Swept Away

by Marsha Canham

  Yet looming over all this was a certain measure of uncertainty, for with each segment of his memory that returned, he grew stronger, more confident, more in control and who was to say when all of his past was fully restored, what he would expect or want from her--or if he would even want her at all. Once before he had given up the life she represented. It was possible... probable even, that he would not be eager to embrace it again, not just for the sake of a few passionate hours in her arms.

  It was madness. It was lust and it was envy for his freedom, pure and simple. It was also witless, foolish, and completely absurd to consider taking one more step beside him, and yet...she could feel herself growing stronger just for the sake of being in his company. She was smart, she was useful, she had displayed a rather surprising capability for violence herself over the past few minutes and truth be told, she would do it again if threatened. Her days of shrinking and cowering in a corner while others determined her destiny were over.

  She squared her shoulders and looked up at Emory. “You obviously have to find your ship, and then you have to speak to Lord Wessex. If you suspect there is a plan afoot to rescue Bonaparte, he has to be told.”

  “I had already made up my mind to go to London,” he said quietly.

  “And do what? Walk into Westminster Hall and demand an audience with Lord Wessex?”

  “I had not thought that far ahead,” he admitted.

  “Well you will have to, for Parliament is literally under siege, the buildings themselves are surrounded by a dozen regiments of Royal Horse Guard. I doubt you would get close enough to shout a greeting through the iron grate.” She paused and focussed her attention on the unwound clock sitting on the mantlepiece. “What day is today?”

  “Monday.” He looked up from reloading the guns. “Actually, the small hours of Tuesday. Why?”

  “This coming Friday night there is to be a masquerade ball at Carlton House.”

  “A ball? With Napoleon Bonaparte on board a ship anchored in an English port and Parliament under siege while they debate his fate?”

  “It is Lady Charlotte Carrington’s twenty-first birthday. She is a vivacious, beautiful widow, an heiress of considerable fortune, and is currently being wooed by the Regent to be his next mistress. There would be a ball in her honor if another Spanish Armada was in the Channel. Anyone who chooses not to risk the Regent’s disfavour, not to mention instant social ostracism, will be there including Lord Wessex. It was the main reason Mother sent my brother to fetch me home.”

  Emory’s mouth wore a wry twist, “I assume you are not telling me this just to keep me apprised of your social calendar.”

  “I am telling you this because it would present the perfect opportunity to approach Lord Wessex. Since you would be in costume, no one would recognize you and I would imagine the Regent’s principle residence would be the last place on earth anyone would expect to find you.”

  The dark eyes glittered faintly with speculation. “What makes you think it would be easier getting into a royal ball where the guests and invitations are closely scrutinized, than it would into Westminster Hall?”

  “It would be easier because I have an invitation. It would, of course, require my presence to be acknowledged.”

  He stared at her for the whole of one minute at least, with just the hiss of the fire to break the silence. Despite the promise made in the tavern, Emory had not been about to risk her safety even as far as the next village, and he had fully intended to leave her here. He knew he could not do that now. Cipriani would kill her if he got loose, and Emory was not naive enough to believe a few missing fingers would deter him. But the thought of taking her all the way to London...

  “Do you have any idea what you are suggesting?” he asked quietly. “The risks you would be taking? The consequences if you are caught helping me?”

  “I am suggesting you trust me as much as I trust you. As for the consequences, I think they would be far more devastating to my peace of mind if I did nothing at all. You are not the only patriot in this room, you know. I may not have the flag emblazoned on my forehead, but I far prefer seeing the red white and blue flying over England than the fleur de lis.”

  “You might be wise not to put too much faith in me, Annaleah,” he warned quietly. “ I may not be worthy of it.”

  He turned back to the guns and Anna stared at his broad back.

  “If I was wise,” she said on a breath too low for him to hear, “ I would never have let myself fall in love with you.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Annaleah’s stockings were ruined beyond redemption and the blue dress had more wrinkles and stains than the wrappings used at a fishmarket. The decision of whether to don it for another round of adventure or not was removed from her hands when Emory took it, along with her chemise and stockings, and stuffed them into the fire.

  “They will be looking for a fashionable young woman in a fine silk dress,” he explained, handing her breeches, linens, stockings, a waistcoat and plain brown coat he had found in one of the armoires. “We shall endeavor, instead, to make you into a homely urchin of questionable fashion sense.”

  It was not difficult. The stockings and breeches were made of a tight-knit wool that clung reasonably well, but the shirt, vest, and jacket were zealously oversized. A belt solved the problem of keeping the excess linens confined at her waist, while both the shirt and coat had to have the sleeves folded into wide cuffs to allow even the tips of her fingers to show. Emory dressed himself alongside, showing her how each unfamiliar garment was worn, adjusting each layer as it was added, even pruning judiciously here and there with a pair of scissors where it was required. He bade her lift her hair out of the way while he wrapped and tied the neckcloth and cravat, but when it came to actually taming the unruly mass of curls, he backed away and left her to struggle with comb and brush until it was smoothed into a long, contrite tail at her nape.

