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

Sam felt again taken aback by her bluntness.

‘I believe in honesty, perhaps to an unladylike extent.’ She looked at him with that disconcerting direct gaze as she again answered an unspoken question.

He paused, caught by her candid blue gaze.

Did she? How would she react if he’d told her that he found her the most fascinating female he’d encountered in years? Or that he wondered what it would be like to kiss her? And that her eyes were a beautiful blue?

He wouldn’t say any of this, of course. He would not take advantage of a young woman still emotionally distressed. Nor would he step away from the script deemed appropriate for a gentleman. He paused and wondered which was the greater motivation; character or convention.

She nodded, turning from him and moving forward. ‘So what do you remember?’

‘The last thing I remember with any clarity is dinner,’ he said, stepping after her.

A drunken escapade was a simple explanation. It would make sense; dinner followed by too much port. Except he did not believe it. His memory loss was not merely the blurriness of too much wine. Moreover, he’d been too worried about Frances to drink very much. Even that afternoon she’d seemed oddly quiet, holding her baby as though fearful to put him down. At dinner, it had been worse, as though her body was present, but her mind was not.

‘I do not think that my memory loss was caused by too much drinking,’ he said.

She glanced back. ‘You did hit your head so I suppose it could be that.’

He touched the base of his skull somewhat tenderly. ‘Isn’t that the stuff of novellas and fanciful stories?’

‘There is often a grain of truth in such tales, at least so my sister says.’

‘Perhaps. I am not well versed in such fiction.’

‘My sister adores them. The more unlikely the better.’ Her voice had softened, as though merely thinking about her sister gentled her disposition.

‘So might I be a prince in disguise?’ he asked, needing to draw out this tenuous connection, this moment of levity, to hear the laughter in her voice and imagine her expression relaxing, her lips curving upwards in that smile which was somehow transformative.

‘Her favourite authors would find that entirely possible with all manner of assassins eager for your demise.’

‘You say that with too much enthusiasm.’

She glanced back again, her face now serious. ‘But is it possible? Could someone wish you harm? Might you have been intentionally attacked?’

He frowned. ‘It seems unlikely. My memory of my last twenty-eight years is quite clear and I do not remember any duels, physical skirmishes or enemies to speak of. Although I suppose I might have had a run-in with one of your smuggling friends.’

She shook her head. ‘It was a small delivery. I saw the other two boatmen collecting the shipment and they did not seem distressed.’

‘Perhaps they are too used to clonking the odd inconvenience on the head to experience any additional concern?’

‘No, they are both very pleasant individuals. Mr Jones is the baker and Mr Larose the undertaker. That doesn’t sound reassuring, I know, but he is quite the loveliest man. Where were you staying?’

‘Manton Hall.’

‘What?’ She jerked to a stop so suddenly that he almost collided with her. She turned around sharply, her expression again becoming one of hostility. ‘Why?’

‘My sister lives there.’

‘Your sister lives at Manton Hall? Married to Jason Ludlow?’

‘Yes, you know him?’

‘Not well,’ she spoke quickly, all trace of humour gone, almost spitting out the words as though they tasted bitter on the tongue.

‘You do not like him?’

She shrugged. ‘I do not like him or his friends. However, your situation is easily explained. You and Ludlow made some crazy wager to see who could balance on a cliff, swim across the cove or something equally foolish.’

‘Gracious, for someone conspiring with pirates you sound rather judgemental.’

‘Smugglers. And I prefer sensible.’

‘Which was why you chose to row in a storm?’

She stiffened, swallowing. He saw the movement in her throat and an expression of bleak sadness flicker across her countenance. ‘You are correct. I made a poor choice. Poor choices are a family failing.’

‘Miss Lansdowne, I did not mean to upset you.’

‘I am not upset. Your statement is entirely accurate. My choice may greatly impact my family, who have already experienced so much pain.’ There was a raw, pent-up emotion within the flat tones.

‘I...look...’

‘Might I suggest we focus on working together to ensure our survival as opposed to deciphering the past? Doubtless whatever led to your near drowning will become clear if—when—we get home. Talking is slowing our progress. At this rate we’ll never get anywhere before nightfall. Let us continue in silence unless there is something urgent to mention.’

He wanted to argue. He felt angry at her flat dismissal. He also felt peculiarly sad that he’d upset her and irritated that his brother-in-law was condemned while pirating was entirely permissible. Moreover, he was confused that he even cared what this odd woman thought. He was hardly likely to strike up a long acquaintance.

Indeed, it was decidedly more important to determine how he’d ended up drowning and requiring rescue. Despite Miss Lansdowne’s strongly stated opinion, he did not like Jason Ludlow sufficiently to drink excessively with him, gamble or take foolish risks.

So why had he have left his sister’s house in the middle of a rain storm? Why go to the sea?

And so his thoughts kept circling to no effect. The more he pushed the fuzzier dinner became, as if the very act of thinking thickened the fog.

They continued in silence. He did not like the scenery. It seemed so endless, static, without change. Almost he could think that his mind was playing cruel tricks. He glared at the horizon. Maybe that was it. Maybe the moor turned one odd. Cornwall had not helped Frances. He remembered a woman who loved fashion, the theatre, and all the trappings city life. And now...she seemed hollow, a shell of skin and bone.

And Miss Lansdowne was decidedly...odd. Yet, she did not evoke sympathy. Instead,