On a Lee Shore (42 page)

“I don’t know what you think you’re going to try to get me to do,” Kit said as he toyed with his last morsel of cheese. Half the loaf and a good third of the cheese remained, rewrapped and placed on his shelf for future reference. “But filling my belly so adequately makes me feel more inclined to hear you out, rather than just knocking you down and tossing your wig into the Atlantic.”

“Such a nasty, rough, piratical fellow,” Tristan mused. He raised his glass to Kit. “Smuggling,” he said.

“What of it? The Excise have me under their eye, I’m told.”

“I should imagine they have,” Tristan nodded. “You must look very suspicious to them, poor dears. Rumor has it that Plowright thinks you were sent to spy on him, not on the smugglers’ behalf, but for some shadowy government organization critical of his diligence. He is very worried. Then there are the local Gentlemen who suppose that you are an Excise spy and that, dear Kit, is a supposition that could prove to be very dangerous for you. I hope you are being properly respectful and are buying their goods like a decent and upstanding member of the gentry.”

Kit scowled. “No—hence the rum. The local brandy is altogether too fine to be legally obtained.” And the smell and taste of it brought back memories he preferred not to revisit.

“More fool you then,” Tristan said. “A man with the right kind of friends in these parts could make himself very useful. A man loyal to King and country. With the right kinds of skills. A man who can come and go as he pleases, without having to account over much for his actions.” Tristan put out one hand and turned the folder-sized package over to tweak the retaining strings. “For the proper remuneration, of course. One wouldn’t ask anyone to risk life and limb for nothing more than gratitude.”

“Spying!” Kit stared at Tristan. “You are asking me to be a spy? You’re a spy?” He looked Tristan over from head to toe and chuckled.

Tristan’s derisive snort shut Kit up. “Oh good grief. You’d be the worst spy imaginable. A man who won’t even provide his friends with a decent drink in case it was obtained dishonestly has no place in our grimy business. I always said that you were disturbingly moral. As for me, a dressed up fop can go almost anywhere on a whim, talk to almost anyone for a lark. The benefits are considerable. But there are places I can’t go and things I can’t do and, when circumstances call for it, I am allowed to—hmm—contract out for certain services. Has it occurred to you, Kit, that there’s more than one kind of smuggling? That a trustworthy man with a sound little boat and a safe and sheltered landing spot could bring in more than the occasional tun of brandy or packet of lace?”

“You want a go-between?” Kit leaned forward in his seat, a little flicker of interest and excitement warming him far more than the rum. “So—what? I would rendezvous with a ship and bring in additional items as well as the contraband?”

“Ah, I thought you might be brighter than you look.” Tristan smiled. “You have it exactly. There might be times I would ask you to go farther afield. I assume there would be no difficulty about leaving this halcyon spot for a few weeks? You could tell the neighbors that you were going to Falmouth to try and find a clean whore.”

“They wouldn’t believe that,” Kit snorted. “Truro, maybe.”

“So you ask someone to keep an eye on your, for want of a better word, house, sail off into the blue, and return two weeks later, tanned and happy with a barrel of Bordeaux and a fresh dose of the clap. Everyone knows where you’ve been and what you’ve been doing, or thinks they do. Whereas in fact you returned with a quiet gentleman and his baggage and set him on his way with no questions asked. In return, I will ensure that you are not bothered by anyone—other than myself. I’ll visit more frequently if I’m assured of something decent to drink.”

“I’m flattered,” Kit said. “You mentioned remuneration? For wear and tear on my boat, for instance?”

“I am authorized to pay a small retainer plus other more substantial rewards according to risks undertaken and so forth. But in reality one does it for the love of one’s country, of course.”

“Oh, of course.” Kit got up, no longer able to remain still. He was feeling more interest and enthusiasm than at any point since the Africa had disappeared into the distance, taking his life with her. “Not in the least because it might be fun.”

Tristan made no reply as Kit went to the door and looked out across the sea shingle cobbles to the little dock where Puffin lay shrouded in oilskin. The sea was green and tipped with white, but in his mind’s eye he was seeing it dark and starlit and imagining himself guiding the Puffin into the lee of a larger vessel. There would be no rest from his grief over the loss of his lover, but excitement, mystery, and adventure might give some point to a life that a chance musket ball had rendered pointless.

