Every word was a deadly arrow sent unerringly through her heart. "And — and the captain?"
"He will never let you go, bihan." Padrig's voice was harsh. "As it is, he will murder me when he learns." Nearby came the rustle of cloth. "Ah, there you are, Marthe. Help her dress. I will wait outside. But be quick about it!"
As if in a trance, Tess felt herself rise, Marthe's rough fingers stripping away the robe and replacing it with a sturdy dress of wool. "The wind will be cool, so you'd better wear this. It's one of mine — not fine enough for soft skin like yours, but it will be safer this way. If they should search the wagon ..."
With a raw, choked moan, Tess caught her lip between her teeth and bit down hard to keep from crying. Marthe fastened the row of buttons and began to push her out the door.
"My — my mermaid!" Tess cried.
"Very well, but hurry!" Padrig said roughly, keeping watch just outside the door.
It was there where she had left it, on the small rosewood table beside Andre's bed. She tucked it into the pocket of her dress and hesitated, listening to the deep, regular sound of his breathing.
So this was to be their good-bye, then. No whispered vows. No valiant efforts to stifle her tears.
Just a raw, silent farewell, followed by infinite, suffocating sadness.
Go, fool. What else is there to say, anyway? You had him for a while, and for that time you held his heart completely. Be glad of that. For such a man as this could never be held for long. He must always roam, following the sun, seeking the next horizon, wherever his untamed heart takes him.
And always there would be the fear — of the danger you brought him, of the dark secrets of his trade, secrets he must always conceal from you.
No, you knew it could not last. Your worlds are too far apart. And by leaving this way you might anger him into forgetting you. Otherwise, his passion would bring him into gravest danger.
"You must go, Anglaise." Marthe's voice rose, shrill with fear. "In staying, you bring danger to us all!"
Good-bye, my wild love. White-faced and silent, Tess sent him her last farewell from the deep, grieving hollow of her heart.
Perhaps one day, when this, bitter war is over and the Channel stretches smooth and silver like a mirror, I'll take a boat and come looking for this isolated corner of Heaven. Yes, and for you, Andre Le Brix, winging home like the sea gull you named me for.
In his sleep, the bearded Frenchman groaned softly, running hard fingers over the cold quilt. "Trop tot," he breathed, awash in restless dreams.
Too soon.
Not too soon, Tess thought numbly, already drowning in the sea of loneliness that stretched before her to the end of her days.
Too late. Maybe it had always been too late.
Her father had seen to that. That was his one legacy to her. And what small corner of hope he hadn't succeeded in destroying, an arrogant English officer with lapis eyes finally had.
And now Tess was left with nothing to guard her from her pain, for the Frenchman, though well intentioned, had destroyed her forever by sweeping down the walls that had protected her heart for so long.
"Think of me sometimes, Andre Le Brix," Tess whispered, brushing away the first hot tears from her cheeks.
Then she turned and stumbled after Marthe.
* * * * *
The cart was small and bad-smelling, the trip over rutted roads interminable. But the Liberte was waiting just as Padrig had promised, hidden in a narrow cove that no one but a madman such as Le Fur would ever dare to enter.
Even with Padrig's careful planning, it had been a near thing. A mob of French soldiers was already pounding at the cottage door by the time they crested the first hill.
"Don't worry about him," Padrig said shortly. "Marthe will have him well hidden by now. There's a cave beneath the cliffs that no one knows about, save the three of us. He will be safe there until — until they forget."
Forgetting. The first time is for forgetting, bihan.
Oh, Andre, I can't do it. I'm not strong anymore, not like I used to be.
The memories choked her, unbearable torture.
The second time is for burning.
Oh, yes, she was burning. Was he too?
And this time is for loving ... Dieu, how I will enjoy loving you.
Gone. All gone.
Padrig pulled away the oiled cloth covered by vegetables and helped Tess down from the cart. Nearby she heard the roar of surf and the creak of timber.
