The Least Likely Bride

beneficiary.

He took a piece of chalk from his pocket and moved among the goods, marking his choices with a cross. “I’ll take these four chests, the figured silks, the two bales of velvet, the Brussels lace, the case of delftware and the other of Venetian crystal. The rest is dross.”

A crispness sharpened the fisherman’s drawl. Godfrey didn’t notice the slight change in the vowel sounds. He knew only that this was a man who would do business.

“A thousand guineas,” he said. “We agreed on a thousand guineas.”

“Only if I took the whole. I’ll pay eight hundred for what I’ve named. Not a penny more.”

Eight hundred was eight hundred. “Done.” Godfrey rubbed his hands together. “How will you take delivery?”

“Leave it to me, young sir.” Once again it was the fisherman who spoke. “They’ll be gone from ‘ere by mornin’.”

“And payment?”

For answer, Anthony tossed the pouch across to him. Godfrey, caught by surprise, grabbed for it and missed. It fell to the ground with a heavy clink. He bent and picked it up, unaware of the fisherman’s curled lip and contemptuous eye.

“The rest will be delivered to the Anchor at midday tomorrow. I reckon George’ll be wantin‘ his share. Seein’ as ‘ow your ship’s not come in.” The fisherman laughed and it was not a kind laugh.

Godfrey’s hand tightened on his sword hilt. There was nothing he would have liked better than to have spitted the man on his blade. He demanded angrily, “What time will you take delivery? I’ll be here.”

“Soon after dawn, I reckon,” the fisherman drawled. “No need for ye to be ‘ere, though. My men know what to do.”

It must now be around one o’clock, Godfrey calculated. Dawn was but four hours away. He’d get no sleep tonight. “I’ll be here,” he stated. Did the man think he was fool enough to let him take delivery unsupervised?

“Please yerself.” The fisherman shrugged and turned to the concealed entrance of the cave. “Stand watch if it pleases ye. My men’ll not lay down their arms, though, I give ye fair warnin‘. They move fast and quiet and will be out of ’ere by six. They’ll not take kindly to bein‘ followed, either. An’ their manners aren’t as gentle as mine. So keep out of their way.”

And he was gone, leaving Godfrey alone in the cave with his rage and his five hundred golden guineas.

Anthony retrieved his weapons and strode back along the trail. Sam and his fellow materialized from the shadows of the cliff some hundred feet from the cave.

“You can find it again?”

“Aye, sir.”

“At dawn, then. You’ll need ten men, probably three boats. The goods are marked with a chalk cross.”

“Should us expect trouble?”

“I don’t think so. The little man’s too greedy to risk this sale. But be on the watch anyway.”

“Aye, sir. You goin‘ back to the ship?”

Anthony smiled then and lightly clapped Sam on the shoulder. “No, not yet, my friend. And there’s no need to be anxious. I have my wits about me.”

“I ‘ope so,” Sam muttered. “Mike’ll be waitin’ at the top fer ye, I suppose.”

“I certainly hope so.” Anthony laughed and loped off down the oath.

Mike was waiting at the head of the path. Two ponies grazed placidly on the springy grass of the clifftop.

“Success, Mike?” Anthony unbuckled his swordbelt.

“Aye, sir. I’ve drawn ye a rough plan. Miss has ‘er chamber at the side of the ’ouse.” Mike unfurled a sheet of paper. “See ‘ere, sir.” The drawing of Lord Granville’s house in Chale was a competent piece of draftsmanship, every door and window clearly marked. “There’s this ’ere tree, see. Magnolia.” He pointed to the tree beside the window in question.

“How very convenient,” the pirate murmured, peeling off his mustache with a wince. “You’re positive that’s her chamber? I’d hate to barge in on my lord Granville and his lady.” He thrust the ratty mustache into the pocket of his britches and took out a handkerchief and a twist of paper that contained salt.

“I ‘ad it from Milly, sir. She’s a maid there. I’ve known ’er since she was a babby, an‘ she was ’appy enough to offer me a pot of ale in the kitchen an‘ chat, like.”

“What about dogs?” Anthony’s voice was muffled as he scrubbed his blackened teeth with the salt.

“A couple of hounds, but they’re kept in the kitchen at night. They’ll rouse the house if’n they ‘ear ye, though.”

Anthony thrust the handkerchief back into his pocket and examined the map. “The kitchen’s at the back of the house?”

“Aye, sir. There.” Mike pointed.

“Then they won’t hear me.” He folded the map and reached into his pocket again. He drew out a slim volume, weighing it for a moment on the palm of his hand, a half smile on his face. Then he tucked the map inside its front cover and pushed the book into his pocket with the handkerchief.

He took the reins of one of the ponies. “Keep hold of my sword and I’ll be back here before dawn.”

“Shouldn’t I come with ye, sir? Watch yer back, like?”

Anthony shook his head and swung himself astride the pony. “This is a frolic of my own, Mike. I’ll watch my own back. Be here at dawn to take the pony.” He grinned, raised a hand in farewell, and nudged the horse into a canter.

He left his mount at the gates to Lord Granville’s house, hobbling him so he wouldn’t stray, then stood back in the lane to survey the obstacles to clandestine entrance. The gates were locked; the red brick wall was high but presented no problem to a man accustomed to climbing the rigging of a frigate.

He was up and over the wall in a moment, landing in the soft earth of Lord Granville’s garden. It was very dark and quiet in the shadow of the wall, the silence of the night broken only by a blackbird’s trill and the rustling of small animals in the undergrowth beneath the trees.

