One Night of Passion (18 page)

Georgie doubted the invading French army cared a whit and a half about his lordship’s association to the English crown, other than to add his head to the pile of other noble necks they had shaved with Madame Guillotine.

The years of Terror were mostly over, but that hadn’t stopped the French forces, remnants of the early Revolutionary armies, from keeping their guillotines sharp. Especially now that they were invading other countries under the skillful direction of their latest leader, a Corsican by the name of Bonaparte.

The marquis and his fatuous complaints were unceremoniously elbowed aside by the matronly, heavy-set widow who had arrived three days earlier. “Monsignor, I must have the maid pack our bags immediately,” she said, her daughters ringed around her like frightened chicks. “I will not stay one minute longer if I am to be awakened by ruffians at all hours.”

As more shots erupted, one of the daughters squeaked in fright, while the eldest one dropped in a dead faint.

Georgie had no time for any of their antics, but she did need help finding a way out of this mess. She glanced around the room looking for the inn’s other guest.

Mr. Pymm.

At first she had thought she had met him before, for he seemed vaguely familiar—almost like a haunting figure out of one of her odd nightmares. But how could that be? For according to the innkeeper, Pymm was an ailing gentleman from York, and Georgie had never been further north than London. The garrulous innkeeper had also informed her that Pymm had sought the sunshine of Italy for his health and to further his studies of antiquities—though they had yet to see Mr. Pymm at any of the picturesque settings around the town.

Instead, each morning the man set out in a donkey cart, with a driver-cum-interpreter who looked more like a bandit than a guide, and the pair weren’t seen again until late in the evening, whereupon Mr. Pymm would limp into the inn, cane in hand. When pressed to join the company, he would profess to be too tired to visit, and retire immediately to his room.

Two nights earlier, the English widow had been complaining of megrims, her laments keeping everyone awake until the wee hours when Mr. Pymm had finally come to her aid. Apparently, he was a physician of some renown and offered a potion that had not only silenced the lady, but left her sleeping until well into the next day, when she’d declared Mr. Pymm a miracle worker to one and all.

At the time, Georgie had wondered why, if he were truly such a fine physician, he hadn’t healed himself? But she had given it no further thought until now, as she spied the mysterious and supposedly ailing Mr. Pymm spryly darting down the hallway toward the kitchens.

She never knew why she did it, but at the sight of his retreating figure moving at a breakneck speed, Georgie just knew she’d found her way out of Volturno and out of harm’s way.

Catching Kit by the arm, she dragged her sister past the others and into the empty kitchen.

If Mr. Pymm had a way out of this mess, which Georgie would have bet her best garters he did, they were going with him.

The door to the rear garden stood wide open, and Georgie didn’t hesitate. She barreled out into the darkness and the pouring rain. Just ahead lay a small path down to the beach. There she spied the bobbing light of a small tin lantern sputtering and flickering in the rain and wind.

Why would he be going to the beach? Unless . . .

Then Georgie remembered.
The light offshore.

It hadn’t been her imagination. A ship. And running without lights, suggesting that its arrival wasn’t just a lucky coincidence.

An ailing antiquities scholar, indeed! Their Mr. Pymm was involved in some havey-cavey business, but what it was, Georgie didn’t care. Since he was obviously fleeing the French, she deduced his loyalties weren’t set in that direction. And so as long as he wasn’t dealing in supplying Englishwomen to Persian harems, she didn’t care where his interests lay.

In the village, the shouts and din of alarm grew closer. The church bells now rang with a frantic peal, punctuated only by screams and wails from the villagers of the little town as they were rousted from their beds by their belligerent invaders.

“Which way?” Kit asked, peering out from beneath her now dripping hood.

“To the beach.” Georgie nodded ahead of them. “See that light? That’s Mr. Pymm. Apparently he has friends awaiting him. And I intend to see that we join them.” She continued forth, down the side of the cliff, trying her best to recall the path they had taken a few days earlier. Of course, that had been in the morning when the sun had been high above and the sea had beckoned Georgie with its dancing, flashing waves.

