“What’s eatin’ at ye, Christian?”
She frowned at Henry Tucker, another member of the Ravens just a few years older than her nineteen years. Whereas Christian remained in a perpetual state of adolescence, Henry had matured into a strapping young man.
“What?” Her feigned boyish voice sounded halfway between a croak and a whisper.
“Ye look as if ye’ve seen a ghost,” Henry said.
Christiana couldn’t help but watch Devlin flirt outrageously with Millie Piehler. When he pulled the strumpet down onto his lap, an onslaught of jealous rage swept over her so badly she absent-mindedly broke the bowl of the glass in her hand. Inhaling sharply between clenched teeth, she shuddered from the bitter pain. Biting back tears, she picked a piece of jagged glass from her palm.
“Would ye look at that? ‘E’s jealous,” laughed Davey O’Toole. “I didn’t know ye was itchin’ for Millie, Christian.”
“Hey, ye’re bleedin’ all over the table,” Henry said.
Christiana shrugged off the injury, too preoccupied by whether or not her smuggling disguise would deceive Devlin. Still wearing an oversized cocked hat worn by all the Ravens, her long hair had been tightly knotted and hidden under a bag-wig purchased by Blackjack for her in London. And thankfully, she’d yet to remove the mannish greatcoat.
“Did ye hear me, Christian?” Henry asked.
After gruffly clearing her throat, she nodded and walked over to the bar, quietly asking for a cloth from Silas Wynne, the proprietor.
“Ye’re bleedin’ like a stuck pig, Christian,” Silas said. “Best let Millie see yer hand, lad. Ye might have glass still in the wound.”
“Just give me somethin’ for a bandage,” she rasped with boyish impatience.
When Snake came to stand beside her, ‘twas all she could do not to scream.
“Don’t ye be faintin’ now, boy,” the pesky older man joked with a liquor-laced cackle. “Oooh, look at all that blood. Best get me needle and sew ye up right quick.”
Christiana turned to glare at the wiry man, but caught Devlin watching her with a puzzled expression. God help them both if he recognized her now. She swallowed hard and faced the bar, wrapping a clean rag about her hand.
“Lawks, leave me be, Snake,” she mumbled. “I’d as soon sew it m’self as have ye touch me.”
With another round of loud cackling, Snake wandered about the room, telling everyone the giant’s bastard had stuck his hand. Over and over again, the smuggler laughed. “How d’ya think he’ll climb those cliffs now, eh?”
Devlin narrowed his gaze on the youth, watching as the boy in the greatcoat and cocked hat returned to his table where two other young men sat.
“Don’t mind ‘im,” Millie said. “Snake teases Christian like the devil, ‘e does.”
“Christian?”
“Aye,” said Millie. “We don’t see ‘im round ‘ere ‘cept when Blackjack wants ‘im. Old Snake likes to ‘ave a bit o’ sport with the boy, leastways ‘til Blackjack shows up.”
“Where is Blackjack now?” Devlin angled his head to get another look at the boy, but some other men had walked over to stand beside the table and now blocked his view.
The barmaid trailed a finger down his cheek. “Are ye ’ere to ask questions ‘bout Blackjack or ‘ave a bit o’fun with Millie?”
Devlin crooked a brow and eyed the bountiful breasts of the wench all but spilling out of the confines of her faded gown. He only wanted one woman, the same woman who’d shared his bed a few hours ago, a woman who’d left him for someone named Blackjack.
Asking about his unknown rival at The Green Dragon had led him to the most disturbing collection of men he’d seen outside the rookeries of London. Every one of them had a nasty firearm resting on the table before him.
Just then the men previously blocking his view returned to their table. Devlin looked across the taproom at Christian. Much to his surprise, the boy stared back.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered as his eyes locked with the unmistakable jewel-like orbs of Christiana. Judging by the sudden frown she directed his way—and the barely perceptible shake of her head—she knew he’d recognized her.
What the devil was she doing in a place like this? Dressed like a boy, and drinking with men named Snake and Blackjack?
