Devil's Desire (32 page)

"Give your men the word," Ian whispered to the young Lieutenant who was crouched down beside him. "At my signal we move."

Lieutenant Hargrave passed the word along to the anxiously-waiting Marines stationed in key positions along the beach as the pack train laboriously passed by them, heading for the boat where the two parties converged into one.

Ian waited–and then whistled piercingly, the shrill notes activating the waiting men into immediate action.

They formed a circle about the smugglers, making it smaller and smaller, as they closed in upon the astonished French sailors and frightened villagers. Chaos broke loose as the sailors tried to push their beached boat back into the surf, but it was still heavy with its cargo of unloaded contraband, and slow to respond to their futile heavings. The villagers made a break for safety, abandoning the determined efforts of their compatriots, and ran splashing through the shallows, their trouser legs flapping wetly about their heavy shoes as they attempted to flee with a squad of Marines in hot pursuit.

Shots rang out from under cover of the bow of the stranded boat as the French sailors saw the hopelessness of their attempt to escape.

Ian hit the soft sand in a single flying leap, his pistol drawn and primed, but the French were outflanked as the circle closed and surrounded them. Naked to the fire from the right and left of them, they surrendered–leaving several fallen and wounded comrades moaning in the sand.

Ian handed over command to the Lieutenant, whose eyes were shining brightly out of his dirtied face, his once immaculate uniform tom and soiled. Ian looked over the prisoners. He cared little for these French sailors, or for the sullen; frightened villagers being herded back to the boat under guard.

He had not,
as
yet, found
 
his spy—or the dispatch. He had watched carefully as the pack train of mules and men approached the boat, looking for the Count and Squire among them-but they had not been present. Only the usual village men who unloaded the cargo and transported it up the cliffs to the numerous hiding places were there.

But he was puzzled—the Count and the Squire should have been here. This had been a special trip for the Count, specifically. Usually the French would not venture so close to British guns, but they were taking no chances with the Count-and his information. However, with both parties concerned so greedy, they had slowed themselves down by bringing in an extra cargo for the Squire, a bonus for services rendered, perhaps. Surely, he would have been here, ready to receive his extra booty, and the Count prepared to board at a moment's notice.

Ian swore, and was looking about him in a perplexed, and thoughtful manner when he caught a furtive movement along the cliff face.

"Here, you men, follow me!” he ordered a group of heavily armed men, standing idle now that the fight was over. Ian raced toward the cliff, his eyes trained upon the quickly-disappearing figure high up on the cliff.

"Search for a concealed path!”
.

They frantically searched the rocks and scrub for the path by. which their quarry was fleeing, disappearing into the fog, which was shrouding everything within sight in a veil of white. He would not lose them–not after coming this close, Ian thought savagely.

"Here! I've found it, Sir!” a voice called triumphantly out of the mist.

The path was cleverly concealed between two boulders set back beneath an overhang of the cliff, and winding up through a hollowed-out portion of rock, only to emerge again on another side of the cliff-concealed, from above and below at its entrance, from curious eyes.

Ian and his men moved slowly along the narrow path, the fog hiding the sheer drop over the edge and the uneven footing of the path. But if it slowed their progress, it also slowed down the fleeing figures up ahead, of which they occasionally caught a glimpse in the blowing fog that swirled about' them, hampering each step. they took. Ian fired a warning shot above their heads at the next sight of them. One of the figures halted, momentarily with indecision, then turned and continued on.

"The next shot will not be a warning shot," Ian directed his men who had drawn their pistols in preparation.

The fog drifted about in eddies, fooling and teasing them with false glimpses ahead of the figures.

"Stop, or we shoot!” Ian yelled out as the fleeing figures became visible once again-but they continued, heedless of his warning. "Fire!” Ian ordered, as the fog moved across the figures, shrouding them in whiteness as the round of shots cut through it blindly. "Damn!” Ian muttered as they once more went in pursuit of an enemy just out of reach. Their path was blocked up ahead by a boulder, its black shape sitting squarely in the middle, cutting them off.

