by Jane Feather
Obviously the prospect of a dangerous piece of espionage, or whatever he was about to engage upon, gave him as much of a sexual thrill as lovemaking, she decided morosely, following him down the narrow companionway.
There was a strong smell of fish, and the oil lantern hanging from the low ceiling gave off noxious smoky fumes, its flickering light casting grotesque shadows on the planked bulkhead. A skinny bunk was set into the bulkhead with a coarse blanket over a straw pallet. It was airless and yet dank and chill. However, Gabrielle told herself, the journey shouldn’t take more than twelve or thirteen hours, and she could always go up on deck.
She turned to her companion. “So, perhaps you’d better give me my instructions.”
Nathaniel leaned back against the stained planking of the bolted-down central table, arms folded, his eyes hooded.
“No, I think I’ll wait a bit.”
“Wait? But for heaven’s sake, Nathaniel, the boat’s about to sail.”
“I know.”
“Just what are you getting at?” Gabrielle glared at him in infuriated bewilderment.
Nathaniel remained unmoved. “Simply that you’re not going alone.”
Gabrielle felt as if she’d lost touch with her own moorings just as the boat lurched beneath her and a voice yelled an instruction accompanying the squeak of a sail running up the masthead. She grabbed the edge of the table as the boat swung slowly away from the quayside and the wind filled the mainsail.
“You’re coming to France?” she asked carefully.
“Just so.”
“But why?”
“My dear girl, I never send an agent into the field alone on a first mission,” he informed her coolly. “They always have a mentor, someone who knows the area and the setup. I’m going to act as your mentor on this mission, and if all goes well, then I daresay future ones you may conduct alone.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded, her eyes blazing.
“I wanted to see how you would behave when faced with the prospect of going alone into danger.”
The authoritarian, matter-of-fact statement was the last straw. What the devil did he know about how she faced danger?
“I am sick to death of your damn tests,” Gabrielle declared, jabbing at his chest with a forefinger. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
“Your spymaster,” he said, catching the jabbing finger and holding it away from him. “And you will submit to any test I decide to set—unless you wish to abandon this plan?”
Gabrielle drew breath deep into her lungs. He was still holding her finger, and there was a sudden intensity in the eyes resting on her face.
Tell me you’ll give it up. Go on, Gabrielle, say it. It’s not too late. The fervency of his unspoken thoughts shocked him. He’d believed he was resigned, accepting of her treachery, but he wasn’t. He didn’t know if he could forgive, if they could make some new start. But perhaps if Gabrielle pulled back now …
Their eyes held for a minute, then Gabrielle laughed and pulled her finger out of his grip. “Don’t be silly. Of course I don’t want to.”
“No, of course not,” he said.
Gabrielle sat down on the narrow bunk, frowning. At least it offered a satisfactory explanation for why Nathaniel hadn’t appeared unduly depressed at the prospect of their parting. But she wasn’t accustomed to having the ground cut from beneath her feet, and just recently Nathaniel had been doing that with tiresome regularity.
Yet, despite her annoyance, she couldn’t deny the little prickles of pleasure and excitement at the prospect of extending their time together despite the complications that were bound to result.
“So you’re traveling to Paris?” she said after a minute.
“Yes, under your protection,” he informed her without batting an eyelid. “Your laissez passer I assume will cover a servant.”
Gabrielle gazed at him, for a moment speechless. Of all the effrontery! But it was still a brilliant strategy, one she would have come up with herself.
“Nathaniel Praed, you are … you are … oh, there isn’t a word strong enough to describe you.”
Nathaniel reached for her, hauling her to her feet and pulling her between his knees. Her eyes were on a level with his.
“Would you rather travel alone, Gabrielle?”
She shook her head ruefully. “No. You know I wouldn’t. I didn’t want us to part.”
“I know you didn’t. And neither did I. We seem to be intertwined, you and I,” he said with a dry smite.
“Yes,” Gabrielle agreed quietly. A chill ran down her spine as someone walked over her grave. Intertwined enemies. Deadly enemies. She hated Nathaniel for what he had done to Guillaume and to her, and yet she could barely contemplate being away from him.
