An Unwilling Spy

by Janis Linford

  Eugene flipped over the pages of the prayer book. The sketches were just as good as the day he’d drawn them.

  Finch went into the next room and collected the mattress which he placed at the foot of the double bed. ‘There you go, Eugene. Comfort at last.’

  Eugene promptly lay down on it. ‘It’s better than the last inn.’ He wriggled his shoulders and burrowed into the rush-stuffed sacking. ‘It makes a noise.’

  ‘Not if you stay still, it doesn’t,’ she said with a smile.

  The landlady brought in one of her own old dresses, a pile of extra clothes from her husband and a jug of warm water. ‘My husband, Bastien, will be in shortly. He’s seeing to the horses.’ She nodded at the pile of clothes in her arms. ‘I don’t have any children’s clothing but you might find something here that will suit your son.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Adeline said, noting a shirt and vest that might fit Eugene’s frame. ‘You have been more than kind.’

  The landlady put the clothes on the bed and the jug on the floor. ‘I like to run a good, clean establishment. Then no-one can find fault.’

  Adeline wondered if Bastien had found fault with his wife, or maybe Madame Dubois prided herself on her own organization. The landlady hurried away and Adeline ordered Eugene and Finch into the next room to change. She stripped off her own clothes, washed and changed. When Finch and Eugene returned she wore a floral cotton dress that pinched her under the bust and hung two inches short of a modest length.

  Amusement leached from Finch’s face.

  ‘Don’t you dare say a word,’ she warned.

  ‘Who me?’ He gave her a grin and something gave within her. How easy he made this dash across the country — as if they were on a Sunday jaunt.

  Eugene wore a long shirt and vest, and Finch had rolled up a pair of trousers at the ankles to partner a creased linen shirt. They looked like farmers but at least they were dry.

  Eugene and Finch took turns washing their face and hands and before long they all trooped down to the dining room for breakfast. A large man with a ruddy complexion already sat at the table. Bastien Dubois, who looked just as a landlord should.

  A fire in the hearth flared brightly and on the table were thick slices of bread, apricot jam and churned butter. Coffee stood in a pot in the center of the red tablecloth and fresh milk had been provided for Eugene. Madame Dubois did indeed run a good establishment.

  ‘Welcome.’ Bastien sat back in his chair and blew on his coffee. ‘Where have you come from?’

  ‘The south,’ Finch said without hesitation. ‘We’ve traveled on foot from Licques.’

  ‘Licques?’ Bastien’s voice held surprise. ‘That’s a long way.’ He looked them over. ‘And why have you come here?’

  Finch chewed his bread slowly and studied Bastien before answering. ‘We need to get to England.’

  ‘Ah.’ Bastien’s eyes grew wary. ‘Looking for a crew?’

  ‘Are there any?’

  Bastien sipped his coffee then cleared his throat. ‘Let me ask on the quiet when the next drop will be.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention us,’ Finch said. ‘We need to keep out of sight.’

  Bastien’s eyebrows rose. ‘Done something bad? If you have, I don’t hold with you staying ’ere.’

  ‘Of course we haven’t,’ Adeline said quickly. ‘But a certain man is under the impression we have important information. Which we don’t,’ she added, catching the question in Bastien’s eye.

  ‘In that case there’s nothing to worry about, is there?’ Bastien pushed back his chair and grabbed a coat off a hook by the door. ‘I’m going to the market. I’ll ask around for you but it might be some time before a crew lands.’

  ‘Thank you. We understand,’ Finch replied.

  Madame Dubois crossed to the door with her husband then came back and cleared the dishes. Finch helped put more wood on the fire before Madame Dubois shooed them all upstairs. ‘I can see you’re all exhausted,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about anything. If anyone should ask after you I’ll say you’re not here.’

  They had to be content with that because all three of them could hardly keep their eyes open.

  Once upstairs, Eugene settled on his mattress and fell asleep in moments, his eyelashes dark against his pale cheeks. Adeline bent and kissed him on the forehead, her eyes unusually moist. ‘He did well last night. I wish he hadn’t suffered and yet I’m glad he’s with us. What will happen to him once we’re in England?’

