Caught in a Cornish Scandal Eleanor Webster (new books to read .TXT) 📖

the path. Her tone was soft, but something in it made him turn quickly to her.

‘Yes?’

‘I just realised that there was no cargo,’ she said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I was told to help unload products from France. I was late coming down, but other boats had made it. Most of the cargo would had been brought in. The Rising Dawn was close to empty. And the men would have no personal effects of value. Why would anyone destroy an empty vessel?’

‘Rival smugglers, I’d guess.’

‘You mean from Cornwall?’

‘Most likely. Maybe it was a fight over territory?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘There has always been smuggling, but never this. Seamen wouldn’t lure people, other seamen, to their death. They wouldn’t—’

‘Miss Lansdowne, I do not mean to be unfeeling—those men did not deserve to die like they did on that beach...no one does—but they were criminals.’

She shook her head, saying nothing for a moment as she continued the ascent. ‘You’re from London. You do not understand.’

‘What has London to do with it?’ he asked, irritated as he chased up the path to keep up with her. Did she think there were no criminals in London, no children who had never been taught right from wrong? He knew and that was why he funded schools to support the moral growth of children whose parents were unable to do so.

She made no reply, merely continuing up the trail, moving swiftly, despite her bare feet,

‘And what do not I understand? Smuggling is a crime. These are grown men, not children who may not understand right and wrong,’ he said.

She paused, glancing back at him, her dark brows pulled together in a way which was almost formidable. ‘It is so much easier to understand right from wrong when one is not desperate.’

Thankfully, they were close to the clifftop. Millie scrabbled upwards, eager to distance herself from the man behind. Mr Garrett was judgemental. He did not understand the life of the men in the mines. He did not know what it was like to be forced into a life one did not want. He did not know what it was like to feel one’s hope and dreams disintegrate. Or to pore over figures and to know that the best, the only, way to help one’s family was marriage.

Marriage to the dull Mr Edmunds. Marriage to a man twice her age. Marriage to a man who had no interest in her other than to acquire the narrow strip of their property which bisected his own.

But that was not the worst of it. The worst of it was knowing that marriage to Mr Edmunds might not be enough to save Lil. Just as her nagging had not been enough to save Tom.

It was never enough.

With a burst of angry energy, she pulled herself over the cliff’s edge, scanning the area to gain a sense of her surroundings. The ground stretched, flat, ugly and utterly desolate, except for a scattering of hawthorn trees, twisted and hobbled by the wind.

She stared. The anger which had thundered through her seemed to solidify, turning cold, as she looked about with growing hopelessness at the harsh, unforgiving landscape.

Tears smarted. What had she expected: a country village and welcoming tea party? She stared at the bleak surrounding with a sense of futility. She’d overcome one hurdle just to be faced with this vast barren landscape, unbroken save for the tors strung along the horizon.

She turned back towards the sea. It shimmered, a dull metallic grey. In and out and back for breakfast. That had been the plan. Almost she felt as though a friend had turned on her.

Mr Garrett scrambled over the cliff’s edge. It was ironic that this man from Tom’s past, who represented everything she did not like about England’s aristocracy, should be her sole company. It was an irony that some literary genius would have loved.

With a sigh of exhaustion, he straightened, also staring at their surroundings. The contrast between the first time she’d seen him and now was almost funny. Then, he’d been every inch the fashionable gentleman with his perfectly fitted jacket, high collar and intricate cravat. Now his clothes were close to rags. He’d taken off his coat and held it in one hand, the dark tails hanging torn and wet. His shirt was ripped, several buttons undone, and she could see his chest. His trousers were tattered, his feet bare and the ends of his once-white cravat fluttered in the wind.

‘We made it,’ he said, surveying the emptiness. ‘Where would they have gone and how?’

‘Horseback most likely. There looks to be hoofmarks, but it is too dry and hard to see clearly. We will be able to see more clearly in the damper areas.’

‘Any clue where we are?’

‘I am unsure.’

‘At least no one can sneak up on us.’

He smiled. He had one dimple on the side of his cheek that made a slight crease. Millie smiled also. Laughter bubbled inside her. She grinned and then chuckled. The emotion grew, swelling up from somewhere deep. It shook her, breaking through the numb paralysis morphing into high-pitched giggles which subsided into a whimper.

He stepped up quickly, reaching out for her, taking her into his arms and holding her tightly to his chest so that she could smell the sweat and salt on his skin. Instinctively, she clung to him. Her fingers tightened on his arms, needing to feel that he was real, solid, alive. His shirt was damp against her cheek. But she could feel the warmth of his skin and hear the thudding, regular beat of his heart.

‘Hush,’ he said, rocking her as he might a child. ‘Hush.’

His words and the gentleness of his tone made things both worse and better. Her sobs lessened. The tight bands about her ribcage loosened and she could breathe more easily. She became aware of the strength of his arms, the way they encircled her, making her feel safe, protected and anchored away from the horror of the beach below.

For several seconds, she