Fire at Midnight (18 page)

“My beautiful English girl,” he whispered as his hand swept across her taut stomach and stroked between her thighs. He slipped his fingers inside her to judge her readiness. Her legs parted wider in response to the caress and his palm swept over the smooth silkiness of her inner thigh and cupped her intimately. Only a fool would take this woman in haste.

Rachael arched beneath him and raised her hips as she met the hard evidence of his need. Sebastién fixed his mouth on hers, sealing her gasp of pleasure as he pushed his rigid length inside her, joining them.

He waited, feeling her tight core stretch to accommodate him as her splendid heat surrounded him until his entire being was immersed in the sensation. He slowly began a stroking rhythm that rapidly ascended into a fever of ecstasy. Her fingers clutched at his back as his pace increased, and she gripped his shoulders and moaned as his warm mouth sampled her velvety, fragrant skin.

Sebastién whispered her name as the blistering intensity mounted and washed over him, and he came with a hoarse cry, limbs entwined with hers, their lips molded in a fevered kiss. Rachael softly cried out as she found release, and he clung to her, the emptiness he had felt for so long replaced by a vast sense of peace.

“You must be part French,” he mused. “English women are not known for their passion.”

“How can you possibly know much about English women?” she teased. “You don’t seem to like us much, as a whole.”

“My mother is—was—English.” His voice was remote. “I do not know whether she is alive or dead.” He made a violent slash across the sand with his index finger.

Rachael nestled in the crook of Sebastién’s arm, idly caressing his forearm and running her fingers over his chest. “Is she the model you use to judge all English?”

“She murdered my father and was forced to flee France when I was a child. She took my brother to England with her and left me in France.”

“It must have broken her heart to have to abandon her child.”

“Non,”
he said bitterly, “she did not want me. My grandfather has been my father and my mother all my life. The only memory I have of my mother is her fragrance.” He curled his lip in disgust. “Attar of Roses.”

“You should try to find her, Sebastién. Perhaps you don’t know the whole story. If one were to believe my uncle, I would be put away as a madwoman.”

“I shall forget her, as she has forgotten me.”

“Has she never tried to contact you?”

“Non.
She knew if she returned to France, my grandfather would have her head mounted on his wall. When I was a child, I used to pray that she would come for me, but she never did. She raised my brother to be the perfect Englishman. I do not think she wanted to be reminded of the Frenchman she seduced into marriage and then murdered. Or of the child she left behind in France.”

“You must not judge all English by your mother.”

“
Oui
,” Sebastién replied cynically. “I must consider other examples, my brother, your uncle, your bumbling friend Morgan.”

“Tarry is a brave, kind, lovable soul!”

“He’s a pompous puppy.”

Rachael’s eyes flashed, and she made as if to move away from him.

He pulled her back to his side. “I will like Morgan less if he causes me to spend a cold night alone,” he warned.

“Tarry has risked his life for me. You cannot hate him unless you hate me as well.”

“I never said I hated Morgan. I just find him annoying.” He reached out and playfully tousled her hair. “Morgan would not find a declaration of affection from me very plausible.”

“I predict that someday you and Tarry will be the best of friends.”

Sebastién yawned. “Then I must be well rested if I am to undertake such an ill-favored acquaintance. Go to sleep, my beautiful English girl.” He kissed her, arms tightening around her.

Rachael smiled sleepily and relaxed against him, the curve of her body fitting to his, as if she had been made for him. After a few minutes, Sebastién glanced down at her. She had drifted off to sleep.

He gazed at the peaceful, pale oval face only inches from his. He still did not know why he had agreed to meet her at Tor Pub in the first place. With The Dane coordinating his escape, there had been no real risk of capture, but he still risked punishment by failing to return to France. Yet, here he remained.

It had not been his plan to take her with him, but the sight of her in the pub had affected him like a physical blow, and he, a man who rarely acted on impulse, had surrendered to impulse. There was not enough rum in England or France to dull the jumble of feelings she aroused in him. She had become a distraction even when she was not with him because she constantly occupied his thoughts.

He still had his doubts about whether or not she could be trusted, and he was sure she had similar misgivings about him. She might turn out to be the instrument used to destroy him.

Rachael seemed convinced he held her brother hostage, yet Jacques’s use of a decoy suggested that James remained hidden and safe. It was possible that Jacques had deceived Rachael just as he had tried to deceive him.

Until he was certain she could be trusted, the only leverage he had over her was the hostage she believed he held. He had no way to keep her safe until he could earn her trust, unless he used the threat of a hostage. Despite his muddled past, he had never viewed his life as complicated.
Until now.

S
ebastién’s vast network of allies proved useful as they obtained aid and information from a variety of sources, but only after he revealed the
fleur-de-lis
that marked his upper right arm to each prospective resource.

In one village, a parish priest provided them with horses and fresh clothing. The squire of another hamlet related the news that Jacques’s agents had been thwarted in an attempt to capture The Dane. A third contact provided the location of The Dane’s hideout. The news that The Dane had gone into hiding in Helston only increased Sebastién’s determination to go there, despite Rachael’s protests.

His right hand rested on the hilt of his sword as they approached a small, whitewashed cottage and asked to speak with The Dane. His other hand grasped the pistol he had taken from Rachael. The pistol was now only a bluff piece, rendered useless by the water that had flooded its chamber.

After he displayed the
fleur-de-lis
to the man guarding the cottage door, they were hustled into a darkened room occupied by The Dane and two other men. The Dane bellowed a welcome and clasped Sebastién’s shoulder with one large hand.

Sebastién motioned Rachael forward, guiding her toward the fair, amiable hulk, who fixed his small, perceptive blue eyes on her. As introductions were made, one of the men sprang to his feet.

