"That's what happened before. I wasn't having it happening again-not with Colyton men." Even through the dark, she exuded determination. Now he understood. Peace of mind.
"So instead, you organized this entirely legitimate enterprise." Not a question but a statement, one tinged with surprise and more definitely with approval.
She inclined her head.
They walked on in silence as he digested it all. "But why work at night?"
The sound she made, half snort, half sigh, was distinctly patronizing. "So it looks like the men are still smuggling, of course."
"Why is that important?"
"It isn't, not to anyone but them." Resigned frustration colored her tone. "Other than myself, only Papa, Mr. Filing, Thompson, and the men involved-and now you-know that the business is legal. In the company's name, I organize the rendezvous with the ships-most French captains are happy to unload without having to lay into an English port. The gang keeps the rendezvous and brings the goods up to the church-"
"And you store them in the crypt."
She nodded.
"What happens then?"
"Mr. Filing takes the signed bills of lading to the Revenue Office and pays the duties owed, then brings back the stamped clearances. Thompson isn't involved with the incoming goods, but his brother, Oscar, is the gang's leader. Once Mr. Filing has the clearances, the gang comes back one night and loads the goods onto Thompson's dray. The next day, Thompson drives the goods into Chard, where the Company has an arrangement with one of the major merchants. He sells the goods on commission and the funds come back to Mr. Filing, who pays the men their share." She gestured. "That's it."
"But why do the men pretend they're still smuggling?"
"They pretend they're still members of the brotherhood essentially to save face. They've got used to a regular income and a comfortable existence free of any threat from the Revenue, but the mystique of smuggling runs deep in these parts-they don't want it known they're no longer involved, no longer taking risks. There are other smuggling gangs still operating in the district. The gang that operates to the west of Beer is all but legendary."
Eyes on the ground, she strode on. "When I suggested the Company, the men were adamant that they'd only be part of it if the legality of the operation was kept secret. I had to agree to them continuing to operate like smugglers."
She shot him a glance; he sensed her contemptuous air. "Male egos are nonsensical things."
Lucifer grinned. The woman came out night after night to spare those selfsame male egos. He looked ahead. The Grange shrubbery was just discernible through the gloom.
Crack!
He reacted instantly, grabbing Phyllida, hurling them both forward.
A long groan and the sounds of roots and earth tearing followed them down; the next instant, with a massive crash! a dead tree thumped down across the path where a few seconds before they had stood. One skeletal branch trapped Lucifer's boots. Turning, glancing back at the tree, he kicked and the brittle twigs snapped.
He'd flung them against the rising bank that bordered the path at that point, Phyllida first, his body protectively over hers. They'd landed roughly horizontal, stretched full length on a narrow shelf in the bank. Lucifer slowly turned over, assessing their state. He slipped and slid down, ending on the path, flat on his back.
Phyllida, who'd been trying to push herself away from the bank, lost his support behind and beneath her. With a muffled shriek, she followed him down. She landed on top of him, her shoulder digging into his chest.
He winced. Gasping, she wriggled around; they ended literally nose to nose, lips and eyes mere inches apart.
They both froze, stilled… waiting… thinking…
He started to raise his arms to close them about her, then stopped. Percy had grabbed her only hours before and tried to force his attentions on her. He wanted to seize, to hold, to capture, but the last tiling he wanted was to remind her of Percy.
His night vision was good. Her face was a pale oval, her expression not her usual serene mask but carefully blank. Eyes wide, she was staring at his face. Considering… wondering…
He knew what he'd like her to consider-what he wanted her to wonder. "I believe"-his voice had deepened-"that I deserve a reward for that."
Phyllida stared at him and tried to marshal her wayward wits. His hands were at her waist, but not gripping. She lay fully upon him; he lay passive beneath her. She knew that he was infinitely more dangerous than Percy. Why, then, did she feel so much safer, all but in his arms, lying atop him, entirely alone in the dark wood late at night?
It was a conundrum, one she felt she should solve. But she couldn't, not now, not with his dark gaze on her eyes, with the hard warmth of him beneath her, threatening, in the most tempting way, to surround her.
He did deserve a reward. If she'd been alone, she would have stopped and looked around, and probably have ended being hurt. Even killed. He deserved a reward, and she didn't even have to think to know what it was he would like.
His wish was the glint in his eyes, the tension in the hard body beneath her-an almost discernible hum of desire. Of its own volition, her tongue came out; she licked her lips, leaving them slightly parted.