His jaw clenched. He couldn’t wait to drag her out of the wretched tavern, and tell her just what he thought about her reckless behavior. Better yet, he’d turn her over his knee and make sitting an uncomfortable experience for a month.
Enough is enough.
Christiana would tell him what she’s involved with before this night ended. At least that had been his intention until Millie started fondling him.
“I think ‘tis time we ‘ad ourselves some private sport,” the barmaid said with a lusty giggle.
Devlin glanced back at Christiana. The expression on her face could only be described as livid. Her eyes shot daggers at him, so much so she’d caught the attention of her table mates. It didn’t take long for him to understand the cause of her anger, especially with Millie fawning all over him. Christiana was jealous.
“Quite right, Millie,” he said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “Let’s go have a bit of sport.”
Christiana wanted to shoot someone, preferably Devlin Randolph—especially when he ambled off like a notorious rake in a brothel with Millie on his arm. Shaking off Henry’s restraining grasp, she all but raced across the room to the stairs.
Devlin and Millie were nowhere in sight.
“God help the man for being a fool,” she mumbled under her breath.
Quickly locating Millie’s chamber, she kicked open the thin door, effectively stunning both its occupants. There they were—the man she loved flat on his back and a wicked tart straddling his hips.
“Bloody ‘ell,” the barmaid screeched. “Ye scared the wits out o’ me, Christian.”
“Put the knife away, Millie.” Christiana kept her disguised voice calm but stern.
“Knife?” Devlin echoed, his cocky smirk replaced by confusion.
“He’s a friend.” Christiana slowly neared the bed.
“Then why was ‘e askin’ ‘bout Blackjack?”
Christiana arched a brow at Devlin, intimating she also wanted to know the answer. “Like as not, he has a meetin’ with Blackjack. And ye know how Blackjack feels ‘bout his friends, Millie. Best let this one go.”
Millie drew the hand she’d kept hidden behind her back forward, revealing a lethal dagger. She touched Devlin’s cheek with the tip of the deadly blade, but did not apply enough pressure to cut him. “Is that true, luv?”
Devlin’s gaze darted from Millie to Christiana. Although he’d been lounging back on his elbows, slightly amused whilst waiting for the anticipated interruption, he now realized just how close he came to having his throat slit. Still, he managed to smile at Millie and nod.
“Bloody ‘ell.” The barmaid jumped off the bed. After straightening her gown, she put the knife back into a hidden sheath.
“Go back downstairs, Millie,” Christiana said. “And if anyone asks, the stranger is a friend to Blackjack.”
After Millie quit the room, Christiana heatedly whispered, “What the devil are you doing here?”
Devlin jumped to his feet. “What am I doing here? What the devil are you doing here, Christian? And who the deuce is Blackjack?”
“You best not bandy that name about. Just because I said you were Blackjack’s friend does not mean you will leave this place alive—not yet.”
“What in God’s name are you talking about?”
“Do you have any idea where you are? Any idea what those men downstairs are capable of doing? And just how, might I ask, did you come to be here?”
Devlin cleared his throat, reluctant to admit he’d followed after her in a fit of jealousy. Especially since he now wanted to know what she’d been planning to do in her damnable disguise. He certainly didn’t believe she came here to clean chimneys.
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br /> “I merely asked someone at The Green Dragon where I might find an establishment with an accommodating wench.” A lie, of course, but he preferred to not discuss his real reason for being here until after they’d returned to the abbey.
Her mouth dropped open and her eyes blazed. “You wanted an accommodating wench? Forgive me, but I believe I was exceedingly accommodating earlier this evening.”
Devlin said nothing. As excuses go, it had been a poor one.
She eyed him with an expression of hurt and disgust. “And to think I stopped Millie from killing you.”
Returning to the door, she rested her ear against the weathered wood. With a weary sigh, she looked back at him. “Come with me—and for heaven’s sake—go along with whatever I say. Even better, do not speak.”
Damn if she didn’t have him at a disadvantage—for the moment.
