Free The Contraband Courtship (The Arlingbys Book 2) by Alicia Quigley Page A

and breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps Wroxton’s masculine vitality would seem less overwhelming outside the confines of the drawing room.
    “Where would you care to begin?” she asked.
    “You grew up here--show me your favorite spots.”
    Helena turned her steps away from the house. “The places I loved as a child still have a hold over me. I’m sure you feel the same way about Wroxton.”
    “I suppose I do,” replied Malcolm thoughtfully. “I recall an oak tree that I used to climb; if I went up very high no one could see me. I hid from my tutor there many a day.”
    “Did you?” asked Helena, charmed despite herself. “I used to hide from my governess, particularly when she wished to teach me geography.”
    “Where did you hide? Did you also climb a tree?” asked Malcolm.
    “There is a priest hole in the parlor,” Helena confided. “When I was a very small child one of the servants, who had been here in my grandfather’s day, showed me how to open it by twisting one of the carved quinces on the fireplace. I’m not sure my parents even knew it was there. I kept candles and books in there—and sometimes food, if I could steal it from the kitchen. I could disappear for hours, and no one could find me.”
    “Are you Papists, then?” asked Malcolm teasingly.
    “We were, during Elizabeth’s reign, but we are sober Protestants now,” said Helena, smiling up at him. “My ancestors knew when the tide had turned.”
    “You will have to show me your priest’s hole some time,” said Malcolm.
    “Perhaps I will.” They strolled down the neatly graveled path, the scent of early flowers and herbs from the kitchen garden hanging in the air.
    “You are very fond of Keighley Manor,” observed Malcolm.
    “I am,” she said.
    “That is why you care so much about the smugglers, I suppose.”
    “Perhaps.” Helena hesitated. “I don’t want you to think me a prude; I have no concerns with brandy, or tea, and the taxes are iniquitous. But these are not a few friendly free traders. There is a large gang terrifying the people in the village and my tenants. They have taken violent retribution against those who have spoken against them; cottages have been burned and good men killed.”
    Malcolm led her to a bench that overlooked the rose garden and she seated herself, looking up at him. He clasped his hands behind his back.
    “I would be very happy to help you, Miss Keighley. It seems the least I can do to make amends for my years of absence and the insult I offered you yesterday. But I truly do not know how I can stop the smugglers. Is that not the job of the revenue agents?”
    “There are not enough of them,” said Helena. “They intercept ships in the harbor if they suspect they are carrying contraband, but few smugglers work that way. They hover offshore, and ships from the harbor go out to them, under the guise of fishing. They then carry back far more than fish, and conceal it on the beaches until night.”
    “Am I to go down with my pistol and stop them?” teased Malcolm. “I can’t imagine any of the talk of the Wicked Earl made me out to be a great warrior.”
    Helena broke into a reluctant smile. “There are stories of your prowess with pistols—and I heard that you have a dueling scar on your cheek.”
    Malcolm reached up instinctively and touched his unmarred face. “I regret to disappoint the populace.”
    “It cannot be helped,” said Helena. “They will have to live with their disillusionment.”
    Malcolm sat down next to her. “We have established that I cannot round up the smugglers on my own. What would you have me do, Miss Keighley?”
    “It will help a great deal if you make it clear you will not tolerate your land being used to transport their goods, and if you post armed guards on your beaches. They do not land at Keighley, because they know we will not allow it. They are not anxious to fight, you know, and they take advantage of absent landlords.”
    “I can certainly do