Almost before she knew it, she was on the Liberte's deck, listening to — but not quite hearing — Padrig's quiet orders and the snap of canvas as the sails were unfurled.
Bare feet hammered over the deck; high overhead Tess heard the wind sing through the rigging.
And every sound was a sad one, heavy with the ache of good-bye.
* * * * *
Time passed in a blur. The voyage was swift and uneventful. Every wave they crossed and every gust of wind brought Tess fresh pain, for she knew they carried her away from her sleeping captain.
She prayed for lightning and rain to rent the sails and bar their way. But this night the seas mocked her, flowing smooth and swift to England.
Nor was the weather the only thing that mocked her during that agonizing passage. Somewhere mid-Channel she felt her stomach quake and her head throb, she who had never known a moment's seasickness in her life.
Then an explosion ripped through her head — a tempest of merciless colors and wild drumming.
She staggered, her white fingers clenched on the Liberte's cold rail as the night burst into violence and color.
Suddenly she saw a distant wall of silver cliffs beneath the round, unblinking eye of the moon. With a harsh sob, Tess turned, rubbing her throbbing eyes in disbelief.
Blackness, yes, but suddenly it was the blackness of night, tempered by a thousand shades and textures. Dun gray. Slate. Velvety jet.
"Oh, Andre," she whispered brokenly. "How much I would have loved to share this with you. To turn and see every hard plane and hollow of your face for the first time."
The wind whipped her hair in a wild, burnished veil around her pale face. Unheeded, tears began to slip down her cheeks.
"So close — so close to seeing you."
Then she frowned, brushing away her tears with impatient fingers.
There it was again — a faint paleness to the north, somewhere near Winchelsea. A Revenue cutter!
"Padrig!"
But the brawny Breton had already seen. He shouted an order to Le Fur, amidships, then strode to the rail, where Tess stood.
He was big and ruddy and fair-haired, just as Andre had told her.
"I'm afraid there'll be little time for good-byes, bihan. I'll drop you near Fairleigh Cove and send two men with you. I can spare no more, I'm afraid, not when this cursed English cutter will soon be nipping at my heels. But Le Fur will go along, and he'll see you safe inland." His eyes narrowed. "What is it?"
Tears were streaming down Tess's face. She had lost her captain this night and regained her sight. She thought — no, she was certain — that she would far rather have had the man and lost the sight.
"Nothing, Padrig. Just — just give him this, will you?" With trembling fingers Tess removed her mother's tortoiseshell hairpin and pressed it into the first mate's hand. "Tell him ..."
Tell him what? What was there to say, when she must go and he must stay? When there were wars and countries to divide them?
Behind her the spray fell back in solid sheets as the sleek brig sped north to England.
"Just — just tell him that I won't ever forget."
* * * * *
"Gone? Gone where?" His face dark with rage, the Liberte's bearded captain glared at Marthe in disbelief.
"It was too dangerous, you must know that. Padrig came while you slept. He said they should be back in England by the morrow, if the winds blow fair."
"Padrig did this thing?" His voice was raw with shock.
"It was
the only way, Andre. You would never have let her go."
The old woman spoke only the truth — perhaps that hurt most of all. His obsession had brought the Englishwoman here, endangering them all.
Somehow that realization only made Andre angrier.
Grim-faced, the captain thundered toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Marthe demanded.
"To find a boat. Any boat!"
* * * * *
Nicely done, the man thought, his face hidden in shadows. Very nicely done. Neither too much blood nor too little.
His opaque eyes narrowed as he studied the woman's unmoving body and the single black rose slanting across one bloodied breast.
Yes, it would serve his purpose perfectly.
What of Tess Leighton, a cold voice asked. What if she chose to turn prying eyes?
Then she, too, would be swiftly eliminated. Nothing could be allowed to interfere with his plan, not even the beautiful Miss Leighton.
And Lady Patricia?