“I’ll think about it,” he said. “Thank you, Tris.”

Tristan replied with a contented grunt, and Kit looked around as the chair shifted. Tristan was on his feet reaching for his hat.

“Read the papers in the packet. I’ll need you to sign a couple of them—you’ll see which. I must go. I’ll be in touch. Probably not personally.”

“You’ll send a messenger for my decision?”

“Exactly.” Tristan smiled. “You’ll know he’s from me because he’ll say—um—I know—‘by Tre, Pol, and Pen, you may know Cornishmen.’ That’s the sign.” He grinned. “And I know you won’t forget it.”

“No I won’t.” Kit returned the grin and accompanied Tristan to his horse, even tightening the girth for him and offering him a knee in lieu of a mounting block.

“Get your house in order,” Tristan advised once he was mounted. “When I send my message, you’ll need to leave almost immediately.” He nodded to Kit and gave him a brilliant and mischievous grin. “You’re going to enjoy this aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes.” With that he kicked his mare into a canter and rode off with a wave and a called farewell. Kit shouted a reply then laughed and turned back to the house.

Get it in order, Tris had said. Kit looked around and nodded. It was on the poverty-stricken side of shabby.

He checked his crab pots, spent most of the rest of the afternoon scrubbing the stone floors, and walked up to the house to beg some beeswax from Mrs. Nancarrow, offering her a crab in exchange. She handed the wax over with a smile and added an ancient great coat that she said she had found in the attic, a bag of leftovers, and half a dozen eggs in a crock. “I don’t like to see you looking so thin,” she said. “Though I admit you look a lot more cheerful today.”

“I am,” Kit said and gave her a peck on the cheek when he said good-bye. “I may be away for a few days soon,” he told her. “There’s the chance of a berth on a ship out of Falmouth. So if you don’t see me about that’ll be why.”

“You take care, dear boy,” she said and sent him on his way with her blessing.

Kit spent the following morning doing the rounds of his pots then sailed home to work on the Puffin. There was something calming about the careful routine of maintaining his little craft, and he forced himself to concentrate on checking the rigging, replacing a little of the caulking, stitching a patch around a worn place on the sail. Once Puffin was as fine and shipshape as he could make her, he took a rod along to the headland, climbed down onto the rocks, and spent a pleasant couple of hours fishing. Again he tried to keep his mind on his occupation, but Tristan’s warning niggled in the back of his mind.

Twice he found that he was listening too attentively to voices above him on the cliff path and once he spent a wistful half hour watching a white cloud of sails against the gray horizon.

This wouldn’t do, he decided, and once satisfied with his catch, packed up his gear to go home.

A bass made a good meal for him that night, and he hung the mackerel in his chimney to smoke. The night was a dark one, so he decided not to waste candlelight. A tiring day with much on his mind aided him to sleep, and he settled warmly into his bed.

He dreamed again of sun-drenched beaches and the shifting shadows of palm branches over bare skin that melted to form the shadows of rigging on a well-known and much missed deck. Gulls cried and the stays hummed with a fair wind on the quarter. Kit smiled and turned to speak to the man he knew would be at the whipstaff, then opened his eyes. Under his scarred cheek was the cool of his pillow. A gull cried again, once, a squawk of alarm, and Kit raised his head the better to listen. Faintly over the soft sounds of wind and water he could hear the creak of rowlocks then the crunch of shingle as a boat beached.

No point in taking chances. This might be Tristan’s messenger, but it might not be. Kit climbed from his bed, shivering, and pulled on a pair of breeches. He took the pistol, kept primed and ready above the mantle, grabbed his cutlass, and crept to the window to peer between the leaves of the shutters.

It was too dark to see the beach. The moon was high and the sky was full of racing clouds throwing shadows of the deepest black. Kit blinked sleep from his eyes and stared out. Was that the shift of shingle underfoot or had he imagined the whole thing?