  While she fought with each crackling strand, he stuffed extra shirts and linens into the haversack and rolled a couple of woolen blankets into a small bundle. The brace of pistols he had brought away from Widdicombe House, he tucked into the haversack along with the extra shot and powder. His own guns, liberated from the Corsican, went into the belt around his waist. He checked once on Cipriani, but the groaning had stopped and there was no sign of consciousness. After a moment’s hesitation, he searched through the assassin’s pockets, coming away with a heavy purse and three stiletto knives. Returning to the hearth, he banked the fire, making certain the burned garments were thoroughly reduced to ash, then stood and shrugged his big shoulders into the multi-collared greatcoat.

  “Ready?”

  Annaleah stepped forward out of the shadows. Her hair had been twisted into a thick coil and was hidden beneath a brimmed felt hat. She had the haversack slung over one shoulder, and the rolled blankets tucked under the opposite arm, and for one split second Emory saw a startlingly clear image of himself standing determined and defiant on the wharf in Brixham, frightened near to dampening his breeches as he stared up at the towering masts of the ship that was to take him out to sea and change his life forever.

  Anna looked nervously down at herself. “Is anything wrong?”

  “No. No, nothing is wrong.” He blinked to dismiss the image and relieved her of the bulging haversack. “Cipriani’s horse should be somewhere outside, and we have the nag off the hackney. If we can reach Exeter by mid morning, we can catch a Palmer to London.”

  “A mail coach? Would they not have a copy of the post with your likeness on it?”

  “More than likely, yes, but with any luck, it will simply be thrown into the mail pouch with the rest of the news sheets. The driver’s prime concern is taking the least amount of time to travel the distance between two points--which also makes for a damnably uncomfortable ride and therefore attracts fewer passengers than the regular coach lines.”

  When she did not look like she shared any enthusiasm for the idea, he added, “It would stand far better odds t
han trying to ride all the way there on two tired horses.”

  “I suppose,” she conceded in a murmur.

  “Anna--” he tucked a finger under her chin and tilted her head up. “You do not have to do this, you know. I can take you back to your aunt’s house. You would be perfectly safe with Florence. I dare say a brigade of the King’s Own Rifle could not make it through the door once her mind was set. And your reputation--”

  “My reputation be hanged, sir. I am with you, and that is where I shall remain until we see this through to the end!”

  Her determination won a resigned sigh. “In for a penny, in for a pound, is it?”

  “Please tell me you are not quoting Shakespeare again.”

  “My first gun captain actually. And if I recall correctly, we were squaring off against three French frigates at the time.”

  “Did you win? Well, of course you did; you are here, are you not?”

  Emory only laughed softly and doused the candles. The last thing he did before closing the door firmly behind them was to sling the gold chain around his neck and tuck the iron key beneath the folds of his shirt.

  It took them eight hours to complete a journey that normally took two. Necessity kept them on the back roads and in some cases, riding across fields and picking their way through forests in order to avoid towns or villages where a curious eye might take notice of the two riders, one wearing bandages across half his face, the other looking sorry and stiff and weary beyond words. When they reached Exeter, they found the posting house where the mail coach made its regular stop and were able to purchase a meal and arrange boarding for the horses.

  At noon, when the distinctive blare of the mail horn sounded outside, they gathered their meager belongings and while Emory paid their fare and arranged transport to the end of the line in London, Anna stood off to the side of the road, her head bowed, the brim of her hat pulled low over her brow.

  The Palmer coach was a box-like affair built for speed and utility. Painted maroon, scarlet, and black with the royal arms emblazoned on the doors, it could accommodate four passengers inside, if they did not care that the seats were scantily padded and the journey unbroken save for the time allowed to change horses and collect mail along the route. The record, Anna had overheard the hostler telling another guest, was sixteen hours from Exeter to London, but with news of Bonaparte flying back and forth daily she expected it would be broken ere the week was out.

  If the first leg of the journey was any indication, Anna could well believe the prediction. The team of four horses was driven at a steady gallop over roads that sorely tested the balance and ability of the wheels to remain on the tract. Even so, to her great surprise, she was asleep before the first mile had churned away behind them and, because they were the only two passengers, she was able to make use of Emory’s shoulder as a pillow.

  She slept through the most of the afternoon, waking only briefly around three when the driver and guard spared ten minutes to stretch and collect the mail. She fell instantly back to sleep when the coach started up again and did not rouse until Emory shook her gently on the shoulder.

  They were at a major crossroad in Bath, where they had to change turnpikes to join the more heavily trafficked West Road into London. Three passengers joined them there, two choosing to ride the roof, and the third, a pork-faced merchant whose buttocks barely squeezed through the door, clambering inside with Emory and Anna, there to sneeze and cough his way through the next several hours. Without the comfort of a shoulder to lean on, Anna was forced to prop an arm against the hard wooden sides of the coach and it soon felt black and blue from the constant jostling. By evening, when another brief stop was permitted for a meal, she was ready to cry, to rail at the unfairness of Emory’s ability to doze peacefully in his corner, and to gleefully pound the merchant into the macadamized gravel of the road.

  “I cannot bear his wheezing and dripping much longer,” she whispered. “He stinks of rotten teeth and whatever wretched concoction he keeps eating out of his pocket.”

