Chapter Seven

Red paused before knocking on the cottage door. Damn suspicious fools. It was only a stone.

Mrs. Bell answered and dropped into a deep curtsey. "My lord, what brings you here?"

He smiled through his tension at the old lady who was burrowed deep in a knitted shawl. "I have come to call for your guest Miss St. John."

"Indeed." A twinkle behind her glasses made him grit his teeth. He had certainly not come here to enjoy Miss St. John's company. Hell, he'd rather be having his fingernails pulled out one by one than doing what he had to do, but no one would settle until the stone was gone. Even Knight, the bravest man he knew, was on edge after his bout of sickness.

"Will you come into the parlor? I shall call up to her."

"Thank you." Red removed his hat and ducked under the low beam of the fisherman's cottage.

The tiny parlor barely seemed to fit him, but he somehow squeezed onto a small chair that was carefully twisted to face the fire. He assumed the chair opposite was Mrs. Bell's as it was stuffed with cushions, and some needlework rested on the arm. The amber glow of the fire was the only light in the room and the one square window let in little dull sunlight. Wood crackled in the fire, giving off a pleasant smoke scent.

Miss St. John immediately drew his attention when she stepped into the room. Mrs. Bell offered to make tea, but they both refused. Leaving the door ajar, the old woman let them be.

"What are you doing here?"

For an instant, he forgot. Only one day had passed since he thought he'd seen the last of Miss St. John, and he had almost forgotten how wide and attractive her eyes were. The fire made her glossy hair shine, and it contrasted with her pale skin. He could not help but smile at the sight of those freckles, playing their merry way across her nose.

"Well?" she demanded, still not sitting.

"Have you found someone to move your stone?"

She shook her head.

"Then," he sighed, "I am here to offer my services."

"You will help me get the stone to London?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

There was something in her dipped brows and inquisitive gaze that had him confessing. "The men think the stone is cursed."

She blinked several times before laughing. "Cursed?"

"Yes. They attribute the storm and Knight's illness and a few other things to it."

He would not mention their close run in with a navy ship or the fact that Louisa's inn had been searched while the Endeavor had been gone. It was some rotten luck, though Red was not nearly as suspicious as Drake who, as a seaman was in inherently superstitious, and it had apparently rubbed off on the others.

"That's ridiculous."

"Do you want my help?"

She nodded frantically. "I must get it to London for study as soon as possible. There's a mail coach that leaves from Falmouth tonight. Can you be ready by then?"

"We can do better than that, Miss St. John. Can you be ready within the hour?"

"Of course."

"My coach is waiting outside."

She peered out of the window. He did not look too, but he knew what she'd see. His private coach, led by four horses. Black, shiny and painted with his family crest. His driver and footmen waiting patiently.

Miss St. John rotated slowly back to him, her mouth ajar. "That—" she pointed a finger out of the window "—is yours?"

"Yes." He tried to prevent a smug smile from slipping across his face.

"How can a smuggler afford that?"

"Do you really expect me to tell you?"

"I'm not sure I want to know." She peered out of the window once more and shook her head. "I shall gather my belongings, and we can set off presently."

By all accounts, Miss St. John was an efficient woman. She took a mere half an hour to have her trunks packed. Red ordered the footmen to load them onto the carriage along with the stone which Miss St. John insisted would have to remain with them in the coach.

Once the stone was loaded in, they bid Mrs. Bell farewell and set off. "We can stop at a coaching inn in Truro for the night."

She nodded and settled herself against the plush seat. Her eyes darted here and there, taking in the lavishness of his vehicle. As they set off, her gaze finally landed on him.

"You are not just a smuggler, are you?"

"No."

"Your crest...you are nobility, are you not?"

"Yes."

"How could you not tell me?"

"You did not ask."

She huffed. "I did but then I...I forgot."

"And I had no reason to remind you."

"Will you tell me who you are?"

He peered at his nails and let her sit in silence for a moment with only the horse hooves and the rattling coach for company. After some time, he decided to put her out of her misery.

"I am the eighth Guy Kingsley, Earl of Redmere."

"Oh, that is why they call you Red."

"Indeed."

"But why?"

"Why what?"

"Why smuggle? Why the secrecy? Why not tell me?"

"Firstly, because I want to. Secondly, because in case you had not noticed, smuggling is illegal. And thirdly, because you are not the quietest of women."

"So you do not trust me?"

"I do not trust your rather loud voice. That is entirely different to not trusting you," he pointed out.

She peered at him through the shadows of the carriage. "That is not logical."

Red leaned back and folded his arms. "Logic is overrated."

Miss St. John clutched her reticule as though his words might leap out an attack her. "Logic is imperative. Without it we could not function as a society. Imagine if everyone behaved illogically, it would be a disaster."

"There is a difference between acting logically and occasionally taking chances and ignoring logic."

An exasperated sound left her. "You are impossible. I'm not arguing with you."

"Excellent. I could do with some peace and quiet."

She snapped her attention to the view outside the window.

The oddest part of him had hoped she might continue. There was something intriguing about the fire in her eyes and the vehemence in her voice. The only other woman who spoke to him in a manner anything like the way Miss St. John did was Louisa and, frankly, she had every right to do so. They used her inn as a base and had been helped by her many times. But even then, she did not address him quite like Miss St. John did. Christ, he could not imagine any of the local gentry talking to him so. Most of the women were too busy angling for a proposal to think about arguing with him.

He eyed her profile. Her lips were still a little pursed and rather too appealing. Several glossy curls touched her cheeks, softening the look. She would make a perfect silhouette he decided. Her strong nose and chin were practically designed for silhouette painters.