Now in the darkness, they stumbled and bumped into each other as they felt their way along the rain-slickened path, following Mr. Pymm’s meager light as it danced ahead of them.

Then Georgie heard it—a sound as familiar as her own voice—the sound of oars straining in their locks, and the grinding of wood as it met the rocky beach.

A longboat!

She didn’t need to see it to know it was there.

“Did you hear that?” Kit whispered, having spent nearly as much time as Georgie playing aboard Captain Taft’s ship, as well as at the docks near their Penzance home. “A boat. I swear I heard it.”

“Oh aye, Kit,” she said softly. “I heard it too. They must be up near the boulders, at the end of the beach.” The night was so pitch-black, coupled with the rain, she could barely see her hand before her face. At least they had Pymm’s lantern to follow like a tiny, sputtering beacon.

“What if they won’t fetch us away?”

Georgie put her hand on the butt of the pistol tucked inside her cloak. “They’ll take us, never fear. They’ll have no choice.” They’d reached the end of the rocky trail, for their slippers were now sinking into sand.

She held Kit fast for a moment, since Mr. Pymm had stopped as well.

He stood some distance ahead of them, swinging the light back and forth, and then up and down.

Obviously he hadn’t heard the longboat’s arrival as they had. But then again, over the crash of the waves and the falling rain, it wouldn’t be something she’d expect just anyone to be able to discern.

“I thought Mr. Pymm was a gentleman,” Kit said. “Why, he’s acting like Mr. Waterby out to escape the excise men.”

Georgie smiled at the reference to their Penzance neighbor who’d been well-known about the area as a smuggler. “And there is his reason,” she said, as some one near the boulders stepped out with a light in hand and made the same signal back.

Mr. Pymm’s shoulders heaved up and down in what must have been a great sigh of relief before he darted up the beach like a sandpiper, bobbing and weaving amongst the waves which rushed up to meet the sand.

They really didn’t need to follow his lamp any further; his cursing and complaining were enough to guide them. Apparently Mr. Pymm didn’t like getting his boots and breeches wet, but Georgie considered that a small inconvenience if it meant he wasn’t about to get his neck shaved by the French.

And with that sobering thought in mind and Kit still in tow, Georgie continued her flight after him.

They caught up with the mysterious Englishman just as he was struggling to throw a leg over the side of a boat. The craft was manned by four rough-looking sailors, two of them at the oars and the other two struggling to keep the boat from being sucked back out into the surf. They all wore dark oilskin coats and wide hats, leaving them nearly invisible in the dark night.

Smugglers.
Just like Mr. Waterby and his crew, Georgie thought. At this point she didn’t care what cargo they chose to carry outside the law, as long as it could include a few paying passengers.

“Wait, please wait,” Georgie said, coming to an abrupt halt as a large looming figure stepped forth.

“What the hell did you bring along, Pymm?” The man’s voice boomed above the din of the stormy waves and the pelting rain. In his hand, he still held a sputtering lamp, the other held one of the longboat’s ropes. “I was only told to fetch you.”

Georgie faltered for a second—the man’s commanding voice rippled through her memory, sending ghostly reminders up and down her spine.

To fetch you . . .
She shook the echoing words away. For the imposing tone had belonged to only one man. Colin.

She twisted her head to get a better view of this stranger, but the pitch-black night and driving rain made it impossible to discern his features. Even the poor lamp he held offered no hint of the man hidden in the darkness.

Meanwhile, Mr. Pymm was twisting around, and at the sight of the sisters he nearly fell out of the boat.

“This is not my doing, Captain.” He shot an angry glance at Georgie. “Whatever are you and your sister doing here, madame?”

“What does it look like, sir?” she replied, settling her bag carefully into the bobbing craft, and helping Kit climb aboard. “Escaping, much like you.”

“Escaping what?” the man with the lantern asked, directing his question at Mr. Pymm and ignoring her.

Again his voice rippled down her spine, leaving it tingling with memories. Georgie chided herself. As if this rude rogue could be Colin!

“The French, sir,” Mr. Pymm told him. “An entire regiment of them, I’d say.”

