Lucy supposed its width warranted the word "road," but it was a track-rough, chalky, and very steep.

"We have to climb that?"

"By foot or on horseback. People who live here get used to slopes."

People who live here.

The handful of villagers out in the street were staring and a few more were gathering. Probably they didn't often see strangers here, especially fashionable ones, but she was struck by a kind of blankness on their faces. The only bright gaze was from an infant who was taking in wonders, thumb stuck firmly in mouth.

Then, like a spell breaking, a gray-haired man came out of the inn, smiling. "Mr. Delaney, zur. I'll be taking your horse?" The accent was thick but understandable.

The villagers resumed their business, but Lucy still felt their wary speculation. She looked around, hoping to see David, but of course he'd be up in his daunting keep.

She noticed that despite his professional courtesy, the innkeeper gave her a look that was sharp and, yes, guarded. What danger could a fashionable young lady pose to these people?

Smuggling.

That was it.

A hazard she hadn't considered.

Even David had admitted that many of his people were involved in the wicked trade. They probably regarded any stranger with distrust, but how ridiculous to think she might be a spy for the excise men.

All the same, smugglers were notoriously cruel to spies and traitors.

Chapter 27.

David was in Magsy Lovell's cottage discussing the lace trade when young Gabby Oke ran in, his eyes bright with excitement.

"Strangers, zur! Least, one's been here afore, but there's a woman, too. In an odd hat!"

"Tourists," David said. "Nothing to fear, but I'll come."

He ducked out of the cottage and walked down the lane to turn into the main street. As soon as he did, he stopped, his heart giving a betraying leap. Lucy. With Nicholas.

Then alarm and anger surged. Did the woman have no sense at all? And what in Hades was Nicholas up to, bringing her here? He strode forward, ready to demand that.

But not with half the village watching, either from the street or from windows.

"Delaney," he said, mildly enough.

Nicholas met his eyes, his expression perhaps rueful but definitely unrepentant. King Rogue was meddling, d.a.m.n him.

David turned to Lucy, perched on the back of the big horse, looking as worried as she should. She was in that plain brown gown she'd worn in the park, but it still blazoned London wealth, as did her soft, stylish hat pinned with a quartz brooch. She was completely out of place here.

But lovely.

And desirable.

And . . .

Everything was fixed in place like a ridiculous tableau. The horse was nowhere near the mounting block-on purpose? He had no choice but to go forward and help her down.

"Miss Potter. What an unexpected pleasure."

He put his hands on her slender waist and lifted her down, noting how slight she was, but only physically. Not in any other way. Her being here was proof of that and set his heart pounding with the need to pull her into his arms and never let her go.

As soon as her feet were settled on the ground he let her go and stepped away. "No maid?"

"No maid," she said, looking around. He could see that she was attempting to look merely curious, but she was avoiding his gaze. She was uneasy under so many watchful eyes. It served her right, and would be useful. Her being here was disastrous in any circ.u.mstances, but especially with a run tomorrow night. Nicholas would have to take her back where she'd come from.

But Nicholas had already had Matt Lovell, the innkeeper, unstrap a valise from the back of the pillion saddle, and he now turned the horse. "As Miss Potter is safely in your hands, Wyvern, I'll leave and hope to intercept Eleanor and the children at Honiton."

If David had commanded it, the whole village would have poured out to block the road, but while some trace of reason ruled the world, he couldn't do that. He could only let Nicholas ride away. But there would be a reckoning for this.

Lucy was staring after her escort.

"Don't look so shocked," David said. "That's what you get for enlisting Nicholas Delaney." When she turned to face him, he asked, "Why?"

She was wary, which showed sense, but her chin went up. "Mad impulse?"

"We need no more madness here."

Her eyes widened, but she spoke firmly. "I needed to see what this place is like."

"Why?"

She blushed then, because the answer was obvious-to decide whether to marry him or not.

"I'd have thought it disastrous in trade to be blind to facts that don't suit you."

"Equally disastrous not to factor in everything," she countered, willing to fight, heaven help him.

"Emotions have no part in trade."

"That depends on the trade. My father paid more than the value for a painting that reminded him of something important in his life."

And your father will pay in blood to stop you marrying me.

He couldn't tell her that, because she'd brush her father's objections aside. She was of age. She had command of her money. She could marry whom she wished.

He couldn't tell her the root problem: that he was Captain Drake, smuggler-in-chief, and her father would use that if crossed. He didn't underestimate Daniel Potter's powers to wreak havoc here, and since returning he'd uncovered evidence of his probing.

