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Chapter Two

"Oh." Hannah tried to tug the hem of her pelisse out from under the boot—the extremely muddy boot—of a short but heavy man. "P-pardon me."

The short man ignored her, too deep into his cups and the conversation he was having with his friends in the entrance to the inn. She gave another tug and heard a frightful ripping sound. She stumbled forward and her palms struck something warm and solid. Hannah jerked back and lifted her gaze to the mammoth of a man. A scar upon his lip, shoulders worthy of a fairytale giant and dark, dark eyes. A tremble racked her.

"F-forgive me."

He merely peered at her as though she was some strange creature from the deep. She might as well be, she concluded. She did not belong in this crowded inn, late at night, amongst drunks and gamblers.

Resisting the urge to draw out her handkerchief and place it to her nose, she took several steps back. It was not that the giant smelled—no it was more the general odor of the place that had her wrinkling her nose. In fact, he had been about the cleanest smelling man she had encountered so far. He folded his arms and frowned at her, forcing her to take a few more steps back, only for her to strike someone else.

This person did notice her and took particular exception to her knocking into his ale. She was none too pleased to have done so either, not when it sloshed over the back of her coat. She twisted her face as a trickle of the cold drink seeped under her collar and slid down her back.

"Clumsy girl," the owner of the ale muttered.

"I am sorry," she said, easing away from the glowering man.

She ignored the giant and pushed deeper into the crowded confines of the inn. Hannah tried not to pass judgement on the patrons—after all, she was hardly an ill-traveled woman and had seen worse places—but none of them did anything to dissuade her initial impression of them.

On several small round tables, tucked into the alcove windows, games of cards were taking place with money being lost and won. She ducked under a wooden beam and stepped around a drunken man sprawled half upon the floor, his back propped up against the bar.

Hannah gripped her pelisse about her and pushed her way through to the bar, placing a hand on the worn wood only to draw it straight back as she came into contact with something sticky and indescribable. She tried to catch the eye of a barmaid, but the woman was too busy dashing about, her tray laden with pints of ale.

Tears threatened to burn in her eyes. She sniffed them back and blinked them away. No tears, my girl, her father's voice intoned.

"No tears," she muttered, recalling the many, many times her father said farewell as he went off on expeditions. She had held back the tears then; she could certainly hold them back now. Goodness, she could hardly stand in the middle of a busy inn and blub now, could she?

It was merely exhaustion. Yes, that was it. It had been a long trip on the mail coach. She had not been able to catch it from Falmouth until seven in the evening. It had been preferable to a stage coach as it was less busy and quicker. Her father always took the mail coach when given the option and his letter had urged her to make haste. The problem was, it was far past time she should be in bed, and she had eaten no supper. Her stomach grumbled, her bottom hurt from being bounced about inside the coach, and a slight headache was starting up.

She glanced around and saw the serving girl heading her way once more. Drawing up her shoulders, she stepped deliberately in front of the girl. With a pretty face, dark, golden hair and a generous bust, Hannah imagined the girl was good for business. If the looks she was getting were any indication, Hannah's supposition was correct.

The girl glanced her over, most likely noting how out of place she was.

"E-excuse me," Hannah started.

"Yes?" Someone behind her bellowed for another ale, and she waved away the customer. "Are you lost, love?"

"N-no, I'm looking for someone." She leaned in. "His name is Red." She whispered the last part.

"What do you want with him?"

"I need to speak with him. It's an urgent matter."

The woman shrugged. "He is over there." She motioned to a lone table tucked by the fireplace. Shadows shielded her from seeing the face of the man but sure enough, she could see a figure hunched over a drink, the firelight picking out only his shaggy hair and the glass of amber liquid in his hand. "Be careful," the serving girl warned, "he's not in the best of moods."

Hannah smirked to herself. She had dealt with much this past week, travelling alone from Hampshire to Cornwall. A grumpy man could hardly intimidate her.

"Thank you."

