by Jane Feather
Meg kept to the bushes parallel to the path as she started upwards again, drawing the cloak tightly around her so that, like Cosimo, she was reduced to a dark shadow. She no longer wanted to follow him but she was driven now by a compulsion. She needed to see what he was going to do . . . to find out exactly who and what this man was.
She dropped to her belly as she neared the top of the cliff and squirmed upwards across the grass until she could just see over the cliff top. A derelict cottage that she guessed had once sheltered a shepherd or goatherd stood a hundred yards or so back from the cliff edge. Two men stood outside talking quietly a few feet from the building, a lantern on the ground between them throwing a golden pool of light. Of Cosimo there was no sign.
And then she saw him. He was coming from behind the building, something bright in his hand. How had he managed to get past the men? But the question seemed irrelevant. She watched in a kind of dread as he sidestepped with his back against the tumbledown wall until he was directly behind the men. Then he moved.
It was over in a second. The two men slipped silently to the ground with barely a cry and Cosimo left them without a backward glance and went into the cottage.
Meg had seen enough. She turned and scrambled back down the path. He’d killed them. In cold blood. They hadn’t put up a fight, they hadn’t provoked him, he’d just crept up behind them and murdered them. And what on earth was she to do now? She looked frantically for the exact spot where he’d left her and would expect to find her, no longer prepared to risk the privateer’s wrath any further. She thought she found the right spot and crouched down again behind the bush.
She heard Cosimo coming down the path, his step no longer stealthy. There was no need for quiet now, she presumed, now that the watchers on the cliff were dead. He stopped on the path and said curtly, “Come along.” He held out a hand to pull her to her feet and she hesitated for a split second, suddenly repelled by the prospect of touching him. But he mustn’t know what she had seen and she must do nothing to cause suspicion.
She took the proffered hand and scrambled to her feet. “Why is it safe to make a noise now?”
“Because it is,” he said shortly, pushing her ahead of him on the path.
Meg paused, asking over her shoulder, “Did you discover what you wanted to find out?”
“No, not what I wanted to find out,” he responded. “Hurry up, Meg, we’re on enemy soil here, every minute we spend increases the danger.”
She said nothing more but increased her speed, trying to formulate the perfectly natural questions that he would have to answer in some form. How would he explain what had happened on the cliff top?
They reached the beach and found the dinghy once more accessible in the shallows. Miles said apprehensively, “I’m sorry, sir. Miss Barratt insisted—”
Cosimo cut him off with a gesture. “Yes, so I understand.” He picked Meg up and deposited her unceremoniously in the dinghy, then pushed it off the sandy bottom himself, climbing in over the stern once it floated free. He seemed unaware of his wet boots and britches and sat with his usual apparent calm as they were rowed back through the narrow gap into the open sea towards the dark shape of the Mary Rose.
Meg touched her neck where the skin seemed tight and sore. It was still sticky to the touch but the blood was drying. An involuntary shudder went through her. Cosimo shot her a sharp look, his face still grim, his eyes still cold, but he said nothing.
When they bumped gently against the side of the ship, he indicated to Meg that she should go up the ladder first. He followed close behind and as soon as their feet touched the deck he said, “Go below. I’ll come down in a few minutes.”
Meg didn’t argue. She was chilled and depressed, scared and angry all at the same time, and all she wanted to do was crawl under the covers and embrace the amnesia of sleep. A lamp, turned low, offered faint illumination in the cabin, and Gus was already tucked up under his crimson covering. She sat on a chair and wearily pulled off her boots. Her stockings were wet too and she struggled to unroll them without taking off her britches, which seemed too much like hard work in her present state.
Cosimo came in while she was looking at her cold white feet as if she’d never seen them before. He carried a flask and two glasses. He didn’t greet her, merely poured a measure of cognac into both glasses and handed her one, before going into the head, reappearing with a cloth soaked in warm water.
“Tilt your head.”
