Myriah Fire (23 page)

Well, so much for hurting him—he hadn’t a heart to hurt. She would leave Wimborne Towers and never look back! She would leave on the morrow—never listen to his merry, dear rich and wonderful voice—never …

The tears that streamed down her cheeks were taken by the wind and slapped into her face again and again until at last she reached the house, found her room and her pillow, and buried her heart within its cool softness.

* * *

Kit Wimborne, his face smarting from the blow of Myriah’s hand, his head whirling and his heart in the heavings of unsure waters, watched helplessly as Myriah receded behind the sway of the land.

Plague take the girl—she behaved like a sainted mystery. One moment she was an innocent with childlike eyes, and then the next a woman with a siren’s magic! Devil take it! When she was near, all he wanted to do was make love to her, beyond his bed, beyond the fucking …

He wanted her voice in his ear. He wanted her smile on him. He wanted to hear her laughter in his home … he wanted Myriah in every imaginable way …

What was he going to do? Kit was a problem solver. He didn’t allow things to lay waste from neglect. He had to find out what she and this blade in town had together.

Jealousy had driven him into madness.
He knew the only way to banish the misery of his aching heart was to possess her, and he had gone about it poorly—not poorly, miserably. He was a fool, he told himself.

He lay back against the turf and felt the cool blades tickle his cheek. His hand went to his forehead, creating a shield for his troubled eyes. He had to think, he had to clear his head—but most of all he had to get Myriah out of his mind.

He knew he must do that
if
he was ever to be at peace again—if he was ever
to—oh damn
!
He was in hell and on fire, because he would never get Myriah out of his system!

* * *

Sir Roland rounded the corner and entered the long, narrow alley that led to the Mermaid Inn’s rear stableyard entrance. He had visited his buxom pot-maid in her bed and thereby dispelled some of his frustration. Myriah was turning out to be a real problem.

Abduction it seemed was out of the question, for she was too well guarded by her groom. No, he would not be able to abduct her whilst they had their meeting tomorrow. What of Wimborne Towers, he thought, one brow low over his eye, the other going up, for suddenly he had a notion.
Yes!
Could he not linger about Wimborne unbeknownst? Certainly he could. He would wait for the right moment, and with the special marriage license he had procured safely tucked in his pocket he would be one step ahead of his game.

He entered the inn, feeling suddenly ravenous, and proceeded to the tavern room.

“Hallo!” Stone called from the counter. “I was just about to have my dinner. Why not join me?”

Sir Roland nodded amiably enough and thought,
Why not?
The fellow might have more to tell. Pointing to young Stone’s pewter dish, he ordered a plate of the same and a bumper of ale before joining the preventive officer at his table.

The young man sighed heavily as he leaned over his plate and gave Roland a calculated look.

Sir Roland discarded his greatcoat, hat, and gloves, on a nearby chair and returned the look with a smirk. “Catch any smugglers lately?”

Stone scowled. “Everything has been quiet—too quiet—but following a lead we got in Winchelsea.”

“Oh? Anything interesting?”

Stone opened his mouth and then shut it quickly, for the innkeeper had sidled over with Sir Roland’s dinner. They waited for the man to depart, and then Stone inclined his head and lowered his voice. “I think we got ’em this time. Aye, that I do. Tonight we’ll have the bastards …”

A lad, thin, small, and not more than nine years of age, pressed himself against the narrow opening of the tavern counter and sighed. His mother had placed the brown package in his hands and bade him deliver it to the innkeeper’s wife. He had tried to hand the thing into Thomas’s hands but found the busy tavern keeper almost impossible to halt. Then the sound of Stone’s voice filtered through his boredom, and his head moved sharply at the words.

Stone was well known to the lad. The preventive officer was known to all the men (and their boys) who worked Lord Wimborne’s galley. Cautiously, he painted himself against a recess in the tavern wall where he was well hidden from view.

Stone continued, feeling safe by the emptiness of the tavern
room. “Know they plan on a crossing just about seven or so tonight. Mean to be there when they do … Tide is in, and we have it on good authority that their galley be leaving from Wimborne Dike. Our Winchelsea informer tells us they plan their drop at Knockholt Beach, and our Revenue Cutter will be waiting, on ’em. Lord, but I’ve been waiting for this night, I have.”

“You talk as if they were the Hawkhurst Gang themselves.” Roland smiled mockingly.

“Aye, maybe I do, and maybe they ain’t, as I have to admit the Hawkhurst were a bloody bunch, and these gentlemen be but a speck of dust in comparison. All the same, they be traitors to the Crown, for they are giving the French our gold.”

Sir Roland’s sharp eyes caught the movement at the bar entrance, and he motioned Stone to silence. The preventive officer turned around at once, and his dark brows met over his hawk nose. “Eh—what are you doing there, boy?” he demanded of the lad.

“Me? Nuthin’ … I be waiting on Thomas, that’s all—got a gown, m’mum done up for his wife, I do.”

“John Bilkes!” Thomas the innkeeper appeared from nowhere and took the lad by the arm. “The missus be upstairs waiting on that dress. You best take it to her quick.”

“Aye,” the lad said, scurrying out of the tavern room and rushing down the corridor. He turned to find the heavy Thomas laboring after him and shoved the package into his hands. “Take this, sir. Got to go after m’pa, I do. Got to tell him.”

“Tell him … tell him what, lad?” the innkeeper asked
,
frowning, but the lad was already running off.

