When You Wish

by Jane Feather

  “I would change it for her,” he said bitterly, and she saw how the pain had eaten into him. He would never have consented to smuggling unless he believed it the only way to save his wife.

  And now a new trouble threatened all of them, one she felt was her fault. If she hadn’t disobeyed Da …

  “You should never ha’ come out this night,” he scolded.

  “She was a help,” her brother interjected.

  “She was that,” Da said, his voice gentling. “But now it’s off to bed with her, with all of us.”

  Holly rose up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “I love you, Da.”

  “Get on wi’ you now,” he said, “and you be thinking about Daniel.”

  “I will,” she promised. And for his sake she would. For a few moments, anyway.

  But even that pledge went out of her mind as she lit an oil lamp and climbed up into the loft. She put the lantern on the table, then dug into her pocket for the bottle.

  In the flickering light, she studied the object in her hand. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how it had gotten in the brandy keg. She turned it over in her hands several times, relishing the cool smoothness of it. Silver climbed up the bottle’s neck, and the green glass was transparent enough to reveal its contents.

  Contents!

  She worked the stopper, finally freeing it, and a leather scroll fell out. Her fingers trembled as she unfurled it and started to read.

  To thine own wish be true. Do not follow the moth to the star.

  Disappointment swept over her. No genie. No magical potion. Only a cryptic message that offered more questions than answers.

  This afternoon she would have to meet the stranger and discover exactly what he wanted. She would have to hide her apprehension from her family. She would have to lie to them, and then perhaps make a bargain with the devil. And all she had to protect her was this small bottle with its strange message.

  She examined it again. The bottle was rimmed with silver. Perhaps it would bring a pound or two.

  And the message?

  Was it an accident that both the bottle and the stranger had appeared this night? Could they be connected in some way? Was fate trying to tell her something?

  To thine own wish be true. What was her wish? Safety for her family. Good health for her mother. Hope again for her father. A future for Paul. And for herself? Love. A love that survived time like the message itself.

  She clutched the tiny leather scroll. Maybe it did mean something. She had to believe it did.

  But a demon repeated the other part of the message. Do not follow the moth to the star. Was that what she was doing in meeting the stranger again?

  No! She refused to consider it. The bottle was good luck, a talisman. It just had to be.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HOLLY DIDN’T LIKE lying. She especially hated lying to her mother.

  But that’s what she did as she sat at her mother’s bedside.

  Forcing calmness, she chattered about Georgette and the weather and a book she’d borrowed from the vicar, a book of poetry by Sir Walter Scott, and she read a passage she particularly loved.

  True love’s the gift which God has given

  To man alone beneath the heaven:

  It is not fantasy’s hot fire,

  Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly;

  It liveth not in fierce desire,

  With dead desire it doth not die;

  It is the secret sympathy,

  The silver link, the silken tie,

  Which heart to heart and mind to mind

  In body and in soul can bind.

  A hush followed her words, and her mother’s eyes glistened. “Your da and I have that kind of love,” she whispered. “I want you to have the same.”

  Years seemed to fade away and her mother looked young again and vibrant. She had given up wealth for her husband, and had worked long hours in the fields with him so her children could have an education. She dreamed of a better life for them, dreamed of land of their own and a country and place where her family could control their own destiny.

  “Da wants me to consider Daniel,” Holly said hesitantly.

  “And do you want to consider him?”

  She bit her lips. She wanted to ease her parents’ worry. They had given so much to both her and Paul, unquestioning love, most of all, and she wanted to return the gift.

  Her mother smiled faintly. “Don’t compromise, love. Don’t ever settle for less than that silver link.” She held out her hand and clutched Holly’s in it. “Promise me.”

  Holly nodded, wondering if she would ever find that link. She was nineteen, considered on the shelf by many, and since Barkley, no one had excited her heart. No one ever—

  The stranger suddenly came to mind, uninvited. He had caused internal chaos but, because of fear and anger, not any tender emotion.

  “Holly?”

  She looked back at her mother, who regarded her quizzically. “You don’t care for Daniel?”

  Holly shook her head. “I know he’s a fine man, but—”

  “Then enough said,” Celeste Hastings interrupted. “I think I would like to read more of this book.”

  Holly hesitated. “I could take some eggs into town … if you think you will be all right.”

  “Of course, I’ll be fine. My cough is not bothering me, and I feel much better.”

  “I won’t be long.”

  “Stay as long as you wish,” her mother said. “I really am better.”

  “I can tell.” Holly leaned over and kissed her. “I love you,” she whispered.

  She went to the door. The day was warmer, and she decided not to wear her cloak. The small bottle was already in her skirt pocket; for some reason she didn’t want to leave it behind. Summoning all her courage, she left the cottage and started toward the cliffs—toward the stranger who held in his hands the lives of everyone dear to her.

  Shivers ran down her back. Dear God in heaven, she didn’t know what to do.

  Her steps slowed as she reached the meeting place. The cliffs were quiet, most of the people at work in the fields.