Devlin reined in his temper. He neared her side, noting the crimson stain seeping through the cloth of a makeshift bandage. “Your hand is bleeding badly; let me look at it.”
“How is it you do not understand the meaning of danger? We must leave, and have not a moment to spare.”
Biting down what he’d like to say, he followed in silence. His thoughts surged with bitter disappointment at how blind he’d been to Christiana’s true nature.
“Wait by the outside door,” she whispered.
He did as told, but kept a careful eye on her she walked across the taproom. The proprietor glanced his way then directed his attention to the one they called Christian.
After talking briefly to the young man she’d been seated with earlier, Christiana turned around. Devlin swore under his breath. She held a damn blunderbuss in her uninjured hand. With a curt nod to the innkeeper, she walked the length of the taproom and returned to his side. What amazed him more than anything else was how everyone seemed to accept her as this boy named Christian. Truth be told, she carried out the disguise impressively, from the way she spoke and the boyish manner in which she walked, to the surly attitude she projected.
Once outside, Devlin’s intention to give Christiana a piece of his mind met a quick death. She darted toward the stable yard at breakneck speed. Having no other choice, he followed after her—again.
“You are fortunate Luther is still here,”—she pointed to his horse in a stall—“and still saddled. After Millie killed you, they would have given him to Blackjack as a gift.”
“There’s that name again,” he said with no small amount of sarcasm.
She ignored his remark, and led an impressive roan gelding out of a stall.
Hands on his hips, he watched her quickly saddle the horse. “Where’s Blossom?”
No reply.
It soon became obvious if he didn’t collect Luther posthaste, she’d ride off without him. Gathering Luther’s reins, they led their mounts outside. Then, with the proficiency of a seasoned dragoon, she took to her saddle, looked about the deserted street, and prompted her horse to a mad run out of the village.
“Bloody little savage,” he muttered, racing after her.
He followed closely, rather stunned by Christiana’s exceptional riding ability.
They rode through dense woods and darkened paths that made it impossible for him to glean which direction they headed. He thought he heard the sea. Were they riding toward the coast? Then again, the sound could be the echo of waves pounding against the shore from a distance.
Not wanting to lose Christiana in the darkness, he gave up trying to discern where the deuce they were going, and kept her disguised figure in sight. A short while later, whilst he plotted all the words he intended to say once they’d returned to the abbey, she took him down a steep path to a deserted beach and the white cliffs of Dover Straits.
She rode toward the chalky cliffs, leading him to a barely visible fissure through which she adroitly maneuvered her mount. The passageway, wide enough and tall enough to ride a mount in single formation, must only be accessible at low tide. They rode a fair distance through the passage then emerged into a beautiful, sheltered grotto set aglow with moonlight and an abundance of stars.
They dismounted. Neither spoke.
Devlin paced, hands resting low on his hips. He attempted to gather his thoughts and control his temper—to no avail.
He turned and glared at her. “Who the devil is Blackjack?”
“Do you know anything about Kent?”
“Obviously not enough,” he replied.
She sat on a large, smooth rock, looking both ridiculous and adorable in her dark, boyish clothing, the greatcoat dwarfing her woman’s body.
“Blackjack is the leader of the Ravens.”
“Regrettably, that means nothing to me.”
She turned her face in profile, her chin set at a mutinous angle.
“Make no mistake, Christiana, you will answer my questions.”
As if resigning herself to the situation, she looked at him. “The Ravens are a smuggling gang, one of many that operate along the coast off Kent and Sussex. They control the stretch of coast from Deal to Folkestone, and have a very faithful following. You would be hard-pressed to find anyone who does not support their activities.”
“Hence the reason for Millie wanting to kill me, I presume.”
Christiana nodded. “You stumbled into a den of thieves tonight, Devlin. Asking questions about Blackjack targeted you as a spy, perhaps even a member of the militia. Millie’s father and two of her brothers were killed by spies posing as sympathizers. Thus, she tends to kill anyone who seems suspicious. You would not have survived another sunrise had I not been there to stop her.”