Meg took a gulp of the fiery spirit and then did as he said. He dabbed at the cut with the cloth. “Did you mean to cut me?” she asked.
“No, of course not. I knew someone was following me, but I didn’t know it was you. It didn’t occur to me that you would do anything so foolish.” His mouth was as grim as ever. “Perhaps you’ll remember in future that I move fast when I sense danger.”
That made some sort of sense, she supposed, and she would have accepted it without question except for what she’d seen afterwards.
“It’s only a surface scratch,” he said, taking up the cognac bottle and pouring a few drops onto the cloth. He held it against the wound and Meg drew a sharp breath at the sting. “It’s as good a disinfectant as vinegar,” he stated, tossing the cloth into the head. “Now, I would like an explanation, Miss Barratt.”
He perched on the edge of the table in his familiar fashion, one leg swinging casually. “Why did you follow me?”
Meg didn’t immediately answer. Her gaze was riveted on the narrow sheath fastened to his belt, and the silver hilt of the knife showing above. The stiletto blade, she recognized it.
“Well?” he prompted.
She shrugged and forced her eyes away. “I was curious. I had no intention of getting in the way.”
Cosimo sipped cognac, regarding her thoughtfully over the lip of his glass. Initiative and curiosity were all good qualities, but they had to be tempered with common sense, and her refusal to follow instruction boded ill for a partnership where he had to be able to rely absolutely on her compliance. It was no exaggeration to say that their lives would depend on each doing exactly as had been agreed between them. An unpredictable move on either part would be fatal. But, of course, at this point Meg had no idea of the greater purpose he had in mind for her, so how could she know how vital it was that she adhere strictly to a plan? Well, he’d have to teach her one way or another.
“Did it occur to you that I might have had my reasons for wanting you to stay with the dinghy?”
It did now, she thought bitterly. Of course he wouldn’t want a witness to his killings. But had he intended to kill those men? Had their presence surprised him? “Let’s drop it,” she said. “You needn’t worry, I won’t do such a thing again.” She touched her neck reflexively. “You spring some unpleasant surprises.”
“I apologize for that,” he said, his voice quiet, although his eyes were still that glacial blue. “I would not have hurt you deliberately for any reason.”
Meg took a deep breath. “What did you discover after you left me? Did you find out about Ana?”
“Not exactly,” he responded curtly. He stood up. “Go to bed now. You’re tired.” He picked up the flask of cognac and left the cabin without another word.
Meg stripped off the rest of her clothes, dropped her nightgown over her head, and turned out the lamp before crawling into the box-bed. She lay in the comforting darkness, buried under the covers, listening to the sound of the turning capstan hauling up the anchor. She heard Cosimo’s voice calling, “Make sail,” and then the snap of the wind in the mainsail. The Mary Rose listed to starboard, then righted herself and began to move steadily ahead.
Meg didn’t think she could bear it if he came to her bed that night. Her skin shrank at the thought of his hands on her, the feel of his body close to hers. He was still angry with her, and that would surely keep him away. She would have to find other ways to keep her distance until she could leave the ship at Bordeaux and somehow find her way back to England.
&nbs
p; On deck, Cosimo drank cognac from the flask and watched the dark sea slipping past the bow. The Quiberon pigeons had been destroyed. He had found their bodies lying lifeless on the floor of the loft, their handlers, his own men, his friends, killed as they slept. The French had obliterated the outpost, which meant that either Ana had been compelled to give them more detailed information about his operation or someone had betrayed them. Either way, he was now working in the dark. He had no idea what the enemy knew. Had they also destroyed the outfit at La Rochelle?
He would find out only by seeing for himself. They should reach there in two days and there was no point speculating until then. He put the issue away in a separate compartment of his mind, to be brought out and reexamined at the right time. His main concern now was what to do about Meg. Had her actions tonight proved her dangerously unreliable as a partner?
“Penny for them, Cosimo?” David Porter stepped up to the rail beside him.