She glanced at him sideways, and he turned his gaze toward the scenery. It had been a while since he had travelled this way. They were following the coastal path that linked the many seaside towns. In spite of intermittent clouds, he could still appreciate the rugged scenery of Cornwall. Much of it was distinguished by hills that led down to the various estuaries. Around them, villages had grown, the cottages spilling up the hills. Most of them made their living through fishing—as did many of the people in his own town.

As promised, Miss St. John did not argue with him, nor did she utter another word as they made their way to Truro. They stopped briefly to water the horses and give them a rest and, even then, she ignored him, opting to remain in the carriage with her precious piece of stone. When he clambered back in, he could not help but be jealous of the way she stroked it. Her delicate fingers ran over the carvings in it as though she were stroking a lover.

Red scowled at himself. Why he should reflect on Miss St. John and lovers in the same thought, he did not know. There was no chance the woman had ever taken a lover. Why, she was only, what—two and twenty at most—and with a spine as rigid as hers, there was no chance she had let a man under her stays.

And yet, he could not shake the thought that those fingers, so very perfect for touching and stroking, were entirely wasted on a piece of stone.

"Tell me about it," he said, weary of the silence.

She lifted her gaze to his as though she had almost forgotten he was there. "You really want to know?"

He nodded. Why not? He might as well learn something from this trip.

"The stone was found by the French when they were restoring a fort some years ago. Scholars often accompanied them much like my father. It was clear the stone was important, because it is written in two different languages." She pointed to one. "Greek, which we can read, and hieroglyphs, which we cannot."

He peered at the images on the stone. "They look like little drawings."

"Yes. You will have seen them on many Egyptian things, no doubt."

"I have a few replicas with similar looking sketches on them."

"We have never been able to decipher them, in spite of many people trying. There has never been anything with which to compare it to but this stone—" she released a long breath, her eyes wild with excitement "—this stone provides what we believe is a translation. If studied properly, we could unlock the key to understanding hieroglyphs. Our knowledge of the ancient Egyptians would vastly increase."

"You really love history, do you not?"

"I do."

Her excitable smile reminded him of a child who had just been given sweetmeats. It was ridiculously charming. It made him want to leap forward and press a firm kiss to her lips, simply to try to absorb some of her charm.

"Your father encouraged that love?"

She nodded. "My mother died nearly nineteen years ago when I was a baby."

Christ, that made her twenty. A grown woman by all accounts but eleven years his junior and too young to his mind to be gallivanting about the country, rescuing stones and associating with criminals.

"My father has a small estate, one that allows us to live modestly." She smiled. "Nothing like you are used to I imagine. But it meant he was always able to continue his studies. With my mother gone, he took it upon himself to teach me all he knew. My earliest memory is of being in his study, holding a canopic jar."

"A canopic jar?"

"A jar that the Egyptians used to store the internal organs of a deceased person in."

"What a lovely memory," he said dryly.

She did not seem to notice his sarcasm and continued, "My father was not the most practical of men, but he always loved to share his knowledge. I was in the care of a governess for much of the time, but I had little use for her. She could not teach me nearly as much as he could. When he came back from his travels, he would tell me all about what he had learned." She sighed. "Those were my favorite times."

"Did you not miss him?" There was something about picturing a tiny Miss St. John anxiously awaiting the return of her father that made his gut ache.

"Naturally, but I understood why he had to be away. What could be more important than history?"

His own daughter, Red muttered inwardly.

Miss St. John carefully wrapped up the artifact as though it were a newborn baby. He could not help but admire her passion for the past. He had always tended to look to the future. As an heir, what else could one do? He had spent his whole childhood being groomed to take on the role of earl. Once it had happened, his sights had been set on improving the living of his tenants and perhaps taking a wife.

That had all changed when his brother had been refused a commission in the army though. It had been all he had ever wanted, but Nate's eyesight was not up to it. It did not matter that he could probably fight better than half of the officers already enlisted.

"You must miss your father," she said quietly, perhaps assuming his silence was for some other reason.

"It has been ten years now. He was a good man. My mother also passed away when I was young when my brother Nate was born. My father did a fine job of raising us alone."

"It seems we're are not so very different."

Except his father had not run off in search of history. He had remained at home, doing his best to instill values into them both. When he had passed away when Red was only one and twenty, it had been a great blow to them both. Red was determined to be the best man he could be in his honor and ensure Nate was afforded every opportunity as his father would have wanted.

Not that his brother would be impressed with him effectively mothering him, but Nate did not need to know that was what Red was doing.

They fell into silence. Whether Hannah was contemplating her own childhood or dreaming of the stone, he did not know, but he could not help think of his motherless childhood and compare it to hers.

At some point, Red dozed off. He knew this because he awoke with a start, his mouth dry and feeling disorientated.

"Red," someone hissed.

He grumbled and swung his gaze to the annoyance.

"Red," she said again.

His gaze landed on Miss St. John. God, she was pretty.

A blush filled her cheeks. "That is very nice of you to say, but now is not really the time for compliments."

He scowled. Had he said that aloud?

"What is going on?" he asked, his voice raw.

"We are stuck. The footmen are trying to push us out."

"Damn." He popped open the window and leaned out.

Sure enough they were buried deep in thick, black mud. It should not have been a surprise. The roads were notoriously bad out of Cornwall, which was why most people tended to avoid travelling out if at all possible. It was certainly a good excuse for him to avoid London at all costs. With the storms and inclement weather, he should have guessed his heavy coach would never make it through.

Unbuttoning his jacket, he shucked it off and unhooked his cufflinks before stowing them in his jacket pocket.

Miss St. John studied him. "What are you doing?"

"Getting out and pushing by the looks of it."