Anthony approached the sleeping house through the trees. There were no lights visible; only a curl of smoke from the kitchen chimney gave evidence of habitation. Keeping to the grass, he walked soundlessly around the side of the house.

The magnolia was a venerable tree massed with thick, glossy leaves. A sturdy branch reached almost to Olivia’s window. And the window was most conveniently ajar.

Anthony swung himself into the branches of the magnolia and climbed swiftly. In a few minutes he was sitting on the window ledge of Olivia’s chamber. The room was faintly lit by the moon, and the curtains around the bed were drawn back to allow the cool night air to reach the sleeper. Even so, Olivia had kicked aside the covers. She lay with her back to the window; her nightgown was twisted and caught up around her waist, leaving her lower body naked in the moonlight.

Anthony’s smile deepened. He took the book from his pocket and withdrew the map. The reverse side of the paper was blank. He dug into his other pocket for the lead pencil he always carried and looked again at the bed. Frowning slightly, he sketched the sleeping girl; a few sharply drawn lines committed the image to paper. The flow of her hair, the curve of her spine, the turned flank and the flare of her backside, the long, entwined legs, her slender feet with their rosy heels.

He examined his work with a critical air, comparing it with its subject, then folded the drawing. Taking the book from the window ledge beside him, he tucked the sketch between its leaves.

He took off his boots as he sat on the window ledge, then slipped into the chamber, his stockinged feet making no sound as he went to the door and turned the key.

A small table stood in the middle of the room, with a book open upon it beside a sheaf of papers. Olivia had been translating a passage from Ovid before she’d gone to bed. Curious, he read the translation. There was nothing of the amateur about it. Every word was carefully and cleverly chosen to reflect the meaning of the original. Olivia Granville was a formidable scholar.

Soundlessly Anthony approached the bed. He placed the book with the sketch on the bedside table and sat down on the edge of the bed. Olivia stirred and mumbled in her sleep. Lightly he caressed her bare skin, little flickering brushes of his fingertips. She wriggled as if irritated by a bothersome fly. He smiled and continued to touch her.

Olivia stirred, straightened her legs, turned onto her back. Then she sat bolt upright, her eyes wide, sightless, her mouth opened on a scream.

Swiftly Anthony placed his hand over her mouth. “Hush, my flower. It’s me.”

She fought him, pushing him from her, her body twisting in terror as she struggled to escape the loathsome secret touches that had invaded her sleep.

“No, no, no,” Anthony said into her hair, holding her tightly the more she fought him, holding her face buried against his chest, afraid that she would scream and bring the house upon them. “Forgive me, I didn’t know I would frighten you so much. Hush, love, hush.”

And slowly his words penetrated the fog of nightmare. Slowly Olivia realized that this was Anthony, not Brian. The touches had been loving, sensuous, gentle. They bore no relation to the rough, contemptuous cruelty of the past.

The terror died slowly from her eyes, and her body stilled in his arms. Anthony loosened his grip, feeling her surrender, and smiled ruefully into her bewildered countenance.

Olivia simply looked at him, her eyes still wide, a lingering terror remaining in their dark depths.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you so,” he said, reaching to brush a lock of hair from her brow. “You must have been so deeply asleep. I wished only to bring you pleasure.”

Instinctively Olivia grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to her waist. She crossed her arms over her breast, shivering slightly. “I thought… I thought…”

“What did you think?” He caressed the curve of her cheek.

She shook her head. “It was just a nightmare. But it seemed to be really happening.”

Gently he took her hands, drawing them away from her body. “How mortifying to be the subject of someone’s nightmare.” He was still smiling ruefully, but there was a question in his eyes.

Olivia averted her gaze. There was an instant’s silence, then she said, “What on earth are you doing here? My father’s in the house.”

“He’s not going to know I’m here.” Anthony caught her chin, turning her to face him. “Kiss me and then you’ll know I’m no figment of a nightmare.”

“No!” Olivia jerked her chin free of his hold. “You c-can’t just c-come in here… come through my window like… like Romeo… and expect me to turn into Juliet.”

“I thought Romeo didn’t get further than the balcony,” Anthony observed. But he sat back from her now, his hands resting easily on his knees.

“You certainly don’t look like Romeo,” Olivia said. “Why are you dressed like that? Is that paint on your face?”

“I had business to do. I didn’t have time to take it off.”

“Just what are you?” she demanded.

“A pirate… a smuggler…” He laughed slightly.

“And a man who frequents the king’s presence chamber pretending to be a dandified half-wit. And now look at you…” She flung out a hand at him. “What are you supposed to be now?”

“A fisherman.”

“A fisherman?” Olivia stared at him, momentarily defeated. “How many people are you, Anthony… or is it Edward?”

“Hard as it may seem to believe, just the one,” he said simply. “And Anthony will do for you. Right now, though, I’ve a mind to play physician.” He reached forward and twitched aside the covers. “Turn over and let me have a look at your thigh.”

“It’s all healed up,” she said, grabbing for the sheet again. “Phoebe looked at it.”

“Nevertheless, I prefer to judge the progress of my handiwork myself.” His eyes darkened and he placed his hands, cool and strong, over hers as they clutched the sheet. “Why would you be so shy with me now, Olivia, after all that we shared?”

She didn’t answer him, repeating instead softly, “Why did you c-come?”

“To look at your wound and to return this.” He took his hands from hers and there was no disguising the disappointment, the flash of frustration in his eyes. He reached to the bedside table and