Smuggler's Glory Page 2

  For one brief moment, he wondered if he would ever have a life of his own, or whether this was as good as it was going to get. He felt as though he had spent much of his life fighting; and wondered if he would draw his last breath still fighting.

  From early childhood he seemed to have been fighting. He had never forgotten going with his mother into the village to collect some fripperies from the haberdashery. At five years old he had stood beside the door watching two old ladies beside the counter whispering and chattering. Nobody within the shop had missed the questioning glances they had thrown his way before they had turned their spiteful looks and murmurings on his mother. Although he had been too young to understand what was going on at the time, he had never forgotten the look on his mother’s face when she had left the shop far too quickly without purchasing anything, tears shimmering on her lashes. He had paused in the doorway, and taken one last look back into the shop, wondering what it had been all about, and had overheard the doubt the old biddies had cast on Simon’s ancestry. As a young child he had never thought to consider why his hair was jet black rather than the dark blond of his father’s, or why he was tall and well built rather than slender like both of his parents, but the disparities were enough to trigger the interest of the gossips who ran rife with possibilities as frequently and as loudly as they could.

  He had been eight years old when the vicious gossips had finally succeeded in driving his mother to such despair that she had ended her life by her own hand. He had never forgiven them. As he had grown into a young man, the bitter hatred became deeper until, by his early teens, he had refused to show any interest in running the ancestral home and estates, and had instead insisted his father buy him a commission in the army. He had never returned home, not even when his father had passed away and, as far as he was concerned, he would never go back.

  Sighing deeply, he walked into the stable yard and collected his horse. He didn’t need to look to know that Hugo was mounting his own horse. Hugo, who had a beautiful wife to go home to. He had a home to go to. Simon, on the other hand, had a run-down mausoleum that he hadn’t visited in years. He didn’t even know if it was still standing, it had been that long since he had been there. To go back there meant resurrecting old ghosts, and that was something he simply wasn’t going to do.

  Settling deep into the saddle, Simon pulled his cloak around him, tugging the hood up. Nudging his horse into a walk, he scowled deeply as a maid scurried out of the tavern, took one look at him and screamed before crossing herself and running back inside.

  “Bloody idiot,” Simon growled, shaking his head.

  He hadn’t mentioned to Hugo that villages also tended to have their own fair share of desperate spinsters who weren’t averse to using a little subterfuge and conniving to land themselves a husband. He had spent enough time on watch over the last few years to have seen more than his fair share of unsuspecting men be unscrupulously snared by a duplicitous female. Indeed, he wondered if the spinsters of the parish shouldn’t just be unleashed on the French spies – by now they would most probably have captured anyone who entered the country, and had them tied to the kitchen furnace before they could shout ‘au revoir’. He would rather face death by a thousand knives than be trapped by some conniving witch, driven along by her desperate mother, and forced to spend the rest of his days living in rural misery.

  Slowly making his way down the main street of the village with no name, Simon waited for Hugo to catch up. He watched an old man shuffle out of a house further up the road. Simon studied the stooped figure in the yellow shaft of light that appeared briefly. The man closed the door to the tiny single storey house, turned and froze at the sight of Simon standing in the middle of the road. Even in the darkness, Simon saw the huge gape of the old man’s open mouth before he quickly turned and scurried back inside, the door closing behind him with a bang that resonated loudly the night air.

  “You could have waited,” Hugo chided as he drew alongside his friend.

  “Nothing else to say,” Simon replied obliquely. “I’m not going. I’d rather do time in the Tower than go to Much Whatsit.”

  “Much Hampton, and you’re going,” Hugo snapped, his own patience wearing thin. When Simon lapsed into sullen silence and nudged his horse forward, Hugo grabbed the reins and drew him to a stop. “You have to go, Simon. The others are hidden, and cannot stay where they are while I sort out someone to go in your place. It could be weeks before I manage to get anyone else from London. You know the dangers. Each day the men are undercover, is a day that they risk being discovered. I can’t risk everyone just because you have some insane aversion to villages.”

  “It’s isn’t insane.”

  “Alright then, unreasonable,” Hugo challenged. “Why? What the hell happened to you to make you so averse to curtain twitchers and gossips? I’m not asking you to move to the bloody village permanently, just stay there for a short while. You can leave when the job is done, just like you have a thousand times before. What the hell is so bad about this job?”

  Simon shook his head. “I came from one of them, alright? A small village like this one,” he sighed and glanced around them at the higgledy-piggledy houses lining the main street. There was nothing but a handful of houses sitting in the middle of nowhere. Although the houses were of different sizes, they were all built the same way and sat in a jumbled row of confusion. The people who lived in them were undoubtedly people who had been born there; had lived there all their lives and fully intended to die there. Everyone knew everyone else, and lived in each other’s back pockets. Nothing went on in the village without everyone talking about it in the tavern.

  “Believe me, if anyone is an authority on how villages work, then I am,” Simon sighed, shutting out the mental image of the huge mansion sitting on the outskirts of the village he had once called home. The manor that held more ghosts than the graveyard of the church that sat alongside it.

