Luke remained unconvinced and intransigent. ‘You’ll be found with the cutter—and in male attire. What will Captain Rodmell presume? You’re no fool, Captain Harry. You know that you’ll be taken under suspicion.’
‘No, I won’t. I have a plan.’
The crack of a pistol sounded loud, close, too close, startling them. It came from the right. A spurt of sand and pebbles leapt up at their feet. Then another flash and crack of sound, both from the base of the cliff on the right. Another shower of sand from a spent bullet.
‘By God! What’s…?’ Luke gasped, head whipping round.
And Harriette found herself almost lifted from the ground, swung round so that the bulk of Luke’s body covered hers, standing between her and the invisible marksman. Again the crack of a pistol. Too close, too close! And not from the direction of the dragoons…No sooner had the idea slid into her mind than all thought was driven out.
‘Get down!’ Luke ordered.
And Harriette found herself pushed to the floor, dragged into Luke’s arms and pinned to the ground beneath him, just as a fourth shot rang out. Pain flashed along her side, screamingly along her ribs, but she set her teeth and her mind against the darkness that swam before her vision, making no sound other than an indrawn breath.
They waited for the next shot.
Seconds passed. It did not come.
Held tight in Luke’s embrace, her face buried against his chest, breathing in the salt sweat of him, Harriette felt ridiculously safe and protected against all danger, despite the flaring pain. For a long moment she just held on, unable to think, only to feel the vital heat of him and the agony of her ribs. Then carefully, gently, he eased his weight from her and lifted her until she was seated in his arms.
‘Are you hurt?’ He ran his hands from shoulder to wrist, returning to cup her face, to draw his fingers gently over cheek and jaw, tucking her escaping curls back into the stocking cap.
‘No,’ she lied without compunction. ‘But you—were you hit?’
‘No.’
She touched his face, marvelling that he was unharmed. She had had Luke’s blood on her hands before, before she loved him. How much more terrible would it be now that he was her love, her life.
‘Harriette—if you should be hurt because of this…’
‘Well, I’m not hurt,’ she managed in a low voice, managing an impressive edge of irritation to mask the pain. ‘Let me get up. You’re crushing me on the pebbles.’ He stood and then pulled her to her feet, sweeping the sand from her until she stilled him with her hand, a plea in her eyes. ‘I know what to do here. Go with George to the churchyard. Adam, too. If you want us to come out of this unscathed, keep out of the way until it’s over. It will do no good for the Earl of Venmore to be taken with contraband goods. Luke! I don’t want you here!’ Harriette’s heart shuddered at the thought that he could even now be lying dead at her feet.
‘Very well.’ His temper flashed. ‘I’ll go—not because I want to, but only because I see the sense of it—or I think I do. When this is over…’
‘When this is over, we’ll talk about it,’ she finished. ‘But go!’
His hands were hard on her shoulders, then arms firm about her, making the pain so intense she could hardly bear it, his kiss on her mouth hot and full of temper so that her blood sang with it, before the smugglers were off, moving quickly, well laden. Briefly she followed him with her eyes. Surely he was in no danger now. Then deliberately Harriette turned her back.
She and the French widow had a role to play.
Harriette pulled off her cap and pushed her fingers through her hair so that it tumbled lankly to her shoulders. It would have to do. Spying what she needed, she swept up the discarded boat cloak and wrapped it round her so she was covered from chin to toe, hiding her inappropriate garments and the blood that stained her coat. It might have gone unnoticed so far, but she could feel the wetness of it spreading against her skin, and Captain Rodmell had eagle eyes. Tensing her body against the pain, she stepped to crouch in front of the lady who was looking at her in some form of awe. Silent throughout all that had gone before, yet she must have seen Luke’s embrace. Harriette smiled a little at the shock on the lady’s face as she lapsed into French to make the explanations easier, and prayed that Mademoiselle de la Roche possessed both nerve and imagination.
‘Bonsoir, madame. My name is Harriette. And you are Marie-Claude?’
‘A woman…Ah…madame? Forgive me, I did not realise…’
‘No matter. Can you weep—in abject fear and gratitude, Marie-Claude?’
