The Cornish Heiress (38 page)

After that they could have their fun with her. That might
convince her she had better play the game their way. If it did not, she could
be convinced by more forceful methods than rape to show them where the kegs
were stored and to disclose all of her customers. They would have the money,
the routes, and the kegs. If Pierre would deal with them, they would pay him;
if not, they would have time to induce another smuggler to make Treen or
Lamorna Cove his port of call.

In the joy of having Philip back and the excitement of
another buying trip to Falmouth, Megaera forgot all about the problem of the
disaffected members of the gang. If they had caused trouble, Tom Helston would
have left a message at the cave, and that would have reminded her. The arrival
of Black Bart, however, had forestalled any desire on their parts to be taken
back into the gang. Had Helston been a cleverer man, the quiet would have made
him suspicious. As it was, he accepted the peace as a gift from God and did not
question it.

For Megaera it had been both a dreadful and a wonderful
week. She nearly went mad finding devices and excuses to avoid telling Philip
the full sum of the mortgages on Bolliet and the quarterly interest. She would
never have succeeded, except for two things. The trip to Falmouth gave her
three days of grace; if she was there, she could ask her “sister” no questions.
The second thing was that Philip was not really determined to discover the
answer right then. Since there was nothing he could do about paying either
interest, or debt until he returned from France, it did not seem worth
quarreling about with Meg.

It was too complex and too delicate a matter to try to
explain to his father in a letter. Besides, Philip had now decided that Roger
and Leonie must meet Meg before he told them her troubles. Once they had seen
her, good, sweet, and beautiful as she was, they would help him find a
solution. If he told them the tale first, they would be sure she was some kind
of harpy that had got her talons into him. The idea of Meg as a harpy was
comical. She resisted his attempt to give her anything, except the warmth of
his body and his love.

Thus, in a way, Megaera won the battle of wills. On the
night that the
Bonne Lucie
lay to in Lamorna Cove and the kegs of wine
and tobacco were brought ashore, Philip still did not know how much or to whom
the money was owed. He did not go back to Moreton Place that last night. He
stayed in the cave, but he did not waste his time that night or the next
day—the last hours he would spend with Meg until he could get back to Cornwall—asking
questions he knew she did not wish to answer. To the best of his
ability—without betraying his mission which was, after all, a state secret—he
explained what he was going to do. He said he had to go to Paris to make some
arrangements. He did not say for whom, knowing Meg would assume it was for
Pierre. She in turn promised she would be extra careful, and that she had not
forgotten the letters he had given her and would use them if trouble should
find her despite her care.

About that, Philip said nothing. He had determined to stop
Meg’s smuggling without her permission by inducing Pierre to change his port of
call. At any rate he was not too worried about her this time. Just before dusk
Meg sent John away on an errand that would take about an hour. On his way back
he was to pick up two ponies, one for Meg and one for Philip—Spite had been
left at Moreton Place again, where Philip had said his
adieux
the
previous afternoon. They would ride over to The Mousehole and there they would
part, but they would not think of that yet.

They made love gently, lingeringly, without the frantic heat
that had marked their first parting. Philip spent a long time just stroking Meg
from shoulder to thigh, following the path of his hands with his lips. He was
relaxed, certain of his purpose although he was not certain of how he would
accomplish it. There was, nonetheless, no need for him to get as much of Meg as
he could. He was sure this time he would be back to take her home with him in a
few weeks.

Megaera, on the other hand, kept telling herself this was
the end, that she must break with Philip, that she could not deceive him any
longer. She should have been completely miserable; in fact, she was not sad at
all. Something inside her simply would not accept the facts as her mind stated
them. Against all reason, against all denial, there was a sure expectation of
continued joy and love.