His lips flattened. Lady Patricia would have to be made to see the light.
She had her uses, of course, but no woman was indispensable to him, as she would soon learn.
Suddenly his cold eyes hardened. The ring! Why hadn't he noticed it before? Smothering a curse, the man in the shadows stared down at the dead woman's cheek.
It was only a slight miscalculation, but he was not a man who made mistakes. Indeed, his caution was the only thing that had kept him alive so long.
From beyond the flimsy door came the sound of drunken voices. "Oh, aye, she's here, Digby. Just keep your breeches buttoned!"
Damn! No time to correct his oversight now!
His face a snarling mask of fury, the tall figure clothed head to toe in black replaced his whiskered fox mask and moved soundlessly to the open window.
* * * * *
They were mere specks of black against the shifting play of gray and jet where the foaming sea lashed England's proud cliffs. Le Fur went first, moving with a quiet ease that spoke of his familiarity with this place. At any other time Tess would have asked him a thousand questions, but tonight she said nothing, concentrating on finding a precarious handhold on the narrow path that ascended from the beach. Behind her trotted a short, powerful seaman whose voice she recognized from the Liberte. She soon was thankful for his presence, for whenever she slipped, he seemed to be at her side, offering a strong hand to assist her.
The wind combed through her hair as she finally clambered over the cliff edge and stood on Fairleigh's rolling green downs. With every minute that passed, her vision sharpened. Although there was still a great deal of blurring and pain, Tess barely noticed; her heart was too hollow and cold, numb with sadness in the wake of her farewell to Andre.
Turning back, she looked out to sea just in time to see the Liberte leave the pursuing English cutter far behind and fly south, sails full, toward home.
Tess's vision blurred, and this time it was from the hot tears that fell in a silent rush down her cheeks. Unmoving, she fixed desperate eyes on that fleeing speck darting toward the horizon.
Taking all hope and happiness with it.
At her back, Le Fur coughed uncomfortably. "We — we make too clear a target here, bihan. Never know who might be watching."
Recalled to her surroundings, Tess made a furtive pass at her eyes and choked back the sob in her throat.
Le Fur turned away, making a great business of scanning the slope. "We'll get you back, but best that we not delay. The sun will be up soon, and we have a boat to meet."
"How —"
Le Fur smiled faintly. "Better that you don't ask, bihan. But rest assured, we'll be back in the Morbihan before three tides have risen and turned."
"Will — will you be safe?"
Le Fur's look was shuttered. "Don't worry about us. We've done this before."
He would give her no answers, Tess realized. No details. No names, dates, or places. All these were too dangerous. She of all people should have known that.
Le Fur's caution only reinforced the cruel sense of distance Tess felt from Andre, one more example of how far apart were their separate worlds. She realized how useless it was to hope that they could ever bridge the chasm between them.
A shudder swept through her. A moment later her fingers met the polished outline of Andre's mermaid. Slowly Tess drew it from the pocket of Marthe's dress, where she had thrust it for safekeeping during their journey.
Beautiful and fragile, the creature stood poised in mid-flight, forever frozen in a moment of restless indecision — living in one world and dreaming of another.
Achingly beautiful. Ineffably sad.
Behind her Le Fur swung about, muttering something in Breton to his companion, who immediately slipped off into the night.
Her heart hammering, Tess turned,facing the shadows. "Wh—"
"Silence," Le Fur breathed, unmoving.
As the pair stood searching the slope to the north, a tall figure, black-garbed, slipped from the face of the cliff at their right, part of the darkness itself.
" 'Tis no night for you to be abroad, lassie."
With a glad cry Tess spun around and stumbled toward the man in the black cloak, who waited, arms outstretched.
* * * * *
"Tell me what you were doing on the cliffs, lassie." The big, silver-haired man thundered across the room, cupped Tess's shoulders in his powerful fingers, and pushed her into a chair. "Only this time it's the truth I'll be having, starting from the very beginning. No more of your deceit will I tolerate!"
