The Captain and His Innocent

by Lucy Ashford

  She was shaking her head. He saw how her lips were parted, how her breath was coming short and fast. ‘Napoleon has surrendered. The war is over...’

  He was flicking through the rest of her father’s maps. ‘Don’t pretend to be stupid. No one expects Napoleon to stay cooped up on Elba for long. The French people are already growing sick of fat King Louis, who’s been thrust on them by the British and their allies. You know that, mam’selle. Don’t you?’

  She stared at him, speechless, then slowly nodded.

  ‘A large proportion of the French populace,’ he went on, ‘are eagerly starting to wonder how long it will be before their Emperor Napoleon returns once more. And—let me see—if he were to set sail from Elba, he might land—where?’ He was gazing down at the maps, leafing through them. ‘Well, he might land at Nice, perhaps. Yes—Nice, why not? Then he could gather men—gather an army—and travel north towards Paris, marching by way of...Lyon? Clermont? Your father would have known which roads the Emperor’s army ought to take. Since he doubtless helped to build them.’

  She lunged towards the table in a desperate attempt to grab the maps, but in doing so, she stumbled and knocked over one of the heavy chairs. He grabbed at it as it fell with his right hand—the hand in the black glove—and she heard him suppress a hiss of pain.

  He was gritting his teeth as he slammed the chair upright again and nursed his right hand with his left. She backed away, horrified. A recent wound, then. A still painful wound... A moment later his men were charging through the door into the room, grasping her roughly by the arms.

  They must have heard the chair fall. Heard his exclamation of pain and guessed that she’d hurt their captain. They wouldn’t forgive her easily for that, oh, no.

  She struggled as she spat out words at them in French. ‘You can have my things,’ she called to the captain. ‘The theodolite alone is worth fifty livres. You can have it, if you’ll take me to France. You can have everything...’

  ‘Everything except the compass, I presume?’ he said softly.

  Luke had recovered his composure now. Had recovered from the red-hot stabbing pain that had shot through his crippled hand as he grabbed for the chair. He ordered his men to leave the room again and once they’d

  departed—they were reluctant to go, he saw how they still shot warning glances at the girl—he turned to her again and said, flatly, ‘I’m afraid, Mademoiselle Du­champ, that I’ve absolutely no intention of helping you to leave the country. You see, you’re far more useful to me here.’

  She went very still. And then she shrugged. Oh, Luke admired her for that. That casual gesture of indifference, even though he could see the enormous effort she was having to make to hold herself firm.

  She gazed up at him, and he let his eyes wander over her face—which was shadowed with outright fear, yet still defiant. And those full lips... Not a chance, he warned himself. She’s far too dangerous. Besides, she despised him.

  ‘So I am to be—useful. Is that it?’ she said quietly. ‘Monsieur, whatever your intention is, I will make very sure that you regret this day. I will not be an easy captive, I assure you. And when Lord Franklin finds out...’

  He almost laughed. ‘Oh, so Lord Franklin is being named as your saviour now, is he? Would he be flattered? I’m not sure. Please, mam’selle, don’t let your imagination run away with you. You see, I’ve no intention of keeping you captive here.’

  She stepped back. ‘You—haven’t?’

  ‘On the contrary. I’m going to send you back to Bircham Hall.’

  Her face expressed her sheer astonishment. ‘Back to Bircham Hall?’

  ‘Exactly.’ His voice was businesslike. ‘Will anyone have realised yet, do you think, that you’ve gone?’

  ‘No. No, they won’t. I told them all that I was tired and was retiring early for the night.’

  ‘Very well. Now, listen carefully, mam’selle. You’re not going to say one word of what’s happened tonight—of your flight, or of your encounter with me. But you are going to stay on at Bircham Hall, as if nothing at all had happened. And you’re going to do something for me. Clearly, you’re resourceful and I’m sure you’re observant. Have you noticed Lord Franklin’s private library?’

  She nodded, looking absolutely bewildered.