She looked into his eyes and saw her own reflection in the dark irises. There was something in the brown depths that she couldn’t read, something of a most powerful intensity that sent renewed chills over her skin. It was more than simple passion, it was almost menacing. And then he caught her head between his hands and brought his mouth to hers and reason and unease yielded to the familiar heady rush of desire.
On deck, Jake shivered in his hiding place as the fishing boat ran before the wind up the estuary. Papa had gone into the cabin with Gabby and hadn’t come out. He was still on the boat, and now they were going to France.
Voices reached him from the other side of his hiding place, the rough male voices of the skipper and his crew. Jake shivered with terror and the tears tracked soundlessly down his cheeks. He inched closer to the deck rail and the surging cold black water beneath. He couldn’t swim. If he jumped, he’d drown. But if he stayed, they’d find him. And Papa would find him … and …
He couldn’t imagine what his father would do when he found him. He shrank down as far as he could behind the sailcloth and closed his eyes tightly, trying to believe as he had when he was very little that if he couldn’t see people, they couldn’t see him.
“Oh, that’s better.” Gabby’s voice penetrated his terrified trance. “It’s so stuffy in there.”
“It’ll be very cold once we round the Needles and reach the open sea,” Nathaniel replied. “You’ll be glad enough of the shelter then.”
“Maybe.” Gabrielle held the deck rail and threw back her head, looking up into the overcast sky, where the misty shadow of the moon hung over them. The spray stung her face and she breathed deeply of the salttanged air. It felt good deep in her lungs. She looked back to the diminishing lights of Lymington quay. “I hope it stays calm. I’m not the world’s best sailor.”
“Goodness me,” Nathaniel said in tones of feigned amazement. “Don’t tell me you have a weakness.”
“Unkind,” she protested with a soft laugh. “I have many weaknesses.” Being here with you is one of them. But for the moment there was nothing to be gained by fighting that weakness.
“I’m hungry,” she said. “It seems ages since dinner. It must be the sea air.”
“You’ve been sailing for only half an hour,” Nathaniel pointed out. “However, I had the forethought to bring some provisions. Shall we go below?”
“No, let’s have a picnic up here.”
The voices were so close to Jake, he could almost imagine touching Gabrielle. He wanted to jump up and run to her, bury his head in her skirt, feel her warmth and her arms around him, her lips brushing his cheek when she kissed him, her hand ruffling his hair. But then his father spoke again, and he huddled wretchedly back into his corner.
“So what did you bring?” Gabrielle turned from the rail as Nathaniel reemerged from the companionway. She smiled and the moon broke through a gap in the clouds, throwing her face into silver relief.
Her smile was candid, inviting, as if she had nothing to hide, and despite everything he knew, he couldn’t prevent his own lips curving in response.
“You’ll see. Well use this as a table.” He kicked forward an upturned crate and squatted down before it, feeling into the ba
g he carried with the air of a magician about to produce a litter of rabbits.
“Cognac, for the warmth,” he declared, flourishing the bottle as if it were a prize. “Then one of Cook’s special veal and ham pies …” This joined the cognac on the makeshift table. “Two chicken drumsticks, a round of cheddar, and some apples. How does that sound?”
“Inspired.” Gabrielle sat on the deck, leaning her back against the rail.
“No utensils, I’m afraid. We’ll have to drink from the bottle and use my pocket knife for cutting.” Nathaniel produced the knife as he handed the cognac to Gabrielle. He cut a V into the golden raised crust of the pie.
Jake listened to the sounds of the picnic. He could smell the food and the nose-tingling aroma of the cognac. He was cold and hungry. His father’s voice sounded quite different from normal—gay, lighthearted, full of laughter. Gabby spoke with her mouth full, choked, Papa patted her on the back, and they both laughed. It didn’t sound as if they could ever be cross. Jake half rose from his cramped crouch, but his nerve failed him and he shrank back again.
