Fire at Midnight (27 page)

Rachael did not fight Victor. He was too willing to harm her as it was, and her life would soon be forfeit anyway. After her brother’s death and the Frenchman’s betrayal, she no longer cared what happened to her.

Victor prodded his niece forward through the darkness along the steep path adjacent to the barren field. Rachael could hear the whirr of the windmill in the distance, and the incessant howl of the wind. When they reached the narrow footpath that led down to the sea, she stumbled and fell, and Victor lost his grip.

Victor tumbled, sprawling as he tried to check his fall and recover his hold on Rachael at the same time, but she pushed away and dashed pell-mell back up the path to the church.

She collided with Sebastién, who seized her by the shoulders to steady her, and stood staring down at her for a moment without saying a word before he thrust her at Tarry and continued down the path after Victor.

Tarry urged her to the safety of the church.

“No,” she said. “I don’t trust either one of them. I’m not letting them out of my sight.” She gave Tarry no choice but to follow as she broke into a run down the path.

Sebastién made no effort to conceal his presence from Victor, and his cool, authoritative voice rang out with taunts as he continued down the path.

Victor scrambled to his feet and cut a wide swath in the opposite direction, abandoning the path for the dormant field.

The howl of the wind became a sustained wail. Patches of vegetation set afire by lightning strikes dotted the landscape with glowing, churning color, all combining to form a meager source of light. In the distance, the glow of the lighthouse beacon framed the horizon.

Tarry and Rachael caught up to Sebastién as he surveyed the panorama of the field and the foaming curl of shoreline, searching for movement.

“There he is!” Tarry shouted, pointing toward the beach.

Mouth set in a grim line, Rachael startled Tarry by snatching his sword.

Sebastién uttered a curse and stepped forward when she attempted to push past him. Taking a firm hold on her arm, he spun her around.

“Where does
mademoiselle
think she is going?”

“To kill him.”

Expelling an impatient sigh through clenched teeth, Sebastién tried to pluck the sword from Rachael’s grasp, but she danced out of reach, slashing the air with the blade as if to engage him in swordplay.

“Just try it, Frenchman,” she said. “I’d love to cleave you in two!”

He drew his own sword with a lack of finesse that revealed his anger, and he and Rachael circled each other.

“Damn it!” Tarry shouted in exasperation as he stepped between them. “Brightmore is getting away while you two stand here bickering!”

“Why do you think the Frenchman wants to keep us here?” Rachael shouted above the wind. “He’s helping Victor escape!”

“Give Morgan back his sword.
Now.”
Sebastién’s ferocious expression dared her not to obey him.

Rachael tilted her head back to look at him. “I will not.”

He moved to forcibly disarm her, but it was Tarry who unexpectedly leaped forward and snatched the sword away.

“We’re going after Victor,” Tarry told Rachael. “Go wait for us in the church.”

Sebastién followed Tarry, and Rachael stubbornly trailed behind him. He spun around furiously when she continued to follow.

“If I have to carry you back to the church and tie you to a pew, I will.” There was barely checked violence in his caustic tone.

“And let
you
go after Victor? No. You are not to be trusted. You’re a murderer, a liar, a wrecker, a pirate, a thief, and a kidnapper.”

“You forgot seducer of women,” he prompted dryly.

“That, too.”

Sebastién considered the list of transgressions. “What about smuggler and fairtrader?”

“I don’t consider those crimes.”

He smiled a nasty smile. “How convenient.” Stabbing the blade end of his sword deep into the sand, Sebastién gripped the hilt tightly. “Rachael, your brother is alive. I lied to Victor to keep him safe.”

“My brother is dead, and yet you continue to lie. I will never trust you again.”

“It is a disgrace that a child may have come to harm, but the infant left at my home was not your brother.”

“You cannot possibly know whether it was my brother or not,” she argued. “My uncle knew it was James.”

“The child left on my doorstep was a girl.” He lifted his brows in emphasis when her jaw dropped.

“Impossible.” Victor had seemed to believe the child was James. Had Victor even looked at the baby? “I do not believe you,” she said, but with less certainty.

“We have finally come full circle then.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was a time when you were innocent, but I accused you. Now I am innocent, and you accuse me.” He shrugged, and Rachael was surprised to realize that he no longer seemed angry, only weary. “You will believe me when I place your brother in your arms,” he said.

T
arry had stumbled upon a miracle in the barren winter field, a wildflower in full bloom. The unexpected sight of the wild primrose captivated him. The flower stood its ground with audacity, a flash of pristine, almost spectral white to trumpet its tiny, extraordinary existence. Tarry picked the flower with careful fingers, cradling it between his cupped hands.

Awed, he touched the soft petals. Never would he have discovered the flower had it not been illuminated by the wilting heat from a nearby patch of burning bramble. The presence of the flower upon the barren, wind-ravaged moor spoke to him of struggle and survival against insurmountable odds, and the need to protect fragile, beautiful things.

Rachael had been his wildflower, he supposed, but it was Falconer for whom she had blossomed. He knew his childhood friend too well, and she loved the Frenchman, even if she would not admit it to herself. He was no rival to Falconer; he never had been. The Frenchman had known that, too, but had treated Tarry kindly, with deference to his sense of honor and his vanity.

