by Jane Jackson
Jared pushed aside his empty plate and leaned back patting his stomach. ‘’Andsome, that was, mother.’
‘Nothing like fresh pilchards.’ Inez rose from her chair. ‘Want any more, do ’e, Arf? Devlin?’
Both men shook their heads. Her husband pushed his chair round and reached for his pipe. ‘Full as a tick I am. Couldn’t eat another bite.’
Devlin smiled at her. ‘You’re a fine cook, Inez. Will you marry me when I grow up?’ It was a long-standing joke.
‘Here, don’t you go giving her ideas,’ Arf growled, blowing a cloud of fragrant smoke. ‘Took me years to get her trained.’ He winked at his wife who tossed her head and hid a smile.
Tired and replete, Devlin stretched. Three days ago Becky Couch, who lived above one of the cellars, had heard the stones moving. These were round granite boulders used as weights to press oil and brine from the casks of salted pilchards. They each weighed roughly a hundredweight and were fitted with an iron hook to lift them into the casks.
No one had ever actually seen them roll about on the cellar floors. But tradition held that to hear them, especially in the evening, was a good omen. It was a month since the last good catch so word of Becky’s visitation had rushed through the streets and alleys like a gale. That night hope made sleep fitful and restless for almost everyone in the village.
Shortly after dawn the following morning came the cry they had all been waiting for. Sighting a shoal, the boy posted as lookout in the small hut at the highest point on the cliff bellowed, ‘Heva! Heva!’ at the top of his lungs.
Within the hour every fishing boat was on the water. They worked for three days and nights. Arf’s crew, Devlin’s men, and two more boats handled the seine. Other boats used hand lines to haul in scores of hake that ran with the pilchards to prey on them.
That evening, when the first of the catch was brought ashore, every woman and child in the village hurried to the cellars. There they piled the fish, layered with salt, in square heaps on the stone floor. It was hard exhausting labour. But no one complained for it brought in much-needed money. For ten days the heaped fish would be left untouched while the blood and brine drained out.
Devlin wasn’t surprised when Jared rose to his feet and announced, ‘I’m going up-long.’
‘To see Miss Betsy I suppose,’ Inez shook out a towel and folded it.
‘Give ‘e some shock if I said no,’ Jared teased.
‘Dear life, you’re up there every week doing something.’
‘One of the wheels on her chair is catching. I said I’d free it up.’
‘Devlin,’ Inez demanded. ‘Tell ’n he’s wasting his time.’
Devlin raised his hands, palm out. He had no intention of intervening. Nor did Jared give him the chance.
‘’T idn nothing to do with Devlin, mother. And you can’t call it wasting time to help someone who’ve lost so much.’
Inez put both hands on her hips. ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘Would you be worried about me seeing her if she wasn’t the colonel’s daughter?’
‘I would,’ Inez said at once. ‘Though to my mind he idn much of a father to either of they girls, not the way he’s drinking. No, son, listen,’ she raised a hand to stop him interrupting. ‘Nothing against Betsy. A sweet girl she is, and some brave. But fact is, and ’tis no use pretending different, she is the colonel’s daughter. There isn’t no way he’d give his blessing to any match. And even if she wasn’t who she is – hark to me, my son. You’re a young man. What kind of wife could she be to you, her being like she is, off her legs and all?’
‘Mother!’ Jared blushed scarlet.
After glancing from one to the other, Arf studied his pipe and said nothing. Devlin guessed he shared his wife’s concerns.
Inez’s cheeks grew pink. ‘Dear life, boy. ’Tis all part o’ nature. How d’you think you got ’ere? Look, even if ’tis possible for her to have children, how would she ever manage looking after them?’
Jared’s embarrassment dissolved in a grin. ‘Mother, if Betsy and me was blessed with a child we’d have to bar the door to keep you out. Father would be wailing you’re never ’ome. And getting the babby off you would be harder than chipping limpets off a rock.’
Arf gave a bark of laughter. ‘He got you right, Mother.’
Tossing her head at her husband, Inez swatted her son with the towel. ‘I just don’t want to see you hurt.’
