“Come now, miss, I’ve a business to run, after all.”
Sarah stepped closer to Thomas and looked up at him with honesty in her eyes. “You can trust Lord Weston.”
Thomas’s gaze shifted to Marcus and narrowed with suspicion. “Well, my lord, can I trust you?”
“You have my word.”
Thomas stared hard at him for a tension-charged moment. Then he muttered under his breath and threw the filthy towel he still carried in his hand onto the top of a cask. “Been talk of supplies being run out to St. Aldhelm’s Isle. Good money to be had for those who keep their mouths shut. Frenchies with deep pockets out there, some say.”
Marcus turned toward the stairs. “Sully, come with me. We’ll need a boat. Sarah, you’re to stay right here until I come for you.”
“You’re not thinking of going to the island now, are ye?” Thomas asked before Marcus reached the second step.
Marcus slammed his fist against the rough banister. “I’ve hardly time to explain myself—”
“Because you’ll not get far,” the man continued. “There’s only one spot to put ashore and it’s a hard one to find in the daylight, never mind the black of night.”
Marcus realized the man was right. Marlowe had been the Corinthian agent assigned the task of discovering where Napoleon’s men awaited the final gems, the coves and caves of the coast affording any number of possible hideouts. He hadn’t shared that information with Marcus.
“I can help.”
Marcus squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. “Sarah.”
“I’ve been to the island. I know the spot Thomas is speaking of,” she pressed. “And you’ll not find another man tonight sober enough to take my place. Those not upstairs right now are home sleeping off the fair. You know I speak the truth.”
“Goddammit,” Marcus swore under his breath.
“Besides, it will be far easier to see to my safety with me by your side, wouldn’t you agree?” she added.
Thomas pulled a wool coat from its peg on the wall. “Take this,” he ordered, “and mind the pocket.”
Sarah reached for the coat and nodded in thanks.
Marcus had no other choice.
“We’ve no time to waste. Sully, go and ready the horses.”
“Oh, there’ll be no need for that,” Thomas interrupted, walking to the long row of stacked casks along the north wall and pulling first one then the other from their place, to reveal a hidden doorway.
“I told you, I have a business to run.”
Sarah huddled into Marcus’s side, the wind light but cool as it glanced off the low side of the boat and ruffled her tangled tresses.
“Why did Nigel not tell me of the tunnel that led directly from the Boot to the cove?” Marcus asked angrily of no one in particular.
Sarah pressed against him. “He did not know, I’m sure of it. We spoke at some length after you questioned him. He was terrified—too terrified to have kept such a thing secret. It does not matter now.”
Sully rowed through the blackness, his powerful strokes sending the boat slicing through the waves. The lamp of the Lulworth Cove lighthouse illuminated the surrounding area just enough to reveal the dark outline of Aldhelm’s Isle.
“Of course it does,” Marcus replied in a low tone. “You’re in danger—danger that might have been avoided had I known all of the facts.”
“I’ll be all right,” Sarah whispered to Marcus, placing a hand on his cheek. “I’m with you.”
His jaw tensed, the muscles tightening and flexing under her sensitive fingertips. “You’ve no idea what these men are capable of, do you? And I’ve put you here.”
Sully turned the boat toward the southwestern side of the island and the minuscule cove nearly hidden there.
“I do understand the danger—but you must know that I’m safest when I’m with you.”
“Fire,” Sully warned, pointing toward a small blaze on the shore.
“ ’Ello!” a man’s voice called out to the boat, the sound of the waves slapping against the vessel alerting him to their presence. “Reinforcements, then?”
Marcus shoved Sarah down and she crouched in the bottom of the boat, her head hidden below the oarlocks. “You are not to leave this boat,” he ordered.
Sarah struggled to sit up, spying the man as he waved from the shore. She knew he could not make out their faces from this distance. Still, they’d have to convince him that they meant no harm. She did the only thing she could think of.
