Burning Bright (Brambridge Novel 2) (10 page)

James picked up the reins. The thistle had not been there when he had saddled Scorpius himself that morning. He had only left Scorpius for half an hour by himself whilst he had broken his fast and fetched his telescope. Someone at the inn had obviously pushed the thistle under the blanket whilst the straps had been let loose.

CHAPTER 9

Harriet thrust forward on the front legs of the garden chair and peered down in the dull light at the results of the last spelling examination she had set. No matter which way up she held the paper, the handwriting was still illegible. She looked at the overcast sky and cursed. There wasn’t enough light inside the dark cottage for the kind of work that she was doing. The clouds also threatened impending rain.

“Look, Harriet, if you have any more problems with Edgar, then tell me.” Bill leaned heavily on the cottage fence, bowing it under his muscular weight.

That was the other reason for her curses. Sitting outside the cottage meant all and sundry stopped for a chat. She cast a quick look at the pile of papers next to her chair and shuddered. This wasn’t the only example that she would need to attempt to read before the day was through.

“I'll marry you if you want.”

That certainly didn’t come under the usual topics of having a chat. “I’m not sure what to say,” she said. Certainly she didn’t. The proposal couldn’t have been less romantic.

She should have been flattered. Bill was the Adonis of the village, the one who local ladies, gentry and villagers sighed over. Female visitors to Brambridge would take frequent trips to the church, ostensibly to observe the fine fourteenth century font, but in reality to pass by the glowing forge, taking in the sight of Bill and his apprentices hard at work. He was a notorious womanizer.

“That's a fine offer, Bill.” Harriet paused as she finally recognized Benjamin’s name in the top right hand corner of the paper. She gritted her teeth. “However, I must decline reluctantly.”

Bill looked up from the road. “You won't get anyone else better, Harriet.”

Harriet sucked in a breath. Well, if she had not felt properly honored before, that really laid things out for her. Bill Standish was offering out of pity. Where were the romantic words of love, his awareness of sensibility? No ‘you make the sunshine come out for me’, and ‘I can't stop dreaming of your fair hands on mine’?

Giving up on the paper in her hand, she tossed it onto the chair with the others.

“Let me tell you, Bill…” she began angrily, but at Bill’s look of interest, she stopped. She had nothing to tell him. The gentlest of touches to one of her curls didn’t sign an act of love. She let out a short breath. “I don’t believe we know each other well enough.”

Bill folded his arms, his lips set in a straight line. “We could come to know each other in time.”

Harriet blinked and peered at him. He really
was
serious, despite having all the sensitivity of a bullock trapped in a paddock. Perhaps she could turn it to her advantage. After all, when she let him down he would hardly let it bother him for long. He had a mountain of other women with which to console himself.

“I will complete a bargain with you, one which will allow us to get to know each other better.” She took up the crumpled paper and studied it again with feigned disinterest.

Bill snorted. “You? Bargain with me?”

Men.
Why did they always think they had the upper hand? Weren’t they always bested in Shakespeare—hadn’t they learned from that? Take the Merry Wives of Windsor for example, or even Viola, the woman dressed in man’s clothes.

“I will consider your proposal if you take me with you on the next sailing. After all, I can’t be married to a man that keeps disappearing into the night all the time without knowing what he is up to, can I?”

There!
That would test if he was serious. And get her what she wanted.

Bill stood to his full height. His crown of black hair curled rakishly over his forehead. Pushing at his rolled-up sleeves, he frowned.

“Sailing on the
Rocket
? Harriet, you know it’s dangerous.”

“That is the deal that I propose.”

“This is not fighting with wooden swords, Harriet. The swords those men carry are real. There is a real risk of danger. Remember Tommy?”

How could she forget? But she owed it to Janey. And to the other villagers. Already many were close to starving. A newborn babe had died the week before—his mother too weak to feed it. She pursed her lips. “I remember. Of course if you won’t take me, then the answer is a flat no.”

“Alright.”