Jared laid a brawny arm across her shoulders. ‘No more do I. But I love her, Ma. I want to wed her. If children come along, fine. If they don’t,’ he shrugged. ‘Well, ’t will be a pity for you. But I don’t want no one else.’
‘Where’s Andy?’ Devlin reached for his sou’wester. The rest of the crew stood in the cellar doorway, rain dripping from their oilskins to pool around their booted feet.
Ben peered out into the downpour. ‘Coming now, he is. Dear life, I ’aven’t see he move so fast in years. What’s on, boy?’ he demanded as Andy splashed to a halt.
‘Fire over to Mousehole,’ he gasped. ‘Only set the Custom House alight, they ‘ave.’
‘Who?’ Sam demanded.
‘The Rinsey boys.’
‘Never!’ Joe grinned.
‘True as I’m stood ‘ere. I was over to my sister Bessie’s when the boy come for Tom. Told ’n he must report to the Riding Officer right away. Customs Officer at Mousehole do need reinforcements. I hung about till I seen ’em leaving, jest to make sure. Going like long dogs they were, and none too happy about it. Can’t blame ’em. ’Tis some long ride to Mousehole ’specially in this weather.’
Devlin clapped Andy on the shoulder. ‘No fishing today, boys. We’ve got a cargo to raise.’
Devlin signalled to Jared and they threw the grapnels over the side. Immediately Andy, Ben, Danny and Sam bent to their oars, pulling the galley through the low swell. Driving rain stung their faces, pelted their oilskins and sou’westers, slid down their necks, seeped up their sleeves, and trickled into their boots to soak their trousers and feet. But in spite of the chilly discomfort Devlin welcomed it. The liquid curtain veiled them from other boats and would keep most people indoors. Should anyone be on the cliffs or shore, the rain, low cloud, and poor light would make it impossible for them to see what was going on.
Feeling the hook snag, Devlin signalled Billy who leaned over, grabbed the rope, and began hauling it in. Silence was the rule when retrieving a cargo. Sound travelled further over water than on land. A word, a laugh, even a grunt of effort could so easily betray them. The Riding Officer and his dragoons might be miles away, but still no one spoke.
A few moments later the grapnel broke surface with the rope linking the kegs caught over one of its hooks. Jared began hauling the kegs inboard. As Andy freed each one it was passed up the galley to be stowed in the bow. Finally the sinking stone was cut loose and the rope quickly coiled to be burned later. French rope had a different twist from English and its discovery would betray them.
When twenty kegs had been retrieved and the weight pressed the galley low in the water, Devlin pointed to the shore. Waiting at the top of the cove, dressed in boy’s clothes, her hair tucked into a cap pulled low over her face, Roz Trevaskis held the halter of the lead mare. The rest of the pack animals were mules borrowed from outlying farms. To make it impossible for any revenue officer to grab hold of them their manes and tails had been clipped and their coats greased. Roping them was unnecessary. They would follow the mare.
The landsmen – farm labourers who would be paid as much for three hours’ work as they could earn in a week – quickly lifted the kegs from the galley. The crew turned in their seats, the galley was pushed off, and soon Devlin had the grapnel overboard once more.
Three hours later the heavily-laden string plodded out of the cove and along the muddy path into the wooded valley.
‘Fetch the nets shall I, skip?’ Billy indicated the opening near the top of the cove.
‘No. Crocker isn’t around so they ca
n stay where they are.’ Pulled by drenched and weary men the galley headed for the harbour. The wind was picking up again. Pushing against the tide it heaped the sea into waves topped with curls of foam.
‘Not another bleddy gale,’ Danny groaned.
‘I never known a winter like it,’ Sam grunted, straining at his oar.
‘’Tisn’t just the wind,’ Andy said. ‘All this here rain is drowning the soil. The next blow will bring more trees down. Ground’s so wet the roots won’t hold.’
‘I’m more worried about me roof,’ Joe blinked water out of his eyes.
The galley safely in her cradle and his crew bound for home, dry clothes, and a much-needed hot meal, Devlin climbed the stone stairs to his own front door. The room was as he’d left it: bed unmade, his breakfast dishes on the table and last night’s ashes in the grate. Once inside he shed the dripping oilskins, and hauled off his sodden boots and socks. Leaving a trail of wet footprints he padded across to the table to light the candle and the two lanterns.