  ‘In that library,’ he was continuing, ‘are stored many of Lord Franklin’s private papers—including his correspondence and his diaries for at least the last five years.’

  ‘How do you—?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter in the slightest how I know. Now, listen. I want you to get into the library—and to bring me anything you can find, any papers, documents or letters that relate to the autumn of 1813 and a place in France called La Rochelle. Do you understand me?’

  For a moment there was complete silence except for the crackling of the logs on the fire. ‘I thought you might be a smuggler,’ she said, gazing at him steadfastly. ‘Now I realise you’re most likely just a common thief. And what you suggest is laughable. The library is always, always locked.’

  ‘Wherever there’s a lock, there’s a key,’ he said with an air of imperturbability. ‘I believe that with your considerable spirit of enterprise, you can get inside that room for me, mam’selle. And in the meantime—just to make sure you cooperate—I’ll keep this compass.’

  ‘No...’

  ‘I’ll keep it.’ He stood up. ‘I’m going to let you go now. But you must do exactly what I say, do you understand? And you must not breathe a single word of our meeting to anyone.’

  She stood, too. She said, very quietly, ‘And if I disobey you? If I escape some other way?’

  He was turning the compass thoughtfully in his hand, but suddenly he looked straight at her with those chilly blue eyes. ‘If you disobey me—if you run again—then I’ll make sure that a description of you, and this compass, reaches the port authorities forthwith—do you understand what that means? It means that this part of the coast will be crawling with men looking for you. And if you’re caught, you’ll find yourself thrown into prison, for being a spy for Napoleon. Prison isn’t much fun for a girl. I’m sure you can imagine some of the things that might happen to you, although some things I truly hope you can’t.’

  There was a long silence. She appeared to be examining a fastening on her cloak and when she looked up again, her face was pale but calm. ‘Do you know,’ she said, ‘when I left London, I had no idea I could cause such excitement in a desolate backwater like this. What a very interesting diversion I must provide, for you and your friends—’

  She broke off with a low cry, as he took two steps towards her, cupped her chin with his left hand and tilted her face up to his.

  Oh, God, thought Ellie in desperation. His clothes were shabby, even for a smuggler. His dark hair couldn’t have been cut for weeks and looked as if he’d tried to tame it with his fingers rather than a comb. He had at least two days’ worth of beard growth. She realised with a stab of warm shock that he was brushing his knuckles very softly across her cheek—how dare he?—and yet she was aware of feeling an unbelievable storm of emotion. Of yearning. For what? For him? Impossible. Impossible...

  He bent his head a little closer to hers. ‘You are unwise, Mademoiselle Duchamp,’ he murmured, ‘to defy me so.’ His blue eyes were scorching and his voice was a rough caress, making her shiver as much as his fingers did.

  She felt his free hand slide around her waist, pulling her just a little closer to him—or was that her, leaning into his tempting strength, his warmth? Was he going to kiss her? Every muscle of her body tensed in anticipation, and she felt a strange ache blooming into life low in her abdomen. And his mouth was curving into a half-smile, a knowing smile...

  He brushed the pad of his thumb lightly across her lips, and a deep shudder ran through her. Then he let his hand drop. She almost fell.

  �
�Are you after Lord Franklin?’ he asked softly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Was it a part of some scheme of yours, to come to England to seduce him? To become his mistress?’

  Her cheeks were burning. ‘No. There has never been anything like that. Never.’

  ‘But it’s what people are whispering.’

  She forced herself to shrug. ‘He’s rather old for me, don’t you think?’

  ‘If you say so. Most women I know aren’t too choosy about age, if there’s a title and plenty of money involved. And I would guess that you know how to use your femininity as well as you know how to use that gun of yours.’ He bent a little closer and gave her a thin smile. ‘But—a word of warning, mam’selle. I would advise you not to try to use your charms on me.’

  She stood gazing at him, quite speechless, aware of the thundering of her ragged heartbeat.