  Holly saw the stranger before he saw her. She stopped and studied him for a moment. He sat on the ground, looking over the cliffs at the sea. He had one leg stretched out, the other crooked at the knee. His arms rested on that knee and his head on his arms, as if he was infinitely weary. He wore a linen shirt and buckskin breeches. A tan frock coat lay on a nearby rock. The wind ruffled his hair.

  In bright sunlight he didn’t look like a devil.

  “Come closer.”

  She started at the sound of his voice. He hadn’t turned to look at her, and she had been sure he was unaware of her approach. Perhaps he was the devil. She instinctively clutched the bottle in her pocket.

  He rose in a graceful movement and faced her. “I won’t bite.” His lips turned up slightly at one corner.

  “How can I be sure?” she retorted.

  “I’m sorry I frightened you last night.”

  “Are you?” She doubted that he was ever sorry about anything.

  “Aye,” he said. “I did not expect a woman.”

  “But you did expect someone?”

  “Perhaps not last night but eventually.”

  “Why?”

  “Rumors,” he said. “Casks of brandy showing up where they shouldn’t.”

  “You said you worked for the prime minister?”

  “Occasionally.”

  He was playing games with her, as a cat played with a mouse.

  “What do you want?”

  For the first time, she saw indecision in his eyes. “I need help,” he said finally.

  “And you will blackmail me to get it?”

  “Yes,” he said. “If I must. I would much prefer your willing cooperation.” He hesitated a moment, then continued in a more conciliatory voice. “I didn’t expect a slip of a girl to be caught in my net.”

  At least he wasn’t as coldhearted as the earl. At least h
e had some scruples about using people.

  “Will the locals protect Gatwell?” he asked.

  “No one here has any reason to like Lord Gatwell,” she replied. “But they like preventive men even less. Gatwell might cheat us, but the government has transported men who were only trying to support their families.”

  “Smuggling’s a crime.”

  “And who does it hurt?” she asked tightly. “Whose mouth does it deprive of food?”

  He was silent.

  “My da and brother have always been honest men, and where did it get them?” she continued. “My da can barely feed his family, and my mother is sick from overwork and lung disease.”

  “And so Gatwell made them an offer?”

  “No,” she said. “Another man.”

  “His name?”

  She stood there silently, unable to give up a Cornishman, even Tim Bailey, who sold unfit horses and beat his wife.

  “Gatwell always does business thus,” the stranger said. “He always layers himself with protection and allows those beneath him to get caught.” He paused. “Or simply disappear.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve been after him for fifteen years,” he said.

  Stunned, Holly could only gape at him. Fifteen years.

  “Why?” she finally managed.

  “He traded with Napoleon,” he said softly. “And not only brandy. He traded information.”

  Holly felt faint. She’d only been a tad of a child during the last of the Napoleonic Wars, but she knew of far too many families who’d lost sons, and men who’d lost a leg or arm or eye. The earl of Gatwell a traitor?

  The stranger took his coat, laid it on the ground, then eased her onto it and sat beside her. His hand caught hers. She was too startled to try to remove it. Even if she wanted to. Despite his threats, something about him was compelling.

  Holly raised her gaze to his. His gray eyes were smoldering, and she swallowed hard.

  “If you would chase someone all those years,” she said, trying to sneak into his thoughts, even his heart, “then why would you let my family go free? You must answer if I am to trust you.”

  “You don’t have to trust me,” he said harshly. “You just have to do what I say.”

  Resentment flared in her. For a moment, she had almost liked him.

  “I have to know,” she persisted, her hand reaching in her pocket to clutch the small bottle. “I must.”

  He sighed and looked away.

  “The information he gave the French,” he said finally in a neutral voice, “concerned my regiment. My brother was the colonel. I was a lieutenant. We were in Austria, prepared to join Wellington’s troops in Waterloo. Gatwell had just delivered a supply of guns to our regiment and gave a party the night before we were to leave for the front lines.”

  Holly felt the tension in him, heard the pain he was trying to hide.

  “We were ambushed the next day,” he said. “More than half of the men were killed. My brother and I were wounded, and he was blamed. Someone claimed he’d been drinking heavily the night before and had been careless with his words.”

  “Had he?” she asked in a whisper.

  “He was the one man who didn’t drink that night—he never drank before a battle—but he felt responsible because the rest of us had. His name and his career were destroyed. Some even called him traitor.”

  His anger and grief were palpable.

  “That’s not the end of it, is it?” she asked.

  “My brother killed himself.” His jaw set, and a muscle twitched just above his cheek.

  She sat there, stunned by the revelation, by his despair. Fifteen years had done nothing to temper it, nor the rage behind it. She shivered as she realized the depth of his determination.

  “You are sure it was Lord Gatwell who informed.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

  “Are you, Miss Hastings?” he asked, his brows drawing together in a scowl.

  “I know what it’s like to love a brother.”

  His gaze met hers, and she felt it burning her. Her stomach fluttered and heat colored her cheeks.

  “You know how to strike a blow, Miss Hastings.”