“The French?” the captain said, spitting the words out more like a curse than question.

“Yes, the French,” Georgie repeated for him. “And if you don’t mind, we’d prefer to be off with you and Mr. Pymm before they discover us. I assume you have some sort of ship out there.” She swung her arm out toward the surf and darkness.

“Now see here,” he said, holding his lamp aloft, offering her a hint of the rough contours of his face. And there in the solid line of his jaw was a cleft in his chin. However, any resemblance to Colin ended with the less than honorable outburst that followed.

“What we’re doing here is none of your business. Now be off with you,” he said, waving his hand at them as if they were some bothersome flotsam fouling his lines.

His manners set Georgie’s teeth on edge. “You’d leave us here? Defenseless Englishwomen at the mercy of the French? How dare you!”

“Defenseless? Bah!” he scoffed. “Listen here, I’m not in the business of rescuing women, nor is this longboat big enough for two more passengers. So get your sister out, or I’ll toss her to the fish.”

Once Georgie shook free of his grasp, she immediately drew out her pistol. She put the muzzle up against his chest and shouted over the storm and waves, “You toss her out and I’ll make sure there is room enough for us by leaving your carcass here for the French to pick apart.”

He stiffened for an instant, but then in a quick sweep of his arm, he sent the pistol flying from her hand and into the tossing sea.

It was only then that she met his angry glance, and realized she was face-to-face with the one man she’d thought she’d never see again.

The man who had saved her in London. The man who’d loved her so thoroughly. The man who’d left behind more than the memories of his touch.

Colin.
She had dreamt of this moment, prayed for this moment, and now all she wanted to do was flee.

But she had no choice—once again she was at his mercy, once again she needed him to rescue her from the ill fates that seemed to follow her.

But what the devil was he doing here—in Italy? And in the dead of night rescuing the mysterious Mr. Pymm?

Her questions only reminded her of how little she knew about the man she’d fallen in love with that long-ago passionate night.

Obviously he hadn’t seen her face, for he still continued on, ranting and raving about her high-handed tactics.

“Madame, you have no idea who I am or what you are getting yourself into—”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she said, whirling around and making for the longboat once again, drawing her hood deeper around her face and wondering what he would say when he learned the truth.

Colin did a double take. After his last trip into Naples, he’d thought he’d talked himself out of seeing his Cyprian in every woman he met. Yet for an instant, he thought he’d seen Georgie’s face looking up at him from beneath that bedraggled and dripping cloak.

Besides, he also swore he was hearing things, for it seemed that her valise, the one stowed between her sister’s feet, was wailing like a baby.

A baby
? Now he truly was headed around the bend.

“Christ sakes, what have you got in there?” he asked, pointing at the valise.

“Why, my belongings, you ninny,” the woman said, blustering past him and patting the bag as if to make sure it was well secured. Then she turned back to him, her hands on her hips. “You can toss away my pistol, but you’re still taking us, whether you like it or not.”

To his utter disbelief, the pushy bit of baggage waded into the cold water with a determined stride, hitching her skirt up in the process, revealing a pair of matronly boots attached to sensibly clad legs bound up in a gray wool.

But in his mind, the boots became a pair of embroidered slippers, her stockings, shimmering silk . . .

Limbs that wound around his as he covered her with his
body . . . silken thighs that he had parted so eagerly . . . the
woman urging him on, challenging him, telling him what
she wanted . . .

His body hardened at the memories, so Colin took a deep, mind-clearing breath of the bracing air.

He considered dunking his head under the waves and letting the cold water bring him to his senses. Instead, he took another deep breath and started after her.

The hell if he was going to let this chit commandeer his longboat.

It would serve her right to be left behind for the French. And probably save the English a passel of trouble, for he suspected she’d bedevil her captors into an unconditional surrender.

“Now listen here—” he began, fully intending to catch her by her round hips and toss her back into the sea where all good harpies belonged.

But the ping of a bullet ricocheting against the rocks stopped him. He whirled around to discover that Pymm and this interloper hadn’t been exaggerating.

The French had arrived in Volturno.