The Foundling Bride. Helen Dickson

continued to haunt the environs of the cove.

      Ever since that night people had said the cove was cursed, and no one came here—which was to the smugglers’ advantage. It was a haven for smugglers—if they knew how to pilot a boat among the reefs.

      Two strings of horses were already on the beach. They were hardy workhorses, along with specially adapted saddles which could carry the heavy casks of liquor and chests of tea.

      The men in the boats were professional seamen, the shore party less so, being made up mainly of agricultural labourers and miners. A successful run could earn them as much as two weeks working on the land, and it was with Lord Carberry’s approval that they brought with them carts and horses wherever they could be found, to assist in the landing.

      Edward’s estate manager, William Watkins, was keeping his eye on proceedings and giving orders to the men on the beach.

      Looking out to sea, Lowena saw a light. It flashed three times. This was the signal indicating to those on shore that the ship they were expecting was there for the rendezvous, hidden in the darkness out at sea. The men in the boats began rowing towards the light in the treacherous waters, careful to avoid the submerged rocks and soon being swallowed up in the darkness.

      The suspense was unbearable to Lowena as she paced back and forth along the cliff edge. It was a cold night and her heart was racing, her eyes blinded by gusts of wind.

      After about an hour or more the boat returned. The men jumped out carrying their oars and placed them on the sand. They worked swiftly, unloading the cargo with silent speed and loading it into carts or securing it onto the horses and leading them up the narrow valley which opened into the cove.

      Some of the smuggled goods would be taken up-country to Devon or beyond, and some would be stored locally, to be sold in the community. Lord Carberry had established contacts to shift the goods.

      As the horses began to move off with their heavy, lucrative load, Lowena gave a sigh of relief and yawned. At last she could return to the house and her bed.

      Suddenly something made her turn her head and look along the cliff. Straining her eyes in the darkness, she felt cold fear grip her. Her heart almost stopped when she saw the silhouette of a man, watching the activities below. His feet were slightly apart, his back straight, his hands clasped behind him. Instinctively she shrank into the shadows. How long had he been there? What had he seen? It was too late now to light the beacon.

      Holding her breath, Lowena slowly edged towards some tall shrubs, hoping he hadn’t seen her. When she looked again the man had gone. Her gaze scanned the blackness all around her, but there was no sight of him. Not wanting to wait a moment longer, she turned and headed for home. Moving swiftly along the path, she felt her foot stumble against a stone and only just managed to keep herself from falling.

      Straightening herself, she came face to face with a tall figure in the uniform of a soldier. A dragoon—he had to be a dragoon. At the sudden appearance of this ghostly apparition, looming large and menacing, she trembled with fear. A bolt of terror shot through her and she stood rooted to the spot, unable to move or to speak. When he stepped closer to her she pulled herself together, and with no thought other than to escape turned to run. But the man caught her arm in a vice-like grip.

      ‘Don’t be a fool,’ he growled. ‘Stay where you are.’

      Stunned and stricken dumb, Lowena heard that low, deep voice and thought she was in some kind of nightmare. She spun back, her eyes wide, staring up at him through the tangled mass of her hair. Her heart was beating hard and seemed to roar in her ears. The man towered over her, and in the darkness she could just make out his face.

      She felt herself drawn to him, as if by some overwhelming magnetic force, and for an instant something stirred inside her. She experienced a feeling of strange, slinking unease—the unease of shadowy familiarity—and she shivered with a sense of deep foreboding.

      The blood drained from her face. Recognition hit her and she gasped, thunderstruck.

      It was Mr Marcus, back from the Americas. At least it looked like him.

      With her hair strewn across her face and in the dim light she prayed he hadn’t recognised her—not now, not when she must look a frightful sight and was breaking the law. Struggling fiercely to release herself from his grip, closing her ears to the low curses he uttered, she succeeded in freeing herself and fled.

      On reaching the back of the house at Tregarrick she let herself in, breathing a huge sigh of relief that he hadn’t recognised her or followed her. In her room, high in the eaves, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, her body taut, her head in a whirl. She tried not to think of Mr Marcus, wondering if perhaps it hadn’t been him who had taken hold of her, if she had been mistaken and it had been one of the dragoons from the barracks at Bodmin who had accosted her.

      After a while she heard a dog bark in the stables and the whinny of horses. Voices sounded outside and she knew the men had returned from their night’s work in the cove. She froze, her desire to flee this house overwhelmingly strong.

      Covering her face she began to sob, and great tears oozed from her eyes. ‘Oh, Izzy,’ she moaned, with a wretchedness that came straight from her heart. ‘Why did you have to die? Why did you have to leave me?’

      There was no help for her.

      * * *

      Two hours later, when the two half-brothers finally faced each other across the drawing room at Tregarrick, the air about them had turned cold, lapping around them like a winter sea. It held the two of them in its deathly chill.

      Edward took judicious note of the taut set of his brother’s jaw, and the small lines of ruthlessness around his mouth, and could see he was a youth no longer. Marcus presented a towering, masculine, imposing figure. An aura of authority and power seemed to surround him. It was etched in every line of his lean, taut frame, and he possessed a haughty reserve that was not inviting.

      Edward mentally despised the implacable authority and strength in Marcus’s manner and bearing, which no doubt stemmed from his military training and the ensuing years fighting the war in America.

      ‘Ah,’ Edward said, his eyes cold. ‘You survived the war, I see... So the soldier condescends to return home? Good of you, Marcus. Better late than never, I suppose.’

      Marcus’s lips curled in derision. ‘I am the sort who clings to life, Edward, as you should know. I was sorry to hear about Isabel,’ he said, his tone flat as he referred to Edward’s wife.

      Edward’s face hardened and became closed, but not before Marcus had seen a hidden pain cloud his eyes.

      ‘Mother told me it was a riding accident that killed her.’

      ‘These things happen,’ was all Edward said, clearly irritated that his brother should remind him of that time in his life when he had been at his most vulnerable. ‘I am surprised to find you here at this late hour. You must forgive my absence. I have been occupied with other matters tonight.’

      ‘I saw.’

      Edward smiled thinly, pouring himself a drink. Dropping into a leather chair by the fire, he stretched out his long booted legs. ‘As long as you were the only one who saw then I am not concerned.’

      Before Marcus had left for America he had known that Edward had become the leader of a well-organised smuggling ring operating hereabouts. It would seem nothing had changed.

      ‘I had thought you would have put the trade behind you with your new position. Even the cleverest smuggler will make a mistake eventually—and then he will be either arrested or dead.’

      Edward’s brows lifted imperturbably. ‘I and more than half the population in Cornwall do not see smuggling as a crime. Those involved in various ways either buy, sell, or drink—respectable ministers of the church, doctors, lawyers, and...oh, yes...even magistrates and excise men. They all look the other way for a drop of fine French brandy or a bolt of silk or lace for their ladies.’

      ‘You are