"We need to find somewhere to shelter," said Oliver, shouting over the rising wind to make himself heard.
"I agree, but there isn't anywhere," she called back.
"Yes, there is. Follow me."
He wheeled his horse and began to ride away from the shore. She had no idea where he was going, but as he knew the estate better than she did, she had no hesitation in following him. The land dipped ahead of them, and in a hollow she saw a ruined farmhouse. There was very little roof, but what little there was would afford them some shelter. There was a blasted tree growing out of it, but the walls appeared to be sound.
When they reached it, Oliver dismounted in one lithe movement and then crossed to the chestnut, putting his hands round Susannah's waist. She gathered up her skirt then jumped down with his help, sliding from the wet and slippery saddle and stumbling against him as she did so. He righted her, but not before she had felt the hard muscles of his chest beneath the soft fabric of his coat. The contrast was like the man himself, his dual nature containing more on the inside than was apparent on the outside.
She was now standing facing him, and her hands were still resting against his chest. As though drawn by an invisible string she looked up into his eyes and the world changed. Instead of the two of them being on the open cliffs, a part of the wild and stormy landscape, she felt as though they were in a place far away from the real world. The look in his eyes made her pulse flutter. She had never seen a look of such burning intensity before. It lit his blue eyes with a flame, deepening the blue rim and brightening the centre. She noticed how long his lashes were, and saw the blackness of the lock of hair that tumbled over his forehead. It seemed natural when he took her chin between his fingers, as though somehow she had been expecting it, and even wanting him to do it. She felt their soft pressure, and her skin tingled. She saw his face lower towards hers, and felt his breath hot and sweet on her cheeks… and then he released her, and she stepped back as though she had woken from a dream.
She watched him lead the horses into the lee of the wall to protect them from the driving rain, and then she went into a small room at the back of the tumbledown cottage which still had part of its roof. Having tethered the horses he joined her, and they stood in silence, their conversation having evaporated. But the silence was not dead. Instead, it seemed a living thing, charged with some potent force that made the air round them start to crackle. There was going to be a storm, Susannah thought. Thunder rolled far off, and soon afterwards, lightning forked down over the sea.
She stood and watched it as it moved closer and closer to land, heralded by torrential rain. She was already damp, but the downpour found its way through the roof and wet her through. Her hair flattened against her head, and rivulets of water ran down her cloak. Her dress was soaked. The lightning flashed almost directly in front of her, but she felt a far more potent force behind her. She turned instinctively and found herself dragged into Oliver's arms. The thunder paled in comparison to the storm of emotions that consumed her, and the lightning was as nothing to the energy that coursed through her when his lips met her own. They moved over hers gently, tantalizingly, and then with more firmness, until she was lost in a maelstrom of new sensations. She felt his arms crush her more tightly against him, and revelled in the hardness of his body pressed against her own. She felt him pull her closer and she tangled her arms around his neck in response, until they were so firmly joined she could not say where Oliver ended and she began.
She felt his hands slide down her back, down, down… and then they stopped. The intensity of his kiss lessened and she began to surface. She took her arms from his neck as he pulled away from her. He remained standing facing her, looking deeply into her eyes, then raising his hands he pushed her wet locks of hair back from her forehead and held her face between his strong fingers.
"We should go," he said at last.
She nodded mutely. The storm was passing. Already the lightning was disappearing into the distance, and the thunder was no more than a distant rumble. The rain was slackening, its rushing torrent lessening to a pitter patter as it struck the cottage.
Still they did not move. It was not until a gleam of sun shone through the clouds that Oliver dropped his hands from her face, and they walked back to their horses silently, side by side. He helped her to mount, and without another word they rode back to the house. It was not an easy silence but a turbulent one, still charged with the energy that had gripped them in the cottage. Susannah did not dare break it. If she did, she felt she would not be able to control the things she said.
Oliver made no mention of what had happened between them, and neither did Susannah. She could not think how she had come to forget herself so far as to allow him to kiss her. She could only think that, having been a governess for so long, she had forgotten how to behave like a lady. She had gone out without a chaperon and ridden across the cliffs with a man she barely knew, and disaster had nearly been the result. She must never let such a thing happen again.
The grass was drenched and the going was slow, but at last they reached the stables. Oliver dismounted and held out his hands to help her do the same. Susannah bit her lip. She should not slide from the horse's back into his arms, but there was no other way to dismount. Holding herself aloof, and making sure she touched him as little as possible, she accepted his help, but she stepped away from him as soon as her feet touched the ground.
"I'll see to the horses," he said huskily.
"Thank you," she said, and her voice trembled.
She went across the stable-yard and back to the house. It was good to be inside. Some of the energy that had gripped her began to dissipate, and she felt she was out of danger.
She went up to her room and stripped off her wet clothes, then dried her hair as best she could with a towel, and put on a dry petticoat. She put a fresh gown on top of it, and pulled on her dry shoes and stockings.
