by Kate Pearce
“Yes. Quite purposefully—you said you preferred not to meet them, so I purposefully did not say your name in case they recognized it—even if Col didn’t, both Sally and Grace surely would. But I understand now, how that might not seem respectful, but I meant my words to have the opposite effect. You have my apology—I can think as fast as the devil himself when I’m commanding a ship, but in affairs of the heart, I’m afraid I’m entirely an ass.”
Tressa was sure she wanted to say something reasoned, but could not—she had not really heard another word after affairs of the heart. “I— Thank you.”
But he was not done with her—she had slighted him as well. “Respect goes hand in hand with trust, Tressa Teague.” His voice was low and quiet and deeply personal. “And you have to decide right now, this night, whether you trust me, or not.”
This was the most important thing he had ever said to her, because it was also the truest—though she had needed him, and been charmed and attracted to him, she had never completely trusted him. “Can you give me any good reason why I should?”
“Yes.” He was all determined seriousness. “Because there will be no medals or preferment or even mention of my name in Admiralty dispatches no matter how well or how badly we do on the morrow. Because the only thing that I will get from this misadventure—the only thing I want—is your company and the satisfaction of knowing that we did what we set out to do. Do you understand?”
“Not exactly.” He was overthrowing every conception she had made about him. She understood and respected his ambitions. For him to foreswear those ambitions now, made no sense to her.
“This adventure is ours, and ours alone. The Admiralty will never know I was involved even if we do manage to burn down half of France.”
“Then why are you doing it?” Her heart and her pride—all of her hopes—rested upon his answer.
“Because your idea was good, and worthy—too worthy to disregard. And because the things I value more than anything else are loyalty and friendship. You gave me both of those things, and I am to pay you back in kind.”
The struggle between her heart and her pride was excruciating. “What you feel for me is but loyalty and friendship?”
“No buts about it.” He spoke solemnly. “My heart beats true, Tressa Teague. If you stay true to me, I will be true to you.”
Ah, but for that to happen, she could have to have the courage to be true to herself.
The moment stretched out too long without her answer.
Matthew tried to smile over his frown, but gestured to the wall of four curtained bunks set into the stern. “Best get some rest. You’ll need it in the morning.”
And he disappeared back up the ladder.
She was still awake, still wearing all of her clothes though she was in one of the bunks, staring into the dark behind her curtain, when he finally returned below deck. She listened to the small rustling sounds that signaled he was disrobing—the slide of fabric across his shoulders, and muted staccato of buttons popping free, and the heavy clunk as boots were levered off.
Tressa’s breath stopped up hot in her chest as she waited for him to push the curtain over, or press his weight into the thin cotton mattress, or speak her name again.
But none of those things happened—instead she heard him climb into his own bunk, and settle himself in on the other side of the thin wall.
And she was left staring into the darkness, wondering if she really had got him all wrong—whether he was there only for the glory. And whether she was there only for the money.
Morning came before she had fully made up her mind.
In the dark before the dawn, Matthew was up, rapping on the wooden partition between their bunks. “Out and down, Teague. Show a leg and roust out.”
Tressa came abruptly awake, and drew back enough of the short curtains to find him already up and shoving his feet into sea boots, and thrusting his arms into the sleeves of his sea coat by the light of a single lantern.
“Well, damn my eyes if you need any more beauty sleep, Tressa Teague—if you get any more beautiful I’ll go blind.” He rubbed his hand across his face as if he could chafe some clarity into his eyes before he stood and faced her. “Well, what’s it going to be?”
Tressa didn’t pretend to misunderstand the question. She unfolded herself from the bunk as elegantly as possible—which was probably not the least bit elegantly at all. And though her mouth felt dry and full of cotton, and her heart was hammering in her chest like a church bell, she made her decision. “I’ll stay. I want to stay.”
“You’re sure?” He came forward in the lamp light so she could see the glint in his eyes— the pleasure and satisfaction he did not otherwise show. “There can be no doubts, no mistrust from here on out, Tressa. We have to be able to rely upon each other without question.”
She was back to being Tressa to him. That was enough for now. “Aye.”
It was as if she had lit the wick of his merry charm. “Then I need you on deck within five minutes to up anchor, my Teague.” He tossed her a smile and started up the companionway. “Extra points if you know how to make coffee.”
“I don’t. I’m not in the least bit domestic. But I brought apples with me for breakfast.”
His answer was a laugh that warmed her in a way her heavy cloak could not. “Devil take me if I ever want you to be.” He reached down to hand her up the stairs, and take a great chomping bite of the apple. “Pendragon red. Ought I to ask if it’s enchanted?”
It was her turn to laugh. “It’s only enchanted if you believe.”
“And what do you believe?”
“That we make our own fates if we but have the courage to do so.”
He kissed her hand. “Then come stand to the tiller, my courageous friend, and make your fate by letting her into the wind as she bears.” And with one last glittering glance, he disappeared forward to see to the anchor.
