Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (13 page)

‘Yes,’ Lucinda said. A tear sparkled on her lashes and fell into
the soup. ‘No doubt I will feel sick every moment I spend on a ship, but I will
do that for you. And in between our travels we will have Allandale, so at least
I shall spend some of my life on dry land!’

‘My poor darling!’ Daniel came across to her. ‘Do you feel ill
now?’

‘No,’ Lucinda said, smiling radiantly. ‘But we are not moving at
the moment, are we?’

Daniel looked at her quizzically. ‘I hate to contradict you,
sweetheart, but we have been sailing from the first moment you stepped onto my
ship.’

‘Oh!’ Lucinda raised her eyebrows. ‘Then perhaps I am cured!’

‘I hope so.’ Daniel took her hand. ‘You know this will not be
easy, Luce. A lot of people will disapprove that I have been pardoned, and will
talk scandal even once it is spread abroad that I worked for the Crown. I do
not want the gossips to hurt you.’

‘It will be a great deal easier for me to deal with if I have you
at my side,’ Lucinda said. ‘To have had to raise our son or daughter on my own
would have been a horrid fate, and that really would have given the
scandalmongers cause for comment.’ She stopped, smiling mischievously as she
saw the thunderstruck look in his eyes. ‘Oh, did I not mention it, Daniel? I do
believe that I am expecting our child—’ She caught her breath on a gasp as he
grabbed her and kissed her hard, and then put her from him with sudden care, as
though she were spun china.

‘You need not fear to kiss me—if you wish it,’ she added. ‘I will
not break.’ She smiled radiantly at him. ‘And I am very happy.’

‘I must get Holroyd to marry us at once,’ Daniel said. ‘He has
captained this ship, so he is permitted to perform the ceremony.’ He stood up,
and would have strode across to the cabin door at once to summon his
lieutenant, but Lucinda caught his hand and pulled him back down beside her on
the bunk.

‘I would be delighted to be married at sea,’ she murmured. ‘It is
only appropriate. And I am relieved that you wish to make an honest woman of me
sooner rather than later, Daniel. But could you…perhaps…make a dishonest woman
of me first?’

She watched the amusement light his eyes as he leaned closer to
kiss her.

‘What did you have in mind?’ he asked, his lips a hair’s breadth
away from her own.

Lucinda put a hand on the nape of his neck and brought his mouth
down to meet hers.

‘This,’ she whispered.

The Duke and Duchess of Kestrel and their guests were taking
dinner when the butler brought Lucinda’s note in on a silver tray.

‘A message for Miss Saltire,’ he said, blank-faced.

Stacey unfolded it, perused it swiftly, and let out a piercing
and unladylike shriek.

‘How famous! Cousin Sally! Mama! Lucinda has run away. She has
gone to sea with Daniel de Lancey!’

Mrs Letitia Saltire fainted dead away, and had to be revived with
smelling salts. Lucas kissed Rebecca, and Justin Kestrel and his wife exchanged
a smile of quiet satisfaction.

Sally Kestrel took the note that Stacey proffered, a slight smile
on her lips.

‘She was certainly in a hurry. I can barely read her hand.’

‘Oh, Sally,’ Mrs Letitia Saltire said brokenly. ‘What a terrible
scandal! How could she? Once was bad enough, but at least we were able to
pretend
she was blameless that time. I cannot think what has come over her! She always
seemed so sensible! Who would have thought it?’

The Duchess laughed. ‘I, for one,’ she said.

Mrs Saltire shook her head. ‘Eloping! At her age! Nine and
twenty, and a widow into the bargain!
What
can one say? What can one
think
?’

The Duchess smiled at her husband. ‘I found eloping to be rather
fun,’ she said, giving Justin a little secret smile. ‘And I know what I think. Good
for Lucinda!’

‘And a very Happy Christmas to them both,’ Justin added.

‘Oh,’ Sally said, ‘I think they are like to be
very
happy.’

She got to her feet, crossed to the window and drew back the
curtain. The moon was full, and its light turned the water in the bay to
silver, illuminating the tiny ship in shades of black and white. Then the wind
caught its sails and the
Defiance
turned and slipped away, and the night
was still.