I had just come home and I took a room,
I was all settled down to recline,
When I saw a delectable maid go by …
Sarah’s voice, though high, to be sure, was passable as long as she kept her chin tucked low while singing. “Join in,” she hissed, launching into the second chorus with appropriate gusto.
And when she stretched out on her bed,
I couldn’t stand no more …
Marcus and Sully took up the bawdy shanty tune as though born to do so, and Sarah had never been so glad for her unique coastal education.
She didn’t say a single word,
But she took me in her arms …
The man on the shore had joined in, his lusty singing carrying on the waves. “Ready yourself,” Marcus told Sully.
That night I rode in glorious style,
And other things besides …
“Glad to hear, I am, that you’re not those Frenchies,” the man shouted as he leapt into the water and waded toward the boat. “That smug lot hardly knew one tune among them.”
The keyhole in the door, my boys,
The keyhole in the door …
The man leaned back at the last of the chorus and bayed at the moon, stopping midway when the length of rope Sully had thrown hit him square in the face. “Patience now, you can hardly ’xpect—”
He stopped, eyeing Marcus and the others warily.
“Hey, now, what’s this all ’bout—”
Sully launched himself from the boat, his hands closing around the man’s neck, choking off his voice before the two of them disappeared beneath the waves.
Sarah gasped and Marcus shoved her hard, flattening her against the bottom of the boat. “Stay down,” he ordered, then went over the side himself.
Sarah peered into the dark water, surprised when Sully broke the surface of the water, gasping for breath.
“Are you—”
Sully made for the shore. “Stay down, woman.”
His words echoed in her ears as she saw the smuggler’s body rise to the top then gently float past.
Marcus waded through the cold salt water, the temperature numbing his leg wound. He reached the beach, pausing briefly to get his bearings. Scrubby bushes grew in thick tufts all the way to the edge of the pebbled beach, and a narrow path was visible between two of the larger bushes just in front of where Marcus stood.
He slipped his knife from his sodden boot and signaled Sully to follow him.
The sound of someone disturbing the foliage reached their ears just as they started across the beach. Marcus gestured, silently ordering Sully to flatten himself against the rocks.
Marlowe, Charles, and another man rounded the bend to the right and walked out onto the beach.
“Grimes?” Charles bellowed.
“Where’d ye get off to?” the other yelled into the night. He glowered and half turned to look behind him. “I don’t see him, Marlowe.”
Charles looked out on the water, squinting as he caught sight of the small boat. “Is that a boat?”
Marcus and Sully rose silently to their feet.
“Christ!” the other yelled, pulling a knife from the folds of his shirt as Sully lunged at him.
And then all hell broke loose.
Marcus threw himself into the fray, attacking with a ferocity born of duty and anger.
He dispatched the armed man quickly with a swift slice to the throat, and then went after Marlowe, who’d retreated up the path the smugglers had d
escended.
Marcus reached a clearing and stopped abruptly.
Marlowe stood in the middle of it. He held Nigel in front of him, one arm trapping the boy. Nigel thrashed and struggled against his hold.
“Where the hell have you been, Weston?” Marlowe demanded in a low voice. He held a pistol in his free hand, his arm at his side. “We drowned Pattinson, Stewart, and the rest hours ago.”
Marcus blinked, narrowing his gaze over Marlowe’s features with deadly precision. “It took some time to find a guide to land us in the cove, but you knew it would.”
“I’d always heard you were unstoppable, Weston,” he continued. “I must say, I’m somewhat disappointed with your performance. As for mine? Well, I think that it speaks for itself.”
“I’ve grown tired of your games, Marlowe. Give me the boy,” Marcus replied, slowly walking toward the two, his knife at the ready.
Marlowe lifted his hand, holding the pistol to Nigel’s temple—steady despite the boy’s struggles. “Do you think I’d make things so easy for you?”
Nigel went still, his face whitening, his eyes ablaze with fear.
