CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Only the actions of the just,
smell sweet and blossom
in the dust.”
~ James Shirley
(1596-1666)
The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses
Devlin studied Christiana in the shadows of the warren. She wore her smugglers disguise, basically damnable chimney sweep clothing with a ridiculous bag-wig, sweeping black greatcoat, and an oversized cocked hat. Seeing her tremble from the cold night wind, he pulled up the collar of her coat and adjusted the hat upon her head.
“Explain again why it was necessary you accompany me tonight.”
“Have you forgotten what almost happened the last time you went looking for Blackjack?”
He turned his attention back to The Eight Bells tavern. “What now?”
“We wait for the all-clear signal.”
“The all-clear signal?”
“A green bottle in the eaves,” Christiana said in a near whisper.
“Cloak and dagger nonsense,” he grumbled under his breath. Still, he looked carefully for any sign of a bottle. “I see nothing. I best take a closer look.”
“No.” She placed a hand on his forearm. “I can see; ‘tis not safe.”
Devlin glanced up and down the moonlit cobbled street. “No one is about. Not a horse or carriage anywhere in sight. And if we stand out here much longer you could be deathly ill come morning.”
“When someone sets a trap, my darling, they usually like to be secretive.”
Devlin crooked a brow. “My darling?”
She grinned impishly. “Are you not my darling?”
Gathering her diminutive figure closer to the warmth of his body, Devlin lowered his head to kiss her.
She stopped his amorous intent with her gloved fingertips. “Just keep your eyes on The Eight Bells. ‘Tis close to midnight.”
“Ah, but of course, the witching hour. And what, pray tell, happens at midnight?”
“Perhaps I shall take my true form and fly away.”
“Your days of being a raven are over, my sweet.”
“I want you to know, given a choice, I should rather be a hawk—swift, silent, and deadly. No one would ever capture me and those that tried would wear my mark upon them forever.”
“I must say, this blood-thirsty quality you have is rather unseemly.” He looked back toward The Eight Bells, refusing to let her see how much he enjoyed their playful repartee. Feigning a stern expression, he muttered, “I am not amused.”
“Yes, you are.” She slipped her arms inside his greatcoat, and hugged his waist. Nestled against his chest, she made a contented sigh. “Admit it, Devlin. This is exciting.”
Despite the fact he waited to meet the villainous Blackjack and needed to keep his wits about him, Devlin tilted her chin up and kissed her mouth, knocking her hat off in the process. Not ready to release his gentle hold upon her sweet chin, he studied her with somber regard.
“Rest assured, my lovely, I intend to rid you of this fascination with danger and intrigue if it kills me.”
“Do not say that,” she whispered heatedly. “I could not bear it if anything were to happen to you.”
“Nothing is going to happen to me.” Rubbing her back, he held her more tightly against his chest. “Now remember, when we see Blackjack, you are to remain silent—as difficult as I know that will be for you. Mind your tongue. Let me handle everything. I want no interference whatsoever.”
“You are not the least bit afraid, are you?”
He kept his gaze on the tavern. “Little you know of me, if you think I fear this man or any of his companions. I fear neither death nor men. You, on the other hand, terrify me.”
“Me?” She giggled softly. “Why do I terrify you?”
Before he could answer, a movement across the street caught their attention. Four men emerged from The Eight Bells—officers of the naval guard by their uniform. They spoke in hushed voices before walking off in the direction of the church.
“You see, ‘twas not safe,” Christiana said. “What a nuisance they are.”
Devlin followed the retreating men with a steadfast stare. “Do not condemn them, sweetheart. They serve only to protect England and its people.”
“How can you take their side? Just because they wear the king’s uniform does not make them honorable—or better than anyone else for that matter.”
“It is not a question of sides. You know smuggling is illegal. No one is above the law, especially in times such as these. Justice is the very foundation of civilization. If everyone did as they see fit without heeding the laws set forth for a structured society, the world would be in utter chaos.”
Christiana retrieved her hat from the ground and placed it back on her head. “Sometimes I wonder about you, Devlin Randolph.”
