Hope's Betrayal

by Grace Elliot

  When she regained consciousness, Hope had a feeling of being securely tucked up in bed, and almost sighed. But on the hinterland of waking she tried to turn over, to rest her head on the cool side of the pillow, but couldn’t move. In fact, her shoulders stung from being held at an unnatural angle behind her. She opened her eyes and blinked, but the landscape was blanketed in gloom. A heavy, shuddering fear resurfaced at the memory of Oswald smashing her head against the tree.

  Now fully awake, she realised the throbbing in her head wasn’t just a headache but the pounding of the nearby sea. Wondering if her captor was close at hand, cautiously she tested her arms. Something rough bit into her wrists; she lay prone on her back, with her arms twisted back around the trunk and bound together—locked in a bizarre backward embrace with a fallen tree.

  She was cold, so very cold. Numb, in fact. Her feet stung they were so icy, as the tide licked at her skirts. With a convulsive effort she pulled against her bonds, which tightened them. From out of the darkness, a dry chuckle echoed.

  “Where is your precious Captain Huntley now then? Not going to save you, is he.”

  “Let me go!”

  She almost wrenched her arms from their sockets as she heaved against her bonds, panic squeezed her heart as a wave splashed over her ankles.

  “My dear Miss Tyler, as you have been honest with me, I shall consider making your end swift. I’m not a cruel man and one who wouldn’t make a chicken suffer. If you ask nicely, with one blow you will be unconscious and not know the slow torture of drowning.”

  More than anything, Hope wanted to live. At least while she was awake there was a chance, if she kept him talking— no one was coming for her. Oswald was right. It was up to her, somehow, she had to change his mind.

  She blurted out. “Tell me, tell me about the brother you lost"

  "Huntley murdered my brother."

  Hope swallowed hard, she could no longer feel her feet and the cold was making it difficult to think. “Tell me.” Above the pounding waves, the trunk reverberated—Oswald must have struck it and struck it hard.

  “That bastard shot my brother on a smuggling run.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Hope whispered, “but he was on a raid, it wasn’t in cold blood.”

  “But Clive was my responsibility, my baby brother. I shouldn’t have let him come along but he begged, said he’d sneak along anyway.”

  “How long ago?” Hope had the uncomfortable sensation she already knew the answer to that question.

  “Need you ask? It was a landing, a big one. Oh, I’ve known for a while things is cooling, but I needed one last consignment to set me up. Had it planned perfectly, everything in place, should have gone like clockwork—no moon, calm seas—when all hell breaks loose. Gunfire. One second Clive is standing beside me, and the next he’s gone. Knocked clean off his feet he was, squirming like a stuck pig with a bullet in his guts.”

  Oswald lapsed into silence.

  Hope gathered her courage. “But anyone might have shot Clive. In the dark with shots everywhere. How can you be so sure it was Huntley?”

  “On account of I fired at the man who shot Clive—and hit him. Damned near killed him as well.”

  “Oh,” nausea washed over Hope. “So you…?.”

  “He wasn't meant to live, but as he has, then I'll make his life a living hell. My only regret is that your death won’t be as slow as Clive's, who died of infection, four days later.”

  “Hasn’t there been enough killing?” Hope squeaked.

  “Aye, that there has.”

  “Then let me go.”

  “No, it ends with you. Once I've had my revenge, then it ends.”

  *****

  Back at The Grange dread gripped Huntley, thinking it might already be too late. He forced the thought away, focusing his anger into keeping a clear mind; once Hope was safe, that was the time for vengeance.

  "Follow me." Moving as swiftly as his leg allowed, Huntley entered the house, and made for the study, Thomas Tyler keeping pace. Ignoring everything else, he unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk to pull out a mahogany box, which he set down on the desktop and threw open the lid. Tom Tyler whistled, for inside nestling on green velvet was a pistol. Huntley pocketed some shot and a bag of powder, then tucked the pistol in the band of his breeches.

  "Just in case."

  Tightlipped, he reached to the back of the drawer and removed a dagger and a hunting knife. He handed the latter to Tom.

  "You know how to handle this?"

  "That I do."

  "Good man."