“They’re not worth a sou,” Cosimo said, passing him the flask.
David took a hearty swig and passed it back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Did your mission prosper this evening?”
Cosimo’s expression was shuttered as he said, “No, it did not.”
David raised his eyebrows at the curt negative. After a minute he said, “If it helps to unburden . . .”
The privateer put the flask to his lips and drank deep before offering it again to his companion. “The French got there first. Destroyed the pigeons and killed my men. If there had been a message, or some news about Ana, it’s now in French hands. So, as you can gather, it’s an understatement to say my mission did not prosper.”
“I’m sorry.” David leaned his elbows on the rail and gazed out across the blackness of the sea. Cosimo rarely expressed dismay at the failure of an endeavor—he tended to change course effortlessly, moving in a different direction towards the same goal—but David guessed that not knowing about Ana’s fate, and therefore being unable to help her, was having a much more profound effect on his friend than any ordinary failure. Cosimo might not acknowledge it, but he was not always the callous pragmatist he made himself out to be.
“Why don’t you turn back and see what you can discover in England?” he suggested after a minute.
Cosimo glanced at him and gave a short mirthless laugh. “You’ll have to believe me when I say that’s impossible, David. I have something that has to be done and done within the next six weeks. Otherwise it will be too late.”
The surgeon absorbed this. He knew better than to ask what had to be done so urgently. “What about our passenger?” he inquired. “I understand you took her with you this evening.”
“And that was a mistake,” Cosimo said grimly.
David looked at him with interest, remembering an earlier conversation. “Are you saying this tool is unwilling, or can’t be sharpened?”
Cosimo drummed his fingers on the rail. “I haven’t decided as yet. I suspect the steel may need further tempering.”
“Sometimes you really chill me, Cosimo,” the other man declared, revising his earlier gentler assessment of the man. “Are you sleeping with Meg as part of this tempering, as you call it?”
The privateer’s fingers drummed faster. A few days ago he wouldn’t have denied the accusation; in fact, he would probably have laughed it off. He had always chosen women who enjoyed sensual adventuring without any need for an emotional mutual dependency. He had thought Meg fitted that bill perfectly: she had embraced passion with a lighthearted exuberance that promised the kind of useful and enjoyable partnership he had with Ana. He had certainly intended to use their liaison to draw her into his mission, so to that extent there was a pragmatic purpose behind their mutual desire, but for some reason he found that reflection unusually distasteful.
“I have no reason to believe she doesn’t get as much pleasure from it as I do,” he said, hearing the stiff, defensive note in his voice. “If you’ll excuse me, David, I need to set the watch. Keep the cognac, if there’s any left.”
He walked away, leaving the surgeon staring thoughtfully out into the night. Cosimo did not in general set the watch himself; that task fell to Miles or Frank. Neither did the captain of the Mary Rose usually sound uncertain of himself. Was Meg Barratt getting under his skin? David tilted the flask and drained the last dregs. A slight smile tilted the corners of his mouth. It might not do the man any harm for once to find his emotional equilibrium a little off kilter.
_______
Cosimo, fortunately unaware of the surgeon’s conclusion, discussed the watch with Frank, the course with Mike, and then took a restless turn around the deck, also unaware of the speculative glances his helmsman cast in his direction. Mike had sailed with the privateer since the Mary Rose had first set sail and very rarely had he seen any overt signs of agitation on her captain’s part. But something had disturbed the captain tonight, that was for sure.
Cosimo came back to the helm. “I’m going below, Mike. Send to me if you need me.”
“Aye, sir, same as always,” the man said with a laconic nod. “Everything all right, sir?”
“Of course, why wouldn’t it be?”
The helmsman shrugged at his captain’s back as Cosimo strode off towards the companionway. Why indeed?
