The Professor and the Smuggler Page 6

  “Not on these roads.” Phillip smiled as he clasped the lad’s hand. “Honestly, I’ve only owned her a brief time, so I haven’t had the opportunity to really give her a go on a good road. I’m looking forward to it, though. It should be a ripping good time. And I’ll certainly give you a ride before I leave.”

  He’d made another conquest. Phillip could tell from Robin’s shining, worshipful eyes.

  “Have another, Mr. Singleton?” Bea was at his elbow offering a fresh glass of stout, and Phillip realized he’d drained the one in front of him.

  He also realized his head was getting a little muzzy and his stomach was rumbling. It had been a long time since breakfast. If he didn’t have something to eat soon, he might pass out from the strong drink. He wondered if Mrs. Pollard served stargazy pie.

  Chapter Eight

  Things could’ve gone much worse, Carne decided as he sat back and watched Singleton make friends with Eldred the grocer, Jacobs the part-time constable, and nearly every man in the tavern. Mitchell still sat in his corner, brooding, but the rest of the villagers wandered over to be introduced and visit for a bit.

  Phillip Singleton was a charmer, no doubt of that. Carne had to wonder if the man hadn’t been practicing his winsome wiles on him, for the professor seemed adept at getting most anyone to talk about themselves.

  Carne had thought him odd at first, perhaps eccentric, but with bright smiles and understanding nods, the stranger broke down the villagers’ habitual reserve. Soon they were sharing gossip about families, feuds, ailments, peculiarities, and tales from their mining history. Thank goodness no one was drunk enough to speak of the Concern and its business.

  “Professor,” Robin nearly shouted to be heard above the other chattering voices. “Carne told us he met you up at the standing stones. You should be careful going there.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Piskies.”

  “Magical sprites. I should love to see them,” Phillip said.

  Robin shook his head. “Nay, they’re not to be trifled with. Their tricks be mostly harmless, but they don’t much like people coming into their circles or other secret places. They’re liable to lead you astray, so if you hear laughter like a child’s, never try to follow it.”

  Phillip nodded very deliberately, taking Robin’s caution with a drunken man’s seriousness. “I always thought fairies a charming notion.”

  “They’re no mere notion.” Bea had stopped pretending to be busy and pulled up a chair along with the rest. “My granfer nearly drowned from a piskie leading him into a bog. Took him hours to get free of the muck.”

  “Yer granfer was too fond of drink. That’s why he ended up facedown in the mud one night,” Mitchell called as he downed yet another glass of ale.

  Carne would’ve smiled at irony, except he was too annoyed with Mitchell to feel any humor toward him. Whatever the younger Mitchell was up to down at the cove certainly involved his father and likely Gwalather too, since the man was missing from his usual spot in the tavern.

  All had a good laugh at Bea’s grandfather’s expense, then each went on to tell his own tale of a brush with the other side.

  “Heard a knocker the day afore the great cave-in at Dolcoath,” old Tom Kenneth who hadn’t spoken till now burst forth. “I wouldn’t go down the next day, and it saved me life for certain.”

  “Knockers. Those are the spirits of dead miners who warn of an impending collapse.” Phillip showed more knowledge of their folklore.

  “Aye. Our ancestors warn and protect us with their tap-tapping,” the aged one said.

  “’Tis true,” Peters agreed. “My own father heard knockers more than once.”

  “And was there a cave-in every time?” Phillip asked.

  “Well, no, but he heard the tapping all the same. Maybe warning him of a different sort of disaster.”

  Singleton seemed about to pursue this line of thinking further but closed his mouth. Likely he didn’t want to annoy any of his newly made friends by challenging their beliefs. Clever man.

  Attractive man. A voice from nowhere whispered in Carne’s mind, startling him straight in his seat. No. That wasn’t right. If anything, Singleton was a gawky scarecrow of a man, certainly not classically handsome. Besides, Carne appreciated women. Women like Bea Pollard, who was tickling his calf with her foot under the table. He admired her generous breasts and her…generous nature. Aye. Men were not attractive. Women were. Why in the world did he need to remind himself of this?

