Watching Rosalind rise from behind the big desk, Melvyrn considered what he’d just confessed to his friend. She was a spirited filly, unlike any young woman of his acquaintance. He studied her petite yet womanly figure, the light brown curls escaping the neat bun at the back of her slender neck, the self-assured tilt of her small chin and those remarkable large slate blue eyes. If he had to marry, he would prefer someone with her intelligence, her fire and passion for life.
After ordering tea, Miss Wensley sat on a settee and indicated the two gentlemen take each of the armchairs across from her.
“You should know, Miss Wensley,” Melvyrn began, “that Lord Denholm works for the War Office.”
As Denholm acknowledged this with a nod, she asked without preamble, “Then you have received word of tonight’s run?”
Denholm’s eyebrow shot up. “You already know about it, Miss Wensley?”
Melvyrn answered for her. “Of course, Luther Tolliver would have told her right after I saw him this morning.”
“You must not be angry with Tolly, my lord. He is only doing what we agreed upon,” Miss Wensley said, leveling a sapient eye on him.
“Perhaps you should reconsider your role in this, Miss Wensley?” Denholm said. “After all, you have already been shot. Who knows what else might happen if you persist in this?”
“How else might I help?” she asked, tilting her chin up.
“For one, you could provide shelter to returning soldiers,” suggested Denholm.
She gave him a sad smile. “Ashford Hall already does that, my lord. It is one reason why I do not entertain or go about in society--to discourage neighbors from dropping in unexpectedly.”
Ah, thought Melvyrn, that explained her aloofness. It might also explain why Bailey’s Janey turned mute every time his valet tried to question her about the smugglers. “Still, those involved in the smuggling know and word would get out.”
“Some people do know,” admitted Rosalind, “but most, like the Chadlingtons or Squire Hopkins, do not.” She turned to Denholm. “I am adamant in my desire to help who I can, Lord Denholm, and will not change my mind.” As Tinsley brought in the tea tray, she directed the topic toward an upcoming fair. It wasn’t until the gentlemen were making their adieux that she asked Lord Denholm, “Do you plan to go tonight?”
Denholm shook his head. “I’m afraid I’ve already overstayed. Whitehall is looking for me, so I leave for London this afternoon.” He took her hand and bowed. “While I believe you are putting yourself in unnecessary peril, I respect your desire to assist our soldiers and wish you God’s speed, Miss Wensley.” Rising, he looked at Melvyrn. “I hope we’ll soon meet again.”
~~~~~
Standing next to Tolly on the beach, Melvyrn could just make out the youthful figure striding toward the Arrow before scudding clouds obscured the moonlight. Under his breath, he said, “Why you let her become a part of this is beyond my ken.”
“One way or another, Miss Rosalind was determined to help them soldiers,” Tolly said, offering no apology. “You heard her yourself. If she don’t go with us, she’ll bloody well find others.”
She stepped up to Tolly and asked, “Everything ready?” He nodded and then lifted her in his arms to place her in the lugger.
Melvyrn helped the men shove the Arrow further out in the surf and then hauled himself over the side. When he made to sit next to Miss Wensley toward the stern, he caught Tolly shaking his head and so sat near the bow instead. Melvyrn took advantage of the half moon flirting with the clouds and slept a good part of the crossing.
Close to dawn, as the crew hopped out and dragged the Arrow up on the beach of a small cove, Melvyrn asked Tolly, “When do you meet the merchant to purchase the brandy?”
“This morning,” Tolly answered, “while you and Miss Rosalind go see Embree. We’ll begin loading afterwards and get an early start back.”
They made plans to meet back later that afternoon, and Melvyrn set out for the old Frenchman’s cottage with Rosalind walking beside him. Neither spoke, but Melvyrn’s senses were heightened by his growing awareness of the young woman beside him. He felt ten times the fool for mistaking the slight figure with its smooth face, small chin, and ripe lips for a youthful boy, despite the face that he’d never met another lady like her. Petite and dainty, a true beauty, in fact, she possessed an iron will to see her mission through, no matter the cost to herself. At the same time, he was determined that nothing did happen to her.
