Chapter Eleven #2
Abigail shrugged. “A little but probably not terribly so. Besides, some things are worth the risk.” If she managed to find something of actual value, then it might be quite the thing to send him to Town with it—he could sell for her, possibly to the institution she so keenly wished to impress—The Geological Society of London.
Surely a gentleman like Mr. O’Sullivan would have no trouble at all in helping her sway over such an establishment.
Off her mind went concocting worlds where she might be admitted, her papers might be published, and her finds would be celebrated.
Abigail was just about to launch into this explanation, when Robert shot out his hand.
It brushed against Abigail’s fingertips and sent awareness and longing straight through her body.
She stopped in her tracks. He simply took her basket from her, so she did not have to carry it.
“You are simply going to return to our previous state as if we had not kissed.”
“Why would you like me to revert to something else, or someone I am not?” Abigail wished she did not sound quite so bullish. Why did everyone expect her to know the answers to questions she was not certain of?
He started to walk onwards, in the general direction of the rockslide, and Abigail continued at his side.
“I simply thought that after last night, you might wish for some explanation.”
“I think we discussed everything we needed to.”
“All business with you, Miss Abigail.” He laughed again. “It is heavier than normal today.” He stopped moving and Abigail slowed too, grateful for the pause, and the change of topic.
Mr. O’Sullivan moved items around in the basket, settling on the papers she had brought with her. A manuscript from France from the genius pen of Monsieur Cuvier had recently arrived.
“Be careful,” Abigail said, “I don’t want it getting wet.”
“Where did you get this?” Robert looked up, his handsome face marred by a curling lip as his fingers tightened on the pages. Abigail had to pry them loose from his grip.
“Paris of course—” Abigail flicked through a few pages, and then stuffed it back into the basket, it was raining after all, and she had not begun her notes yet.
Her French was reasonable, but not amazing and the details of Cuvier’s words would be lost if she was not precise.
A ruddy great smudge or raindrop would not help her.
“We are at war with them.”
“Not over fossils. Or the zoological and geological discoveries. Not over science,” Abigail snapped.
There was one thing that bored and annoyed her in equal measure was the endless wars.
To her mind, it was a foolish waste, when there were so many wondrous and interesting things one could be doing with one’s time rather than finding new ways to kill one another.
“Fossils?” Robert was pacing over the pebbles, his movements a touch erratic. “Would that not be convenient?”
“What else would I care for?” Abigail said back.
The question was asked in anger, but a fragment of her as she spoke, realized she did care for him.
More than she was prepared to admit, too.
She sucked in a breath, moving closer, and taking up his hands, interlinking their fingers.
“Let us not talk about this fight. Of course, I need to read Cuvier Lamarck, and many French men. They are the most knowledgeable. Their wisdom transcends barriers of nationality and war—”
“Nothing can.” Robert pulled her closer. Color flaming his cheeks and making his blue eyes brighter than normal. “Surely, you must know where such things come from. There are smugglers all along the coastline, Abigail. You cannot be blind to such things.”
The taunt hurt. The idea because of the way she was, that she might be unable to see something that everyone else noticed, stung.
Mulishly, Abigail dropped her gaze, and was surprised when Robert tightened his grip, one hand snaking around her waist, and the other lifting to cup her face.
“I would not believe you guilty, but you must tell what you know. Where did these papers come from? How did you get hold of them? I have heard you called dangerous, and it must be because of something you know.”
Seconds dragged by, in which Abigail could feel the frantic beat of his chest against hers, an urgency to his breath. She focused on his face, attempting to understand if all he really wanted was the name of the bookseller in Lyme Regis.
If she were to have her way, she would simply kiss him again.
There was a simplicity to the touch of his mouth on hers which chased away the everyday worries of the rest of the world.
But they were out in the open, in the middle of the beach and whilst it might have been raining, Abigail was not certain if they might be spotted.
Her father’s cane clattered to one side, and Abigail pulled an inch away from him.
If her mother’s friends caught wind of them kissing on the beach, Abigail’s plans to never wed would be sabotaged forever. But that did not mean she did not want to kiss him—she wanted that a great deal, and the one taste she had promised herself last night might well not ever be enough.
“Mr. Frew,” Abigail said. “In answer to your question.”
Robert’s face creased, his firm lips thinning as he looked down at her.
Abigail mused it was helpful he was only just six feet, it meant he did not tower over her, and she could better study his face.
Appreciate the sharpness of his cheekbones, without straining up into his face.
Better make a study of his crystal-clear blue eyes, so icy they sent shivers of awareness down her back.
Luxuriate in the shape of his lips and recall in exquisite detail how they had felt against her own.
“Are you saying he is the front of the operation?” Robert asked.
He pulled her over and onto the nearest rock.
It was a large formation big enough for them to sit, provided they sat close enough.
Exchanging whispers, despite there not being another soul close by.
“I’ve heard a great deal of rumors, a few snatched names, but other than the name of the Pinhayers. But I don’t know much.”
“Pinhay is a town not far from here,” Abigail said. She did not know how widely Robert had travelled in the area. “It is not especially to my taste. Although Squire Liddell resides close by, if you were seeking—”
“I know. I was able to piece that together.” Robert smiled, although he looked angry.
“God, I feel this is all I know, the lay of the land. Who is who. But nothing about what they do in the dark of night. Nothing concrete. Liddell is not the man I am after. The man is near eighty, and his son is a general. He is unlikely to be breaking the law. But the name Frew is a new one, I had not considered…”
“You have not been to his bookshop?” Abigail asked. “Mr. Frew is a most efficient bookseller. My foreign pamphlets do tend to take a little longer to reach us, since they are sent down from London.”
“You do not believe Mr. Frew is engaged in a form of treason, or smuggling?” Robert asked.
“No, of course not.” Abigail could not help laughing. “Why would he need to? If someone was after bootlegged goods—”
“Yes?” Robert asked. Abigail found the fierceness of his stare intimidating. “What do you know, Abigail?”