The Silver Lord
On the surface, Fan Winslow appeared to be the prim and proper housekeeper of Feversham Hall. In actuality, she was secretly heading a notorious smuggling gang based off the rambling estate's stormy coast. The arrival of Feversham's new owner, Captain Lord George Claremont, however, threatened to ruin her thriving business.Having lived down the shame his rakehell father had brought upon their family, George Claremont lived by his honor and the kingdom's laws. Dubbed the Silver Lord for his feats in battle as much as for his sterling reputation, the celebrated navy hero was duty bound to stop any and all illegal activity on his property…even if the villain was a mysterious beauty with eyes no man could resist. Would turbulent passion be enough to forever unite lovers on opposite sides of the law?
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George. A saint’s name, the name of kings and now the name of Feversham’s new owner.
But oh, when did Fan begin thinking of him like that, as George instead of his string of titles? She was his housekeeper, his servant, not his friend and certainly not his lover. To address him with such familiarity would be one more slippery step downward to her own ruin, with no way ever to climb back.
That kiss on her hand had been another. Why, why hadn’t she pulled away? Could she only protest when there were others watching? Or was she so weak that she’d cared more for that shiver of heady pleasure that came from his touch?
The Silver Lord
Harlequin Historical #648
Praise for bestselling author
MIRANDA JARRETT
“Miranda Jarrett continues to reign as the
queen of historical romance.”
—Romantic Times
“A marvelous author…each word is a treasure,
each book a lasting memory.”
—The Literary Times
“Miranda Jarrett is a sparkling talent!”
—Romantic Times
#647 TEMPTING A TEXAN
Carolyn Davidson
#649 THE ANGEL OF DEVIL’S CAMP
Lynna Banning
#650 BRIDE OF THE TOWER
Sharon Schulze
Available from Harlequin Historicals and
MIRANDA JARRETT
Steal the Stars#115
*Columbine#144
*Spindrift#174
Providence#201
*Mariah’s Prize#227
*Desire My Love#247
*The Sparhawk Bride#292
*Sparhawk’s Angel#315
*Gift of the Heart#341
*The Secrets of Catie Hazard#363
Gifts of the Season#631
†“A Gift Most Rare”
†The Silver Lord#648
Other works include:
Harlequin Books
Christmas Rogues 1995
“Bayberry and Mistletoe”
For TFR,
For believing there are second acts!
With Affection & Regards
Contents
Chapter One
Feversham Downs, Kent
March, 1802
The fog clung close to the coast, so gray and heavy and icy-wet that it seemed like an extension of the sea itself, risen up into the night sky solely to increase the misery of any shivering creatures it might touch. This fog had stolen away the moon and stars along with all earthly landmarks, and even the great rush and crash of the waves seemed muffled and muted. It was a night fit for neither Christian man nor beast, and certainly not for a lady.
But for Fan Winslow, it was the most perfect night imaginable.
“Keep the light covered, Bob,” she said briskly to the man on the horse beside her. “Even in this murk, I won’t have the risk of a glimmer to betray us.”
Dutifully the man tugged at the hinged window on the tin lantern swinging from the stake in the sand, the awkward bulges in his coat betraying the pistols in his belt. Though there was seldom any trouble, they were always armed; in this trade, it would be foolish to take the risk of doing otherwise. Now only the tiniest pinpricks of light showed through the punched holes on the back of the lantern, and Fan nodded her approval, drawing her black cloak more closely around her huddled shoulders.
Faith, as if that could keep out more of this wretched cold! The fog would always have its way, icy fingers that could creep through the woolen layers of petticoats and stockings and mittens and shawls under her cloak. The only real warmth came from the sturdy little horse beneath her, for Pie’s shaggy rough coat had been bred for weather like this. Fan wasn’t as fortunate, and she pulled the scarf higher over her face, trying to preserve some semblance of a ladylike complexion, even as the salty wet chill made her cheeks ache and her eyes tear, and plastered the few loose curls of her hair like clammy seaweed against her forehead and neck.
Yet still she and Bob Forbert waited on the beach, steadfastly staring out into the fog to where the little boat must be, squinting so hard to see what Fan prayed would be there that her exhausted eyes teared from the effort. Except for those careful few who knew the truth, no one would guess her place by day at Feversham Hall, or understand the risk she took by coming here on this night, and on scores of others like it.
Furtively she puffed her breath against the rough wool of the scarf pulled over her mouth, hoping to warm herself however she could, and twisted the reins in her cold-numbed fingers. It was a perfect night for their trade, exactly the weather she always prayed for. A fog like this kept secrets as surely as the grave itself.
But how long had she been standing here by the sea, the spray that blew towards them like tumbled flakes of snow? Had it been one hour, two, even three? She could reach for the heavy watch she wore at her waist, but to do so would make her look weak and unsure of herself, as if she hadn’t planned and anticipated every last detail of this night. She couldn’t let Bob sense her uncertainty. She couldn’t let him, or any of the others, ever see her be less than absolutely confident.
But hadn’t Father taught her that, never to show doubt to those who depended upon her? These folk are our people, Father would say, his black brows bristling with seriousness, these are the Winslow Company. They’re our responsibility, and you must be ready to put them first. That’s how it’s always been for us Winslows, daughter. We must be brave, be sure, be true. We must, my girl, else we’ll never hold their respect and their loyalty, nor shall we deserve it.
