Love Inspired Historical March 2014 Bundle: Winning Over the Wrangler\Wolf Creek Homecoming\A Bride for the Baron\The Guardian's Promise (66 page)

He pushed away from the wall. One step. Another step.

The waves splashed against the dark shape on the sand. A groan came from it.

The man was alive!

Rushing forward, Edmund carefully turned the man over on his back. Blood covered the man's face, but it was a face Edmund recognized immediately.

“Ashland!”

The viscount groaned, then cursed as he tried to sit.

“Easy. Let me help you.” Edmund put his arm beneath the other man's shoulders and slowly tipped him up. Dampness oozed through his sleeve. He did not need to look down to know the warm liquid was Ashland's blood.

He did not hesitate. On the beach, he and Ashland could be seen by anyone passing by on the top of the cliffs. He hooked his hands under the viscount's arms and dragged him into the shadows.

Ashland murmured a single protest, then subsided when his attempt to get to his feet failed. He groaned again as he tried to move his right leg. Giving up, he dug his left boot heel into the sand and stones to help Edmund move him to a safer location.

Edmund scanned the break in the cliff walls. He saw what must be caves, but he rejected going there. Caves this close to the sea would be used by the smugglers to stash their illegal cargoes.

There! Where the stream fell over the cliffs. A tree with a couple of logs leaning against it. He could conceal Ashland there while Edmund went to get help.

The viscount was barely conscious by the time Edmund tugged him between the thick logs and the tree. Leaving him, Edmund worked to erase every sign of their passage from the beach to the tree.

He cupped his hands by the stream and brought Ashland some water. More of it spilled on the viscount's face than into his mouth, but it roused Ashland enough so that he opened his eyes.

“Meriweather!” He coughed and wiped blood from his forehead. “How did you find me?”

“God must have guided me here. I was on my way back to Meriweather Hall to report that I had not found any sign of the vicar, and I saw a group of men—”

Ashland grasped the front of Edmund's coat weakly. “The vicar is missing?”

“Yes. Nobody's seen him since this morning.”

“That may be whom they were talking about.”

“The smugglers who attacked you?”

Ashland's scowl was a pale version of his usual one. “How did you know they were smugglers?”

“First, because people normally don't go around beating up other people in Sanctuary Bay. Second, because I overheard enough of what they said to know.” He did not repeat the exact words because he wanted to be absolutely sure Ashland was not
his qualityship.
Infighting among criminals was not unheard of. “They spoke of the vicar?”

“Not by name.” He released Edmund's coat and sagged back against the tree. “They were talking about spiriting away someone, so they could force you and your friends to look the other way when a big delivery comes at week's end. You have them scared because the three of you have the skills to defeat them.” He tried to chuckle, but it came out as another groan. “I could have used your help this afternoon.”

He began to check Ashland's wounds. In addition to the one at his hairline, he might have a broken arm and probably at least one broken bone in his leg. No ribs were broken, but he guessed they were tender by the way the viscount flinched. “What happened?”

“I was ambushed.” He winced, then coughed and winced again. “I got careless. Even though I had two pistols with me, I never got a single shot off.”

“So, you have the pistols still?”

“Yes.” His voice was growing feeble again.

Edmund got more water from the stream. This time, Ashland was able to swallow most of it. Tearing fabric off the hems of his shirt and Ashland's, Edmund wrapped the linen around the viscount's head. It instantly stained red, but he was more concerned about the injuries he could not see.

“They might be worried about Northbridge, Bradby and me,” he said, picking up a couple of sticks and binding them around Ashland's leg, “but they gave you quite the basting.”

He pulled two more sticks toward him and handed them to Edmund. “I think they discovered who I am.”

Edmund frowned. “You aren't Lord Ashland?”

“I am.” He winced as he moved his right arm to let Edmund put a primitive splint on it. “But they must have discovered that I have been working on behalf of the government to put a halt to the smuggling in Sanctuary Bay.” He muttered something under his breath as Edmund tied off the material.

“Why didn't you tell us that?”

“Because I was unsure which side you were on. There was talk in Whitehall of how the previous Lord Meriweather had asked a lot of questions about the smugglers' leader, but, when you assumed his place, there were no more questions. It was thought that you might have seen a way to increase your wealth by bringing the smugglers to heel under your boot.”

Edmund sat back on his haunches. “Because I wasn't nobly born?”

“No.” He shuddered but waved aside Edmund's hands when he reached to redo the bandage around his head. “Leave it. Meriweather, your station at birth had nothing to do with the suspicions. Your leadership qualities during the war drew attention to you.” His voice grew more strained, but he pushed on. “A man who can make quick, good decisions in the midst of battle is a man who can also make good decisions about sneaking goods ashore, stashing them and then selling them for profit.”

