Fire at Midnight (15 page)

She heard the click of the latch spring and pictured the heavy tapestry being lowered. They were in a narrow, dim room. Sebastién had to hunch over to avoid hitting the ceiling.

Rachael leaned weakly into the corner, the confined space making her feel faint. The stale, dank air was noxious; she inhaled deeply and coughed. He made an abrupt hushing noise as he uprooted a small section of the flooring, revealing a trapdoor. The hinges of the door groaned as it was opened.

The yawning void beyond the door contained a flight of stairs that seemed to descend straight into darkness. Sebastién crouched and peered into the blackness, then straightened, catching her eye as he did, his face carefully blank.

“Where does it go?” Rachael asked in a tremulous whisper.

“It’s an underground turnpike. The stairs lead to a tunnel that can be followed all the way to Muldoon’s Cove. Fairtraders store goods in the rooms just below. It’s one of the few places Customs has not discovered. We needn’t be concerned we’ll be met by soldiers on the other side.”

“We?!
“ Her exclamation was little more than a squawk.

He considered her for a moment.
“Non,
I won’t be taking you along,” he said finally, with a note of regret. Sighing, he closed the distance between them and gathered her into his arms. “Will you say good-bye to me, then?”

Sebastién drew Rachael close and simply held her. She folded her arms around him, patting his back awkwardly. She did not know what to believe, but he did not seem to be the fiend his brother had painted him. The coarse fabric brushing her cheek and the powerful arms holding her had the power to make her feel safe, comforted. His dusky scent of exotic spice filled her nostrils, and the realization that she did not want to leave the security of his arms confounded her.

He tilted her face upward and brushed her lips with his. Groaning at the gentle contact, his grip on her intensified as his mouth covered hers and his kiss became demanding. The tidy arrangement of curls coaxed into her hair came tumbling down as his fingers tangled in the luxuriant mass. Sebastién raised his hands and cupped her face, resting his palms against her cheeks.

His tongue darted over her lips and pressed against her teeth, urging entry. He tasted of rum. His teeth nipped playfully at the corner of her mouth. A shiver coursed through her as his warm breath caressed her lips, and he kissed the delicate lobe of her ear.

Sebastién molded himself to Rachael until she felt the wall at her back, and when he drew her tightly against him, she felt the hard evidence of his arousal. His mouth was searching, insistent, and she whimpered and tried to pull away, overwhelmed by his passion and her own reaction to being in his arms.

At the small sound of protest, Sebastién tore his mouth from hers and gazed down into the depths of Rachael’s eyes. His breath caught in his throat, and he eased his hold on her but did not release her. He scanned her face as intensely as his lips had plundered her mouth.

Rachael closed her eyes as his thumb traced her chin and long fingers swept over her jaw. She opened them again when he kissed her lightly on the forehead.

The seductive spell he had created was shattered when his hand suddenly plunged into the deep pocket of her cloak. Realizing his intent too late, she pulled away with a cry, striking her hip painfully against the wall behind her. She had not moved fast enough.

With a shallow smile of apology, he pocketed the pistol Jacques had given her.

“For the protection of us both.”

She tossed back the hair that had escaped the hood of her mantle in anger. “Afraid I’d shoot you in the back?”

“I would be disappointed if you did not try.” He inclined his head toward the staircase. “Shall we?”

He was poised as if ready to spring at her if she tried to run. It was obvious he meant to take her along. Had that been his plan all along?

“If I scream, it will alert them.”

His smile was indulgent, amused.
Victorious.
“Do you really believe you would be heard? My friends are quite noisy.”

He moved closer, and Rachael hugged the damp wall behind her. “You haven’t believed one word I’ve said, have you?”

He continued to smile down at her.
“Au contraire.
You told the truth about the trap. I’m prepared to accept the rest until I can prove otherwise.” He indicated the stairs for a second time.
“Apres vous.
I’ll follow.”

When she refused to move, he reached out and drew her away from the wall, encircling her waist. She felt his superior physical strength radiate through the contact, even though he did not compel her. Sebastién leaned down and his warm breath fanned her ear.

“You can walk, or I can carry you. Your choice.”

It was a clear threat, however pleasantly posed. She heard the beat of her heart above the creak of the swollen timber as she began her descent.

“I have given you no reason to take me with you,” she protested as they stepped onto the damp, sandy floor of the corridor that led to the beach.

He stopped so abruptly they nearly collided.

“Oh, but you have,” he assured her with an enigmatic smile.

Upstairs in Tor Pub, soldiers continued to comb the common room, peering under tables and even going so far as to open several oversized kegs of ale, as if they suspected the people they sought had been temporarily placed on draft to avoid capture.