He looked sharply at her. “What do you mean?”
“Only to hear you speak, you should be a member of Parliament, or perhaps advisor to the crown. I think it a shame for a man of your intelligence to be a steward. Granted, there is much I do not know about your past, but you are obviously educated and a gentleman of good family. You are well-spoken, a man of honor and principle. I cannot help but wonder how such a man comes to be employed by the noble Duke of Pemberton as a mere steward.”
“Perhaps fate,” he said with a shrug.
“Do you believe in fate?”
He looked down at her jewel-like eyes, mesmerizing even in the yawning shadows of the warren. “I do now.”
The moment of quiet intimacy was broken by the sound of horses. From their hiding place, they watched a regiment of naval guards ride by swiftly as if in pursuit. Pushing Christiana further back into the darkness, Devlin waited until the guardsmen were completely out of sight, the echo of pounding hooves fading into the night.
“What do you suppose that was all about?” he asked.
“Most likely, a rumor about a smuggling run tonight. The four men who left The Eight Bells must have reported no suspicious goings-on. Might I add, it also explains why there was not an all-clear signal.”
“Do not gloat, my sweet. So, does this mean our meeting must be postponed?”
“It means ye passed the test,” said an unfamiliar voice.
Devlin reached inside his coat, ready to withdraw the pistol he’d brought with him. Christiana stayed his hand.
What emerged from the shadows hardly resembled a man at all, more a billowing cloud of blackness that Devlin soon realized was the man’s sweeping greatcoat. A giant at least seven feet in height, the approximate width of an oak tree, stood behind Christiana.
Where the devil did he come from? For that matter, how long had he been standing in the dark watching them?
“Come,” the giant said, and turned to walk deeper into the warren.
Devlin’s jaw dropped open as he watched his petite Christiana meekly follow after the bear-like man. She must have realized he wasn’t directly behind her for she turned, her arm extended toward him.
“Come,” she said with a smile.
Through the dark, winding, wooden labyrinth they made their way toward the beach and a row of weathered rope houses. Quite a common feature in fishing villages, the houses had been crafted from hulls of discarded fishing boats. Sterns embedded deep into the sand, the mid-section and bow stood upright. However, unlike other rope houses, the one they entered contained a secret entrance to an earthen tunnel.
For a man of such extraordinary height, the stranger moved through the tunnel with graceful ease. No light penetrated within and despite the timber-reinforced walls, Devlin had the uneasy sensation of being buried alive. Determined to ignore his increasing discomfort, he followed in silence.
A door creaked open, releasing granules of sand, pebbles, and dust. The golden light of a lamp beckoned. The last to enter, Devlin paused at the threshold. Hardly the den of a successful thief, their destination was a one-room cottage complete with a bed large enough to support the weight of the giant.
A hearth for cooking, a cupboard, and a table with four chairs provided the only other furnishings. In truth, the hovel resembled a place to keep one prisoner.
“Where is Blackjack?” he asked.
The giant added peat to the fire then eyed Devlin with no small amount of amusement. “Who the bloody hell do ye think I am?”
Devlin scrutinized the bearded mountain of a man, noting his wild black and silver hair, full beard, heavily lined brow, and piercing black eyes.
“You are Blackjack?”
“Aye,” the man grumbled with a menacing scowl.
Despite the fact the giant appeared robust, Blackjack was old enough to be Christiana’s grandfather.
Raising a brow to Christiana, Devlin smirked. “You might have told me.”
“I rather enjoyed your jealousy,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes.
Blackjack glared at them. “What are ye two jabberin’ ‘bout?”
Christiana took off her hat, and placed it upon the bed. “Mr. Randolph believed you quite taken with me, Blackjack. I daresay he suspected you had romantic motives for keeping me in the Ravens.”
“Did he now?” the giant remarked with a booming guffaw.
Not appreciating being the brunt of anyone’s amusement, Devlin smiled sardonically. “Laugh all you want, but henceforth Christiana is no longer a member of the Ravens. There is no room or need in her life for smuggling—or you.”
