by Lucy Ashford
Ellie gripped the sides of her chair, feeling quite faint. Lord Franklin got to his feet, still talking, and his words washed over her like waves of ice-cold water, chilling her blood and making her limbs nerveless. He told her that his secretary, Gerald Malone, had found out that a group of Revenue men had seen her one night, on the streets of Bircham Staithe.
That night when she’d tried to run from here. The night those rough men had caught her and Luke had rescued her. She’d been seen—and identified. She fought hard against panic. Had they seen her with Luke?
Lord Franklin sat down again and rested his hands on his desk. ‘Do you happen,’ he said softly, ‘to have met a man called Luke Danbury?’
Fresh shock rippled through her. ‘How could I?’ she breathed.
His lip curled. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I was rather hoping you might tell me. There are rumours, you see. And the best way to end them is to get you away from here. You have the rest of the day to prepare yourself for travelling with me to London. And please be under no illusion that you will get the chance to flaunt yourself, as you did last night. I think the best tactic will be to find you a suitable husband, as soon as possible—a French aristocrat, perhaps, who might be willing to take you back to your own country once Napoleon is dealt with. You need, mam’selle, a husband with a will as strong as your own.’
Ellie was on her feet. ‘You have no right. You have no right whatsoever to take control of my life like this, because you lied to me. You’re no relative of mine. And your mother is a fraud, too—she can walk, and you must know it—’
‘Silence!’
For a few moments all Ellie could hear was the sound of the clock ticking on the mantelshelf. At last Lord Franklin leaned forward. ‘Oh, Elise, be careful. Be very careful. If you should feel the unfortunate urge to object to my actions, then I heartily suggest that you think again. Your father. Remember?’
She sat down again, feeling quite cold with the knowledge of what he could reveal—that her father once worked for Britain’s arch-enemy, Napoleon. With a new war perhaps imminent, Ellie knew that, as Luke had once warned her, she could find herself interned in an English gaol. But marriage? She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
He gave a tight smile that was completely without warmth. ‘You can take Miss Pringle with you to London—she will serve as your companion until a marriage is arranged. And I shall tell Huffley to find out whether your maid here is prepared to travel with you—’
He broke off at the sound of a knock at the door and went impatiently to open it. ‘Ah. Huffley. Yes, I did want you. There’s a box of papers on the floor, by my desk...’
He moved out into the corridor and Ellie was on her feet, straining to hear his voice. ‘Yes,’ he was saying, ‘everything that’s in the box needs to be burned in the garden. All of it. Send a couple of men in for it, as soon as you can...’
By the time Lord Franklin came back in, she was sitting down again, smoothing her skirts. Her heart was thundering, but somehow she managed to listen calmly to what Lord Franklin was saying to her.
‘Well,’ he began, ‘I think we have everything in order. London, tomorrow. A change of scene for you indeed.’
Ellie tilted her chin to meet his gaze. ‘Does that mean I’m free to go, my lord?’
‘You are—for now.’ Ellie stood very slowly. ‘Oh, and one last thing,’ Lord Franklin added smoothly. ‘If I hear anything of your name being linked with that man Danbury again, then I’ll ruin him. His reputation, his estate, his tenants—everything. You can be very sure of that.’
Ellie walked steadily from the room, closing the door behind her.
* * *
Up in her bedroom, she found Mary dusting and tidying. ‘Mary,’ she said, ‘will you please find Joseph the footman and send him to me?’
‘He’s polishing the silver for Mr Huffley, miss. He might not be able to get away—’
‘Tell him it’s urgent. Now, Mary.’
The maid hurried off. A few moments later, Ellie heard a quiet knock at her door. She flew to open it and ushered Joseph inside.
‘Joseph,’ she began, ‘you must get a message to the captain. You must tell him I have to go to London tomorrow and—’
‘Ma’am,’ Joseph broke in, ‘he’s preparing to set sail for France, on Monsieur Jacques’s ship.’
She stepped back. ‘Today?’
‘This evening, ma’am—as soon as dusk falls.’
His brother, of course. He was going to rescue his brother. And whether he wanted her to or not, she would do anything to help him.