‘Yes.’ She shuddered grimly. ‘I can certainly do that.’
‘Then that’s what I want you to do. Listen now. When the Revenue officer arrives, convince him of your helplessness. Weep on his chest if you have to.’ She patted the girl’s hand, hissing a breath at the protestations of her ribs. ‘It could all depend on you.’
‘Yes. I can do that.’ Accented English, but perfectly correct. ‘But you are injured, madame!’ The girl’s eyes widened.
‘Not enough to signify. Will you do it?’
‘I will.’ Quick colour tinted her cheeks, her eyes sparkled.
And, pressing a hand to her side beneath the enveloping cloak, Harriette rose to her feet to face the dragoons as the crunch of booted feet on pebble reached them. Then they were surrounded by armed soldiers.
And Captain Rodmell. ‘Don’t move.’ He shouldered between their ranks, a pistol in his hand. Stopped as he saw the two women standing alone on the beach. ‘What’s going on here?’ His eyes flickered from one to the other, making Harriette glad of her cloak. Then at the empty Lydyard’s Ghost beside them.
‘Captain. Thank God! Can you help us?’ Shrill, anxious.
‘Help you…?’ He cast a glance around, obviously for contraband, disbelieving when he saw none.
Harriette drew herself up as if her dignity had been wounded. ‘I am the Countess of Venmore. Perhaps you did not recognise me.’
‘I know very well who you are, my lady,’ he snapped. ‘I recall our previous unfortunate meeting on the day of your wedding. What are you doing here?’
‘This is my cousin, Marie-Claude.’ Harriette drew the already weeping lady forwards. ‘We have just rescued her from a cruel confinement in France, by her husband who robbed her of her inheritance and threatened to take her child from her. I have to get her to the Pride, but she’s too weak to walk on her own.’
The Captain glanced suspiciously at the cutter. ‘Where’s the crew that brought her here?’
‘Gone!’ Harriette all but wrung her hands. ‘Left us, demanding more money that I did not have to give them. I can’t help Marie-Claude and the child on my own. I don’t know what to do, unless you can help me.’
A sob from the lady. ‘Monsieur le Capitaine, s’il vous plaît…’ Drenched eyes of lucent blue were lifted to the Captain’s face, and he was lost.
‘Madame…’Chivalrous to the last, the Captain took the delicate outstretched hand.
‘I am so happy to be here. Help me, Monsieur le Capitaine. You cannot know how cruel my husband was. How he beat me. I know that Englishmen would not treat a lady so vilely.’ And she duly cast herself on his breast in a storm of emotion, as if her legs would hold her no longer.
As if on cue, the baby, abandoned for the moment on the shingle, began to wail.
The Captain looked at Harriette, a vestige of panic in his face. ‘What do I do to help you, my lady?’
‘Get us to Lydyard’s Pride. That’s all we need.’
The Captain issued orders to shepherd the helpless women and the wailing infant up the path to the house on the cliff. All Harriette had to do was set her teeth against the pain, ask herself what in God’s name Zan was doing, and give thanks that Luke would be well away and safe.
Chapter Twelve
Luke shuffled over on to his back, attempted to stretch cramped limbs, and discovered yet again that he could not. Close, confined, the stone walls hemmed hi
m in all round. Like being in a tomb. Which it was. Dust, cobwebs, spiders shared the space with him, but no bones. Thank God! Also with him a number of bales of precious French lace, tucked under shoulder and thigh, that restricted his movements even more.
Hell and the devil! He eased the stiff muscles in neck and shoulder. He’d not wish this on anyone, even his worst enemy. Was this living incarceration, enclosed in a tabletomb, a price worth paying?
When they had crept into the churchyard, breathless with the weight of contraband pressing against back and chest, under George Gadie’s instructions they had put their shoulders to the stone cover and levered it enough to make an opening. It took no time at all to hide the packages. But then, without apology, George had indicated that he, too, should climb into the hiding place.
‘Better to hide you, too, y’r honour.’ Luke could see the appreciative grin. ‘What would Cap’n Harry say if I was to let the Revenue take you prisoner?’
