Chapter Three

The wind from the previous day had vanished. Unfortunately, Red's fuzzy head had not. That damned Miss St. John had irritated him that much he'd proceeded to drink far more whiskey than intended simply to calm down. Even then, he'd found himself tossing and turning, thinking of her.

He lifted his hat to a passing couple, strolling along the promenade in their finery. He thought back to the rather frazzled-looking Miss St. John and silently cursed himself. The woman had shown utter disdain for him, so why should he give her one thought? As if he needed her money! Hell, he had more than enough to last him several lifetimes. It was clear she had little idea who he really was.

And that was the way he liked it.

He smiled genially as Mr. Longstead, the local fishmonger, paused to wish him good day. "Come to see your ship, my lord? I heard she got in last night."

Red glanced toward the harbor where the masts of the Endeavor could be seen amongst a few others. "Indeed."

"There was quite a squall last night. Lost a fishing boat apparently. At least with a fine ship like yours there's no chance of that," the old man said.

"For that, I am grateful. Did you get a good catch in spite of the weather?"

Mr. Longstead paused to glance up at the sky, his white, bushy eyebrows lifting. "Not bad at all. The crews saw a couple of patrol ships out, though. Damned things don't half like to get in the way."

The man's skin was more creased than it should have been for his years, and the color of leather. Many years at sea before Mr. Longstead had settled to become a fishmonger were responsible for that. One of the many reasons Red preferred to stay on land. Let Drake worry about the squalls and the sunburned skin. His captain relished every part of being in charge of a ship.

"I suppose they must do their duty."

He snorted. "Their duty...they don't care about duty. They're greedy beggars, is all."

Red nodded slowly. Most of Cornwall, and he suspected much of the south coast of England, hated the excise men. Men like himself brought in cheap goods, some of which could not be bought in England since the war. As long as the smugglers treated the locals well, most supported them wholeheartedly. Of course, there were some awful brutes. Red had heard tales of towns being burnt to the ground because the smugglers were handed over. Thankfully there was no chance of that here. Either the townsfolk turned a blind eye, or they took advantage of the cheap goods.

Naturally, none of them were quite aware of his role in it. The Endeavor, he, and Drake were entirely innocent in the eyes of the townspeople. And that was the way it had to remain. He hated to think what drama and scandal there would be if their upstanding Earl of Redmere was discovered to be a smuggler. As much as they liked smugglers, they did not want their lord to be one.

"Well, I had better let you get on, my lord. I'm sure you have a busy day ahead."

"That I do. I shall send one of the lads down to check out your fresh catch later. I am sure the housekeeper will appreciate a decent bit of fish on the menu."

"Right you are. Good day." Mr. Longstead tipped his hat and moved on his way.

Red took a right along the edge of the harbor. Wooden bollards lined the stone edge, waiting for more ships, though Penshallow harbor rarely saw many big ships. His was the largest and therefore drew a fair amount of attention when in dock.

A few fishermen's cottages lined the harbor, packed close together, some painted white, while others were painted in shades of blue. The morning sun glinted off their tiny, dark-framed windows. Once again, he cursed the weather. Why could it have not been like this last night? If they'd have waited but one day, they could have brought in their haul with ease.

Although in the smuggling game, waiting at all was risky. Far better to get the goods ashore and distributed as quickly as possible. Thankfully that was what he had men like Nate for. His brother was the savviest businessman he'd ever met.

He paused outside the gangplank to the ship. A two-masted ship, the Endeavor was a well-equipped brig. Her sails were tucked safely away and her white and wooden hull gleamed. Nicholas Drake was about the best captain going, and Red was happy for him to be in charge of his ship.

"How goes it?" he shouted up.

Drake arrived in moments, stepped up to the gangplank and gestured for Red to come aboard.

"Captain," Red greeted.

"Red."

Though Drake had spent many years at sea before his leg injury, he showed no signs of wear and tear like the fishmonger. If it was not for his limp, his friend would look in fine health. With sandy hair, clear blue eyes, and more strength than most men, Drake was utterly unlike any seaman Red had ever met. When he had advertised for a captain for his ship, he had known instantly this was the man for him.

