THE SENSE OF HONOR

by Ashley Kath-Bilsky

  “Right or wrong, Snake,” the first officer said. “The only way to prove you are being truthful is for you to be with us every step of the way.”

  Snake swore under his breath then mumbled his agreement to their terms.

  “We will expect you at half past ten,” the first officer said.

  Raising her gaze above the open pages of the book in her hands, Christiana watched the two naval officers stroll into the crowd. She waited a moment to see if Snake followed, but he didn’t. Perhaps he went in the opposite direction? Closing the book, she turned to place it back on the shelf. An open space had been created from where the book had been removed. Even more upsetting, Snake’s dark eyes stared at her.

  “Well, well,” he said. “If’n it ain’t young Christian.”

  Christiana turned to run, but Snake appeared to block her exit. It was then his gaze took in the sight of her wearing a gown beneath her open ladies’ cloak.

  “I’ll be damned,” he said.

  Kicking him savagely in the shin, she ran, desperate to push her way through the congested crowd. Hindered by her skirts and throng of people, it took little time before Snake caught up, grabbing hold of her arm with a vise-like grip.

  “I always knew ‘twas somethin’ odd ‘bout ye,” he snickered into her ear.

  She struggled to get away, stopping only when the unmistakable muzzle of a pistol pressed into her side. “Keep walkin’,” he ordered.

  “I am not going anywhere with you,” she vowed. “Go ahead and shoot me. You shan’t get away with it. There are too many people. Someone will catch you before you take two steps.”

  Just then, above the din of the crowd, voices yelled her name—Devlin and Nash. She willed Devlin to see her, hoping he might recognize Snake and surmise what had happened. Instead, Nash saw her first and shouted to Devlin.

  As if in a waking nightmare, she watched Devlin turn his head to Nash then follow the direction of the man’s outstretched arm to where she stood. The ashen expression that came to Devlin’s face told her he remembered Snake.

  “Oooh’s that,” Snake whispered in her ear with his familiar cackle. “Caw, I remember ‘im now. That’s the bloke what came to The Mermaid Inn askin’ ‘bout Blackjack. Ye stopped Millie from killin’ ‘im. ‘Twas the same night ye cut yer hand.”

  Drawing closer by the moment, Devlin forcibly pushed his way through the crowd.

  “If ye don’t start movin’, I’ll kill ‘im. Makes no difference to me.”

  “No,” Christiana whispered, an anguished plea rising from her parched throat.

  “Then start walkin’.”

  With a slight nod, she turned and moved in the direction Snake prompted, away from the open marketplace. However, rather than go toward the harbor where numerous fishing boats had been moored, Snake pushed her in another direction.

  Around a grouping of rocks, they came to an isolated cove. A lone skiff bobbed up and down in the shallow surf. She tried to think. All she knew was not to get in that boat, even if it meant being shot. She knew what the sea did to bodies it claimed, having witnessed far too many bloated, greenish-hued corpses washed ashore—some so ravaged by sharks they hardly resembled a person at all.

  I would rather die on land—but not without a fight.

  “Why have you betrayed us, Snake?” she asked, hoping to distract the man.

  The smuggler cackled. “Mayhap I got tired o’ bein’ treated like a bloody fool. Ye always thought ye was better ‘an me. All o’ ye thought ye was better ‘an me. Well, I’ll be rich after t’night. And I ain’t gonna let ye spoil me chances.”

  “I never thought you a fool, Snake.” She tried to keep her voice calm and listened to his footsteps—picturing in her mind’s eye the distance she needed to take action. “You just always teased me. No one likes to be teased.”

  “Shut yer mouth. Mayhap I should let the Ravens see ye now. Women ain’t allowed in the Ravens. That’s the rule. Women have waggin’ tongues, leastways that’s what Blackjack always said.”

  Unfastening her cloak as she walked, Christiana said a silent prayer. Then, taking a deep breath for courage, she pretended to stumble. Swinging her heavy, voluminous woolen cloak about, she hoped to catch Snake off guard and make him drop his weapon.