Anything.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Luke was pacing the beach, his boots crunching on the shingle. He was trying to curb his impatience as the minutes went by; knowing full well that Jacques’s sailors would only dare to bring his ship in close once darkness began to sweep over the sea.
Jacques had been waiting for him at Higham House early that morning when Luke got back from Bircham Hall. From Ellie’s bed. A pang that was almost pain shot through him, as he remembered how beautiful she’d looked last night as he slid that silk gown from her body. He still had the lavender scent of her skin in his nostrils; he could still hear her low cries as she clasped him to her. He had taken her innocence. He’d had no right to
do so.
Jacques had confirmed in person this morning that Anthony had indeed been found. He’d been a prisoner of the French, but had escaped and made his way to the coast to find a ship for England. Weak from his imprisonment, Anthony had caught a fever and become very ill, Jacques said; but a community of nuns just outside the port of Le Havre—who wanted none of Napoleon and dreaded the prospect of war again—were looking after him well in their convent.
‘I heard all this from a trustworthy source. Indeed, I was assured your brother grows better daily,’ Jacques told Luke. ‘I wasn’t able to reach him myself—my ship was under surveillance and we had to sail away. But there is no doubt it’s Anthony. He is waiting for you, mon ami.’
Now, as the night gathered, Luke could see Josh and Pete Watterson pointing to their rowing boat, which lay beached at the sea’s edge. Jacques was with them. ‘Captain Luke!’ called Josh. ‘Time to go! We can see the ship out there!’
Tom came over to bid Luke farewell. ‘When we meet next, Captain,’ he said confidently, ‘you’ll have your brother with you, I’m sure of that. But...’ and he hesitated ‘...that won’t be quite the end of it. You know what they say, Captain? About Anthony being a traitor?’
‘I’ll deal with that.’ Luke’s voice was calm, but his eyes were grim. ‘Believe me, I’ll deal with that.’ He was looking out to sea, where in the twilight a white sail glimmered and the light of a lantern flashed once, twice.
Jacques was calling to him from the rowing boat. ‘Luke? Are you ready?’
‘That’s it,’ Luke said to Tom. ‘Time for me to go.’
But he hardly got more than a few yards, because Tom had gripped his arm and was saying hoarsely, ‘There’s someone coming down the cliff path, Captain. Look.’
Luke swung round. Customs men? Soldiers?
And then Luke was staring incredulously—because the person hurrying towards them was Ellie.
* * *
God’s blood, no. At the sight of her—all wrapped up in her old grey cloak, carrying her valise—Luke felt a great anguish in his heart. Had it been easy to leave her arms this morning? To leave her warm bed? No. Had it been easy, to say, I have to go to my brother. I have to find him—and then to turn his back on her? No. A thousand times, no.
For Luke knew he might not be able to return. Luke knew that Anthony was a marked man, and so was he. Even if he brought Anthony back, he would still have a hard fight on his hands to clear his brother’s name—a fight which the government would be eager to win as swiftly as possi
ble, especially if war with Napoleon was looming once more.
He knew it was quite possible that arrangements might be made for both Anthony and him to be silenced. He knew that he should have kept away from the girl from the beginning. But as he watched her hurrying towards him along the beach, with his men and Jacques staring at her, he realised that she had come to mean far, far too much to him.
Being with her filled a great void in his heart and his life. It cancelled out the emptiness left by the way he felt he’d let down his estate and his family. Had even started to heal the bitterness he felt at the way Anthony and his brave comrades had been treated.
But Luke knew that he was a fool and worse for wanting her more than he’d ever allowed himself to want anything.
She was within a few feet of him now, and her footsteps were faltering. Jacques, with his familiar sense of loyalty, was keeping Luke’s men out of earshot. Ellie’s face was lifted to Luke’s—it was troubled and uncertain, but still so lovely. What was she doing here? What was she thinking of?
‘Luke,’ she said, still clutching her valise, ‘I had to find you—’
And then, drowning her words, the shrill cry from one of the Watterson brothers. ‘There’s a Revenue cutter sailing round the headland, Captain! We need to get going. Especially as the wind’s getting up—those storm clouds show there’s a nasty squall coming in from the south, and if we don’t go now, we’re not going to make it.’