  Urgent footsteps in the corridor and Jenkins appeared. "Miss Tyler failed to return at her usual time and no one's seen either her, or the dog."

  Close behind, Lady Ryevale stood in the doorway; white as paper, her hand at her throat.

  “Good Lord! Jenkins wanted to know where Hope was, but wouldn’t tell me why."

  "There isn’t time to explain it all, but Oswald financed the smugglers and we suspect he has Hope.”

  "Oh my! Is she in danger?"

  “We don't know that for sure. Mother, where does Hope go on her walk? It could give us a head start.”

  “Bluebell Woods is her favorite.”

  “Does she always stick to the same route?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Think Mother, please.”

  Her face brightened. “The track up through the woods with the view over the bay. Beneath the horse chestnut, there's a big flat rock where you can sit and look at the sea. I distinctly remember her saying there is nothing to compare with that view.”

  Huntley’s mind raced, he knew the exact spot. "Not far from the sea." Huntley grimaced as a new thought occurred to him. “Change of plan. Thomas, take Nero and ride to the Custom's Office. Tell Bennett the man he seeks is Oswald Choake—and we think he’s abducted Hope. Get him to put out a boat with armed men, fast as he can, to check the coves and inlets. I've a hunch Choake has a boat somewhere close...”

  "I should come with you." Tom said.

  "No, I need someone who knows these waters like a smuggler does, to guide Bennett. Besides, I know these woods better than you."

  "Sir, how can I be of assistance?"

  "Yes Jenkins, assemble a search party and follow after me." Huntley dashed a kiss against his mother’s forehead. “Don’t worry, we'll bring Hope back," he muttered under his breath, "or I'll die trying.”

  In his childhood George loved playing in Bluebell Woods. But that afternoon as he entered, the paths he once knew were overgrown, and his confidence began to ebb. He cursed his preoccupation with his career and wished he spent more time enjoying the land around his home.

  At first, the going was easy as he followed a sandy track which lead into the heart of the woods. Several hundred yards on and Huntley fancied he saw recently disturbed leaves, perhaps brushed aside by a woman's skirts. Then he saw a paw print, freshly made in the sand. Taking heart he quickened his pace, as much as his leg would allow. But further on still the path forked—which way should he take? With cool detachment he searched for a trail, for some telltale footprint or patch of crushed bracken. But there was nothing. Huntley started to sweat. Think damn it! If Hope had been walking to the lookout point, then she was heading towards the sea. With renewed purpose Huntley selected the path leading most directly to the cliffs and set off.

  After what seemed an eternity, as Huntley half-ran, half-hobbled along the path, the trees began to thin overhead and he glimpsed clouds moving swiftly against an ashen sky. The sandy soil gave way to chalk and rocks, and hawthorn changed to bracken. George's heart quickened. If memory served correctly, just around the next bend was the spot his mother recalled. He stumbled into the clearing. He spun around, calling out Hope's name, but the only answer was the cry of a lone gull on the wing.

  Nothing. No Hope.

  Behind him was woodland, ahead the cliff. Hardly daring to look, he peered over the edge, but trees clung to the slumped rock face, obscuring the view
of the beach below. He straightened. No one in their right mind would attempt that descent. Hope would never try it, especially with Jasper in tow. He walked away from the edge. Somehow he had missed her, somewhere they'd taken a different turning. He must go back to the fork in the path and start again. With a grimace of pain, he retraced his steps.

  He hadn’t gone more than twenty feet when a noise in the undergrowth made him stop and listen.

  "Who's there? Hope?" His skin prickled. The rustling grew louder and then bursting threw the bracken came a flurry of tan-and-white fur.

  "Jasper! Boy am I pleased to see you." Huntley fell to his knees and ruffled the dog’s ears while Jasper tried to lick his nose. But as he fussed the dog, Jasper yelped. "You're hurt? Where’s your mistress?”

  Jasper’s ears pricked up.

  “Where’s Hope?”

  With a bark, Jasper ran to the path leading back to the lookout, and waited expectantly, wagging his tail.

  "Well I'll be damned, you understood. You're not just a useless lapdog after all. Good boy!"

  On three legs, Jasper barked and trotted toward the cliff path.