Their mutual climax—a thing they did not often achieve—was
an additional blessing. If it was less explosive than other times, bringing
sighs rather than groans, it was sweeter. They lay locked together as the long,
soft thrills slowly faded. Then it was time to dress. They had taken so long
over their foreplay that it was full dark and John might be back at any time.
Still neither was inclined to light the lamp, fearing that the peace and
fulfillment each felt might not be reflected, in the other’s expression.
Better, then, to dress by the dim red glow of the braziers. They were not going
to a ball. It would not matter if Meg’s hair was tousled under her woolen cap
or if Philip had not shaved.

This love and concern for each other, the unwillingness to
show a face of joy or make too casual a remark and unwittingly hurt a less
peaceful partner, saved their lives. Dressing quietly, silently, they heard the
hiss of a whisper, the crunch of a step on a pebble that gritted on the stone
floor. Into each mind leapt the same question and answer. John? No! John’s foot
might crunch on a pebble, but to whisper was beyond him.

Philip’s gun was in his hand, loaded and cocked, before
another crunch confirmed the invasion. He did not wait or question, but darted
around the screen and fired at the sound. There was very little chance that he
would hit any target. It was utterly black in the cave, except for the faintest
gray luminousness at the opening, and his movement spoiled his impression of
where the sound had originated. What he hoped was that the fear generated by
his shot would unbalance whoever had come into the cave.

The noise itself would be a shock, and it would show that he
was aware of the intrusion. This alone might drive away any single, unarmed
person who had come to steal a keg or some tobacco. If there were more than one
and they were armed, Philip’s loosing off a shot might be considered a panic
reaction. The intruders probably thought Meg was alone and might believe she
would need time to reload and might try to rush her. At worst, seeing his gun
spit fire one of them might try to hit him by aiming at the sparks.

It was the last that happened. As he fired Philip crouched,
working his reload mechanism. Before he had completed his loading, a gun
barked. Philip slammed home the lever and returned the fire, aiming as the
other had done at the powder spark. A shriek followed, and Philip smiled grimly,
moving sideways again as someone shouted, “That’s both her pops. We can take
her now.”

Two more shots went off simultaneously—Philip’s third and
Meg’s first—both aimed at the voice but unfortunately that was a less sure
guide than powder sparks and neither hit. A string of curses greeted the double
shot as the intruders shouted warnings to each other to be careful, that the
dummy was armed. It was a reasonable conclusion since the men did not know that
Philip was back. It was also a dangerous conclusion. Four shots had been fired,
so four guns must be empty.

The only things that saved Philip and Meg from a concerted
rush, which might well have overpowered them, were the men’s fear of coming to
grips with John, and Black Bart’s terror of the cave itself. He had come in a
little way past the entrance, the dark inside not being much greater than that
outside near the opening, but he could not go forward another inch. It had been
he who had shouted that Meg should be taken. Had he been able to rush forward—he
still had an unfired gun in each hand—the three unhurt men would have followed.
But Bart’s terror of the echoing black immensity facing him held him fast.

The other three could not quite decide on their approach. If
they delayed, presumably Red Meg and the dummy would have time to reload. If
they rushed forward, the dummy might catch one of them and squeeze the life out
of him. None would have minded much if it happened to one of the others; it
would be a good thing because it would provide an opportunity to rush up to the
screams and shoot the dummy in the head. Unfortunately, each was as reluctant
to be the victim as he was indifferent to the victimization of the others.

Philip, of course, was already reloaded, ears straining for
a sound, but it was his eyes that gave the clue. Periodically his glance went
to the cave opening, still faintly lighter than the interior. He had no idea
whether John had been waylaid or whether he would suddenly appear. If so,
Philip wanted to warn him. But how could one warn a man who could not hear a
shout? Nonetheless he looked at the cave entrance. Suddenly there was a flicker
of a blacker shadow there. He fired at it before he thought and before he could
hate himself for having hurt John when he had just been thinking about him, a
scream responded followed by gasping moans. Philip sighed with relief. That
could not be John.

