Frowning, Tess slipped on her whiskered mask and fought her way forward through the lashing rain. She had tethered a horse on Pett Level for her return, but the rest of her journey must be on foot. One slim figure made less of a target for a party of ambushing officers, she thought grimly.
Just then the wind caught the hem of her cloak and twisted the fabric around her legs, hobbling her so that she nearly fell.
Her face paled, but her chin rose in defiance. She would not turn back, not tonight or any night! She would show him. She would show them all!
Aye, they would soon learn that it took more than a few drops of rain to stay the Romney Fox.
* * * * *
They were waiting for her just beyond the labyrinth of canals at the edge of the Level.
Hawkins and forty men, muskets and pistols trained.
Someone had indeed betrayed her, Tess realized, but who? The foul-mouthed Ransley? Or was it John Digby? Both men had been told of the landing site here at the base of the cliffs. But where were the extra guards she had ordered posted? Why hadn't they alerted the group sooner?
As a precaution, of course, she had altered the real meeting point by some distance so that the lugger would be out of sight in the event of just such an ambush. Her men, those few who were taken, would be discovered cargoless, therefore, and it was hardly a crime in England to meet on the beach at night.
But Tess had not counted on Hawkins's ferocity.
"Shoot to kill, men!" he roared. "The more the better."
Then there was no more time to think, for the preventive force plunged forward in a human wave and the night exploded with shouts and cursing. Dark shapes scrambled over the beach, some fleeing toward the narrow steps twisting up to the top of the cliff, others stumbling west toward the gap in the rolling downs.
"Stop them, damn ye!" Hawkins pounded down to the beach, clutching a long-barreled flintlock carbine. "Force the scum back to the water!"
Two struggling shapes rushed past Tess. In an indistinct tangle of thrashing arms and legs, they tumbled to the sand nearly at her feet, so close she had to jump to avoid being felled herself.
That swift motion was her undoing.
"By God, there he is!" Even as he spoke Hawkins was lowering the muzzle of his long, lethal carbine. "Give yourself up, ye bastard, and I just might let ye live till morning!"
There were more dragoons coming down the beach now, hailed by Hawkins's shout of triumph. Soon she would be surrounded, Tess realized. Spinning about, she made for the only possible route of escape — the dark, snarling waters of the Channel.
"Fire, damn ye!"
A musket ball whined past her ear, and then another. Zigzagging sharply, Tess ran toward the edge of the beach, where the sea churned up in iron-gray plumes of spray.
Ten feet. Nine.
Yes, just maybe. God willing ...
Something white-hot and savage ripped into Tess's shoulder and she sank her teeth deep into her lip to keep from screaming. Blindly she lurched on toward the water.
Seven feet. Six.
"Get him!" someone shouted behind her. "Five hundred pounds on the bloody Fox's head!"
Beneath her feet the texture of the sand changed, now hard packed, and dense. From here she could almost see the lines of foam tossed up by the breakers farther out.
She was ready to fling herself into the water when she saw the little skiff, nearly hidden by a rock a few yards out. In the ragged space of a heartbeat she registered the long, powerful oars, the kegs scattered in the stern.
But even as she saw it, Tess realized the vessel held no hope of rescue for her. Not with Hawkins only yards behind her. No, she must dive deep and swim underwater for as long as her breath would hold.
Praying that he sent no one after her.
Then she was at the water's edge, dragging in a last, choked breath before she flung herself forward into the pounding surf. Down she fell, blackness closing around her, so icy that her body quivered and went rigid. A moment was enough to school her muscles to clumsy order, to force her hands to dig deep, her legs to kick with a wild strength born of desperation.
Above her head she saw the outline of the bobbing skiff, heard the muffled ping of musket balls hitting the water. Almost free, she told herself.
And then with a deafening roar the darkness around her exploded into daylight, into a million furious suns, into a churning chaos of waves and flame. With savage force she was thrown from the water and hurled through space, the air ripped from her lungs.