Crouching to pile kindling and dry furze onto the dead ashes he imagined opening the door and seeing a roaring fire, inhaling the savoury aroma of a hearty beef stew, and being greeted with a smile by a slender young woman with barley-gold hair. Snorting in self-mockery he shook his head. Jenefer Trevanion rarely smiled and never at him. All he got from her were blushes and a refusal to meet his eye. What else could he expect from someone of her background and upbringing?
As he added more wood to the hungry flames Devlin wearily rubbed the back of his neck. Jenefer Trevanion was engaged to be married. By a man who appeared to have abandoned her. She was out of his class. That certainly hadn’t deterred Jared. He was successful, his own man, owing nothing to anyone. He was a smuggler, an outlaw. Everything he had he had earned himself. This? You would bring her here? He glanced around. Maybe not here. But the cottage – but it was still unfinished.
The wood caught and blazed. Devlin threw the poker down, poured himself a generous measure of brandy, and swallowed it in three gulps. As welcome warmth spread along his chilled limbs he stripped off the rest of his wet clothes. Kicking them into a heap he stepped into dry trousers and began towelling his dripping hair.
A sharp rapping on the door brought his head up. ‘Who is it?’ There was no reply, just another quick tattoo. Lifting a soft woollen shirt from the chest he pulled it over his head, raking his hair back as he opened the door.
Beneath the black umbrella he saw a poppy-red coat, the bottom six inches soaking wet and splattered with mud. ‘What in the name of –?’
The umbrella tilted back. ‘You might at least ask me in,’ Tamara snapped through chattering teeth.
Chapter Six
Devlin stayed where he was, holding the door and trying to ignore the sudden clench in his gut. His attraction to her was wrong for both of them. He had plans for his future, and they didn’t include her. He frowned.
‘Are you mad, coming here like this? What do you think you’re doing?’
She swallowed. She had expected him to be surprised, even irritated. But surely he realised she would never have called on him at home unaccompanied, not without a very good reason. ‘Getting wetter and colder, and wondering why I bothered.’
‘Tamara, if this is your idea of a game –’
‘I don’t play games, Devlin. Not with you.’
His expression signalled disbelief. ‘Oh no?’
She tossed her head impatiently. ‘Of course I tease you. How else am I to get your attention? But I’m here now because of something I heard. Something you should know about. It’s important.’
‘It could have waited until morning.’ Damn the girl. What was he supposed to do? Shut the door in her face? Jenefer Trevanion wouldn’t dream of pulling a trick like this. She was a lady. While Tamara – how in the name of sweet Jesus did you describe Tamara? Able to mimic decorum when it suited her, her behaviour the rest of the time was determinedly unconventional. Yet for all that there was nothing common or vulgar about her. He almost wished there were. For then she would be easy to ignore, forget. Instead she had worked her way under his skin like a barb. Nuisance, irritant, impossible to dislodge she was … herself, unique. And should not be here.
‘Oh yes?’ Scorn lifted her brows. ‘I should call on you in broad daylight with all your neighbours watching? They’d enjoy that. Besides, how often are you at home in the daytime? If you’re not on a run you’re out fishing.’ She shivered. ‘Look, are you going to invite me in or shall I just stand here and tell you? Of course it will be all round the village by tomorrow. But if you don’t mind everyone knowing your private business ...’
‘God’s blood, girl.’ He wrenched the door wide. ‘It’s you they’ll be gossiping about.’
She shrugged, tilting her chin defiantly. ‘They’ve been doing that all my life.’
Ignoring the shadows in her eyes, telling himself they were caused by the wavering candle flame, he sucked in a ragged breath and clenched his teeth in frustration. Nobody had ever wrong-footed him the way she could – and did.
‘If your parents had known what they were getting,’ he stepped back, indicating with a jerk of his head that she should enter, ‘they’d have drowned you at birth.’
‘Just think what you’d have missed.’ She sailed past him, her shoes squelching as she snapped the umbrella closed and leaned it against the wall. Instantly a puddle formed on the wooden boards.