She made her way over to the man who appeared determined to ignore everything and everyone. She noted the bottle of whiskey on his table—a fine brand that her father sometimes enjoyed. At least half of it was missing. Hopefully he was not too inebriated.

"Excuse me," she started but her voice came out like nothing more than a mouse's squeak. She coughed and tried again. "Excuse me, are you Red?"

His head jerked up. "Who wants to know?"

She took another step closer and gasped. The firelight cleared the shadows around his features. She was not sure what she expected from an infamous smuggler but it was not this. Where were the pock marks? The scars? The missing teeth?

There were no missing teeth to be sure. Though he kept his mouth in a firm line of disdain—or perhaps annoyance—the quick flash she had seen had revealed a mouth of perfectly healthy teeth. As for scars or pockmarks, his skin was perfect.

His light brown hair was, admittedly, a little too long and his face was unshaven, revealing several days of neglect. There were shadows around his eyes too, and he looked weary. However, that could not take away from that fact he was a handsome man.

He stared at her expectantly. She gulped. "I need your help."

"And if I do not wish to give it?"

She shook her head. Impossible. He had to help her. He was her only chance. She dragged out the chair opposite and sat. One dark brow rose at the action. Chin lifted, she propped her arms on the table and leaned forward. He smelled of the sea.

"I need your help bringing across something from France. I'm told you are the man for the job."

"Then you were told wrong."

"I can pay handsomely."

"I don't need coin."

"Do you not? I thought all smugglers did."

He leaned forward abruptly. "You need to watch your tongue, miss." He glanced around. "Not everyone here is a friend."

She jerked back a little. Handsome he might be, but he was also intimidating. His strong jaw, finished with a slight dip that was just visible under the stubble, was set firmly. His eyes glinted in the firelight though she could not tell their color properly.

She took a breath and cast her gaze over him. It was something she was in the habit of doing. Study everything closely enough and any fear she might have of it left. It had worked with spiders. When one looked closely, one could see they were no more than a few legs and a body pieced together. Those long legs no longer appeared so terrifying once she had seen them under a microscope and appreciated the unique design of the creatures.

It did not seem to quite work with this creature. His slightly creased forehead and the still lifted brow did not lose any of it sternness. His lips, she concluded, were generous for a man's, but it did not soften his appearance. She pictured him in evening wear and that helped a little, though she could tell he would be ridiculously handsome and likely still no more polite.

"I was told you were the man to help me," she said, aware of being a little breathless.

"As I said, you were told wrong."

"Will you not even listen to what I need your help with?"

He leaned back and pushed a hand through his hair before folding his arms across a wide chest. Not as wide as the giant's for certain but wide enough to tell her he could break her in half with ease. She had to wonder what she had been thinking coming here but she had no choice.

"Miss..."

"Hannah St. John."

"Miss St. John. I am tired and cold. I have had a long evening. I have no wish to hear tales of damsels in distress. I suggest you find someone who enjoys tales of woe because I, for one, do not."

"I am no damsel in distress."

"Really? Could have fooled me."

"You say you are tired. I have travelled many miles to come to see you. I have been awake for far longer than I should have been. I have not eaten all day and have walked on foot, across unknown countryside, in the dark, to find you. I am not sure how that makes me a damsel or in distress, but it certainly makes me as tired and impatient as you. If you would give me but a moment, I could make my case and leave you to your drink." She glanced at it in distaste. "No doubt you wish to find the bottom of the bottle."

Red chuckled, the sound low and oddly appealing. His gaze never leaving hers, he poured another glass full of the liquid and threw it back before refilling his glass.

She pursed her lips. "My father says you should savor Greybeard whisky."

"Your father is a smart man. And I would be savoring it quite nicely had I not been interrupted."

"Listen to my offer, and I will leave you in peace," she pressed.

His smile grew narrow. Red cradled his glass of whiskey, rolling it around the glass so that it left a coating on the inside. She watched the drink glide back down the inside of the glass.

"Very well then. I shall listen, I shall tell you no, and you—" he thrust a thumb toward the door "—shall leave."