Victor Brightmore clung to a darkened corner of the pub. He poured himself a brandy and lit his pipe with an unsteady hand. He had been shocked to glance up from his pint of bitters to discover his niece consorting with Sebastién Falconer. He had not expected Rachael to use her feminine wiles to gain the Frenchman as an ally. It was ironic that the one man he had been certain would kill her for him had instead become her protector.

He knew the Falconer twins on sight, although they did not know him. When he began supplementing his smuggling activities with shipwrecking, he had heard a curious tale of twin brothers who hated each other, one a French privateer who was a fairtrader, the other an English revenue officer.

What had started out as a plan to camouflage his criminal activities had mushroomed into a web of murder and deceit. He had organized a gang of wreckers whose penchant for violence had brought their activities to the attention of the authorities. With Jacques Falconer reportedly obsessed with the idea of bringing his twin to justice, Victor had decided that the Frenchman would make a good scapegoat.

When Victor discovered that he and his men had wrecked the ship carrying Jacques Falconer’s fiancée, he had arranged to send Jacques a trinket torn from the girl’s body, along with a taunting note from his brother claiming responsibility for the crime.

Sebastién Falconer had recently begun making discreet inquiries about him. No doubt the Frenchman had heard about Rachael’s little rest cure at Bedlam. The right sources could also confirm that she was not the informer behind the Prussia Cove debacle.

To make matters worse, he had lost his favorite signet ring during a recent wrecking. He was a superstitious man, and the loss did not portend well. Although the ring could not directly connect him to any crime, it was a solid clue to his identity.

The future had seemed a dismal prospect until tonight, when he had discovered that his niece was no longer safely ensconced at court, and therefore no longer beyond his reach. He knew precisely where that underground tunnel would lead them, and it would be a simple matter to pick up their trail from there.

The path to Rame Head wound along a steep cliff surrounded by wooded cliffs of graduating height. The shore that stretched below from Rame Head to Penlee was made treacherous by jagged rock teeth. Due to its geographical limitations, this particular stretch of coast was popular with fairtraders, who were well acquainted with its numerous inlets, bays, and hidden coves.

The tunnel they followed was the most direct route to the beach. It bore a downward gradient that went on for better than two miles before yawning into Muldoon’s Cove. Rachael could hear the gurgle of water and the rustle of creatures she was grateful she could not see as they passed through the tunnel.

An eerie yellow pall cast by the random placement of torch-bearing sconces lit their way. Sebastién had forged ahead of her a short distance and had spoken only once, to warn her of glass fragments strewn across their path.

She regarded the tall, powerful man ahead of her. There was an innate elegance in the way he carried himself, his broad shoulders thrown back, spine erect. The cape flowed over his shoulders the way water cascaded over the stolid stone of a magnificent waterfall. What was wrong with her? The man had just abducted her for the second time, and yet she felt safe in his company.

It was nearly midnight when they emerged from the mouth of the cave. When she shivered and drew her mantle around her, Sebastién moved to shield her from the frigid blast of the southwesterly wind.

The terrain changed as they traveled. Heather surrendered to white clay hills, and the sea and soil became milky white, reflecting the moon glow as pinpoints of sparkling, opaque light.

When it became apparent the route they followed did not lead to Sebastién’s secluded cottage, Rachael halted in mid-stride and stood rooted in the chalky sand while he trudged on ahead of her.

“Where are we going?” she shouted.

Sebastién spun around and drew his hand across his throat in a savage gesture for quiet then walked back to her and arranged the folds of the mantle hood so that her ears and throat were protected from the cold, as if she was a child.

“I thought you were taking me to my brother. I would like to be taken to your cottage at once.”

“Why would you assume the infant is at my home unless you had a hand in placing it there?” he asked.

“Your note did not specify a location. It was a guess. The path we are following does not lead to your cottage.”

“Non,
it does not,” he agreed. “For a woman who recently fled my home in all haste, you seem anxious to return there.”

“I believed I was fleeing the devil,” she gibed, ignoring the edge of distrust she heard in his voice.

His hand brushed her cheek and lingered against her skin. His fingers were pleasantly warm. “And now? Do you still believe I’m the devil?”

Rachael looked up at him and caught her breath as his fingers continued to lightly stroke her skin. She seized his hand to stop the havoc his touch was creating. “I haven’t made up my mind.”

Her tart response brought a sardonic smile to Sebastién’s lips as he peered down at ther. His hand glided down to her throat and lingered, resting against the wildly drumming pulse there. Without another word, he turned and began walking up the beach. Rachael hurried after him.

“Please, you must take me to my brother.” She stopped again.

He glanced back over his shoulder. “We need horses.”

Sebastién continued on, and Rachael hurried to catch up to him. “Your brother will have every village from here to Land’s End watched. It will be safer to make the journey on foot.”

He shook his head.
“Non.
Helston is too far to go on foot.”