Compromised Miss (27 page)

‘You’re giving it up? But how can you do that? What ridiculous thought’s got into your head now? We’re a good team, Harry. Why throw it all up for no reason?’ A sneer curled his mouth and his glance at Luke was savagely unfriendly. ‘Has
he
persuaded you at last? Forbidden you? For shame on you, Harry, to cast aside everything we have built up together!’

‘No. It is my own decision.’ Harriette lifted her chin at the slur. ‘I’m cutting my connection with the Free Traders and nothing you say will change my mind, so don’t try. Will you do this for me, this last time?’ She placed a hand on his arm, a little shake. ‘Please, Zan. Don’t argue against it. Just do it.’

Luke watched Alexander Ellerdine bring whatever emotions drove him under control. The muscles in his face were taut, but at last he laughed and shrugged his shoulders in acceptance of defeat.

‘Since you are so set on it, then I must. But I warn you, Captain Harry, I’ll not let you give it up without a fight.’

Leaving Luke to wonder if the warning was for Harriette or for him. No, Luke did not trust Alexander Ellerdine. Nor did he like how he presumed on his relationship to press his lips to Harriette’s palm so intimately in farewell. That prerogative was his, and his alone.

The fact that Luke was giving up that prerogative entirely passed him by.

He would like to plant a fist in Alexander Ellerdine’s laughing face!

T
he moon, a mere sliver of silver, cast little light as
Lydyard’s Ghost
slid along the French coast on a flat sea. Dark-sailed, no lights showing, no voices, only the creak of rope and timber. Harriette stood at the bow, excitement and fear, apprehension for what was to come, leaping along her veins. She had never felt so nauseous in all her days at sea, but then, there had never been so much to lose. Or to gain. They edged closer to the harbour of the little town of Port St Martin, hardly more than an overgrown fishing village, looking for the pre-arranged signal of four blue flashes of light. She had done this many times before, but tonight was different. They would go into port, to tie up at the dock with other fishing vessels, and the outcome would be far more crucial than the simple loading of a cargo.

She turned her head to see where Luke stood at her shoulder, his face a mere glimmer in the dark, his body shrouded in a caped greatcoat. She was conscious of Luke’s presence in everything she did. Conscious that this was the last time he would need her or be with her. After
tonight she need never see him again. Once returned to England, he would take the lady to London—if they were fortunate enough to rescue her—and then the settlement of their marriage would be placed in the hands of the Hallaston legal men. Harriette looked ahead again to the approaching port, concentrating on what lay ahead. Now was no time for self-pity, now she must use every skill she had if they were to return to England with cargo intact, without harm. If her crew ended up languishing in a French jail, she would never forgive herself.

Even Luke had been forced to admit, when he had laid down his damnably trenchant rules for this operation, that in the end he needed her skill to sail the vessel into port without raising any alarm.

Her eyes caught it. The flashes of a light, the signal.

‘Lower sails,’ she whispered, and George Gadie murmured the order. The cutter came softly up against the stone wall of the harbour in a deep patch of shadow. Harriette held her breath, all her senses strained in the silence broken only by the lap of waves, the friction of wood against the stone wall, distant shouts of drunken roistering from the inn in the town. And the thud of her heart in her own breast, thunderous in her ears.

‘Captain Harry?’ A hoarse whisper from the quay. ‘A fine day for sailing.’

There was the password. ‘Marcel? Could do with a warm wind from the south.’

And there the answer. The large figure dropped down from the quay into the boat, and clapped Harriette on the shoulder. ‘Why the change of plan, Captain?’

Luke stepped out of the shadows. ‘It was my decision. A private matter of business. A traveller to collect.’

‘Well,
monsieur.
We meet again.’ Marcel glowered in
recognition. ‘I’d not have sworn for your integrity—or your life!—last time we met.’

‘I am the Earl of Venmore.’ Spoken softly, but no one could doubt his authority. ‘Tonight—it is
my
operation.’ Marcel’s frown deepened into a scowl.

‘This is my husband, Luke.’ Harriette gripped the smuggler’s arm. ‘You can trust him, Marcel.’

‘Well, milord Luke, if Captain Harry can vouch for you…’ Marcel huffed, grinned, a flash of white in his bearded face. ‘Let’s get the cargo loaded.’ He lifted his hand to alert a half-dozen men who began to manoeuvre the bales and barrels.

Harriette made to hoist herself on to the quay to where Adam already stood. Until a two-handed grip on her jacket pulled her back. ‘What…?’ She whirled round.