  Finch cast her a long look. ‘I expect Peregrine will find something for him to do.’

  ‘I hope so. He needs to feel useful and I’d miss him too much were he to go away.’

  Finch remained silent but his eyes strayed to the bed. Adeline glanced at it too then looked away again. ‘I suppose we’ll have to share.’

  His eyes glimmered. ‘Does that worry you?’

  ‘Not if you keep to your side.’

  A tremor crossed his mouth. ‘I promise to behave like a gentleman. Besides, it’s not as if we haven’t shared a bed before.’

  ‘You can’t call the forest floor a bed.’

  ‘It’s all the same, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes.’ He sat on the edge of the bed and eased off his boots. ‘I suppose one of us should keep watch.’

  ‘Madame Dubois said she would do so.’

  Finch yawned and rubbed at his face. ‘Have you forgotten the first rule? She could be a spy.’

  ‘I feel that’s unlikely.’

  ‘I do too but I don’t trust her husband.’

  Adeline frowned. ‘Why? He’s asking about the smugglers for us.’

  ‘That’s just it. A landlord in this area would know what’s going on. He shouldn’t have to ask.’

  ‘I think you’re too exhausted to know what to think. How is your injury?’

  Finch groaned as he swung his legs up on the coverlet. ‘It’s only bruised ribs. But I own that carrying Eugene half the night has worn me out.’

  He closed his eyes. He really did look awful. His pale face shone with sweat and a breathy rasp sounded in his throat. A gnawing fear gripped her. If he became worse how would she get him back to England?

  ‘Adeline, for pity’s sake. Stop thinking and rest while you can.’

  ‘I’ll lie down for a short time but I’ll keep watch all the same.’

  Her heart skittered at the thought of lying next to him on a proper bed. It seemed more of a union, more … wifely. And with the saint glaring at her from the wall, it would be — awkward. ‘Do you promise not to roll over to my side?’ Better to lay out the ground rules now before she could make a fool of herself.

  A smile tugged at his mouth as he lay with his eyes closed. ‘Be brave, little wren.’

  Hmm. She slid off her boots and lay down next to him. He didn’t move as her body dipped into the mattress but she was afraid he’d hear her thudding heart. She rolled over, facing the window, and made sure a foot of space lay between them. ‘Sleep well.’

  Finch’s voice, tired and low, held the hint of a smile. ‘I plan on it.’

  She lay awake for some time, listening to Finch breathe quietly beside her, but she had to fight her overwhelming exhaustion. A few times, to keep awake, she eased off the bed and padded to the window to check the road from behind the curtains. Nothing stirred for miles. Surely if something bad were to happen it would have happened by now.

  She retrieved her knife and placed it under her pillow. Better to have it close to hand. She lay down again with a deep sigh. They’d only been at the inn for a couple of hours. Not long enough for Laroche to hear about them. Perhaps she could close her eyes for a few moments …

  When she woke, Finch’s arms were wrapped around her. His head rested on her shoulder and his soft breath moved the hair across the back of her neck. For the first time in days, her body felt luxuriously comfortable and warm. She dared not move and disturb his sleep, and the wonderful sensation of being in his
arms. If only their lives had been different. She could have met him in another life and worked at being the sort of woman who would attract an experienced man. As it was, he’d seen her at her lowest point. Imprisoned, scared, dirty and totally needy. No man would want a woman like that.

  She sighed, her breath a small sound in her throat.

  ‘You’re doing just fine,’ he said softly in her ear. ‘Even if you didn’t wake me for my watch.’

  She stiffened, guilt coursing through her body. ‘I stayed awake for a while but thought the risk of capture to be small.’

  ‘It probably is and you needed rest too, so don’t fret. We had a hell of a night.’

  She sighed. ‘I just wish I could’ve released you before the guards punched you.’

  ‘You’ve been a more competent spy than I expected from your training — and with luck you’ll make it home.’