  It worked. She could hardly believe it. Yet when they both fell to the sand and shingle beach, a desperate struggle ensued. Again and again, her clothing hampered her movements. She screamed, but even to her ears the pounding surf drowned it out.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Snake’s pistol—mere inches away. Managing to roll over onto her stomach, she started crawling toward the weapon. Ignoring sharp pieces of shingle cutting into her hands, she focused on kicking Snake. He was almost on top of her back, just as desperate to reach his weapon.

  She screamed. She kicked. She crawled, ignoring the slicing pain in her skin or the blood oozing out of her palms. The pistol glistened in the sunlight—so close she could almost touch it. Just as her fingertips grazed the barrel, Snake’s longer reach proved true. Panting for breath, she looked up to see a flash of reflected sunlight followed by a sharp, burning pain and then darkness.

  Whether instinct or luck, Devlin signaled for Nash to go toward the busy harbor while he checked the smaller cove. As he raced around the bend of the coast, he saw a sight that made his heart seize and stop in his chest. The smuggler Snake held Christiana’s limp body in his arms then all but threw her into a small boat like so much rubbish.

  Rage unlike anything he’d ever experienced compelled Devlin forward. He ran down the deserted beach, and lunged at the smuggler. Small in stature, taken by surprise, Snake had not a prayer of defending himself. Two punches to the man’s midsection and one clip to his jaw, the smuggler fell into an unconscious heap onto the wet, packed sand.

  Turning to the sea, Devlin swore under his breath. The skiff had drifted out, pulled by the retreating tide. He peeled off his coat and boots. Running into the cold surf until waist deep and about to dive beneath the swell of an incoming wave, he heard someone shout, “Watch yer back.”

  Turning, he saw Snake, sea foam reviving him as it washed over his prone body. Still a bit dazed, the smuggler sputtered then began to fumble in his clothing for something.

  Damn, he must have a pistol.

  A quick backward glance to the skiff gave Devlin a moment’s pause. He could still retrieve it, but not if he got shot in the back. Clenching his jaw, he turned his attention to Snake. The smuggler couldn’t stand, but seemed determined to keep trying.

  Against the pull of the strong undercurrent, Devlin swam back to shore. Each sweeping stroke cut through the water with clipped precision, despite the weight of soaked clothing compromising his efforts. Once gaining his footing, he ran toward the shoreline only to stop short.

  Snake, a wicked smile on his face, had come to his feet—his weapon aimed where it could instantly kill a man. A shot rang out.

  Instinctively, Devlin looked down at his chest despite knowing he’d not been injured. Yet a quick look to his attacker showed Snake face down in the shallow water—shot from behind.

  Looking about to determine who’d killed the smuggler, he saw Nash in the far distance, pointing to someone standing behind a closer grouping of rocks on the beach. Wiping droplets of water from his eyes, Devlin recognized the young man Christiana had been sitting with at The Mermaid Inn—the one she called Henry.

  Weapon in hand, the young man ran toward him. “The skiff,” he yelled.

  Swearing under his breath, Devlin saw the small boat containing Christiana’s body drifting further out to sea. Racing into the water, diving through the ocean’s retreating swells, he swam relentlessly toward the bobbing skiff. Wrenched from his soul and offered up with every determined stroke, he prayed.

  Please God, let her be alive.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “There’s a divinity

  that shapes our ends;

  Rough-hew them how we will.”

>   ~ Shakespeare

  (1564-1616)

  Hamlet

  “Are you certain she is all right?”

  The physician summoned by the proprietor of The Valiant Sailor Inn, nodded. “She will have a dreadful headache, and likely bouts of nausea. The villain hit her hard enough to bring about unconsciousness, but there is no indication of bleeding or confusion. She roused long enough to speak with me, and I observed no problems with her vision. There are cuts and bruising on her hands as well as her extremities from the struggle. I have left a pot of salve for them. She put up a valiant fight. A brave young woman, I must say.”

  Devlin nodded, raw emotion constricting his voice. He escorted the physician to the door, forced to gruffly clear his throat before he could speak. “What about laudanum for the pain?”

  “A small dose, no more,” the physician advised. “Natural sleep is best, not sedation. It is prudent to also wake the patient periodically during the night. Ensure she does not drift into too deep a sleep. She should be able to focus, converse if only a few words, and drink some liquids. If she complains of severe head pains, summon me immediately.”