Margaret McPhee

Christmas is a time of year when we think of our families and
those we love. We want to spend time with them and for them to be happy. We
would do a lot for our families, especially at Christmas. It was with this in
mind that I found myself thinking of a story in which a woman and a man find
themselves caught up in a dangerous situation in a tiny Devonshire harbor in
the dead of a December night. Both are there because they are trying to help
their families, albeit in very different ways. I wanted to give the woman,
whose life is filled with responsibility and hardship, something special for
Christmas. I also wanted the man, from the opposite end of the spectrum who has
experienced the hedonistic excesses of life and the misery that it can bring,
to find happiness. So weaving these strands together created Francesca and
Jack’s story.

The sea has always held a fascination for me. Inadvertently, I
think that it manages to sneak its way into most of my books. But for Francesca
and Jack there was no sneaking required for the sea plays a critical part in
their story, in which they become involved in the murky underworld of
smuggling. Francesca and Jack’s is a tale of a long-ago Devonshire Christmas,
of smuggling and the sea, but most of all of love—a smuggler’s tale that I hope
brings a little happiness to you.

With very best wishes for a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

Margaret

Devon, December 1803

T
HE
night was cold and dark as Francesca
moved stealthily through the shadows. Every now and again the tiny sliver of
the new moon was revealed behind the drifting cover of cloud. A smugglers’
moon. Francesca shivered at that. Her worst suspicions of her brother were
growing stronger by the minute. She followed him right down into the harbour,
hiding herself behind a great pile of lobster pots that had been stacked close
to the tall stone harbour wall, and watched Tom head down the walkway that led
to where the boat was moored. She did not need to read the
Swift
’s name
to know Tom’s game. She knew one of the Buckleys’ luggers when she saw it.
There could be little dispute as to his intent now. She moved to stop him. A
noise sounded behind. She made to turn, but a hand snaked round to clamp firm
against her mouth. She felt herself hauled backwards, her back pressed hard
against a man’s body, her arms pinioned to her sides.

His breath tickled against her ear. ‘Shh, hold quiet, now. I mean
you no harm.’ She could smell the clean scent of him.

Francesca’s heart raced. Shock had momentarily paralysed her, and
now fear trickled icy through her veins. He was stepping slowly backwards,
retreating from the walkway and the boats, dragging her with him. She threw
herself back hard against him, trying to off-balance him while simultaneously
struggling to free her arms, but her assailant was too big, too strong. Nothing
she did seemed to make any difference other than to make him move faster
towards the iron gate that was cut within the harbour wall. She tried to
scream, but his hand tightened and all that came out were muffled mews.

‘Quiet, girl,’ he whispered, ‘if you want to live.’

In a matter of seconds they would be through the gateway and out
on to the road that lay beyond and the dark, desolate landscape that surrounded
it. She increased her struggles, and as he adjusted his grip to hold her she
bit the hand that was gagging her mouth, and tasted warm metallic blood on her
tongue.

‘Hell’s teeth!’ she heard him curse, and just for a second his
hand was gone.

A second was all that Francesca needed. Tom would hear her. Tom
would come to save her. She did not think any further than that. She cried her
brother’s name as loud as she could—or at least that was what she tried to do.
‘To—’

The hand stifled the word before it was even formed. There was
nothing but the wind and the distant roar of the sea and the rhythmic rush of
nearby waves. Francesca thought that her cry had not been heard, that the
stranger would drag her out of the harbour to disappear for ever, and no one
would be any the wiser. She could not believe that this was happening—that a man
could have crept so silently upon her without her hearing. Then she heard it:
the clatter of men’s boots running, the sound of voices, Tom’s amongst them,
and she knew that she would be saved after all. Relief flooded through her and
she thanked God.

‘Came from over ’ere,’ said one.

‘Can’t see anything,’ said a voice she recognised as her
brother’s.

‘Well, bloody look harder!’ said another.

A dark shape emerged from around the pile of lobster pots. She
saw the glint of silver as a cloud drifted to expose the pale light of the
moon.

‘What have we here, then?’ The quietness of the voice did not
detract from its menace. She could see that the man who spoke was tall and
thin, with white hair. In his hand was a black walking cane topped in silver.