“We’re rounding the Needles.” Nathaniel stood up and reached a hand down to pull Gabrielle to her feet. “Vicious, aren’t they?”
The water boiled around the row of jagged rocks obtruding from the tip of the Isle of Wight. Gabrielle shivered and drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders. The moon had disappeared again and the beacon in the lighthouse glowed strong in the darkness. The mournful clanging of the warning bell carried across the water.
“I’ve never made this crossing,” she said. “I’ve always crossed from Dover to Calais and vice versa. It seems a lot less wild.”
They were leaving the Isle of Wight and the sheltered Solent behind. The wind blew stronger now and the sea had lost its docile quality, stretching ahead and around in a rolling expanse of white-capped surges. The fishing boat seemed to ride the waves with ease, Gabrielle noted with some relief, running a mental check over the state of her stomach. It occurred to her that a greedy supper had perhaps been unwise.
“Let’s go below,” Nathaniel said. “It’s getting chilly and it’s late. We should try to snatch a couple of hours sleep.”
“That cot’s very narrow,” Gabrielle demurred, but allowed herself to be urged toward the companionway.
“You can have it, I’ll sleep on the floor.”
“That’ll be horribly uncomfortable.”
“I’ve been more so,” he said. “In general, I can sleep anywhere.”
Jake listened to their voices fading away as they disappeared below. Despite his fear of discovery, he’d found their proximity comforting. His clothes were damp with the sea spray and he could taste salt on his lips, mingling with the salt of his tears. Unutterable loneliness washed over him between the dark, unfriendly sea and the cloud-thick sky.
In his wretched self-absorption he didn’t hear the footsteps until they were upon him. “What the ’ell ’ave we ’ere!”
The violent exclamation brought a cry of terror from the child, who shrank back against the railing. A man towered over him, huge in his britches and sailor’s jersey, very like Jake’s own. Hands reached down and seized the boy beneath his armpits and hauled him ungently into the air.
“You know what we do wi’ stowaways?” the rough voice demanded. “We make ’em swim fer shore.”
For a second Jake was held dangling over the railing and his shrill scream split the night air. “Gabby … Gabby!” He yelled the one name that meant salvation at the top of his lungs.
“What on earth is that racket?” Nathaniel, in the process of helping Gabrielle pull off her boots, dropped her foot abruptly and turned to the companionway. He stuck his head through the hatch. “What’s going on?”
“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but we’ve got ourselves a stowaway.” The sailor held up the kicking, screaming child.
“Gabby!” Jake shrieked again. “I want Gabby.”
“Dear God in heaven,” Nathaniel whispered. “Joke!”
“You know the lad, sir?”
“My son,” Nathaniel said quietly. “Give him to me.”
“I want Gabby,” Jake continued to bellow in pure hysteria, and suddenly she was there, pushing Nathaniel aside as she squeezed through the narrow hatch.
“Jake.” She held out her arms and, as the sailor set the boy on his feet, he ran sobbing to her.
“All right,” she said, stroking his head. “It’s all right. I’ve got you. It’s all right.”
Nathaniel stood, watching. It seemed as if this had nothing to do with him, but it was his son. Gabrielle had known the child only a few weeks, and it was as if his father didn’t exist.
She was curved over the child, her body in a graceful arc of comfort, her hair escaping from its pins, falling forward, blending with his son’s fair curls. And it came to him that even if she had used the child in her scheming, the warmth and closeness between them was genuine. Gabrielle loved his son.
“I’m right sorry, sir,” the sailor was saying, pulling on his earlobe. “I don’t know ’ow ’e could ’ave got aboard.”
“Well have to turn back,” Nathaniel instructed. “Immediately.”
“Can’t do that, sir. Tide and wind are runnin’ agin us. Well never make it back round the Needles.”
Nathaniel produced a string of barnyard oaths that impressed even the two fishermen. Jake’s sobs had faded to heaving gulps, but his head remained buried in Gabrieile’s skirts.
“Get below,” Nathaniel commanded harshly with a brusque gesture to Gabrielle.