As she looked in the cheval glass, she was surprised to see that no sign of what had happened showed on her face. She looked exactly as she had done when she had left the house. But she was not the same. She was changed, and it was Oliver's kiss that had changed her.
What had he done? Oliver asked himself as, having called his servant to see to the chestnut, he rubbed down his stallion. He had intended to lure Susannah into a flirtation to punish her for speaking scathingly of marrying him, but nothing more. Once he had demonstrated his power he had meant to let her go, but instead of stepping back as he had intended, he had found himself prolonging the kiss and he did not know how it had happened. He had been in control of the situation when they had set out on their ride, but in the ruined farmhouse he had been carried away by forces beyond his understanding. He'd been impressed by her ability to control the chestnut, and intrigued by tales of her unconventional childhood, and he'd found himself enjoying her company, but none of these things could account for the way he'd behaved.
Had he been tempted by the way the rain had soaked her hair? he wondered, as he remembered how it had clung to her head, changing the shape of her face and rendering it inexpressibly beautiful. Or had he been tempted by the way the colour of her hair had changed, going from a nondescript brown to a sleek jet? Or the feel of her waist in the circle of his hands? Or the scent of her skin? He did not know. But the fact remained that he had allowed himself to give in to feelings more overwhelming than any he had experienced before, and that when he had tasted her lips he had wanted to take things further-much, much further, down alleyways from which there would have been no turning back.
He must never allow himself to be alone with her again, he told himself as he finished rubbing down the horse. If he did, he might find himself drawn into a world over which he had no control, and that was something he did not want.
He covered the dry horse with a blanket. Then, seeing that Kelsey had finished rubbing down the chestnut, he left the stables. As he did so, the irony of the situation hit him. He had set out to toy with Susannah, but fate had been
toying with him. He had thought he was in command of the situation, yet he had been like a child playing with a tinder box. He had struck sparks from it as a game, only to find that he had started a fire in earnest. And the fire had threatened to consume him.
It was with relief that he turned his thoughts away from Susannah as he returned to the house. He went into the library, glancing at the long-case clock as he did so. He had almost half an hour before Edward and James joined him, and he could put it to good use. He threw off his outdoor clothes, then took a log book from the desk drawer. He took maps, tide tables and a calendar from the bottom shelf and spread them out across the table, then he sat down and began to study them, making notes in the log book. He didn't look up until he heard Edward and James entering the room.
"You've made a start?" asked Edward, as he pulled up a chair next to Oliver.
"Yes. I think we should sail on Tuesday. The tides will be in our favour, and it will give us time to prepare without delaying matters too long. I want to be able to make one more sailing after this one, before we have to abandon Harstairs House for ever."
"Agreed," said Edward with a curt nod.
James studied the maps and tide tables, consulting Oliver's notes before giving his own approval.
"Where will we land this time?" asked Edward.
"Here," said Oliver, pointing to the map. "In Normandy."
"And is there anywhere for us to beach the longboat?"
"Yes. I know the coastline around the area. There are several suitable places, none of which we've used before. It's as well to keep changing our route. Once we've accomplished our goal, we'll return as soon as possible. The less time we spend in France the better."
"We'll have to make sure we're not followed," said Edward.
"We've done this before," said Oliver. "We'll do whatever it takes."
"How about Tregornan?" asked James.
"I'll go and see him," said Oliver, rolling up the maps and putting them back on the shelves. "Now that we know when we're sailing, I can make sure he has the ship and the longboat ready for us. We aim to go there and back as quickly as we can, and the ship will have to wait for us."
"It will cost a pretty penny," said James.
"As always," said Edward. "But it's worth it."
The three men stood up.
"When do you intend to go and see Tregornan?" asked Edward.
"Tomorrow morning, early, before it's light. With luck, there won't be anyone around — no unfriendly eyes spying on our movements."
"Very well. I'll let Kelsey know what we've arranged. We're taking him with us again?"
"Yes. He's a good man in a fight."
"We hope it won't come to that," said Edward.
"But it's better to be prepared," said James.
"It is. I'll let you know if all goes well with Tregornan. I suggest we meet here at nine o'clock in the morning. By then, I should have everything arranged."
The three men went their separate ways. Oliver went up to his bedchamber and took a bag of sovereigns out of a chest at the foot of his bed. It would ensure that Tregornan made a ship available, and a second bag of gold on their safe return would make sure they weren't left stranded. Tregornan was trustworthy for a smuggler, but it was best not to test his loyalty too far.
Oliver put the sovereigns in his coat pocket. There was nothing more he could do now until the morning.
CHAPTER SIX
It was dark as Oliver walked down the drive, his footfalls soft and silent in the early morning. The air was crisp, and his breath made clouds in front of him. He was a dark shadow passing through the landscape. Dressed in black, with a cloak thrown over his tailcoat and breeches, and a tricorne hat pulled low down over his face, he merged into the night-shrouded background.