  “I will, and thank you, doctor.”

  “I daresay you could use some rest as well,” the physician said with a kind smile. “Take care you do not take ill from that icy water today. Brandy would not be remiss.”

  Devlin grinned. “I quite agree, and thank you again.”

  After the physician departed, Devlin stood still a long moment, his brow resting against the closed door. Though comforted by the doctor’s words, he couldn’t stop thinking about the day’s events and how close he came to losing Christiana—forever.

  More exhausted than he cared to admit, he returned to a chair situated beside the bed. He studied the soft, steady rise and fall of Christiana’s chest as she slept. Her face, pale as snow, looked serene, her slumber seemingly untroubled. A cut on her brow, just below her hairline, had resulted from Snake’s blow, and required suturing. The physician’s exemplary skill, however, promised the scar would hardly be noticeable once healed.

  Thank God it had been only a cut and not a bullet to her brain.

  Devlin woke with a start, his heart racing, and looked quickly to the bed. She lay there still—alive. It had only been a nightmare. Rubbing his jaw, he stood and walked over to the small hearth. After stirring up the fire, he returned to the bed and tried to wake Christiana. She didn’t respond.

  “Christiana, wake up, sweetheart.”

  She made a fretful sound in her sleep. Not that he could blame her. It must seem every time she fell asleep, he woke her.

  “Come now, Christiana. I need you to talk to me this time.”

  Her eyes fluttered open. “Must we talk now, Devlin?”

  “Doctor’s orders, my sweet.”

  She glanced about the room. “Why is it so dark and quiet?”

  “The hour is very late. I doubt anyone is awake at the inn.” With a loud yawn, he stretched his arms. “I beg your pardon. How do you feel?”

  “I was dreaming,” she said in half whisper.

  “Was I in this dream?”

  “Perhaps,” she said with just the hint of a smile. Turning her attention to the window, she grew pensive. Suddenly, a stricken look came to her eyes. Sitting upright, she cried, “Snake!”

  “Shhh,” he whispered, sitting down on the bed beside her. “The fiend is dead, Christiana. He will never hurt you again.”

  “But...” She looked at her bandaged hands. “Oh God, is it too late?”

  “Too late for what, sweetheart?”

  Tears spiked her eyelashes. “I saw Snake meeting with soldiers this morning. I followed. He told them about tonight’s run. Blackjack will be captured, Devlin. He will hang. They will all hang.”

  “Try to remain calm, Christiana.”

  “I cannot. I must find them. I must warn Blackjack.”

  “Listen to me, dearest.” He gently kissed her brow. “You must not become excited. If I promise to warn them, you must promise me to remain calm. Will you do that?”

  “I-I promise.”

  “Then close your eyes,” he soothed. “I will find Blackjack for you.”

  He waited until she’d drifted off to sleep again. As he situated the bed covers about her, Devlin felt a hand rest heavy upon his shoulder. Startled, he turned to see who’d entered the room without his knowledge—only to face Blackjack and Henry.

  “I was just about to look for you.”

  “No need,” Blackjack said. “I knew Snake was betrayin’ the Ravens. ‘Tis why I planned the run tonight. He met those soldiers before, ye see. They always met outside that shop.”

  Devlin’s fists clenched, his stomach twisted into knots. “You planned this?”

  “Well,”—Blackjack fluffed his beard—“not ‘til ye told me ‘bout comin’ to market day. So, I decided we might kill two birds with one stone. ‘Tis why I suggested ye take Christi to Mrs. Harris’ dress shop so early.”

  Barely able to control his boiling rage, Devlin glared at the giant.

  Blackjack shrugged his massive shoulders. “Mrs. Harris and I have done quite a bit of business together over the years. Ye might say the widow is very loyal to me. She is the one, after all, who first told me ‘bout seein’ Snake with soldiers. She knew ye’d be comin’ by the shop early, and did what I asked to keep ye occupied.”

  “Mrs. Harris was involved in this scheme?”

  The smuggler nodded. “Ye forget I’ve known Christi most all her life. And she has no patience for brazen women who flirt with men. It bores her.” He chuckled softly. “I knew she’d be lookin’ out that shop window. Seein’ Snake with soldiers would rouse her temper and stir her curiosity. It did.”

