Reaching the heights, she pulled the mare to a halt, waiting for the trailing groom, who’d not been so intent on a gallop, to catch up. As she recalled picnics on the ruins shared with her cousin in summers past, when they giggled together as they spun tales about the valiant knights and ladies fair who had once inhabited this site, a melancholy pang went through her.
Could she break through Althea’s resentment over the inadvertent slights of last summer and bring them back into harmony again?
Jenkins having almost reached the crest, she let Vixen proceed around the next bend, then down where the sharply descending road cut deep between the surrounding fields. Suddenly, a small party of men emerged through the thicket from the adjoining field into the roadway. Quickly she jerked Vixen to a halt.
Surprise turned to unease as she surveyed the men facing her. Their leader—tall, black-haired with flashing dark eyes, and dressed in sailor’s attire—had two pistols tucked into his belt. Her alarm grew when she realised she recognised neither that man nor his handful of similarly garbed and armed compatriots—several of whom had neckerchiefs pulled up to conceal their faces.
They must be smugglers—few farmers could afford such expensive matched weapons and none would need to hide their identity. But what were they doing here, far above the beach where goods were normally landed, in full daylight?
‘Well, what have we found?’ the leader said, interrupting her racing thoughts. ‘What a winsome prize to collect on a chill winter day!’
Wondering uneasily how far behind her Jenkins was, Amanda tried to instil her voice with a calm she didn’t feel. ‘Please let me pass, sir. My man and I have important business in town.’
The black-haired bandit made a show of looking from side to side. ‘Man? Don’t see no man. But I reckon a pretty lady like you be needing one, eh, boys?’ he said, earning a laugh from his followers.
Trying to quell the fear rising queasily in her belly, she replied, ‘My groom is riding just behind; he’ll arrive at any minute.’
Grinning, the black-haired man leapt from the saddle and came over to seize Vixen’s bridle. ‘I can help you out right now. I’ve an itch I wouldn’t mind scratching.’
One of his men gestured impatiently. ‘Now, Black John? We got business to accomplish.’
‘When I need advice, I’ll ask, Kip,’ the leader threw over his shoulder. Turning to her, a smile on his crudely handsome face, he said, ‘This lady and I will do some business first.’
At that moment, the leader’s name penetrated her fog of alarm and she had to swallow a gasp of horror. This must be the man her maid had spoken of, the one who’d been terrorising the local citizens and had beaten Betsy’s brother senseless.
Her pulse hammering with fear, she was frantically considered what to do when a man in farmer’s dress, his face also masked, walked over to the smuggling chief. ‘There’ll be willing dames at the inn later. Kip’s right, we ought to check the goods and be gone.’ Leaning closer, he said in an urgent undertone, ‘She’s Lord Bronning’s daughter.
Her momentary flare of hope was dashed as the smuggler replied, ‘Is she? Even better. I imagine old Lord B. would pay a few golden guineas to get his daughter back…only a little used.’
At that moment, Amanda finally heard the longed-for sound of hooves approaching. It must be Jenkins!
The leader heard it, too, angling his head to look behind her. Taking advantage of his momentary inattention, Amanda slashed her riding crop down on the hand holding her bridle and urged Vixen into motion.
Black John cursed, but rather than releasing his grip, in an unnerving display of strength, he held on. He yanked down sharply to halt the mare before she could move.
After inspecting the blood welling up in the welt on his hand, he looked back up at Amanda, something ugly glittering in his eyes. With a chilling smile, he said, ‘Might have to give you more than a bit of use for that.’ Then, as Jenkins appeared over the rise and trotted towards them, he said, ‘Pull him down, men.’
Jenkins put up a strong resistance, but against so many, the result was a foregone conclusion. Pulled, struggling and fighting from the saddle, he ended up with his arms bound behind him, his cries of outrage silenced by a kerchief gag. With her last hope of help subdued, Amanda could only stare back in silence at the ruthless commander.
He gave her another of those emotionless smiles. ‘Come along, little lady. Time to taste your sweetness and determine your worth.’