  “I truly did not mean to do so,” she said honestly. “I only answered your question.”

  “I fired on myself,” he said dryly, then raised a finger to her face, looking at her intently. “How did you come by the name Holly?”

  The change of subject surprised her. By now she should have expected the unexpected from him. If she hadn’t seen a sudden vulnerability in him and understood that he needed to escape wrenching memories, she might not have answered him.

  Even feeling she might well be walking into an abyss, she replied, “My mother. She always loved Christmas. I was born on Christmas Day, and she’d insisted on Holly.”

  He untied the ribbons of her cap and pulled it off. “It suits you,” he said, “with your copper hair and green eyes.”

  His voice had lost its coolness, had taken on a sensuality that frightened her. A new line of attack? She wasn’t sure. Yet her breath caught as a flood of new sensations careened through her body.

  Her heart pounded faster. Breath came in short gasps. She seemed to be melting and somehow she was leaning closer and closer to the man she’d regarded as a devil only moments earlier.

  His head lowered, and she knew instantly what he intended. She wanted it, dear God. She wanted his kiss with every fiber of her being. But she was also afraid. She had to keep her wits about her. She had to be able to think. She had to learn more of this man and his motives.

  They touched, his lips with hers, for a second before she jerked back. Her heart pounded so loudly now that she was sure he could hear it. He was a nob. A nob who wanted something from her, just as Barkley had wanted something from her. He was using her to get what he wanted. Her hand went back and she slapped him, as hard as she could.

  He reached up to touch his cheek. In a moment, it would start to redden. She waited for retaliation. But all he did was watch her. Strangely enough, she saw no anger in his eyes.

  Then, without a word, he rose and walked to the edge of the cliff. She had the feeling she’d stopped existing for him.

  What had she done?

  She’d been prepared to do anything to protect her family. But for a few moments, they had been almost like friends. Then came that unguarded moment, when the intensity between them flared. And she’d known raw betrayal. The fault lay with her own body as much as his seductive assault.

  She watched him standing alone on the rocky cliff. He looked elegant, his shirt flowing over a broad back and long arms. She saw the pistol then, tucked in his trousers toward the back.

  The pistol reminded her of his purpose, of the hard glint in his eyes. The pistol warned her to be careful.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  BLOODY HELL, BUT he’d made a fine mess of things.

  His cheek still stung with the force of her blow, but his pride suffered even more.

  She’d looked so lovely, so innocent, and something deep inside him yearned to share that innocence. It made him forget who he was. Made him forget the ever-present vision of his brother’s face before he had picked up the gun and shot himself.

  He’d deserved that slap. And more.

  He sniffed the scent of the sea, wanting its cleansing effect. He felt dirty at the moment, as corrupt as the man he wanted to destroy. He was using people as pawns just as Gatwell had. The fact that their motives differed meant little.

  “I’m sorry,” he said finally, his face still turned toward the sea. He couldn’t remember when last he had said those words, and they sounded rusty even to him. “Go home. I’ll find another way to take care of the earl.”

  She should have run. He should have heard the sound of shoes fleeing over rocks. But he didn’t. There was only a silence.

  He turned slowly. She was standing like a statue. A flush reddened her cheeks,
and her green eyes were like a stormy sea, tempestuous and unpredictable.

  He waited for angry words, but they didn’t come. Instead she chewed her lip with uncertainty. Then she spoke. “Can you prove that Lord Gatwell sold information to Napoleon?”

  “If I could, I wouldn’t be here,” he said dryly. “Gatwell would be properly hanged by now. One man witnessed Gatwell’s meeting with Napoleon’s aide the night before our regiment left for Waterloo. And that man died soon after.”

  The girl had moved closer to him and placed a hand on his arm. The contact took away his breath. He didn’t understand why she felt compassion for him, especially after he had threatened her family. He felt small, empty. He felt no better than the man he’d pursued these last years.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked.

  “Go home,” he said wearily. “I’ll have my people comb these cliffs for the brandy and wait until someone comes to pick the shipment up.”

  “My family …”

  “I won’t involve them.” Defeated, he turned toward her. He was giving up years of work, violating his private promise to his brother. But he couldn’t blackmail this woman by threatening people she loved.

  “Thank you,” she replied, but she still didn’t go.

  “Bloody hell, get out of here.”

  “You’ll never catch him then.”

  “Why?”

  Her fingers tightened around his arm.

  “You won’t find the cache,” she said, “and the earl will know for certain something’s wrong if you have a number of strangers combing the beaches. There’s already talk about you, but then everyone believes Barkley owes you money. He owes everyone else, since Gatwell won’t let go of a pence unless he must. Does Barkley owe you money?”

  Justin nodded.

  She hesitated, her nervousness obvious. Then, “John Savage isn’t your true name, is it?”

  “John Savage was a young lieutenant who died years ago.” Justin was stunned by his own revelation. That piece of information was something only a few people were aware of.

  Yet here he was, babbling away, giving up secrets that could cause his own death. He was appalled at himself.