by Jane Feather
“I don’t want to see him,” Olivia said when he came back leading the chestnut.
Anthony looked at her for a minute, and his expression was no longer carefree or amused. “I want you to know once and for all that it’s over. That he’s gone and won’t ever trouble you again. If you see him go, you’ll know for sure.”
Olivia crossed her arms over her breast in a convulsive hug. “I don’t know if I’m brave enough, Anthony.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a slight reassuring shake. He smiled down at her. “Yes, you are. You’re a pirate; you jumped over a boarding net to disarm a galleon full of Spanish soldiers without turning a hair. This is nothing. You’ll go up and knock on his door. Call out to him so that he’ll come to the door. We’ll be right behind you. When he unlocks the door, we’ll barge in. We get him out of the inn with no one being any the wiser, and on the noon tide he and his friend Channing will be on their way to another life.”
“You make it sound so easy.”
“It is. Trust me.”
“I do,” she said. “But I’m still frightened of him.”
She had thought she’d overcome her fear of Brian after Portia had shown her how to make a fool of him all those years ago in Castle Granville. Portia had drawn the monster’s teeth, and when Olivia had seen him again in Oxford, she’d been able to deal with her revulsion. But she hadn’t then remembered why it was that she loathed him, why she was so frightened of him. Now that she had remembered, it was as if she was back in that hideous time, dreading the sound of his voice, his step, expecting them every waking minute.
“Trust me, Olivia.”
Olivia gave a little shrug of surrender.
Anthony lifted her easily onto the back of the chestnut and swung up behind her. He circled her waist with one arm and twisted his fingers securely into the animal’s mane. “Hold tight, we’re a little later than I intended.”
Olivia clung to the mane as the horse galloped flat out across the field, along the clifftop, over St. Boniface Down.
Just above the little village of Ventnor atop Horseshoe Bay, Anthony eased the chestnut to a halt. He dismounted and lifted Olivia down.
“Won’t the farmer wonder what happened to his horse?”
“No, he’ll know I have him. I left him a sign.” Anthony led the pony into a field where a herd of cows lying on the wet grass raised their heads and gazed with bovine lack of interest at the new arrival. Anthony sent the horse off to pasture with a slap on the flank.
“A sign? What kind of sign?” Olivia couldn’t help being intrigued despite her anxiety.
Anthony laughed. “Crossed sticks, if you must know. Sometimes it’s necessary for me to make free with an islander’s possessions or hospitality. If they know it’s me, they don’t fret.”
“Do you think of yourself as an islander?” She followed him back to the path, the wet grass swishing around her ankles.
“No. You have to be born and bred for that. I was born many miles from here.”
“Where?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Bohemia.”
“Bohemia!”
“Strange birthplace, don’t you think?”
And now Olivia could detect a tension in his voice, a threshold that she was fast approaching. She pressed nevertheless. “You grew up there?”
“No. I grew up just across the Solent,” he replied in a dismissive tone. “The Gull’s on the main village street. My men should be in the taproom already.” He was walking a little ahead of her, and Olivia knew she’d gone as far as she could with her questions. And, indeed, as she drew close to Brian, she could concentrate only on mastering her anxiety.
The village street was deserted. The fishermen would be checking their crab pots in the bay, but the rest of the world was barely awake. The front door of the Gull stood open, however.
“Stay here, it’s best if you’re not seen for the moment. You don’t look too much like one of my crew.” Anthony clasped the dark cascade of Olivia’s hair at the nape of her neck in explanation.
“If I did, I would hardly be bait for Brian,” Olivia observed, tossing her head.
Anthony threw her a grin over his shoulder as he went into the inn, and it was all the response she needed.
She stood back on the street and looked up at the shuttered windows of the inn. Behind one of those slept Brian Morse. He had tried to kill her father. Phoebe had been there in Rotterdam, when Brian had ambushed Cato. Phoebe had probably saved her husband’s life. Cato had believed that he had killed Brian in the duel, but he had refused to make certain. Cold-blooded killing was not his way. And Brian Morse had come back to life. Back to torment his stepsister as he’d tormented her in childhood.