And he had never been proved wrong.

They moved down into the bowels of the ship and to the rear cabin. Drake offered him a drink, but Red shook his head. "I drank more than enough last night."

"Celebrating or drowning your sorrows?"

"Bit of both." Red sat, taking in the scent of sea and wood. Drake kept a fine ship, and his cabin was tidy and spotless. The only sign of inhabitance was his ship's log, resting on the desk, carefully filled with fictitious information.

"A hard night?"

Red nodded. "We did well though there were revenue men about. The weather made it damnably hard, however."

Drake poured himself a finger of brandy and sat opposite. "It was pretty choppy last night."

"Any problems?"

Drake smirked. "When has there ever been? The Endeavor dealt with it perfectly."

"She's a fine ship, with a fine captain."

Drake didn't acknowledge the compliment. He did not need to. His skills were known far and wide, and he'd led many a battle charge against France before he'd been struck by shrapnel in the leg.

"When shall we head out again?"

"I have a shipment of wine that will need to be collected from Spain in a few weeks—a legitimate shipment."

"Anything from France?"

Red shook his head. "Not for a while. This latest haul was big enough, it will take us a few weeks to move it on." He paused. "The men, they got off safely?"

Drake nodded. "They slipped in easily enough. The crew knows how to put on a show."

Red grinned. "You do a fine job of it."

He shrugged. "If we can help the war effort, that's good enough for me. A little profit on the side does not hurt, though."

Laughing, Red stood. "You'll get your share in two weeks. In the meantime, have the ship ready and enjoy yourself. If we happen to get any orders through, we'll need to make a quick trip across to France, but I have my doubts anything will arise."

Drake followed suit and stood. He led Red up onto the deck. "You ever think what we'll do once the war is over?" he asked, leaning against the mast.

"What do you mean?"

"We both know you're not in this for the money. The only ones who need the coin are me and Knight."

Red smirked. "You still need coin?"

The captain eyed his fingernails, a half-smile on his face. "Well, I would not mind more."

"You'll get plenty more, do not fear."

"But profit has never been your motivation. So once the smuggling stops being a cover to help the war effort, what then? Do we keep going? Or do we turn our attention to more legal means of profit?"

"Perhaps the war will never end."

Drake chuckled. "You know, I think, in spite of your bellyaching, you like the thrill."

Red lifted a shoulder. Sometimes he did. Sometimes he had to wonder if he had lost his senses, participating in such dangerous actions. There was always risk. The Crown's spy network might be aware of their actions, but they could never acknowledge as much—it would put every spy out there at risk and ruin any chance of using smuggling as a cover to get deep into France again.

"Well, whatever you decide, you will always have my service, Red. I'm indebted to you."

Red shook his head. He knew the captain felt his life was over after his injury. Unable to fight, he'd been lost and wound up in quite a bit of debt from gambling, even going as far as to lose his father's modest estate. When Red had met him, Drake had been a penniless, grizzled baron. The man in front of him was a far cry from that.

"You put your neck on the line for me every time you sail out—it is I who owe you."

A hand to Red's shoulder, Drake shook his head. "Let us call it even."

Red nodded. "I'll see you at the inn tonight?"

"Without a doubt."

"We'll need to get the cargo moved within the next few days. The excise men have been sniffing around."

"Whatever you need, Red."

"Excellent. I shall see you tonight."

Red made his way down the gangplank, mentally tallying up what they'd brought in last night and how they were going to disperse it. He had several regular customers and of course the townspeople would be wanting to purchase some of the goods. That was were Knight came in. The brooding hulk was the face of their operation, and it did not hurt that no one would dare cross him.

Opting to follow the harbor wall down to the town, he eyed the tiny cottages scattered across the hills. He had lived in Cornwall his whole life and avoided London at all costs. His father had never been a fan of it, and Red could never understand why anyone would want to travel such a distance just to be seen and spend time with the ton .

No, give him rolling hills, sandy beaches, quaint towns, and the slow Cornish pace any day.