  He bolted from his seat and excused himself to go out to the privy. He needed a break from being near the professor. Carne was used to spending hours alone, and he’d hardly had a minute to himself all that day.

  Outside, he was able to breathe again. The heat of midday had subsided, and shadows were growing longer. He didn’t want to face another night of sharing his house with Singleton, but he could hardly give him the boot now. Let the man enjoy the fellowship in the pub awhile longer. He could gather his tales—if he’d remember them later. Singleton seemed on his way to being quite drunk. Maybe he’d pass out immediately after supper, and Carne wouldn’t have to think of him again until morning.

  Gwalather rounded a bend in the path and came stumping toward the pub, his scarred hand curled near his stomach as he always held it. Carne went to meet him.

  “Where’ve you been?” he asked shortly.

  “No business o’ yours. Last I knew, this was a free country.” Gwalather started past him.

  “I saw young Mitchell down at the cove. What was he doing?”

  The gnarled man stopped and gave him a hard look. “What d’ye suppose? Young men and their maids find private spots on the shore.”

  “He weren’t with a girl. ’Twas doing something else.” Or maybe Carne was wrong and imagining secret meetings and conspiracies where there were none. There was little more than sighting Mitchell and a niggling feeling in him to suggest something wrong. Yet, Carne had learned to listen to inner warnings, which sometimes kept him from harm.

  “How should I know? You’d do best to stop worrying about what we’re up to and put yer mind to gettin’ that stranger on his way.”

  “He’s harmless.” Carne repeated what he’d told the elder Mitchell. “Only wants to hear old tales and take his photographs of the pretty scenery. That’s all.” He gestured behind him. “In there now, listening to stories of the wee ones and knockers and Jack the Giant Killer. His head’s full of fancies more than facts.”

  Gwalather glowered. “You took him to the cove today?”

  “To see a couple of harmless spots.” He seemed to be repeating that word a lot. “Do you think I’m a fool? I’d hardly show him where we store cargo.”

  “Best keep him away from the shore entirely. If I catch him poking about on his own, it’ll be my turn to deal with him as I see fit.”

  Carne bit his tongue. Likely Gwalather was only talking tough, but Carne didn’t like the threat to the innocent professor.

  “Well, he’s not here to cause us trouble,” he repeated. “A bit of a fool, that one, actually.” Carne didn’t believe that for a moment.

  “An agent of the crown would hardly be likely to march in all scowls and accusations, would he? He’d hide his nature and pretend to be a bumbling dobeck to gather information.” Gwalather snorted his disgust and carried on to the tavern.

  Carne hated to admit the man made sense. But he felt himself a fairly good judge of character and couldn’t detect an ounce of deception in Phillip Singleton. The man was who and what he said he was.

  He used the privy, then returned to the tavern, only to walk into a hullaballoo. Everyone was singing a drinking song at the tops of their voices, and they’d taught Singleton so he could join in on the chorus.

  I ’ad ’er, I ’ad ’er, I did

  I ’ad ’er, I ’ad ’er, I did

  I ’ad ’er, I did:

  It cost me a quid

  Going up Camborne Hill coming DOWN

  They all h
it the final word hard—Robin’s tenor, Peter’s bass, Trennick’s off-key warble, and Phillip’s quite lovely baritone.

  “Good Lord,” Carne muttered as Phillip leaped to his feet and held up his hands for quiet.

  “Listen, listen, listen my friends. I want to take your ph-phonograph, I mean photro…your pic-shure. Will you let me set up my cambra and all come outside? Better lighting, y’see. I want you all to be in it.” He opened his arms as if he’d hug every one of them to him.

  At their corner table, Gwalather and Mitchell looked up sharply from their discussion and shot disapproving glares at the others.

  “Bad enough he knows our names,” Mitchell began, but he was interrupted by Robin, stumbling toward the door.

  “A picture? Truly?” Robin knocked over a stool. “A picture? Of us?”

