by Jane Feather
Meg stirred as he came in. She rolled over and opened her eyes on a sleepy smile. “As usual, you were right,” she murmured. “That was one of the most blissful sleeps I’ve ever had.”
He hitched his backside onto the corner of the table and shook off his sabots. “I need two hours, and then we can amuse ourselves all day.”
Meg struggled into a sitting position and swung her legs to the floor. Her doziness dissipated as she took in the tiredness etched on his face. “What would you like me to do while you sleep?” She stood up, shaking her head to rid herself of the last strands of sleep.
“Only what you wish,” he said, falling onto the cot. “It’s quite safe to light the brazier and make coffee. The boat’s tied up. If anything changes, wake me at once.” He closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.
Meg went up on deck. She could see only reeds, but a faint smell of smoke reached her. There was a cottage or a hamlet somewhere around. Did that still make it safe to light the brazier? The more she thought about coffee, the more the prospect became irresistible. But had Cosimo known of the chimney smoke?
She went below again. Cosimo was dead to the world, so much so that she doubted she could wake him if she tried. But then she revised that opinion. If she gave so much as an alerting cough, he would wake up.
She drank a cup of water from the keg and went back on deck. The smoke still curled above the reeds and she could hear the sound of voices. Then a flat boat, a raft she thought, pushed through the reeds. A pair of children poled the raft close to the sailboat. “Bonjour, m’sieur?” They looked up at her curiously.
“Bonjour, mes enfants,” she returned.
“Vous êtes en route à Bordeaux?” they inquired.
Meg thought quickly. Why would these children think that this little boat was heading for the huge harbor of Bordeaux? Maybe it was the only place they could think of for a boat that appeared out of nowhere, somewhere they’d never been, a city whose existence had a magical quality. But even to children she could divulge nothing.
“Non, mes enfants,” she returned with a casual shrug. “Mon cousin et moi, nous sommes en vacances.” Now who in the world would be taking a holiday on a river in the middle of a war? She wanted to scream at herself, but the children appeared to find nothing strange about it.
“Vous êtes pêcheur?” they asked, miming casting a rod.
“Mais oui, exactement,” she said with relief.
“Bonjour, enfants.” Cosimo spoke from behind her. “Un joli matin.”
“Oui, m’sieur. Bon matin.” They poled their raft rather quickly back into the reeds.
“You scared them off,” Meg said, turning to look at him. “Won’t that cause suspicion?”
“I doubt it. A couple of fishermen—”
“I said we were on holiday,” she confessed. “Two fishermen on holiday.” Cosimo laughed and she added, “But they’re not going to believe that. Look at us.”
“My sweet, you couldn’t have said anything better,” he said. “The villages along these tributaries view the fishing rights as their own. They’ll assume we’re poaching, and, if I’m not much mistaken, will be chasing us off within the hour. So we’d better beat a retreat.”
He moved around the boat, hoisting the mainsail, jumping onto the bow to hoist the jib. “Can’t I help?” Meg asked in frustration. She could manage anything on land, she was certain, but these boat skills were beyond intuition.
“Sit there.” Cosimo gestured to the thwart. “Take that handle, and when I tell you to push it down, do so.” He took the tiller and swung it over.
Meg ducked as the boom came across and moved her weight to the other side as he gestured. The sailboat turned in the narrow channel, the wind caught the sail, and the Rosa began to move. Meg had her hands on the handle that protruded from the boards at her feet. She had no idea what it did. But as they emerged from the reeds and Cosimo said, “Drop it,” she pushed down the handle and felt the little boat surge forward.
“We’ll make a sailor of you yet,” he said. “Now you can light the brazier and make some coffee while I find some less crowded spot to anchor.”