“You’d kill an innocent boy, turn traitor to your country—all for a bit of blunt?” Marcus’s voice was lethal.
“A bit of blunt?” Marlowe’s smile flashed, white in the moonlight. “You know nothing. And as for killing the boy—why wouldn’t I? He’s no longer necessary.”
Before Marcus could move, Marlowe spun Nigel around then hit him squarely in the temple with the pistol. The boy staggered and collapsed. Marcus leapt but he was too late to catch the boy.
Marlowe disappeared into the underbrush and Marcus made a quick decision to attend to Nigel and let Marlowe go.
He knelt beside the fallen boy, checking for a pulse and drawing a deep thankful breath when he felt the strong pound of blood at his throat.
“Nigel!” he said clearly, sharply tapping his cheek.
Nigel came around with a start, sucking in a deep breath and coughing as the air filled his lungs.
“Are you all right?” Marcus asked.
The boy nodded.
“Then come with me.”
Sarah waited anxiously in the boat. From her vantage point, she’d watched as Marcus disappeared down the path away from the beach and into the interior of the island while Sully dispatched his foe.
The wind picked up, and the waves grew in size, making the boat bob up and down with increased roughness. The rolling and pitching did little to calm Sarah’s nerves.
Suddenly, a figure appeared, silhouetted briefly on the cliff top before jumping over the edge and down onto the beach. Small pebbles flew as the large bulk of a man raced for the water.
Sarah squinted, narrowing her eyes in an effort to make out his identity. With sudden shock, she recognized Marlowe, just as the sea water reached his thighs and he dove forward to swim toward the boat.
“Bugger!”
Sarah stood up, only to quickly sit back down when the boat rocked alarmingly and she realized she had nowhere to run.
Frantic, she caught up the wool coat Thomas had given her before they left the Boot and began to run her hands over it. “Mind the pocket,” he’d told her.
She muttered an oath when something heavy slipped from the pocket and fell with a distinct thud to the bottom of the boat.
Sarah looked up. Marlowe was cleaving through the rough water, making impressive progress and drawing nearer with every stroke.
She grabbed the bag and upended it into her lap, sorting swiftly through the items that fell out.
“Do not come near this boat,” she shouted at Marlowe, then noted that he continued his brisk clip as if she hadn’t spoken.
“Bollocks!”
Sarah grasped Thomas’s pistol and lifted it in both hands, half cocking the hammer. “I’m armed!” she yelled in warning, dread building in her belly.
She’d watched closely as her father had instructed Nigel in the proper way to load a gun. But that occasion had been in the daylight with nary a threatening individual in sight.
With grim determination, she picked up a smaller cloth bag and poured what she hoped was the proper amount of gunpowder down the barrel.
Then she rammed a lead ball down the barrel.
The sound of Marlowe’s arms slapping the water as he swam closer reached her ears.
“Bloody, bloody hell,” she muttered. With ruthless focus, she made herself concentrate, fingers nearly steady as she sloshed a measure of gunpowder into the flintlock’s pan, snapped the frizzen into place, and fully cocked the hammer.
The boat suddenly dipped on the port side and Sarah screamed. Marlowe’s hand was visible on the gunwale.
She pointed the gun at him shakily. “I’ll shoot,” she warned again.
“Find Dixon—use it on him,” Marlowe said, tightening his grip to lift himself into the boat.
Sarah fired and the recoil knocked her flat on her back. Shaken and bruised, she pushed herself upright and scrambled toward the bow.
She peered into the water where just a moment before Marlowe had been.
He was nowhere in sight.
Swallowed by the rough sea as if he’d never been.
“Sarah,” Marcus yelled.
She looked toward the beach, where the men stood all in a row, Nigel the very last.
“Are you all right?” she demanded of her brother.
“Yes,” the boy yelled back. “And you?”
“Better than Marlowe,” she whispered, setting the gun down and returning her gaze to the deep, dark water.
