by Grace Elliot
HOPE'S BETRAYAL
Book 2 in The Huntley Trilogy
Grace Elliot
Hope's Betrayal
By
Grace Elliot
Text Copyright 2012 Grace Elliot
All rights reserved
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Chapter One
Captain George Huntley could think of many ways to spend a bitter winter's night, but lying belly down on wet sand was not one of them. In the darkness Huntley's eyes glittered, as he listened for an unguarded curse or telltale splash of an oar; but all he heard was a gull screaming, tossed about like flotsam on the raw wind.
"The devious bastards will land tonight. I know it."
The officer beside him stirred and shook the feeling back into numb hands.
"It's late, almost high tide, Captain."
Huntley scowled. "Not losing heart now, Bennett?"
"Of course not."
"Be patient. First storm-free night for weeks, no moon…the smugglers will land."
“Perhaps they prefer a warm fire.”
"You don’t think they're coming, do you?"
"Just saying, if I were a smuggler…"
"If you were, Bennett, you'd take advantage of the weather."
"Perhaps word got out about the patrol."
"More like someone tipped them off."
Bennett fell silent.
Huntley gritted his teeth. It wasn’t his job to be popular, but to restore integrity to the preventatives service. If things had gone awry under Bennett's control, then the lieutenant only had himself to blame.
With a convulsive movement, Huntley's dark figure rose like a phantasm from the grave. Bennett didn’t need to see the Captain’s face to know it was set in a habitual frown, flint-blue eyes sparking, lips thin with displeasure. Eager to placate him, Bennett also scrambled to his feet.
“My officers are watching all channels and nothing can enter or leave the harbor without us knowing.”
"We've missed something.”
"The faintest flash, the merest hint of a signal and we'll be on them. The harbor’s locked down tighter than a duck's arse."
"If they are to ride in and out on the tide, then they're too late…unless?" A thought struck Huntley. "Damnation!"
"What is it, Captain?"
"How many men are watching the western beaches?"
Bennett gave a tense laugh. "None, sir. The smugglers would have to cross the marshes. No one in their right mind would do that at night."
Huntley growled, wondering where Bennett's loyalties really lay. "Gather your men. Send half by road to the western beach, and the rest to cut off the main road. Go!"
"Right away, Captain. You staying here?"
"No, I'll take the shortcut."
*****
Keeping the sea to his left, Huntley entered the marsh, listening for the hollow ring of sand underfoot which indicated safe passage. Greedy mud pulled at his shoes, fetid farts of gas rose in his tracks. Within minutes he'd sunk up to his knees in quicksand, the bog pulling him deeper with seductive insistence. Huntley resisted the urge to struggle and lay back. Time measured by pounding his heartbeats he pulled out a thigh, then the other and was free at last. He stood, breathless but triumphant.
Pitting his wits against nature Huntley lost track of time; sweat trickled down his back, his lungs burned and yet he'd never felt so alive. Then, at last, the ground began to firm and marram grass foreshadowed the sandy dunes beyond, on the other side of which came the shush of the sea. Huntley moved cautiously now, dropping low least anyone saw his outline against the stars.
Dropping to the ground the last few feet, he crawled on his belly and as he crested the dune, a blast of freezing air made him gasp. Perhaps Bennett was right after all, and the smugglers were warm abed. Huntley grimaced, refusing to believe his instincts were wrong. Then he saw it; a denser darkness against the waves—a man. There were five blots against the sea, pushing a boat, likely a skiff, out of the shallows and out to sea.
"Damn."
Huntley glanced around. The landers couldn’t be long gone; heading due south across the narrowest part of the marsh it would take upwards of thirty minutes to reach the main road. With luck, Bennett's men may yet intercept them.
