Caught in a Cornish Scandal by Eleanor Webster (top novels of all time .txt) 📗

despite the pain and cold, there was a strength about her as she moved, sure footed, as though she belonged in these wild places.

‘Sam! Look!’ Millie’s sharp tones cut through his abstraction as she again halted abruptly. She pointed towards the horizon. At first, he could see nothing, but then, hunkered against the hillside, he saw the outline of a hut, the grey stones visible against the yellowed grasses. Almost, it seemed like a mirage or illusion.

‘Should we go there?’ she asked.

‘It’s out of our way. How far to Fowey? Will we make it by nightfall?’

She looked about the landscape. ‘I’m not certain. It is still some distance. And the days are short.’

He glanced towards the sky. They had been walking for hours. Day was sliding into the heavy gloom of late afternoon. The lull between storms was also ending. He could feel the wind picking up, pushing the heavy, black, rain clouds inwards across the moor.

‘I wish we could get home tonight,’ he said. ‘Your family must be so worried for you.’

‘And yours.’

‘And your reputation...’

‘Flora will say that I went out fishing and got caught in the storm. At least, I hope she will.’

‘You do that often? Fish?’

‘Yes. Though not usually in a storm.’

He stared towards the solitary dwelling. He hated to think of Frances being worried or scared for him. He’d stayed away much too long, only to arrive and then disappear.

‘Maybe someone living there could help us get to Fowey quicker. They might have a donkey or cart.’ He doubted this, even as he said the words. Even from this distance, the place looked abandoned. He saw no light or smoke from the chimney. ‘And, at least, we could find shelter.’

‘But what if...?’ Millie let the sentence peter into the air. He knew she was visualising the slaughter at the beach.

‘It is more likely a peat-cutter’s cottage than anything ominous. Besides, if we cannot get to Fowey before nightfall...’

‘We’ll die of exposure.’

Of course, they could not go as the crow flies. To do so, they would have had to take a short cut through the peat bog with all its inherent dangers.

Instead, she guided them around the high land towards the hill. As always, the moors played its tricks and the hut remained tantalisingly distant. The only thing marking the passage of time was her heavy-limbed exhaustion, the dimming daylight and a growing thirst and hunger.

Millie tried to imagine what her family might be doing. Flora, their only remaining servant, was the most practical. She would take control. Likely she would have urged Millie’s mother to lie down, giving her a sleeping draught. Then she would have walked down to the village to talk to Sally. Likely Sal would tell her about the smuggling.

Then a more awful thought struck her; a ‘what if’ bringing with it an endless series of ‘what ifs’. Jem and the others might have been found. If so, Sal and Flora would think she had also died. Mother would likely take to her bed. Lil would be devastated and forced to marry Harwood.

Sweat made Millie’s palms clammy. In her imagination, Lil was married before they’d even got back home and spirited away to Harwood’s estate. But this was not sensible. The bans had to be read. Not that Millie trusted Harwood to even offer legitimate marriage. He would be the type to get a friend to masquerade as a minister. Really, whether his offer was legitimate or not, it did not matter. He was cruel. She’d heard the tales. She’d seen the maids with bruises, the women bustled back up to London or hidden in some cottage, their bellies growing.

Thankfully, these thoughts were interrupted by the more pleasant sound of the burbling stream twisting through the granite crevasse. It danced over the pebbles, its surface puckered with a scattering of raindrops.

‘Thank goodness.’ She hurried forward, bending over the clear water and cupping her hands. The relief as she quenched her thirst pushed out less immediate worries.

‘A man can manage without food, but water is another matter,’ Mr Garrett said.

‘The streams running off the tor are usually fresh.’ She drank quickly, relishing the clear chilled liquid with its earthy taste of minerals. She felt it dribble down her chin and did not care, splashing her face with the cool, refreshing droplets.

She sat back, licked her lips. ‘Better than the best wine.’

Glancing up, she caught his gaze and, although he said nothing, something in his stillness and the intensity of his dark gaze made her oddly self-conscious. She rubbed off the sweat, salt and grime on her face with a hurried movement of her sleeve. ‘I do not think I will ever feel clean again.’

‘I am not certain if your current efforts have improved the situation.’ He gave that slightly lop-sided grin, the one dimple flickering.

‘You are one to talk.’ She flicked water at him. Indeed, his face was covered by a layer of dirt, which somehow served to emphasise the grey-green of his eyes and make the tiny crease on his left cheek more visible.

He laughed as he wiped the droplets from his face with the remnants of his tattered cravat. Squatting beside her, he cupped his hands and splashed the water into his face. They were not physically touching and yet she felt conscious of his tall, long-limbed body, the tightness of his trousers against his muscled thighs, the triangle of chest visible in the ‘v’ of the torn shirt. She remembered the warmth of his skin against her cheek, the thud of his heart and the feeling of his arms about her.

She looked away.

Her focus must be to get home. She must hope that Mr Edmunds would still marry her. He was her best chance. And Lil’s. Even if he lacked sufficient money to pay off Tom’s debt, she would be in a better position to help Lil as a married woman. Edmunds was decent, if dull.

‘Not much further,’ she said, standing and looking up the incline. She hated that they