Page 12 of The Pirate’s Stolen Bride (Cavalier Cove)
CHAPTER TWELVE
CRIMINALLY BAD LUCK
“ H arriet!” her uncle exclaimed. His features twisted into a furious thundercloud when he glanced at Rémy. “Arrest that man. He stole my niece.”
“Uncle Monty, no!” She tried to intervene, but he yanked her away from Rémy’s side. Behind them were three men on horseback. The Riders. One scowling Guardsman dismounted and strode over to them.
“Are you the French scoundrel known as Rémy Desmarais, yes or no?” Warily, Rémy raised his hands and eyed the pistol aimed at his chest. The Rider advanced, forcing him back a step. “Known smuggler. Captain of the Spectre, a ship that sank a ship of His Majesty’s fleet?”
“Do something,” she demanded, tugging her uncle’s sleeve.
“Stay out of this, Harriet.”
Her heart galloped as the angry Guardsman cornered Rémy. The other two Riders went in after him.
“Correct me if I’m am wrong, gentlemen. The Waterguard’s petit boats are not part of the English Navy?” Rémy raised one eyebrow.
Harriet fought the desperate urge to laugh. A giggle escaped before she managed to stifle it. Her uncle cast her a sidelong glare.
“There is talk of moving us into the Admiralty.” The lead Rider cocked his pistol and advanced upon Rémy with narrowed eyes. “Not that it has any relevance to you, pirate. You are under arrest for kidnapping, smuggling, and attacking His Majesty’s ship.”
“But he wasn’t the one who?—”
Rémy shot her a furious glare. Harriet’s jaw snapped shut. He was protecting his cousin, the one who had married a spinster in Cavalier Cove.
“Harriet, come. Prescott has offered to host us until Lucarran can come to collect you. He will call his physician to examine you and ensure no lasting harm has come of your ordeal.”
Horrified, she cast him a beseeching look. “I am fine, Uncle Monty. I don’t need a doctor, and I won’t marry Lord Lucarran.” She couldn’t believe the crotchety old man would consider going through with it. Perhaps she had misjudged his kindness, but she still didn’t want to marry him. “This has all been a misunderstanding.”
“Harriet.”
Her uncle’s grip on her arm tightened. He dragged her to a sleek bay and pointed at the saddle. “Get on that horse. I have been frantic. Do you know how much money it has cost me to bribe half of Cornwall into silence to salvage your reputation?”
She gaped at him.
“You have two choices: either marry Lucarran when he arrives from London, or return to Acton Heathat once and prepare never to leave.”
Lord Montague’s immense estate would be a gilded prison, but no matter how many well-tended acres she had to roam, she would live the rest of her life as a reviled guest.
“I want to marry him, Uncle Monty,” she said in a tone barely above a whisper, watching as the guards shoved Rémy through the doorway and into the bright sun. He blinked, found her, and stared hard as they dragged him to the horses.
Lord Montague pinched his temples and sighed. “You truly are your mother’s daughter.”
No insult could have cut deeper. Harriet sucked in a breath as if he’d punched her.
She would never abandon her own child.
She had been perfectly restrained until Rémy came into her life.
She had spent years contorting herself to fit into a tiny box of propriety, only to find herself forsaken no matter how hard she tried to appease her aristocratic relatives.
Rémy had blown that box to smithereens. She’d been happier with him for four days, half of them spent ill in bed, than in all her twenty-three years combined. He cared for her. Saved her life.
Yet now she had no choice but to get on this horse and stand by as Rémy was hauled away to face the hangman’s noose.
The heaviest truth was that the only choice she’d ever been offered was what color she wanted for the bars of her cage.
Rémy didn’t waste energy testing his bonds. He put every ounce of his energy into ignoring the sneering Guardsman who was stationed outside his makeshift cell.
Not far from here, Harriet was probably being cosseted and fussed over. What an ordeal that scoundrel put you through , her uncle would tut-tut. By now, she’d have had a hot bath and clean clothes and a good meal. His own stomach rumbled.
“Are you paying attention?” The surly guard rattled the bars with his baton. The crude weapon was a reminder that if he attempted to break out of this prison, he would suffer its owner’s wrath.
Not that he stood any chance of doing so. As he understood matters, Viscount Prescott had inherited a tumbledown estate with no fortune to maintain it. He had been selling off bits and pieces of the property to restore his funds. That was how his cousin Thierry had bought his sweet little cottage for such a good price. At the time, his now-wife hadn’t been pleased with the way he purchased it out from under her. They’d worked it out.
Word was that the Viscount acted as a conduit for smuggled goods into London for a cut of the proceeds. Once his shipments arrived on English shores, Rémy didn’t much care what happened to the goods he brought over on the Spectre . He paid his crew and collaborators and got back to France before the Waterguard could catch up.
“Non,” Rémy responded, shaking his head with all the French insouciance he could summon.
“You’ve already cost me my post once, you damned frog.”
Undoubtedly, this connard had lost his own post fair and square. The baton struck a bar near Rémy’s ear. He winced at the reverberating clang.
“I know it wasn’t you captaining the Spectre when she took out the Guard’s boat.” He braced his forearms on the bars and sneered down at Rémy. “Does the name Patrick Leacham mean anything to you?”
“Va te faire foutre.” Rémy turned his head and spat. This was Adeline’s uncle? The one who had taken advantage of her sweet nature for years under the guise of helping her? He wouldn’t have given up his cousin for anything, but he especially wasn’t caving to this toad of a man.
“Dunno what that means in English. Guessing it wasn’t nice.” Leacham rattled the bars again one last time. “We found your boat hidden in a cave. The Spectre has been impounded.”
Rémy’s heart sank. That was his home and his livelihood—his freedom. His life was on that boat.
“I’m headed to the Cock and Bull to celebrate. Tell Maggie and her parents all about how I brought in their best smuggler. Maybe inspect their books to ensure they’re not collaborating.” He winked and headed for the stairs. “We all know they are.”
“I hope they spit in your food,” Rémy called after him without heat. His thoughts miles away. Was Harriet plotting a way to help him escape, or was she planning to marry that Lucarran bastard and leave him to hang?
“Still better than what you’ll be eating when I haul you off to Bodmin Jail in the morning.” The excise officer brought Rémy back to the present. His boots punctuated his steps as he mounted the stairs from Prescott’s makeshift prison, an empty wine cellar with bars and a lock to prevent theft. “I heard Lord Montague has arranged for a special license. All they’re missing to complete the wedding is the groom. If he left as soon as he received the message, Lucarran should be here by tomorrow at the latest.”
He couldn’t see Leacham’s grin, but he could hear it in his smug tone. “The lady marries a lord. I get my post back, perhaps even a promotion. You, the criminal, will hang. Happy endings all around.”
Rémy kissed his closed fingers. “Perfection,” he said sourly into the darkness.