A moment later darkness rushed back, pounding furiously over her, roaring in her ears, surging behind her throbbing eyes, squeezing through her veins.
This is where I die, she thought dimly.
And that was the last clear thought Tess Leighton had.
* * *
PART TWO
If you meet King George's men, dressed in blue and red,
You be careful what you say, mindful what is said.
If they call you "pretty maid," and chuck you 'neath the chin,
Don't you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one's been!
Five and twenty ponies,
Trotting through the dark —
Brandy for the Parson,
'Baccy for the Clerk;
Them that asks no questions isn't told a lie —
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!
— Rudyard Kipling
* * *
Chapter Twenty-Four
One by one the angry human sounds ceased. One by one the dark, cursing figures lumbered away across the sand.
The beach grew still, left once more to the creatures who knew it best.
A pair of kestrels darted down from their nest in the chalk cliffs, skimming over the waves and sailing south. A nightjar began to pipe the first tentative notes of its strange, churring song.
The wind was shrill and the air sullen, but to these creatures of the beach it was of no importance. The weather was not their enemy. Nor the darkness.
Only man was an enemy.
Engaged in digging a hole, a sand lizard paused, his head erect and wary. His long tongue darted out, twitching as he sniffed the sharp wind.
Out to sea, somewhere beyond the breakers, a black shape floated to the surface with a faint, muffled splash. Silent and unmoving, it rocked upon the fierce swells, barely visible in the midnight world of sea and cloud.
After several moments, the sand lizard turned back to his work. This was no business of his.
Slowly the dark shape drifted south, out into mid-Channel, where it was soon swallowed up by the unleashed fury of the storm.
* * * * *
Something was wrong.
He knew it with every raw breath he drew. He felt it in the sharp tug of the canvas overhead and the shrill creaking of the timber beneath his feet.
Legs braced, brow furrowed, the Liberte's bearded captain stared north, where a bank of running, sullen clouds veiled the chalk cliffs of England.
"Mamm de Zoue," he muttered beneath his breath, enjoying the hard, angry bite of the Breton words against his tongue. Tonight their harshness suited his mood perfectly.
Mother of God, but something was very wrong.
Swiftly, with the fluid grace of a man raised from infancy to know the pitch and roll of the sea, the rugged captain crossed the deck and began to haul himself up the mainmast rigging.
Knowing it was not the slashing rain that bothered him, nor even the driving wind.
It was something out there in the darkness, something he could not see but could only feel, with all his seaman's keen instincts.
Ragged lines of lightning cut through the sky to the north, and for an instant he saw the ghostly silver curves of the English cliffs. But he saw nothing else, no sign of skiffs or smugglers' galleys. No hint of Revenue cutters.
A giant wave hit the Liberte broadside, sending the mast dipping dangerously. Locking his hands in the straining cable, Andre Le Brix wrapped his powerful
legs around the mast and waited for the returning roll. Then, laboriously, he began to inch higher.
Rain whipped his face, but he pushed on grimly, narrowing the distance between himself and the topgallant yard.
A bolt of lightning exploded into the water nearby. Hearing the sizzle and pop of steam and churning water, he thanked God that it had not struck ten feet closer.
Then his cold fingers touched the rigging of the highest yard, and he was straining to pull himself up onto the rain-slick beam.
"Hard about, Padrig!" he roared against the wind's fury, knowing his seasoned first mate had probably done that already. A moment later he heard the protest of canvas and timber as the sleek brig's bow turned into the wind.
They were well past the middle of the Channel now, near enough to see the ghostly outline of the English cliffs. The captain's eyes narrowed, probing the darkness. He wished he'd thought to bring his viewing glass up with him.
But the flinty-eyed Padrig, amidships, was better prepared. When the next bolt of lightning split the night, the first mate was ready, searching the churning waves ahead with glass in hand.