Along the main road, they encountered several groups of French soldiers. Pulling his cap lower and shoving his hands in his pockets, he hunched his shoulders and shortened and slowed his gait. While they were not stopped or questioned, Melvyrn felt their scrutiny. “Think Tolly will have problems loading?”
“If they are spotted, most likely the soldiers will look away,” Rosalind answered. “The French actually encourage smuggling since is pours much needed money into their economy.”
They reached the Embree’s cottage and saw the old man in the back hoeing his garden. Embree immediately gestured for them to follow him into the house where he set out slices of bread and cheese and cool glasses of water.
“Why all the soldiers in the village?” Melvyrn asked once Embree had joined them sitting at the table.
“They are looking for someone,” Embree replied, then shrugged. “Who, I don’t know. They came by yesterday with questions--did I see any suspicious persons or activities.”
“They were questioning you?” asked Rosalind with concern in her voice.
“Non, ma petit, I heard this through the neighbors. If they were suspicious of me, there is no one here for them to find.” Turning to Melvyrn, Embree asked, “Do you have dispatches for me to deliver?”
“No, I will meet with our contact.”
“The documents you carry, they are important?”
Melvyrn chewed a mouthful of bread before he answered. “Everything is important. Napoleon cannot be happy that Prussia has declared war on France.”
“This could help your country, oui?”
“Oui.”
After they ate, Melvyrn turned to Rosalind. “You’d better come with me.” When a frown marred her brow, he quickly added, “Should the soldiers return, Embree has enough to worry about without explaining who you are.”
She shared a look with the old Frenchman, then stood and drew on her jacket. Melvyrn knew she bounded her breasts. Still, he saw how her flatten bosom strained against the tautness of the gauze shirt. Once outside, he cautioned her, “Wear your coat and keep it buttoned at all times.” When she slewed a glance at him from under her cap, he said, “Your bindings show through the shirt.” He noticed the sudden rosy blush of her cheeks and laughed softly.
They kept to the back streets, weaving their way to the other side of the small town. At midday, people were about, some heading home for lunch, others returning to their work or the fields toward the south. And while strangers were not unusual in this port town, Melvyrn felt their hostile stares. Napoleon’s soldiers could be as cruel to a native Frenchman as to a British soldier.
Antoine Ratel’s dilapidated cottage was off the main road leading out of town, almost hidden in the trees. Before starting down the narrow, rutted track, Melvyrn pulled on Rosalind’s sleeve to stop her. “Say as little a possible,” he warned. “If anything should go wrong, do not go back to Embree. Instead, go to the Arrow.”
Staring at him with those gorgeous slate blue eyes, Melvyrn had of moment of doubt as to the wisdom of allowing this beautiful, courageous creature to risk her life. But before he could voice his mind, she started forward. “Do you expect trouble, my lord?”
“The man’s a turncoat,” he stated flatly.
“So is Jacques,” she said.
“Your Frenchman’s motives are altruistic. Gold coin is this man’s only inducement,” he replied with disgust.
On the warped front door, Melvyrn knocked and called out in French, “Bonjour, is anyone home?” He could hear
someone shuffling toward the door, which opened on rusty hinges.
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” Ratel called out from the dim interior. He stepped to the doorway, weaved slightly until he reached for the door jamb, and steadied himself, peering at Rosalind through bloodshot eyes. “You have brought someone with you?”
“The lad is with me. I’m taking him home.” Melvyrn cursed to himself, wishing he’d taken her back to Tolly. “Have you received any dispatches?”
“Non, non,” Ratel said, sounding concerned. “You said someone would contact me?”
“Plans have changed,” Melvyrn hedged. He would have to tell Roeburn that this French contact was apt to switch sides more often than the wind changed directions. “It has become too dangerous to pass dispatches from Wissant. A new drop-off must be established. Until things change, your services aren’t required.”
As his eyes settled on Melvyrn, Ratel’s countenance paled. “But I need the . . . the francs?”
