Chapter 3
Three
Dear Cousin,
It is with humble regret I write this letter.
The Earl of Astley has been seized by the French on our voyage from The United States to Spain.
Due to the war between our countries, I was hesitant to notify your war office lest I further the conflict and cause an international incident, or Britain revoke my license to conduct business with Spain, Portugal and Canada.
My license was the very reason why I was comfortable transporting the earl to Spain.
I did not, however, know of his espionage expect to be fired upon by the French because the earl was aboard my ship.
My ship, the Fairhaven, suffered damage to the mainsail during a bloody battle “misunderstanding” with the French Navy in the Bay of Biscay open sea and was taken by force peacefully boarded.
French Navy Captain Rochefort informed me he was there to seize Astley and no one else.
Captain Rochefort threatened to burn my ship seize my ship with everyone on board unless I turned Astley over to the French Navy.
Astley stepped forward and surrendered himself. The damned fool.
It is unclear how the French knew Astley was on a mission for the Crown my schooner.
If the person responsible for the heinous act of reporting to the French is one of my crew, I will charge him with mutiny.
The French captain has rightly ridiculously accused Astley of spying and said Bonaparte would decide how much blood money ransom would be a reasonable amount for the return of a member of the Crown’s peerage who was in the service of his King.
They have recovered a damning personal letter written by Astley to his non-existent wife family as evidence of his perfidy.
I would deliver the dire news myself, but I cannot risk my crew being impressed into the British Navy.
Prior to his capture, Astley stated his family always retires to the earl’s estate in the bloody wilds of Scotland for the holidays.
As I am currently bollocks deep in negotiations with the French to obtain the bloody fool’s Astley’s release prior to the holidays, I would be indebted to you if you could deliver the devastating news to his mother.
I don’t know if you are acquainted with the Countess of Astley, but I made a promise to the earl that his mother would know the truth of his fate.
I feel this type of news should be delivered in person, not by correspondence that may or may not reach Astley’s family.
Please convey my deepest regret for the clusterfuck debacle.
God’s speed,
Miles
—A redacted letter to Joshua Forrester, Esquire, London, England from his cousin, American Captain Miles Gallagher of the Fairhaven merchant ship, in reference to the capture of Simon Clark, Earl of Astley, November 1811. The final letter did not disclose Astley’s crimes against the French.
He was waiting for her in the great hall.
Looking down the main staircase, she could see Joshua pacing back and forth across the ancient stone as if he were one of the conquering leaders of the English army that had invaded this castle time and time again.
Would he burn it down if she refused to join him?
Storm the stairs if she did not descend?
She watched him from the shadows, his dark hair glistening in the light from the chandelier.
He was like no other man she’d ever known.
When Nithesdale had first introduced him to her, she’d had no use for attractive men.
To be honest, she had no use for any man other than Nithesdale, who’d been more of a father to her than her own had been.
Joshua had merely been a brilliant advisor. Nothing more.
Yet he’d slowly snuck into her psyche and had begun to mean more.
She began to anticipate his arrival for their business meetings like a young woman looking forward to meeting her beau at a ball.
Then their meetings had become scandalously more intimate, often occurring over a meal, or late into the evening on her request. When time had escaped them, Joshua had slept in one of the guest rooms. Down the opposite hall from her bed chamber, too far away to tempt her into acting inappropriately. Like he was now.
Already wearing his greatcoat, he held her coat over his arm as if he would assist her in dressing.
She wanted him to do the opposite. He wanted the opposite as well.
It had been blatantly apparent as he’d secretly consumed her words on the list. She’d noticed the instant his trousers had become uncomfortable and he’d attempted to hide behind the pianoforte.
Her own body had prepared for him instantaneously, growing heated and wet. So wet.
His tall, athletic build was divine. He sported lean muscle and sinew, without the assistance of padding or corsets so many men of the ton wore.
Joshua didn’t require anything to mold his body, it came to him naturally and she’d been hard pressed to determine where he’d acquired such masculine grace.
