Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (18 page)

Every sense in Jack’s body was heightened; he was listening,
waiting, primed, conscious of the weight of his pistol against his hip. He
thought of Francesca again, of what she had endured this night, of her courage,
of her calmness…of the softness of her lips and the sweet scent of her…the feel
of her body beneath his. His loins tightened at the memory. He almost laughed
at the irony of the situation. He had spent the best part of an hour convincing
the company of the
Swift
that he was bedding the girl, creating an
illusion, while all the while knowing how much simpler it would have been just
to take her. He wanted her, after all. But those days were done, and Jack knew
he would make the same choice a thousand times over.

Francesca turned her back on where her brother was sitting and
fixed the bodice of her dress back into place as best she could, wrenching her
arms into contortions in order to fasten the hooks. Only once she was fully
dressed did she go to sit by him.

He touched a tentative hand to his throat and then rubbed at his
ankle. ‘That bastard!’ he said in a strained whisper. ‘And what did he do to my
ankle? It hurts like hell!’

‘Tom!’ exclaimed Francesca with a look of outrage. ‘There is no
need for such language.’

‘There’s every need,’ he croaked, ‘when I find him forcing
himself upon my sister.’

‘He was not forcing himself upon me. It was a play-act contrived
to make Mr White believe such a thing. Nothing more.’

His face was white and pinched. ‘God in heaven, Francesca, I saw
him closing the fall on his breeches.’

‘I’m telling you the truth.’ She stared into his eyes, willing
him to believe her. ‘We would both be dead already were it not for Mr Black.
Indeed, with your outburst you almost undid all that he had done.’

‘What was I supposed to do? Just walk away?’

‘Yes!’

‘I thought that he was…’ His face contorted.

‘I know. It was what anyone walking in upon the scene was
supposed to think.’

He closed his eyes and leaned his back against the wooden wall of
the cabin. ‘Lord, Francesca, what are we going to do?’

‘We’re going to trust that your Mr Black knows what he is doing.
There is nothing else we can do.’ She forced a smile and tried to reassure her
brother. ‘In all likelihood we’ll be back in Lannacombe tomorrow, preparing for
Christmas. And if we’re really lucky Mama might never even know that we were
gone.’ It seemed a forlorn hope.

The men were working industriously, hauling the tubs over from
the
Bien Aimé
. They were almost halfway through the transfer when the
naval frigate
Hawk
appeared out of the darkness, swooping in fast
towards the two boats.

‘Hell’s teeth!’ White cursed, and looked round savagely at his
crew. ‘Cut us free, Weasel. Do it now, man!’

There was panic on both boats. Jack could hear shouts and curses
in French as well as English. Blades were hacking at the ropes that bound the
boats, careless of the grappling hooks that were being left behind. Nothing
mattered except the need to escape. But the men’s efforts amounted to nothing.
The frigate was huge in comparison, and less than fifty feet separated her from
her prey. She had moved stealthily, emerging out of the black of night like a
great ghost ship.

‘Stand to! Drop your weapons!’ The captain’s voice shouted at
them.

‘Rot in hell,’ White muttered almost to himself. ‘Haul off,
Weasel. Get us out of here!’

As the two boats separated it looked as if White might just be
right. The frigate could not chase two boats at the same time. But on the
boats’ attempts to flee, lanterns had been lit upon the frigate. Her gun ports
were opened, and there was the sound of huge guns being run out.

‘Faster, man, faster!’ yelled White.

But it was too late. There was the ear-splitting sound of
gunpowder exploding, and the almighty splash of a shot hitting the water close
perilously close to the
Swift
.

The French boat had turned faster, and looked to have a chance of
escape. Another roar, another ball, landing just short of the bow of the French
vessel.

‘Desist in your efforts!’ shouted the naval captain. ‘Or we will
hit you!’

The French boat ceased her attempted flight. Her flag was
lowered.

White saw his chance.

‘Keep going, men.’

The
Swift
made her break for freedom. The
Hawk
fired on the leeward, aiming to disable the small boat rather than hole her.
Her gunners were good. Jack dived for cover as the shot destroyed a section of
the bulwarks, showering the deck in razor sharp shards of wood. Finally the
Swift
ended her flight.

