‘Right, you useless lot, back to your posts!’ Gray’s voice floated upwards and Flint decided it was better to watch him stalk across the courtyard than get into the sort of discussion his so-called dearest friends wanted to have. ‘There is serious work to—’
The explosion sent Gray flying backwards. Then all hell broke loose below.
It took a few awful minutes of chaos for the shocking reality to fully sink in. Leatham was the first of them to discharge his weapon after spotting the militiaman directly behind Flint produce a blade from his belt. A blade that would have been destined to cut his throat had his friend not had the great foresight to kill the blighter first.
‘Trojan horse!’ Leatham yelled at the top of his lungs, as another of the militia aimed at one of the Invisibles. In the nick of time, their man lunged sideways, avoiding the deadly musket ball by a whisper.
Several men simultaneously rounded on the two remaining militia men on the battlements, overpowering them. Both were prostrate on the ground by the time Flint got to them. He grabbed one by the hair.
‘Salaud d’Anglais!’ The French insult chilled him to the bones.
‘Where is Saint-Aubin?’ Because his gut told him the bastard was here. The smuggler spat in response and earned himself a hard knock from Warriner.
‘We’ve got this! You go protect your womenfolk!’
Flint didn’t need to be told twice. With his heart in his mouth, he grabbed two fresh pistols and flew down the stairs to the courtyard where a full-on battle was already being waged. There were dead on both sides, but he didn’t have time to mourn his fallen comrades now. He had to get to Jess and see her safe. Like a man possessed he barged his way across the courtyard, mentally taking note of each unfamiliar face and trying to work out which one was Jess’s abuser. In all the conversations they had had about Saint-Aubin, why had he never had the foresight to ask her what the bastard looked like?
As he reached the entrance he was relieved to see the well-trained King’s Elite had obviously swarmed to the door to defend it the moment they had realised they were under attack. A bleeding Gray was in the thick of them, covered in a layer of dust from the explosion, one arm clearly out of action as the other wielded a sword.
‘There are at least two Frenchmen among this rabble!’ Gray read his mind, jabbing in the directions with his blade. ‘Him and that one there!’ The first was embroiled in the combat, the second, a dark-haired man with an angular, neatly clipped beard, seemed to be issuing rapid orders from the rear. That had to be Saint-Aubin. He had the air of the malevolent about him. And he was Flint’s.
‘Get Jess and my family out! We’ll hold them off for as long as we can.’
* * *
At the thundering sound of the explosion, Lord Fennimore and Hadleigh had snapped into action, directing the male members of the Flint family to set up an armed barricade at the top of the stairs. Jess dashed to the window, only to be immediately dragged away by Lady Flint. ‘We can’t let them see you! If they get one inkling you are up here, then here is where they will come.’ She lowered her voice and allowed her eyes to dart to her frightened grandchildren. ‘And then we’ll all be done for!’
While that made sense, and she certainly didn’t want to be responsible for an innocent child being injured, Jess couldn’t stand not knowing what was happening below and was sick with worry for Peter, wondering if he had been injured in the explosion, or worse, if he was already dead. The next ten minutes of frantic pacing were the longest of her life. His family were deathly silent, even the little ones seemed to understand the need to keep quiet, as they all listened to the sounds of a war being waged outside. Gunshot merged with the clash of steel and hand-to-hand combat.
When Gray stumbled into the room, covered in blood and debris, and looking dead on his feet, Jess almost lost her breakfast.
‘What happened?’ Lord Fennimore kept one eye on the stairwell, his own pistol raised in readiness.
‘The militia weren’t the militia. Lord only knows what happened to the real ones, but that lot down there are smugglers and mercenaries wearing their uniforms and carrying their official papers. Mostly English, but quite a few French. All armed to the teeth. A situation we never anticipated.’
‘We’ve been ambushed.’ Lord Fennimore seemed to age in front of her eyes. ‘Any sign of the marines?’
