“Take care, daughter of Nethercott Castle. The next time you make a choice for your heart, it shall be a choice that you must live with forever. A choice that will be yours for better or for worse.”
Chapter Eight
Constantine checked the details of his plan one more time. It was simple, for he had learned that the wreckers often met in a fisherman’s shack on a cliff overlooking the next bay. All he had to do was sneak close enough to the hut to listen. Once he knew when they next intended to strike, he and some men he could trust in the village could drag the constable to the shore and catch the wreckers in the midst of their crime. He wanted only the leaders arrested and sent to hang. After witnessing that, the rest of the gang should fall apart. It was a process that had worked when he questioned prisoners during the war.
But then he had known the enemies’ faces. In St. Gundred, the wreckers’ leaders could wear a friendly smile in a shop or while digging in a garden or milking a cow. He had a few suspects, but, during months of watching, he had not garnered enough information to force the constable to arrest the men. Tonight could change that.
The sun still had hours to go before it sank into the western sea, but he would get himself into position. As he walked toward the village, he was aware of the pair of pistols in hidden pockets under his coat. No one else would see their shape because he had had this dark brown hunting coat made specifically for this assignment. Only the colonel knew about the pistols, and he had been impressed with his innovation and his tailor’s skill.
St. Gundred consisted of fewer than twenty stone cottages surrounding the small green edged with stones. The stone public house and three stone shops and the stone church at the edge of the village provided for everything that the villagers needed. More stone houses were scattered in both directions along the road that followed the shore west from St. Ives to Land’s End and then east once more to Penzance. It was a grim and gray village, often lost in mist and rain. The people who lived within it were grim, too, for their lives were not easy.
Constantine had sympathy for them and admiration for how they tried to provide for their families by scratching the tough, stony soil, by daring the sea in small boats to fish, or risking a cave-in by mining. He understood why some had turned to scavenging and smuggling, and if they had limited their crimes to only that, he would not have come to Cornwall.
He sidestepped to avoid a man with unwashed black hair and a stench like miasma off a fetid swamp. It was Yestin Gillis, whose name was at the top of Constantine’s list of possible wrecker leaders. A simple bump could reveal what Constantine carried under his coat. The tales of a deadly duel that had circulated through the village might explain why Constantine carried guns, but he did not want to take any chances that Gillis would start asking questions.
“Gillis,” he said tersely.
“M’lord.” He tipped his cap and, whistling past the three teeth he had remaining, walked past Constantine. Or he tried. His steps were uneven, a sign he had spent the past few hours at the village’s only public house, a battered building with a sign of a sinking ship over the door.
Constantine failed to understand how men who made their living upon the sea—and often saw their relatives and friends end their lives beneath it—could enjoy drinking at a tavern called The Last Hope. Maybe it was what he had sensed from many of the local men—the belief that the sea was an elusive mistress, giving and taking at the same time.
“Fine day,” Constantine added to Gillis’s back.
Gillis paused in his whistling long enough to say, “Aye. ‘Tis at that, m’lord.”
“Looks to be a fine night as well.”
“Aye. The wind is down, so there will be no howling at m’window. Should be a grand night for sleeping.” He laughed and, reeling wildly from one side of the path to the other.
Constantine swore under his breath. How tempting it would be to grab Gillis by the arm and drag him before the justice! But anyone so stupid would, before he could get his prisoner to the justice of the peace’s house, find himself the target of vengeance from Gillis’s men. Pitchford had warned him that the first day Constantine arrived.
“If it were as simple as hauling the man to the gallows, it would have been done years ago,” Pitchford had said with obvious frustration. “Gillis does not want for sense.”
“I guessed that.” There had been a self-confidence in his words that the situation would change now that two representatives of the king were focused on the task.
How long ago had that been? How many months? More than a year, he had waited for Gillis to make a mistake. Maybe tonight would provide the opportunity he had been waiting for.
* * * *
Sian bent over the page, holding it tightly in place as the wind tried to flutter it beneath her fingers while she sketched. She glanced at the cliffs, then down as she drew simple lines she would transfer to the wall in the nursery. Satisfied, she pushed herself to her feet. She wiped pieces of grass off her gown and sighed, the sound lost in the steady wind off the sea. She had made dozens of sketches, but each view was blocked by the promontory or the top of the cliffs. She needed to find a safe path down to the shingle beach.
“Stop! Do not go any farther!” called a voice from behind her as she walked toward the cliff.
“Mr. Trembeth!” She had not expected to see the curate. Since his call last week, she had spoken to him only at church on Sunday. “Is something amiss?”
With his hand on his hat to keep the wind from blowing it off, he hurried to her. His face was pale with fear. Fear on her behalf, she realized as he said,“Only that you are getting too close to a section of the cliffs where the stones frequently break off. I plan to speak with Lord Bannatyne about putting up a warning sign.”
“I had hoped to gain a view of the beach.”
His hair blew into his eyes, and he shook his head to clear his vision. That sent his hat flying off and rolling across the ground. As he reached for it, the wind knocked it away. He gave up the chase when the careening hat tumbled over the cliff.
“By all that is blue,” he muttered. “The water and salt will ruin it.”
