My Lady Smuggler (11 page)

“Then you will
also forgive my curiosity for asking why?”

Jacques studied the haughty English nobleman for several moments before rising from his seat.  “No doubt the lad here,” he said pointing to Rosalind, “has told you how I have watched my countrymen suffer at the hands of our Emperor.  I also have lost three sons
for his foolish wars, and my mother and father were victims of Madame Guillotine.  Enough blood has been lost on both sides of the Channel.  If I can help save a life, French or English, then it is my duty to do so.”

Melvyrn nodded, apparently satisfied with the old Frenchman’s explanation.  “Will you
go with me to meet my contact? He has come from Marquise to introduce me to another contact here in Wissant to help you.  It would simplify working out the details.”

“Let me get my hat.” 

As Jacques went into the back room, Rosalind turned to Melvyrn and in an accusing tone said, “You did not say you spoke French?”

“You didn’t ask,” he answered curtly. 

“You will see that Jacques does not come to any harm?” she asked, still glowering at Melvyrn.

He returned her regard.  “You have my word that I will do
everything in my power to ensure the safety of both men.”

Before Rosalind could respond, Jacques came out of the bedroom with an old tattered straw hat on his head.

“We had better hurry.  My neighbors know I always rest in the afternoon heat,” he said, leading Melvyrn out the cottage door.

When they’d left, Tolly helped Rosalind up from her chair. “We need to get back to the boat,” he said.

She looked at his stern expression and asked, “You are angry with me?” 

