Dani smiled tightly and they walked on. For a count of ten steps... twenty... she waited for the joke. She waited for the dismissals or the scoldings. They never came. If he was appalled, he hid it well. If he thought the failure of the town was inconsequential, he hid that, too. They reached the intersection of New Bridge Road and Queen Street. The geese had waddled beneath a fence railing in the direction of Beckley Pond.
“This is the road to the village?” he asked, staring up Queen Street.
“Yes.”
He paused, idling silently in the road. Dani thought,This will be the end of it.He’ll say goodbye and walk away. Gone. As if he’d never come.The ticking in her belly sped up.
Before she could think better of it, Dani blurted out, “Would you like a tour of the village?”
“I would, indeed,” he said.
Dani tried to control the smile on her face. She ducked her head.
Captain Bannock stepped back, gesturing for her to precede him.
Chapter 5
“Iwonder if we might begin again, Miss Allard?” Luke asked. He forced his voice to take on a mild sort of wondering.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It occurs to me that this arrangement might feel less fraught if we approached it in the spirit of negotiation.”
“Negotiation?”
“The betrothal. Would you consider a compromise?”
If Luke knew nothing at all, he knew that everyone had a price. It was a cardinal rule of smuggling: there was a price to sell, and a price to buy, and a price to look the other way. Luke had become a smuggler because he hadn’t the money to set himself up as a proper merchant. In the end, he’d been better at the deal-cutting bits than moving contraband in and out of caves. The more Luke knew about a person’s price, the more effectively he could get what he wanted without mucking about in the dark. What he knew of Danielle Allard could fit inside a snuffbox, but he knew she wasn’t pining to return to the royal life in France, and that she wanted a vacant house in this Kentish backwater. A house that he owned. Against all odds. Remarkably. If he’d researched for a year, he couldn’t have arranged a more perfect incentive.
Using the house as a ploy changed what he would do with her after he’d recovered Linus Welty, but he could manage that. He could easily give her the house; he’d never wanted it anyway. Another cardinal rule of smuggling: adaptability. And now Luke would adapt to a new plan. He would rescue his old friend, leave Vincent Surcouf with nothing, and deposit Danielle Allard in the little village where he’d found her with Eastwell Park as her payment. It wasn’t so much a new plan as a more defined, specifically tailored plan. Which better served all of them.
Meanwhile, Luke would nurse Linus back to health, and set him up with a proper pension somewhere sunny with a view. Luke himself would build a new boat, or buy an old one, or crawl into one of his smuggling caves and wait for the tide to carry him away. His own future after recovering Linus was less specifically tailored, but what difference did it make? Luke refused to think that far in advance. He didn’t care. He only cared about saving his friend.
“I don’t understand what you’re asking,” she was saying.
He looked at her pretty face and then away. “It’s less of a request, more of an offer to collaborate. Let us cut a deal, shall we? You’re shocked that I’ve come, and you’re resistant to an unplanned marriage.”
“To say the least.”
“Anyone would be. You’re also intelligent and purposeful. I’ve no desire to curtail this. I’m trying to ease the way for us both by meting out terms that are mutually beneficial. Would you consider such a negotiation? With me?”
“I cannot say,” she admitted.
Luke waited.
“Possibly,” she added.
Luke waited again.
“Look,” she finally said, “the thing I want most at the moment is clarity. Any negotiation must begin with this. Tell mewho arranged this betrothal. Tell me how binding it is. And, for the love of God, say—why me? If these things are known, perhaps we cannegotiatefrom there.”
Luke nodded, pretending to agree. He could tell her some things. All of it? This was not strategic. He needed to consider her parents’ request. He needed to think about the greatest benefit to himself. But for now he could give a little away.
“The betrothal has been arranged by His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales,” he said. “Prince George, future king, current Regent.”
“No,” she countered, shaking her head. “Impossible. The letter came from St. James’s Palace, but not from the prince himself. Surely.”
They’d reached the first building in the winding line of homes and shops on Queen Street. Dark timber beams slanted diagonally through white plaster walls. Gables peaked at points. Ivy vines furred the sides of buildings. He’d not lied when he said Kent looked like a storybook. Every window had a flowerbox, and every box overflowed with colorful geraniums.