Meg sat still as stone as they slipped at dead of a moonless night beneath the guns of Bordeaux, only the black jib carrying them, its dark canvas blending into the darkness. Cosimo guided the boat close to the shore so that they wouldn’t be visible from above. She could hear voices on the quay, carrying clearly in the still night as they clung to the quayside. Once she heard the unmistakable sounds of a whore and her client, the grunts and groans, the feigned cries of ecstasy. Huge ships of war crowded the harbor and Cosimo threaded his way through them, hiding Rosa close against their sides so that the shapes merged and they couldn’t be seen from a watcher on deck above. And then finally the harbor was behind them, and the Garonne, while still wide, had become a domestic stretch of waterway once more.
Meg inhaled softly and Cosimo’s teeth flashed white. He had enjoyed every second of that, she realized. This man fed on danger. And the pulse of her own exhilaration was telling her that she did too.
“What now?” she whispered.
“We’ll see how far we can get before dawn.” He crooked a finger at her. “I’m tired, Meg. Would you take over?”
She blinked. He hadn’t given her more than an occasional hint as to how this sailing business worked and now he was suggesting she sail while he slept.
Cosimo waited without apparent concern for her response. If she agreed, it would tell him more about her readiness for this mission. If she didn’t, then he would learn something vital too. He wasn’t going to be asleep while she took the tiller, if she agreed to do so, but Meg wouldn’t know that.
“It seems simple enough,” she said after a minute. “As long as we’re not about to sail into the midst of an enemy convoy.”
“Not here. It’s plain sailing. The wind is behind you and all you have to do is keep the mainsail filled. You learned a little on the Mary Rose; this is much simpler.”
“All right,” Meg said. “Go and sleep.” She took his place and grasped the tiller as he relinquished it.
“I’ll be below,” he said with a yawn. “Shout if you need me.”
“Oh, I will,” Meg responded. She settled down, feeling extraordinarily free and competent. She watched the sail, adjusted the tiller, and the little sailboat moved on through the night between quiet riverbanks.
Cosimo, wide awake on the bunk below, listened to the creak of the sail, the slither of the water beneath the bow, and smiled his satisfaction. Soon the time would come when he could tell her exactly what they were going to do.
Meg strained her eyes into the gloom. She was seeing what she thought she was seeing. There was another boat coming towards them. A barge, she thought. She had no idea how long she’d been sailing, but the tiller seemed welded to her hand. The hypnotic motion hadn’t sent her to sleep, she was far too keyed up for that, but it had induced a kind of trance that had made the initial appearance of the dark shape seem a figment of her imagination. Now it was most definitely no figment and it seemed to be on course to run them down.
“Let me have the tiller.” Cosimo appeared as if she’d conjured him. She eased over and he took her place. “Get below and don’t show yourself,” he instructed in a voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want them to know there are two of us.”
Meg slithered towards the hatchway and vanished into the darkness of the tiny cabin. She crouched on the bunk, her back pressed into the corner, and listened to the shouts above. Cosimo shouted out a greeting in a rough patois that she could barely understand. But she did understand the responding demand that he lower sail and wait to be boarded.
She felt the craft swing as Cosimo turned into the wind, then she heard the creak of the lowering sail. A heavy thump as someone landed on the deck immediately above her head, followed by another. Two of them. Officials of some kind presumably; why else had Cosimo obeyed their orders? She strained to hear what was being said
but the exchange was swift and heavily accented.
Silently she dragged the shirt over her head and thrust it beneath the pillow. She was naked now from the waist up. She wriggled under the blanket and held her breath. There was nowhere to hide on this boat, but if they were going to search it, she could hide behind a façade.
When she heard a heavy footstep on the top step leading into the tiny cabin, she gave a little gasp, a small cry of fright. A bearded man stuck his head into the space first, then stepped down. He yelled in that abominable provincial accent, “Come and take a look here, Luc.”
A second man appeared, big and heavy, like a boxer running to fat. He leered at Meg, gazing wide-eyed from beneath the blanket. “Thought he said he was alone.”
Meg saw Cosimo. Saw him but couldn’t hear him. He had cast aside his sabots and his bare feet made not a sound on the steps as he came up behind the two men. She saw the blade of the knife in his hand. She saw his expression, and it was one she had never seen before. Still, utterly concentrated, utterly without emotion, and he held the knife poised in his right hand.
