Myriah Fire (24 page)

She loved him, and at the moment that was all that mattered—loving him and being with him.

Suddenly the boat pitched to the left, and Myriah put her hands around the firm, strong leg beside her. Hoisting herself up to Lord Wimborne’s knees, she could see that the causeway had split.
Faith—
it had forked and left the riding officers standing foolishly at bay.

The dragoons were on the wrong embankment with no immediate way to the dike the boat had taken. They stood like a pack of foolish boys, waving their blunderbusses and shouting threats and curses at the tidesmen’s heads.

Kit
looked back at them and, without slowing his pace at the oars, began to laugh. It was a merry sound and infected his crew until they were all giving way to mirth, well pleased with themselves and each other.

Myriah shifted her position so that she sat, legs tucked under herself between the span of Lord Wimborne’s knees. She felt the salt-water breeze rush at her, for they were at the head of open water, and she heard Kit’s jovial voice. “Right then, lads, keep a sharp eye out, and it is to Boulogne!”

The men around her chuckled, and she settled in between his legs to listen to the splash of water against the boat’s side. Myriah gazed up at Kit’s ruggedly handsome face with wonder. He was everything she had ever dreamed of in a man … and more—although she hadn’t counted on moonshining. She saw the pistol in his belt and touched it as she looked up at him. He smiled at her as she asked, “You would never use this … against innocent men … would you, Kit?”

He chuckled. “What kind of fiend do you take me for, love? If I use it ’twould be to lay a few poor devils back … give them pause, not do them in.”

She smiled, but the sea wind was strong and the cold shot through her thin silk dress, causing her to tremble. He
frowned and pulled in his oars, balanced them, and shrugged off his cloak.

She found herself being wrapped gently in its folds and felt a kiss planted on her forehead. “Here, sweetings, keep low right where you are, between my legs, and you should be warm enough. I wouldn’t have had you on such a journey, but there was nothing for it—couldn’t leave you to the dragoons.”

“
Kit,
here with you is precisely where I want to be,” she answered breathlessly.

He eyed her for a long moment but didn’t speak. To Myriah she felt as though he had to shake himself loose from her to keep an eye to their crossing. She smiled to herself.

She scanned the men—his men—and reminded herself that they were smugglers all, and yet, something was off. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. They had the look of men born to the land, not the sea. To be sure, they were dressed as seamen with woolly caps covering their heads, kerchiefs round their necks, and they were working the oars with solid, strong movements. Still … something was off.

They all had leather straps slung around their bodies, from which hung empty leather purses. She sighed and supposed those purses would be filled tonight.

The sea was kind, the wind light and in their favor. There was no tossing to slow their pace, and Myriah looked at the calm water and sighed. It was too beautiful.

The moonlight made a narrow white path from the sea to heaven, and the stars twinkled brightly in the black velvet sky.

“It’s a full moon tonight, just what we’ve been waiting for,” Kit said to her casually.

“I … I don’t want to hear it …” Myriah answered, as she realized the enormity of their crime. This way of life—this smuggling—would make it impossible for them to be together … because of Roland.

“You don’t? You are a mystery, Myriah—a veritable mystery. I would have thought you would love the adventure.” Kit smiled and nudged her gently with his leg.

She placed her cheek against his knee, and the action brought his eyes upon her.

“Myriah …”

“Yes, Kit?”

“Are you warm enough, love?”

She felt as though he wanted to say more but couldn’t with all the interested ears around him. She smiled and answered, “Yes, Kit.”

She was headed for Boulogne, France … and they were at war with the French. What was she doing?

The bay was now well behind them, and their galley appeared no more than a dark strip of wood on a vast sea. Her map at home outlined the English Channel. On paper it looked so
very narrow, but that was paper, and this … this was reality, and no land was in sight.

Kit glanced at her, and finding her mouth dour, rallied her. “Well, sweetings, something has you by the tail—out with it.”

She pulled a face at him. “That, my lord, is a most ungentlemanly thing to say to a lady.”

He grinned. “Lady—my dear girl, tonight you are naught but a female smuggler!”

“Thanks to you.” She wagged a finger at his face.

“I thought you wanted to tag along with us?” his lordship returned amiably.

“I did—what does that signify?”

He laughed and began reciting.

With her pistols loaded she went on board,

By
her side hung a glittering sword,

In her belt two daggers
—
well arm’d for war,

Was the female smuggler, who ne’er feared
a
scar.

She giggled. “You are jolly, aren’t you? For I do assure you I have no weapons about me, and I am very fearful of being scarred!”

“Then why are you here, Myriah?”

“Not for the adventure,” she answered softly as she started to yawn, and it wasn’t long after that she fell asleep.