Tarry spied on Victor from a vantage point above the shoreline. The man had not found a seaworthy vessel. On the beach, the waves were enormous and the sand swirled in blinding clouds. He felt the stinging lash of pebbles as the driving wind shifted again, and heard the groan of a madly spinning windmill nearby.

Tarry gently tucked the flower into his pocket and turned his attention back to the shore below, crouching when Victor glanced up and scanned the area. Victor’s presence at the edge of the reflective white, foaming curl of shoreline made him easy to spot. For the same reason, Tarry had avoided passing in front of the windmill. Its broad, sun-whitened common sails would frame him in silhouette and alert Victor to his presence.

As the first faint pastels of dawn crept across the horizon, Tarry slipped down toward the beach while Victor was still unable to detect his approach. He crept along the field where the windmill marked a rugged path down to the sea. The wind veered again, and he resisted the force of it, bracing himself as it capriciously shifted direction again, creating a strong crossdraft.

Suddenly he heard the loud creak of timber and felt the prickle of rising heat. Sensing danger, he spun around, gripping his sword. The cloth sails of the windmill had caught fire, ignited by the friction caused by unbridled speed. Tiny fingers of flame dropped to the ground and danced along the windshaft, spilling over onto the cap as the fire voraciously consumed the aged wood.

Fire swept over the upper part of the structure and grazed toward the body of the mill itself. The storm battered the weakened framework, and when the wind shifted again, the doomed structure was caught in a mighty crosscurrent. The windmill swayed precariously, threatening to topple. It tottered a few steps as the flaming leader boards spewed fire like some mythical beast on a rampage, giving the windmill the strange aspect of having suddenly come to life.

Tarry shielded his eyes against the shower of sparks and dashed for safety as the windmill teetered and then came crashing down. The structure collapsed with a wrenching of sail bars and splintering timber, accompanied by the squall of the miscreant wind. In the split second he was given to note the irony of it, he saw the blaze had spared the massive plank of lumber as the heavy beam came crashing down upon him.

Sebastién slipped his arm around Rachael and cursed softly in shock and dismay as they witnessed Tarry being struck down by the collapsing windmill from where they stood on the bluff above the field. Rachael’s scream was carried aloft by the howl of the wind. Their argument forgotten, they ran down the path together, cutting across the field diagonally.

A faint shower of black ash was dispersed by the strong wind, obscuring the dusky sky. When they reached the rubble of the windmill, Sebastién removed Rachael to a safe distance from the glowing timber and spray of sparks before he began sifting through the debris.

A moan issued from the mound of wreckage and he fell to his knees yanking at the pile, burning his hands and gathering splinters as he hurled the charred, smoking debris out of the way. Tarry moaned again, and Sebastién continued to work frantically until he had cleared away all but the last piece.

Tarry was pinned to the ground by a length of crossbeam. Sebastién struggled to lift the beam and push it aside, and was rewarded when Tarry slowly stirred as the weight was removed. Tarry brought his arms up and rested the upper half of his body upon crooked elbows. When Sebastién reached out and touched him, he jerked, startled by the contact. His elbows slid out from under him and he collapsed in the mud.

Sebastién crouched down, eye level with him. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” Tarry replied. “I have a burn on my arm, but there is no other pain. In fact, I can’t feel my legs at all.”

As soon as he had spoken the words, he and Sebastién traded openly apprehensive stares. “I cannot feel my legs at all,” Tarry said again. He stared down at his appendages, face twisting with panic. “I cannot move them,” he said in a rushed, terrified whisper.

Tarry’s eyes were glazed and his breathing labored. The early dawn had brought a chill, but he was perspiring profusely and his skin was waxy and translucent. Sebastién cried out to Rachael to bring the cloak, but Tarry reached up and grabbed his hand in a desperate grip.

“Please … don’t alarm her,” Tarry begged.

Rachael dropped down beside Tarry and threw her arms around his neck. She eased the cloak from her shoulders and tucked the garment around him.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

He raised his eyes and cast an imploring look at Sebastién. “I’ve injured my ankle,” he smoothly replied. “I fear I must submit to the indignity of allowing the Frenchman to carry me.”

“Nonsense,” Rachael said. “You can lean on me.”

He looked at Sebastién again, appearing on the verge of hysterical tears. Sebastién was left with no choice but to lie to Rachael again. “He may have broken his leg. I have no experience at splinting. It’s best I carry him.”

As they spoke, the velocity of the wind began to climb again. The storm was unlike anything Sebastién had ever experienced, and he was filled with a sense of urgency to get them all to shelter.

Rachael kept the cloak tucked around Tarry as Sebastién lifted him. He scanned the seas as they made their slow trek along the beach toward his cottage. There was no sign of Victor.

“I wonder why he has not put out to sea,” Sebastién said.

Tarry’s eyes flickered open. “He was looking over the boats.”

“He’ll want the sturdiest one he can find,” Rachael warned. “As soon as he finds a boat, he’ll be off to the lighthouse.”

Sebastién ogled two rowboats when they passed by them. One had holes bored into its bottom planks, and the other looked ancient. There did not seem to be a seaworthy vessel along the storm-wracked beach. He smiled spitefully at Victor’s misfortune.

“We should be going after him,” Tarry moaned. He gasped, and Sebastién froze. “Winstanley is out there,” Tarry said. “Victor will kill him.”

“Your friend has very capable assistants,” Sebastién pointed out.