“This is no business for a
young lady,” the big fisherman said, showing more emotion than Rosalind had ever seen before.

~~~~~

At the last minute, Melvyrn decided to leave Embree at the cafe inside the village coaching inn so that he could meet the new Wissant contact before he exposed the old Frenchman.

Antoine Ratel was a turncoat who was offering his
thatched, one room cottage as a safe house for British soldiers who had been cut off from their regiments.  All for gold sovereigns, of course.  But that was not what Melvyrn found troubling.  Rather, when earlier he’d met Ratel, a small, wily man with roving eyes, the Frenchman seemed overly anxious to help, almost as though he needed Melvyrn’s cooperation. 

Melvyrn
’s contact from Marquise swore the disagreeable little man could be trusted.  Still, after meeting with the weaselly Ratel, Melvyrn refused to give the old Frenchman’s name when Ratel pressed for it.  Jacques Embree had risked his own life many times to aid British soldiers, and Melvyrn would not put the old man in jeopardy when it wasn’t necessary.

Pulling his cap down low
er and shoving his hands in his pockets, Melvyrn made his way back to the white washed coaching inn on the outskirts of Wissant.  He ducked his head to avoid any eye contact with any patrons as he entered the cafe.  Hunched over a tankard of ale, Embree was seated at a small table set against a back wall. 

Melvyrn ordered ale for himself before he sat down and met Embree’s gaze. 

“Did all go well?” the old man asked.

“Yes,” Melvyrn said, taking a long draft of ale.  “But I’ve decided you don’t need to know each other.  Instead, we’ll set
up a drop point.  It’ll be safer for you that way.”

Embree gave a small
, derisive laugh.  “You do not trust your contact?” 

Melvyrn studied the old man’s lined face
, then heaved a sigh.  “Not entirely.  But he wants the gold, and I need him for now.”  He explained how the drop would work and added, “I will be present for the first one to make sure everything goes as planned.”

“You are a good man, Monsieur Phillips,” Embree said.

Melvyrn snorted.  “Let’s hope I’m a good judge of character.  The first dispatch should arrive soon.  I’ll deliver it to you and show you the drop myself.”

“
So our partnership begins,” said Embree, reaching his gnarled hand across the table to seal the deal.

The return crossing was uneventful.  Curled up in the back of the stern, Rosalind stayed by Tolly.  At one point, Melvyrn came back and asked Tolly, “How far are we from Folkestone?”

“Several hours.”

“The boy?” Melvyrn asked. “He’ll be all right?”  He looked down at her, but with his cap pulled low, Rosalind could not read his expression.

“Go up front,” Tolly growled.  “I’ve got the lad.”

Melvyrn didn’t move.  “At some point, I’d like to talk to the lad.”

“
Don’t need to,” Tolly answered gruffly.  “You got the Frenchman now.”

The two men stared at each other for several tense moments before Melvyrn said, “Aye, Captain.”  Then he turned on his heel and made his way toward the bow. 

Hours later, when Tolly called out for Cleggs and Finley to look alive, Rosalind knew when they were close to the coastline. Rousing herself, she found a woolen blanket around her and instinctively knew Tolly had draped it over her.  She took her time folding it as the sound of the surf became louder and the dark mass made up of the cliffs loomed ahead.  When the moon slid out from behind the clouds, the fury of Tolly’s curse startled her.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“Been dark for most of the crossing.  Don’t need this now.”

“We have had brighter moons than this,” she said.

“Aye, but lately been more soldiers from Shorncliffe Redoubt snooping about.”  He ordered Cleggs and Finley to trim the sails as Rosalind felt the surf lift the lugger’s bow.  Moments before they beached, Tolly said, “I don’t like this.”

Rosalind hoisted herself up to stand next to Tolly as Melvyrn climbed over kegs to get to them.  “What
is it?” he asked.

Looking over the bow toward the beach, he said, “Usually can see
one or two of the men.  But nary a soul about.”  He scanned the cliffs and shook his head.  “Cleggs,” he bellowed, “take the rudder and take her back out--you know where.” 

It was not a question.  But before Rosalind could
ask what he meant, Tolly scooped her up in his arms and jumped overboard with her. 

“Wait up,” Melvyrn called out.

When Tolly set her down on the beach, he said, “Make to your horse fast.  Anything happens, you just keep going. Understand?”

Melvyrn stopped beside him.  “Where’s the lugger going?”

“Get going, lad,” Tolly growled.

Just as
she turned to race up the beach, they heard someone call out, “Halt, in the name of the King!” 

Rosalind gasped as fear paralyzed her.
Her heart thudded in her chest and her legs remained rooted to the sandy beach.   

“Wh
ere are they?”  Melvyrn’s voice, a near whisper, came from beside her.

“O
n the cliff, coming down,” Tolly said softly.  He grabbed Rosalind’s arm.  “Run!”

With Tolly pulling on her arm,
she got her legs moving again.  She began to run when a volley of shots were fired.  Tolly yanked her behind him, using his body to cover her, when she felt a searing pain in her shoulder.  “Aahhhh, Tolly!”

Tolly pick
ed her up and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of wheat.  With her head hanging down Tolly’s broad back, she felt Melvyrn’s hand reassuringly on her own as he said, “Hang on, lad.” 

They ran for the brush where Devon was tied up
.  Rosalind knew Thomas wasn’t about.  Ever since the Earl had joined the
Arrow’s
crew, she’d instructed Thomas to remain at the Hall for fear that the nobleman would recognize her groom and make the connection. 

“
They’re coming down the west cliff.  Can you ride?” Tolly asked.

“Yes,
” she hissed.  She felt the warm blood oozing over her shoulder.  The pain was excruciating, bringing tears to her eyes, but she could move her arm.  More shots were fired, and she cried softly, “Please, get us out of here, Tolly.”

“What!”
Melvyrn cursed, then growled, “The lad’s a girl.” 

Tolly’s huge hands gently brought her off his shoulder and lifted her up on Devon’s back.  Before she could gather up the reins, Melvyrn snatched them from Tolly’s hand and
threw himself behind her on Devon’s rump.  “Run for it, Tolly,” he said as he pushed her down on Devon’s neck, using his body as a shield.

They broke out of the brush,
and the gelding galloped along the beach.  She heard more shots, and tried to turn to see Tolly, but Melvyrn’s weight prevented her.  “Stay down,” he ordered. 

“Tolly?” she sobbed.  If anything happened to him . . . .

“He knows the area like the back of his hand,” he said and urged the gelding to run faster.

She felt his weight shift as he
glanced over his shoulder.  “We’ve gained some time,” he said.  “Where’s the path up the cliff?”

She peered into the darkness ahead, searching for a landmark.  Finally she saw the rocks at the foot of the path.  “There,” she said, pointing to a steep, narrow trail, barely discernable through the overgrowth.  “It is over there.”

More shots were fired as they began climbing.  Devon stumbled, and Rosalind tried to sit up, pressing herself against Melvyrn’s broad chest, to help the horse regain its footing.

“Stay down,” growled Melvyrn before he crooned to the gelding, “Easy boy,
that’s it, you’ve got this.” 

When they reached the top of the cliff, they could hear the soldiers shouting below as they tried to find the path.  They could also see the light
ening of the skyline as dawn approached.   Melvyrn patted the horse’s sweaty neck.  “Not much farther, boy.”  Rosalind wasn’t surprised when he urged Devon toward the field that led to the woods behind Ashford Hall.

Once in the trees,
she felt Melvin’s arm around her good shoulder, pulling her up against his chest.  His warm breath flowed over her ear as he said, “We’re safe now, for it’s still dark enough that the soldiers won’t be able to follow us.” 

She nodded, and when he lowered his arm about her waist, she leaned her head against his chest. 
She closed her eyes and, despite the pain in her arm, was overwhelmed by the comfort she derived being in his arms. 

Melvyrn n
ever let the big gelding slow down, and they soon arrived at the back of Ashford Hall, headed for the stables.  In the gray, early morning light, Rosalind saw Thomas coming out of the stables.  Like other mornings, he was waiting for her to return.  When he saw them, he reacted quickly, throwing open the stable door, waving for them to ride Devon in, and closed it behind them.