Closing the door he raked a hand through tousled curls still damp from his own soaking. ‘Do they know you’re here?’
‘Who?’
He shot her a warning glare. ‘Your parents.’
Her brief wry glance gave him the answer. She fumbled the buttons on her coat, her fingers stiff and clumsy. ‘They’d only worry. Besides, this has nothing to do with them.’
‘It’s late.’
‘For heaven’s sake, it’s not even six o’clock yet.’
‘But it’s dark. Tamara, you shouldn’t –’
‘Do stop fussing, Devlin. I’m not a child.’
His gaze flicked from her heavy-lidded green eyes to her full mouth and down to the curves beneath her close-fitting coat. He bit back an oath. She was young, not yet twenty. But she was right. That teasing gaze, husky voice, and deliciously rounded body were certainly not those of a child.
She had come here of her own free will and more or less blackmailed her way inside. Trying to protect her reputation – such as it was – had won him no thanks. Indeed he had been ordered to stop fussing. So be it. She could go to the devil. Was probably well on her way already. Why should he worry? She was nothing to him. Oh no? His inner self mocked with bitter amusement. She fired his blood that was all. No, that wasn’t all. She was wild and unpredictable and he had trouble enough in his life.
He’d been enjoying women since he was fourteen. He’d learned how to give pleasure as well as take it: a valuable lesson that made conquest easy and left smiles and sighs when he moved on. But none had touched his heart. Nor would she.
Finally managing to unfasten her coat she pulled it off and dropped it across the table. Her hair hung about her shoulders, sodden tresses dripping water down the creamy swell of her breasts and soaking the lace that edged her bodice. She raised one arm to lift the dark curls off her neck and in the lamplight raindrops glistened on her face like diamonds.
As she looked up he turned away, his teeth clamped so tightly that his jaw ached. Deliberately increasing the distance between them he crossed to the hearth and dropped another log onto the bright flames.
‘You might at least offer me a towel.’ She forced the words through cold-numbed lips.
Anger roared through him: at her for coming here, at himself for being unable to retain his habitual detachment. She had invaded his home and when she had gone he would still see her here, still smell her delicate floral scent with its hint of lemon. So many of the women he went with smelled of fish. Snatching up the towel he had used he tossed it at her. She flinched as
she caught it then swayed.
Devlin cursed under his breath. Her cheeks were pale as candle wax. ‘Here.’ Grabbing her upper arm he pulled her forward. ‘Sit down before you fall down.’
‘I’m perfectly all right.’ But the words lacked her usual bite and she sank without protest into the wooden armchair. She just needed a moment and she’d be fine. Coming here had seemed the logical thing to do. She had a genuine reason. And an opportunity to see him alone if only for a few minutes was not to be turned down. Yet though she would cut off her tongue sooner than admit it, stepping over the threshold had taken far more nerve than she expected.
With his back to her he poured a small measure of cognac into a pewter mug then pushed it into her hand. ‘Drink this.’
She peered into the mug then up at him. ‘What is it?’
‘Poison, what else? Surely your mother has warned you about men and their wicked ways?’ Hearing the sarcasm in his tone he took a deliberate breath. ‘It’s cognac. Think of it as medicine. It will stop the shivers.’
Raising the mug she swallowed a mouthful, coughed, and pulled a face. ‘Ugh. It’s like drinking fire.’ She thrust the mug at him.
Devlin found her violent shudder oddly reassuring. He had expected her to be accustomed to spirits. Most of the villagers used them as a cure-all. Brandy was rubbed on the gums of teething babies, added to bedtime milk to make children sleep, and swallowed to ease hunger pangs, relieve the grief of bereavement, or blot out the wretchedness of poverty.
‘But it does the job. Are you feeling better?’
‘I’m perfectly well, thank you,’ Tamara lied. She tipped her head sideways and began to rub her hair with the towel, drawing on every ounce of willpower she possessed to force back the horrible dizziness. She was wet and chilled despite having run nearly all the way. Her heart was racing and though warmth from the brandy was creeping through her limbs, her head still felt light and strange. She needed a moment, just a moment, then she’d be fine.