A single candle flickered in Fairleigh's nearly empty salon. The curtains hung in shreds, and scattered dust motes danced across the bare wooden floor. Somewhere outside in the night an owl hooted, the sound low and piercingly sad.
In a low, quiet voice Tess told the smuggler what he wanted to know. About everything, from the night Hawkins's men had surrounded her on the beach up until the moment that he had encountered her on the cliffs, Andre's men at her side.
She did not look at her friend as she spoke, afraid of the condemnation she would read in his eyes. Instead she fixed her gaze on the faded damask settee pushed against the far wall.
Speaking was a relief, she discovered. But there was one thing Tess did not tell Jack, and that was how she had found love, only to lose it again. No, the wounds upon her heart would remain her secret; she was careful to tell Jack only about those that had afflicted her eyes.
Grim-faced, the Fox paced back and forth before her, listening intently, interrupting her several times to ask a terse question.
When at last she had finished, Tess found her burden was somehow lighter for the telling of the tale. Slowly she looked up at Jack.
Pinpoints of light flared in his dark eyes. He cursed long and low under his breath. "It was too little for you to sneak off and join my men. No, you had to do something wilder. You had to set up your own runs, usurping my role, by all the saints above!" His pacing stopped abruptly. Scowling, he faced her, an angry question in his eyes. "Why, damn it?"
Tess stiffened before that dark glare. She swallowed once, her eyes haunted "At — at first it was only a lark, Jack," she said softly, finding it almost impossible to remember that first time she had gone along as one of Jack's men. "It was the challenge, I suppose. And then, when my father's propensities for gambling and whoring bled Fairleigh dry, it was for the money. That's when I got the idea to take your place. By then I knew all I needed to know about the business, for I had watched and listened carefully."
Jack winced at her harsh words but did not correct her. How could he, when she spoke the perfect truth?
"I needed the money for Fairleigh, don't you see?"
"Are you daft then? Naught is worth your taking such mad risks, lass — not even Fairleigh! I would have given you the money. All you ever had to do was ask."
"What difference does it make, then, whether you won the money or I? I'm no hypocrite, Jack. I never thought that you would be one e
ither."
The silver-haired man smothered a curse, his fingers clenched at his side. " 'Tis hardly the same, damn it, don't you see that? You're a female, young and innocent — gently reared. You've your whole life before you, lass. Someday soon you'll marry and have children. Why would you risk all that for a few hundred pounds?"
Tess stifled a sob. "Marriage?" she repeated, her voice brittle, on the edge of hysteria. There was only one man she would ever consider marrying, and now she could never have him. "No, not for me marriage and a pack of mewling children, Jack," she said flatly. "Nowhere in England could you find the man born to hold me."
That, at least, was true, Tess thought. The only man who could comfort her, the only man she loved, was far away, sleeping in a perfect, sheltered harbor studded with hundreds of sun-kissed islets.
When she looked up, Jack was studying her with narrowed eyes. "If only ..." he breathed, cutting himself off with a smothered curse.
"If only what?"
He shook his head sharply, his silver hair bright in the flickering candlelight, dispelling old dreams. "Nothing, lass. It was — nothing of importance."
"So you are to keep your secrets, but I am not." Tess's lips settled in a mutinous line. "Is that how you would have it, Jack? After all these years?" She could not keep the hurt from her voice.
"Damn it, lassie, that's unfair and well you know it!"
Tess shrugged stiffly. "I'm afraid I don't. What's sauce for the goose, and all that ..." Her eyes glinted. "I won't lie to you, Jack. Not even for you will I give the smuggling up." She couldn't, Tess realized, not now. Her deadly masquerade was the only thing that could take her mind from the long, bitter years of loneliness before her.
"Oh, yes you will! If I hear of your ever again donning mask and cloak in my absence, I'll flay your bottom so well, you won't sit down for a year!"
The Black Rose Page 39