  She wriggled in his arms, knowing she couldn’t invite further closeness even if her body yearned for it. ‘That’s all well and good but you promised to be a gentleman.’

  He released her and sat up with a smug expression. ‘You’ve been awake for a while and didn’t move away.’

  He might be hurt but his powers of observation hadn’t suffered.

  ‘Well, I’ve been waking by degrees. It’s a known fact that a … a sudden jolt awake can play havoc with … digestion.’

  ‘Is that so?’ His voice held amusement.

  ‘Assuredly.’

  She glanced at him from under her lashes and her insides spasmed. He looked rumpled and warm, with sleep still etched on his face. No man had the right to look so good in cast-off trousers and a shirt two sizes too big for him.

  She wanted to remember him like this, before she returned to Peregrine and confessed she hadn’t rescued Skylark, nor obtained the information he desired. She’d never get her pardon now and would have to go on another mission, probably without Finch. And without him at her side … well, that would be the hardest thing of all.

  She rolled off the bed and straightened her dress which had bunched disturbingly up her calves. She glanced at the saint then tip-toed past Eugene, who still lay fast asleep, and pulled the picture off the wall.

  ‘Not unnerved, I hope?’ Finch said with a grin.

  ‘A little,’ she admitted, stuffing the picture under the bed. ‘I can’t stand his eyes. He seems to judge me constantly.’

  Finch laughed quietly and the sound sizzled through her body. Oh God. The way he looked at her like that, well, it undid her. ‘I’ll go and organize the drying of our wet clothes,’ she said swiftly. And with any luck, she might be able to work off the pulsing agony in her groin.

  ‘Good idea but don’t go outside.’

  ‘As a very good spy, I already knew not to do that.’

  ‘Competent was the word,’ he said with a lazy grin.

  She shook her head on a laugh, gathered up their damp clothes and disappeared out the door.

  They spent the next week inside the inn. Patrons called in for ale and gossip and once a man took the other attic room, but for the most part they were out of harm’s way. After days crossing the French countryside, Adeline and Eugene were quite happy to relax, draw and help with the meals. Their clothes dried and Finch recovered from his bruises. He cleaned out their pistols in private and reloaded them with fresh powder. ‘Rule number two. Always be prepared,’ he said quietly as he slipped the firearms into their bundles.

  Towards the end of the week, he prowled the sitting area, stopping every so often to run his hands over the timber slats surrounding the window. ‘You know, these are wonderful oak beams. I imagine they must be a few hundred years old.’

  She regarded him thoughtfully as she shelled a pot of peas for Madame Dubois. ‘I’m surprised you’re interested in this place. Do you own a house?’

  ‘I have one, yes.’ He crossed the room to investigate the mantelpiece. It was ornate for an inn, with carved corbels and beveled edges.

  ‘Really? Where is it?’

  ‘In Kent. But I haven’t been there for two years.’

  He probably didn’t have the time or the need when he was busy spying. A vision of a run-down, uncared for cottage sprang to mind. The grass would be overgrown, the flowers a riotous untidy clump and everywhere there would be spider’s webs and thick layers of dust. A house left alone didn’t stand a chance against nature.

  She finished with one pod and picked up another. ‘If I had my own house, I’d tend to it every day. I wouldn’t let it rot.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s that bad,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘I should hope not,’ she said, unaccountably cross with him. ‘Houses deserve love. They are the foundation of families and a … a fortress against the weather.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said meekly. ‘I should do better. When we return I will visit and see to the weeds. Does that satisfy you?’

  ‘What you do with your own house is nothing to do with me.’

  ‘But I’ll go all the same.’

  She gave a huff and a string of peas hit the bowl on her lap. The thought of Finch owning a house bothered her, like a sore in the wrong place. She’d never pictured him in his own parlor, in front of his own fire with perhaps a dog at his feet. How little she knew about his life beyond The Nest. Would his house be neat and organized? Would he have a vegetable garden? She picked up another pea pod and broke the skin. There was little chance she’d ever find out.