‘You’ll wait here for us—in the cutter.’ Luke’s order was urgent, low voiced but entirely implacable, his face set and stern. ‘You’re only here because you insisted and I couldn’t get here any other way. You’ll not set foot on land. One hint of danger, that we’re taken, or that the run is in peril of failure, and you’ll abandon it, set sail at once.’

‘No…’ Overwhelmed by fear, Harriette wrenched her coat from his grip. ‘We’ll wait.’

Luke was not to be moved. ‘With or without the cargo, you’ll sail. With or without Adam and myself. Gadie, do you hear me?’ He lifted his voice, glanced across. ‘Any danger to your Captain and you’ll put to sea. Disobey Captain Harry’s orders if necessary. But you’ll not disobey mine.’

Gadie’s brows rose, but he nodded at the fierce gleam in Luke’s eyes. ‘Aye, aye, y’r honour.’

Luke turned back to Harriette. ‘I want your word on it, Captain.’

And Harriette sighed, seeing no softening in his regard.
‘Very well. You have my word,’ she relented. ‘I’ll stay on the
Ghost
. This man…’ she beckoned to one of Marcel’s smugglers, addressing him rapidly in French and getting a nod in reply ‘…will take you and Adam to the inn, Les Poissons Rouges. He’ll help you.’

Luke stayed, momentarily, as Adam followed their guide at a fast trot. The planes of his cheeks and jaw were stark in the moonlight. He was as grim as she had ever seen him. ‘God keep you, Captain.’

‘And you.’

Surprising her, he seized her hand from where it curled round one of the ropes, raised it to his lips in a courteous little gesture, as particular as if they were in a fashionable drawing room in Mayfair. ‘Keep safe, Harriette. This is a damnable situation! I’d never forgive myself if you were hurt.’ Then he was gone, swinging up after their guide, and Harriette forced her mind from the heat of his mouth against her skin, to the matter of the cargo.

George shuffled distractedly at her side. ‘We can’t wait too long, Cap’n. Tide’ll turn soon.’

‘Just a little while.’

An eruption of voices towards the town. ‘Silence!’ Harriette brought her arm down smartly and all crouched where they stood, both French and English, in the boat or on the quay, merging with the shadows. To any who might be inquisitive, it was just an empty fishing smack and a waiting cargo. Harriette’s pulse beat in her throat like the wings of a trapped bird. What danger, what trap was Luke stepping into? Fear was a black void in her heart.

They moved rapidly along the quay, halting now and then in the shadows, listening.

Then in front, windows lit, door thrown open, was Les
Poissons Rouges. Luke huffed in a mix of dismay and relief. Cannon fire in the harbour would not disturb the customers of this sailors’ tavern. Raucous voices, tuneless singing, the squall of fiddles and a pipe. A woman’s screech of laughter. They were carousing with a bottomless barrel of spirits. No one was aware of their approach in the general racket, but how the hell would he discover the whereabouts of a woman and child in this?

He waved Adam forwards, joining him in the final dash to the side of the inn. Mustn’t think of Harriette waiting on the
Ghost.
Difficult, opinionated, headstrong Harriette. Infinitely dear to him. If anything should happen to her, he would never forgive himself. As long as she obeyed orders…

They flattened themselves against the wooden walls in the dark overhang of the tavern roof. Two men on guard at the door. Both sprawled on stools, the worse for spirits. Not difficult to get rid of them. Luke gestured to their French guide to approach to distract them, whilst he drew pair of pistols from the deep pockets of his greatcoat.

The smuggler shrugged good-humouredly, swaggered forward,
‘Bonsoir, messieurs
. Here’s a pretty girl to keep you company. Come and look…’

Foolishly inebriated, the two men staggered to their feet, lurched across to where Luke and Adam waited. They could barely stand. In disgust, Luke grasped the collar of the nearest, reversed the pistol in his grip and felled him with a blow to his head. Adam dispatched the other.

‘The brandy did our job for us. If only the rest could be so easy!’ They dragged the inert bodies into the deep shadows. No time to tie or gag them. Pray God they could find the woman fast. Luke bent to peer through the filthy window. A heavy fug of heat and drink. By the fireside sat a man, whom he instantly recognised, with a glass in his
hand, an arm round the waist of a giggling serving wench. Jean-Jacques Noir. No sign of a girl with a baby. How would there be?

‘Monsieur Luke.’

