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

rolling away with a muted groan as he stared again at the cabin’s criss-crossing beams, now dimly lit by the hint of daylight.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled,

His heart thumped like a wild thing. Desire pulsed through him. But he would not seduce a vulnerable girl. Good God, it was not honourable, or sensible, or even safe.

‘We must go. Starting to get light out,’ he said, abrupt and gruff in his reluctance.

He got up. He looked away as she sat up also, her shirt hanging forward and her hair delightfully mussed.

‘I will go outside and get water,’ he said, leaving quickly.

It was still dim, but with a hint of dawn brightening the eastern sky. He filled the tin cup, also splashing water on his face. He should take a cold bath, it might bring back some semblance of self-control.

On his return, she was sitting quite composed. He handed her the cup. ‘I’m—I mean—I apologise about before. I regret my actions,’ he said.

She took the mug. ‘Our circumstances are exceptional, likely resulting in our...foolishness. We will leave here and return to civilisation and put this unfortunate experience behind us.’

She spoke crisply, in businesslike tones, with as much emotion as his man of business might display about an unpaid bill. Except for the slight flushing of her cheeks, she seemed quite at ease. Meanwhile, his heart beat like a crazy thing wanting to break free of his ribcage.

‘I’d best get more water,’ he muttered. ‘We should douse the fire.’

Millie glared at his retreating figure. He was positively galloping from the cottage. The door clanged behind him.

Of course, he regretted the kiss. And why wouldn’t he? A fashionable gentleman would want someone beautiful, accomplished, witty. She was none of those things. Likely he’d had a moment of weakness brought on by the near-death experience, danger or the cold night.

She pulled her clothes more tightly about her. And what had she been thinking? Her character was not of the sort to forget duty. For the past twelve hours, she’d been damning herself for her foolhardy smuggling escapade and reminding herself that a respectable marriage was her best option, both for herself and Lil.

From now on, she would behave with the utmost propriety. She would search the cabin for anything which might help them on the journey. She would guide them to the nearest habitation. She would return home and hope Flora had concocted some story and her reputation was still intact. She would marry the estimable Mr Edmunds, would somehow save Lil from Harwood and let down neither her sister or mother.

With new determination, Millie stood, looking around the tiny cabin. Wincing, she went to the small cluttered alcove. It contained a broken chair, a plough, cutting tools and straw. Again, she felt a shiver of unease that so many items had been abandoned. She glanced nervously, half expecting to see the cabin’s owner had arrived, intent on revenge.

She saw no one and was about to step back into the central part of the cottage when she noted a bin. Perhaps she was fuelled by curiosity or a last-ditch hope to find food. Indeed, potatoes flickered through her mind much like a small child would dream of sugar plums at Christmas.

Kneeling, she touched the rough wood, trying to pull up on the lid. It did not move and she realised that it was padlocked. She twisted the box about. Why would a peat-cutter need a padlocked box?

She scanned the oddments of tools. A blunt knife lay close to the plough and, holding it carefully, she placed the blade under the metal clasp. The knife skidded. She swore as it fell to the dirt floor.

The door clattered behind her as Sam returned. ‘What are you doing in there? We need to leave.’

‘Give me a moment.’

This time the knife did not skid. Gripping it, she angled the blade sharply, prying off the lock so that it fell to the ground with a heavy clunk.

Millie lifted the lid.

The box did not contain potatoes.

Chapter Five

Millie swallowed. Her hands tightened on the edge of the box while a deep chill seeped into her bones.

She heard the fizzle of the peat fire as Sam doused it with water.

‘What is this?’ he asked.

She swallowed, glancing back at him in mute appeal. She reached in, touching the cold gold of a woman’s locket, as though to affirm its existence and prove it was not a part of a nightmare. Her hand brushed the corner of a child’s portrait and the round contours of a man’s pocket watch.

‘Pearls,’ she whispered, pulling up a delicate strand of moon globes. ‘A peat-cutter wouldn’t have all this.’

‘Remnants of the wrecker’s hoard. Things he couldn’t sell right away.’

She let the pearls drop, the smooth feel of them distasteful. They clinked together, snaking around the child’s portrait and the watch. She stared at the collection: signet rings, watches, a locket with tiny blonde hairs trapped beneath the glass.

Relics from the dead.

She remembered Jem’s twisted form and sightless eyes. She remembered the other men, both on the beach and flailing, helpless, in the seas. She stood, stepping back, needing to distance herself.

‘We have to leave,’ Sam said. ‘It is not safe. They may be back.’

Millie nodded. Her throat hurt and she felt the sting of tears. She bent, lifting the lid to close it. The splintered lock dangled.

‘You broke the lock? Why?’ Sam asked sharply.

‘Looking for food.’

‘Locked in a box?’

‘I thought—’

‘You could not have left well enough alone?’ he snapped.

‘What does it matter? They’d have known we’d been here from the fire.’ She dropped the lid. It clattered closed.

‘That we’d sought shelter, not that we’d discovered...this.’ He gestured to the box with its dangling lock. ‘I should never have let us stay.’

‘You did not,’ Millie said. ‘Besides, it would not have been safe to carry on at night.’

He stared at the box, as though its exterior would somehow serve to inform. ‘But who did this? Who are they? A smuggling gang, no doubt, but from where? Villagers? Fishermen from further