My Lady Smuggler Read Online Free Page A

proprietor, Melvyrn ordered ale.  He chose a seat at a scarred planked table by a window that overlooked the main street.  When the man returned, Melvyrn asked for Luther Tolliver’s direction.
    With squinty eyes he gazed at Melvyrn and asked, “What would yer be wantin’ him for?”
    “Tolly’s an old friend of mine.”
    “Don’t say much,” the innkeeper challenged.  “You got a name?”
    “Phillips,” he replied, giving a variation of his middle name.
    “Brothers,” the proprietor said. “Bart Brothers.”
    Melvyr n took a sip of his ale, then let his gaze scan about the taproom.  With the revenuers roaming the area for smugglers, he knew it wasn’t likely the innkeeper would volunteer information.  Besides that, contraband brandy and spices which the innkeeper undoubtedly bought from the Gentlemen ensured a steady business.  At length, Melvyrn’s unhurried manner paid off.
    Wiping down another table, the man asked, “How do you come to know Tolly?”
    “We served together in Portugal,” Melvyrn said.  He considered palming the innkeeper a gold coin, then thought better of it.  That was something a government agent might try. 
    The innkeeper took his time mulling this over.  “Yeah, Tolly talks about them he met during the war. ”  Giving Melvyrn another squinty stare, he said, “Turn east after you leave here.  It’ll be the last house at the end of the street.”
    Minutes later, Melvyrn stood in front of a neat little cottage, set slight ly back from the road.  It didn’t look any different from the other stone houses with wood-shingled roofs.  Seeing no one out front, Melvyrn didn’t bother knocking on the door when he heard a banging sound coming from the rear.  He crossed the tiny lawn and picked his way through a small kitchen garden on the side of the cottage.
    Seated on an upended wooden crate sat one of the biggest men Melvyrn had ever known.  His barrel chest widened into massive shoulders that supported a large, black bushy head.  Two beefy hands worked at separating a pile of wooden blocks with grooved pulleys and metal hooks at each end.
    “Well met, Tolly,” Melvyrn called out.
    When Luther Tolliver’s dark brown, nearly black eyes flew up and solemnly regarded his, Melvyrn instantly recognized the respect his sergeant held for him.  But Melvyrn also saw something else, a wariness expressed by Tolly’s closed expression.  This mountain of a man, who feared no one or any thing, was definitely on his guard.  “How have you been?”
    “Fine.”  Tolly stood and held out a hand.  He’d never been a loquacious man, and Melvyrn knew he had his work cut out for him.
    Accepting his hand, Melvyrn motioned for Tolly to be seated again.  “I won’t mince words with you,” he said.  “This is no social call, as you’ve undoubtedly guessed, though I admit to thinking of you more than once after I’d heard you were sent home.”
    “Same here.”  Tolly ’s dark eyes never left Melvyrn’s.
    “Fact is, Tolly, I need your help.   Word has reached the War Office that there’s a ring of smugglers operating out of Folkestone.  Knowing you, I figured if there was one, you’d know about it.”
    When the fisherman didn’t answer, Melvyrn walked over to another wooden crate, upended it, and sat down facing his old friend.  He glanced down at the pile of pulleys.  “You own a boat?”  At Tolly’s nod, he said, “The War Office sent me down.  No one knows much about me since I came here only once as a lad.  I’m at Cliffe Manor, supposedly recovering from a bout of yellow fever.”
    “Never knew’d you caught the fever, Major,” Tolly said, falling into the old familiar address he’d used for Melvyrn in the army. 
    “I didn’t.  It’s a ploy to keep most of the gentry away from the Manor.”  Melvyrn tried to read his old sergeant.  He’d trusted this man with his life more than once, and regarding Tolly’s forthright gaze, he decided he’d