The irony that he was suspected because he once had been skilled at making decisions almost made him laugh, but it was not the time. Ashland was hurt, and Edmund needed to get him somewhere where a physician could tend to his injuries.

“I'm confused,” he said. “Why do the smugglers fear my friends and me but kidnapped the vicar? That would make us more determined to halt them.”

“They are desperate, and their leader is even more so.”

“Sir Nigel?”

“Yes, Tresting.” Ashland's voice was scarcely more than a whisper. “I see that is no surprise for you.”

“Not a surprise, but I had hoped I was wrong.” He thought of Lillian and how her great-uncle's connection to the smugglers could tarnish her reputation. “But supposition won't be enough to have someone arrested. We must have proof.”

“You may find it in the village.” A smile flitted like a shadow across his pale lips. “Or, to be more accurate, under the village. You have heard about the tunnel built to divert the beck down to the sea?”

“Yes.” His cousin Sophia had spoken of the tunnel on the very first trip he had made to the village. A small stream, which the locals called a beck, vanished under some houses midway down the steep hill and then emerged at the foot of the street where the fishermen drew their cobles up on the sand and hung their nets to dry.

Nets!

“The entrance is hidden behind the fishermen's nets, isn't it?” he asked.

“Yes, but it is well guarded.” He shifted and moaned. Again he waved Edmund away. “It is easy for the smugglers to pretend to be doing work while they make sure nobody gets too close to the entrance. If you bring others to overwhelm the guard, a fight would erupt. With the houses having a good view of the foot of the street, reinforcements would be upon you in seconds. You'd be waging a battle on two fronts with the sea to one side.” His eyes narrowed. “But one man alone might sneak past the guard.”

“Was that your plan, Ashland?”

“It was, and you see how well that turned out. Until you chanced by, I thought we would have to let the smugglers win this round.” He drew out a pistol from beneath his coat and handed it to Edmund. “Now...”

“Is the time to strike.” As he finished Ashland's sentence, he stood. “Will you be all right here for another hour or so?” He knew well what he was asking the viscount to endure, but Ashland was alive, and Edmund wanted to make sure the vicar was, too.

“I will with God's help.”

“There isn't any better.”

A faint smile tipped the viscount's lips. “I'll be praying that you succeed where I failed, Meriweather.”

He nodded his thanks, then edged around the fallen log. No movement on the cliff top or along the beach was a good sign. He hurried into the shadows before he could think about what awaited him in the village.

Chapter Sixteen

T
he public house smelled, like many other buildings in the village, of fish and salt and the sea. The odor of ale and burned food wove through those smells when Vera opened the thick oak door. Overhead, a sign with a ship on a high sea swung in the wind. The whitewashed plaster walls were dull in the dim light of a single lamp. She wondered how burly fishermen fit into the cramped entry. She pushed aside the door to the left and stepped into the tavern.

Thick rafters made the ceiling feel even lower. Battered chairs surrounded small tables. The tops of the tables were marked with rings from tankards, but the uneven floorboards, painted the same black as the rafters, glistened with care.

Through an arch, she saw the bar. It was simple, a counter where drinks could be served. A single person stood by it. When the person moved into the light from the lamp on one side of the bar, Vera sent up a prayer of gratitude.

“Jeannie,” she said, weaving her way between the tables.

“Miss Fenwick!” The short brunette dropped a wet cloth on the bar and rushed to meet her. “What are you doing here? Ladies don't come in here.”

“As the vicar's sister, I have been welcome in every building in the village. Why not here?”

“You would be welcome.” She glanced toward the pair of windows overlooking the steep street. “Just not tonight.”

“It must be tonight because I have to find Gregory.”

“The vicar? Is
he
the one they grabbed?” She clapped her hand over her mouth.

“Where can we talk in private?” Vera could not risk Jeannie, who knew, all too well, what the smugglers were capable of. Stanley Cadman had been her nephew.

“Come with me, Miss Fenwick.” She hurried Vera past the tavern and toward a narrow staircase that leaned drunkenly against the wall. Opening a short door, she led the way down a pair of brick steps to a room that appeared to be both a kitchen and a storage room. Casks were stacked against two walls. A few rusty, scorched pots sat in the dead embers on a smoke-stained hearth.

Vera started to speak, but Jeannie put her finger to her lips and tiptoed around one stack of casks. When a door opened and closed, Vera realized she was checking to make sure they were not overheard.

Jeannie slipped back around the barrels, her blue eyes glimmering with fear. “Miss Fenwick, you need to go back to Meriweather Hall. You will be safe there.”

“Gregory wasn't.” She hesitated, then said, “Neither was Stanley.”

“I don't know anywhere that is truly safe since
he
took control of the owls.”

Vera recognized the cant term for smugglers. “Who is he?”