  He went to fetch his coat from the back of his chair. Shrugged it on, then walked over to where her valise and her father’s instruments and maps lay on the table and started gathering everything together, putting them back in the valise. ‘Here you are,’ he said, handing it to her. ‘You really had better be getting back before the Hall is locked up for the night. And the next time we meet, I expect you to have some information for me. You’ll remember, I hope, what I want?’

  She heaved in a steadying breath. ‘You want anything about La Rochelle.’

  ‘And the date?’

  ‘September 1813.’ She intoned the words without expression.

  He nodded. ‘Good.’

  But her father’s compass still lay on the table.

  ‘The compass,’ she said. ‘I must have it.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ He shook his head. ‘I will keep that.’ He was already heading for the door, which he opened to call out, ‘Tom? Tell Josh to get two horses saddled, will you? One for him and one for mam’selle.’

  ‘You expect me to ride?’

  ‘Why, yes. You’ve walked all the way from the Hall and you must be tired—best if you ride back. You can ride, I take it?’

  ‘Of course I can!’

  ‘Then I’m sure you’ll agree that the sooner you get back to the Hall, the better.’

  It was as if he was bored with her, she thought with incredulity. Having put her through this torment—these

  insults—he was bored with her. Holding the valise tightly, she followed him out through the house, wishing she could ignore his broad back, his powerful shoulders. Several French insults rolled off her tongue—inaudible to him, she thought, until he called back over his shoulder, ‘I can hear you. My French is far from perfect, but I do know what you’re saying.’

  Then he carried on leading the way to the stables.

  * * *

  Luke saw with approval that two horses were waiting out there—one of them was for big, curly-haired Josh Watterson, and there was another, smaller one for the girl. Luke watched as, disdaining Josh’s help, she used the mounting block to settle herself expertly in the side saddle; then she took up the reins and was almost out of the yard before Josh, muttering to himself, could spring on to his own big horse and catch up with her.

  Luke was amused. Tom, who’d come out to stand at Luke’s side, was watching with his arms folded. ‘She’s likely to be a damned nuisance, that one,’ Tom said flatly. ‘I do hope, Captain, that you haven’t let your wits be set wandering by a pretty little French face—’

  Luke cut in. ‘Do you really think she’s pretty, Tom? Because I don’t.’

  Tom coughed and muttered something about some jobs that needed doing, and as soon as he’d disappeared inside, Luke paced the courtyard, then turned to look up at the house. The moon rode high between windswept clouds, and the chimneys and turrets of the old place were black against its silvery light. He could hear the sound of the waves sucking at the shingle beach below, and somewhere a nightbird’s call pierced the darkness.

  When Luke and Anthony were boys, they’d sometimes gone sea fishing after sunset, rowing out so far that they’d imagined they could row all the way to France and back. Once, though, a vicious current had swept them beyond the headland and Anthony, only eleven, had tried not to show his terror as Luke struggled to hold the boat firm and get them back to safety.

  Had his brother been afraid, when he and his companions faced betrayal and captivity in France almost a year and a half ago? If Luke had been there, would he have been able to save Anthony?

  So much to think about—and now there was the girl. Luke’s hand closed tightly around the compass. He remembered how, as he’d caressed her cheek, he’d heard a soft catch in her breath. Remembered how her lips had parted in invitation, whether she realised it or not. As he’d leaned his head towards hers, he’d seen those amazing green eyes cloud with uncertainty. And with need...

  He didn’t think she was pretty. He thought she was beautiful. Stunningly beautiful. But he had to make use of her, he had no choice—because she’d given him the chance he’d long been waiting for, to discover the truth of what had happened to his brother.

  * * *

  In silence, Ellie followed Luke’s man Josh Watterson back to Bircham Hall. He knew every inch, it appeared to her, of the paths and byways around here, even in the black of night. Knew how to avoid any farms or cottages and knew how to travel the road quietly, always on the lookout for any other travellers, until they came at last—it was a journey of a mile, no more—to the boundary wall which she’d climbed earlier—so long ago, it seemed.

