.”
“Haven’t we had this conversation numerous times before?” Griffin raised his spy glass, but could see little out on the dark sea. “George III overtaxed his colonies, and he lost America, didn’t he? Then he overtaxed his gentry, which includes me, to pay for the war to bring those rebels under control. Rather, he taxed us before he lost the colonies, to pay for his army and navy to secure the colonies, but you understand my meaning. No one likes too many taxes.”
“But what’s in it for a poor blighter like me?” Smoke swirled about the bailiff’s balding head, which was hidden under his round beaver hat whose edges rippled in the gusts.
“You know full well the Cornish profit from smuggling.” Griffin wrapped his cloak close. “And you call yourself ‘poor?’ Are you insinuating that I don’t pay you enough?”
“‘Tis only a figure o’ speech. Damme, ‘ee quality is too touchy.” Jacca hunched his round shoulders. “An’ me wife complains we don’t has enough blunt to buy her what she’d like to buy if she was richer. I get an earful o’ that every night.”
A cormorant screeched off to the right.
“Women, they are a trial to any right-thinking man.” Griffin frowned as the face of Lady Pencavel slipped into his mind: her soft pouty lips, golden hair, bright blue eyes, and even softer, svelte body. Why did she disrupt his life? He clenched his fingers around the spy glass. “Why should we tie ourselves up in knots and marry at all?”
“To pass on our name, so to speak.” Jacca took another long puff from his pipe. “O’ course, ‘ee has more reason to want a son, to pass on Merther Manor, an’ the hoity toity name o’ Lambrick.”
“Ah, deuce it all, don’t distract me with common sense.” Griffin sighed and scuffed his boot along the ground. A pebble skittered down the rocky slope. “Lambrick was lan-bron-wyk , my father told me. An ‘enclosure of hill wood’, of all the bucolic things. The illustrious name is traced to a knight in the thirteenth century.”
“Me ancestor were a horse thief in the fourteenth century.” Jacca chuckled.
Griffin laughed for the first time in a long while. “Now ‘Merther’ means a place claiming relics...a saint’s relics it’s said. And I’m far from a saint.” He stared off over the dark sea again, his thoughts in turmoil. “If I can’t eradicate the devil from my soul, what right do I have to drag a frail woman into this morass I call my life?”
“‘Ee need a hale an’ hearty woman, sir. One who wouldn’t be afeared o’
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