“I cannot tell you that, Miss Fenwick, because Stanley never told me. He said it was too dangerous for me to know what he had chanced to learn while working on the new church. He thought he was safe because he waited almost a week before he contacted Lord Meriweather.”

“But the smugglers must have realized he had overheard and they waited for him out on the cliffs.”

“Yes! That is why you must go, Miss Fenwick. If they think you know, they will kill you, too. That you are the vicar's sister means nothing to them.”

“I can't go without my brother.”

“Miss Fenwick—”

Vera grasped Jeannie's hands. “Would you leave without doing everything you could?”

Staring at the floor, Jeannie sighed, then shook her head. “If I could have done something to protect Stanley, I would have gladly risked my own life.” She drew her hands out of Vera's and motioned for her to follow.

The barmaid led Vera among the casks. She squatted and gestured for Vera to do the same. Close to the stone floor was the perfect hiding place. They could see if anyone approached, but, unless someone looked closely, they would be hidden.

“What I am about to show you,” Jeannie said, “you cannot share with anyone. You must promise that.”

Vera hesitated, knowing what Jeannie knew might offer Edmund the key to putting an end to the smugglers. Not to give him that information would be more difficult than anything she had ever done. For a moment, she was as indecisive as Edmund but knew, as much as he was determined to halt the smugglers, he would not want the victory to come at the cost of Gregory's life.

“I promise,” she whispered.

“If the smugglers have the vicar, there is only one place he could be. Under the village.”

“Under? In a cellar?”

Jeannie would not meet her eyes. “No, not a cellar.”

“In a tunnel? The smugglers had a tunnel into the old church's cellar.”

“These tunnels—”

“There are more than one?”

“Yes. I don't know how many, but at least one goes all the way to the sea.”

Vera nodded. That no cargo had ever been found in the village or on the beach was a sure sign the smugglers had an efficient way to get it out of sight.

“And they open into a few buildings along the street,” Jeannie said.

“What?” Her voice squeaked, and she lowered it. “The tunnels are connected to the houses?”

“Into the cellars. That allows for cargo to be moved if someone gets too close.” She glanced out between the casks, then at Vera. “There is a way into the tunnels from The Scuppers. I found it a few months ago.”

This time, she did not hesitate. “Take me there.”

Stopping only to get two dark lanterns and lighting them, Jeannie led the way down into the public house's cellar. No cobwebs clung to the walls, and the dirt floor had grooves where heavy items had been dragged across it. Jeannie did not give her time to look around as she went to a stone wall that looked no different from the others.

Vera watched closely where Jeannie put her fingers. The way to reopen the door would require identical motions on the other side. When a stone slab swung back on silent leather hinges, rushing water sounded as loud as a shout.

“The beck?” she asked.

Jeannie nodded. “The rocks are slippery. Watch where you put your feet. Once you're through the door, turn left and climb the hill. If your brother is in the tunnels, he most likely will be in that direction.”

“I don't know how to thank you.”

Handing her a lantern, its door slid almost closed so only a narrow line of light emerged, Jeannie said, “Thank me when you and the vicar are safe. Whatever you do, don't come back here for at least three hours. The tavern will be busy soon, and someone may see you. There are places along the tunnels where you can hide in the shadows, and you may escape notice.”

“All right.” Her voice was small as her fear loomed larger with every passing second.

“Are you sure you want to go?”

“I have to go.”

Jeannie nodded with a sad smile. “When you do come back, hide among the casks in the kitchen until I can sneak you out. God go with you.”

“Thank you.” Vera stepped through the door and onto a stone slab. She edged down a step, and the door closed behind her.

Fear gripped her for a second, then she told her frantic heart to slow. She ran her toes to the edge of the stone and discovered it was another step. Cautiously she stepped down and grimaced as cold water washed over her shoes.

The beck was only a few inches deep, so she held up her gown with one hand as she began walking. She peered through the darkness, wishing she could open the panel on her lantern wide enough to let her see where she was putting her feet. She had to be grateful she had even this much light, because the tunnel was as black as Whitby jet. The beck flowed swiftly between large rocks. It would be too easy to twist her ankle on the uneven stones, so she edged around them. She had to be extra careful because years of water running over the rocks had dug out channels between them. Someone had built a low ridge on one side of the tunnel, but it appeared even more treacherous than the floor of the tunnel. Water oozed down the walls, puddling on the ridge before falling into the beck.

She heard nothing but the beck. The arched top of the tunnel was constructed of tightly packed bricks. None of them had shifted out of place, unlike the stones in the walls. Several had collapsed, bringing dirt down with them.

The late Lord Meriweather had known there was at least one tunnel. Cat had told her how he had searched but never found it. Had he known how big this tunnel was? Was this tunnel the one that connected to the old church, or was that a separate one? She wondered how many tunnels snaked through the cliffs.