With a sigh of resignation, Luke had complied.
‘Don’t worry.’ George and Gabriel had manoeuvred the heavy lid back into place, leaving him in total darkness. ‘We’ll come and get you out when the coast’s clear. We’ll be sure to drink a glass to your health, m’lord!’
No light pierced the stonework and time stretched endlessly. Luke settled his head against a packet of lace and let his thoughts fly free. It was easy to feel a heady sense of relief. He had the young woman and the child safe in England. Noir’s hold over him was destroyed. If the lady was not Marcus’s widow, and there was still no proof that she was, he would set her up in a little house in London, or wherever she chose to go. She was as much a victim, he suspected, as he.
For now, Harriette and the French widow were safe at Lydyard’s Pride.
But his thoughts quickly swooped away from relief to naked concern, to worry about the loose and worrying ends that did not tie up. Or perhaps they did, in which case—danger loomed frighteningly clear. With a shudder not only from the cold seeping into his damp clothes, Luke considered the very real possibility that Harriette was not safe at all, a thought that raked his heart with bloody claws.
Who had informed Captain Rodmell against them? By Harriette’s own admission, they rarely saw a Preventive officer on this stretch of the coast, so why now, on this particular run? Even if good fortune had thrown her hand against them, they should have been warned of the danger, early enough to sail along the coast and put into another cove. So who had ordered that the lamp be kept burning in the Tower Room, and left burning with its false message when the Revenue men were almost upon them? And why were there no men or animals to move the contraband, to get them all off the beach as fast as possible? Harriette had certainly expected them there, even though she drew no attention to their absence.
Luke frowned into the darkness, straining against despair at his incarceration. Had Harriette been able to dupe Captain Rodmell to get herself and the widow to safety? But what if she hadn’t? What if she was taken under duress, regardless of her sex and social standing? What if, at this very moment, she was locked in a cell in Lewes? He was trapped here and could do nothing to help her. Whatever her orders, he should never have left her alone on the beach.
Of one fact, out of the whole stinking morass in which they almost sank, Luke was quite certain. The near disaster of the previous night had been no accident. And to Luke’s mind there could only be one source of their misfortune. As soon as he was free of this prison, he would bring the culprit to book.
At last! The solid cover of the tomb was pushed aside with much sliding and grating to allow grey daylight to flood in. A hand was thrust in and Luke, accepting it, climbed stiffly out to see George and Gabriel Gadie. Adam, too.
‘My wife. How is she? Is she safe?’ His first words as he grasped George Gadie’s arm.
‘Haven’t seen ‘er for myself, y’r honour, but she’ll be safe enough.’
‘I’ve spent the last—how many hours?—imagining her clamped in irons!’ Luke stretched his stiffened muscles and allowed himself a deep breath as at least some of the fears of the last hours drained from him. She would be unharmed. Harriette would be home at Lydyard’s Pride. And there was Adam, filthy, rumpled and disreputable, grey from lack of sleep, but with a gleam in his eyes. ‘And you came out of it unharmed, little brother. If I look anything like you…’ He managed a grimace as a pretence for a smile as blood flowed painfully into cramped limbs.
‘You do,’ Adam admitted with a grin. ‘Worse. I spent the night in the rafters of the Silver Boat. It’s got to be better than a tomb.’
‘You have all the luck.’ Luke stretched his arms, shoulders, stamped his feet until life returned. Then, as they turned to follow the path to Lydyard’s Pride, he grasped George Gadie’s shoulder and pulled him to a standstill. ‘We were meant to fail last night, weren’t we?’
‘Seems so, y’r honour,’ Gadie admitted with a lift of his shoulder.
‘I’ll tell you one thing,’ Adam broke in. ‘The shots that were fired at us—they came from the opposite direction. Not where the dragoons were on the cliff path. The Revenue men didn’t fire them.’
Luke stared, attention caught. ‘Adam—are you sure?’
‘Yes. I saw the flash of fire. And they were pistol shots. A dragoon’s rifle wasn’t used, I’d swear to it.’