She didn't challenge him. Surely when he heard her tale he would wish to help? Who would not want to be part of history in the making?

"I need something bringing over from France."

"Yes, you said as much."

"There is no need to be rude."

"There is every need. I hardly think you were considering manners when you interrupted my peaceful drink."

She opened her mouth, snapped it shut and drew in a long breath. "Anyway, I have to get this object from here to London. It is imperative it gets there safely without anyone knowing."

"It must be a valuable object."

"It is."

"Why not get someone in Portsmouth or Southampton to bring it over? Why not hop on a ship yourself?"

"You must know how impossible it is with the war. And Portsmouth and Southampton are too closely controlled. My father explicitly told me to bring it to Cornwall. Even Kent is too dangerous. Did you not hear of that smuggling ring that were rounded up and hanged recently?"

He shrugged. "I heard murmurings."

"It does not frighten you?"

He laughed. "The excise men do not frighten me. They could not find their own arses with a map."

Hannah tried not to react to the coarse language. Apparently her surprise must have shown itself on her face as his grin widened.

"So, this object cannot simply be brought over on a private ship?"

She shook her head. "Well, the problem is..." She felt heat surge into her cheeks. "No one will bring it over."

He scowled. "Why the devil not?"

She shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "It is large. Perhaps that's why."

He narrowed his eyes to two slits. "Will you tell me what this object is?"

"Will you take the job?"

"I hardly think that would be wise of me, until I know what it is."

Hannah huffed. She had little choice and he knew it. Besides, as much as they needed to keep their discovery quiet until it was safely in the museum in London, what would a common smuggler do with the knowledge?

"It is an Egyptian artifact. It is of vital historical importance."

She would not mention how it ended up in France or the troubles that her father had encountered. Many people might not care about the history behind such objects, but they would know well enough the profit to be made in such things.

"An artifact?" Both brows lifted.

"Yes."

"You wish to pay me to smuggle in an artifact that, for some unknown reason, no one else will."

"Yes."

He laughed. "Miss Hannah St. John, it has been a...pleasure indeed, but I find my drink is calling to me."

"You will not help me?"

Red shook his head. "Do you think me a fool? If lesser men have turned you down, you will not find me volunteering to help."

"But..."

"You have had a long day, as you said, Miss St. John. Perhaps you should find a bed for the evening." He motioned to the serving girl. "Louisa will tell you if there are any spare rooms."

"I can pay you!"

He shook his head. "I don't need your money."

"So the infamous smuggler Red is scared."

He unfolded his arms and came close. "You forget who you are dealing with, Miss St. John. As you keep saying—extremely loudly—I am a smuggler. I break the law on a regular basis. Do not cross me. I will not say it so nicely next time."

Hannah searched his gaze while her heart trembled in her chest. Would he really harm her? She could not see it and yet, logically, she knew he was right. He was a smuggler, a man who thought himself above the law. What would prevent him from harming her if she did not leave him be?

Straightening, she tugged her pelisse tight around her and stood. "You have missed out on an excellent chance, Mr. Red. I would have paid well, and you could have had a piece of history under your command."

He smirked.

"Enjoy your drink," she said, her tone bitter.

Twisting away, she stormed out of the building and sucked in a gulp of salted air. The moon lingered behind new clouds, casting an intermittent glow over the sea below. She could hear the faint swish of waves. She would not go back in to get a room. Thankfully she had found a room in a cottage in the village not far from the inn. In truth, she had thought little about the practicalities of her journey, having been far too focused on her mission but she had been lucky to find accommodation with an elderly widow who hired out her room to young ladies travelling alone.

Damn that man.

"Insufferable. Vile. Horrible."

Where else would she find someone willing to help? Smugglers were hardly the easiest of men to track down. She had only known of Red through her father's letter as a colleague of his had taken part in some dealings with him when bringing over some expensive French wine that was no longer available because of the war.

Well, she would certainly not beg and nor did he deserve any part of her mission. Why, he should be honored to take part in such a momentous adventure. But, of course, what did a smuggler know of honor?

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