Burning Bright (Brambridge Novel 2) Read online

  BURNING BRIGHT

  A BRAMBRIDGE NOVEL

  Pearl Darling

  Magnus&Melinno

  Pearl Darling is the author of The Brambridge Novels, a series of romantic suspense books that each feature a potent combination of passion and mystery set within the dazzling regency period.

  Each of the titles can be read as a standalone, but for those that follow the entire series, each book will provide new information about the mysterious thread that ties the central figures of the Brambridge Novels together.

  And which hero and heroine will be the last to fall to love’s seductive touch? Follow the series to its inevitable conclusion to find out.

  Also by Pearl Darling

  Brambridge Novels:

  Somewhat Scandalous

  Burning Bright

  Dangerous Diana

  Reckless Rules

  Maddening Minx

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Magnus & Melinno

  ISBN: 978 1 911536 00 0

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 Pearl Darling

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  www.pearldarling.com

  Cover design by Kim Killion at The Killion Group Inc.

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  Brambridge, Devon. 1811

  A small cloud crossed the full moon that shed light on the sheltered beach. James stood from his crouched position in the sand and stretched his arms above his back. Gazing upwards, he searched the night sky for the Plough constellation as he had been taught the year before by his tutor on his sixteenth birthday, traced along its handle and quickly found Polaris, the North Star, burning brighter than the other stars around it. He stared back down at the sand and calculated in his head.

  When they had landed on the beach, the stars that made up the Plough had been in line with his shoulder and now it was almost above his head. Forty minutes had passed and they still hadn’t moved the barrels up from the beach and into the stone mine.

  Soft sand crunched behind him. James whirled and crouched, his knife out of its sheath and into his hand in a breath, a move he had practiced many times in secret. A massive figure emerged from the shadows of the beach, hands outstretched. James grinned and, with relief, pushed his knife away as Bill Standish, village blacksmith and captain of the smuggling boat Rocket, grimaced in return and clouted his shoulder.

  “I do wish you wouldn’t do that.” James rubbed at his arm.

  “Grow some more muscle then, Jamie lad.”

  “Mmmm. Not everyone can be as large as you.”

  Bill stared at him. “When I was your age I was already apprenticed to the Brambridge forge. A year later when I was eighteen I was the master smith. Of course you could become as strong as I.” Bill laughed and clouted James on the shoulder again. “Although now I’ll take you as you are.” He jerked his head towards the pile of contraband. “I’ve just been up on the cliff top. Tommy has the fire under control. As soon as we’ve moved the cargo he’ll douse the flames, and the Rocket will leave.”

  “Good. Get the men to move the brandy barrels now. Make sure they fasten the straps tight. I’ll rub out the marks in the sand.”

  Bill nodded and quickly gave the orders to the waiting men. James glanced upwards again. Another ten minutes gone. They would only have another ten before there was a greater risk of being caught. As the last man disappeared into the undergrowth at the bottom of the cliffs, James took off his coat and ran, dragging it across the sand where the barrels were stacked.

  Taking a deep breath, he pressed his hands together and blew through them, making three low owl hoots. He waited, and sighed with relief as the call was answered by one low hoot from the headland. The Rocket was barely visible in Longman’s Cove, but a sharp-eyed observer might see the tall shape of her mast against the moon, or the occasional light as the crewmen moved across her decks. It was vital that she wasn’t discovered. The contraband that she brought in from France was the only thing keeping Brambridge village alive. James might have been young, but he cared.

  He strode to where Bill and the men had disappeared with the barrels at the back of the beach. Parting the undergrowth, he stepped onto a cleverly concealed path. Glancing quickly about him, he stilled, the dark shadows deeper than they should have been. Before he could move, hands descended and covered his eyes with a firm pressure. In a flurry of movement, he whirled, forcing them from his face, and pushed the attacker back into the bushes. The small figure giggled and tapped lightly on his chest. James let out a groan. Not her again.

  “Harriet, this is not the time or the place.” He stood and hauled her to her feet. “We are not thirteen-years-old any more. This is dangerous.”

  “I know, it’s terribly exciting. The moon is so large and the sea is getting up. It’s like a scene from Hamlet.” Harriet stared at him, wide eyed. She pushed her curly red hair away from her face and blinked. “I thought I might help,” she said in a low voice.

  James sighed. “I’d rather you didn’t. You need to stay here or go home to the cottage to your aunt. Does Miss Aggie know you are here?

  Harriet shook her head. “No, she’s alone at the cottage, I slipped out when she fell asleep over her correspondence.”

  James clenched his fists. “Don’t follow me.” He turned away and stepped back onto the upwards path.

  “James, I—”

  He cursed and turned back. Behind Harriet’s hunched shoulders the tide was beginning to turn, cutting off her route home. He touched her arm lightly.