“You’ve been well paid.” Melvyrn turned away from the door. “Our operation here has ceased.” He didn’t want Ratel snooping about for fear he’d discover Embree’s role in helping British soldiers.
“Non, you can’t do this, monsieur,” Ratel called out to Melvyrn’s back as he and Rosalind walked briskly down the well shaded path.
On the main road, they could still hear Ratel sputtering invectives, and Melvyrn said, “We need to hurry. If my suspicions are correct, Ratel will notify the soldiers that we’re here.” Heading away from the village, Melvyrn set a fast pace.
“Shouldn’t we warn Tolly?” Rosalind asked.
“There isn’t time. Besides, the sooner we drop this dispatch, the better.”
“Where are we going?” Rosalind asked.
“I am going to a contact in Marquise. I can make it in an hour, but you can’t keep up this pace,” he said, noting that she took two steps to every one of his. “You’ll soon tire.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I can keep up.”
Melvyrn shook his head. “No, up ahead we’ll find a safe place for you to wait for me.”
*** Chapter 13 ***
The barn was so old that half the roof had caved in. Still, it afforded Rosalind some shelter from the sun and provided her with a view of the road. Thus, she saw the French soldiers well before she heard them as they headed toward her. They were looking behind large trees, taking swipes with their rifles at stands of tall grass.
Melvyrn had been gone well over two hours. She’d expected his return before now. But the soldiers’ presence made it impossible for her to stay where she was. She only had a few minutes to slip away before the soldiers would find her in the barn. Keeping low, she ran across a small field at the back of the barn, trying to keep the dilapidated building between the soldiers and her. She reached a small woods and worked her way back toward Wissant. If Melvyrn didn’t find her in the barn, he would most likely go to Jacques’s cottage. So she decided to head in that direction, taking back roads and cutting across fields wherever she could.
The soldiers seemed everywhere, and as she neared the village, she opted for the main road hoping to appear as part of the normal traffic.
Rosalind saw Ratel coming out of the tavern and stopped when he turned toward her. She quickly ducked into a shop and tried to look busy as the man hurried down the street. When he passed the shop without looking in, she thought he had not seen or, at least, recognized her and breathed a sigh of relief. Telling the proprietor merci, she walked out and found Ratel waiting for her.
“Thought I recognized you,” he said with a sneer.
Although her heart was pounding, Rosalind hoped he didn’t detect her fear. “Did you?” she said with a nonchalance that she didn’t feel.
Ratel looked up and down the street, then studied her for a moment. “You don’t live around here?”
“Non.” The least said, the better she thought.
“Where do you live?” he persisted.
“Paris.” It was the first thing that came to her, and she immediately regretted.
“What are you doing in Wissant?”
She knew she had to be careful. “Visiting a friend.”
“The other contact?” he asked, grinning.
“Non, and old family friend, someone my father knew.” Stepping away from him, she decided to take a back road to avoid meeting the French soldiers.
“Going there now?” he asked, falling in beside her.
“Non.” How could she rid herself of him?
“Where’s the Englishman? Isn’t he taking you home?” he suddenly asked.
Rosalind glanced at him and saw the avid interest in his eyes. “Yes, but he had an errand.
Ratel sneered. “What was it?”
“He did not tell me.”
Ratel frowned, but then his brow cleared with a too ready smile. He reached out and grabbed her coat sleeve, stopping her. “When do you return to the city?”
“Why do you want to know?” By now, she was suspicious of his motives. They were outside the village, nearing the turnoff for Jacques’s cottage, but Rosalind feared letting this scoundrel learn that she knew Jacques.
While he still smiled, his eyes held a malicious glint. “I might decide to tag along with you,” he said. “There’s nothing here for me. I could do better in Paris.”
“What about your agreement with the Brit?” she asked.
Ratel shrugged. “What about it? He don’t come often enough for me to make anything.” When Rosalind made no comment, he asked, “Where’d you say you’re staying?”
Pulling her cap lower, she cut her eyes toward him and saw he was studying her intently. “I didn’t,” she said curtly. “I’ll start back tonight.”
