Rake Beyond Redemption (13 page)

‘I’m her cousin. Would she blacken my soul if there was any chance of my innocence?’

What terrible stark demands his logic made on her. ‘No. No, she would not.’

‘You know how the landing went awry. You were there.’

‘Yes. I was.’

‘You know that Harriette was shot.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, then. The pistol was assuredly mine.’ He raised his tankard in a silent toast. ‘Guilty as charged,’ he said again, deliberately.

She flinched. It was as if he had struck her a physical blow.

‘Did you
intend
to kill Luke?’

‘Why not? He threatened my whole operation.’

‘You would kill a man to keep your pockets lined with gold?’

Zan shrugged.

Marie-Claude, all her hopes, that somewhere in this morass she would find an answer, draining away through the soles of her feet, gathered all her resources to withstand this breaking down of her convictions.
I must breathe. I must remember to breathe.
Was this the man she had given up her heart to? Was this her lover who was destroying her love with such callous efficiency? Such cruel words. There was a recklessness about him today. A cold-blooded, wanton carelessness. Even his clothes were dishevelled, his cravat hanging creased and unfastened round his neck. His slovenly attitude was an insult to her. She suspected this was not the first tankard of ale he’d consumed. He looked louche and dissolute, a dark unshaven shadow on chin and cheeks. Surely this was not Zan.

‘I don’t understand,’ she stated abruptly.

‘What’s so difficult, Madame Mermaid?’ Even the manner in which he addressed her—the name he had once used in such tenderness—was an insult. ‘Your own experience should tell you that men can not be trusted when there’s the prospect of gold to line their pockets.’

Again she flinched inwardly at his callous reference to Jean-Jacques Noir who had taken her prisoner, who had controlled her and threatened to use her as a whore in a French military town, offering her as bait in a plot to blackmail Luke. Yes, she knew how despicable men could be. But Zan was nothing like Noir. Marie-Claude struggled to order her thoughts into some recognisable pattern. It felt as if she were back in the bay, wading through incoming tides that threatened to sweep her away.

Still, she must discover…She would beg if she had to.

‘You say you are less than honourable,’ she admitted. ‘But I need to know one thing from you. Tell me the truth. If you will do nothing else, I beg this of you.’

‘Of course. I’ve nothing to lose.’

So she would ask it. It was the one question that had kept her from sleep.

‘I need to know if you used me. Did it mean nothing to you? Did you not love me at all? Were they all empty words, meaningless kisses? Was I a convenient means of you getting your foot in the door of the Pride for your smuggling ventures?’ She took a breath. ‘Did you do it to get possession of Lydyard’s Pride?’

‘That’s easy to answer, dear Mermaid. I could have got it without your involvement. Wiggins was hardly going to stop me, repelling me at the door with a shotgun! If I presented him with a bottle of port, he’d invite me across the threshold. If you recall, I did not visit the Pride, even at your most kind invitation—until that final afternoon. I didn’t need you to get the Pride.’

He hadn’t needed her. Such brutal truth. But she had demanded it and must withstand its wounding power. ‘So was it revenge?’ she asked. ‘Was it just to get back at Venmore for snatching Harriette and the use of the Pride from you?’

He tilted his head mockingly, sneered. ‘That’s harder to answer. What do
you
think?’

‘I think I can’t accuse you of seduction. I was willing enough, wasn’t I?’ She too could show disdain.

‘You fell into my hands as softly as a ripe plum. I simply wanted you. And took you. A weapon against Venmore? That was just an added dessert.’ His smile was bitingly cruel. ‘But I have to admit it did add to the piquancy of the occasion.’

‘So you did it to punish me for my connection with Luke and Harriette.’ She felt as if he had taken her trust and shredded it into tiny pieces. ‘I trusted you. I gave
you my heart and you trampled on it.’ It was as if she had held the glory of the moon and stars, only to have them filter through her fingers, lost for ever in the fine shingle of Old Wincomlee bay. ‘I loved you.’ Marie-Claude took one step towards him.

‘No, you didn’t. You enjoyed the novelty, the excitement. The secrecy of our meetings. You’ll get over it.’

Harsh, wounding words searing the air between them.

Zan put down the tankard and pushed to his feet to walk towards her.

‘Goodbye, Madame Mermaid.’ Before Marie-Claude could move, he swooped, gripping her shoulders with his hands and pulling her hard against him. His mouth took hers. A demand, a possession, carefully controlled, yet punishing in its intensity. At first she struggled, pushing ineffectually against his chest. But then his arms slid round her to hold her, and when he changed the angle of the kiss, against all her intentions her body betrayed her and her lips parted beneath his.

