Free Smuggler's Moon by Bruce Alexander Page A

not? I leaned toward her and chose a spot high on her left cheek just below her eye.
    She stiffened and shrank back a few inches. ”On the lips,” said she in a manner which made it clear that she would brook no argument.
    Steeling myself for a proper meeting of the mouths, I saw no way now to withdraw. Well then, thought I, in for a penny, in for a pound. I would do it all quickly and be gone.
    But she would have none of that. Our lips had barely grazed when I felt her arms encircle me. Her lips pressed against mine. Her arms near squeezed the life from me. I felt utterly trapped. Yet it was for but a moment—for it was but the duration of a moment that she held me so. She stepped back, and I saw her cheeks redden with embarrassment: her boldness had exceeded even her own expectations, perhaps her own intentions, as well.
    She leapt over the threshold and into her room. As she shut the door behind her, I heard her call a good night to me.
    Well, thought I, hurrying away, the girl is obviously quite mad. Or perhaps it was the wine that she drank which has made her behave in this unaccountably wanton manner. She was truly making it difficult. Perhaps if I were to talk to her, reason with her, I might make her understand just how terribly awkward this will be for both of us.
    I started down the stairs at a jog trot, but then did my pace slow somewhat, for as I descended, I heard a voice from the dining room—it was none other than Sir John’s. Quite unmistakable, for when he spoke in argument, his voice fair thundered.
    “Again, if you will forgive me, Sir Simon, what I cannot, for the life of me, comprehend is how you could so swiftly and so completely alter your opinion of Albert Sarton in so short a time. You supported him. Without you, he would not have had a chance of becoming magistrate of Deal.”
    I sighed, admitting to myself how weary I was. I had eaten too much. I had drunk far too much. I wanted nothing better than to go to my own bed. Yet that, I feared, would be sometime in the future. It appeared that we were in for a long night of it.

THREE
    In which Sir John
meets Albert Sarton,
Magistrate of Deal

    W e were late leaving for town the next morning. By the time Sir John was up and had breakfasted, Sir Simon Grenville was long gone on his daily round of inspection. His vast holdings, which numbered near a thousand acres of rich Kent farmlands, had just been planted and so required his close attention—or so he told me that I might explain his absence to Sir John. Before leaving, he appointed Will Fowler, who had given us the speech of welcome at our arrival, to be our guide round the manor house. He took Clarissa on a proper tour of the place. I asked only that I be shown the library that I might choose a book to read whilst I waited for Sir John to rouse.
    And so there I was, sitting outside the door to our room, reading
A Sentimental Journey Through France and Italy
, by the Reverend Mr. Sterne, listening for the familiar sounds of snuffling and coughing which prefaced his rising.I liked the book not so well as
Tristram Shandy
, yet liked it well enough to wish to read it through. Therefore I was, I confess, a bit disappointed when at last the morning overture did begin. Yet dutifully, I set the book aside and entered the room.
    “Jeremy? Is it you?”
    “It is, Sir John.”
    “Is it late?”
    “It’s getting on.”
    In answer to that, he simply grunted, made use of the chamber pot which I fetched to him, and expressed his desire to be shaved. It took a few minutes for me to make preparations, during which he began a recapitulation of his discussion the night before of Mr. Albert Sarton’s record as magistrate. Though it angered him to do so, he dwelt upon the details of the baronet’s argument—or rather, the lack of them.
    “I asked him to be specific,” said Sir John, ”and he could not be. Oh … well, he kept referring back to one case—only one, mind you—wherein Sir Simon had attempted