  That night, the same as the previous evenings, she scanned the sea and the beach from their attic window. Not a smuggling ship to be seen. A couple of times during the week, Finch had left the inn and slipped over to the beach but each time he’d returned with a shake of his head. ‘There are plenty of ships but they’re distant and none look to be coming this way.’

  They needed a crew to arrive soon. Each day that passed made it more likely that someone would mention them and loose talk had a way of reaching the wrong people.

  With a heavy heart she went downstairs again to the sitting area. Bastien returned with a basket of market produce just as a man on horseback arrived at the inn door. Bastien went out to speak to him and came back in with a letter in his hand. He joined them in front of the fire.

  ‘I’ve asked around the market several times now, about the next run,’ he said after a moment.

  Finch was instantly alert. ‘And?’

  ‘No-one knows anything and if they do they’re not talking. But I can tell you there’s a storm on its way which won’t be good for smuggling. At least not tonight.’

  Through the window the sky looked leaden and dark. Treetops swayed in the wind and somewhere in the building a window shutter clattered against a stone wall. The atmosphere had subtly changed in the last hour and with a sense of doom, it seemed the inn held its breath, waiting for the onslaught from the coast.

  Finch, who’d been trimming a candle wick, regarded Bastien through narrowed eyes. ‘That’s disappointing but I appreciate you asking.’

  Bastien shifted in front of the fire and rubbed at his face. Tired lines were etched deeply into his cheeks like the rutted road outside. ‘I could see if my friend Antoine would take you across.’

  ‘He has a boat? And knows the way?’

  ‘He’s made the crossing many times but lately he’s been unwell. Still, I’ll go and see him tomorrow and ask if he can help.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Finch murmured.

  Bastien sat at the table and opened his letter. He read it slowly, his face hardening.

  ‘Not bad news, I hope?’ Finch glanced at Bastien from under hooded eyes.

  She gaped at Finch. Asking a man his business wasn’t good manners.

  ‘Not at all,’ Bastien said, folding the letter and placing it inside his coat pocket. ‘Antoine’s wife says he could do with company, so I’ll visit him this evening instead.’

  Madame Dubois called them all to dinner. A simple yet tasty meal of pork with potatoes cooked in lots of butter and followed by an apple pie
with pear sauce. Eugene lapped it up and what with a week’s rest and unbroken nights, color now bloomed in his cheeks.

  After dinner they played cards and Adeline taught Eugene to play Speculation. At around nine o’clock, after Eugene had won for the second time, Finch yawned and said to her, ‘I’m finding I’m quite tired. Would you mind if we retired early tonight?’

  She glanced at him. He had seemed to be getting better but perhaps his injury still pained him a little. Not wishing to prolong his unease, she gathered up the cards. ‘Not at all. We could all do with an early night.’ They said goodnight to the Dubois’s and went up to their room.

  Finch carefully shut the door and held his finger to his lips. Eugene looked at him in surprise. ‘What —?’

  ‘Shh,’ Finch said, sounding not the least tired.

  Her eyebrows rose but she didn’t say anything and in the silence they all heard the back door open and close. Finch tip-toed to the window and stood slightly to one side behind the curtains.

  ‘What’s going on?’ She and Eugene joined him.

  ‘Watch,’ Finch answered quietly.

  A minute later Bastien rode away from the inn like a sea-serpent had his tail.

  ‘I wonder,’ Finch said, his eyes narrowed on the fleeing figure. He shifted his gaze and stared over the wood towards the beach. Nothing moved that she could see, except the breaking waves.

  ‘What do you wonder?’ she said exasperated.

  ‘Bastien was very quick to leave the house after we left the sitting room.’

  ‘You heard him. He’s gone to visit Antoine.’

  ‘Maybe, but hasn’t anything struck you as odd?’

  ‘Other than apple pie with pear sauce, nothing.’

  ‘For pity’s sake.’ Finch growled. ‘This is supposed to be an inn. There should be a lot more people staying here and yet in a week the Dubois have only let out the other room once.’

  Now that he mentioned it that did seem odd. ‘Perhaps people haven’t wanted to stay.’

  ‘That or they’ve been warned not to.’ Finch ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t like this.’