Once he reached the gates he looked both ways, making sure the lane was deserted. After turning to the left, he followed the lane for a mile until he came to a signpost pointing towards the village. He did not go to the village, however, but skirted it, making his way to a house that was set half a mile beyond it. It was made of stone. It had a chimney, but no smoke was rising out of it.
Glancing round again to make sure that he was not being observed, he approached the house and rapped on the door: three slow knocks, followed by three rapid ones. The door opened, and with a last glance round, he went in. He found himself in a familiar room, some fifteen feet square, lit by tallow candles. The walls were of stone, and the floor was of packed mud. There was an upturned barrel at one side of the room, flanked by two chairs, and in front of the empty grate sat a roughly-dressed man smoking a clay pipe.
Behind him, unseen hands closed the door.
"Tregornan," said Oliver with a nod.
The man nodded in return.
"So you be needing my 'elp again?" he asked.
Oliver took the bag of gold out of his greatcoat and threw it into the air, catching it again with one hand. It jingled as it rose and fell. Tregornan appeared unmoved by the gesture, but Oliver caught the glint of avarice in his eye. Tregornan nodded towards the upturned barrel and Oliver put the bag of gold on top of it.
"We need the ship and the longboat, fully crewed, and no questions asked," said Oliver.
"You've no need to worry about that. Reckon we both like to mind our own business. Well, when do you want 'em, and where?"
"On Tuesday. Three coves west from the last time. We'll sail with the tide."
Tregornan took the pipe out of his mouth. "At midnight, then. And coming back?"
"No more than three days later. Possibly less. There'll be another bag of gold if you get us home safely."
"Not a trastin' man, are you?" asked Tregornan.
"I trust your love of money," Oliver said.
Tregornan nodded slowly. Then he spat on his hand and held it out. Oliver took it. They shook hands, and the deal was made.
Oliver went over to the door. In the shadows stood a mountain of a man with thighs like tree trunks and hands like knotted oak, who opened the door, and Oliver went out. He looked up at the sky. It was still dark. Good. He would be back at Harstairs House before the sun rose.
He skirted the village again, but no sooner had he passed it than three figures loomed out of the darkness and blocked his way. By their red coats, they were members of the militia. He didn't check his stride, but gave them a nod, and said, "Morning," before walking past. But his muscles were taut, ready for action, and his fists were clenched at his side. His ears were straining for any sound, and he caught it, a sudden twist of feet on dry grass. He stepped to the side, as a musket, wielded as a club, whisked past his face. If he had not moved, it would have landed with a crack on his skull.
He turned to face his attackers. What were they doing here? he wondered, as he fended off a blow from the first Were they in search of the reward Duchamp had placed on his head? And if so, how did they know where to find him?
He fended off a blow from the second, countering with a punch that left his adversary winded, then moved in and knocked the musket out of the third man's hand. But he was being attacked again by the first. He fought his way clear, punching and weaving with the skill of a boxer, but when he staggered backwards the second man tripped him and he stumbled. Regaining his footing, he fought his way free, only to find that his first adversary was swinging a musket again. Jumping back, Oliver avoided it, but he was punched in the back and then pushed. He lost his footing and fell, and the three men pinned him down. Then one drew away and began to kick him whilst the other two held him fast. He pulled against them, shaking their hold, dragging himself away by sheer strength and lunging at the kicking feet. He held them tight and the soldier collapsed. Oliver rose, but he was badly hurt and he swayed as he tried to stand. Another blow from behind brought him to his knees again and he turned to face his attacker, raising his arms to protect himself from the next blow… which never fell. Out of the shadows came more men, dressed roughly this time, and silently they pounded the militia, until all thr
ee were subdued.
"We can't let them go," said Oliver to the mountainous man who had come to his aid, as he rose and wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
"We'll take care of 'em," came the terse reply.
Oliver nodded.
"We'll see to 'ee, too," he said, viewing Oliver's face dispassionately.
"No. I'm all right," said Oliver.
He could barely see out of his right eye, and his clothes were covered in blood, but he was in one piece.
Tregornan's men nodded then departed, taking the three militia men with them.
The sun was beginning to rise. Oliver turned his steps back to Harstairs House. He would have to hurry if he was to escape notice. But hurrying was impossible. He had a gash in his thigh. Blood was seeping from it. He found it difficult to see, and the further he went, the more unsteady his gait became. He had to get back. He stumbled onwards, picking himself up when he fell. If only he could get back to the house…
Susannah rose early. She went down to the kitchen and put more coal on the fire then began to prepare breakfast. She was just setting the kettle over the fire when she heard Jim's cheerful whistle coming across the courtyard. She went out-side, hoping he might have brought her a letter from Mrs. Wise.
"Mornin', miss," he said, as he put a pitcher of milk down on the ground and took a clutch of eggs from his pocket. "Got a nice bit o' cheese for you as well this mornin'."
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