As soon as they were out into deep water, and making way up-channel with the sails set to catch the brisk following wind, Matthew came aft. “I’d forgotten what a pleasure it is to sail so simply—to feel the pull of the sheets beneath my own hands instead of standing on the quarterdeck calling out orders.”
“The burden of being the captain—all the responsibility and none of the pleasure?”
His laugh was infectious. “You understand me perfectly. Though I’m sure my crews think a captain’s job is nothing but pleasure. And they would be right if they could see me now, mid-channel on such a day, with the wind blowing thirty knots for France with a pretty lass by my side.” He checked the lay of the sails, taking the gauge of the wind whipping them eastward. “We’ll make Calais this day, if I’m any judge.” He turned back to her. “Still no regrets?”
“I only regret that I mistrusted you.”
She surprised him—his brows rose and his eyes widened before he quickly turned to humor. “I have great hopes that I can prove myself yet. And to do so, I’d best set to work.”
As there were only two of them, Tressa’s work—staying at the tiller and keeping them resolutely sailing east by northeast—was the far easier. Matthew bore the full brunt of the effort to amass every single piece of tinder or fuel that wasn’t integral to the hull and pile it into the two forward holds that normally held nothing but nets and pilchards.
He came aft now and again to check with her and eat the bread and cheese she had provisioned. “I’ll be glad enough to set this tub on fire. I don’t think I’ll ever get the stink of pilchards out of my nose, no matter how the men scrubbed and holystoned the hell out of those holds.”
Tressa had to laugh at such fastidiousness from such a man—the sturdy sea coat he was wearing against the chill wind must have been old and used the first time he put it on. “This ship hardly smells at all, but I suppose I’ve become inured to the stink of fish—I’ve lived within whiffing distance of the quay and the pilchards all my life.”
He had no objections to such a low situation. “You’re a r
are lass, Teague.”
And he was a rarer man, still. How many other men of her acquaintance or experience would have asked, let alone agreed to take her on? How many decorated frigate captains would be happy to have someone like her—a woman and a smuggler—pilot them up-channel? How many men would have agreed to give up a sizable portion of their prize money without being asked?
Not that she didn’t think she deserved the payment—and she was certainly earning that money all over again by going on with him now. But she was also getting the adventure and the control she had always craved—for the first time in her life, she felt as if she were very much in charge of her own fate.
She had could only hope the French cannon weren’t going to change that.
Chapter 14
Tressa had told him twice that she had no regrets, but she was wrong—regret hit her hard in the chest the moment the mouth of the canal of Gravelines gaped at them like a black maw between the ghostly white of the moonlight off the dunes.
She should never have suggested this scheme. She should never have come with him to carry it out. She should never have thought she was brave enough for such a thing. Because this night she might well and truly die, and the thing she regretted the most was that she had not spent the past two nights making mad, passionate love to Matthew Kent.
And it was too late now. She was committed.
“Point her dead in, Teague, and hold steady as she goes.”
Tressa swallowed the misgivings that were lodged like a hot stone in her throat, and nodded. “Aye.” She peered hard at the sliver of dark that rose and fell between the bow rail and the jib above, and gripped the tiller until her knuckles shone white against the polished wood.
This was what she had wanted—responsibility, equality, and above all, respect.
They had already made all the arrangements they possibly might before they had run out of time—they had only been able to hide one dory in the dunes before the early winter sunset had made it too dark to chance any further landings. The distances that had looked so conquerable on a map had proved daunting in reality.
Matthew had already lowered the spanker sail aft, leaving it slack against the deck where it would serve as fuel to feed the fire, and was trimming the other sails, adjusting them to the changing wind direction as the lugger passed into the lee of the land.
“Good lass.” He called encouragement from amidships. “Steady on. Coming in nicely. Eyes ahead on the unfamiliar way up the canal, while I look busy at the sails. That’s it.”
He let out more slack so the ship slowed, just as it ought, as they passed through the dunes and under the loom of the dual fortifications of Fort St. Philippe.
It felt as if a hundred pairs of eyes must be looking down at them, weighing out the cut of their rig, sizing her up in a spyglass. Tressa’s heart was hammering like a church bell inside her chest, and she felt hot and cold all at the same time as a fine sheen of perspiration broke out along the line of her spine under the sturdy wool of her gown, chilling her to the bone.
She calmed herself as she always had during a smuggling run—by going over the plan in her head. She would keep to her station until they were in sight of the warehouse, whereupon Matthew would throw back the tarpaulins covering the hold, light the pyre, and come take the tiller while she went into the dory tailed off the stern, stepping the mast while he tied off the tiller before joining her.
What came after that would be improvisation and making the most of the circumstances as they happened—something he had considerably more experience with than she did.
But what came next was entirely unexpected—Matthew ran back to her, his blue eyes dark and shining under the moon. “New plan.” He started working a rope around the bulwark to becket the tiller, and hold it steady so she didn’t have to. “I’m putting you off.”
He grabbed her upper arm and hauled her toward the taffrail. “Now.”
“No,” she objected immediately. “I can do—”
He hustled her to the rail, implacable. “The channel is too narrow. You’re taking the dory and heading to the marsh now, do you understand?”