"Duze!" he cried. "There — to port."
At the same instant Andre glimpsed the dark, bobbing shape surrounded by scattered fragments of wood and other debris. Remnants of brandy kegs? he wondered. If so, why all the way out here?
"An Aotrou Doue," the corsair whispered through lips suddenly dry. God in Heaven.
Then he was swinging from cable to cable, flying recklessly down toward the deck, which pitched eighty feet below him.
Even before his feet hit the deck his voice thundered from the rigging. "Hard a-lee, Padrig. Prepare to lower a skiff!"
* * * * *
First came the roar of the wind, then the crashing of a restless, turbulent darkness. Gradually Tess grew aware of the slap and pitch of fierce, relentless seas.
But it was the chattering of her teeth that woke her completely, followed by the lurch of her body as she was lifted and then slammed down, wave after wave.
I can't see, she thought, feeling the terror begin, feeling the darkness gnaw at her.
Her hands flailing, she struggled to keep afloat amid the churning seas. A narrow piece of timber brushed past and she seized it desperately.
In a flood the memories returned — the crash of splintering wood, the blinding explosion that had catapulted her from the water.
But where was she now? She could see no light around her, only an endless, sullen wall of darkness.
A wave broke over her head; choking, she clawed her way back to the surface. Over the howl of the wind she thought she heard a shout. Or was the cry only in her mind?
Her cold fingers tightened on the splintered length of timber that had saved her life. She was afloat now, but just barely so, and Tess knew nothing could help her against seas such as these. Just as certainly, she knew that her strength was waning. In a few minutes she would no longer be able to hold on. Her shoulder was throbbing, and already her fingers were growing numb.
Something brushed against her foot, something long and very powerful.
Tess bit back a sob.
Kicking wildly, she clung to the spar, trying to swim against the storm-driven swells.
Again it came, a creature down in the darkness, nudging her leg.
Then Tess screamed as searing agony ripped through her ankle. The thing was jerking her down! Sputtering, she dropped her head into the inky water, struggling to wrench free of that deadly grip. But her fingers were numb and she could feel nothing below the tops of her boots.
Again came the savage tugging, and this time Tess was pulled deep below the surface. Her lungs burning, she strained to kick back up, but in the darkness she could tell direction only by her body's buoyancy.
Then her face broke free. Wildly she choked down a lungful of air, only to feel herself wrenched down once more, both legs captured this time.
Blind with fear, she kicked and flailed, struggling against the power of her unseen enemy. Somewhere nearby she heard water slap against timbers. Against the scream of the wind she seemed to hear a faint shout.
Something — someone? — churned toward her. A muffled voice rose against the fury of the storm.
"Diaoul!" Another hoarse shout, closer this time.
Tess heard a splash; her shoulders were seized in cold, granite fingers.
"Ne me repoussez pas!" The command came in guttural French. "Stop — stop fighting me!" This time the order came in English, so heavily accented as to be incomprehensible if Tess had not already understood the French.
"I'm — I'm caught!" she cried in French, thankful for her mother's lessons and the hours of practice with Edouard. "Something — down there. At my feet!"
Her only answer was another splash. Hard hands probed her legs, working their way to her ankles. Suddenly something wrapped around her knees and burned a raw path down her legs, dragging her ruthlessly into the depths once more.
Kicking wildly, Tess tried to pull to the surface, but the hands tightened, jerking her even deeper.
He was trying to kill her! she thought wildly.
Air — she must have air!
Then she was rising, the unseen hands beneath her, forcing her to the surface. She was close to unconsciousness when her head finally burst from the waves.
"Vous vous accrochez a quelque chose — une corde, peut-etre. Laissez-moi —"
She was caught on something, had he said? So the man was French. A smuggler, perhaps? Or was he a sailor upon one of Napoleon's vessels, waiting just out of sight somewhere in the storm?