The next thing she knew he was rousing her, calling her name. “Myriah … look … Boulogne … look, love … ’tis there …”

She realized she had been sleeping and stretched both her arms and her neck as she peered through the darkness, past the gentle peaks of waves, but she couldn’t see a thing. “No—I don’t see a thing.”

“Don’t you? Must see about your eyes, love.” He was grinning like a boy.

She slapped his leg and then once again cuddled against him for warmth. “It feels like we have been on the water forever …”

“We have, sweetings—this same trip took us five hours the last time, but without checking my timepiece, I’d say we did it in three.”

“Oh, Kit—must you smuggle?” she asked on a plea.

He laughed. “Must I? No, there are many who would say I most definitely
must not
!”

“Do not poke fun at me, Kit. I am serious,” Myriah said appealingly.

He looked at her and opened his mouth, and she felt in that moment he wanted to
tell her something. However, he turned away, and she couldn’t see his expression, even in the moonlight.

She sighed sadly and looked again at the endless stretch of dark water, wondering
why
he had suddenly turned her up cold.

The next
thirty
minutes passed swiftly, and suddenly
Myriah
heard one of the men call ‘land.’ She got excited in spite of herself, for she had never seen France. She had heard so much about it from her father, who had made the Grand Tour and who had seen Napoleon during the brief peace in 1802.

She would
actually set foot on French soil—and how she wished it were Paris and during peacetime. She had started to daydream about it when she spied t
wo
wagons and
a
crew
of
French sea worthies flapping their arms about in greeting. She then felt the galley scrape against the shore, and her heart jumped into her throat.

Kit’s men were nimbly clambering out of the open boat, and then Kit himself was taking her hand and lifting her out, but not before he held her tightly against himself and breathed something low and heady into her ear.

He led her along the pebbly beach and held her around her waist as he paused. She looked up at him and then followed his line of vision to a small, dark stranger.

The man was dressed in what she imagined a French gentleman would wear, and his many-tiered gray greatcoat came from the hands of a skillful tailor. He inclined his head towards Kit and said in French, “
Bon soir, mon ami
… it was
a good
journey,
oui
?”

“
Oui
, it was a good journey,” Kit replied, moving away to position the man on one side of him.

She marveled at Kit’s French accent, for she herself spoke the language only passably.

The French crew and English alike began loading the galley, and they worked in unison, totally unmindful that their two countries were at war—and Myriah was confused by it all.

She imagined they saw it only as a means to put food on their families’ tables and clothes on their backs. It was hard, backbreaking work, but it served, and thus there were no complaints as they did their jobs.

Once the galley’s belly
was
loaded with tubs
of
French brandy, Frenchman and Englishman
smiled
peacefully at one another.

“Who is the pretty with, you?” the stranger inquired, still speaking in French.

“My
woman,” Kit answered quickly. “Don’t fret it.”

She understood Kit’s last
remark
and blushed as she gave his sleeve
a
twist. He grinned
at
her, found a driftwood log, and placed her forcefully upon it. Then he quietly but firmly requested, “Stay here, sweetings. I have some business to transact.”

She pouted but made herself as comfortable as possible and waited, watching Kit as he walked a short distance away from her with the Frenchman.

His eyes constantly darted
in
her direction, protectively keeping her in sight.

“Have you the money?” the Frenchman asked. “Thirty-five shillings a tub.”

“It is a high price, Louis. Others pay you but twenty shillings,” Kit complained.

The Frenchman smiled affably. “Yes, and they take off my hands eighty tubs, and they come regularly, my lord. You come only now and then … as the mood strikes you, and then you take but thirty tubs.”

“Still,
my landing crew has complained about it. They say that there is not enough in it for them,” Kit argued.

“Your landing crew—what are they but nodcocks who slink, carry, hide, and
run?”

“They also break heads,”
Kit
said drily.

The Frenchman laughed. “Ah, yes, but not
yours,
Kit, never yours. You’re far too clever.”

Mynah’s eyes opened wide with amazement. She could pick up words here and there, just enough to assure her that her beloved was indeed up to his neck … she still had hoped was just a lark.

And then the Frenchman spoke in English, and his English was as good as hers. What the deuce?

She was so curious she stood up and inched her way towards them. However, Kit took the Frenchman by the arm and moved him out of hearing distance.

She saw him take out a fat leather bag and place it in the man’s grasp. She also saw that, oddly enough, the bag was followed by something white and gold, something that looked like an official envelope. She had seen that type of envelope before … somewhere.

Then it was over, and as if she had never heard the man speak in English, he was once again speaking French. When they returned to her, the Frenchman was speaking. “What are you complaining for, my lord? You pay me thirty-five shillings, yes. But you sell each keg for five pounds, do you not?”

Kit laughed and gave the fellow a robust slap on the back. “That we do, Louis … that we do!”

“Very well then. We are pleased … for
you
have made your profit … I have made mine.”