Ian bent over it and then gasped in surprise—it was the Squire. His black coat covering him like a tent. Ian carefully turned him over–the Squire was dead–shot through the head.

"Come on, we've more to do before this day is finished," Ian said grimly as he stepped over the dead body of Squire Blackmore, his sightless eyes staring heavenwards.

There is something behind the throne

greater than the King himself.

           
William Pitt, Earl of Chatham

Chapter 15

E
lysia felt waves of pain pounding against her senses as consciousness returned to her with nauseating rapidity. She almost longed for the peaceful blackness of unconsciousness again. She moaned softly as she tried to sit up, but failed, as a sharp pain stabbed piercingly behind her eyes, and she collapsed onto the cold stone floor of the cave in a huddling crouch.

She opened her eyes and looked at her surroundings in disorientation, as the walls spun around and around, the torches wedged into cracks in the walls, flickering hazily before her eyes. In the distance, she could hear the undulating rumblings of the sea, as it surged against the mouth of the cave.

Elysia pulled herself up into a sitting position, leaning against a barrel for support–feeling its hard and steady presence behind her as her vision began to clear and her balance returned, the floor of the cave steadying and righting itself. She put a shaking hand slowly to the back of her head-feeling the sticky, congealed blood matted to her hair, wincing as she touched the tender bump on her skull. It ached unbearably, and closing her eyes she breathed deeply, as her stomach began to heave. She felt sore and stiff all over. Elysia glanced down at her riding outfit–tom and soiled, stained with blood from cuts and bruises covering her body. She nearly laughed hysterically as she thought of the work and careful stitching Dany had done, to mend it from her other accident. It would take more than that to salvage it this time.

Elysia repressed a shudder as she looked up at the steep and narrow steps cut out of the side of the cave, climbing dizzily up to the large, iron door set into the wall of the pagoda.

What had happened? She had fallen down those treacherous steps–and she was still breathing. She remembered the vicious blow to her head, and the emptiness of space before her, as she fell, but then blackness had engulfed her and she was mercifully unaware of her descent into the cave.

And what had happened to Mrs. Blackmore? She remembered that she had been up there with the Squire's wife when she had fallen. Elysia looked about her–Mrs. Blackmore wasn't down here with her, injured and helpless. Surely they had not killed the Squire's wife, whoever had hit her over the head. No, she couldn't be dead–the Squire wouldn't have his own wife killed. But why did they trick her here to this underground cave, that was filled with their cache of smuggled goods? She wondered if Ian knew about this? What could they possibly want with her?

Elysia struggled to her feet, leaning heavily against the wall of the cave as her knees wobbled beneath her, a giddy feeling running through her. She'd have to get out of here–they must have thought she succumbed to her injuries, and they would soon be coming back to remove her body–probably to dump it into the sea.

She had no idea how long she'd been unconscious, but she felt chilled from lying on the damp stone floor. Elysia began to move slowly and painfully to the steps, when she stopped, startled as the door was flung open, and light streamed down from the flaming torch held high in front of someone coming down.

"Still alive?" an incredulous voice asked. "I am surprised. You certainly are hard to kill—as many lives as a cat," Mrs. Blackmore remarked in a peevish voice as she carefully stepped down the treacherous stairs; slippery from the moisture seeping in.

Elysia stood stupefied, as she stared at the figure of. Mrs. Blacknore. That mild and meek woman–now holding a pistol pointed directly at her heart, a look of dislike in her pale eyes. She seemed to emit an evilness that Elysia had never before noticed.

Mrs. Blackmore's lips were curled back in a snarl as she waved the ominous-looking mouth of the pistol in a threatening gesture at Elysia.

"M-Mrs. Blackmore. What is the meaning of this outrage?" Elysia demanded, stepping forward bravely, as she quelled the fear that shook within her.

"Your pardon,
Your
Ladyship, for not explaining things more clearly. Will you please forgive me, Your Ladyship? The grand Marchioness–" she laughed unpleasantly, casting a look over Elysia's bedraggled appearance, "you don't look so grand to me, Your Ladyship, eh, boys?" she inquired maliciously of the two men who'd come in behind her, unobserved by Elysia as she'd stared hypnotically at Mrs. Blackmore.