Feeling cheered, Huntley studied the scene. The smugglers were preparing to leave; five figures wading out to the skiff and jumping on board. Then one broke away and ran back to the beach as if to fetch something. Huntley lay still as the figure headed straight for him in the dark. The lad stopped, picked up what looked like a coat and turned to retrace his steps. With the coiled energy of a predator, Captain Huntley pounced, sand spraying in his wake as with a bellow worthy of ten men, Huntley leaped after his prey.
The lad took to his heels just as, simultaneously, a shot whistled past Huntley's right ear. The lad was nimble, leaping from dune to dune, running at breakneck speed. Huntley was powerfully built, his physique favored endurance rather than speed, and a gap opened between them. Either his foe was brave or foolish in his headlong flight over ground riddled with rabbit holes. Huntley glanced at the sea; the skiff had set sail and left the boy behind— so much for honor amongst felons!
But in that second of distraction the lad had disappeared. Huntley cursed, then above the sound of the wind, Huntley heard a whimper, a bitten off cry. He grimaced—no need for haste now for his quarry was down. Suspicious the boy might be armed, Huntley approached with caution. The boy lay curled among couch grass, grasping his leg. Huntley sidled closer, hands on hips, and surveyed the lad. Perhaps tonight wasn’t going to be a write-off after all, with the lad in custody, he'd soon persuade him to betray his comrades.
"With the authority invested in me by the Crown, I arrest you."
No answer.
"Get up."
Nothing. Huntley frowned, his fledgling good humor already evaporating.
"Can you stand?"
"I don’t think so." The voice was so small and quiet that it confused Huntley; he sounded like a boy. Surely not even smugglers would send one so young to do a man's work?
"Take my hand and I'll help you up."
After a moment's hesitation, the boy's slim hand took his. It was then that the unexpected happened. The lad's feet thudded forcibly against Huntley's shins as the boy yanked him off balance. The ground rushed up as the Captain fell, face down in the dunes. As he was peppered with sand, all Huntley saw as he struggled upright was a shadow flying past.
"Stop, in the name of the King." Huntley shouted after the empty air.
In a foul mood, he rubbed the grit from his eyes and stalked in the direction the lad had taken. But this time he'd gone just a few paces when Huntley felt, rather than heard, the boy hitting the ground—hard. In no hurry to be made a fool of twice, Huntley approached cautiously. He circled around the prone figure, who lay perfectly still.
"Get up." Huntley growled.
No response.
Close enough now, he jabbed his shoe against the lad's ribs but without response. Huntley nudged harder, rolling him slightly, but again to no effect. With a grunt of disbelief, the Captain crouched.
The boy lay spread-eagled with his head thrown back at an awkward angle, evidently unconscious. With disdain, Huntley pulled off a glove to trace his jaw, searchi
ng for a pulse. It was there, faint but regular, but the smoothness of the lad's skin struck Huntley as odd.
“Hell's teeth, not even started shaving.” There was also a slippery wetness to the touch. Huntley sniffed his fingers and detected the metallic smell of blood. His lips compressed in a thin line. “Give me strength!”
The lad was cold, bleeding, and in need of urgent medical attention. If Huntley wanted the boy in custody he'd have to carry him. The captain weighed up the options; the Customs house was two hours away but to the southwest, and closer by far, was The Grange. It struck Huntley as ironic, that he a naval officer would take a smuggler to his home, but if it served a purpose, then so be it.
*****
Gathering the unconscious form in his arms, with looping strides Huntley headed for his family's country estate. It was a brisk twenty-minute walk along the beach to the cliff face, and the steps carved into the rock which lead through the woods to his home. Huntley arrived and found The Grange in darkness; this early in the morning most of the servants were still abed. Not wishing to disturb his mother by waking the household, he made for the kitchen entrance. By his reckoning, at this hour the scullery maid would be up setting the fire. Huntley kicked the scullery door open and the maid shrieked.
"Tis only me, Captain Huntley."
Negotiating the doorway, he heaved his burden onto the scrubbed, pine table. He wondered if the maid was slow-witted as she stood there openmouthed.
