by Rebecca King
It seemed that news of Scraggan’s execution a few weeks ago had only just reached the French. According to their informant, the spy master was coming to England to re-establish the links Scraggan had used to transport spies into the country. He was due to arrive tonight.
Hugo knew that Port Isaac was a small, almost nondescript, Cornish fishing village with very little to offer anyone except a small tavern, but it seemed almost too small to be a reliable landing place. He wondered just how many villagers were involved in the smuggling of spies and goods, given that little could happen in such a small village without someone being aware of it. It didn’t seem probable that spies appeared without a few of the villagers being involved.
His thoughts immediately turned to the larger fishing port of Padstow further around the coastline, and the ruthless grip Scraggan and his men had once held on the villagers there. He briefly wondered if the same thing, albeit on a smaller scale, was happening in Port Isaac.
Hugo sighed and leaned against the stone wall of the empty house. Hidden deep in the shadows, he drew his cloak tighter around his legs, partly to stop the thick material flapping and giving his position away, and partly to stop the cold wind sneaking beneath and chilling him even further. The large hood was already partially covering his face, shielding his eyes from the worst of the rain; the thick, black scarf he wore covered his mouth and nose. He had a dagger tucked away in his boot, and a pistol on his hip for added protection. The only people who knew he was there were Pie Masters, one of the best men he had in the Star Elite, and his boss, Lord Montague, who was waiting for news in London.
Their informant had suggested Pie wait beside an old boat house, to one side of the small harbour. Hugo, having never been one to trust even the most reliable sources with his life, had instinctively chosen a different vantage point, and now stood on the opposite side of the harbour watching not only the boat house, but the harbour entrance, as well as the small row of houses lining the port.
He had been there as soon as dusk had fallen, and was now stiff, cold and thoroughly fed up.
It seemed strange to be in Cornwall again. He had hoped never to go near the place for a very long time; long enough to forget an intriguing pair of green eyes and a certain witch who seemed to have cast a spell on him. It was the only explanation he could come up with for why he kept thinking about her so much. Whatever he was doing, wherever he was, she always came into his thoughts.
He tried to blank out the image of her beautiful face, but it swam alluringly before him anyway, teasing his senses with something that he found intensely annoying. He was a man dedicated to his job. His life was spent protecting English shores from foreign enemies. He had no business thinking about women, let alone one particular woman who was only a few miles along the coastline. If his aversion to romantic entanglements wasn’t enough to deter him from thinking about her, the damned beast she called a cat was enough to dampen the interest of even the most ardent admirer – which he was not.
Her only saving grace was the fact that she was currently in Oxfordshire spending some time with Jemima and Eliza. Well away from Cornwall, and - more importantly – him. He wasn’t going to spend any time thinking about her wild red hair, and cautious demeanour that made him want to kiss her, just to see how she would respond.
She would probably put a curse on him, Hugo thought ruefully, wondering if she already had and that was why he felt so frustrated. Despite his aversion to romantic entanglements, he had found it a wrench to leave her behind in Willowbrook. The clawing need to look behind him and take one last look at her before he left the house had haunted him as he had trotted down the driveway, until he had been unable to prevent one last quick look back at the mansion. Of course she hadn’t been visible, but he had felt strangely reassured to know that she was nestled inside, safe and warm and looked after. Cursing himself for a fool, he had abruptly turned away and spurred his horse into a gallop, eager to be on his way and free of the new feelings that were beginning to bother him.
Her safety, wellbeing or future happiness was nothing to him. She was a reclusive witch. A very beautiful one, undoubtedly, but she was still everything he needed to avoid. He had no intention of getting involved, least of all with someone like Harriett.
At the moment, he had other problems to consider. On the other side of the harbour, he watched as a dark figure walked down the narrow cliff path that led from the clifftop to the harbour at the back of the boat house. Sure enough, the figure became furtive as it approached the looming bulk of the stone structure, and disappeared around the back out of sight. Hugo mentally shook his head, all his senses on alert, waiting for any sign of danger to his present location. Without moving, his eyes wandered over the various houses lining the harbour, toward the boat house, before sweeping carefully around the harbour wall.
Their source hadn’t told them what time the spy master was due to arrive, and it was some time yet before dawn would herald a new day. Hugo tried hard not to shuffle his feet, and drew on his experience of many years in the army, standing perfectly still and alert. He counted to one hundred before the dark figure appeared at the far side of the boat house, and stood contemplating the area for several long moments, clearly looking for his missing quarry.
He had the distinct impression that the man wasn’t intending to meet his acquaintance and rekindle old friendships. Every instinct warned him to remain still and keep watching. To give his location away now would almost certainly mean entering into a skirmish, and that was the last thing he needed. He had no support; nobody to fight at his back if it came to hand-to-hand combat. He had little doubt he could handle the man across the harbour. It would be the arrival of the spy master and his men that would leave him hopelessly out-numbered. He had no intention of dying on the job, especially at the hands of French spies in his own country.