Now she saw for the first time the two men who'd been standing silently behind Mrs. Blackmore. They were big and powerful-looking with thick shoulders and long muscular arms, menacing as they stood with their bull-like stances, watching Elysia's predicament without a flicker of emotion on their cruel faces. Elysia remembered the men who had beaten up Ian. "They mean business," he'd said, and she'd seen first-hand the punishment they were capable of dealing out-if these were the same two.

"Her still looks mighty good t'us, Yes, indeed," the smaller of the two, and dirtier one, smirked unpleasantly, giving his companion a knowing nudge with his elbow.

"Surprised?" Mrs. Blackmore asked in amusement.

"Indeed I am, Madame. You wrong yourself by not displaying your talents on the stage. Playing a part seems to come easily to you," Elysia answered flippantly, trying to recover from the surprise of Mrs. Blackmore's metamorphosis.

"I shall accept that as a compliment," she laughed, "for I should be good. After all, I played the boards for more than fifteen years before marrying the Squire–a lucky stroke of luck for me. I was quite a good-looker then–still am–but I'm playing down my looks of course, for this role. It is a role that I have not especially enjoyed but it has served its purpose."

"Which was?"

"To lull you stupid fools into underestimating me. Who would suspect the meek little Mrs. Blackmore as heading one of the biggest smuggling operations in England? No one gave me a thought–laughing and dancing, eating and drinking, enjoying themselves in my home, and never casting a look in my direction. They were too busy being entertained by the Squire–the gullible fools. They ask no questions as long as their bellies are full of food and drink, and they've plenty of games to keep them amused they’re as mindless as a pack of sheep."

"So you are the brains of the smugglers' ring? And what of the Squire? Is he merely an actor too?” Elysia asked.

"Oh, no, he's quite legitimate. He had a small holding up North, but that's no use for big smuggling—and we needed lots of money. No, that estate had no place in my plans, and the Squire does whatever I want. He knows I'm the one with the brains, who keeps him in brandy and cigars, and surrounded by flunkies," she bragged.

"And what are your plans?"

"Well, I suppose you've the right to know," she deliberated thoughtfully for a moment, building the suspense, "since you play such an important part in them."

"I do?" Elysia exclaimed, startled.

"Oh, yes. You are at the center of the plan—actually, an obstacle, but one that will be removed shortly. Unfortunately, my first attempt failed. You didn't really believe that your accident was caused by an innocently gone astray poacher's bullet?" She seemed pleased by the remembrance. The urge to boast of her accomplishments was too strong to deny, and that streak of cruelty that she usually controlled could not resist tormenting her victim.

"You purposely had me shot? Hired someone to kill me?" Elysia asked in disbelief, feeling a knot of terror rise in her stomach.

"Yes. It was superbly planned—only the fool winged you instead of killing you. Now I shall have to get rid of you with less finesse–but it can't be helped. I am really rather pressed for time–what with my guests, and a new shipment arriving this afternoon. It was luck that this fog moved in this afternoon. We can move ahead of schedule. This is one of my most important loads. Never before have I received such a large payment for one cargo. That is why I shall personally see to it. The Squire is already down there, but I can't trust him not to make a mess of things.

"Do you realize how much inconvenience you have caused me?” Mrs. Blackmore asked conversationally. "You really do owe me an apology–for I have had to worry about getting rid of you, along with all of my other business transactions–which I really need to devote my fullest attention to. When I think of the precious time spent in worrying about you."

Elysia stared incredulously at her. The woman was mad, standing here calmly planning her death while she was expected to admire her brilliance. Had she no conscience? Mrs. Blackmore apparently felt no remorse at all, only slight irritation at being inconvenienced.

"How discourteous of me, Madame. I do beg your pardon," Elysia replied acidly, stalling for time. She clenched her hands into fists as she struggled against the fear she was feeling. She would not show panic in front of these creatures—it would merely add to their pleasure. "A small point of curiosity—if you would be so kind as to enlighten me. Why do you desire my death? I have never done you harm."

