Free Smuggler's Glory by Rebecca King

watchful eyes absorbed every nuance, every nook and
cranny and hiding place possible to man. Anyone could have
approached the back door of the house, and crossed the stable yard
being only visible to the kitchen windows for the briefest time.
Alternatively, they could approach from the burnt-out side of the
property where nobody was around to watch, and they could disappear
into the unkempt undergrowth that had once been a formal rose
garden.
    Making a
mental note to study the gardens as soon as possible in the
morning, Simon returned to the house, the loud rumblings of his
stomach quickening his pace. He was unsurprised when he got there
to find Bertie on his hands and knees, washing the last of the
blood off the floor.
    “ I said I would deal with that, Bertie,” Simon scolded, shaking
his head at the old man’s stubbornness. “You should be in
bed.”
    “ I’m better now, but the darned woman won’t let me go about my
business.”
    Simon
snorted, fully understanding the man’s disgust. Although he had
never had any prior experience of being mollycoddled, he would
assume that it would be sheer annoyance to be mollycoddled by any
woman. Still, there was something disconcerting about seeing the
old man on his knees while still in his nightshirt.
    “ Is everything alright out there?” Francesca entered the
kitchen, gasping at the sight of Bertie rising to his feet.
“ What do you think
you are doing?” she gasped, rushing toward Bertie who held up a
hand to ward her off.
    “ I’m fine m’dear, not to worry now,” he mumbled, clearly
abashed at being the centre of such determined female attention.
“I’m not sure about anybody else, but that pie smells
delicious.”
    “ Then let’s eat,” Madeline announced with false joviality that
failed to match the wariness in her eyes.
     
    Later
that night, Simon lay awake in the large but shabby four poster
bed, and stared blankly up at the canopy. Although Francesca had
promised a tour in the morning, he didn’t need to see much more of
the house to understand that it wasn’t only the burnt out wing of
the property that was in disarray. The remainder of the huge stone
building hadn’t been maintained for some considerable years and was
showing advanced signs of wear to the point of being
uninhabitable.
    The bed
he now lay in had creaked and groaned alarmingly when asked to bear
his weight, and he was aware of the threadbare draperies that clung
desperately to the window frames in a valiant attempt to be useful.
He wondered just how much of a ‘fortune’ Francesca’s uncle had left
her, and if it was anywhere near enough to get the house habitable
again. Somehow, he doubted it was proving to be enough for them
even to live on, let alone stretch toward refurbishment on the
scale that was required.
    Immediately his thoughts turned to Ulverton Priory, the huge
mansion he had called his childhood home. Although it had never
been considered a home per
se , it had been the house he had stayed in
the longest, mainly because he had been a child at the time and had
been unable to go his own way in life. Now though, the Priory was
more of a burr in his side; something he had knowledge of and
something that plagued him, but one thing he didn’t seem able to be
shake off once and for all. He had no intention of going there
again, and had been more than happy to hand over the routine
maintenance of the place to his man of business in London, but
something deep inside him had refused to sell it on and rid himself
of the past once and for all. He wondered if the place was as
frayed around the edges as Thistledown was.
    It’s none of your business what she chooses to do with
Thistledown , Simon thought ruefully,
wanting to turn onto his side but doubting the bed was strong
enough to accept the challenge. The house groaned and creaked
alarmingly as it settled into the night. The sounds of movement
outside of his bedroom door had long since ceased, leaving a
deathly silence