“Good. I also wish to complete a sale with your contact,” she said in a rushed voice.

Bill sucked in his breath and glanced out towards the lane. “This is almost as bad as your play,” he muttered. Sighing, he nodded. “On one condition. You come dressed as a man.”

Harriet’s mouth dropped open. This had not been part of her plans.

“Why?”

“It’s bad luck to have a woman on board. The crew don’t like it. We’re going where it’s dangerous. I can’t chance anything to luck.”

She nodded. She was closer with her thoughts about Viola than she had realized. “When do you next leave?”

“
We
leave seven days hence. It'll be a gibbous moon, which means enough light to sail by, but not enough light to be caught. Renard will be at his usual place south of Cherbourg with the shipment. I received word two days ago.”

Harriet didn’t ask who Renard was. ‘
Fox
’ said the small voice in her head. It didn’t make things any clearer. She assumed it would be a French smuggling contact. She rubbed a hand over her face. Seven days was not a long time in which to deal with her aunt
and
find some clothes to wear.

**

She couldn’t sleep.

Harriet wriggled underneath her blankets, tossing from side to side. Of all the hare-brained things to have done. Agreeing to consider Bill’s proposal just to get onto a boat to try and sell her lace to a French smuggler who probably had as much honor as a thieving cutpurse.

She’d never even been on a large boat. The furthest she had got was sculling around the bay a few years before in a small rowing boat whilst James dropped lines over the side fishing for crabs. Schoolmistresses didn’t do that type of thing. At least that was what Mrs. Madely told her at every opportunity. Harriet resisted the urge to pull the coverlet back over her head. Agatha had asked her to fill in for her at the vicarage for a morning which would put her directly in Mrs. Madely’s orbit. She consoled herself that it was a morning only and that her duties were very light—she was no stranger to them after all.

Putting a toe out of the bed, Harriet winced and withdrew it to the marginally warmer confines of the bedclothes. Turning, she faced the wall and closed her eyes. She couldn’t do it. She shouldn’t do it. If she were discovered then her livelihood,
their
livelihood would be in jeopardy, hers and Aunt Agatha’s. If Mrs. Madely discovered what she was doing, then she would turn her aunt off, and they would be turfed out of their cottage.

There were still five days to go till she had to decide. A trial run would be the best idea. Just to see if it was something she could do. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and, with a deep breath, flung back the covers. Gasping, she pulled herself upright and waved blindly in the dark, only by chance connecting with the chair that sat by her bed. Blindly fumbling with her fingers, she located the dress that lay across the chair and pulled it over her head. There was no time to worry about men’s clothes. She hadn’t decided how she was going to solve that issue yet.

Focus on the important things.
There was no point in worrying about clothes if she couldn’t even make it to the boat.

Pushing open her door, she paused momentarily on the landing. She could hear the even breaths of her aunt through her open door. With hesitant steps she walked to the stairs, and, eyes now adjusted to the darkness, stepped down the inside of the staircase where the boards creaked the least.

The kitchen end of the downstairs room was lighter than the stairs; moonlight shone in through the window. Plucking a stubby candle from the sideboard, Harriet let herself out of the cottage door and, avoiding the path, walked across the dry grass.

It was strangely warmer outside than in her room; the heat of the day had warmed the earth, whereas the stone of the cottage had kept it cool in her bedroom. Still, she shivered. There had been no time to pick up a shawl; if she had done so, she would never have left the cottage.

She kept to shadows of the lane for a few yards before hesitating. The lane carried on down to the sea, or she could take the path through the fields to the headland. She would need to take the lane if she did dare to join the
Rocket.
But she needed the perspective on what she was trying to achieve. The headland would give her the height to see out into the sea and perhaps across to France. After only a second’s hesitation, she pushed through the hedge and, with small steps, followed the narrow path up to the line of trees that banded the top of the cliffs.

Five steps into the woods, she knew that she couldn’t go any further without light. Putting a hand into her skirts, she pulled out the stub of candle and some small matches. It was hard to light with shaking hands, but on the fourth match the stub lit, casting shadows high up into the trees.