Already Luke felt the first lash of the wind on his face and the sting of raindrops. ‘Push the boat out, now.’ Then he spun round on the girl. ‘I’ve told you. I have to leave for France. What were you thinking of, coming here?’
Her face was white, her eyes haunted. ‘Something happened at Bircham Hall and—’
‘Are you in danger?’
‘No. No, I’m not. But—’
‘Then you must go back there,’ he said more harshly than he meant. ‘Now.’
‘I can’t,’ she whispered. ‘Take me with you.’
He stared at her blankly, then rubbed his hand across his eyes before drawing in a rasping breath. ‘You are not helping me,’ he said. ‘You are not helping me.’
* * *
The storm caught them within minutes of setting off from the shore. The wind and the rain lashed at the rowing boat as if it were a child’s toy and the waves tossed it from side to side. Jacques took the tiller while the Watterson brothers hauled at the oars and the girl sat hunched in the bow, her face almost hidden by the hood of her cloak.
Luke swore under his breath. This was impossible. He could see Jacques’s ship, riding at anchor; could see the crew leaning over the side, anxiously watching the struggles of the storm-tossed boat. And the Revenue cutter! God almighty, if he looked round, he could see it as well, still a good distance away, but...
‘They’re gaining on us, Captain!’ Josh Watterson was shouting, his arm muscles bulging as he pulled the oars.
‘Row harder,’ Luke shouted above the wind. ‘You can do it. We’re almost there!’ He could see Jacques’s second-in-command on the deck of the ship, giving orders for the hauling up of the anchor. And suddenly Luke realised that by some miracle, the wind was swinging round in their favour; Jacques wrenched the tiller hard to take advantage, the boat hurtled over the waves and within moments it was lurching alongside the ship. Eager arms were reaching out to haul Luke on board. But Luke was pushing Ellie forward, and Jacques, black-browed, was at his side to help him.
‘This one first!’ Jacques shouted up to his men. But in almost the same breath he turned back to Luke and muttered, ‘To bring the girl. Sacré bleu, Luke. Are you mad?’
* * *
Maybe he was, thought Luke tiredly as he sat an hour later in Jacques’s tiny cabin. But this was truly the first chance he’d had to contemplate the full extent of his madness, because from the moment he, Ellie and the Wattersons were on board Jacques’s ship, it was as if all hell had broken loose.
Scarcely had they all been hauled up from the rowing boat when the storm had unleashed all its savage power and the boat had been swept away, no doubt to emerge on some Kentish beach in the days to come as smashed driftwood. The Wattersons immediately joined with Jacques’s crew to struggle with the sails and the ropes as the ship headed out into the Channel; Luke watched and shouted out the progress of the Revenue cutter to them, while two of Jacques’s men took Ellie below deck.
Their expressions said more clearly than any words what they thought of bringing a girl on board. And now that the storm had subsided a little and Jacques and Luke were able to take a brief moment below deck to review their plans, Jacques didn’t spare his words.
‘To bring the girl with you. To put us—and her—at such risk!’ Jacques rubbed his forehead tiredly. ‘I saw her pleading with you on the beach. But have you gone mad?’
Luke stared at him. ‘Good God. You think that I wanted to bring her?’
Jacques let out a sigh and poured two brandies. ‘Very well. I’ll accept, for now, that you had no choice, and perhaps some time soon you’ll explain. But we still have rough seas to cross, and I must go up again and take the wheel.’ He swiftly swallowed a large portion of his brandy. ‘All I can say is—thank God your friends the Wattersons were forced to board my ship also, because without their help I think my ship might have foundered. Do you still want me to land you near Le Havre?’
‘If it’s true what you say—that Anthony is being sheltered in a convent there—then, yes.’
Jacques nodded. ‘There might be soldiers around—you realise? But even in desperate times, the military tend to respect convents. Listen, mon ami. I’ll put you ashore by night and I’ll wait out at anchor for you as long as I possibly can. But there’s talk of armed risings, both in support of Napoleon and against him. And if you’re captured, I might not be able to get ashore to help you.’