  “But not all villages are the same, Much Hampton might be quite nice.”

  “Hah! Some, if not all of them in Much Hampton are involved in spy smuggling. Sounds a real treat,” Simon grumbled. If he was honest, his conscience was already starting to prick him at the consequences to the rest of the team if he didn’t face his demons and just go. But, a deeply hidden, stubborn side refused to give in and simply accept orders that he knew would render him even more miserable than he already was. But in a crisis of conscience his thoughts turned toward the rest of the team who were probably spending sleepless nights, catching up on sleep when they could, grabbing food on the run, and had probably not slept in a proper bed for weeks.

  “I’ve got to go this way,” Hugo said, drawing his horse to a stop and motioning across the fields toward Padstow. He hated parting from Simon while there was so much discord between them. Until tonight he had considered Simon’s aversion somewhat funny, and hadn’t thought it important at all. The whole team had considered it a strange eccentricity of his – a bit like not liking fish for dinner, but now he knew differently. Something far deeper, far more painful was causing his friend’s reluctance, and he could only hope a few weeks in a village like Much Hampton would be enough to help him banish some of the past.

  “Bye,” Simon said, eager to be on his way.

  “So? Are you going, or do I have to court martial you?” Hugo knew he wouldn’t ever court martial any of his men. They sacrificed enough of their lives on a daily basis. Anything they did could be explained. Well, almost anything. He had every faith in all of them; their abilities and the type of law-abiding and honest, hard-working soldiers they were.

  Several long minutes of silence passed. Hugo shifted uncomfortably in his seat as cold air began to bite, and studied his friend.

  Simon sat astride a huge, black horse that showed no colour whatsoever. Even the whites of his eyes were covered by the long, flowing mane that hung in shaggy disarray around his long equine face. The beast was huge, with large hooves and long, heavily muscled legs. It was perfect for run
ning over challenging ground and would eat up any distance without even breaking into a sweat. It was undoubtedly why Simon had chosen such a perfect mount. It matched him perfectly because Simon was equally as dark. Hugo didn’t need to see beneath the dark cloak to know that Simon was wearing a plain black, serviceable shirt and black long trousers that ran into his black leather riding boots. He looked so dark and menacing that it brought the hairs up on even Hugo’s neck, and he had knew both horse and rider well.

  A strong gust of wind swirled around them, rustling the leaves on the trees lining the side of the road. Hugo shivered and snuggled deeper into his cloak, his thoughts drifting to the gentle curves of his wife lying in the soft, warm bed at home. His gaze strayed to Simon and he studied his friend while he waited. He had known Simon Ambrose for many years and had fought through the most desperate situations with the man by his side. He had thought he knew him, but now he wasn’t so sure. Neither man nor horse moved. Nobody twitched, and as far as Hugo could tell, neither even blinked. Clearly, although Simon was physically standing in the middle of a small country lane staring off into the distance, mentally he was miles away, clearly visiting ghosts of the past that had been resurrected by the news of his latest assignment.

  Simon stared into the distance, and wondered if he should just ride in that direction and keep going, heading into the distance without a backward glance. But he knew that if he did crest the rise on the horizon, there was just be more of the same, empty road awaiting him. He had no home; nowhere that he really needed to be. So what was so bad about staying for a short time in a small village? It was hardly occupied by the old hags in the village he had grown up in, and if bringing the entire village to justice for treason helped to protect his friends who were fighting for king and country, then he owed it to the men from the Star Elite to just get on with the task at hand. After all, he was a soldier. He had faced worse enemies than the ghosts of his past, and survived. Besides which, ghosts couldn’t hurt you – could they?

  “So?” Hugo said, beginning to grow alarmed at just how still and silent Simon had become.

  “It looks like I don’t have a bloody choice, does it?” With that, Simon reined his horse around and disappeared.

  Hugo opened his mouth to speak, only to watch Simon vanish like a spectre into the woods beside them. He sat and waited for several minutes but could hear nothing. No hoof beats, no cracking of twigs to indicate Simon’s horse was moving around in there. Nothing. It was as though Simon had simply vanished.

  Simon was tall, and powerfully built. He drew many a woman’s attention wherever he went, which proved a boon on some occasions and a pain in the arse on others. Tonight though, dressed entirely in black, with his black, hooded cloak, sitting astride his black horse, he looked like the grim reaper. Hugo could sympathise with the tavern wench who had stumbled upon him outside, and the old man on his way to the pub, who was probably a devout non-drinker by now.

  Shaking his head, he reined his horse around and headed toward home and his beloved wife. Until now, Simon was the one member of the Star Elite who had never argued against any order he had been given, no matter how much personal sacrifice it caused him. The fact that the man had argued and threatened to quit if forced to go, testified to a deep-rooted problem Hugo had been forced to resurrect and he bitterly regretted the discord that now lay between them.

  “Good luck,” Hugo murmured, nudging his horse into a steady trot, his mind turning toward the delectable thought of his wife and home.

  Simon watched Hugo disappear down the lane. He studied the village for several moments, assured that nobody was following before nudging his horse into a steady walk. Keeping to the shadows, he slowly followed his friend.