‘Not yet, and if they come we aren’t able to let them in. The smugglers hold the drawbridge and seem to want to keep it closed. Warriner has signalled the gunships, but as the castle has already been breached I’m not sure what use they will be. If they fire, we all suffer. But if they send men ashore, we cannot lower the drawbridge. Flint wants the women evacuated.’
‘Peter is alive?’ Please God let him be alive.
‘Yes.’
Grateful tears filled her eyes. Then she saw Gray’s subtle, almost imperceptive look towards his superior as he stalked to the wardrobe and terror gripped her. The situation was grave, very grave. Peter’s life could very well hang in the balance. Something that was entirely her fault.
In seconds, Gray had the secret passageway revealed and was stuffing fresh pistols in his belt. ‘I’ll lead the way. Try not to panic. For now we have them held at bay downstairs. Flint and the others will hold them off as long as they can.’
As if they had practised such an evacuation every week of their lives, Flint’s sisters gathered up the children and began to file into the narrow opening after Gray, closely followed by their armed husbands. The last of whom, Ophelia’s, paused, waiting for her, Lady Flint hovering close behind him.
‘No! No! Mon Dieu! We have to help him!’ Jess’s feet instinctively went for the stairs where Hadleigh caught her.
‘You need to leave, too, my lady!’
‘But Peter...’
‘Needs to focus on the job in hand, not feel torn because you are there.’
‘He’s right, Jess. My son will do a better job knowing you are safe. It will be all right. You’ll see. The Flint men are famously resilient. His father got shot on three separate occasions and survived every one. And Penmor will protect him.’ Her serene calmness and absolute faith in her son’s victory did nothing to ease Jess’s terror.
‘Then I’ll stay! It’s me they want!’ If she surrendered to Saint-Aubin, then everything else would be all right.
‘I am afraid that is out of the question, my lady.’ The lawyer grabbed her as she lunged once again, then, holding her tightly by the arms, he marched her towards the tunnel, swearing audibly when she broke away and dashed to the window instead.
The scene below was horrifying. The small courtyard was filled with men fighting. Dotted among them on the ground were dead and wounded. As Hadleigh tried to pull her away, she gripped the sill, frantically searching for Peter until some sixth sense drew her eyes towards the area nearest the drawbridge and her heart literally stopped beating in her chest.
The man she loved was separate from his comrades, single-handedly hacking his way through the militia, his course obvious. Less than twenty feet away and safely surrounded by his customary band of lackeys was Saint-Aubin. Jess could only stand impotently and watch, her body slumped in defeat. Knowing Peter didn’t stand a chance. ‘He’s all alone!’
Hadleigh took advantage of her momentary grief, manhandling her towards the passageway and handing her over to Lady Flint, who gripped her hand firmly. She turned to plead with him one last time and saw the despondency in his eyes. ‘I’ll do my best to keep him safe, ladies. You have my word.’
Then the shelves slid back into their proper position and he slammed the heavy oak door behind her. She heard the key ominously turn in the lock and then listened to his and Lord Fennimore’s boots rapidly disappearing as they, too, went into battle on her behalf.
Why had she stolen her mother’s ledger? That single, stupid final act of defiance had created a chain reactio
n she never could have imagined. But she had had to have the last word. Had to have her petty revenge.
Once more good men were dying—Peter might be dying—and it was all her fault. How exactly was she supposed to bear that guilt in perpetuity when already it suffocated her? How could she live on, knowing the man she loved was dead? A painful death he would endure because of her.
Listlessly she allowed herself to be dragged towards the spiral staircase to freedom, searching her mind for something, anything she could do. As they began to descend, the narrowness of the stone walls necessitated single file. Ophelia’s husband blew out the last remaining candle in the passageway, plunging the corridor into a chilly darkness that was only alleviated by the dim light of the torch much further on. That light was transient, disappearing each time Gray turned on the spiral, and it took all her concentration to safely place one foot in front of the other to follow it. Her companion was also concentrating. He had let go of her hand to brace his against the walls in case she stumbled and fell on the lethal, cold, damp stone.