He peered down the harbor, spotting the sails of the Bounty. He frowned. The Bounty was owned by Sir Michael Newport, a wealthy merchant who operated occasionally out of Penshallow. However, he had only made port here yesterday and they had conversed briefly then. His crew was to take a little shore leave before setting off again. So why were the sails raised?

He headed briskly over and paused to watch the men loading the ship. He shook his head and headed up the gangplank.

He froze.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?"

Miss St. John spun on her heel, her head whipping around. "I could say the same about you."

"I asked first."

She jerked her chin up. Though she had looked a little frazzled

the previous night, the firelight had made her skin soft and her wispy curls touchable looking. He could not tell if the harsh sunlight made her more or less appealing. Her skin still appeared soft, with a hint of color from the fresh air on her cheeks. A few freckles danced across her nose, and her eyes were a warm nutty shade. Her hair was inky black and shiny. That nose she so boldly thrust up in the air was by no means the petite sort of thing that most women opted to have painted in their portraits, but it suited her stubborn chin and big eyes.

"Seeing as you would not help me, I have hired someone else. If you are now having regrets, it is too late."

"Regrets?" He chuckled. "The only one who should have regrets is you."

"Why? Because I did not get down on my knees and plead for the great smuggler Red to help me."

"No." He glanced around. "Because you have commissioned a stolen ship."

A man scurried up the gang plank and paused when he saw Red. He tried to turn around, but Red grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him backward.

"Fred Fletcher," Red said.

"My lord." The scruffy urchin of a man tried to bow, but Red kept him held upright by the scruff of his collar.

"My lord?" Miss St. John blurted. She shook her head. "Leave my captain be."

"Fred here is no captain."

"I certainly am," he protested.

Miss St. John folded her arms. "I demand you release him. We will be setting off shortly, and I must not be delayed."

Red blinked at her. "You are going with them?"

"Yes, they...well, they insisted."

Red shook his head. "Frederick, what the hell are you up to?"

"No-nothing, my lord. She's mistaken. We were just doing some work for Mr. Newport."

"And you decided it might be a good idea to commandeer his ship."

"Never!"

Looking at Miss St. John, Red lifted a brow. "Did this man offer to collect your artifact for you?"

"Yes! He simply wanted me to accompany them so I could be sure the artifact was handed over to them."

Red shook his head, dragged Fred down the gangplank and flung him to the floor. Miss St. John followed, squawking about his mistreatment of the man.

"Do not hurt him. I need him."

"This man, Miss St. John, is a liar and thief." He looked to the few men on deck. "And they are no better. They are well known in this area for getting into mischief."

"My lord," Fred protested.

"But this looks like more than a bit of mischief, does it not, Fred? Were you really planning on stealing a ship and taking Miss St. John goodness knows where? Perhaps you planned to ransom her. Fancied the pirate life, did you?"

Fred scrabbled to his feet, snatching up his hat and placing it on his head. "I planned no such thing."

Red stared him down and saw the man shrink into his boots a little. "Fred?"

The man turned to run away, but Red had him by the back of his coat once more and held him captive.

"We were only going to borrow the ship," he protested. "And the lady. She weren't going to come to no 'arm."

Miss St. John watched them both, wide-eyed.

"Did you give him coin?" Red asked.

She nodded. "Half now and half once we returned."

"Fred," Red warned.

"It's at the inn. We weren't going to do no 'arm, I swear."

"Did you really think you could steal a ship and no one would notice?"

The man's face colored an unpleasant purple hue. Red shook his head. Frederick Fletcher had been a petty criminal for some time, even serving jail time, but he had never done anything quite this bold. It seemed he had a taste for piracy or some other rash idea.

"Miss St. John," he thrust a finger at her, "come with me."

She opened her mouth to protest then nodded weakly.

He looked up at the ship. "Unless you lot want the local militia after you, I suggest you put down the sails and disembark with haste."

The men watching the show from the deck hastened down.

"As for you," he said to Fred, "we're going to visit the magistrate."

Fred groaned.