The gravity with which she spoke told Devlin all too well her words were truthful. Of course, as a man he was hardly flattered to hear the woman he loved believed him incapable of protecting himself—or her.
She looked at the placid water of the grotto. “You should be safe here until dawn.”
“What do you mean—you?”
She ignored him. “When the tide starts to turn, follow the beach road south until you come to St. Margaret’s Bay.”
“And just where do you think you are going?”
“Back to The Mermaid Inn.” She stood, brushing wet sand off the seat of her greatcoat.
“You cannot be serious,” he bit out. “I will not let you go back there, Christiana.”
“I belong there.”
“You most certainly do not.”
“Do you not understand?” she cried. “I am one of them.”
Devlin felt the blood drain from his face. In all his imaginings about what Christiana might be involved in he never expected this. For God’s sake, smuggling was punishable by death. If she is involved—
“Is the estate involved?”
“No one is involved but me.”
“I doubt that. Then again, you are the only one here. Might I enquire what possessed you to join these cutthroats?”
“I have my reasons.”
Devlin snorted. “And that is all you intend to say on the subject? You have your reasons? You know smuggling is against the law; in truth, it is an act of treason. You trade with France, I presume?”
Although pale, her manner appeared controlled. “Sometimes one must do things because there is no other way to survive. You cannot understand, Devlin, because you have not lived my life.”
“Most assuredly, I cannot understand treason,” he snapped. “There is no possible defense you could offer in my opinion.”
He resumed pacing, contemplating the quandary of loving a woman he knew so little about. St. George’s Dragon, he’d actually decided to marry her earlier that evening. Then, in the midst of churning disgust came one prevailing thought. Something didn’t make sense. Apart from the fact it contradicted everything he believed about Christiana, people engaged in illegal activity for material gain. She lived in virtual poverty. Why would she risk her life and gain nothing in return?
He looked over his shoulder and caught her wiping copious tears from her cheeks.
When she saw him looking at her, she turned away.
“I must go,” she said.
He folded his arms across his chest. “You cannot possibly believe I will allow you to continue this activity. Your involvement is over, my sweet.”
“If I do not return within the hour, my life is forfeit.” She led her horse toward the rock upon which she’d been sitting. “The Ravens will think I betrayed them. I have no choice but to return.”
Devlin’s heart seemed to shudder to a stop. “And why, pray tell, would they believe you betrayed them?” When she made no reply, the truth hit him hard. “Because of me?”
She looked at him then, her eyes bleak with sadness. “Blackjack will have learned a stranger came looking for him, a stranger I saved from Millie’s blade then left with before he could meet the man. I must return to defend my actions.”
“And then what? You assist them in another smuggling run? Christiana, soldiers watch the coast for smuggling activity. Men trained by His Majesty’s Royal Navy to shoot first and ask questions later. Why the deuce do you think they built that damned canal? Do you have any notion how many disgruntled British soldiers are spoiling for the chance to catch a band of smugglers in the act? Those men want to be at sea in some glorious battle. They are none too happy about having such unglamorous naval posts in this war.”
“You seem to know quite a bit about them.”
“I rode to Kent on horseback,” he said with deadly calm. “I saw them. I spoke with them. For God’s sake, the Duke of Pemberton was one of the most vocal advocates for the canal being built.”
“Why does that not surprise me?”
Seeing her preparing to mount and ride out into the night, he quickly went to her side. “You are not going back there. Rather, you will return with me to the abbey whereupon we will calmly discuss the extent of your involvement. And determine the best way to extradite you from this mess.”
Keeping her back to him, she whispered, “I cannot.”
Grasping her shoulders, he pivoted her to face him. “And I cannot allow you to risk your life on a damn smuggling run.”
“Do you think I enjoy this?” Tears gathered in her eyes. “I am terrified each time I go out, knowing what could happen, knowing this goes against everything I was taught as a child. I hate it, Devlin. But I cannot change what I am.”
THE SENSE OF HONOR Page 18