A couple of scholars had arrived a few days back and were wandering about the area, being a bit too nosy, and even the Blackstock Gang, old enemies, had sent word of questions being asked about Dragon's Horde affairs. Lloyd seemed particularly jaunty, as if his quarry was within his sights.

David could only hope that Potter didn't have spies in the area now or word would be speeding to London that his daughter was here.

They couldn't stand here bandying words. d.a.m.nation, from the look in some of the village women's eyes, they were coming to conclusions. He'd take her to the manor and put her in Aunt Miriam's hands. . . .

No, disastrous. Aunt Miriam would set to planning the wedding.

Right. She'd come here to see if she'd like living here. He'd show her that she wouldn't.

He picked up her valise. "Come."

"Where?" she asked.

"To Crag Wyvern, where else?"

Lucy hadn't expected a welcome, but she'd not expected enmity. In his country clothes, hatless, his shirt open necked, and his hair disordered by the breeze, he looked like David, but he was behaving like the masterful man who'd cowed Outram and Stevenhope.

Like the dragon.

She had reason to be wary of the dragon, but she truly had burned her boats. None of the people around-his people-would help her. Probably none would raise a finger if he threw her off a cliff, and they'd certainly keep the secret of it.

She tried to tell herself that Nicholas Delaney wouldn't have gone if he'd thought there was danger. But she couldn't be entirely sure even of that.

Then the chime of the church bell broke the dark spell and she got her nerve back. Church. Time. Normality. At the moment, at least, David was free of insanity. So what was the problem? She'd come here to find out the truth, and she would, even if she had to fight the dragon to do so.

Very soon she was wishing for a smoother battlefield.

The "road" was steep from the beginning. Worse, the surface was uneven and unstable, with stones that shifted beneath her half boots. They were leather and she'd thought them st.u.r.dy, but they'd been made for city streets, not this kind of terrain. She could feel some pointed chips of rock through the soles.

She wasn't used to thinking of herself as frail and she could dance the night away, but her legs weren't used to slopes like this and they were already protesting. She began to feel her heart's effort and had to stop to suck in breaths.

David turned back to look at her, expression as blank as those of his villagers.

"I'm not used to slopes," she said.

"I warned you."

"Cliffs. You said cliffs. Climbing with ropes. Not without!"

Had his lips twitched?

She seized on that. "You could at least give me a hand."

His reluctance hurt, but he did extend a hand to her-a strong, bare hand, tanned and capable of work. She wished she dare take off her leather glove before taking it, but that would be a dare too far.

His strength helped and she longed to complete the climb without further weakness, but she had to call a halt again. She used the excuse of a path going off to the right, sloping down.

"Where does that go?"

"To Dragon's Cove, the fishing village. The houses are tucked up the cleft in the cliffs, where there's shelter in a storm."

"Not stuck on top of a cliff," she pointed out.

"Not stuck on top of a cliff," he agreed.

"Was your house really built that way as a lookout for dragons?"

"So the stories say."

"Dragons are mythological beasts. They don't exist."

"So the stories say."

Grimly Lucy set off to complete the climb. Once up, she might never go down again except to leave.

When they arrived at the gra.s.sy top she paused again to let her heart rate settle. Here were new challenges to face, and one was simply s.p.a.ce. She was surrounded by a gra.s.sy headland cropped by sheep, with Crag Wyvern looming over her and the sea filling the rest of the view. The endless sea, growling down beneath the all-too-close cliff edge.

She turned her back on it, but that only presented his monstrous home.

From a distance it had seemed ominous. From so close it overwhelmed, grim from foundations to battlements and without a trace of welcome.

As in the ill.u.s.tration, there were no windows, only arrow slits. But in the picture, she hadn't noticed the fanged gargoyles jutting out from the two corners she could see. More cl.u.s.tered around the huge arched entrance, which was sealed by ma.s.sive wooden doors that were barred and studded with iron. The spiked bottom of a portcullis hung over them, looking ready to crash down and impale an invader.

It was exactly as ill.u.s.trated, but no etching could convey the dreadfulness of it. It seemed invincible, but England was littered with ruined castles, smashed by cannonb.a.l.l.s in ancient battles. Where did one find a cannon when one wanted one?

"Well?" he asked.

"It's horrible," she said as prosaically as she could. "But it could be torn down."

"A historical monument?" he asked.

"It's a folly."

"A folly is a useless whimsy. The Crag's been lived in since the day it was built."

"Then it's foolish, and not old enough to need preservation."

"Not even when it's unique?"

"I could build a Chinese paG.o.da on the opposite headland, which would be unique enough. Would that make it valuable?"

"It would probably be a profitable venture. It would draw mult.i.tudes of tourists by land and sea."