  “She could have been killed today.” Devlin clenched his teeth so hard it was a wonder they didn’t crack. “What if I lost her in the crowd? What if Snake shot her? What if I had not been able to stop him before he got in that damn boat with her?”

  Blackjack shook his head. “I knew you would do your part and follow. And we were close by the whole time. My fishin’ boat was just ‘round the cove, ye see. And Henry stood watch outside Mrs. Harris’ shop. He followed Christi. There was nary a moment she left our sight.”

  Devlin looked at the young smuggler. “He knew Christian was a woman?”

  Blackjack put a hand on Henry’s shoulder. “This one is my son. Henry always knew ‘bout Christi. He just never let on—not even to her.”

  “I saw Snake meetin’ them soldiers, too,” Henry added. “I’ll be tellin’ the Ravens that Christian died killin’ Snake after learnin’ he betrayed us.”

  Devlin glanced back at Christiana, comforted she slept peacefully. He closed his eyes, not wanting to ever re-live the terror he’d felt seeing her being abducted in the crowd by Snake. Or, watching her limp body tossed into that skiff.

  He looked again at the leader of the Ravens, and sighed with a heavy heart. “Why, in God’s name, did you not tell me this ingenious plan?”

  “Sometimes ‘tis better not to know, Yer Grace. Mind ye, I ain’t sayin’ it went just as I planned, but I would die before lettin’ Christi get hurt—or the man she loves and intends to marry.”

  “Thank you for that,” Devlin said, somewhat mollified by the sincerity of Blackjack’s expression and words. Turning to Henry, he crooked a brow. “Thank you for saving my life on that beach today, Henry. Although—I must say—you took your time about it.”

  With a sheepish expression, Henry scratched his head. “Bloody hell, Yer Grace. Didn’t expect ye to come back to finish Snake off. That was my job. I had a clear shot when yer man showed up yellin’ for ye to watch your back and ye come swimmin’ back to shore. Not wantin’ to be disrespectful, but ye kept gettin’ in my way.”

  “I see,” Devlin said with a wry grin. “Well, in any event, I am extremely grateful your aim proved true.”

  Henry smiled, but they were both distracted when Blackjack neared the bed. With a sad, thoughtf
ul expression, he stood in profile. Then, leaning down, he brushed a gentle kiss upon the crown of her head. “Ye’re free now, Christi.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Do your duty,

  and leave the rest to Heaven.”

  ~ Pierre Corneille

  (1606-1684)

  Horace

  Bellewyck Abbey ~ Kent

  Christiana walked through the winding labyrinth of the Shadow Walk, making her way up from the underground lake where her secret chamber could be found. The time had come to make peace with all aspects of her past. The knowledge Devlin had risked his life to save hers proved more than she could bear.

  Death, a menacing presence in her life, had loomed over her shoulder since childhood. On numerous occasions, in any number of situations, she’d tasted it—a foul, suffocating mixture of ash and soot, the salty sea, the rocky shore. It followed her. At times, it hunted her. But never had it felt so close she believed death would claim her life.

  Not until the beach in Folkestone.

  A gift had been given, one she did not intend to waste.

  The panel opened to Devlin’s bedchamber with a faint whooshing sound, although the movement created a noticeable draft. Flames in the hearth danced on the unseen current of air. Expecting Devlin to shout some expletive of surprise, she heard nothing.

  And then she saw him.

  Impeccably dressed, booted feet crossed at the ankle, chin resting in the palm of his hand, her love sat before the fire—asleep. A smile blossomed from her heart to see him like this—the man of her dreams, his lips pursed together like a little boy practicing the art of kissing.

  A breathless sensation swept over her—very much like when she once stood on the edge of the white cliffs on a summer day. Alone yet hopeful, she watched the sparkling, sunlit sea stretch before her into the horizon. The wind swelled. A wondrous balmy breeze caressed her skin, combed her hair, and lifted her arms ever so slightly. And in those precious moments it seemed possible to take flight, soar straight into the clouds, and be free. Now, that liberating, magical feeling of pure joy happened every time she looked at Devlin Randolph.