Meanwhile, down in the village of Salters Bay, Greville was hoisting a mug at the Knight and Dragon with gunner’s mate Porter. He’d found the old sailor manning the Coastal Brigade office alone, the lieutenant having departed aboard one of the cutters the previous night.
There’d been a rumour of troubles ahead this day, Porter told him. Revenue officers had seen lights flashed from the cliffs across the Exe to Dawlish Warren, where the ferry boatman confirmed more than the usual number of patrons had gathered at the Mount Pleasant Inn, one of the most notorious of smugglers’ taverns. Belcher had ordered all available cutters to sea to patrol the coast in anticipation of an attempt to land illicit cargo.
After inviting the old seaman to meet him at the inn, Greville paid a visit to the Sloop and Gull, looking for George Neville. He found that establishment mostly deserted; to his enquiries about any topic remotely related to smuggling, the taciturn proprietor returned replies either guarded or evasive.
On the one hand, he had to smile at the notion that the innkeeper clearly thought he was some sort of covert agent for the crown, intent on sniffing out free-traders. But on the other, the man’s suspicious demeanour and reluctance to speak aroused every instinct warning of imminent danger—instincts well honed after months aboard a man-of-war.
After his unproductive meeting with the innkeeper, he’d made for the Knight and Dragon to join Porter for a brew and one of the cook’s justly famed meat pasties.
‘Aye, something’s amiss,’ the gunner confirmed, pulling him out of his thoughts. ‘Hardly any patrons here, at a time when most labourers should be coming in from the fields. And where’s the barmaid? Come to think on it, I’ve not seen the baker’s wife, nor butcher’s neither, when I bought my meat pie for supper. Seems strange, but not being from these parts, the shopkeepers don’t tell me nothing.’
Greville smiled ruefully. ‘I spoke with the innkeeper of the Sloop and Gull, but couldn’t get any useful information either.’
Porter nodded. ‘Some of the seamen tell me after the last landing, ’twas a dust-up between the men working for Rob Roy and Black John’s crew. Old Jeb, master of the Lively Lass, says both villagers and farmers have had their fill of Black John, and that there’ll be a full-out battle with him soon.’
Hardly had Porter spoken the words when they heard the noise of a musket discharging. As they jumped up, the innkeeper ran out of the kitchen, tossing down his apron. ‘Must leave you fellows!’ he cried as he passed them. ‘It’s begun!’
‘What’s begun?’ Greville asked, the two men following as the proprietor raced to the bar and rummaged between the kegs.
‘Black John said before the landing tonight, he’d be sending his men to town for horses and wagons to transport it,’ the innkeeper told him, drawing an old pistol from its hiding place. ‘Said them with hollow walls and storage buildings better be ready to receive his goods, or get a belly full of lead. After Farmer Johnson was shot for refusing to co-operate and Wilson’s boy Billy was roughed up, the men hereabouts decided to send all the womenfolk away and fight Black John’s men when they came before the raid.’ Catching up a powder horn, flint and a leather pouch of balls, the innkeeper hurried out.
Porter looked at Greville. ‘Won’t be like boarding a ship at sea, but it there’s a fight brewing, we’d best assist. Have ye any weapons?’
Greville thought of the fine matched pistols and Baker rifle he’d brought home after Waterloo, left at his London lodgings. ‘Not with me.’
‘Come along, t
hen,’ Porter urged. ‘Got some stored at the station. Sounds like firing’s coming from the churchyard. We’ll pick them up the way.’
Porter loped ahead of him, surprisingly quick on his peg leg. Scrambling through a cabinet inside the door as they arrived, he tossed two pistols at Greville and helped himself to two others before leading him towards the churchyard, from which sounds of firing had intensified.
They found the farmers and townsmen sheltered behind the stone wall that encircled the graveyard, armed with an assortment of weapons ranging from muskets and pistols to shovels and scythes. The group of smugglers, approaching from the north, had taken cover behind the few trees that bordered the lane.
‘Got them on the run,’ the Sloop and Gull’s owner shouted as they joined his position. ‘If ye’ve weapons to fire, take aim. Some here are already out of balls and powder.’
‘Best get some shots in before the fun’s over,’ Porter told him.