~~~~~

“Glory be, Miss,” Thomas said, grabbing Devon’s reins.  “What’s this all about?”

The groom’s quick thinking to hide them told Melvyrn that Miss Wensley’s servants were well acquainted with her nocturnal activities. 
“Soldiers were on the cliff,” Melvyrn said, dismounting.  “Your mistress has been shot.”

“Miss Rosalind . . . .”  Speechless, Thomas’s mouth gaped open.

“Rub the horse down and walk him in here,” ordered Melvyrn as he gently lifted Rosalind from the saddle and cradled her in his arms.  “It’s imperative everything looks normal should anyone show up.”

Shutting his mouth, Thomas nodded his head and led Devon to
the stable door and opened it for Melvyrn. 

“I can walk,” Rosalind said
, wrapping her arms around his neck.  

Melvyrn
pulled her closer.  Any other time, he’d revel in the feel of her pressed against his chest.  “Hush,” he said, carrying her toward the Hall’s kitchen entrance.  “Save your strength.” 

The sun was up
by the time Melvyrn reached the back of the house. Using his elbow to lift the latch, he kicked the door open and saw Cook before the stove, preparing the first meal of the day.  All activity stopped, however, as Melvyrn entered.  Mrs. Borough, wearing an apron, and an older man who was obviously the butler hurriedly rose from the table which was set with a basket of rolls, plates, and coffee cups.  Before anyone uttered a word, Melvyrn barked out orders.

“Miss Wensley’s been shot.  We need to
tend the wound.  Also, soldiers may be coming this way, so appear as normal as possible.” 

“Here, my lord,” said the butler, who quickly pulled out a chair.  “Put Miss Rosalind down here.” 

Mrs. Boroughs, heading for the supply room, said, “I’ll get a few things and will be right back.”

It fleetingly registered with Melvyrn that the servants knew who he was, but for now he was more concerned with the young lady in his arms.  He eased her onto the chair and, keeping a hand on her good shoulder, he pulled another chair next to her and sat.  He unwound the woolen muffler from Rosalind’s throat and unbuttoned several buttons.  He drew the bloody gauze shirt off of her shoulder.  “You’ve lost some blood,” he said, examining the wound.  “Some brandy, I think, sir?”