"Never done me harm?” Mrs. Blackmore repeated with a sneer. "Cheated me out of my rights, you have."

"That's absurd! I have never taken anything that belonged to you."

"You're Lady Trevegne, the Marchioness of St. Fleur, aren't you?" she demanded belligerently, stepping closer as she waved the loaded pistol wildly.

Elysia nodded her head. "Yes," she said faintly as she backed away from the determined advancing of Mrs. Blackmore.

"You stole that title from me!”

Elysia looked at her in disbelief. What in the world was she talking about? She must be insane.

"Louisa should now be the Marchioness, not you! I would have all of the estates, money, and position—a place in society—not just the insignificant wife of a country squire. But you shall pay for it. You with your lady-like airs. Regardless of your aristocratic blue blood–your veins will drip–red blood as you die–and like all others, you will beg me–Clara Blackmore, the little actress that all those fine ladies lifted their noses at, while their husbands kept me on the side–to have mercy and spare that lovely, long, white neck of yours."

"Never!" Elysia spoke imperiously, raising her chin higher. "Since there appears to be little I can do to prevent your murdering me, then I will retain my dignity at least, and not bargain with the likes of you," she said quietly, looking at Mrs. Blackmore contemptuously.

Mrs. Blackmore's hand shook slightly before she shrugged her shoulders, feigning indifference. "Brave words, Lady Trevegne, very brave indeed. But I wonder how long that dignity will last,
as
death comes closer and closer, until you can breathe it?"

"Dignity is something you will never know—nor will you ever understand. It is beyond you," Elysia said boldly, her eyes glowing like green flames, "and do not think that you will succeed, for you shall not, Mrs. Blackmore. Shall I give you a prediction?"

"Enough! I do not care for this game you play—I'm no fool. Predictions—bah!" Mrs. Blackmore laughed scornfully.

"Oh, but you should. I have been accused on several occasions of being a witch." Elysia laughed as the other woman looked momentarily startled.

"Ah, I can see you
do
believe—if maybe just a little. Well, let me tell you your future. You shall be destroyed, found out, and unmasked, for the traitor that you are—and soon, my dear Mrs. Blackmore, quite soon. All that money and power that you crave will not be yours to enjoy, for my death shall not go unavenged, either," Elysia promised in a soft voice, sounding as if she had placed a curse upon her head.

The two large men behind Mrs. Blackmore shifted uneasily as they stared in fascination at the play of color in Elysia's hair, the flames from the torches seeming to dance within it.

"Kill her!” Mrs. Blackmore screamed as she backed away nervously from Elysia, and the strange, green light that shone from her slanted eyes as she continued to stare at Mrs. Blackmore. There was no fear of dying visible on her beautiful face, only a smile, curving her lips, as she saw the doubt and fear conflicting on Mrs. Blackmore's pinched face. "You're going to die!” Mrs. Blackmore hissed venomously as she made her way down the passage to the mouth of the cave. "Finish her off quickly—we've work to do this afternoon. Good-bye, Lady Trevegne," she added, laughing as she disappeared through the entrance.

Elysia stood silent, facing the two men as they measured her up. Wondering if she would put up a fight, were they? Well, they would soon find out that she was no cowering faint-heart. If she was destined to die, she would go fighting.

But they had other plans for her first. She was not to die immediately, and not with any shred of dignity. Elysia felt her heart stop and start up sickeningly, as she understood what they were planning. She watched them run their tongues over their thick lips and rotting teeth expectantly.

"Ye'll not be givin' ol' Jack any trouble now, eh?" one of them said, noting her clenched fists. "We're to have our way with ye. Ain't nothin' ye can do about it, me pretty–and I reckon we might just enjoy ourselves with ye before we finishes ye off."

"Yeah, I was a-hopin' ye'd be a feelln' that way, Jack me boy:' his friend added, making a move forward like a hunter stalking his prey.