  “Look. I’ll come back for you, Harry. I always do, don’t I?” James took in a deep breath and rubbed at his eyes as Harriet’s shoulders slumped further. “I pulled you out of that pond when you were pretending to be a witch, I rescued you from the apple tree when you wondered what it was like to be a bird, and I rowed you back from the sandbank in the middle of the cove when you were calling to the gods of the sea. I always come back for you.”

  He waited until she nodded slightly.

  “Good.” He patted her hand lightly and turned resolutely away. Striding with hurried steps, he followed the concealed path up the steep cliff side and into a hidden archway partway up the limestone face. A narrow tunnel led upwards into the cliff, branching out at different points. Trailing his hand along the wall, he took first the left tunnel, a sharp right and then a succession of left forks.

  All wa
s quiet in the mine. With a slight shiver, James took a last right turn. He struck a match and then blew it out again as quickly as he had struck it. In the flash of light he had seen the men lined up against the wall, each with a tot of brandy in their hand. The barrels were stowed into a stone alcove, and covered with a piece of white sailcloth that blended well with the white of the stone around it.

  “Go home,” he whispered. “We’ll move the barrels tomorrow night. Wait for Bill’s instructions.” He did not see them nod but felt the brush of the men’s coats as they filed past him. The last man squeezed his shoulder strongly and a low laugh rumbled slightly as Bill left with the men.

  James hurried in the opposite direction, out of the small chamber, into a larger one and then into another tunnel that moved upwards again. After fifty paces he came to an abrupt stop. He felt lightly at the wall to his right. Hooking his hands into the wall, he pulled out a small brass hook that was embedded in the stone. The hook moved seamlessly towards him, and a chink of light appeared through the wall.

  He held his breath but there was no sound. The light remained low as he pushed the door open and slid his chest and then his legs through, quickly closing the door again behind him. The door blended into the oak casement that lined the room and was impossible to distinguish from the other panels around it.

  A woman gazed out at him from a painting hung over the wooden panel, a half-smile on her lips, her hands still upraised pointing to five stars that encircled her head. She had greeted his coming and going for the last year in the same fashion, the only woman surrounded by sneering male family portraits.

  Lowering his head, James moved quickly from the room, and turned a sharp right into the sumptuous hall. Unwillingly his eyes flickered to the door to his father’s study opposite the gallery. The door was slightly ajar but no glow lit the room. Hunching his shoulders, James ran lightly up the grand staircase and stepped into his bedroom.

  Damn. He’d forgotten about Harriet.

  He took a step back towards the door, but faltered when a loud crash reverberated through the house. Loud shouts came from the hallway. Running back to the bed, he jumped under the coverlet, and pulled a pillow over his head. He breathed quiet shallow breaths into the soft cotton covering his face.

  The bedroom door opened in a burst of sound. Light footsteps pattered across the carpet and the pillow was ripped away from his hands.

  His sister shook his shoulders violently, jerking his head from side to side. Opening his eyes, he focused blearily.

  “James,” she cried. “Oh, you fool. Get up. They’re coming for you.”

  “Wha… who?”

  “Lord Anglethorpe and Father.” Cecilia stopped shaking him and pushed her hands through the long mahogany waves of her hair. “It’s the new riding officer—Fairleigh, he’s been murdered.”

  “I don’t understand, why are they coming for me?” James blinked. Bill had told him that Fairleigh was visiting his sweetheart in Ottery.

  His sister's face darkened as she gripped the bed linen. “You and that blasted Rocket,” she said tautly. “He was pushed off the top of Longman’s Point. They say his head hit the rocks at the bottom of the cliff.”

  James took a sharp intake of breath as an ice like tentacle of fear encircled his throat. Shaking, he sat and lifted up the coverlet and swung his legs out of the bed.

  “Stop where you are.”

  He froze, one booted foot on the floor.

  His father barreled through the bedroom doorway. “I told your mother that you were bad luck and look what you've done. Killed an innocent man. You can’t deny it.” He shook his head and fury filled his face. “That will teach her for letting you lead your own way and—”

  “Enough, Lord Stanton!” A broad-shouldered gentleman appeared in the doorway. “Don't be a fool. The lad looks quiet enough and we are not sure yet that he even did it.”

  “Of course he did, Anglethorpe. You’ve only been in the district a year. You won’t know his reputation. Can't you see the scratches on his hands and knees? Got them climbing to the top of the cliff to push Farleigh off, I’ll wager. He’s no son of mine.”

  “But Father…” James tried to twitch the coverlet back into place. “I was in bed.”

  “Nonsense, James. You were seen creeping down the hallway by Edgar here at two o'clock of the morning, fully clothed.”

  James gulped and looked at his lone booted foot resting on the floor supporting his weight. Edgar. He might have guessed it was Edgar; he stood behind his father and Lord Anglethorpe, craning his head over their shoulders. Occasionally he would move, bobbing up and down, as if gleefully taking in the whole scene, committing it to memory.