Hugo watched the man disappear around the rear of the boat house again. A furtive movement out of the corner of his eye made him blink. His gaze was fixed on two men as they walked cautiously past him. They could have been out for an evening stroll – that is, if they hadn’t been dressed in black, and studying the area around the harbour almost as intently as Hugo himself.
They walked toward the harbour wall, mere feet in front of Hugo, without even realising Hugo was there, and stood staring out at sea, waiting. Unfortunately the very place they had chosen to wait was directly in Hugo’s line of vision, blocking his view of the boat house across the harbour. Hugo silently cursed and contemplated shifting a little but, as the new arrivals were so close, it would be suicide to do anything to draw their attention. It was imperative that nothing hinder his quest for information about the spy-master.
He only had to wait for a few minutes before he caught sight of a small rowing boat, silently gliding through the calmer harbour waters, into the harbour. At first glance there appeared to be four men on board, two rowers and two other men, one sitting at the bow and one at the stern. The men on the harbour wall immediately stood at attention and watched the boat approach, standing on the very edge of the wall to help dock the small vessel.
Hugo cursed his luck. Of all of the places around the harbour he had chosen, it had to be within feet of the landing spot. It would be a miracle if someone didn’t spot him. Although he was shrouded from head to foot in black, there was still a possibility that someone would look his way and see him. If there was a break in the clouds big enough to allow the moon to shine through, his shadow would be outlined, leaving him with no choice but to attempt to fight his way out of the village. He daren’t move. The men before him were too alert, and would notice his movement, leaving him with no choice but to remain where he was – and watch. He didn’t want to risk a skirmish just yet.
One man he could manage; maybe even two. Three - if they were poor fighters, but six men? The odds would definitely be against him. Almost certainly the two men on the harbour were there for added protection, and were going to lead the French men to the contacts. They wo
uld be looking for anyone watching, or following.
Even if he ignored the man waiting in the boat house, Hugo knew his situation had suddenly become very dangerous.
He remained silent and watchful as the small boat glided toward the harbour wall. A rope was thrown to the men ashore, who secured the craft and hauled the passengers on to dry land. Hugo couldn’t hear what was whispered. He didn’t recognise any of them but, despite the darkness of the stormy night, tried to commit each man to memory in case he ever saw them again.
A small wiry man, with dark hair, climbed ashore first and waited for a large, burly man with an ample stomach to haul his girth out of the boat. Once ashore, the large man began to huff and puff and curse in French. Hugo had no doubt the two men left in the boat, the rowers, were also protection, but they made no attempt to get out of the boat. As soon as the two Frenchmen had climbed ashore, they silently released the craft from its mooring, and pushed it away from the harbour wall. Within minutes the boat was silently gliding toward the open sea, and undoubtedly toward the larger ship anchored several miles offshore.
Hugo watched the men turn toward the village. There were no other boats in the harbour, or any sign of movement from any of the houses. His suspicions about the men being there for added protection were confirmed when one man moved to walk ahead of the two French arrivals, and the second man brought up the rear.
He listened to the footsteps receding, and then counted to ten before slowly easing away from the wall. He took no more than four steps before a loud retort broke the silence. Pain immediately exploded in his arm, followed by a fierce burning. He didn’t need to look to know he had just been shot. The warm ooze of blood trickling down his arm was in stark contrast to the cold flesh of his lower arm. He could feel the sticky liquid dripping from his fingers.
Gritting his teeth, he tried to lift his arm, but it felt incredibly heavy. Cursing his luck, Hugo ran down the narrow cobbled street. He suddenly felt confused, and had no idea where he was going. A frantic glance over his shoulder confirmed that the assassin had left the shelter of the boat house and was tearing around the harbour after him.
Swearing, Hugo cursed the fact that his injured arm was on the same side as the gun resting on his hip, making it almost impossible to draw his own weapon and retaliate. He was a crack shot and would be able to take the man out, but couldn’t risk stopping.
Hugo had no idea if he was risking running straight into an ambush by the Frenchmen and their protection, and could only hope the new arrivals had moved into a villager’s house to await dawn, and further transportation out of the village. If they were still out on the streets making their way out of the area, they would have heard the gunfire and footsteps rapidly approaching from behind, and would undoubtedly be prepared to attack anyone who approached.
Trapped, Hugo had no choice but to send a silent prayer heavenward – and run. He would have preferred to keep to the shadows and out of sight, but was aware that the edges of his cloak were flapping behind him, adding to the loud clipping of his boot heels on the cobbles lining the narrow roads between the old cottages.
Cursing the movement of his cloak, he quickly tugged at the ties, and threw the heavy item at one of the doors. Cold air immediately swept under the thin material of his black shirt, but it was the least of his concerns right now.
In the darkness it was difficult to get his bearings. He had never been to the village during the daytime, and had not had the time to check the area earlier. All he could remember was that he walked down the hill toward the harbour.
So, if he ran uphill, he should find his way out. Once at the top of the hill, he could head around the outside of the village to his horse, which he had left tethered beneath an old yew tree.
