The Smuggler's Captive Bride by Christina Dodd

 
     
    Kent, England, 1813
     
     
    CHAPTER ONE
     

     
    MISS LAURA Haver groped her way toward the ocean cliff, guided only by the sound of the waves and scent of salt water on the breeze. Clouds streamed across the stars, blocking the feeble light, and her foot skidded down the first few inches of cliff before she realized she’d reached her goal.
    Sitting down hard, she pulled herself to safety, then scooted back and huddled in the rough sea grass. Pebbles skittered down the steep slope to the beach on the Hamilton estate, and she listened for the shouts that meant she’d been discovered.
    There was nothing. Just the endless rocking of the waves on the sandy beach below.
    It had been three months. Three months of lonely torment as she pored over her brother’s diary and tried to decipher his cryptic scrawls. Three months of futile visits to the London townhouse where Keefe Leighton, the earl of Hamilton, resided and kept an office. Three months of listening while Lord Hamilton assured her the government would avenge Ronald’s death.
    Three months of knowing that he lied.
    A boat crunched on the sand below as it drove onto the beach. Shivering with chill and fear, she pulled the dark hood over her brown hair and scooted back to the edge of the cliff. The night was moonless and so dark she could scarcely see her hand in front of her face, but she clearly saw the covered lanterns flashing like fireflies. They showed bits of light only as the men deemed necessary, and in their movement she counted at least twenty smugglers — eight unloading the boat, eight receiving on the beach, and three men just standing, apparently supervising the operation.
    One tall figure moved back and forth, and from the consideration all the men paid him, it was obvious he was the leader. Ronald’s diary mentioned him only as Jean, but Laura feared she knew his identity. She strained her eyes wide and prayed for a just one moment of light — and when it came, she stood, rigid with indignation.
    “He is the smuggler.”
    As if her words caught on the wind and blew to his ears alone, Lord Hamilton turned and looked up toward the top of the cliff. She saw the glint of his eyes, and with the instinct of a hunted creature, she crouched behind a rock and froze. She didn’t want Hamilton to see her here. She couldn’t let him find her here. All her ugly suspicions had been proved true, and if he had killed her brother to silence him, she doubted he would hesitate to murder her, too.
    Her heart pounded. She wanted to flee with unrestrained panic, but she’d come too far and too much was at stake for her to lose discipline now. Straining to listen, she could hear men’s voices above the lap of the waves, but no shout of discovery gave her reason to run. She had to keep her head, get back to the inn, and write her report to give to the authorities. It would be difficult to convince them that a member of the House of Lords was nothing but a common criminal, but with Ronald’s diary as corroboration, she’d do it.
    She had to, for Ronald’s sake.
    She crept backwards. Her skirt caught on her heels, rocks ground into the palms of her hands. She stood finally, and leaned to dust off her skirt. When she straightened and squinted toward the horizon, she realized a tall figure blocked out the stars. She stared, pinned by fear, then with a yelp and a start, she whirled and ran.
    She could hear the sound of thudding boots behind her. The gorse grabbed at her skirts and the ruts of the country road moved and twisted in snakelike guile. The wind gusted at her back and carried a man’s warm breath to touch the nape of her neck. Gooseflesh ran over her skin and she moaned softly, clutching the stitch that started in her side. When she could run no longer, she dared a look behind her.
    All she could see was black night. The stars had disappeared completely and the upcoming storm splattered the first raindrops in her face. She’d imagined Hamilton when he