  The bastard.

  “I was stargazing,” James said quietly. He pointed to the leather bound tube that lay on the table next to the bed. “I was told a comet might pass over tonight.”

  Lord Stanton snorted. Even Lord Anglethorpe looked disconcerted.

  “A likely tale. No son of mine stargazes. It’s something we tell the ladies to get them into bed.” Lord Stanton walked further into the room, stopping suddenly as Lord Anglethorpe clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  “Alright, I'll come with you quietly.” James swung his other foot from the bed. “I'm innocent, though, I haven't done anything wrong. I was stargazing. Just let me change my clothes. Please?” The last word stuck in his throat. To his father that word would have been better than a scream.

  Lord Stanton opened his mouth to speak again but Lord Anglethorpe stopped him. “Enough, Stanton. It’s a bit of a walk to the lockup, and there is no way out of the room apart from the door and window.” He peered through the murky glass window and sighed. “It’s too high for him to escape by the window and I'll put a guard on the door as well.”

  Lord Stanton glared balefully at his son, as if wishing he could pick up James and carry him to the prison himself. James looked away from the hateful stare, so like those in the family pictures.

  Lord Anglethorpe shouldered Lord Stanton from the room. “Come on. The quicker we leave, the faster he'll be ready. It’s not as if he’s going to escape to France.”

  Lord Stanton pulled away and brushed at Lord Anglethorpe’s hand. He cast one last red-eyed glare at James and left, shoving a grinning Edgar out of the way. As Lord Anglethorpe pulled the door shut behind him, he stopped and stared at James. With a barely imperceptible flicker of his eyelid he winked and closed the door with a click.

  CHAPTER 1

  Two years later 1813

  Miss Harriet Beauregard scraped the last letter on the chalkboard, wincing as she caught the black slate with her nails. With a sigh, she turned back to face her class. Three sallow young children stared back at her. The remaining sixteen looked down at their books or fiddled with their slates.

  How long would it be before the church bell rang the hour?

  “Turn your books to page two hundred and fifty four please.” She paused and narrowed her eyes. “Joseph Carter, give Thomas back his book and put your bottom back on your seat.” She waited as the small boy meekly handed back the slim pamphlet to his classmate. “Thank you. Any more of that, and you will no longer be included in the midsummer play.”

  Good grief. Harriet shook her head. Edmund Kean didn’t have to deal with any of this.

  The little boy sat up straight, his ears turning a bright red. There was a visible stirring in the classroom as all the boys and girls aged from six to sixteen sat a little straighter and lowered their eyes to their books. They had had their first rehearsal of Romeo and Juliet this morning. There had been a very enthusiastic response. However, the flow of the tragedy had been quite disturbed when the eight-year-old playing the menacing Mercutio tried to embed a pencil in his nose.

  Harriet sighed. And the fact that the sixteen-year-old who had the role of the count still could not get over the fact that Romeo and Juliet fell in love in a day also stayed with her.

  Did he have no romance in his soul?

 
She smoothed her tightly-bound hair and looked out of the window.

  Ring bell, ring. Her gaze followed the vale high up to the ridge which led to Honiton. “Joseph, start reading at paragraph three please,” she said without turning from the window.

  “Once upon a time there was a… a… a—”

  “Knight,” she corrected absently.

  “Knight,” Joseph carried on, “who lived in a large c... c... c…”

  “Castle.”

  “Castle, and had a large white horse.”

  Harriet blinked. Up on the ridge there was a shadowy figure mounted on a horse. Harriet turned to look back at the class. Joseph was still valiantly battling on with the tale.

  “The knight rescued the princess from the palace and…”

  Harriet looked back to the window again. The figure had disappeared. She rubbed her tired eyes and looked again, but the ridge was empty. Good grief. She had definitely been reading too late into the night again.

  Joseph had fallen silent. Bringing her hands away from her eyes, Harriet edged round her desk and sat in the large slatted chair. “Carry on, Joseph,” she said, shuffling the papers on her desk.

  “I’m not sure I understand the story, Miss Harriet.” The little boy’s mouth was set in a straight line. “Why do knights always rescue the princess? Why don’t they just leave them alone and go off and do interesting things like playing jumping jacks?”

  It seemed today was a day for questions. “Because that’s what knights do, Joseph.” Harriet infused as much enthusiasm into her voice as possible. “After all, who else would rescue the princess?”

  Of course Joseph had a point. Harriet looked down at the papers on her desk. Spelling quizzes, writing comprehension, mathematical exercises. She looked back at her class, who chatted quietly among themselves. They were good children, every one of them. But despite her efforts to give them an education, she knew that they would end up like their parents before them, trapped in their cottages making lace, out on the fishing boats or worse—