‘What?’ His head whipped round, his grip on the pistol tightened as the whisper behind him rattled his nerves. ‘What took you so long?’

A recognisable shock of dark hair. A broad grin. ‘Monsieur Henri, by God!’

‘The same. I’ve been waiting for you since I sent the news of the lady—three nights now, I’ve waited. What kept you? But no matter…’ He beckoned. ‘Here’s someone for you.’ At his signal, from the dark alley at the side of the inn a slight figure with a bundle clasped to her shoulder stepped out.

Luke breathed out slowly. ‘Marie-Claude de la Roche?’

A faint voice, barely more than a whisper. ‘
Mais non, monsieur.
Marie-Claude
Hallaston
.’

It was enough. No time for more, Luke decided. He would act first and ask questions later. ‘Let’s move,’ he ordered, taking the girl’s arm. And they were off down the quay towards
Lydyard’s Ghost
and freedom.

‘Listen!’ From the deck of the
Ghost
, Harriette lifted her head, sensitive to every noise.

‘What is it?’ Marcel was at her side in an instant. ‘What’s this business milord Luke’s engaged in?’

‘To stop Jean-Jacques Noir from the kidnap of an innocent lady.’

Marcel grunted. ‘Do you say? Then it’ll be a pleasure to stop a man like that.’

‘You may have to.’ Harriette heard the echo of running footsteps. ‘Alert your men, Marcel, if you will.’

With a brusque nod, Marcel began to give rapid, low-voiced instructions. Footsteps growing louder with every second. The insubstantial outline of a little knot of people approaching. Heart thudding, mouth dry, a long-bladed knife appearing in her hand from its snug hiding place in her boot, Harriette turned to face them. So difficult to recognise. She strained her eyes as a shredding cloud allowed the faintest of moonlight. And there was Luke, leading the way, pistol in one hand. The French smuggler carried a bundle clasped to his chest whilst Adam had an arm round a shrouded smaller figure, urging it on. And another man. Jean-Jacques Noir? No—Luke exchanged a quick word with him over the cloaked figure’s head and the man nodded.

Then they were all on the quay, beside the
Ghost
, breathless.

‘We have her.’ Luke gently thrust the cloaked figure towards Harriette on the waiting boat, offering a hand to the man who accompanied them. ‘Captain Henri—you have all my thanks.’

‘Delighted to be of service, Monsieur Luke.’ He bowed smartly with military precision. ‘Easy enough to warn the lady to be ready. Otherwise—luck played her hand, keeping Noir and his associates interested in a keg of brandy.’ His smile was cynical. ‘How miraculous that so large a keg of such excellent quality should find its way to Les Poissons Rouges for three nights running at this precise time! You owe me for it, Monsieur Luke. Now go, before—ah! Too late!’ Shouts reached them. A warning pistol shot. ‘Someone saw us and raised the alarm,’ Captain Henri remarked laconically. ‘To be expected…’

‘Let’s get them aboard…’ Luke ordered. But shots rang out again, closer now. ‘Too late for that. Get down!’

He pushed the lady to her knees behind the bales of tea,
also the smuggler cradling the child as he focused in intense relief on the figure of Harriette, still aboard as he had ordered, crouched in the shadow of the mast. As long as he could protect her…Then all Luke’s concentration was on the approaching rabble, standing to confront them with Adam and Captain Henri at his side. Could they escape out of this, getting everyone to safety? But then there was no time to think of anything because there was his enemy, Jean-Jacques Noir. Short, thickset, wrapped in shadow, a pistol in his fist, a group of thickset individuals with clubs and knives at his back.

Breathlessly, Noir threw back his head and laughed.

Luke’s muscles tensed, but he simply stood, waited, a silent challenge.

‘Very clever, my lord,’ Noir hissed in smooth English. ‘Was it your idea to plant the brandy?’ His face broke in an animal snarl. ‘But you’ll not take her, Venmore. Not without payment. I’ll make you pay for your trickery. And you know the cost if you refuse to hand over the gold.’

‘I’ll not put gold in your pockets,’ Luke snapped. ‘The lady goes with me to England.’

‘If you resist, I shoot her first, then the child.’ Noir raised the pistol. ‘And then I might just shoot you for putting me to so much trouble with no reward.’

‘But if you shoot the lady, where would be your bargaining tool?’ Luke enquired as calmly as if discussing the purchase of a horse, but he raised the pistol in his own hand. ‘I wager my bullet would find your black heart first.’