No, there was a movement right outside the door, the glint of moonlight on shoe buckles and a drawn sword. As the latch lifted, Kit flung the door open and flashed his cutlass in the other man’s face with a challenging roar. Blades clashed and Kit felt a hand fasten on his wrist, sweeping the pistol aside. It discharged, the explosion deafening in the small room, then the pistol fell, and he and his assailant strained against each other, blades locked at the hilt. Kit jabbed with a knee, felt it impact on a rock hard thigh and, off balance, was shoved back to crash into the wall behind the door. Pinned, he drew breath to curse and—the scent of brine, tar, and brandy filled his lungs. He dropped the cutlass.

“Griffin!”

Their mouths met, Kit exulting in the scrape of beard against his skin, the sharpness of teeth, the possessive thrust of a tongue. Griffin too had discarded his blade, and his arms locked about Kit, one hand gripping his hair, the other with a firm handful of his arse, while Kit made fists in Griffin’s shirt. They broke off the kiss with a gasp.

“By Tre, Pol, and Pen,” Griffin growled. “Mr. Tregarron and I are impatient for an answer.”

“You?” Kit yelped then pressed his face to Griffin’s cheek. “Damn Tristan to perdition, kiss me again.”

“No.” Griffin leaned his head back out of reach though his hips still crushed Kit against the wall. Kit moaned. Griffin was as pleased to see him as he was to see Griffin. “My ship is waiting,” Griffin told him. “I gave the Africa to Valliere, and since Woodes Rogers was handing out King’s pardons to some of the sorriest rogues that ever sailed I am now a respectable man. Your friend has provided me with the sweetest cutter, and I have Saunders and Denny aboard and Lewis and Protheroe to crew. But I will and I must have my sailing master.” The hand in Kit’s hair stoked around to cup his jaw. “My messmate. You. We have a message to deliver and a man we have to collect.”

“Which man?” Kit asked.

“Don’t know, don’t care. After the winter I’ve had, I’m just glad to be alive. All Tristan would say is that England is at peace and collecting this man might keep her that way. If we pick up a load of brandy too then that’s fine. It’ll be—what’s the word—cover.”

“I’ll come,” Kit said. “I’ll just get my things.”

“You don’t need anything,” Griffin promised. “I kept your sea chest and have added to it. There’s everything you need to be a gentleman rogue of a smuggler. All honestly come by, moreover. Come with me, Kit.”

Even if Kit would have argued his mouth was stopped by another kiss, this one tender and filled with the promise of more to come.

“You work for Tristan,” he murmured.

“I always worked for Tristan,” Griffin growled, his hands on Kit’s body making him grit his teeth. “As you would have known if you hadn’t been so quick to jettison those damn admiralty orders. Come on, I’ll explain on board—in my cabin—on our way to France after you and I have expressed our delight at being together again.”

“We could do that now,” Kit pointed out. “In fact I would like to do that now. I have a bed, a proper bed—”

“But then we’d miss the tide,” Griffin said. He stepped back, his grin broad and bright in the moonlight, and offered his hand.

Kit closed the shutters and locked the door and went as he was, barefoot and half naked. But with his hand fast in Griffin’s and adventure ahead, he didn’t feel the cold.

~ About the Author ~

Elin Gregory lives in one of the lusher areas of South Wales. Writing has always had to take second place to her work in the local museum and her family but now the kids are grown up it’s possible to actually finish her stories.

Historical subjects predominate but she has also written contemporary and historical paranormals, science fiction, crime and a Western. Heroes tend to be hard as nails but capable of tenderness when circumstances allow.

Elin’s first published stories appeared in the British Flash and Tea and Crumpet anthologies produced by the UK Meet team. Elin still can’t quite believe it. However, there are always new works on the go and she is currently finishing a novel set in 6th century AD England ,  has started one about the British Secret Service between the two World Wars and has plans for another set just after Dunkirk. Any excuse to buy more books!

Find out more about Elin Gregory

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~ Also by Elin Gregory ~

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In Classical Greece, apprentice sculptor Philon has chosen the ideal horse to model for his masterpiece. Sadly, the rider falls well short of the ideal of beauty, but scarred and tattered Hilarion, with his brilliant, imperfect smile, draws Philon in a way that mere perfection cannot.