"Don’t just stand there. Bank up the fire."
"Yes, sir."
The boy lay in a heap on the table, clothing sodden and his skin deathly cold.
"Blankets. Fetch blankets."
"Yes, sir." The maid whimpered, unsure what to do first.
Huntley sighed. "Tend the fire then fetch the blankets."
“Yes, sir."
Bringing the lamp closer, Huntley surveyed the smuggler—his slight build accentuated by too-large breeches, cinched in at the waist with a rope. Working methodically Huntley assessed his injuries. There was a nasty gash on his forehead, and moving the lantern along the length of the prone body, Huntley winced; one leg at an unnatural angle, the ankle broken.
The maid peered around his shoulder.
"Oh sir, look at 'em feet. Cut to ribbons they are."
"Must have left his boots on the boat."
With grudging respect Huntley reappraised his foe; bold, swift and cunning, he was also stoic—for his bare feet had been lacerated by the shingle.
"Blankets, if you please."
"Aye, sir. I'll have to fetch 'em from the laundry press, it'll take a few minutes."
"Fine, but hurry."
*****
Alone with his prisoner the Captain set to work, his face all harsh angles in the lamplight. First to stem the bleeding. Working with deft hands, he pulled the bloodstained scarf from the felon's head. Surprise registered, as he noted the delicate ears and elegant neck. The boy’s hair gleamed like polished-coal in the lamplight; tied back in a pony tail, black-as-the-devil’s heart.
Huntley reached for a rag to wipe blood from the boy's eyes and cheek. Soft skin emerged from beneath the clotted mess. The boy was young…a round face with pointed chin, a tipped nose …and lips, softly parted and provocatively plump….just ripe for kissing. A flush of heat warmed Huntley's cheeks. What was he thinking?
Wiping his sleeve across his eyes he forced himself to continue. He bathed the laceration, cleaning away sand and blood. Something about this lad had stirred deep emotions and the captain didn’t like it one little bit. He glanced toward the door, not wanting to be alone with the smuggler and these strange feelings he stirred.
“What the devil's taking that wench so long?”
The fire was crackling nicely now, steam rising from the lad's clothes. But it wasn’t warm enough; cold could kill every bit as much as blood loss.
”Hell's teeth, do I have to do everything myself?”
With rising irritation, Huntley set to stripping the lad of his wet clothes.
He peeled back the patched jacket, twice its weight with water, and dropped it to the floor. A patched and frayed shirt, sticky with blood, clung to the lad’s lean frame. Huntley tugged the shirt-tail free of the lad’s sodden breeches and off over his head, with the result that the Captain's pulse raced alarmingly.
“Get a grip, man.” Huntley muttered.
The lad had unexpectedly slim shoulders, a silver stiletto strapped to his thin upper arm.
“Naughty.”
Unsheathing the knife he held the elegant blade toward the firelight; a finely crafted weapon of silver filigree over an ivory handle— a lady’s weapon, and obviously expensive.
“Who did you steal this from, then?”
Placing the stiletto safely out of reach, he turned back to the table. Stripped of his shirt, it seemed the lad had broken ribs, for his chest was strapped. The bindings were soaked and must come off. Shifting the unconscious lad into a sitting position, balancing him against his shoulder, Huntley unwound the bandages.
As he lay the lad back down on the table, Huntley was suddenly struck by the peculiar shadows playing across the boy’s chest. A flush of blood heated his cheeks. That explained a lot! Huntley’s mouth dropped open; he threw back his head and laughed aloud with relief.
“Tis not a lad….but a lass!"
Alone in the scullery with a half-naked girl…no, not a girl, for she had the soft curves of a woman. Huntley took a step back. The sense of relief was overwhelming, that it was a woman who had excited his body so. He looked around for someone to share his astonishment, but the maid had not yet returned.