Not anymore, Olivia resolved, digging her hands deep into her britches’ pockets. Not anymore.
THREE OFWind Dancer’s crew sat with Adam on stools at the bar counter. Anthony nodded to them and they nodded back. A wizened old man filled ale tankards, muttering under his breath.
“So, old friend, did we drag you from your bed betimes?” Anthony said cheerfully, tossing a handful of coins onto the counter.
The man’s face cracked into the semblance of a smile as he scooped the coins into his palm. “Aye, master, but it wouldn’t be the first time.”
“And it won’t be the last, I daresay.” Anthony hitched himself onto a stool. “You’ve a guest, I hear.”
“Aye.” The man’s expression soured. “ ’E’s a regular tightfist.”
“He lodge above?” Anthony gestured with his head to the stairs.
“Best chamber in the ’ouse. At the ’ead of the stairs,” the man said. “Up an’ down them stairs I goes, at ’is beck an’ call. An’ never a sign o’ thanks.”
Anthony tutted sympathetically. “Fetch me a pint of porter, Bert.”
The man pulled the pint and set it on the counter.
“And if you could see your way to getting a bite of breakfast for my friends and me, we’d be more than grateful.”
“Been busy this night, then?” The man looked curious.
“Aye, we been stoppin’ a wreck,” Adam responded. “An’ mighty sharp set we be.”
“Damned wreckers!” Bert spat into the sawdust behind him. “There’s some blood puddin’ an’ a few suet dumplin’s from last night.”
“If ye can heat ’em, we can eat ’em,” Adam said definitely.
Bert shuffled off to the kitchen.
“So now what?” Adam demanded of Anthony.
“Olivia is going to get our man to unlock his chamber door. As soon as he does so, we grab him. Derek, we’ll use your cloak to swaddle him. There’s rope behind the counter there, around the beer barrel. We’ll use that to bind him. Once he’s bound and gagged, you get him out of the village. Then I have something to send him to sleep.” Anthony patted his pocket.
“So who is this bloke?” Adam inquired.
Anthony’s face was suddenly bleak. “I may tell you one day.”
“An’ mebbe I don’t want to know,” Adam muttered. “So best get on wi’ it.” He gestured significantly towards the kitchen, where Bert could be heard banging pots.
Anthony nodded and went out to Olivia. “He’s in the chamber at the top of the stairs. Run up and knock on the door. Call out to him, so he knows it’s you. We’ll be right behind you.”
Olivia glanced up again at the shuttered windows, a considering frown drawing her thick black brows together. “D’you know which window is his?”
“I think the one in the center, from what I know of the inn.”
“Then I have a better idea,” she said firmly. “I’ll throw stones at the shutters until he wakes up. He’s bound to come to the window to see what’s going on. When he sees me, I’ll beckon him and he’ll come downstairs. He’s bound to.”
“If you think that’s a better plan,” Anthony said.
“I do. It keeps me out here for a start.” Olivia bent to pick up a large round stone. She
hurled it at Brian’s shuttered window with such force that the wood splintered.
Anthony raised an eyebrow and strode back into the inn. “Ready, gentlemen?”
Soft-footed they mounted the stairs and pressed themselves against the wall on either side of Brian Morse’s door.
Outside, Olivia hurled stones merrily at the shutters. Her aim was amazingly true, she discovered. It took four crashes before the shutters were flung open and Brian Morse stood there in his nightshirt. The man she saw bore little resemblance to the Brian she remembered. This man had white hair and a face creased with suffering. But his eyes were the same, his mouth was the same, and the power of his malevolence jumped out at her.
“What in hell’s teeth is going on down there?” he demanded angrily. “You wretched urchin! What do you think you’re doing?”
“Trying to wake you up, Brian,” Olivia called sweetly, softly. “I have a message for you from Lord Channing.”
Brian stared at her, recognition slowly dawning. “Olivia!”