She sat up on the cot, letting the blanket fall to her waist, and screamed. The two men stared at her breasts and then the bearded one cackled with derisive laughter. “Quelle putain,” he declared. “Man can’t get himself a whore any better than that one?”
His companion laughed uproariously. “Look at those walnuts.” He mimed tiny breasts on his own barrel chest. “No wonder he said he was alone.”
Meg stared at them in a wide-eyed fright that was not entirely feigned and hastily dragged the blanket up to her throat. Behind them Cosimo was no longer holding the knife. Distractedly she wondered where he’d put it as she pushed herself farther back into the corner of the bunk in a good imitation of a beaten dog. His expression had lost that cold distance and his eyes burned with what she recognized once again as pure, unadulterated fury. And while it sent shivers down her spine, it was infinitely preferable to the emotionless gaze of the killer.
He turned on his heel without a word and went on deck. The men, still laughing as if it was the funniest thing that had happened to them all month, followed him up.
Meg listened to the ribald exchange as Cosimo joined in the barroom vulgarity, making fun of the pathetic whore he had bought from the Bordeaux quayside to provide creature comforts on his journey to the town of Cadillac, where he would pass her on to the highest bidder. She’d chosen the part, she reflected grimly, so she shouldn’t object to its consequences. But it still rankled to hear her lack of feminine charm broadcast to the night air. And the bastards would never even know that she’d saved their lives.
They were drinking now, passing around a flagon of beer, presumably from the barge, she thought, huddling beneath the blanket. The memory of Cosimo’s expression as he’d stood behind the two unsuspecting men, holding the knife, wouldn’t go away. He said he hadn’t killed the guards at Quiberon, but what if he’d lied?
She lay down, shivering a little despite the warmth of the night. This man who made such tender, passionate love was a killer. She couldn’t fool herself any longer. It didn’t matter whether he’d killed at Quiberon, he had intended to kill tonight. Here on this tiny boat. What would he have done with the bodies? Thrown them overboard . . . dragged them back onto the barge? He would have planned it before he drew the knife, Meg knew. And suddenly the prospect of being immured in a Kent backwater took on a rosy patina.
She heard the two men leave, felt the lightening of the boat as they jumped to the barge, heard the exchange of farewells, and she sat up, pressing her back into the corner again.
Cosimo came into the cabin, ducking his head as he did so. “Well, that was an interesting performance,” he observed, sitting on the edge of the cot. The fury had left his eyes but there was a puzzlement in them as if something had happened that he didn’t understand.
“I could say the same about yours,” Meg returned. “Who were they?”
“Some kind of gendarmerie,” he replied with a tiny shrug. “But we’ve drawn attention, so we’ll have to leave the water, I’m afraid.”
He leaned forward and twitched the blanket from her hands, revealing her breasts. He put his hands over them, a warm enclosing clasp, and her nipples rose at the touch. “I adore your breasts,” he said softly, his gaze holding hers.
The coarse derision of the intruders had cut him to the quick and he didn’t know why. Meg had reacted swiftly and inventively to the danger and it should have pleased him; instead a most powerful anger had filled him and it had required all his self-control to keep from slamming his fists into their mocking mouths. He never permitted emotion to interfere with the practical needs of a situation, but he had been within a hair’s breadth of doing so. And he had no idea why.
Meg put her hands over his and managed a smile. “I wasn’t offended.” It was a lie but he was so obviously upset by the insult she felt the need to reassure him.
“They were louts.” His mouth hardened for an instant.
“Yes.” And you’re a killer. She laughed with what she hoped was conviction. “My self-esteem is not damaged in the least, Cosimo.”
He gave her a searching look and was not entirely convinced. However, it was better to let it go; dwelling on a hurt only made it worse. “It certainly shouldn’t be,” he said, leaning closer to kiss her, easing her backwards.
She slid down onto the cot and he came over her, moving his mouth to her breasts as his hand slipped into the waist of her britches, reaching farther between her thighs until his fingers found her moistening center.