“Is that a fact?” Blackjack folded trunk-like arms across his massive chest.
Devlin matched the older man’s stance. “It is.”
The smuggler studied Devlin in silence for a moment then shrugged. He removed his hat and cloak, and tossed them across the room to land with precision on the bed. Grabbing a bottle of fine French brandy and three glasses from a cupboard, he then poured everyone a drink and pointed to the chairs.
“Sit,” he commanded.
The leader of the Ravens apparently had no interest in opening the conversation. Rather, he preferred to maintain a bizarre glare of intimidation. Leaning back in his chair, arms folded, Blackjack acted as if the heat from his eyes could burn a hole through a man’s soul.
“Perhaps we should get started,” Devlin said. “The hour is late and Christiana is tired.”
Without looking away, Blackjack raised his glass and drained the contents. Setting the glass down, he said, “Then mayhap ye should explain this notion ‘bout her quittin’ the Ravens.”
“More than a notion, I assure you. Apart from the fact that if she gets caught, Christiana could likely hang, she is now my responsibility.”
“Ye take much upon yer’self, steward.” Blackjack snickered as if greatly amused. “Do ye not think the Duke of Pemberton might have cause to disagree?”
“The fact Christiana is the Duke of Pemberton’s ward should make you uneasy. Trust me—you do not want Pemberton as an enemy.”
Blackjack grinned and poured himself another brandy. “She’s not been Pemberton’s ward long enough for me to worry ‘bout the man. Then there is the fact she’ll reach her majority soon enough.”
Devlin leaned forward on his elbows and stared hard at the smuggler. “What she is now is all that matters in this conversation.”
“If ye think she can just stop smugglin’ and walk away, ye’re mistaken.”
“I do not think she will stop smuggling,”—Devlin kept his voice deceptively calm—“I know it.”
“Let me tell ye a bit ‘bout smugglin’,” Blackjack said with a grin. Then, clearly imitating Devlin’s posture, the giant leaned forward, rested his forearms on the table, and clasped his huge hands together. “A smuggler’s life depends on secrecy. There is no leavin’ a gang except death. Now, I understand yer concern for Christi, but she knows too much. Has seen too much. There is nary a man in the Ravens who would let the lad they know as Christian walk away.”
“My mistake,”—Devlin raised his glass of brandy to sip—“I was under the impression you had control of your gang.”
All good humor left Blackjack’s face. “I advise ye not to challenge me, steward. I do what I can to protect Christi. She knew the rules when she joined the Ravens. Too many lives have been lost because of loose tongues.”
Devlin bolted upright, toppling over his seat. Determined to rein in his temper, he straightened the chair then glared at the colossus of a blackguard. “You do what you can to protect her? For God’s sake, she fell from a cliff on your last run. For five years she has done your bidding, but no more. What happens when your gang discovers she is not a boy, Blackjack? How will you look to your men then? They will think you mad not to have noticed the truth. Or, they will realize you deliberately deceived them for years. If honor amongst thieves means anything, it would be in your best interest—as leader of the Ravens—to let her leave. Your men will never trust you again, not if they learn the truth.”
Blackjack downed the contents of his second brandy as if drinking water. He looked at Christiana with narrowed eyes. “Do ye trust this man, Christi?”
“With my life,” she answered. “You know how much I have wanted to leave the Ravens, Blackjack. And he is right; ‘tis only a matter of time before the others find out I am not a boy. You even warned me of it the night Mr. Randolph came to the abbey.”
Blackjack jerked his head toward Devlin. “What happens if he betrays ye? And me not there to protect ye.”
“She does not need your damn protection,” Devlin growled.
“Watch yer tone, ye bloody braggart.” Blackjack stood slowly then stared down from his lofty height of over seven feet.
Devlin returned the stare with equal animosity. The smuggler looked away and crossed to the fireplace. Resting one of his beefsteak hands on the smooth, gray stones, he stared into the hearth. “Step outside, Christi. Mr. Randolph and I need to speak alone.”
“I prefer to stay,” she said.