“The very same.” She dropped him a mock curtsy made ludicrous by her britches. To her astonishment she was enjoying herself. It was just the way she had felt when she’d put powdered senna in his ale and condemned him to hours of purging on the close-stool.
“Come up here!” he commanded.
Olivia shook her head and laughed at him. “I’m not such a fool, Brian. I’ll see you in the open street. I have a most urgent message from Lord Channing.”
Brian retreated from the window, and Olivia went into the dim cool of the inn’s hallway. She stood listening, her heart thumping. He would come down. He wouldn’t be able to resist.
Everything happened very quickly. She heard a muffled cry, then footsteps on the stairs. Heavy footsteps. Three men went past her, carrying a wrapped shape. They disappeared into the street.
Anthony and Adam came slowly down the stairs.
“All right?” Anthony touched her cheek.
“Yes.”
“You want breakfast or not?” a plaintive voice called from the taproom.
“Yes, but we’re only three now, I’m afraid,” Anthony responded cheerfully. He put an arm around Olivia’s shoulders and urged her ahead of him into the taproom.
Bert looked at the tumbled black hair, the female figure outlined in the tight-fitting britches and jerkin, and thumped three laden plates on the counter without a word.
Nineteen
ON THE BATTLEMENTS of Carisbrooke Castle, Colonel Hammond stood and watched the dawn. Behind him two sentries marched their route, back and forth with monotonous rhythm.
“You’re up and about early, Hammond.”
The governor turned at the pleasant tone. “As are you, Lord Granville.”
Cato nodded and came to stand beside him.
“There was quite a fracas out at St. Catherine’s Point last night,” the governor observed. “Those damnable wreckers were about their business but someone stopped them. We got a message from someone not willing to give his name to go and pick up the pieces. We found the beacon and a neat parcel of wounded men waiting for us on the beach.”
“ I wonder if Caxton had a hand in it,” Cato mused. “I’ve just had my sergeant’s report on the couple he took into Yarmouth Castle last night. There seems little doubt that Caxton is our man. Turns out he’s both a pirate and a smuggler … has a frigate which he keeps in some secret chine. He knows this coast and the French like the back of his hand.”
“Then we had best pick him up,” Hammond said. He looked around in some annoyance. “I sent for Channing half an hour ago. It’s not like him to delay answering a summons.”
“Perhaps he’s a heavy sleeper,” Cato suggested. “We do face a small problem in picking up Caxton.”
“Oh?”
“We don’t know where to find him,” Cato pointed out gently.
The governor only grunted at this reminder.
“Yarrow mentioned a cove, Puckaster Cove, that he thinks might have some relevance to Caxton’s ship. Roth-bury’s gone with some men to take a look. They’ll throw a net over the area and see if they catch anything.”
“If he doesn’t know we suspect him, he might turn up here. He did last night … played whist with the king.”
“I think we need to move the king,” Cato said decisively. “Move him in secret to Newport.”
Hammond looked worried. “I don’t have orders from Parliament,” he pointed out.
“You may consider that you have,” Cato said aridly. “I’m representing Parliament in this matter.”
“You will take responsibility?”
“Haven’t I just said so?”
Hammond bowed his head in acknowledgment. “It might be difficult to move him secretly.”
“We do it now while the island’s still half asleep. Have you visited His Majesty this morning?”
“Not as yet. I don’t usually go in to him until after seven.”
“Well, let us pay him a visit now. Have a closed carriage ready and waiting in the courtyard. We’ll both accompany the king to the barracks in Newport. You’d best send a messenger ahead to have his lodging prepared.” Cato was already moving briskly back along the battlements as he spoke.
The governor hurried after him. “Channing can take the message, but where the devil is the man? You there …” He beckoned a servant, who came running. “Go to Lord Channing’s chamber again. This time make sure he’s awake before you leave. Make sure he answers you.”
The man ran off.
The sentry outside the king’s chamber in the north curtain wall saluted.
“Has His Majesty sent for his valet as yet?”
“Aye, Colonel. He’s with him now.”
