Fire at Midnight (22 page)

He opened the chamber door and disappeared into the hallway as Rachael hurried to prepare her bath.

While Sebastién went about his labors on the uppermost level of the tower, Rachael heated enough water to half fill the wooden tub and left the steaming caldron of water to cool while she gathered their clothing. Sebastién had reclaimed his trousers, but his shirt, vest, and boots remained, as did the voluminous cloak.

Lifting the cloak, she slipped her hand inside the pocket and withdrew the pistol Jacques had given her. If nothing else, it might be useful in a bluff. She returned the pistol to the pocket, folded the cloak, and placed it on a chair.

Rachael heard a loud thud on the floor above her, followed by a muffled curse. Sebastién sounded at odds with some heavy object he was attempting to move across the floor, his haste to leave made evident by the racket he was making.

She found a cake of soap with a vanilla scent and stepped into the crude bathtub, slowly submerging in the hot water with a sigh of pleasure.

Closing her eyes and tilting her head back, Rachael relaxed to the point of drowsiness. She drifted off, but was startled into wakefulness when she heard the creak of a floorboard and opened her eyes just as the edge of a broad steel blade was pressed against her throat. She screamed.

“So, you remember me,” Simon breathed through clenched teeth as Rachael’s eyes fastened with recognition upon the white scar that marred his forehead.

“What do you want?” she choked in a frightened whisper. His eyes roved over her, and she was grateful for the soap-clouded water.

“I want your French lover to regret attacking me,” he said. He leaned closer, and the sharp edge of the blade nicked her throat, drawing a bead of blood. “Your uncle tells me he had you confined to Bedlam to keep you from sending every fairtrader in Cornwall to the gaol. He wants his property returned to him, whore.”

Simon caught her chin in his hand, and his stubby, callused fingers cruelly pinched her cheek. Rachael closed her eyes as she felt the knife blade trail along her throat in a cold, obscene caress.

“You will scream when I tell you to scream,” he said. “Scream loudly. I like the sound.” He fastened his fingers in her hair and jerked cruelly. She obliged with a yelp of pain.

Sebastién heard the cry and raged against the ropes that held him. Two men had ambushed him in the uppermost passageway of the light tower, and the floor beneath the chair to which he was tied was spattered with his own blood. His face burned and ached from fresh bruises. Blood still flowed from a livid cut above his left eye; the eye itself was swollen shut.

The two men had tried to coerce the location of Victor’s property from him. Whether Simon had been in Victor’s employ all along, or was a new recruit intent upon distinguishing himself, Sebastién had no idea. Once his attackers had secured his bindings, Simon had briefly conferred with his accomplice before rushing toward the stairs leading down to Rachael.

“Perhaps you’ll regain your memory when Simon starts to work on your lady,” the young man left to guard him jeered. The boy had a tic along one gaunt cheek and strange eyes the color of seawater.

Sebastién winced. The adolescent whine of the boy’s voice stretched his nerves to the limit. He was prepared to plead for Rachael’s life, but there was something in the boy’s flat, deliberate manner that made him cautious.

He sensed that this young man would enjoy slashing a throat and watching the blood flow as life ebbed from his victim.

Another scream reached his ears. He writhed, snarling, desperately fighting against the ropes. The young boy with the fathomless eyes of a killer laughed unpleasantly.

“You may have to stitch your plaything back together—if you can find all the pieces.”

Sebastién lunged toward the staircase in a blind rage, taking the chair with him. He toppled over, crashing facedown onto the cold stone floor, and the boy swung a booted foot onto the back of his neck, pinning him.

“That was stupid,” the boy said. “Try that again, you French bastard, and I’ll cut your heart out and feed it to your woman.”

“Tell Simon to stop,” Sebastién pleaded, unable to bear the tortured sounds rising from below. The blood flowing from his nose smeared across the floor when he raised his head to speak. “I will tell you where you can find what you seek.”

The weight of the booted foot was immediately lifted, and Sebastién drew a shocked intake of breath when the boy grabbed the chair and roughly hauled him upright from his prone position, an eerie feat of strength.

“Tell me where you’ve hidden Victor’s property,” the boy bargained, “and I’ll tell him to stop.”