The rest of what he said was drowned out by the crash of a wave breaking over Tess's head. Once again she was jerked downward. Pain slammed into her like a fist, as something — a rope perhaps — sliced through her shredded breeches.
Then she was free, choking and sputtering to the surface. Her lungs burning, she dragged in blessed gulps of air.
But where was her rescuer?
She fought to penetrate the raging darkness around her, but in the storm she could make out nothing. Then her fingers brushed a thick coil of rope, the sort used to lash a string of bobbing, four-gallon brandy kegs and sink them below the surface, away from prying eyes.
A raw, hysterical laugh burst from Tess's lips. She had nearly been drowned by a cache of contraband sunk from a weighted line! It was a common enough practice along the coast; when interrupted by the inopportune arrival of a Revenue vessel, a band of freetraders could hurriedly dispose of their cargo, then grapple it up later at their leisure.
Tess's wild, high-pitched laughter rose on the wind; she could feel the ragged edge of hysteria inching over her.
Another wave smashed down, dissolving all traces of humor, leaving her weak and trembling with the thought of just how close she had come to dying.
Now she was alone once more, her rescuer still somewhere below, drowning after he had saved her.
Choking, Tess caught the end of the thick coil and plunged back down into the murky depths. Deeper and deeper she went, feeling her way along the strand until her lungs were on fire and her head threatened to explode. She was just about to turn back when she felt his hands, then the heavy rope that twisted around his wrists, capturing him in its deadly embrace.
But Tess had strung such lines herself on occasion. Well she knew how iron bars were secured to the strand. With a strength born of desperation, she strained to free the rough hempen knots.
Her air nearly gone, she tore at the heavy coil, feeling the skin flayed from her fingers. Flares of light burst before her eyes, but still she struggled on, tugging desperately.
From the suffocating blackness around her came muffled, deathly sounds. Just like in the tunnels, she thought wildly. Here, too, death crept close with cold, probing fingers.
Can't give up one more try.
The strand moved; the knot parted slightly. Her lungs burning, Tess tugged on the rough coils, praying all the while.
Suddenly th
e rope went slack in her fingers and the water began to churn as she felt the Frenchman kick free and strain to the surface. A moment later he reached down to tug her up after him.
They broke free to raging waves and a furious, slashing wind, but never had Tess been so thankful to feel the sting of water on her face. Without his help, she would still be trapped in the frigid darkness right now.
Again, Tess considered how close she had come to dying. A tremor shook her.
"Aman, Padrig!" the Frenchman cried, his voice low and hoarse. From the distance came an answering shout, and then a flood of guttural speech.
Not French, Tess thought, frowning. Not German.
Breton, perhaps? The rocky, jagged coast of Brittany jutted out into the Channel not too far to the south, Tess knew.
From somewhere to her right came the rhythmic slap of oars. Without warning she was caught and hauled from the water, her ribs slammed against a rim of wood for an instant before she fell sputtering to the bottom of a boat, fighting and straining like a landed fish. A moment later she heard the sound of her rescuer's body slapping down beside her.
Once again there came the strange, guttural speech — Breton, she was certain of that now. The oars dipped deep and she felt the boat pitch, then turn sharply.
With trembling fingers, Tess dashed the cold spray from her face, but in the storm's slashing fury she could still make out nothing. Shivering, numb with cold, she fingered her raw ankles where the submerged line had burned away a wide strip of skin.
But she was alive! Tess told herself. That was all that mattered. Suddenly the boat rocked crazily. Harsh shouting erupted nearby and booted feet hammered across a wooden deck. Without warning, someone caught her hands, hauling her upward until she fell onto a man's broad chest, the breath knocked from her lungs.
She heard a harsh gasp. Big fingers gripped her shoulders.
"Sainte Vierge!" came the hoarse exclamation. "By the Virgin! You?" her rescuer stammered in broken English. "I mean — you are female?"
The Black Rose Page 26