“Aye, we all know that name, the traitorous bitch.” An ugly white scar cleaved his forehead, evidence of a blow not parried swiftly enough. His burr identified him as a resident of Rachael’s part of Cornwall. He reached for his sword but dropped his weapon with a yelp of pain when Sebastién swiftly stepped forward and disarmed him.

“Mademoiselle
Penrose is under my protection,” Sebastién announced, his voice tempered steel. “Attack her, and you attack me.”

The Dane was silent, but the other men uttered sounds of outrage.

“Have you forgotten Prussia Cove? She’s an informer. Men are dead or imprisoned because of her.” Simon, the man Sebastién had disarmed, directed a look of loathing at her.

“She has a powerful enemy who wishes to convince us of her guilt. If I did not believe her to be innocent, she would not be under my protection.”

His eyes met hers, and what he saw there prompted him to move closer to her and gather her beneath his shoulder. He placed a possessive, reassuring arm around her waist.

“I’ve only recently learned what happened at Prussia Cove,” Rachael told them. “It is likely that when your gang was routed and led away in chains, I was being taken to London, where I, too, was imprisoned.”

“Not at Newgate,” Simon said. “My brother’s in that filthy hole ‘cause of you. If you had been at Newgate, I’d have heard of it.
Liar,”
he spat.

“I was confined to the Hospital of Saint Mary of Bethlehem. You might know it as ‘Bedlam.’ I was not expected to survive my visit. The charge that I betrayed the fairtraders at Prussia Cove was made so that if I escaped, I would find no allies.”

“Bedlam,” the second man exhaled in a low whistle. Peter Dunhilly had seen the place once. The infirmary was opened on Sunday afternoons for the amusement of the public. One could pay a fee and stroll through the asylum to observe the inmates as an entertainment, the way one might view a minstrel show or carnival. No doubt the racket of the place still exploded in her ears as it did in his; the tortured wailing, the metallic clink of a thousand chains, the sound of bullwhips wielded by sadistic attendants cracking in the air.

Many dismissed the ills of the place as being the result of poor management. The hospital administrators squandered the annual sightseers’ income, leaving the inmates without food for days because there was no money to buy provisions. It was widely believed that the insane could not feel hunger or cold. Peter had never accepted that theory after seeing the inmates shivering in their straw beds, begging for food. The place still haunted him, and if the slender girl who stood before them had been confined there, he felt only pity for her.

“I come from a village of fairtraders,” Rachael said. “My neighbors number among those presently in the gaol. If I had made myself useful to the Agency of Revenues, would I not have asked for their protection from vengeance seekers? Would I be in the company of this man, a known smuggler?”

“Would she be allowed here?” The Dane put in.

Sebastién glanced at The Dane in surprise. He had not expected his friend to champion her. What did The Dane know about Rachael that he did not?

“So, it is not coincidence that finds us in Helston at the same time,” Sebastién observed.

The Dane sank down on a walnut settee, folded his arms across his massive chest, and crossed his jackbooted feet. His gaze fixed on Rachael, and he grunted as he ran his hand over the top of the small japanned cabinet beside him, drawing her attention to it. She frowned. It was an imported chest, with an intricately worked design and brilliantly lacquered exterior.

He gestured for them to be seated. Sebastién dragged an armchair away from the cluster of men and motioned for Rachael to sit. As she settled into the chair, he sank down onto the floor beside her, like a faithful guard dog.

“My friend Falconer once asked me to learn what I could about Rachael Penrose and Victor Brightmore.” The Dane looked directly at Sebastién. “While you and the lady were wandering the moors, we searched Brightmore’s home.” The Dane patted the cabinet beside him.

“We were told it was a common theft,” Simon objected peevishly.

“Common men take part in common thievery,” The Dane replied with disdain. “There is no plunder to be divided here.”

“If there are no spoils, then what will you pay for our silence?”

“The only way to guarantee that a man keeps a secret is to see that it dies with him,” Sebastién told Simon. “Never assume a man will buy your silence.” Sebastién caught Peter’s eye and slowly inclined his head in the direction of the door.

“Come on, Simon,” Peter said, grasping Sebastién’s silent directive. “Our work is done here. Let’s wet our whistles at Green’s.”

The Dane went to the window and watched as the two men made their way down the hill. He spent a moment scanning the neighboring cottages before turning back to Sebastién and Rachael.

“What is in the cabinet?” Sebastién asked.

The Dane squatted and unclasped the catch on the black-lacquered chest. There had been a lock fastened over the catch, but it had been broken.

“
Correspondence?”
Sebastién asked, unable to hide his disappointment as he reached in and withdrew a stack of papers.

Rachael knelt on the floor beside him, and he handed her the sheaf of papers then turned to the cabinet again and extracted a heavy leather-bound volume. He laid it out flat on the floor and slowly began turning pages dotted with entries in a neat, spidery hand.

“Rachael,” Sebastién said, “your uncle kept records.”

Victor Brightmore had chronicled his crimes in detail. Not only was there a list of the names of the men who made up his gang, but each member was profiled. Victor had great insight into how a man’s foibles could be used to bend him into service. If a man was a fugitive, his file noted it. If he had unusual appetites, a violent history, or a penchant for illicit compounds, Victor knew about it.

In another section, Victor kept an account of the wreckings. Each page bore the name of a vessel, its destination, how many passengers it carried, what was recovered, how the spoils were disbursed, and how the wreck had been accomplished. With shaking hands, Sebastién snapped the volume shut.

“Bastard,” he said under his breath.

Rachael heaved an agonized sob and vaulted to her feet, dropping the letter she had been reading. She leaned against the glass of a nearby window and doubled over, arms wrapped tightly around her midsection, as if she had received a blow.