The Smuggler's Captive Bride by Christina Dodd Page B

wrapped her redingote, that coat which she’d sewn with her own fingers, tighter around her shoulders, and apprehensively glanced behind her again.
    Ronald had always said she was too straightforward to sneak around and too blunt for diplomacy, but now that she’d read his diary, she’d learned that her brother had led a secret life. He had her convinced he was nothing more than Hamilton’s secretary, when actually he had worked to uncover this ring of smugglers.
    A frown puckered her forehead. He hadn’t told her because he didn’t want her to know and worry. He’d been protecting her, and now she was alone with no one to avenge his death but her.
    She’d do it, too. She’d make sure those responsible suffered as she had suffered with his loss.
    When she saw the lights of the Bull and Eagle, she fixed on them as if they were her salvation. She knew, of course, that Hamilton might seek her, but not tonight. He had brandy to unload and reckless men to pay, and he would never imagine that she’d be on her way at first light, even if she had to walk.
    Carefully she crept through the now-muddy inn yard and pushed the outside door open. In the two days she’d stayed here, she’d ascertained that it squeaked if not handled properly, and that brought Ernest bustling out of his quarters to smile and bow and greet her as if she were the salvation of Hamilton Village.
    And all because of one little lie she’d been driven to tell.

 
     
    CHAPTER TWO
     

     
    GOD WOULD forgive her, she was sure, for she’d told her lie in pursuit of truth and justice — but she didn’t know if hearty, bald-headed Ernest ever would.
    The hinges didn’t make a sound. The taproom was empty, as it had been when she left, and she didn’t understand how her luck had held. She didn’t want anyone to know she’d been out, yet at the same time, last night the townsfolk had congregated in the taproom for ale and conversation. Briefly she wondered what kept them away, why the fire burned low and place looked abandoned. Then a burst of angry shouting from the kitchen sent her fleeing up the stairs.
    When no one stormed into the taproom, when no one pursued her up the stairs, she paused at the top and listened.
    Ernest’s voice she could recognize, and he sounded both agitated and afraid. The other voice was a man’s, lower, less distinct, but with a tone that raised the hair on the back of her head.
    Who was it? Gripping the rail in both hands, she crept down two steps and listened attentively.
    Why did the stranger sound so menacing?
    Heedlessly, she stepped on the edge of the third step and it creaked beneath her shoe. The conversation in the kitchen stopped and she froze.
    Footsteps sounded on the floorboards and Ernest stepped into the common room.
    She tried to melt into the shadows.
    He stared up at her.
    He saw her; she would have sworn he saw her, but he shrugged and walked back into the kitchen without any indication that he’d noted her presence.
    The conversation began again, lower this time, and she sneaked to her room. Silently, she took the key from her reticule and unlocked the door. Slipping inside, she shut the dark oak panels behind her and turned the key again, protecting herself from all comers.
    It was exactly as she’d left it. This was, as Ernest had told her the night she arrived, the best bedchamber in the inn and the one which had served Henry the Eighth when he’d been stranded here in a storm. Laura didn’t know if she believed that, but certainly a gigantic old-fashioned bed dominated the room. It rested on a dais in the corner, and the canopy was hung with velvet curtains which could be drawn to keep in the warmth. Gargoyles decorated every bedpost and each rail between had been sanded and polished until it shone. Ernest had proudly told her that over two thousand geese had been plucked to stuff that feather mattress. She only knew she’d been lost in it when she slept.
    The fire in her fireplace burned,