Chapter Thirty-Two
Langdon woke to absolute silence. After two days of battering winds, the quiet was almost eerie. A dull throb plagued his temples from an overindulgence in wine, and the woman curled next to him added to the fuzziness.
Muted sunlight streamed through the hut’s window and in patches beneath the door. The relentless gales had blown away the sand Elizabeth had kicked into place. The light shifted, and he sucked in a sharp breath. Someone was standing outside the door. Friend or foe was the key question. He placed a hand over her mouth and jostled her awake.
She gripped at his wrist, panic in her gaze. He shook his head and leaned in, whispering in her ear. “Someone is outside.”
At her nod, he released her and grabbed his discarded breeches. She scrambled for her skirt, the color high on her cheeks. He was used to working with other men who played the same game. Elizabeth was not skilled in combat. He rammed his legs into the fabric, driven by urgency. He had to protect her at all costs. Knife in hand, he rushed to the door, his chest and feet still bare.
The person at the door shifted again and the latch rattled. He waited for them to try to gain entry, every nerve in his frame ready to pounce. Chances were it was simply a search party out looking for them and not a smuggler. One could never be too careful. Only fools underestimated the unknown.
“Who is out there?” he asked, gripping the knife hilt with more force. If it was more than one man, he would be at a disadvantage. Although it wouldn’t be the first time he’d been in such a situation. He didn’t relish the outcome.
A shuffle followed by the sound of retreating footsteps answered him. He wrenched the door open. A man in a greatcoat was running in the opposite direction, stumbling multiple times on the uneven ground. Langdon watched his retreat and debated the wisdom of chasing after the man. By the time he dressed, it would be too late.
Elizabeth jostled Langdon, a pocket pistol held firmly in her palm. Chin lifted in resolve, she was braced for battle. He had to admire her fortitude in the face of danger and would be proud to have her by his side. His affection for her grew by the minute with one inevitable outcome.
“Where did you get the gun?” he asked, inspecting the polished weapon with a critical eye. Guns were not his weapon of choice. They were highly inaccurate unless a person was close to the target, and dangerous in the wrong hands. He had learned knife skills and could hit his target with more accuracy than with a gun.
“I brought it with me.” She lifted her free hand to cover her eyes against the glare, her jacket haphazardly buttoned. The antiquated riding habit with a separate skirt and shirtwaist was much more practical than the modern garments. An added boon was the riding habit had proved convenient in even more ways. “Did you think I went about unarmed?” she asked.
“Did you recognize him?” he asked, wisely choosing not to reply to her question. He had underestimated her once again. Shame on him.
She dropped her arm, un-cocked the gun, and turned on her heel. The sway of her hips in the breeches was a disruption he couldn’t afford. She tucked the gun into the waistband before she lifted her skirt from the hook where she had placed it. “Yes, and no.”
“Yes and no?” He shut the door and lowered the knife, sheathing it in the leather handle. The fact that the man fled was telling unto itself. It would behoove him to be on his guard at all times. The foray into the cave had been enlightening but there was still no clear evidence linking Randell. He snatched up his shirt and began to finish dressing. There was also the matter of Zander, whose named popped up with much frequency.
Nose wrinkled, she settled her skirt over the breeches, hiding her arse from view. “His walk is familiar, and he has red hair.”
He slipped on one boot, the leather stiff from the dried seawater. His valet would be beside himself once he viewed the damage. “That should narrow it down some.”
Light laughter met his comment but worry dulled her eyes. She finished fastening the skirt and pulled down the hem of her jacket. “Half of the village men have red hair. He could be anyone that I know. If he was part of a search party, I doubt he would run away. Unless he is one of the smugglers.
“No matter how you deal the cards, the man’s actions are suspect. I think it would behoove us to leave here. Your father will be worried.” He snatched up his jacket, wishing to leave as quickly as possible. Best to err on the side of caution than to be caught unprepared.
“No, he will not.” She raked her fingers through the thick mass of her hair and began to braid it over one shoulder. From the rigidity of her back, she was serious about her father’s lack of caring.
Langdon witnessed the man’s cool behavior toward his daughter firsthand. There was no love lost between the two. His own family were close, but they were not without their own troubles. He had hoped to fix them, but Elizabeth sidetracked him. She had taken over his entire world, and he was a better man with her in it. He would convince her to marry him, even if it took the rest of his life.
The expensive fabric lay strewn on the sandy floor. It had made a perfect makeshift bed. He rolled it up, the grains of sand sticking to the weave. The hut would always be in his memories, both the good and the bad.
Langdon made quick work of returning the fabrics to the lidless crate. He would send Henderson back to inventory the cavern. If the smugglers knew they stayed the night in the cabin, chances were they’d guess they had been found out. He still lacked any actual proof, and the burden was on him, not Randell.
“Ready?” He kicked sand over the trap door and evened it out with his boot. If the man in the greatcoat was a smuggler, he was aware that they occupied the hut.