Luke nodded. ‘I realise that, and nor would I expect you to. You’ve done enough and more.’
Jacques reached out his hand to briefly clasp Luke’s left one. ‘You saved my life,’ he said, ‘when I was a prisoner and I’ll never forget it. We’ll get you to Le Havre, and I’ll give you all the help I can. But as for the girl—’
He broke off as someone banged on the door of his cabin. ‘Monsieur Jacques! There’s a fresh squall blowing up from the south-east. You’re needed.’
Jacques grabbed his black, salt-stained coat and left. A moment later Jacques was back, roaring, ‘Luke. You’re needed, too. You can haul on a rope one-handed, can’t you? Up on deck with you, mon ami—now!’
* * *
For the next hour the small ship was tossed like a cork on the boiling, foam-flecked waters of the Channel. Ellie lay curled on the bunk in the tiny cabin that Jacques’s men had taken her to, a cabin that was little more than a cupboard.
She knew that she’d had no choice other than to come to Luke. No choice, yet he was so angry with her. You are not helping me.
She lay fighting her nausea and fighting her
weakness—she may even have slept a little—until she opened her eyes to realise—was the sea a little calmer? Was the ship rolling a fraction less violently? And then, above the creaking of the ship and the distant shouting of the sailors, she heard someone knocking on her cabin door.
She sat up. The door opened and Luke’s tall figure filled the space there. Despair twisted into her ribs like a knife. He was angry with her. He despised her. She rose to her feet, unsteady still. ‘Luke. I know that what I’ve done must seem foolish and rash. But I had to come to you—’
He crossed the tiny room in two strides, his eyes taking in her pallor. ‘Sit down again, Ellie. Have you been sick?’
She sat carefully, pushing her loose hair back from her face. ‘I’m a bad sailor, I’m afraid.’ She tried to smile. ‘I’m always sick at sea.’
‘O
h, Ellie.’ Luke spread out his hands. ‘Now you’re having to endure this. And back at Bircham, they’ll be searching for you. What will everyone think? What will Lord Franklin think?’
‘He’ll be thinking,’ she answered quietly, ‘that I’ve spoiled his plans yet again.’
Luke had spied a wooden stool in a corner; he dragged it out and sat opposite her. ‘Explain.’
‘He told me this afternoon that he was taking me to London.’
‘To London? Why?’
‘He told me he was going to find a husband for me. A French husband.’ Something caught in her voice. ‘Someone who would take me back to France and keep me under control. I objected. I told him I knew he was no relative of mine and that his mother could walk—I said that the two of them were frauds. He was furious.’
Luke half-smiled, but at the same time he was shaking his head. ‘Oh, Ellie,’ he said again. ‘So you came to find me. To come to France with me. But France is dangerous. What am I going to do with you?’
‘You don’t have to do anything with me,’ she said, looking so pale and so proud that Luke felt his heart wrench. ‘You can leave me in France. It’s my country—remember?’
‘And a country that will soon be at war, quite possibly.’ There was frustration and anger in his words. ‘England and the allied powers cannot possibly allow Napoleon to regain his throne. There could be soldiers everywhere, and you know that my first duty is to get Anthony out of there.’
‘You need not think that I will be a burden!’ She had fire in her eyes now and spots of colour in those desperately pale cheeks. ‘Luke, I am not your responsibility, and I never intended to be—I came to you because I had to bring you the letter!’
She was reaching for her cloak, delving into its deep pocket. Luke stood stock still, not understanding. ‘The letter? But I put it back. I told you it had to be left where it was. I told you that I would challenge Lord Franklin over it when I got back to London. Once I’ve made sure that Anthony is safe—’
‘Lord Franklin was going to destroy it, Luke!’ Her voice burned with passion. ‘He was going to have all those papers burnt within the hour—I heard him giving the orders. I could not let him do it—do you understand? I was with Lord Franklin, in his library. He had to go outside to speak to his butler, and I found the letter. I took it.’ She thrust it at him.