Stop thinking about the tunnels. Find Gregory and get out of here!

She inched forward. Her left foot slammed into a rock she had not seen. Tears filled her eyes as pain surged from her big toe. She hoped she had not broken it. Not that it mattered. A broken toe was not going to keep her from finding her brother.

A hand settled on her shoulder. She drew in a breath to scream. A hand closed over her mouth, and she was tugged back against a firm chest. Another hand wrapped around her waist. She kicked back at her captor's legs and clawed his arms.

“Vera, it is me,” came a whisper in her ear.

Edmund!

He was alive!

But what was he doing in the tunnel?

He spun her to face him. His arms encircled her. She threw hers around his shoulders as he lowered his mouth to hers in a kiss that offered healing for wounds left by angry and thoughtless words. She sank into him, savoring his rough mat of whiskers against her face.

Too soon, he drew back, but he leaned his forehead against hers. He whispered her name as if it were the sweetest prayer. Her fingers stroked his cheek, and she hoped her touch said what words could not. She heard him sigh when he released her.

“What are you doing in this tunnel?” he whispered.

“Gregory may be here. What are you doing here?” She gasped as she realized he was not carrying a lantern. “How can you see where you are going?”

“The smugglers use this tunnel. I figured if they could slip through without light, I could, too. I've been running my fingers along the wall to guide me.”

She nodded, then realized he might not be able to see the motion. “I know about the smugglers, but Jeannie thought Gregory might be down here.”

“Who is Jeannie?”

Vera hesitated, then realized her promise to Jeannie had been negated because Edmund already knew about the tunnels. “She is a maid at The Scuppers. Her full name is Jeannie Cadman.”

His eyes widened, catching the faint light. “Stanley Cadman's wife?”

“His aunt, but she offered to help me when I told her that the smugglers might have taken Gregory.”

“But that doesn't explain how you got into the tunnel.”

“Tunnels,” she corrected.

“There is more than one? How many are there?”

“I don't know, but several houses up the hill are connected by branches of the main tunnel.”

Edmund took her hand as the current between the boulders tugged at their feet. She still was scared, but having him with her increased her chances of finding Gregory and returning alive to The Scuppers.

“But that doesn't tell me how you got in here,” he said.

“One of the buildings connected to this tunnel is The Scuppers. I suspect the publican allows it in exchange for the smugglers providing him with inexpensive brandy. Jeannie didn't tell anyone else other than her nephew.”

“Which may have been what he intended to tell me before he was murdered.”

“No, she said he overheard something at the building site.” She glanced at Edmund. “If anyone else finds out that she told me—”

He put his finger to her lips, and she wished he had silenced her with a kiss instead. “Don't worry, Vera. Assuming we make it out of these tunnels alive, I will arrange for Jeannie to come to work at Meriweather Hall. That way, nobody will suspect she was the one who led you here.”

“No, that would be the worst thing to do. If she leaves The Scuppers immediately, no one will doubt the position at Meriweather Hall is a reward for her help in finding Gregory.”

She could tell his mouth twisted by how his words sounded. “Yes, yes, I should have known that, but we don't have time for this. You need to leave, Vera. Now.”

* * *

Edmund watched her eyes grow wide in the light from her lantern. He tried to deflect the protest he knew was coming by saying, “This is no place for you.”

When he had seen a light ahead of him in the tunnel, he had skulked as quietly as he could toward it. He had expected to find one or more smugglers, so he had drawn the pistol, ready to fire if necessary. He had hid it under his coat when he had seen Vera wading up the stream with the dark lantern to light her way.

“This no place for you, either,” she retorted.

“At least I am armed. You are not. You should go back, Vera.”

She shook her head, long strands of her black hair cascading around her shoulders. “Even if I were willing to stop looking for Gregory, which I'm not, I cannot go back the way I came. Not for three hours. The public house will be busy. I could be seen. I won't betray Jeannie. Her family has suffered too much already.”

“You cannot go back the way I came in, either.” He told her how he had bamboozled the man standing guard at the foot of the street. He had recognized the man from services at the chapel, and he had hoped that asking for his help in rescuing a fellow parishioner who had been hurt at the church would lure the man from his post. It had. The man had run up the steep street as if it were as flat as the top of the cliffs overlooking Sanctuary Bay.

“Good. That buys us some time.”

“No. As I was ducking beneath the nets, I heard him call to one of his fellows to finish up his
work.
You can be certain someone is standing guard close to the nets now, though they cannot be certain I entered the tunnel.”

“That gives us no choice. We have to go forward.” She held up the lantern, and the moss on the walls looked like a green waterfall. “It will not take long for the word to reach Lord Ashland or—”