Cosimo opened the cabin door quietly. The place was in darkness alleviated only by the grayness that filled the window. He couldn’t blame Meg for extinguishing the lamp, but it would have been friendly to have left a tiny glow. He stepped over to the cot and looked down at the formless shape beneath the covers. Her breathing was deep and even and she seemed to be taking up much more of the narrow space than was either usual or warranted by her small frame. Was it deliberate? Or had she been so exhausted she hadn’t thought to arrange her limbs in a more hospitable fashion to accommodate her sleeping partner?
He decided he didn’t want to speculate on that issue either and opened the cupboard beneath the bed and took out his hammock and a blanket. He slung the hammock from the hooks in the ceiling and sat down to take off his boots, still wet from splashing through the shallows to the beach. He pulled off his damp socks and britches and swung himself with the ease of practice into the hammock, pulling the blanket over him. The canvas bed rocked gently with the motion of the ship but unusually it didn’t lull him instantly to sleep. He turned over the events of the evening in his mind, experiencing again the sick desolation he’d felt as he’d looked at his murdered men, the slaughtered birds. Wanton destruction. They could have destroyed the post without killing.
Cosimo was a man who killed to order. He killed from necessity. And he abhorred the wanton infliction of death.
Meg kept her breathing deep and even, sensing that he was still awake. Her relief that he hadn’t attempted to share the bed was short-lived. He was still so close to her that he would detect the slightest change in her breathing, the slightest shift of her body that would indicate she was awake. She hadn’t the strength to talk to him tonight and for once she couldn’t imagine responding to his touch.
Chapter 13
Meg woke dry-mouthed, head and body aching. She’d slept but it had been about as unrestful a sleep as she’d ever had. Images of cut throats, sprawled limbs, the privateer wiping his shining silver blade on his kerchief would not be banished. She knew she’d seen none of that but it didn’t seem to help. Nightmares always put pictures to amorphous horrors and she was in the grip of a thoroughly amorphous horror right now.
She hitched herself on an elbow and looked around the cabin. The hammock was gone; Gus’s cage was empty and there was no sign of the bird. And extraordinarily, the sun was shining and the Mary Rose was once again skipping on her way instead of lumbering through greasy swells. Unfortunately none of this seemed to help Meg’s sense of well-being. She lay down again, curling on her side to face the wall, pulling the cover up over her head. If she could stay like this until they reached Bordeaux, surely she could find passage home from there.
Biggins k
nocked at the door. Meg could now identify every knock on that cabin door. She debated ignoring it, knowing that he would go away, but then reasoned that coffee might help her aching head. She mumbled an “Enter,” and the door opened.
“Morning, ma’am,” he said without looking towards the bed. “And it’s a beautiful one. There’s coffee here, and Captain says breakfast will be served on deck. Silas is cooking up a nice dish of kidneys with bacon. I’ll be back with hot water.” He disappeared without waiting for or seeming to expect any response to this stream of information.
Meg rolled onto her back and gazed up at the ceiling. She couldn’t ignore what had happened, just maintain business as usual with the privateer. And short of jumping overboard, she couldn’t leave the ship. What had happened was no reason for her to commit suicide. She would just have to find some excuse to keep herself to herself until she could leave the ship and find some way home. In the meantime, the aroma of coffee was irresistible.
Biggins and his little assistant returned with jugs of hot water. “I took the liberty of washing what you wore last night, ma’am, but since it’s a nice warm day you’ll be comfortable enough, I reckon, in regular clothes,” Biggins informed her, still discreetly averting his eyes from the bed.
“Thank you,” she managed. She still couldn’t quite get used to the idea of this rough-handed sailor laundering her most intimate garments, but she couldn’t deny the convenience.
Once alone again, she got up, poured coffee, and took it to the window seat. She drank it gratefully, enjoying the warmth of the sun as it fell through the window onto the back of her neck. The skin still felt tight beneath her ear and she touched it tentatively, feeling the slight ridge of the scab. Cosimo had been correct, it was a superficial scratch. But it had still been made with the point of a stiletto. A quiver went through her at the memory of that moment of panic when she’d felt the blood trickle down her neck.