  In the failing light, the descent down the cliff face was only for the foolhardy. In places the path was no more than a ledge, zigzagging back and forth across an almost vertical descent. George disregarded caution. Skidding and sliding, grabbing at tree roots to break the fall. Choake had already forced Hope down this path, he was sure of it. His own safety meant nothing, he must get to Hope.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Huntley slid the last few feet and landed awkwardly, biting back a yelp of pain, as he dived for cover behind a fallen tree. Lying low he took stock; his hands were lacerated by sharp rocks and his bad leg burned like it had been branded, but at least he wasn't seriously hurt. Sometime during the descent, without him noticing it had become fully night. Far behind him, high up on the path, Jasper had stopped, and yet Huntley's skin crawled, alive with the distinct impression he was not alone.

  Crouching low, he surveyed the cover. The foot of the cliff was littered with rocks and fallen trees, ahead a wide sandy beach shelved down to the sea and mist rolled in off the surf. In the darkness, nothing moved except for the restless churning of black waves and the crash of breakers. Huntley's eyes grew used to the darkness and began to make sense of shapes on the shoreline: a fallen tree, draped with seaweed. As Huntley watched, a shape disengaged from the trunk, a man walking around it—tall, with wide shoulders. Then, for a split second, Choake's aristocratic profile was silhouetted against the glittering sea, and Huntley gasped in recognition. So, if Choake was here, where was Hope?

  Huntley’s heart picked up a pace as he strained to make out more. Choake was preoccupied, bending over a pile of rags lying on the fallen tree.

  "Sweet Lord, no!" Huntley felt dizzy at the realisation that those rags were actually Hope. In a blind rage, Huntley gripped the pistol in his belt.

  It would be a difficult shot in the dark, especially at this distance. He needed to get closer, which meant crossing open sand. Huntley thought quickly. The blanketing shadow of the cliff favored him. Was Choake alone? How was he armed? Huntley searched up and down the shore, but saw no one. And then with chilling clarity, he realised the tide was coming in and the oak was already part submerged—there was not a moment to waste.

  Choake bent over Hope, talking to her. It would be a gamble but with Choake distracted, he should get close enough for a clear shot. Huntley crept forward, aware Hope's life depended on stealth. After the downhill scramble his leg burned viciously, but he bit his cheek against the pain, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth as he inched closer.

  Halfway across the open beach, and utterly exposed should Choake look up, Huntley prayed like he'd never done before. Fortune favored him. He was so close now as to hear the low rumble of Choake's voice above the sound of the waves. Huntley listened, hoping to hear Hope answer and know she was still alive. Ten feet away now, Huntley stopped. He waited for his heart to slow, lest his shaking hand affected his aim. Slowly, an inch at a time, he stood and with deadly intent, straightened his arm, took aim at Choake's heart…and fired.

  The flint flashed, sparks fizzled in the dark. Huntley tensed for the kickback—but nothing happened. He pulled the trigger again. Nothing. Then all hell broke loose, as with impossible speed, Choake saw him and sprinted across the sand. With the excruciating pain in his leg, Huntley was struggling to even stand, and so with relative ease Choake grabbed the pistol and tossed it into the sea.

  “Damn your interference, Huntley.”

  Bellowing with rage, Huntley launched himself at Choake. The two men grappled. Stumbling, rolling, tumbling, neither giving an inch in a deadly dance. They fell as one. Sprawled on the beach, Choake reached out and threw a handful of sand into Huntley's eyes. Temporarily blinded, Huntley heard the swoosh of a heavy object swinging through the air and instinctively rolled aside.

  This reflex saved his life, as the blow caught his ribs not his head. Even so, white heat filled his lungs, the pain beyond comprehension. Choake swung again, but this time Huntley was ready, and grabbed the club to pull Choake off balance. In that split second, Huntley drew his knife for the counterattack.

  But through some devilish means, Choake had a rock, using it as a shield to deflect Huntley's blows. He pressed Huntley backwards, who stumbled on his bad leg. Then Choake was on him, gripping his wrist, crushing the bones against one another until Huntley lost his grip and the knife fell from his hand. As Choake bent to retrieve it, Huntley kicked the blade out of reach. In white fury Huntley picked up a rock and smashed it against Choake's head—who crumpled like a leaf.