In his experience women were tiresome, wearisome creatures that sapped the spirit and drained the mind, but he studied this one with interest. Dark lashes lay brushed against her cheek, an almost catlike tilt to her closed eyes. Her skin was clear, fresh, and unblemished. Her face was wide, round even, but with a pointed chin and a nose turned up at the end. In all he decided, she was beautiful with the stubbornness of a mule and fragility of a china doll. She had been a worthy advisory on the dunes; agile, brave and resourceful and it thrilled him to the core. Lost in thought ,Huntley shrugged off his outer coat and covered her over, then removed himself to a respectable distance.
Nothing had changed, he told himself. She was a felon and would pay the penalty demanded by law. And if Huntley felt uneasy at the prospect he suppressed the emotion, it was just that he had to get used to the notion of interrogating a woman.
Chapter Two
With relief, Huntley heard the clatter of hooves outside in the courtyard. At last, his men had had the good sense to look for him here.
"In here!" Huntley shouted.
The scullery door flew open and Lieutenant Bennett burst through, smelling of cold night air and sweat.
"Thank goodness you're safe. You had us worried."
Huntley ignored the lieutenant's remark; it was clear from the officer's grim expression that something was seriously amiss.
"What is it, Bennett? What's happened?"
Bennett grimaced. "It's Cooper, sir, he's been shot."
The Captain's blood chilled. "How badly?"
"It's serious, I'm afraid. The surgeon insisted we call the priest…"
"Hell's teeth." Huntley pressed his fingers to his forehead, then looked up sharply. "How did it happen?"
'We caught up with the landers on the road alright, but the lookouts saw us first. They were armed, let off a volley of shots and Cooper didn’t dive quickly enough."
"Damnation."
"If he dies, sir, he leaves a wife and three bairns." Bennett's words hung heavy in the air.
"I know." Huntley had grown up around these parts, part of the reason he'd been posted here because of his local knowledge. The Coopers had lived in Sandehope for generations, he knew of their births, deaths and marriages. For once Huntley felt utterly helpless. "I'll see the family are taken care of, I'll not let them go short…if the worst happens. You know that, d
on’t you?"
"Aye, I do." Bennett nodded and turned to look at the body on the table. "Is he dead?"
"Not quite."
"He's one of the smugglers?"
"Yes. Didn’t make it back to the skiff in time."
Bennett narrowed his eyes, a pinched expression on his face.
"That's something. At least one of them will pay."
Huntley cleared his throat. "Actually, it's not a he but a she."
Bennett guffawed. "No! I don’t believe it."
"Then look under the coat."
Bennett stepped forward. "Well I'll be…" He looked thoughtful. "But lass or lad, it makes no difference. She still broke the law, she's still a felon."
"And she knew the consequences if caught." Huntley shifted, ill at ease.
"Leave it with me, Captain. I'll arrange a wagon."
"What for?"
"To take her to jail, of course."
An alarm sounded in Huntley's head but his expression didn’t change. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. "Perhaps it's best she stays here for now."
"What! Have you taken leave of your senses?"
"No," Huntley replied slowly, "but she's unconscious. If we move her, she may die."
"I can't see a problem with that—it will save the hangman the trouble."
Huntley thought quickly. "If she lives…then we can interrogate her, get the names of her associates."
A muscle twitched along Bennett's jaw. "If you say so, Captain."
"Now, where has that damned maid got to?"
For all his composure, Huntley was rattled. Bennett hadn’t said it, but he knew what he was thinking; that Captain Huntley had been sent to root out corruption in the Excise service and he'd just offered sanctuary to a smuggler.
*****
In her dream, Hope Tyler ran for her life. Fear pounded against her ribs, driven on even as her lungs threatened to burst. She ran, swift as a deer, leaping dunes blindly in the darkness, as if jumping off the edge of the world. And behind, a demonic shape pursued her relentlessly—his scalding breath at her back—she ran from the devil himself. Then the ground lurched and she fell, a red-hot iron binding her ankle. Unable to move for the searing pain, she lost consciousness.