Fun? With a shudder at his memories of the boarding of the pirate vessel, Greville knelt to level his pistol on the rock edge and fired towards a smuggler in red headscarf. His opponent was forced to pull back his own weapon and duck out of range as Greville’s shot went home. Quickly changing pistols, he followed up with a second shot, equally accurate.
As he turned to pick up the first pistol, it was thrust back at him, already loaded and primed. ‘Got better aim than me, mate,’ a man said. ‘I’ll keep the sparkers loaded if you’ll keep ’em firing.’
So Greville fired on, picking a new target when the first man bolted behind the line of trees. His second quarry soon abandoned the contest as well, taking to his heels down the lane. He was looking for a third when a cheer went up from the churchyard defenders.
‘They be on the run, the cowards,’ one man shouted.
‘Aye, they be not so bold when met by men armed to resist them,’ another cried.
‘Quick, gather round, men!’ the innkeeper of the Sloop and Gull called out. As the scattered group converged from around the churchyard—Miss Neville’s brother George among them—the innkeeper said, ‘Jake, take a group to the Black Prince moored at the cove, board it and retrieve any goods you find. The rest of you, grab your weapons and come with me. The cargo still ashore is most likely hidden up at Neville Tour. Let’s go take back our own!’
While the innkeeper gave orders, Greville went over to grab Neville by the arm. ‘What’s this nonsense? Surely you haven’t involved yourself in this.’
‘Not with Black John,’ the boy said. ‘But what’s the harm in helping out Rob Roy? Half the men in the county are here.’
‘Half the men in the county take the risk because they need the income. You’ve no such excuse—and your father a magistrate! When Lieutenant Belcher sees the noise and smoke coming from the churchyard, he’ll send a naval vessel back to investigate. You don’t need to be here when they come ashore.’
‘Aye, imagine they’re beating to land as we speak,’ Porter said. ‘Sound of firing carries a long way across the water.’
‘Hasn’t your sister enough to handle with your father ill and the whole household to manage, without worrying about you getting yourself hung at the crossroads?’ Greville demanded. ‘How would Lord Bronning feel if he learned his son had been arrested by preventatives, or shot dead by one of Black John’s men? Do you want to have to flee England, ruin your whole future, for a lark?’
‘I’m not stupid,’ Neville retorted, an angry flush on his face. ‘I care about my father and sister. I wouldn’t have risked staying here, but I couldn’t run from the fight like a coward.’
‘You acquitted yourself well, lad,’ the Sloop and Gull’s proprietor put in. ‘But this gentleman is right; Lord Bronning’s son best not be present if we have to tangle with the King’s officers. You’ll be lord here one day, though, and the men of the Devon coast won’t forget how you stood with us against Black John.’
Neville’s face flushed again. ‘Thank you, sir.’
With a nod, the innkeeper slung a Baker rifle over his shoulder and stuffed his pockets with powder and balls. ‘We must make all speed, if we are to catch those slimy villains before they can warn their leader and make good their escape.’
Greville turned to George. ‘Tell me you’ll see reason and head home now.’
The young man nodded reluctantly. ‘I hate not to finish the fight…but, yes, I’ll go back to Ashton Grove.’
‘Good,’ Greville said, clapping the lad on the shoulder. ‘There are better ways to occupy your time than worrying your relations. Take it from one who learned that bitter lesson well.’
‘Will you go with the men to Neville Tour?’ Porter asked.
Greville remembered the prickly feeling at the back of his neck the day Miss Holton had taken him to the Tour. Had there been smugglers there, hidden and watching them?
Althea also told him it had always been one of the girls’ favourite places. A sick feeling gathered in his stomach at the thought that either of the Ashton Grove ladies might stop at their old haunt and encounter the likes of Black John.
‘Yes, I’ll ride with them. Are you coming?’
‘Nay, I’ll head to the cove. Been a long time since I’ve boarded a vessel, cutlass in hand,’ Porter said, his face glowing with enthusiasm for the task.
Giving Greville a cheerful salute, he stumped off. Foreboding in his gut, Greville snatched up his own weapons and followed after the innkeeper.