  Although he would never admit it, he envied his boss. Not only did he have a beautiful wife, but he had a home to go to, somewhere he could lay down his cloak and declare his. In contrast, Simon had a small room above a busy coaching inn in Launceston that was a bed for the night, for this week at least. The meal he had consumed hours ago had long since left him hungry, and his solitary bed held little appeal. There was no warmth, no comfort, and meals were in scant supply. With no prospect of securing either on a more permanent basis in the near future, he faced a dismal few weeks anyway. What did it matter if it was in Launceston, or Much Whatsit, or anywhere else?

  He wondered if spending his life in the shadows was now an ingrained part of him. He couldn’t conceive of caring about anyone else enough to spend the rest of his life with them. The warmth of hearth and home was something out of a dream; something that belonged to someone else. His life was darkness and shadow; harshness and cruelty. He had no place in a life of home and expectation – either his or a wife’s.

  Oh, he was tall, and reasonably good looking. But with jet black hair and piercing blue eyes, and a face that had grown more angular as he matured, most people took a step back at first sight. Although he drew women’s attention, and had used it to his own advantage on more than one occasion, he had never found anyone who he considered a ‘keeper’. As a result his association with women had been confined to the bedroom. As brief an association as possible ensured that both of them expected little other than a good time.

  Keeping one eye on Hugo’s back, while surreptitiously checking the surrounding area, Simon turned his thoughts to Much Hampton. He had never heard of the place, but knew enough about the people of Bodmin to know that the place was shrouded in secrecy. There were untold stories of snarling beasts, strange ghosts and unearthly presences. It would be enough to send any religious person into a fit of the vapours. Story-telling aside, if it was a small village – it couldn’t be that bad – could it?

  Scenting the sharp tang of sea air, Simon reined to a halt. He sat perfectly still and watched Hugo turn into the driveway of his house with a pang of restless envy that didn’t sit well on his shoulders. Reining his horse away, he settled back in the saddle, and began the long journey to Launceston. If he was lucky, he would be back at the coaching inn for breakfast. He could catch some sleep and then head out to find Much Hampton after lunch.

  If there was a God in heaven who liked him, he wouldn’t be able to find the place and would have to give it up as a bad job. With any luck, he would get lost on Bodmin Moor and become one of the unearthly beings that were reputedly sighted on a regular basis, wandering around the moor forever in search of a village that didn’t exist.

  If God hated him, he would get there without a problem.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “God hates me,” Simon groaned later the following afternoon. His cloak billowed out behind him, dragged along by the stiff breeze that swirled around them. Billie, his horse, shifted restlessly as though sensing his master’s disquiet but Simon’s attention was locked on the group of houses about half a mile away.

  Cold blue eyes stared dispassionately at the assembled buildings that made up Much Hampton, and he cursed his luck that the wretched place had proven that easy to find. Even from a distance Simon could see people scurrying in and out of each other’s houses. It seemed that nothing much changed in rural England between the north of the country and the south; gossip was rife wherever you lived.

  Despite the cold, blustery wind and grey clouds threatening an icy deluge, Simon eased his cloak open to reveal the heavy pistol strapped to his hip. It made him feel more secure knowing it was within easy reach, only he wasn’t sure who he should be looking at using it on first, the spies, the gossips or himself.

  The road he was standing on meandered haphazardly through the village. Even from a distance the ribbon of road held a busy combination of people going about their daily business, mingling with a seemingly constant flow of carts heading in all directions. There were more houses in the village than he had thought. Although he had no idea what he had been expecting, the bustling hive of activity was the very last thing he had considered, especially here, right in the middle of Bodmin Moor. At first glance, it seemed considerably busier than the small sea por
t of Padstow and he shook his head at the thought of just what business people could need to conduct so far away from the larger towns of Launceston and Bodmin.

  Simon frowned and studied the scene before him. Although the village looked a picturesque scene of rural tranquillity, his gut instincts warned him that there was something wrong. The small hairs rose on the back of his neck, and he felt the familiar surge of awareness sweep through him. Scanning the rolling hills around him revealed nothing untoward. The rolling green expanse of moors was empty of life, except for the occasional bird swooping through the skies high above. The village was a bleak but picturesque picture of rural England. Nothing wrong there, but his gut instincts warned him to be on guard, and not be fooled by first appearances. The place seemed almost too busy, and somewhat frantic. As though everyone was trying to get as much done as possible while they could – but why?

  “Come on, Billie, let’s descend into the bowels of hell,” Simon muttered, nudging his horse forward. As sure-footed as mountain goat, Billie began to descend the narrow road that would take him down the gentle ridge toward the village. There was no village sign to indicate where he was. If it hadn’t been for the excellent directions a travelling salesman had given him several miles back, Simon knew he would most probably never have found the place, or could have considered he had found the wrong village. Strangely, although there were several carts going here and there, he hadn’t passed a single one on the road leading into the village. So where were they all going? Again, a thin shiver of awareness swept through him and he felt the familiar thrill of anticipation at the thought of unravelling the mystery that lay before him.