“We can retrieve it, can’t we?” She had to hold her straw bonnet to her hair, because the wind reached beneath the brim and tried to pull it off her head, too.
“I can retrieve it. You should remain here, Miss Nethercott.” His dark eyes narrowed in an expression she guessed he used with his recalcitrant students.
“But if you can get down to the beach, I can as well.”
“I am accustomed to these paths. You are not.”
She refused to be put off by such a weak argument. “But you were not always accustomed to them. There had to be a time when you first went down.”
“Aye, and it was an ignoble sight as I spent as much time off my feet as on them.”
“But you can help me, Mr. Trembeth. I do want to get sketches from the beach, so I can make the mural lifelike. It is very important that it is the best I can do.”
He regarded her in silence for a long moment, then nodded reluctantly. “Very well. Take my hand, Miss Nethercott, and go slowly. If your feet slip out from beneath you, you will slide all the way to the beach.”
Sian was not sure if he had agreed because he was anxious about his hat or if he truly wanted to help her. It did not matter. He would show her a way down to the beach, and she could follow the path again while she completed her sketches.
When he led the way to another section of the cliffs, she heeded his warning to let him stay between her and the edge. A stick driven into the ground was the only sign that a path led down the cliff.
As he stepped off the lip, she leaned over to see where many other feet had carved a narrow trail along the gray rock. The cliff’s face was edged with sharp points where rock had broken into scree at the base.
“Second thoughts?” Mr. Trembeth asked.
She blinked when his deep voice, challenging her, brought Wraith to mind. “No,” she answered, even though she
did. Not only because of the steep footpath down the cliff, but how disconcerting it was to hear Wraith’s voice coming from the curate’s mouth. Or had her ears, battered by the wind, deceived her?
He took her hand, and she noticed he wore well-used gloves. Not black ones like Wraith wore, but brown ones that showed their age with darker creases along the fingers. But his hands were strong, and she savored the warmth oozing through the leather. He would not let her fall. . .whether or not he truly was Wraith. For just a moment, she wished he would own to the fact that he truly was Wraith. Then he could pull her into his arms on the deserted shore and kiss her until her head was as light as the seafoam blown about on the wind.
She put any resemblance between Wraith and Mr. Trembeth from her mind as she half-walked, half-slid down the cliff’s face. In the sections where the curving path was steepest, someone had placed small blocks of stone for traction. She had to watch for them because her foot caught on the first, and she nearly tumbled. Hoping she was not squeezing his hand painfully, she followed the curate with careful, mincing steps toward the bottom. Only once did she dare to look up, and she wished she had not, because then she had to consider the climb back up.
“Take care, Miss Nethercott. Watch your feet,” Mr. Trembeth said over and over.
She matched her steps to the tempo of his warning, and they reached the shingled beach far more quickly than she had expected. When he did not release her hand, she had to force herself to draw her fingers away before she walked toward the water’s edge. She paused and looked back at him, hoping he did not construe her actions as rude.
“Thank you. . .I think.” She laughed uneasily now that her feet were on flat ground again. “I must begin my sketching while the light is still strong.”
“Please excuse me.” He strode to where his hat had become stuck between two boulders several yards down the shore.
As he walked away, Sian slowly spun around so she could enjoy the amazing view of the sea. She had not guessed that the section of rock that jutted up just off-shore stood on two stone legs. The center section had been washed away by the waves, and water lapped around and through it. Birds squawked and floated in the air and perched on top.
She sat on a boulder, opened her book, and began drawing. How much she would have missed if she had remained on the top of the cliff!
“You are a skilled artist,” Mr. Trembeth said from behind her. His breath brushed her nape beneath her bonnet.
She shut her eyes, wondering what expression would be in his if she turned to look up at him. Would his gaze match the abrupt hunger within her? She should not long for the caresses of a criminal, but she did.
“You are kind to say that.” She closed the book and stood.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asked.
“Of course not.” She could not, of course, speak of her fantasies. Instead, she smiled and explained how she liked to have her work satisfy her before anyone else looked at it.
“Ah,” he said, nodding. He put his hand on his hat again as another gust of wind swirled around them. “There is one more vista you might be interested in, as long as we are here and it is still light.” He glanced skyward, checking the height of the sun. “We should have time to go there and return you to Bannatyne Hall before it is dark.”
Sian hesitated. Coming down to the beach to retrieve his hat was one thing, but to wander along the shore unchaperoned was quite another. She must think of her sister and brother-in-law’s reputations as well as her own, for everything she did reflected on them. Her thoughts of Wraith warned that she wobbled on the edge of tumbling into disrepute. . .when Mr. Trembeth had been the epitome of a gentleman.
“Thank you, Mr. Trembeth, but it would not be right,” she said.
“I understand.” He gave her a warm smile, and her resolve weakened anew. “However, I understand as well that the path we took down can be treacherous when climbing. There is an easier path for that very close to what I wish to show you.”
“Then, by all means, please lead the way.” She pretended that she believed him, and he acted as if he had not guessed she was feigning. If he had any idea of the course of her imagination. . .Maybe he did, and she was letting him draw her closer to surrendering to temptation. But if she had told him that she must go back up the cliffs the way she had descended, she chanced insulting him when he had done nothing inappropriate, save in her mind.