“You were going to kill them,” Meg declared, pushing herself up again so that his exploring fingers lost their destination. “I saw the knife.”
Cosimo retracted his hand with some difficulty and sat up, resuming his position on the edge of the cot. Again he looked at her intently. “Meg, do you understand what could have happened? We were boarded by some form of officialdom . . . there are many such forms along the waterways, some legal, some not, it makes no difference. I had told them I was alone. Once they saw you—”
Meg interrupted him. “They had a great deal of amusement at our expense and then went on their merry way.”
“Had they not, both of us would have been suffering in some stinking jail,” he said, his voice harsh now. “These peasants have little refinement. I leave it to your imagination.”
“You said you don’t kill for pleasure,” Meg said, watching his eyes, watching for that look that had so chilled her.
“I don’t.” His expression was unmoving but the cold deliberation she had seen was absent. The Cosimo she knew was now inhabiting his body.
“But you do kill?”
“When necessary, when my own life is in danger . . . or the lives of those who are important to me.” It was an admission he was quite comfortable with. But he was not ready yet to tell her that he also when necessary killed for a purpose . . . that in essence he was an assassin who needed no personal provocation. She was not ready to hear that yet.
He softened his voice. “This is a dirty business, love. You can’t expect to play in the mud and not get your hands dirty.”
“No,” she agreed. “I don’t.” She stared into the dimness of the cabin. A man in Cosimo’s world had to be prepared for anything. She could imagine what those men would have done to her if they’d had the chance. And she could imagine what they would have done to Cosimo. So, all was fair in war. A man had a right to protect himself and those he loved. Or at least, those he lusted after, she amended wryly. And she had made her own decision and would just have to get over the bits she didn’t like. Why should it trouble her so much? This was just an adventure with a wonderfully attractive, deeply sensuous lover. Exploring each other’s souls had never been a part of the bargain.
“So what now?” she asked, brightly changing the subject. “Aren’t we adrift in the middle of a river?”
“Not exactly,” he said, reaching a hand out to her breasts again. “We
’re at anchor. And if you’re prepared for a very quick encounter, we could indulge ourselves.”
But she wasn’t, Meg realized. She offered a rueful smile. “I’m sorry, but I think that encounter was enough for tonight. I don’t seem to feel—”
He stood up at once. “No, of course not. Insensitive of me. That was horrid for you. I’m going to sail until dawn and then find some small town where I can sell the boat and we’ll continue overland.” He leaned over and kissed her softly. “Sleep, Meg. It will be better in the morning.”
She lay down again, wide awake, every muscle tensed and jumping. It wouldn’t be better in the morning. She had to stop pretending to herself that this was a game. This passionate adventure was being played out on enemy territory. Her lover was a spy and when necessary he killed without compunction. How had she been foolish enough to imagine that she could subsume that reality into some kind of romantic fiction? How had she been blind enough to imagine that she didn’t care what kind of man he was? She cared . . . deeply.
On deck, Cosimo hoisted the sail and took the tiller. The barge had receded into the distance towards Bordeaux. Its crew may have been momentarily satisfied by the vulgar exchange with the sailboat, but somewhere along the line of information, the encounter with the children on the raft a few miles downstream would filter through and coalesce with tonight’s badinage and the Rosa would be marked. They needed to leave the water at the earliest opportunity.
He wondered if Meg was asleep. Her withdrawal from him shouldn’t have troubled him, it was perfectly natural after what she’d just been through, but it did. He would have liked to have comforted her, used the one sure way he knew to heal any damage . . . any hurt inflicted by those peasant brutes. But he had to assume she knew how to heal herself, and maybe she hadn’t been lying when she said their coarse insults had not troubled her. Perhaps she was genuinely tired, emotionally exhausted by her quick-witted response to very real danger. It would be quite understandable, particularly when she was not accustomed to responding to dangerous situations. Ana would have been laughing with him now, with that wild exhilaration that always possessed her after danger had been averted. But Meg was not Ana, and he needed to remind himself of that.