A man who worked behind a desk all day should not possess such raw virility.
She bit the inside of her lower lip, then closed her eyes and willed her heartbeat to slow.
It would do her no good to fall down the stairs at his feet.
Rolling her shoulders once to release the tension, she opened her eyes and headed down the stairs with what she hoped was a look of pleased serenity.
She watched as he turned and matched her step for step.
With a longer, stronger, purposeful stride he met her at the bottom of the staircase while never taking his eyes from hers.
She stopped one step from the bottom, her breath coming faster as she realized he was still taller.
Then he bowed over her hand and kissed the back of her knuckles hidden by her gloves.
How she wished her skin was bare so that she might feel the touch of his lips on her skin once more.
His gaze strayed to the wool bonnet she had designed specifically for ladies who traveled to Scotland.
Through the years she had avoided visiting Caerlaverock during the winter months because of the frigid weather.
This year, however, she’d made up her mind to stay with Iseabail through the bitter cold months and necessity had driven her to design something warmer.
Her current wool bonnet might appear less ornate upon one’s initial sighting, but closer inspection displayed delicate embroidered Scottish heather with beadwork along the brim.
She had been very pleased with the outcome, but was unsure of the reaction it would receive by members of the ton. She waited for Joshua’s evaluation.
“You have far exceeded my expectations of what a Scottish bonnet should look like. It’s quite beautiful, although the beauty of the woman wearing it may be influencing my opinion.”
Her cheeks heated at the compliment. “Thank you, Mr. Forrester.” He had always been kind with his remarks, but discussing her appearance was new.
He leaned in close, a twinkle in his eyes. “I believe we are beyond addressing each other so formally, don’t you?”
She could not stop the blush from rising to her cheeks as his eyes traveled to her lips. She didn’t know what to say, so she just nodded as he assisted her down the final step.
“I’m curious why you didn’t make your bonnet out of beaver skin. Don’t you think it would be more suitable to Scottish weather?”
“I’ve never understood a man’s desire to wear a dead animal on his head, and I believe most women of the ton would share my opinion.” She didn’t say if every woman was escorted by a man who had his masculine appeal, they would be fainting within moments of donning a hat such as that.
He looked down at the beaver skin hat in his hand. “Does it offend you?”
“You are at the height of fashion and fashion never offends me. Just don’t ask me to wear it.” He tilted his head in deference to her comment and then assisted her into her winter redingote.
Their old comfortable camaraderie returning, she felt a surge of relief, until he asked his next question.
“Phoebe.” The deep timbre of his voice sent tingles down her spine as he whispered her Christian name. “Are you ready to mark off the items on your list?”
She gave him an overly bright smile as if all she thought about was the fun in the snow Iseabail had spoken of. “I cannot wait. What shall we do first? Build a snow woman, have a snowball fight, or create snow angels?”
The corner of his mouth twitched before he said, “I took the liberty of having Mrs. Hagerty pack a picnic basket so that we might make an afternoon of it. First, we will take a sleigh ride to the top of the rise, and then sled down a nearby hill. After lunching, we can build a snow woman, make snow angels and then you can lick those snowballs you wrote about.”
She nearly tripped on the deep rumble of his voice as he said “lick.” The picture all too vivid in her mind. She cleared her throat. “That’s not necessary.”
“I mean to cross off every last item on your list.”
“Oh.” She tried not to let her nerves show, but she had planned it all out in her head so they would always be within sight of someone on the estate. It was the only way to keep herself from touching the man inappropriately. He, however, had made plans for the privacy her list required.
And he planned to complete the list. That scandalous, erotic list she had never in her wildest dreams expected to experience.
“If you would rather not go out…” He showed no emotion at all and she suddenly couldn’t tell if he was anxiously awaiting her to say, let’s go partake in the debauchery you wrote about, or if he would rather stay close to the castle so he could get this tedious task of performing the childish part of her list over with.
For all she knew, since his last correspondence, he decided to hell with waiting for her, and he’d found himself a mistress to share his own depravity.