The beach was not easy to walk on because the stones were many different sizes. She had to watch her steps as closely as she had coming down the cliff. As well, the tide was going out, so the stones were slippery. The larger boulders, hidden at high tide, were covered with green seaweed and barnacles. Basins had been scooped out of them, and, in the water remaining, small fish swam, waiting for the returning tide to connect them to the sea once more. The smell of drying seaweed mixed with the salt and an undeniable odor of rot.
Sian paused when they were several yards past where Mr. Trembeth’s hat had come to a rest. “Look. There are no barnacles here.”
“Scraped off, most likely, by someone dragging something up onto the beach.”
She recoiled from the bare spot. “Wreckers?”
“Perhaps, or perhaps smugglers who brought a heavily laden boat up onto the shore.”
“How do they get the goods up these high cliffs? They cannot take the path we did.”
“Do not underestimate people who are eager to hide their stolen prizes. I chanced upon a true wreck east of Penzance. The local villagers were like a parade of ants, each climbing up the cliffs with a bit of the cargo. No one complained about the difficult work because they knew they would be feasting on the food and trading everything else for whatever they needed.” He put his hand to his brow and scanned the cliff. “I suspect, however, there is a cave nearby where they can store their ill-gotten goods until there is no chance the authorities will come looking for them.”
“Authorities? Here? From what I had heard, the wreckers and smugglers have carte blanche.”
He gave a terse laugh. “Why are you acting so surprised? You must know that Lord Lastingham is in St. Gundred on behalf of the government.”
“He told me that he left London to avoid a complicated situation.” She wished she did not have to be false with the curate, but if there was any chance Mr. Trembeth rode through the night wearing a black domino, she must not betray Constantine’s secrets.
“I had heard that, but I deemed it unlikely.”
“All I can tell you is what he told me.”
“I see.” He cleared his throat and then took her hand as they continued along the shore. “Why don’t we speak of something less grim? What do you think of our village church?”
She smiled, relieved that he had taken the hint from her terse answers. The heat from his skin reached through his gloves and hers. She wanted to savor it while she could. “The church is charming. I did not expect such beautiful carving inside it.”
“Men who build boats have put their artistry to work on the church over the generations. Did you notice that the roof is the upside down keel of a seaworthy ship?”
She shook her head. “I must check it when I return on Sunday. Will you be doing the sermon then?”
“Nay.” He paused so long that she wondered if her question had offended him. Before she could bring herself to ask, he said, “Mr. Hallett enjoys giving the sermon, so he has not allowed me the opportunity to do so.”
“But do you write his sermon?”
His eyes widened, and he faced her. “How did you know that?”
“The turn of phrase in the sermon brought to mind how you speak.”
“You have a good ear, Miss Nethercott, as well as clever eyes that allow you to draw so beautifully. Aye, I do write the sermons. The vicar finds doing a weekly sermon too much for him at his advanced age, so I write and he preaches.”
“It sounds like a good compromise.”
“Aye, but it is a compromise.” His mouth hardened, a sign that he wi
shed he did not have to share the parish work with the vicar. Was his dissatisfaction at the compromise in the St. Gundred parish enough to make him seek other outlets for his energies?
Stop it! She could not presume anything about his situation, especially when she had no proof he was Wraith, save for a similar build and timbre of voice. But if she did not believe he was Wraith, why was she letting him hold her hand? She wished she had an answer to even one of her questions.
“Here it is. Just beyond this outcropping.”
At the curate’s voice, she pulled herself out of her jumbled thoughts and looked ahead. She saw only beach, then realized he was staring toward the cliff’s base, which was high above the water line.
She continued forward with him, and a curved wall of stones and mortar became visible in the deepest shadows. The circle was about the breadth and length of a mail coach. In the center, rocks had been piled into a platform. A cleared space between that platform and the outer wall was wide enough only for one person to walk. Portions of the wall had either been washed away or scavenged to build one of the village cottages. As she peered over the broken wall, she saw dark openings under the wall.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I believe it was a barrow at one time.”
“Isn’t a barrow where an ancient warrior or king would be buried? Why was it built so close to the water?”
He shrugged. “So many ways of the ancients are a mystery now. Perhaps he was a man of the sea.” He grinned, surprising her because he usually was so somber. “Local legend says a Viking was buried here, and that there is a great ship in a cavern that leads back under the cliff.”
“A great ship filled with gold ornaments?”
“How did you know?”
She chuckled. “There are stories like that from Holy Island to Dover. If all the stones and barrows contained the Norse gold of dead chieftains, I doubt there would have been anyone alive in Scandinavia.”
“Well, if you believe the people of St. Gundred, on moonlit nights, the ghost of an ancient warrior can be seen here. Not only seen but heard when he shouts that he will get vengeance on those who stole his gold.” He clasped his hands behind his back as he ambled around the structure. “I think, rather, that the ones who reported seeing that Viking ghost had eyes clouded by whatever they had been drinking at The Last Hope. His shouts could be the barking of seals.”
Sea Wraith Page 9