If she did, it would be a blessed release. She didn’t want the weight of Peter’s death on her conscience. Didn’t want to emerge into the daylight of the moors knowing that for the rest of her life she would live in darkness because he wasn’t with her.
Her step faltered and she almost slipped, falling backwards on to the hard stone. She yelped in pain as step hit bone, and when her companions did not respond she realised she had lagged too far behind. The tears fell then and she let them, burying her face in her hands. Raw emotion choked her, forming tight bands around her throat and ribs, causing her to pause and pray for him. Asking that just this once God would answer her and keep him safe because Peter deserved to live. He was a good man. A kind man. A noble man and she loved him completely. Jess had never loved before and now knew without a single doubt in her heart that she would sacrifice herself willingly to keep him from harm.
Dear God, let him live. She asked nothing more. Nothing for herself. Was that too much to ask God after all the obstacles she’d had thrown in her path? All the ordeals and pain she had been subjected to? Was the Lord so disgusted with her that he would allow her to taste love and then cruelly snatch it away? It wasn’t fair!
It wasn’t fair!
And she was damned if she was going to be beaten and allow it to happen!
Before her selfish nature surfaced and talked her out of it, she raced back up the now pitch-black spiral staircase, tripping and stumbling until she remembered he had told her to use Penmor’s reliably sturdy stone walls to guide her. When she reached the top, she groped in the dark, feeling her way until she was convinced her toes were pointed back towards the stairs and his bedchamber was reassuringly behind her, checking, then rechecking to make doubly certain. She leaned against the right-hand wall, using her fingers to guide her, following it as it turned, taking her away from the stairs to freedom and closer towards what she hoped was Peter.
After an eternity, the flagstones beneath her feet no longer felt solid, they felt slimy. Coated in something soft and noxious that smelled quite foul. In the distance she could hear something rustling.
The bats.
By the amplifying sound there were hundreds of them and they were getting increasingly agitated by her presence, yet still she ploughed on, not knowing whether the draught on her face was from the outside or the angry flapping of their bony wings in the pitch-black passageway beyond.
There was no point thinking about the bats or the height of the ruined tower she was determinedly headed to, or Saint-Aubin’s inevitable dreadful retribution when she confronted him and surrendered. The only thing that mattered was Peter and doing what was right.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Flint slammed the handle of his sword into the smuggler’s face, felt the satisfying crack of bone and watched him crumple to the floor. Next to him Hadleigh aimed his gun and fired. For a man who ostensibly sat behind a desk, he was a surprisingly good shot. His bullet tore through the shoulder of a militia man who howled something French as he dropped his sword and collapsed to his knees.
He scanned the vicinity for Saint-Aubin and growled when he found nothing. He had lost him in the fray a good ten minutes ago and hadn’t seen him since. He was probably hiding. Men like him, the sort who picked on defenceless women and hid in the shadows, wouldn’t risk their own skin in an honest fight.
‘I can’t see him either.’ Hadleigh hastily reloaded while Flint stood on point. ‘I know it’s not what you want to hear, but when we find him we need him alive.’
That would happen over Flint’s dead body, but he wasn’t going to argue with the lawyer now. It was always easier to seek forgiveness than ask for approval and if he was punished for the insubordination, so be it. Better that than risking the monster escaping while he languished in gaol awaiting trial and execution. Or worse, escaping capture because the King’s Elite lost this battle. Saint-Aubin had certainly caught them on the hop and there was no denying Flint had never imagined bringing the fight within Penmor’s impregnable walls. He had underestimated the Frenchman and now the King’s Elite were paying the price.
Right now, they were holding their own. Just. A state of affairs that could change in a heartbeat if the smugglers had any more unexpected surprises up their sleeves. Leatham and his men had the entrance to the keep secured and had promised not to budge till they could be certain Gray and his precious charges were well clear of the tunnel—but even so, they needed more men. They needed those marines.