In the shadows of Neville Tour, Amanda stood within the walls of a now-roofless building that might have once been a kitchen. Her jailor, one of the local farmers, his identity concealed by a mask, stood guard at the entrance.
Keeping his gaze fixed on Black John and the men assembled on the open ground of the bailey beyond, the masked farmer murmured, ‘So sorry you be caught up in this, miss. Weren’t no call for Black John to take you like that. You just hold fast. I’ll make sure no harm comes to ye, if I’ve got to take a bullet to stop him.’
‘Thank you. I sincerely hope it doesn’t come to that.’
‘As do I, miss,’ he replied, a touch of amusement in his voice, despite the grim circumstances. ‘Once they finish the parlay, I’ll see if I can distract them and give you a chance to slip across the bailey. Your mare’s tethered just outside the entrance.’
‘Thank you,’ she murmured, grateful and fully cognisant of the danger in which the man placed himself by helping her. ‘I won’t forget your kindness.’
The farmer touched his fingers to his cap. ‘Don’t hold with harming women, surely not one of Lord Bronning’s own kin. He and his lady, your mama, been good to me and mine. Ah, they’re breaking council now. I’ll see what I can do, miss.’
As her sympathetic captor paced away, Amanda gave her small prison another assessing glance. She knew from her many explorations as a child there was no other way out but through the gate to the bailey, in which Black John and his compatriots now sat, drinking from a breached barrel of brandy.
What if the farmer couldn’t find some pretext to lure the ruffians away long enough for her to cross the open ground? A rising despair checked when she recalled that it wouldn’t be unusual for smugglers to have fashioned another entry into their stronghold, excavating out a portion of the curtain wall or even digging a tunnel beneath it, like one of the many that dotted the cliffs along the coast. Might Black John’s men have made some new breach in the walls of this structure?
While her heart thumped anxiously in her chest, she began a cautious circuit of the small chamber. Packed into the space, completely masking the walls, were a number of brandy tubs, with parcels stacked atop them that might contain anything from tobacco to French lace to China silk.
She tugged at a barrel, but couldn’t budge it an inch. Undaunted, she’d renewed her efforts, tugging and clawing at the heavy tub, when she heard the sound she’d been dreading.
‘Need a drink, sweetheart?’
She turned to find Black John standing at the doorway, a feral look in ey
es. Trying to peer around him to locate her sympathetic guard, she said, ‘I’m waiting for you to come to your senses and release me. Abduction is a capital offence.’
He merely laughed. ‘And smuggling is not? If the prospect of the gibbet swayed me, I’d still be tending bar at Pa’s inn in Sennlach. Nay, I like a challenge. I think you’ll be one.’
Where was the farmer? she wondered while Black John spoke. Had he already made his move and been overcome?
Regardless, it didn’t appear he was in a position to help her now. She could either cower before her captor…or stand her ground.
The outcome would likely be the same in either event, but Amanda vowed she’d not submit meekly. ‘If you mean to lay hands on me, I’ll certainly resist.’
‘I like a lass with some spirit,’ he said, grinning. ‘So, girl, let’s see how much you have.’
He advanced on her. As soon as he was in range, Amanda swung hard, landing a blow that knocked him a bit off-balance. Panic giving wings to her feet, she used that instant to dart past him and race into the bailey.
Hampered by her skirts, she got only a few paces before a strong arm grabbed her shoulder and wrenched her around to face him.
‘Never ken a lady’d be handy with her fives,’ he said, a grudging respect in his tone. But any hope that respect would translate into his releasing her died as he dragged her close. ‘I think that bravery deserves a reward.’
Desperate with a fear that fuelled her strength, she pummelled at his chest with her fists. Growling, he crushed her against him, trapping her hands, and brought his mouth down on hers, his tongue jabbing at her firmly closed lips. The sharp smell of brandy and heated male filled her nostrils as he moved a hand down, tugging up the skirt of her habit.
Oblivious to the sudden shouts of the men around them, Black John didn’t release her until one of them pounded his shoulder. As he turned, snarling, his confederate cried, ‘Our men were attacked in Salters Bay. The whole damn village and half the men of the countryside were there, armed with pistols, shotguns and rifles. They’re on their way here now!’
Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman Page 15