“No.” She could not go off without him. She had no talent for improvisation. Without the plan to follow, she would be—to use an unfortunate phrase—dead in the water.
It was as if he didn’t hear her. “Row for the marsh immediately,” he ordered. “Hide there, and I will meet you.”
Her fingers were losing their grip under his stronger pressure. “When?”
“Wait no longer than daylight. Judge for yourself whether to row out of the marsh or head across to the dune to take the other boat across the channel. But no longer than daylight.”
He all but tossed her over the taffrail, and she clambered into the boat tailed off the stern, trying to gain her balance and still hold on to his hand as if it were a lifeline. “But what about you?”
His face was shadowed above her. “Daylight, do you hear? Promise me.” He gripped her arm hard, as if he were prepared to shake the oath from her if need be.
She had never been so terrified in all her life. “I promise.”
His relief was audible. “I love you.”
She could not have been more shocked if he had thrown her into the icy water—everything within her was a turmoil of hot and cold all at the same time. A painful, glorious lump rose in her throat, stopping her speech.
Tressa had understood that he was attracted to her and even admired her. But love—love was more than she had hoped. And certainly more than she had bargained for, though her heart swooped and sang like a lark at break of day.
But there was no time to say anything—he let her go, pushing her away, yanking the painter free, and she was alone in the stern of the dory, watching the lugger sail away down the canal.
Dead in the water.
And hoping to heaven he wasn’t planning to become the same.
Matthew’s relief was a physical thing—an easing in his chest that allowed him to breathe freely. Now that he knew she was safe, he could finish what she had so capably started without regard for what happened next. Now that he had spoken, he could face whatever danger lay ahead with a clear conscience and a clean heart.
It had all started to go too fast. He had expected the strange feeling of speed—he had been through enough battles to know that time was a strange beast, as fickle and untamable as a bumblebee, alighting one moment and flitting on in the next. But it had never felt so out-of-the ordinary before, as if the bees might sting him to death before he could accomplish what they had set out from Bocka Morrow to do.
But all he had really set out to do was get the girl.
Matthew forced all thoughts of strange, nonsensical girls and bumblebees from his head—he had to put the flame to the readied pyre. He threw the lit lantern down into the hold, letting it crash and splatter to catch the oil soaked rags stuffed amongst the hempen ropes and wooden furniture and torn-up deck fittings, before he ran back to the let the mainsail down just enough so the foot of the sail dangled down into the flames, adding the dark canvas as fuel to the fire.
And then the wind caught the flames pushing them up the canvas, spreading the flickering destruction climbing the mast and dancing down lines. The fire grew, blossoming out from amidships like a greedy orange flower, consuming the foredeck.
Around him the air turned hot and gusty—the fire making its own wind, the flames pulling the air into the vortex of heat and light. That wind blew into the foresail, pushing the lugger faster until the flames leap across the divide and began to lick at the foresail and jib.
A cry went up from somewhere ahead. “Au feu!”
Figures started to appear at the side of the canal as the light from spreading fire illuminated the quay. The dock ahead was crowded with a cluster of ships, and Matthew aimed hard for their dark hulls, waiting until the last possible moment, when the lugger begin losing headway, before he pushed the tiller wide, spinning the little ship so she would ram headlong
into the small space between two larger vessels, waiting to make sure, bracing for her blunt bow to smash into the stone and wood of the wharf.
The impact of the crash pitched him forward at the same time that the charred, smoking mainmast was cast forward to land on the hidden, but loaded, forward guns in a shower of splintering spark.
Before he could brace himself a second time, the guns fired off, exploding one right after the other, blowing a path of death and destruction into the warehouse.
Around him the world erupted into flame.
And Matthew did the first sensible thing he had done in days—he pitched himself headlong over the side and into the sea.
Chapter 15
He came up sputtering and gasping in the frigid air, already half numb with the cold—the icy water cut through his chest like a knife making it painful to breathe.
Matthew struck out for the opposite bank, which was darker and less inhabited, though the larger of the two forts was on that side. No matter, for behind him all was shouts and confusion as crews were rallied to fight the fire as sparks rained through the air.
The sparks were immediately followed by the crack of a gunshot—the water ahead of him flew upwards in a spout.
Experience pushed him under, diving as deep as he dared, to stay safe from the shot while he tried to gauge his direction through the water. But the cold made his lungs grow tight and hard with the effort to swim as far as he could before he was forced to the surface again.
Another cracking gunshot and he dove, trying to stroke in a different direction to confuse the enemy shooter, north along the canal, but in the dark murk of the water he could not be sure of his way. His hands hit mud, and he was forced upward again to find himself within yards of the bank—the dockside bank.
A volley of shots had him throwing himself back under the inadequate protection of the freezing water once more. But in the all too brief time he had been gulping in air, he had glimpsed the wooden pilings that buttressed the embankment above. He might be safe there out of gunshot range—enough to catch his breath and decide what to do next before the structure might catch fire and collapse above him.