Furious with herself, she could do nothing but be overwhelmed by the bittersweet power of his embrace.

Until Zan lifted his head, pushed her away.

‘Yes, you’re pretty enough,’ he observed dispassionately. ‘Did I love you? Lust, rather. What man wouldn’t want you? And you were so willing…’

It restored her to reality, cutting into her flesh like ice on a winter pond. Released to stand alone, Marie-Claude felt as fragile as glass but she held herself together. She could feel him on her lips, taste him there. In spite of everything he still had the touch to stir molten desire in her. But not any more. His words were cynically cruel, reminding her of her wanton behaviour. She would not be so ingenuously trusting again.

‘You must excuse my lack of modesty, if the fault was then mine!’ she managed, aware of nothing but the heat in her cheeks.

‘Go home, Marie-Claude,’ he advised harshly. ‘Forget these past weeks, unless it’s as a lesson in not giving your trust too indiscriminately. Marry a good man with honour, who can give you more children to fill your heart and your days. A man your family can respect and welcome. Who will bring you happiness.’

At the comfortable domestic picture painted so viciously, Marie-Claude felt temper surge to replace hopelessness. She was grateful for it. Anything was better than the vast emptiness that had opened up where her heart should have been. And finally her temper snapped. She allowed it to escape because suddenly she wanted to hurt as she had been hurt.

‘How dare you tell me what to do? Who are you to give me good advice as to what might or might not bring me happiness?’

His face became still, his eyes flat. ‘There, you understand perfectly. I knew you would. Who am I, indeed?’ He stretched out a hand to draw the back of his fingers softly down her cheek—until she flinched back out of his range. ‘No one but a smuggler and wrecker, an unprincipled rogue with no reputation and no honour.’

‘And how misguided I was to be taken in by a handsome face and soft words. Without reputation and honour? That’s not the half of it. Now that I can see clearly, I think you are still in league with the worst scum of
gentlemen
! What an unfortunate term. You told me that you belonged to no smuggling gang. I know that
that
was a lie too. I was there, if you recall. When the man Rackham came to find you, the
man I now know to be Captain D’Acre’s lieutenant. I suppose you’re in business with them—the Fly-By-Nights, isn’t it? You’re no better than D’Acre is—and his tally of crimes is worse than appalling. George Gadie told me so.’

She saw his eyes widen, then the sardonic lines around his mouth deepened into a smile that held no amusement. ‘That’s true. Of course it is. Captain D’Acre and I are hand in glove—always have been.’

‘I
despise
you,’ she spat.

‘Then why are you still here? Unless it’s to gloat over the failure of my schemes to pay Venmore back. You’ve been mercifully saved from my wicked clutches.’

‘So I have. I never want to see you again. How fortunate I am to discover your disgrace so soon.’

She turned on her heel and strode to the door, halting to look back over her shoulder.

‘Do you know what my greatest relief is?’ She did not wait for his answer. ‘That Raoul, my son, was not here with me at the Pride. I had let him go with Harriette and Luke to The Venmore. Sometimes I regretted it. I thought how much he would enjoy sailing in the
Spectre.
’ The pain in her heart was almost unbearable now. ‘How fortunate that he was not here. I would not have wished my son to be anywhere near you. Not even in the same room as you. I would not have him influenced by a man with so little integrity, so little honour.’

Zan inclined his head, a mocking little salute. ‘Then you must be thankful, Madame Mermaid. There are always some blessings in life.’

It was too much for her. ‘God damn you, Alexander Ellerdine!’

With her hand she swept the glass lamp that stood on
the table by the door on to the floor, where it shattered and spread in glittering diamonds across the boards.

The fall of her footsteps echoed in the hall. The outer door slammed.

The foolish parasol lay abandoned on the floor amidst the debris of broken glass.

I
t was one thing to be determined to remain in Old Wincomlee to show that she was no coward, but quite another to actually do it and keep her nerve. How much more sensible to take herself off to The Venmore, be reunited with Raoul, and forget. Forget everything. Forget him. But Marie-Claude had a point to prove. That Alexander Ellerdine—she would never again think of him as
Zan
, except when she forgot!—meant nothing to her, that her love for him was dead—in fact, had probably never existed except in her own imagination. She had meant every word of it when she had told him she despised him and all he stood for. She would prove that she could live in the same universe as so despicable a man without every beat of her heart being a painful memory when she had believed it had beat only for him. That she could exist without turning her head, expecting to see him outlined before her in sun or shadow. He was a wrecker with blood on his hands by his own admission, for goodness’ sake. A liar, a cheat.

