(Bride, #3) The Least Likely Bride by Jane Feather

Author:Jane Feather [Feather, Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: love_history
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

* * *

Anthony surveyed the booty from the cave, piled high in Wind Dancer’s hold. “What do you think Ellen would like, Adam?”

“Lace.”

“If I give her lace, she’ll only use it to make me more nightshirts.”

“They ‘ave their uses. The lass looked right pretty in ’em,” Adam commented slyly.

“That’s as may be,” Anthony responded. “But to return to Ellen…”

“The silk’s too rich fer ‘er tastes. She’d like a nice bolt of kersey or some such. She’s not one for folderols… O’ course, she’s not agin‘ a drop o’ cognac or a nice flagon o‘ that there madeira.”

“Well, that’s easily supplied. And a couple of bottles of burgundy too. Maybe she’d like one of the cashmere shawls. Keep the drafts out in winter.”

“Aye, mebbe so. You goin‘ to visit now?”

“You’re coming too, I’m assuming.”

Adam looked pleased. “Wasn’t sure I was asked.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, man! When would I visit Ellen without you?”

Adam merely shrugged, gathered up the gifts for Ellen, and followed Anthony out of Wind Dancer’s hold.

The dinghy with two sailors at the oars knocked gently against the side of the ship. Anthony jumped down into the boat, reaching up to take Adam’s burdens. Adam followed with rather less agility.

The oarsmen pulled strongly towards the mouth of the chine. Beyond its mouth they hoisted the sail and kept close in to shore until they turned in to a shallow cove, running the boat up on a tiny sandy beach. The cliffs rose steeply on three sides, almost overhanging the beach so that it would be invisible from the clifftop.

Anthony picked up the gifts and stepped onto the beach, reaching forward to give Adam his hand as the older man hauled himself over the side of the boat and stepped gingerly over the rivulets onto dry land.

“We’ll be back ‘ere tonight, master.” The sailors prepared to push the dinghy back into the water.

“Aye. But don’t look for us until well after nightfall.”

Adam huffed and puffed up the nearly invisible trail to the clifftop. They passed a watchman sitting, knees drawn up, gazing out to sea. Like his fellows stationed along the undercliff path, he carried a pipe that would give warning to Wind Dancer of any untoward visitors from land or sea.

“Morning, Ben.”

“Mornin‘, sir.” The watchman offered a half salute. “Mike’s at the top wi’ the ponies.”

Anthony nodded and continued the climb. They would ride across the island to Yarmouth and from there sail across the Solent, past Hurst Castle on its spit of sand, and up the Keyhaven River. Ellen’s cottage was in the tiny hamlet of Keyhaven, and it was there that Anthony had grown up, tumbling in and out of boats almost as soon as he could walk, absorbing the seaman’s craft whenever Ellen released him from the learning that she insisted a gentleman’s son, even an illegitimate gentleman’s son, should acquire.

Smuggling was an active trade along the Hampshire coast as well as on the Isle of Wight, and Anthony had taken to the business as naturally as a duck to water.

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