  Huntley stood over his prone form, willing him to move, for then he could hit him again. But Choake lay still, and Huntley refused to beat a downed man. Sweat poured from Huntley's brow, as recovering his breath, he turned to Hope.

  What Huntley saw shocked him to the core. The tide had advanced at a sickening pace,and where once the sea danced around Hope’s slippers, now her skirts floated like a ballooning jellyfish. With Hope tied on the fallen tree, the sea covering her hips and lapping along her back and shoulders—another few minutes and the water would close over her head.

  *****

  The fallen tree was at an angle on the shelving beach. Hope lay on the trunk, her arms bent in a backward embrace. The sea already reached Hope's waist, and each subsequent wave lapped higher and higher. Huntley stumbled into the water but his bad leg gave way and he fell. With grim determination, he grabbed at the tree and hauled himself upright, the water up to his thighs. He shook the wet hair from his face.

  "Hope! Hope, can you hear me?"

  With a jolt of fear, Huntley realised her wrists were tied together under the submerged side of the trunk.

  “Hope, I’m going to free you. Do you hear me?”

  Weakly, Hope turned her head—there was blood matted in her hair.

  “Hope, it’s going to be alright, do you hear?”

  She nodded slowly, and in the gloom he could see her smile as if to reassure him. Pressing his head against the trunk, George felt under the water for the wrist bindings. But his fingers rapidly became numb in the cold water and he fumbled to make sense of the knot.

  Hope’s struggle to free herself had tightened her bonds. Breathless with cold, Huntley worked feverishly by touch alone; salt water smashing against his cheek. By some miracle, he traced the main loop and wormed his thumb inside to loosen it. The saturated fibres were swollen and tight. Grunting with effort, George pulled and teased at the rope as the skin was shredded from his fingers. Each fraction of an inch giving a victory, as desperation gave him strength. A wave broke in his face. The saltiness filled his nostrils, stinging the back of his throat. Spluttering and choking, he gasped for air. The tide had risen further, Hope's hair floating around her shoulders like silky seaweed. He redoubled his efforts.

  Taking a deep breath he dived under the tree. He worked at the knot, which gave little
by little. With agonising slowness he won, his lungs fit to burst, as he undid the final loop. Her hands were free. His head broke the surface and greedily gulped down air.

  "Hope?"

  Huntley stood, the sea lapping around his chest, the tug of the swell making it difficult to keep his footing. Her arms hung limp on either side of the trunk, rising and falling with the sea.

  "Hope?"

  She shivered hard and her eyes flickered open.

  "He tied my legs too."

  The blood drained from Huntley's face.

  “Dear Lord.”

  He closed his eyes against the truth. Already the sea caressed her neck, whispering against the pale skin of her jaw. He would have to dive to free her feet, and to untie the saturated knots would take too long.

  “You tried.” Too weak to sit Hope smiled and lifted a trembling hand from the water to touch his cheek. “Thank you.”

  “No! This isn’t over!” Huntley reached for the dagger in his belt. Nothing. He ripped at his clothing. Nothing. Now the sea tugged and dragged at his chest, the shingle shifted beneath his feet as the greedy waves ate at the sand. Think! In a moment of clarity, he remembered the struggle with Choake, the crushing grip on his wrist, dropping the dagger and kicking it away.

  “Stay here!”

  “I'm not going anywhere.”

  Salt water kissed her lips

  Dragging himself ashore, Huntley's leaden limbs no longer seemed part of him. Exhausted, he fell onto his hands and knees in the sand and panted like a dog. Utter determination drove him on, even it meant crawling. He scanned the beach, trying to remember the precise spot of the scuffle. Then, momentarily the cloud cleared from the moon, and beside a rock, glinting like a gift from the gods was his knife. New strength poured through his veins as he struggled to his feet, pounced on the dagger and turned back to the sea.

  With the last of her energy, pushed up on her elbows, back arched, Hope struggled to keep her head above water, just the oval of her face visible, as at any moment the waves threatened to close over her.