‘Pistols!’ The idea spun in Luke’s mind. ‘Why didn’t I realise that?’
‘You were a bit preoccupied,’ Adam reminded him drily. ‘Too busy picking yourself and Harriette up from the pebbles.’
The implications chased each other through Luke’s thoughts, until he became aware that Adam was looking at him with eyes widening in horror.
‘Luke?’
‘What is it?’
‘Were you hit? Did one of the bullets hit you? I didn’t think…’
‘No. Why?’
Adam took hold of his lapel, pulling the coat aside. ‘Look—on your shirt—and your coat.’
Luke looked down. He was damp and filthy, covered with sand and grime. But in the grey light of dawn, the stains could be made out. Dried blood, dark and encrusted on his chest and arms, on his thighs. But not his blood. Breath backed up in his lungs as fear curdled in his belly. His chest felt bound in iron bands. He had not known. All this time and he had not known.
‘Not mine…Harriette! Harriette was hit. It’s her blood.’
She hadn’t told him. Rather she had denied it. He had pushed her to the ground, out of the path of a bullet, but it had still found her instead of him. Then she had sent him off to safety with the contraband and all the time she…How badly was she hurt? Had he, after all, saved the life of his brother’s widow, only to lose his own wife?
With a terror such as he had never before in his life experienced, Luke took off at a run along the path between church and Lydyard’s Pride.
The night’s storm had blown itself out. Lydyard’s Pride glistened on the cliff top in the morning mist, almost watchful, as if some vital development must still unfold within its walls. Luke took the steps at a run, threw back the door and came to a halt in the shabby entrance hall. Still too early for the girls from the village to be there. Nor was Wiggins obvious. So he must search for himself, and did so. The withdrawing room, the library, the parlours, staying only to sweep a glance around each. Nothing, all unoccupied. No sign of blood or some terrible tragedy from the early hours.
How could he live with the blame that she was hurt? How would he live the rest of his life without her if she were dead?
There had been enough blood to stain his own clothes liberally, now shockingly clear in the light of day. He felt it as he climbed the staircase, stiff on the linen of his shirt, rough against his skin. Who knew what damage some local inexpert doctor might not do to her? She might have bled to death through the early hours, whilst he had been shut up in that god-forsaken tomb. Why had he allowed her to dictate his movements? True, she had the experience, but he should never have countenanced it.
&nbs
p; She might even now be lying dead in her bedchamber….
Which thought took him up the stairs straight to her room. He did not even stay to knock on the door, but flung it back.
And stopped on the threshold, chest heaving.
Harriette looked up, lips parted at the intrusion. Then relaxed on a fluttering little laugh. She had known he was safe—George, considerately, had sent word to Wiggins—but with the problem of Marie-Claude and Captain Rodmell to demand her attention she had not thought of how much the night would have taken its physical toll. His face was stark with strain and lack of sleep—there would have been as little rest for him in the tomb as there had been for her. His hair disordered, smudges on his face where he had brushed cobwebs from his skin, he was as far from the elegant and polished Corinthian of the London haut ton as it was possible to imagine. Clothes ravaged from salt and water, his cravat in a stage of magnificent disintegration, his boots stained and dull. And there on his breast, on coat and waistcoat and shirt was the ugly rust-brown of her dried blood.
She had, she decided, never loved him more. He was alive, he was safe, he had thrust his own body between her and the bullets, and now he had come to find her. He was out of breath. He must have run up the stairs. Was it concern for her? Was it to find her, to know if she was safe? A tiny flame of hope flickered into life in her heart.
Despite everything, all the danger they had been through, energy still vibrated from him. His eyes were alight with fire in their depths. How splendidly masculine he was, how impossibly good to look at. How she longed to walk into his arms and be held there. To touch his face, his hair, to drink in the familiar scent of him.
But she could not.
Reality set in for Harriette. Did they not have a bargain that was now close to fulfilment? He would have come back to the Pride to complete the deal, to claim Marie-Claude. That was why he was here. Then he would leave her.
He had come to end it all. How foolish for her to have any other longings. The little flame of hope died.
Compromised Miss Page 23