“A pretty boy like you spending the night in the open?” Ratel sounded incredulous. “I’ll bet you’ve got a few francs to see you through, heh? The Brit, he paid you?”
“Non, my pockets are empty.” Rosalind started walking again, increasing her stride with each step. The beach couldn’t be much further, and if Ratel saw the Arrow’s men, surely he would leave her alone. But she was stopped in her tracks again when he grabbed her upper arm and turned her to face him.
“Empty your pockets,” Ratel ordered with a foul smelling smile.
Repulsed, she pulled back and looked around for help. But the dirt track behind was empty and all she saw up ahead was blue Channel water as the dunes rose high, hiding the beach below. She had to brake free and get away, for she feared standing this close Ratel would discover she was a woman. “Let go of me,” she said, trying to growl.
Ratel chuckled lowly. “Ah, I’ve made the pretty boy mad.” Still holding her arm in a vice grip, he punched her in the chest with his other fist.
But for his grip, Rosalind would have doubled over as she felt the wind knocked out of her. Gasping, she tried to wiggle free of his grip.
“Want more?” Ratel taunted.
“Non.” It came out almost a raspy whisper. She reached in the pocket of her jacket and produced two francs. “It is all I have,” she rasped.
Ratel looked at the coins in her open palm and snatched them up. “Where’s the rest? The Brit pays better than this,” he said leaning over her with another foul smelling smile.
Rosalind didn’t pull back this time, but her face must have showed her repulsion, for he spat out, “Where’s the rest?”
“That is all I have,” she said, then tried to duck when she saw his fist fly toward her face. He hit the corner of her left eye, stunning her. Her vision blurred slightly, and she felt herself slowly sinking as his grasp on her arm loosened. Then she heard a shout.
~~~~~
Melvyrn’s contact in Marquise was farmer, who’d been in the field and had seen him coming. Melvyrn made fast work of passing the pouch with the diplomatic papers and explained their urgency. With few words, the farmer sent Melvyrn on his way after giving the Earl part of the lunch he’d brought with him. Grateful for the farmer’s kindness, Melvyrn pockete
d the two slices of bread.
It had taken Melvyrn longer than he’d expected to return from Marquise. He’d been forced off the main road, taking to the fields and trails through woods to avoid several small units of French soldiers. Melvyrn’s concern was that the soldiers were searching for Rosalind and him, in which case, he reasoned, they’d better return to the Arrow and get under way as soon as possible.
Thus, he wasn’t surprised when he didn’t find Rosalind in the old barn. He was worried, however, that she’d met up with the French soldiers. If she’d gotten away, she’d have gone to Embree. It was fortunate he continued on a back road that skirted the main part of the village. Otherwise, he might have missed seeing Ratel and Rosalind. Before he could get their attention, he saw Ratel strike Rosalind and a cold blinding fury over took him.
“Ratel!” he called out, hurrying his steps. As he grabbed the Frenchman, he growled, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Robbing me of two francs,” Rosalind whispered, rolling over onto her knees and trying to get up.
“Mais non,” Ratel said, shaking his head vehemently. “Your little friend, he lies--”
Melvyrn swung Ratel off the road and slammed him against a large tree. Then, he began pummeling Ratel, drawing satisfaction as blood oozed from the lying turncoat’s nose, then mouth. Vaguely, he became aware of Rosalind pulling on his arm, begging him, “Stop! You must stop before you kill him!”
He glanced down and saw the worried frown, her frightened eyes--the purple swelling on her left temple! He raised his fist again to finish off the slimy bugger when he felt Rosalind’s arms about his chest, felt her body pressing against his to draw him away from Ratel, heard the fear in her voice, “Please, please, do not do this!”
With great effort, Melvyrn took a deep, steadying breath. Slowly, the red, angry haze began to recede as Ratel’s battered face focused into view with one dark eye swollen shut, the flattened nose, the bloody mouth with a tooth sliding down his sparse beard. Releasing Ratel, he allowed Rosalind to pull him back. “Give back the francs,” he ordered.
My Lady Smuggler Page 10