But running up the hill was easier said than done. He tried to keep as quiet as possible, but was aware of the sound of his boots hitting the cobbles echoing through the deserted streets, acting as a beacon to his assailant. He began to get confused. Was the sound of footsteps coming from his boots, or the assassins? He couldn’t be sure, and wished he had the time to stop for long enough to check, but daren’t risk any losing any of the precious distance he had created between them.
For endless minutes he turned from one narrow street, into another, then another as he tried to get to the top of the hill and out of the village, using the most confusing route for his assailant to follow.
At the corner of the next street he slowed down for long enough to glance behind him, and was assailed by a wave of dizziness so strong that he had to lean against a low wall beside him for support. He could feel the steady drip of blood falling from the end of his fingers, and knew he was losing far too much, too quickly.
If he wasn’t careful, he would risk passing out.
Gasping for breath, he cursed fluidly at the sight of the shadowy figure gaining rapidly on him and hated the man for his persistence.
By the thin light of the partial moon, he saw the man raise his arm, and ducked just as the white flash of the gun firing lit the narrow street for a brief moment. The top of the stone wall beside him suddenly splintered, sending shards of stone and dust into the air.
Hugo broke into a run, turning around the next corner and heading further up the hill. It seemed to take him forever to get to the top, and away from the last line of houses that marked the edge of Port Isaac.
He thought he heard faint shouting from the village behind him, and hoped the last shot had woken the villagers, prompting them to investigate the noise. He threw a glance over his shoulder, swearing roundly when he stumbled on the uneven rocks, but found no reassurance in the empty road behind him.
Determined not to be lulled into a false sense of security, Hugo ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He could only hope the assailant had been forced to hide while the villagers were searching the village. He ran down a narrow cart track at the back of the last line of houses, taking the only route left available to him without doubling back and re-entering the village. The risk of meeting his assailant head-on was too great. In a shoot-out, with his arm as badly injured as it was, Hugo would undoubtedly lose.
At the end of the narrow track, there was a left turning lined with high hedgerows that would give him enough protection from his attacker’s line of shot. As he ran, he mentally plotted the village’s layout, considering the route, and wondering if there was any street he may have missed that the attacker could use to draw close.
He was assailed with a mixture of jubilation and desperation as he reached the end of the road. He paused long enough to see the dark shadow of his assailant run out onto the end of the track far behind him. Clearly the man had been forced to hide for a few minutes, driven undercover by the anxious villagers, but wasn’t prepared to give up until Hugo was dead.
Given his assailant’s determination, Hugo knew that this was no random or local attack. This was a trained assassin, sent to achieve a goal. A professional hit man who would not give up until they had succeeded and Hugo was dead. Hugo had been in his job long enough to know that the assassin probably wouldn’t get paid until he could present his boss with the evidence of Hugo’s demise. That made him more dangerous than someone just out for revenge. It also made Hugo’s situation even more perilous, and he could only consider himself lucky that he hadn’t gone to the boat house as suggested.
With a curse, Hugo peered through the gloom for any gap in the hedge he could use to get off the road. It took far too long, and he was aware that his pace was slowing considerably with each passing step. Usually physically fit, he knew his tiredness wasn’t down to the long run uphill; it was down to the amount of blood he had lost. He tried to bend his arm and wipe the blood off his hand, and cursed when his numb fingers wouldn’t react, leaving his arm to hang uselessly by his side.
He almost missed the small gap in the privet, and slammed to a halt so swiftly that he almost fell over himself. Chest heaving with exertion, he pushed through the thick wall of foliage and at last was heading
in the direction of his horse. He hoped his assailant hadn’t found the tethered animal earlier, and shot it, or released it to roam free.
Once or twice he stumbled on the uneven field, which slowed his pace even further. Having been roughly ploughed, the dips and hollows beneath his boots did little to help his dizziness. He swallowed the bile in his throat; his stomach heaved, and he knew he was going to be sick.
Afterwards, he wiped the back of his mouth with his working hand and awkwardly drew his gun. Although he wasn’t sure his vision was steady enough to get a clear shot, it gave him some reassurance to have the heavy weapon in his hand. Exhaustion clawed at him, dragging his footsteps and hindering his every movement. He had already begun to tremble with exertion, and felt sweat bead on his brow in spite of the coolness of the night air.
He paused at the end of the field to catch his breath. The silence of the night settled around him. Hidden in the shadows of the hedge, he took a moment to study the field behind him. The night was so dark he couldn’t even see the far end of the field. There was simply no way of knowing where the gunman was. If he had any chance of survival, he had to continue as though the man was still behind him.
Climbing the gate beside him was the hardest thing he had ever done. With only one arm, and plagued with dizziness that made the whole landscape swirl and collide in a confusing blur, it was inevitable that he would fall.
As he hit the ground, he landed too heavily on his injured arm. Pain immediately exploded down from the injury in his upper arm, lancing the limb in burning fury that ran right down to his fingertips. He became immediately aware of a feeling of wetness in his palm, and knew that the blood flow had increased. Rolling on to his back, he lay on the uneven ground and stared blankly up at the heavy clouds hovering threateningly high above.