* * *

Myriah heard the thumping of the knocker and ran down the stairs to fling open the door. There she found a young lad staring up at her just before he collapsed to his knees.
“Oh, you poor boy—whatever is wrong, child?” Myriah asked, observing his condition.

The boy blinked, opened his mouth to speak, and found no breath left with which to form the words. He sucked in air and tried to get up. Myriah helped him and steadied him against the doorjamb. “What is it? What is wrong?”

“Need Master Billy.”

“Master Billy is … resting.”

“Came straight here hoping Master Billy could go warn ’em. Don’t know where the galley is m’self.” The lad gasped in staccato breaths.

“Warn them? Tell me at once.”

The boy eyed her for a moment, caught some air, and managed, “You must be the one saved Master Billy … aye, then … is he able yet to get about?”

“No … so tell me now.”

“Lookee, I don’t know if I should, but I ain’t got no choice, besides it don’t make no ha’porth o’difference, at this point, do it? So … I’ll tell ye all I know. I was in the tavern, and I heard Stone. He was saying to some flash cove how’s they got ’em tonight. Oh, lordy, lordy, my poor pa … they mean to catch ’em and hang ’em, they do!”

“
What
?” Myriah shrieked. “Explain yourself.”

“They know the galley be going down the dike,
plan on cornering ’em at the entrance to the channel. But if they don’t manage the thing … then they aim to ’ave at ’em at the Knockholt Beach where they land.”

“I see—right then, lad. I know where they are. Go upstairs and tell Master William what has occurred. Don’t let him get up—mind now. If he tries, you get my groom who is sitting with him to help you bolt him to the ground if you have to. Tell him I know where his brother is and mean to warn him. Hurry!” Myriah said before she rushed out of the house and felt the night air on her cheeks.

Thank God she had fallen into the dike this morning, Myriah thought as she sped across the little arched bridge on her way to the spot where the galley boat was housed.
Faith.
This morning? How long ago it seemed, and how much had passed since. All the pain and the tears that loving Kit Wimborne had caused her to shed meant nothing in that moment. She only knew that she would not, could not, allow him to be uncovered in his game. His game was wrong. She knew that and did not care. What had she to do with right and wrong? What had she to do with proprieties? She only knew she loved, and for that love she would give her all if she could, even if she never saw him again.

They hanged smugglers—but they would not hang Kit. No, being an aristocrat would win him, instead, a subtle destruction. They would take his name and drag it through the slime, and that would destroy all trace of his heart—
of
his pride. She would die before she would let them do that to him. He was no doubt driven to desperation for his people … his tenants and himself. She had to get to him and warn him. She had to stop him from going out with the galley this night.

She held up her skirts as she ran through the tall, swaying grass, her eyes peering into the darkness, when suddenly she stopped to listen. Then she saw him in the galley and ran to him. She jumped into the boat with more speed than finesse, which set the lads to complaining as she rocked the vessel; hands outstretched, she cried, “Kit, oh Kit … Stone is coming, and if they don’t get you at this end, they mean to trap you at Knockholt …” Myriah’s breath came in quick spurts.

Kit held her shoulders and looked into her face. “What is this?”

She told him about the lad who had come to warn them as he had overheard Stone’s conversation.

Kit turned to his men. “Right then, lads. John, go off and have our crew meet us at Beach Head instead of Knockholt. Hurry now, there is no time, and make it blue lanterns! Ride sharp now, mate.”

“Aye,” the heavyset boy said as he scrambled out of the boat and up the slope, disappearing from their view.

“No, Kit—no, you don’t mean to go still
! Y
ou can’t. It’s too dangerous. Please … think of Billy—think of your name,” Myriah cried, taking his lapels into her hand and attempting to bring him to his senses by wrinkling them furiously.

“Hush, sweetings. I damn well want to set your mind at ease, but I have to go tonight. There is no help for it. Don’t ask me any questions, only believe me—it will be all right. Now you’ve done us a good turn—so out with you …”

Realizing she was in the boat with him, Myriah folded her arms across one another and replied, “No.”

“You will go and now—I’ve got no time to waste convincing you, love. If I have to pick you
up
and dump you into the sea in order to get you to go home, I shall.” His tone indicated that he would not spend any time arguing the point, yet Myriah felt she had to stay with him and wouldn’t budge.

“Please, Kit. I can help—I could be
a
lookout.”

He laughed and chucked her chin, but at that moment they heard horses rumbling in the distance. The sound sent a shaft of silence through them all, and Myriah found herself face down against the wood planking of the boat.

The smell of seaweed, salt encrustations, and fish threatened to overcome Myriah. Her eyes were shut tight, and her nose was pressed against the bottom of the seaworthy galley. She was vaguely aware of tremendous quiet above
her until she heard Kit’s whispered
command: “Steady, lads … keep the beat steady!”

The open boat was moving through the still water at an incredible rate. She had never known what force men could apply to the oars. She heard the swish of water against wood, she listened to the quick, even beat, and a tingle of excitement swept through her. Then the sound of the dragoons slashed through the night. She heard Corporal Stone’s staccato orders and knew him to be close, too close. Still Kit urged his men on. He was like a god, wholly at ease, confident—instilling his men with the spirit to go on.

Again they heard Stone’s command, followed by a series of gunshots. She prayed. She had often heard that smugglers would turn on the dragoons and engage them in gunfire. She couldn’t bear it if Kit were to kill a man who was only doing his duty. She put the fear away and refused to think about it.