Francesca felt the sudden stillness in the man’s body against
which she was pressed. His hand gripped tighter over her mouth, and suddenly he
was walking her forward, towards the lobster pots and the men that had come to
stand silently by the side of the pile to watch. ‘Look what I’ve found,’ he
said, and this time it wasn’t a whisper. She noticed how well spoken he was. It
was an educated voice, a gentleman’s accent.

Four men stood looking at her, Tom amongst them, his face pale in
the moonlight. Her eyes locked to his, imploring. He looked younger than his
eighteen years, and the shock in his expression was plain to see.

‘Dispose of her,’ said the man with the cane. ‘We haven’t got
time for this. The tide’s right to sail now.’ His voice was polished, another
gentleman, and she wondered exactly with what Tom had got himself involved.

‘No!’ Tom said, a little too forcefully.

Francesca saw the man with the cane turn his gaze to her brother.

Tom was looking nervous. ‘She’s just a girl; she won’t say
anything.’

‘Not with her throat slit, she won’t,’ said a small, fierce-eyed
man.

‘Mr White’s right and so’s Weasel,’ said another man at the back
of the group. ‘We can’t risk anythin’ muckin’ this up. This is the Christmas
haul. There’s too much at stake.’

‘Too much at stake, indeed,’ said the man with the cane.

Tom took a step towards her and suddenly Francesca was more
afraid than she had ever been—for she knew that it was not only her own life
that was at risk now, but Tom’s too. ‘You can’t do that. She’s—’

But the man whose arm was still wrapped around her, holding her
in place, did not let Tom finish. ‘The last thing we need is for the constable
to start nosing about down here.’

‘Then what do we do?’ asked the small man who went by the name of
Weasel.

‘Let her go,’ said Tom.

‘So she can tell everyone what she’s seen? I think not,’ said the
man with the walking cane. ‘I’m getting the feeling that you might be in the
wrong game here, Linden. This is for men, not lily-livered boys.’

‘The solution is simple,’ said the voice behind Francesca. ‘We
take her with us.’ Francesca swallowed hard.

‘A woman aboard ship is bad luck,’ someone muttered.

‘And the riding officer waiting here on our return isn’t?’ said
the man holding her, and she could hear the sarcasm in his tone.

Weasel sniffed and the contents of his nose rattled. ‘What do you
want to do, Mr White?’ He turned expectantly to the man with the cane.

The man leaned heavily upon his cane. ‘As Mr Black said, we take
her with us. Let us move, gentlemen, if we are to catch our tide.’ He gestured
his cane towards Francesca and the man who held her. ‘After you, Mr Black.’

‘Thank you, Mr White,’ said Mr Black. It was as if they were
playing out some foolish game.

Francesca found herself being half walked, half carried down the
gangway towards the
Swift
. She did not struggle; she was wise enough to
realise the futility in that. Instead she conserved her energy for whatever
might happen aboard the
Swift
. She had the horrible feeling that she was
going to need every last ounce of it.

Almost as soon as they were on the boat, the
Swift
’s ropes
were untied and she slipped quietly out of Lannacombe’s tiny harbour. The tide
was high. The wind was in their favour. Up on deck men were busy at the sails
and the helm. Below deck, where the others took her, a half-closed lantern
swung from the low ceiling, casting shadows all around. In the centre was a
shabby table that had been bolted to the floor, around which had been placed
boxes and half-casks as makeshift chairs. It was on to one of these boxes that
Francesca found herself dumped.

Mr White stood opposite, leaning on his cane, watching her. She
could see now that despite his cane he was not an old man at all. His face was thin
to the point of being gaunt, but unlined, his eyes were pale but alert, his
hair not white but blond. In the background two or three of the crew hovered.

‘Bind and gag her, and stick her through there. We’ll deal with
her once we’re clear of the coast.’

She heard the man standing behind her move.

‘Not feeling squeamish over manhandling a woman, are you, Mr
Black?’

She heard a low laugh behind her. ‘I’ve felt many things over
women, squeamish, however, is not one of them.’

The man with the cane laughed.