  “Courage mon petite,” Emory murmured back. “He is only paid as far as Reading, which should come at the next change of horses, by my guess. We have made excellent time thus far, and if it our luck holds, we should reach the outskirts of London by early morning.”

  “And then what?” she grumbled. “I’ll not be able to walk or sit or stand in any comfort whatsoever. Moreover--” she scratched pointed and savagely at the side of her ribs-- “I suspect your neglect of the house of Torquay has resulted in a host of new residents taking advantage of your absence. I swear these clothes are alive,” she added with a final hiss. “I will not need a costume for the ball, at this rate; I shall just be able to attend as a large pustule.”

  Wisely, Emory kept his smile in check. “Another few hours and I shall personally massage away all your aches and itches, I swear it.”

  She stopped scratching long enough to shove the brim of her hat higher. “And a real bath. Hot and deep.”

  “Scented with roses,” he agreed.

  “Swear it.”

  “I do, most solemnly.”

  She groaned and allowed herself to be propelled gently back to where the coach was waiting, its two forward riding lamps casting bright circles of yellow light on the road. Despite Emory’s encouragement, she still hesitated at the door, long enough to see a second coach and four emerging out of the darkness. The horses had been driven hard and were flecked with lather. And while the driver wore no distinguishing set of livery and there were no arms or emblems to identify the owner, the shape and size of the gleaming black berline were unmistakable.

  “Get inside,” Emory said, his hand on her back to spur her into moving.

  She glanced once, quickly, over her shoulder, but Emory’s one visible eye was fastened on the other coach as it rolled to a dusty halt less than half a dozen long paces beside them. He climbed hastily up behind her and pulled the door shut just as the door on the other carriage opened and the Marquis of Barrimore’s broad shoulders ducked through the opening.

  Anna pressed as far back into her shadowy corner as she could. The small side lamps suspended over the door seemed to flood the interior of the Palmer with light and she counted off the five, six slow thumping heartbeats it took for Barrimore to shake the wrinkles out of his jacket and stretch the kinks out of his long legs. She could feel him looking at the mail coach. She could feel him staring, frowning, tipping his head to take a closer look, his eyebrows arching in surprise as he strode over to the open window and...

  She gasped as the driver called to the horses and the coach jerked forward, kicking up a small spray of gravel in its wake. The last glimpse she had of the berline, there were now three men standing on the road and Barrimore had his back to the road, his arm outstretched to assist a young woman to disembark. Anna leaned forward, craning her head partway out the window, convinced her eyes were playing a trick, but the angle of the road changed and she could see nothing but the black avenue of trees that flanked the side of the turnpike.

  She leaned back, frozen in her seat a moment, then turned to stare at Emory. She had insisted on dashing off a quick note to Anthony before they left Torquay, if for no other reason than to assure him she was alive and well and not to worry; she would meet up with him in London in a few short days. She could understand why he would be travelling back to town in the company of the Marquis of Barrimore; it was more difficult to think of a reason why Colonel Rupert Ramsey and Lucille Althorpe should be in the berline as well.

  At seven in the morning, there was enough activity stirring among the laundresses, the butchers, the tinkers, the farmers and footpads of London for a wounded soldier and a young boy to vanish into the crowds almost as soon as they stepped off the coach. They had lost the companionship of the merchant somewhere around midnight, but a light rainfall had brought the two other passengers down from the roof and Annaleah had worried her way through another sleepless night. She was cramped and aching but at least there was terr
a firma beneath her feet and she thought could do justice to a large breakfast if a suitable inn could be found. After searching longer than Annaleah thought justifiable, considering each squalid tavern resembled the next, the alehouse Emory finally entered was far from anything to which she was accustomed. It was small and dark and stank of thievery, but he seemed comfortable enough with his surroundings to remove the linen wrappings from his head and shove them into one of the deep pockets of the greatcoat.

  “Do you recognize this place?”

  He shook his head by way of denial, but she thought there was something in his eyes that suggested otherwise.

  “I have lived in London all my life,” she said under her breath, “yet I have no idea where we are.”

  “There would be no reason for you to know. Not unless you were a thief or a cutpurse or someone who made their living off the misery of others. Or if you wanted to hide and not be found.”

  Before she could question his cryptic remark, the landlord, a skinny man who stumped along on one wooden leg was fanning his way through the thick layer of pipe smoke, hurrying over to their table.

  “Are ye mad?” he asked, a pair of little piglet eyes popped wide in disbelief. “Comin’ in ‘ere bold as brass ballocks on a bear. Get up. Get up I say an’ get into the back room afore ye bring arf the bulls in London down on us! Whisht! Whisht, up wi’ ye!”

  Using the hem of his leather apron for emphasis, he shooed them onto their feet and through a grimy curtain, herding them down a narrow hallway to a smaller room in back. The fact it was already occupied by a man and woman grappling together on a creaky cot made no impression on the innkeeper. He kicked the man’s naked buttocks with the stump of his wooden leg and ordered him out, then glared impatiently at the barmaid as she scrambled to push down her skirts and adjust the gaping laces of her bodice.