For a second time, Harriet shivered. She felt distinctly like she was being watched. Glancing left and right, she followed the path forwards over the tree roots, and round the low lying bushes, until, with a deep breath, she heard the crashing of the waves on the cliffs below.

The candle flared as she left the tree line again, caught by a sea breeze. The ground rose in front of her.
Longman’s barrow
. Her breathing slowed. There was something indefinably reassuring about the place where the Celts had laid their leader to rest, facing out to sea. Skirting the edge of the grassy tomb, she caught her skirts as she climbed onto the exposed edge of the hill and sat with a sigh on the warm grass.

The sea was flat, the moonlight bouncing off the small waves that rolled onto the shore. Harriet let out the breath that she had unconsciously held.

“I can do this,” she muttered. All she needed was the clothes and—

“Do what?”

Harriet screamed and then clapped a hand to her mouth. Not four yards from where she sat, the ground moved. Her shoulders shook as she continued to scream silently through her fingers. For goodness sake, she had walked not a foot from the moving shadow.

“Who’s there?” she whispered.

“Me,” came the quiet reply.

Harriet stared uncomprehendingly as the shadow turned to the moonlight to reveal James’ strong features.

“What are you doing here?” Harriet jerkily let her hand fall from her face. The darkness did not stop her seeing his mouth twitch.

James turned his face fully to hers. “More importantly, what are you doing here?”

“I, I was gaining inspiration for the play.”

“By running through the woods as if the Capulets were after you?”

So she had been watched. “Err yes. I find it easier to gain inspiration through physical activity.” Harriet groaned silently. His mouth had twitched again.

“Physical activity?”

“Yes. A schoolmistress does not gain much time outside of the schoolroom.”

“So I’ve seen.”

Harriet frowned. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching.”

“Me?”

“Why? Are you worth watching?”

Harriet stilled. There was a note of enquiry in James’ voice that held a menacing tone to it.

“Are you cold?” Without waiting for Harriet to answer, James shrugged off his coat and, crossing the few feet that still separated them, pulled it round her shoulders. “I was watching the stars,” he whispered.

The warmth of his breath fluttered across her cheek as heat coursed down her spine. Turning her face quickly to the side, she found him next to her, his face only inches from hers. Without thought, her head tipped up to meet his.

A rush of cold air was the only indication that he’d moved away.

CHAPTER 10

Did she realize how enticing she looked in the dark night? The ruffles of her dress spread out around her in a fan, the moonlight reflecting off the creamy expanse of her chest, the wild corkscrews of her hair kissing her shoulders.

With a groan, James pulled himself away and strode back to the hollow he’d made for himself. Lying back down in the small depression, he looked up at the starry sky. He had to keep his distance. The last time he had been in close proximity to Harriet he had desperately wanted to touch her, not just her hair, but on the fragile side under her jaw, her waist, the delicate curve in her back.

Rolling over, he propped himself up on his elbows, and, pulling out his telescope, he focused it on the sea. Fiddling with the lens controls calmed him.

“Is that what you did in the war?” Harriet’s voice was steady. Only someone who knew her well would hear the small tremble on the last word.

James kept his telescope firmly to his eye. In the distance he could just make out the shadows of the
Rocket
hidden by the turn of the cliffs. Harriet’s skirts rustled as she moved.

“Lie in wait and watch?”

“I told you I killed many men,” he said shortly. “If you don’t watch, you don’t catch.”

“What are you watching now?”

“I told you I was looking at the stars.” James waited in silence for Harriet to reply.

“I’ve never heard of underwater stars,” she said softly. “If so their flames must burn very bright indeed.”

Trust Harriet to have a way with words that could melt the hardiest of men.

“How many men did you kill?” she asked quietly.

Despite himself, James’ hand tightened on the telescope. In truth it had not been that many, but all had been prominent men, generals, French and Spanish brutes who urged their hapless soldiers into certain death.