Blackjack spun around and in two strides yanked Christiana out of the chair by the collar of her coat. “I said get your arse out o’ here.”
His jaw clenching, Devlin imposed himself between his love and the giant. “Never, ever touch her again.”
An amused look came over Blackjack until he noticed the pistol aimed at his belly. “Damn, I must be gettin’ old. I should have noticed ye did not remove yer coat.”
Devlin felt Christiana’s hand touch his arm. The sheen of unshed tears glistened in her eyes. For the first time, he saw how concerned she was for Blackjack’s life.
He lowered the pistol. “Despite the fact killing you would make things much simpler, Christiana considers you her friend. That being said, heed me well, you have no authority over her whatsoever—not any longer.”
“I know of only one man who can claim authority over her now,” Blackjack said with a distinctly cocky expression.
Devlin narrowed his eyes. There had been an unmistakable challenge in the smuggler’s manner. Turning to Christiana, he gently drew her aside and had her sit upon the bed. “Wait here, sweetheart. Try and get some rest. Blackjack and I will step outside to talk.”
Her expression told him she didn’t like the idea of them talking outside her presence, but she nodded.
Outside, the two men walked down a narrow path leading to a moonlit beach. The strong stench of fish and salt water permeated the air. Overturned fishing boats lined the shore, some tied off and some pulled far enough in to where the returning tide couldn’t dislodge them from the grip of the sand.
“How long have you known?”
“Not long after ye came to Bellewyck.” Blackjack grinned and sat upon an overturned boat. “I have friends in London. Nary a one could find proof ‘bout a man named Randolph hired by the mighty Duke of Pemberton. But they did say Pemberton has not been seen ‘bout town or at his family seat. Seems the man went missin’ just when his steward came to Bellewyck Abbey. A smuggler I am, but not an idiot. I can add well enough.”
“Yet you have not told her.”
Blackjack chuckled, a low, rumbling so
und. “Found m’self more curious to wait and see what happened without interferin’.”
Devlin sat on the sand, one arm draped over a raised knee. The sea lapped against the shore with gentle rhythm. The wind combed through his hair like a lover’s caress. Yet the almost hypnotic peace and serenity could be deceptive. The wind might suddenly gust and howl. And the sea could rise against a man then pull him to his death.
He steadied his gaze on the smuggler. “My knowing about your gang and its activities does not concern you?”
With a careless shrug, Blackjack said, “I prefer a wait and see view—if ye get my meanin’.”
“I have but one view. Cause any problems with her leaving the Ravens, you and your gang will be—at the very least—in irons.”
A dark look came to the smuggler’s face. “Let me make somethin’ clear, Pemberton. That girl is dear as flesh ‘n blood to me. The only reason I let her join the Ravens was ‘cause I saw no better way to protect her from that bloody Bellewyck. I sure as hell didn’t want her joinin’ up with the devil gang his lordship was dealin’ with back then. If that meant recruitin’ her as one of my men, so be it.”
Devlin stood. “Even if your motives were a sincere desire to keep her safe from Lord Bellewyck, you have endangered her life just as much—perhaps worse.”
“Bah. She only went on special runs, and I kept her close by my side.” Blackjack stood as well, hands bolstered upon his hips. “And if ye think I will let her walk away with ye, just ‘cause ye’re a duke, ye’re mistaken.”
“You have no choice.”
“P’rhaps not,” Blackjack replied. “But ye best tell me yer intentions since ‘tis fair certain from what I saw and heard in the warren that ye’ve taken her to yer bed.”
Devlin raised a brow. Ordinarily, he’d never comment upon such an intrusive question, but the smuggler had been watching them for God knows how long before he made his presence known.
“I intend to marry her as soon as possible.”
A broad smile spread across the giant’s face, transforming his gruff, weathered features. “Ah, well, that’s grand then.” A moment later, however, his expression turned grim. “But when do ye plan to tell her who ye are? Ye’ve a bad time of it comin’. Ye must know by now what she thinks ‘bout Pemberton.”
THE SENSE OF HONOR Page 26