“Come along, Jake.” She chivvied the child ahead of her to the companionway, climbed down first, and then lifted him down after her.
Nathaniel jumped the short flight, his face taut with anger. “Come here!” He snapped his fingers at his son, who still clung to Gabrieile’s leg, his face buried in her skirt.
Jake’s wails increased in volume, but he made no move to obey.
Nathaniel’s breath hissed through his teeth as he struggled with his anger. “Gabrielle, let him go. I want you to go on deck, please,” he said, his voice now flat and without emotion.
Gabrielle looked down at the fair, curly head pressing against her thigh. She looked up at Nathaniel, then, with calm resolution, bent and picked up Jake.
“You have every right to scold him,” she said to Nathaniel. “He needs to understand how much trouble he’s caused. But hold him while you do it.”
She thrust the child at his father, and Nathaniel in reflex action put out his arms. He found himself holding the boy tightly against his chest. They both looked so astonished at this novel position that, despite the dire circumstances, Gabrielle was hard pressed to keep a straight face as she left them alone.
15
“Hell and the devil,” Nathaniel muttered, examining his son’s white face held so close to his own. “Just what in the name of goodness did you think you were doing?”
Jake’s face crumpled and his mouth opened on a round O in preparation for a fresh wail.
“Don’t start bawling again,” Nathaniel said sharply. “At this point, my friend, you have nothing to cry about. I can’t guarantee that happy state of affairs will continue, but I suggest you reserve your tears for when they might do you some good.”
Jake’s mouth snapped shut, and he held himself rigid in his father’s arms, his brown eyes fixed unwaveringly on Nathaniel.
“How did you manage to get here?” Nathaniel demanded after a moment’s contemplation of the ramifications of this disastrous arrival. “I want to know exactly how you did it.” He shifted the child in his arms and then sat on the cot, holding him somewhat awkwardly on his knee.
Jake stumbled through his narrative, his voice still thick with tears that he effortfully controlled.
“Good God,” Nathaniel murmured at story’s end. This was the child who chose to draw pictures in the gravel rather than climb trees, who screamed in terror on the back of a pony bigger than a Shetland, who seemed incapable of
opening his mouth beyond a monosyllabic answer to a direct question. Jake’s courage and ingenuity in this instance astonished his father. That however, didn’t alter the seriousness of the situation.
“How do you think Nurse and Miss Primmer are going to feel in the morning, when they go to the nursery and you’re not there?”
Jake didn’t reply, but the tears now tracked slowly and soundlessly down his cheeks.
“You didn’t think about that, did you? They’re going to be worried out of their minds wondering what’s happened to you.”
“You’re sending Primmy away,” Jake whispered, gulping. “And I want to be with Gabby.”
“Yes, well, I can see your point,” Nathaniel muttered. “It seems to run in the family.” He leaned back against the bulkhead, holding the child lightly, rather surprised at his own sense of humor in the face of this catastrophe.
A shiver suddenly shook the small body and Nathaniel became aware of the child’s damp clothing, the hair clinging to his forehead from the sea spray, it was also long past midnight.
“You’d better go to bed,” he said, standing up with the child. “There’s nothing to be done about this for the moment.” He set Jake on his feet and pulled the damp jersey over his head, “You’d better get out of those trousers too.”
He stood, frowning, as the child obediently fumbled with the buttons of his nankeen britches. “Here, let me do it.” Bending, he swiftly divested the boy of the garment, then wrapped him securely in the blanket from the cot.
“Warmer now?”
Jake nodded, huddling into the coarse wool. He was too shocked and overwhelmed by the events of the night to be aware of the novelty of his father’s attentions. Nathaniel picked him up and deposited him on the cot and he curled onto his side, snug in the folds of the blanket.
Nathaniel stood looking down at him for a minute, his frown more one of puzzlement than anger. Then he turned and went back on deck.
Gabrielle stood at the deck rail, wrapped in her cloak against the rising wind. “Well?” she asked as he came to stand beside her.