Cato knocked imperatively on the door and it was opened by the valet.
“His Majesty is not yet attired to receive visitors, my lord.”
“His Majesty will excuse our intrusion,” Cato said brusquely. He stepped around the valet and bowed to his sovereign. “I give you good morning, Sire.”
The king was in the process of being shaved. He looked at his visitors in some indignation. “What is this?”
“Your Majesty is to be moved to Newport,” Cato said.
The king paled. He wiped soap from his face with a towel and stood up. “I beg your pardon?”
“Parliament’s orders, Sire.” Hammond stepped forward and bowed. “You are to be moved immediately.”
The king’s eyes burned in his white face. It was the end, then. They had been discovered. Within hours of his rescue. His disappointment was so profound he made no attempt to conceal it. He knew it had been his last chance.
“May I ask why?” he demanded when he had mastered himself sufficiently to speak.
“I believe Your Majesty knows why,” Cato said quietly. “You will leave within the hour.”
“I have not yet broken my fast.”
“It is but two miles to Newport, Sire. A meal will await you there.”
The adamant tone was laced with courtesy, but it didn’t disguise the fact that the marquis had given his sovereign an order.
“Granville, you were once loyal,” the king said sadly. “A most loyal friend.”
“I am loyal to my country, Sire, and I would continue to stand your friend,” Cato said in the same quiet voice. “I will leave you to your preparations.” He bowed low and stepped out of the chamber.
Colonel Hammond made his own obeisance and followed. The servant he had sent for Godfrey Channing was waiting in the corridor.
“Lord Channing, sir, he wasn’t in ’is chamber. His man said his bed ’asn’t been slept in.”
“Good God!” Hammond exclaimed. “How could that be?”
“It seems unlike the man,” Cato observed. “He’s always been most assiduous about his duties. However, it seems we must do without him for the moment. Who else can you send to Newport?”
“Latham. He can keep a still tongue in his head.” The colonel sent the messenger for his other equer
ry. “D’ye care to break your fast, Granville, while we wait for the king to complete his toilette?”
BRIAN MORSE GAZED up into the face of a man he’d never seen before. A man he felt sure he would never wish to see again.
The man knelt beside Brian as he lay bound, swaddled tightly in the thick, heavy folds of a cloak, under a dripping hedge some half mile from the village of Ventnor. Brian had been carried to this spot, his mouth stopped with the folds of the cloak. Three men had carried him as easily as if he were a baby.
Anthony surveyed him in silence. His face was expressionless except for his eyes, and what Brian read in those eyes filled him with a cold dread.
“So you like to play with little girls,” Anthony said softly. “Tell me about it, Mr. Morse.” He jerked the folds of material from Brian’s mouth. “Do explain the fascination for me.”
Brian spat pieces of lint from his mouth. “So my little sister has been telling tales to her lover, has she? I never thought she’d turn whore. She always swore she’d never have anything to do with a man.” Somehow he managed to sneer even through his fear.
Anthony’s hands closed around Brian’s throat. The long, slim fingers squeezed. Hands that could hold a ship steady into the wind in the teeth of a gale. Brian gasped like a gaffed fish. His chest was so tight he knew it was going to burst. Spots danced before his eyes. He could feel them bulging. The hands squeezed tighter. And then the black wave swamped him.
Anthony took his hands from Brian’s throat. He flexed his fingers, then massaged his palms with his thumbs.
“You have killed him.” Olivia stepped forward, her voice flat. “You killed him.”
Anthony shook his head. “I have never yet managed to kill in cold blood, however great the temptation,” he said. “Besides, I would rather condemn this piece of vileness to a living hell.”
He reached into his pocket and took out a small vial. “Hold his head, Adam.”
Adam put an arm behind the unconscious man’s neck and lifted his head on his wrist. Brian’s mouth fell open as his head fell back. His neck was livid with the marks of Anthony’s fingers.
Anthony tipped the contents of the vial down the opened throat, and the unconscious man swallowed convulsively. “That will keep him out for twelve hours.”