Francesca and Tom heard the almighty roar of the guns even down
below in the cabin.

‘At last,’ Tom rasped. ‘We’re safe.’

‘The Revenue men. But you’ll be caught,’ she whispered.

‘No, not the Revenue. The na—’An explosion ricocheted above their
heads cutting off what he would have said. There was a terrible tearing noise
and the boat suddenly heaved and shuddered violently.

Francesca was thrown back against the wall. The guns stopped
firing. There was only silence.

‘Tom, are you hurt?’

‘No,’ came back his hoarse whisper. ‘You?’

‘I’m fine,’ she said.

‘We’ve been hit.’

She nodded. ‘At least they seem to have stopped.’

‘For now,’ he said. ‘White was probably trying to make a run for
it. Let’s pray we’ve not been holed. Otherwise we could drown down here before
they get to us.’

Her eyes darted to the door. ‘Mr Black left the door unlocked for
us.’

He looked at her. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘You didn’t give me the chance.’

He gave an exasperated sigh. ‘Come on.’

The room beyond was empty, although the lantern had been left
burning. They crept across to the ladder.

‘Wait here. I’ll check up on deck,’ said Tom.

But Francesca had no intention of doing any such thing. ‘I’m
coming with you.’

Tom rolled his eyes but gave no argument. He disappeared up the
ladder first, Francesca following behind. Those half-ankers that had already
been transferred were stacked nearby. Tom and Francesca crawled out and
crouched behind them. Tom turned to whisper to her. In reply she touched a
finger to her lips and pointed ahead. There beyond the barrels stood Mr White
and Mr Black, and out over the bulwarks loomed a huge naval frigate.

Two cutters had been lowered from the frigate. Jack had watched
while the marines climbed down into them. Now he could see the white of their
facings even through the darkness. One cutter was still rowing towards the
Bien
Aimé
; the other had already reached the
Swift
.

‘Looks like the game is up,’ said Jack to White.

‘Someone must have told them. How else did they know where to
find us?’

The marines were climbing up the rope ladders to board, muskets
at the ready.

‘It must have been that damn boy Linden. Now we know why he’s
been behaving oddly all night. I’ll wring his neck with my bare hands!’

‘I wouldn’t be too hasty over that, Grosely,’ said Jack.

‘What the hell are you playing at, using my name?’ White turned
and scowled at Jack. ‘Stick to our pseudonyms. Now, keep quiet and let me do
the talking.’

‘You’ve done quite enough talking, sir,’ Jack said coldly, and
all trace of the bored, lazy rake was gone.

‘What?’ White’s scowl deepened. ‘I did you a favour, letting you
in on this. I should have kept the brandy and the money to myself.’

‘Would that you had kept this country’s secrets to yourself,
rather than selling them to the French.’

White gaped.

‘Or did you think I knew nothing of that?’

‘Good God, it was
you
. You’re working with the navy. You
betrayed us to them.’

‘There’s only one traitor here, and I’m looking at him.’ Jack
removed his hand from inside his coat to reveal a pistol aimed at White. ‘Drop
your stick and put your hands above your head.’

White cursed, but did as he was told. ‘I’m making a bit of money
from brandy, that’s all. If there’s anything else going on then it has nothing
to do with me.’

‘Even as we speak the papers that
you
passed are being
retrieved from the
Bien Aimé
. And I’m sure that with some little
persuasion Monsieur Crouvier will be only too willing to reveal the identity of
his contact.’

‘What is this? Some ploy to creep back into your family’s
favour?’

Jack’s face hardened, He felt the rage and guilt exploded within
his chest at White’s words. His finger tightened against the trigger.

‘No!’ Both Jack and White turned instinctively towards the voice.
There, not six feet away, stood Francesca.

Francesca’s heart was pounding wildly, but her voice rang out
clearly. Beside her she heard a hoarse exclamation of shock from Tom, before
his hand grabbed her arm and tried to pull her away. She dug her heels in and
resisted. ‘Don’t do it, Mr Black.’

‘You plead for this villain’s life?’ Jack was facing White once
more and did not look round, just kept the pistol trained ahead and his finger
on the trigger. His tone was laced with incredulity.

‘It is for the courts to try him. If he’s guilty he will hang.’

‘You see,’ said White, ‘even she does not believe you.’