  He tethered the horses in the woods outside the wall, then, after scanning the dark expanse of Lord Franklin’s gardens, he offered to help her over. ‘Looks all clear, ma’am.’

  ‘The dogs,’ she reminded him sharply. ‘Sometimes the dogs are let out after dark.’

  He shook his head. ‘They won’t be out again till after midnight. We’re quite safe.’

  She stared at him. How could he possibly know? But she let him assist her over the wall, then he escorted her with the utmost confidence through the shrubbery to the far side of the house, until they reached a door that Ellie had noticed before, on one of her walks round the garden.

  ‘It will be locked...’ she began.

  But Josh was already reaching for the handle purposefully. Opening it, and holding it wide for her. ‘In you go, ma’am. Quietly now.’

  She obeyed, only to pull up jerkily as she realised that one of Lord Franklin’s footmen was standing in the shadows beyond the door.

  Her heart pounded against her ribs. Joseph. That was his name, Joseph. She’d noticed him at mealtimes—he was one of the youngest of the footmen, polite and deferential. Surely, as soon as he saw her rough companion, he would raise the alarm!

  But he merely said to her respectfully, ‘You’ve been out for an evening stroll around the garden, have you, ma’am? I’m afraid the weather’s a little chilly, even for this time of year.’ He went to exchange a few words with Josh, then he came back to her. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘let me just lock this door. And then, by your leave, I’ll escort you upstairs.’

  She followed him, stunned.

  Joseph left her outside the door to her room. She went inside and sat on her bed. Jésu. He must know the man called Luke. He must be in Luke’s pay.

  Chapter Ten

  Ellie was appalled at everything that had happened tonight. Her attempt to escape had ended in abject failure and meant that she was now in a far worse mess than she was before.

  That man. The captain. He and his colleagues were quite possibly smugglers—she knew that this part of the English coast was riddled with them. They landed the contraband goods—brandy and tobacco from France, wines and silks also—on secret shores by night, to avoid paying the taxes that English law demanded.

  But why had the captain insisted that she look for those documents in Lor
d Franklin’s library? A thought struck her. Could it be because Lord Franklin perhaps had records of the local smuggling gangs? Possessed, in his library, some incriminating evidence that the captain was intent on destroying?

  Yet the captain had specifically mentioned the town of La Rochelle, which she knew was a seaport on the south-west coast of France—and too far away, surely, for English smugglers to travel to! So what was its significance? Why did he need to know about it?

  Captain Luke. He exerted his authority over his gang of ruffians with a mere glance—and even though his right hand was maimed, no one with an ounce of sense in their heads would ever dream of doubting the real threat he posed.

  He was a threat to her especially, because she’d been fool enough to challenge him. And what was even worse was that when he’d put his arm round her, when he’d touched her face, she’d felt the astonishing urge to know what his mouth might feel like, pressed against her skin, her lips...

  Alone in her bedroom at Bircham Hall, she held her hands to her cheeks and felt her stomach twist with heated shame. Never—ever—had she thought that a man could affect her like that. And if the captain realised it, she would be in even worse trouble than she was already.

  Slowly she changed into her nightdress and climbed into her big bed, shivering as she remembered the cold calculation with which he’d studied that fateful compass. Ideas born of desperation scurried through her mind. What if she spoke to Lord Franklin as soon as possible about all this? She could set off to London tomorrow and there she could tell him—tell him...

  Tell him what, precisely? She tried to picture herself facing Lord Franklin in his exquisite Mayfair drawing room. She tried to picture his aristocratic features darkening with incredulity as she blurted out, ‘My lord, I really ought to have told you this from the beginning. You see, my father worked for the Emperor Napoleon. He drew maps for him and helped to design and build roads, so that his armies could march from Paris and threaten the whole world...’

  Lord Franklin would be furious. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this? You have endangered my reputation; my entire standing in society.’