The Cornish Heiress by Roberta Gellis

was still strong and lithe and his bright dark eyes showed a
spirit as young and lively as a boy’s. Megaera liked and trusted him on sight,
and, although he was obviously startled at having to deal with a woman, soon it
was clear he was delighted with the arrangement. He was fair and reasonable in
his demands. Megaera bargained hard because she had to wring every coin she
could out of the deal, but they soon came to terms.
    After their first transaction was complete, Pierre drew her
aside and told her to meet him at The Mousehole to arrange future deliveries
and payment. “For you, Mees Meg, eet will be better, and I do not like to come
ashore when cargo ees deliver’,” he said, speaking in his heavily accented
English because he thought Meg did not understand French. “If eet become for me
necessary to run, I should be on my ship. That other one, I would not trust ‘im
with the name of a place friendly to me. ‘E ees not ‘onest, that one. ‘E would
betray a frien’ and enjoy eet. But you, petite Megotta la rouge , you
would not. Also, eet ees not wise that those others,” he glanced at the men who
had fetched the cargo and were loading it on the ponies, “should ‘ear too
much.”
    “I must bring John,” she said.
    Pierre laughed. “But, of course. For me eet ees safe—’e does
not talk—and for you eet ees better ‘e be always near.”
     
    The boats were beginning to scrape onto the beach. Red Meg
came out of her vivid memories with a start and began to direct the loading of
the ponies. She and Pierre were old friends now. Tomorrow night she would meet
him at The Mousehole, pay him, and arrange for the next shipment in about two
weeks. He tried to come frequently from September through November or December.
After that the weather got so bad they could not count on a regular schedule.
Megaera stocked up over the autumn months—there was plenty of storage space in
the subsidiary caves—so she could service her customers without interruption
over the winter.

Chapter Three
     
    On the way back to London with Philip the next morning,
Roger’s qualms were eased. He was not less fearful or less guilt-ridden, but both
emotions were made bearable by the glow of happiness that had transformed Philip.
They were driving themselves without even a groom up behind because Roger had
thought Philip would burst if he could not talk. He was so happy that even a
hangover could not depress his spirits.
    “I had better not take Blue Boy,” Philip said, coming out of
a few moments of frowning silence. “He’s best for steady work, but a pale dapple
like that is too noticeable. In fact, I wonder if all my horses are too good.
Do you think I should buy some old hack?”
    “Let’s take it in stages, Philip,” Roger suggested. “You
have to get to Cornwall and meet Pierre at The Mousehole. Probably you’re right
that you should ride rather than arrive either by post or in your own curricle.
The point is, I don’t know how often Pierre comes over. With the watch being kept
for French ships so intense, it might be difficult for him to get through.”
    “I do not believe it,” Philip said, grinning happily. “They
are watching for ships of the line or a whole flotilla of little ones, not for
one chasse-marée . And if Pierre were going to give it up or not come for
a long time, he would have written to you. Someone at The Mousehole could have
mailed the letter for him.”
    Roger suppressed a sigh. Philip was right. Pierre would have
let him know if he did not intend to return to England for a long time. “All right,”
he agreed, “but I don’t know his schedule. You might have to wait a few weeks
or even a month, if you happen to arrive just after he made a delivery. You can’t
live at The Mousehole. I doubt it’s a first-class posting inn.”
    Philip hooted with laughter. “It is probably worse than the Soft
Berth was. I do not care for that, but they would not permit me to stay. They
would tell a stranger