Two men had been hit, but Philip had no idea whether they
had been put out of action permanently—or how many more there were. An outburst
of obscenities came from the right of the cave entrance. To Philip’s left Meg’s
pistol barked. The obscenities cut off abruptly as the bullet whined in
ricochet. Philip could hear Meg sobbing softly and fumbling behind the screen,
then the tiny scratch of paper tearing. Good girl! She might cry, but she
didn’t lose her head. She was opening a cartridge to reload. Philip’s own gun
was ready, but he had no target. He stared hopelessly into the blackness,
feeling the approach of a dozen men, although he knew there could not be so
many close; he would have heard their breathing.

Then, as his eyes swept back and forth, he saw a faint
gilding of the lesser darkness that marked the cave entrance. John?
Reinforcements for the attackers? No, it must be John. The intruders would not
show a light. It was maddening not to be able to warn the man. All Philip could
think of was to fire his gun when John was fully in the entrance. Perhaps the
deaf-mute would see the powder flash. But would he know what it meant? John was
not exactly quick in his thinking.

It would never work. The gilding grew brighter. Probably the
intruders had not yet noticed it since they were looking in toward the back of
the cave, but the light would soon be strong enough to draw their attention.
Philip started to edge forward. He could not let John walk into the cave
carrying a lantern in his hand. They would shoot him down at once at
point-blank range because the big man would be blind to anything outside the
small circle of light and, at the same time, the light would make him a perfect
target.

Between one step and another, Philip hesitated. Would he be
leaving Meg to be caught if he went to warn John? And then there was no time
for decision. Everything happened at once. Someone saw the light and shouted,
turning suddenly, feet grating on the stone floor. Philip fired at the sound,
quite close to him, too good a target to miss. A shriek and more grating, a
thud, proved his aim had been true. Simultaneously the cave was full of light!
Philip was temporarily blinded. Two guns went off, but there was no response
and Philip did not know whether the shots had missed or, although hit, John
could not scream.

As his sight adjusted Philip realized that the lantern had
been dropped, spilling its oil across the floor. That had ignited, furnishing
the sudden blaze of light. Although blind, Philip had reloaded the Lorenzoni,
but he never had a chance to use it. John had just come to his full height
after he had fallen or crouched. He opened his mouth, perhaps to scream, but no
sound came out, not even his usual distressed gobbling. Philip had to glance
away to look, around the cave, for enemies. When he looked back, he saw John
lurching to the side, heard a man scream—a high, thin shriek of mindless terror
that stopped abruptly on a creaking noise that ended in a small, sharp snap.

As both men fell, two others ran—one limping and the other,
staggering, both whimpering—out of the cave. Philip sent a bullet after them on
principle, but he did not think they would be back immediately. He hurried over
to where John lay, and gasped. The light from the burning oil was dying down,
most having been consumed and there being nothing else to burn on the floor,
but there was enough light to see the blood, a huge pool of it. Philip could
not imagine how so much blood could pour out of a man in so short a time. Both
were dead. John had been hit at close range. How he could have stood up
and—Philip shuddered and looked away. He had twisted the other man’s head right
around. Although the body lay on its stomach, the face horribly contorted, eyes
bulging, stared right at Philip.

He stood and turned, holding out a hand to warn Meg away,
but Meg was not coming. Then Philip screamed! In the last of the light he saw
her lying on the ground, her face covered with blood. He was beside her in a
moment, cradling her in his arms, too frozen with grief and loss to cry. His
utter silence, breath held in horror, was the source of his relief. He realized
that she was not dead, that the low, whispery moan was his beloved drawing
breath.

Then he became frantically busy, carrying her to the bed,
covering her warmly, lighting the lamp, pouring water from the pitcher to
sponge her face. He was trembling with terror. He had no idea how long she had
been unconscious, but if it was really long… Half mad with fear, Philip sponged
her face, her hair, but blood was still flowing. At last he found the place of
the wound.