The Royal Navy gunship began firing warning shots into the ocean, letting the cut-throats know they were there. One hit the cliff below, causing the ground to rumble ominously beneath their feet and giving a few of the enemy pause for thought. While Flint was in no doubt each and every one of them was a smuggler, he suspected a goodly few were more loyal to the coin they raked in from free trading than they were to Saint-Aubin. As long as Flint’s men could hold them at bay until the promised military reinforcements arrived, then maybe they stood a chance. He was banking on the Frenchman’s little army fleeing to save their own sorry hides as soon as the redcoats appeared on the horizon, because while the King’s men couldn’t get in until Gray could direct them to the bothy, Saint-Aubin’s couldn’t get out. If it came to it, he would cheerfully blow up the keep, too, if it bought Jess and his family more time.
He cupped his hands and yelled through them up to Warriner and Lord Fennimore on the battlements. ‘We need to reclaim the drawbridge!’ Further encouragement to make the enemy leave. A nice, inviting, open path to freedom. Within seconds, musket balls rained down towards the smugglers who guarded it, clearing the way for him, Hadleigh and the brave Invisibles closest to charge forward.
Out of nowhere came what sounded like high-pitched screaming as a thick band of black surged out of the ruined tower. At first, the noisy density resembled a monstrous spout of oil until the whole began to separate into a vast, twisting, screeching mass around the keep, before swooping low to swarm the courtyard and then soaring back up to the sky.
Bats!
The cannon balls must have spooked them. They certainly spooked the smugglers who raised their arms in the air to swat them away. It was too good an opportunity to miss and he rallied his startled comrades. ‘Kill as many as you can! Now!’
‘Saint-Aubin! Si tu me veux, viens me chercher!’
Flint froze at the sound of her voice, frantically searching for her among the melee on the ground when Hadleigh nudged him and gestured up. There she was, stood precariously at the top of Cromwell’s tower. Slim shoulders pulled back proudly, glorious dark hair tumbling all around her shoulders, the enormous murmuration of bats like a giant, ominous storm cloud above her head.
She edged further out on the ruined stonework, using her arms to balance herself like a circus tightrope walker, taking herself further way from the safety of the shard of ruined wall that protected the
tunnel. He watched her glance down, blanch and wobble before she regained her footing.
‘Si tu me veux, viens me chercher! Did you hear me, Saint-Aubin? If you want me, come and get me! I am here! Take me home!’
Flint was going to wring her blasted neck. Of all the times to prove to herself she was capable of grand, selfless, gestures, she had to choose now? When everything was at its absolute worst? Not only was she liable to fall or the unstable bricks crumble at any minute, she had made herself a target to boot. Her wholly unnecessary gesture shifted the smugglers’ focus. Clearly, they had a prearranged plan to capture her as they began to surge en masse towards the base of the tower, attempting to form a wall around it. Their weapons facing outwards to pick off any who dared come near while those closest to the ruined wall formed a human scaffold to allow them to climb from the solid round base to the more haphazard and easier-to-climb shattered remnants of the edifice above.
Flint was about to charge forward and take on the lot of them single-handed, when he found his arm dragged back. Hadleigh held it in a vice-like grip. ‘Wait! She might be giving us the break we need.’
‘But Jess is all alone up there! Unarmed!’
‘They won’t dare hurt her. Jess is too important to Saint-Aubin. He wants her alive. Desperately wants her alive else he wouldn’t be here.’
As if he could hear him, Lord Fennimore suddenly changed tactic, too, directing all the firepower from the battlements towards the base of the tower. Leatham abandoned the entrance to the keep, sending half his men towards Flint and Hadleigh as reinforcements while he disappeared with the others around the corner.
‘Take cover! Shoot to kill.’
‘Fire one more shot and she dies!’ The French-accented voice came from within the closed ranks of the smugglers, but they parted at his command to reveal Saint-Aubin. Behind him, halfway up the Cromwell’s tower, his weapon pointed decisively at Jess as he hid among the ruined stones was a sniper.
The Uncompromising Lord Flint Page 23