Tom pulled more firmly at her arm. ‘Come away, Francesca. You
don’t know what you’re doing. Grosely is guilty as sin.’

She shook Tom off and glared at the man they called Grosely. ‘The
only reason I plead for your life, sir, is that I would not have Mr Black tried
for your murder.’

White smirked, and his pale eyes darted from Francesca to Jack
and back again. ‘My, my, he must have ploughed you well.’

She felt the heat flush her face.

‘On the contrary, Grosely,’ said Jack. ‘Miss Linden’s virtue
remains intact.’

‘Don’t be absurd. I saw you—remember?’

‘A fine piece of acting,’ said Jack, and loosened his grip on the
trigger.

And then the significance of Francesca’s name sank into White’s
brain. ‘Linden? She is—’

‘Tom Linden’s sister.’

‘That’s why he was so concerned over the wench. Is he in on this
with you?’

‘I couldn’t have done it without him,’ said Jack.

Francesca stared at her brother. ‘What’s going on, Tom?’

‘Later, Francesca.’

‘I would rather speak of it now,’ she said with determination.

‘Miss Linden.’ Jack’s eyes met hers, but what he would have said
was never heard, for there was a scuttle of boots against the wooden deck and
then a voice.

‘Not too late are we, my lord?’ A group of marines and their
sergeant were standing with muskets at the ready.

‘Perfect timing, Sergeant Wilcox,’ said Jack. ‘He’s all yours.’

‘Come along quietly, sir. Any trouble and I’ll skewer you with a
bayonet myself.’ The sergeant was a big man, with an expression that told the
world he meant every word he said.

White glanced round, and on seeing the sergeant raised his hands
higher in the air. His upper lip curled and his mouth contorted to a sneer.
‘You haven’t heard the last of this, Jack Holberton.’ Then he turned to face
the marines.

The huge sergeant nodded at two marines and they moved forward to
flank White. ‘Take him.’ Then he looked over at Francesca and Tom.

‘Miss Linden and her brother are with me, Sergeant Wilcox,’ said
Jack.

‘Right you are, sir,’ said the sergeant. ‘Are you ready to leave
sir?’

‘Thank you, Sergeant Wilcox. We are quite ready.’ Then his eyes
met Francesca’s. ‘Miss Linden—Tom.’

Tom took her arm and guided her across to the rope ladder. One of
the marines helped her climb over the bulwarks and down the precarious rope
ladder into the cutter bobbing on the waves below. The wind nipped at her face
and the freezing spray from the waves nigh on soaked her, but Francesca scarcely
noticed. The cutter was rowed through the dark tumultuous sea towards the
Hawk
.
They were safe. And all Francesca could think was that nothing was as it had
seemed.

The
Hawk
did not tarry. Despite the strong Atlantic wind
and roughening sea it took a little over an hour to reach Lannacombe Bay, where
the smuggled brandy was to be landed. The naval frigate stayed clear of the
coast, so that she would not be visible to the watchers on the shoreline—not
that the
Swift
would be expected yet.

The arrival of the lugger would bring the men upon the rocky
beach not the brandy that they awaited but a party of marines. What he had
learned of the Buckleys ensured that Jack wasted no pity on their plight.
Smuggling had been a part of life in south Devon for centuries, and with good
reason. Many of those involved in the trade were the poor from coastal
villages, and relied on smuggling to feed hungry mouths. But the past year had
seen the violent Buckley gang dominate the free trade along the Devon coast and
put local smugglers out of business. Edmund Grosely had made good use of the
Buckleys’ greed. Both Lannacombe and Jack would be thankful for the ruffians’
demise.

The
Hawk
waited where she was, every light extinguished,
invisible through the darkness of the night, until at last the
Swift
arrived. Jack saw the lugger signal two short then two long flashes of a
lantern, and watched the reply from the shore. As the
Swift
was
manoeuvred in towards the land the
Hawk
silently slipped a cutter into
the water and filled it with sturdy seamen, who rowed the path the lugger had
led. Jack stood silently on the deck and watched them go, cursing the fact that
he could not join them. He waited. Waited. Counted the minutes. Then there was
an explosion of men’s shouts carrying clear across the water. Behind Jack a
man’s tread sounded.