“All of it—Jasper’s death, Clive, even Marlowe—for an emerald?” Sarah asked. The moonlight seemed to strike sparks that flashed and glittered, distracting her as her thumb swiped back and forth across the egg-sized gem in her palm.
Marcus pulled her in close, sheltering her against his formidable body as the guinea made its way back to the Weymouth coast. “Well, for that one—plus seven more just like it,” he answered quietly, rubbing her shoulder in comfort. “But all the same, it’s an asinine reason for dying.”
She dropped the emerald into his palm and closed his fingers around it. “Take it. I don’t ever want to see it again.”
Marcus dropped the emerald into the small pouch and pocketed it. “Are you all right?”
“No,” Sarah answered simply, “but I will be.”
She looked forward to where Nigel sat in the bow. He bent over, his shirtsleeve wet from wrist to elbow as he trailed his hand in the water. “Will he?”
“Eventually,” Marcus assured her, though he had his doubts. At twelve, Marcus had thought of nothing but the big wide world, far away from his homes in Lulworth and Inverness. Life had been full of possibility—open as far as Marcus’s imagination could carry him beyond the realities of his world.
But Nigel had seen the worst of humanity at a very tender age. Whether his faith in humankind could be restored depended on too many variables to calculate.
“With the love of his family,” Marcus added, leaning in to press a kiss on her soft brow.
The boat rocked abruptly, sending the pistol Thomas had given her sliding to bump Sarah’s boot. She bent down and retrieved it, eyeing it wearily before flinging it into the sea. “I never want to see that again, either,” she explained. “Though I suppose Thomas will be none too happy.”
“The loss of his flintlock is the least of Thomas’s worries.” Marcus added gruffly, “You could have killed yourself with that damn pistol.”
She settled back into the crook of Marcus’s arm and laid her cheek against his chest. “I told you I was safest with you,” she chided him gently.
Marcus was beginning to agree. All the reasons he loved Sarah were the very same ones that told him she could not be trusted on her own.
And that, he realized with more than a touch of relief, suited him just fine.
He couldn’t go on living as though his future relied upon his past. He’d only hurt himself by refusing so m
uch, taking so little—by hiding from it all until he’d hardly known who he was.
He kissed Sarah’s hair, closing his eyes as he did so. Marcus had thought himself brave, when all along he’d only taken the coward’s way out.
“Almost home now,” Sully said to Nigel as they entered Durdle Door, a massive limestone arch.
“Drat,” Sarah yelped, sitting up.
“What is it?” Marcus asked, trying unsuccessfully to gather her back into his arms.
“It’s something Marlowe said—before I shot him.” Her fists balled in her lap. “He told me to ‘find Dixon.’ What do you think he meant by that?”
Marcus wasn’t entirely sure. Obviously Marlowe had been keeping information concerning Dixon from him, but the extent of the man’s involvement was still unclear.
However, there was no point in involving Sarah or Nigel any further in the case, on that point Marcus was clear. “Sarah, let us get ashore—”
Without warning, the stern of the boat was struck by something large, and the longboat turned over, throwing everyone out into the cold, dark water.
Marcus held tight to Sarah as they sank, the murky depths and dark night above obscuring his view of all but her slim hand in his.
Trained in freezing cold Scottish lochs, Marcus was an experienced swimmer, and he easily stopped their descent, reversing direction to propel them back to the surface. His head broke the water’s surface first, Sarah’s heavy wet curls following closely behind.
Bits of splintered wood from the boat floated about them, and a cask bobbed gently in the current—the very one that had destroyed the boat, presumably. Marcus looked up to where the outline of two men could be seen standing precariously atop the limestone arch.
He searched the beach and found several men waiting just at the water’s edge in the moonlight, the tall form of Dixon clearly visible as he held a lantern aloft.
“Won’t you join us?” Dixon asked, the men about him laughing.
Sully and Nigel appeared from around the cask. “What will it be?” Sully asked grimly, holding on to the barrel.
The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel Page 24