Sebastién did not trust the boy’s motives, his word, or his ability to influence the other man. “If you plan to kill us,” he said, “you should know that we took the precaution of hiding some items in the village.”

Shrieking commenced below, and Sebastién’s heart hammered as fear for Rachael overtook him. He hurriedly gave directions to the boy, who ran off to search the lockers for the bundle of evidence Sebastién had hidden among the candles.

Simon let go of Rachael’s hair the instant the boy ran into the room waving the oilskin-wrapped parcel in triumph, and she quickly judged Simon’s slight, freshfaced accomplice to be no match for Sebastién’s superior strength and cunning. Why had he failed to come to her aid, and why had he given the evidence over so easily to this—this
child?

Simon snatched up her damp clothes and flung them at her. “Get dressed.”

He motioned for the boy to join him in the hallway while she climbed from the tub and hastily began to dress. Her hands trembled and she dropped her chemise twice before she was able to don it.

Outside in the corridor, Simon and the boy argued.

“I don’t like loose ends. We were told to kill the Frenchman and take the girl to Victor. If Falconer escapes—”

“He won’t,” Simon assured him. “We’ll cut loose the rowboat. He will be trapped here until we can return for him. He’ll drown if he tries to swim in these seas.”

“What if Victor finds out we’ve double-crossed him?”

“Falconer is worth more to us alive than dead. Let Victor have his property. Our reward will be the ransom.”

“What if someone comes to the lighthouse before we return for Falconer? Victor may send us to search for the rest of his property.”

“What is contained in the parcel is all there was. I tracked the Frenchman and his whore from Helston to Plymouth. I watched them flummox the old light keeper. I followed the light keeper and relieved him of this.”

Simon fished in a deep, ragged pocket and withdrew a key. “When old Paxton wakes up, he’ll find he has been press-ganged into the Irish Brigades. He won’t be returning to the tower,” Simon concluded. “What better place to stash a French noble until a hearty sum in gold can be exchanged for his life?”

“If Victor learns of it …” the youth trailed off, still unconvinced.

“Sebastién Falconer is a Marseilles Falconer. This is no fifth-cousin ransom. We’ll be dirty rich, so rich that Brightmore won’t be able to touch us.” Simon frowned, eyes roaming over his strange companion’s face. “Of course, Falconer will not remain alive after the ransom is paid.” The lure of gold seemed to hold no interest for the boy, but the opportunity for bloodshed brought an eerie glow to the vacant eyes.

“Would you let me have him then?”

Simon nodded. “He’s yours. The girl, too, if you like,” he added generously.

“I would like that very much.”

Simon watched the muscle jump in the adolescent cheek as the boy fingered the blade he held. He made a mental note never to leave his own back exposed.

Rachael was numb as they marched her to the door. Simon linked her arm through his, and when she hung back, he jerked her forward with such brutal force she nearly fell.

They reached the corridor and she suddenly felt faint. She shivered, teeth chattering. The boy stared blandly at her, then muttered to Simon before disappearing into the kitchen. He returned a moment later and carelessly draped Sebastién’s cloak across Rachael’s shoulders. She smiled in gratitude, but the boy looked at her as if he did not see her.

“What a good heart you have,” Simon jeered.

“I expect she’ll be cold soon enough,” the boy said. He was oblivious to her stunned reaction to his callous, offhand remark. “Victor wants her alive, for now,” the boy said, twitching as if he had shaken off a spider. “I’ll kill her when the time comes, but I won’t mistreat her.”

Simon shook his head and prodded Rachael on down the stairs. When she halted beside the turn of stair that led to Sebastién, Simon noticed the direction of her gaze and smiled maliciously. Dragging her along, he sidled up to the stairway.

“Victor asked me to express his gratitude to you for taking care of his niece,” he shouted. “We will return later, with your payment.”

There was no response. The words were no more than a cruel jibe, but to Rachael, who did not grasp the intended irony behind them, they were a terrible revelation.

The interior of the lighthouse whirled by in a blur as they dragged her down endless flights of stairs. Simon’s grip became punishing whenever she faltered. Then they dashed across the rocky perch of the landing area, stones filling her shoes as tears of anguish filled her eyes.