  “Ain’t never had my likeness captured.” Old Tom got up from his seat quite spryly. “I’d like that.”

  Everyone else was tipsy enough to happily agree and troop after Phillip toward the door.

  He slung an arm around old Tom. “You won’t be able to see it d’rectly. I must take the plates back to…back to…and prosheth them. But I promise to mail you your likeness. And you’ll be in my book along with your story about those, um, knockers.”

  Carne intercepted them before they reached the door. “Maybe that’s enough photos for today. I don’t think it’s the right time for—”

  “Shhh.” Singleton put a finger to his lips and peered owlishly at him. “It’s all right. They want to. Will you…?” He trailed off and leaned into bandy-legged Tom, who leaned back, propping him up.

  Carne opened the door to usher them outside. “Will I what?”

  “Help me. Will you help set up and take the, um, pic-shure?”

  “Aye. I can do that.”

  The entire process was like gathering straw in a wind storm. By the time Carne had gotten the camera assembled, the group had begun to scatter. He got them together and with the sun lighting their faces properly. But Phillip was clearly too drunk to operate the thing. Carne had watched and assisted him at the seashore, and now he followed the operation as best he could recall.

  When he’d focused and viewed the group upside down under the hood of the camera, he stepped aside and called. “All right. No more moving now. Everyone smile and…hold.”

  Carne squeezed the shutter release and counted. He expected there might be blurring or squinting or silly expressions, but even if the image came out horribly, he’d done it. He felt rather proud that he’d taken a photograph.

  Now he could get Phillip home, fed, and put to bed, hopefully, before he passed out.

  He began to pack up. “We should probably be moving on, Mr. Singleton.”

  “Oh no. I told everybody I’d stand the next round,” Phillip whined. “They’re counting on me.”

  “They’ll be here tomorrow and the next day and the next. And so will the ale.” Even if you won’t be. “Best come with me now, sir.”

  In the end, after loading the camera and Phillip’s abandoned coat and waistcoat into the cart, Carne had to put his arm around his guest’s back to guide him to the wagon. Alcohol fumes wafted from Phillip as he continued to babble. His back was hot and his shirt damp with sweat against Carne’s bare forearm. The masculine odor and feel of him were so different from Bea’s feminine softness. Yet it had surprisingly the same effect on Carne, a stirring in his groin and cock that he couldn’t control. He wished he could let go, and he wished he could hold on.

  Phillip rolled his head toward him and gazed at Carne from far too close. “Thank you. You’ve been an excellent guide. This is the best day I ever had. It was extraordingary and re…markable.”

  “Remarkable indeed.” Carne softly repeated the professor’s favorite word as he looked into those remarkable gray eyes.

  Chapter Nine

  The cart hit a bump, and Phillip came back to himself from a lovely, hazy dream of laughter and dancing. A pirate king, a fisherman, the salty flavor of man came to Phillip, and then, with the bump, the taste turned sour.

  He realized he’d slid down the seat and his head rested against a solid form. The hard muscle under his cheek had to be Carne’s shoulder. If only Phillip’s stomach and head hadn’t turned rebel, he’d enjoy this moment.

  Another bump, and all thoughts but one vanished.

  “We need to stop,” he said.

  “We’re nearly home,” Carne said too cheerfully.

  “Stop. Now.”

  Carne must have heard the urgency, for he pulled the cart to a halt. “You don’t hold your liquor, do you, Mr. Singleton?”

  Just the word liquor brought a burn to his head and throat and…

  “Oh no.” Phillip stumbled off the cart and into the soggy ditch.

  A day and evening that had started with such promise apparently would end with misery in the muck of a ditch. He heaved until he supposed he’d lost everything he’d eaten since he left London.

  “I should never drink,” he croaked.

  “Here.” A hand appeared next to his face, holding a bottle.

  “No more.” Phillip cleared his throat and winced. “Please.”

  “It’s water.”

  He took the bottle and tasted it. Pure lovely water with only a hint of salt. After rinsing his mouth, he greedily drank.

  “Don’t gulp it,” Carne said. “It’ll come back up.”

  Phillip handed it back and straightened. “The world is sh-spinning, but my stomach no longer wants to turn itself inside out.”

  Carne laughed.

  Phillip twisted, carefully, to glare at him. “What is so terribly amusing, Mr. Treleaven?”

  Carne stood too near him. “You were sounding properly pickled and now you could be sober.”

  “Hardly,” Phillip muttered. “I shall never drink again. You are my witness.”

  The man laughed again, a deep rumble that soothed Phillip. His large hand grasped Phillip’s elbow. “Come on. Let’s get you home now.”

  Home. Gracious, that sounded pleasant. Phillip wondered what in his life constituted his home. The library in the Antiquarian Society? His club in London? Perhaps as he settled to write this book, he’d buy a house. Yes, he might buy one in a village near London so he could easily access the resources he needed. He wished he’d held on to his uncle’s townhouse in the city, with its lovely library, but that house seemed haunted to him and he’d been too sad to stay for long.

  And he’d like a house just a bit farther outside the center of the city, a property with trees and more than a tiny garden.

  Phillip stumbled over the ground near the road, distracted by the picture of the large house he could buy, perhaps in Wimbledon. Though, really, he’d prefer a cottage with whitewashed walls, dim windows… He formed a picture of a larger version of Carne’s house with room for books and a real garden. He’d want a place his Cantabrigian friends might visit. They’d discuss their studies over tea in the garden, but no ale. God, not ale.

  The thoughts were more pleasant to consider than the dizziness that still seized him.

  “Easy,” Carne murmured.

  He must have groaned aloud. “I’m not going to be sick again,” he reassured Carne. “There’s nothing left.”

  “Poor professor.”

  “You must call me Phillip,” he insisted. “When one has witnessed a scene such as the one in the ditch, I think first names are de rigueur.”

  “Day who?”

  “Proper social behavior.” He risked opening his eyes and looking around. The clouds pinked by the light of a nearly set sun heaved a little, but that might have been due to the ride over the bumpy ground.

  After a short drive, they stopped in front of the cottage. Carne jumped down and trotted over to Phillip’s side, but Phillip had already managed to climb down. “I think I shall live,” he said.

  “Good,” Carne replied.

  “I’m not certain I agree at the moment.”

  They went into th
e cottage. He walked into his room, took off his glasses, and collapsed on the bed. He must have slept, because when he next opened his eyes, the cottage was entirely dark.

  He sat up, seized by a dreadful thirst. His throat and head hurt, and for a moment, he wondered if he’d contracted an illness, until he remembered what he’d done in the pub. He groaned with mortification.

  Something creaked and rustled. “Are you all right?” The voice came from the chair in the corner.

  He put on his glasses and made out the shape. “Carne?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  “Were you doing a death watch?”

  “No. Though maybe I mean yes. I knew two men who succumbed after drinking too much.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “’Twas.” Another creak and rustle.

  “Were they close friends?”

  “Naw. One was a drunkard who keeled over having a fit, and the other a fisherman who choked. I saw poor Chappy’s fit. So, then, Professor Phillip, if you’re still alive, I can go to my own bed.”

  “I suppose you’re not up for a chat this time of night.”

  That low rumble of laughter. “What do you want to chat about?”

  “I think I remember what I did last night, but…”

  “Tonight. Only hours ago now.”

  Phillip rubbed at his face and muttered an oath.

  Carne seemed to settle back into the chair. “Wonderin’ if you did anythin’ daft?”

  “I’m rather certain that I did. I-I tend to become a bit too friendly with my fellow humans when I’ve had a single drink.” He groaned again. “I love the species and don’t try to hide it.”

  Carne’s laughter was a warm caress. “You didn’t do anything to make anyone teasy. That is annoyed.”

  So he hadn’t attempted to kiss Carne, then. That was a relief. He recalled something else humiliating. “There was that disgusting interlude in the ditch.”

  “Not a cause for anger.”

  Phillip waited for him to say more, but after a great loud yawn, Carne only said, “Need water? ’Tis next to the bed.”