So she would do it.

Marie-Claude set herself to steer clear of his haunts. It was easy enough to do if she kept her wits about her, and there was no fear that he would ever seek her out. Meggie and Mr Temple need have no fears that the smugglers would gain access to Lydyard’s Pride through her innocent co-operation, or that Alexander Ellerdine would ever again lay siege to her heart and her virtue. When the
Spectre
sailed in the bay, its dark sails shimmering in the gusts of wind or catching the light from the sea, she remained at the Pride, turning her face inland. No one need know that her heart fluttered uncomfortably and her face flushed. When moonlight flooded her bedchamber, who was to know that in her mind she walked the cliffs with him? Who was to know that she remembered how she had lain in his arms, taken him into her body, shivered beneath his weight? Who was to know—and it would never happen again. As he had said, she must be more discriminating in whom she put her trust. Never again would she act on that strange force that had seemed to catch and bind them together in the parlour of the Silver Boat, turning the miserable little room into a place of heart-stopping brilliance.

Never again.

It was easy to pass the heavy July days, despite the necessity of pretending contentment. She drove the gig. The Gadies, father and son, took Marie-Claude across the bay in
Venmore’s Prize
so that she returned windswept and flushed from the sun. A gusty morning tempted her for a brisk walk along the cliffs where the wind would blow the cobwebs away. It was a risk, being so close to Elleredine Manor, but its owner would be unlikely to be at home. Busy elsewhere, doing something illicit and nasty with Captain D’Acre, without doubt.

Weary and sun-warmed, she turned for home, and Marie-Claude’s simple pleasure in the day made her careless. Climbing out of one of the steep ravines, she looked up and back, towards where Ellerdine Manor nestled in a stand of wind-blasted trees, only to see his distant figure, sitting on his mare, looking out to sea.

Zan! It was the first time she had seen him since their bitter confrontation. Her heart leapt to her throat as if to choke her. There he was, no figment of her imagination, but flesh and blood. Immediately she turned and retraced her steps back into the ravine, hurrying along before he could see her. Then hesitated, looked back, senses alert at the quiet beat of hooves on the thick sward as a second rider approached. It was obviously a pre-arranged meeting. They both dismounted.

So who was the newcomer? Not Rackham. Was it D’Acre?

Narrowing her eyes against the bright light, Marie-Claude recognised some familiarity about the figure. Another smuggler of D’Acre’s band, come to agree details of a run with Zan? But if so, how would she recognise such a man? As he turned in profile, she thought it might be the Preventive Riding Officer, Captain Rodmell, an easily recognisable figure with a tall stooping posture. In an impromptu charade, she had wept tears on his chest the night Luke and Harriette had brought her here, Raoul still a babe in arms. Yes, even at this distance, she was sure it was the Captain.

So what was Zan doing with the Preventive Officer?

Passing false information to protect one of his precious runs, most likely. There was no love lost between smugglers and excise-men. Zan was hedging
his bets and sending the Captain on a wild-goose chase whilst the contraband was safely unloaded.

The two men remounted, business done.

No, he had not seen her.

Marie-Claude turned her back, conscious of a lingering regret.

Zan had seen her. He knew she was there from the moment she arrived. Knew when she looked across at him. The strand of connection, strong as new rope, still tied him to her. With a lift of his shoulders he turned his back on her and gave all his attention to a most detailed exchange of information with Captain Rodmell.

The business complete, he turned back, but she had gone. Marie-Claude had not seen him. The bond between them had been severed at last. Finally she was forgetting him.

His mouth tightened as he turned his mare in the direction of Ellerdine Manor. He did not look back again.

A week of storms, high winds from the south-west together with torrential rain, was hard to tolerate, keeping her indoors. When Marie-Claude saw a clear morning with relief, her spirits lifted. She must get out—but unfortunately not in
Venmore’s Prize.
The severity of wind and waves had kept the fisherman of Old Wincomlee landlocked. Too dangerous to put to sea for the duration of a week or more and the results were obvious. No work, no catch, no money. They would be feeling the pinch in the village. Food would be sparse. Today the menfolk would all be putting out to sea—would already be there—so there would be no one with the time to spend on her leisure pursuits.

She would take the gig along the coast towards Hastings.

Early, before breakfast, she took herself to the stables to find anyone who might not be fishing to tack up the cob.

‘George? George?’

No reply. Not entirely unexpected but surely there was some stable-lad left to do the job. There must be someone here.

First she heard a soft whicker of greeting. Then she saw.

There was a horse, saddled and bridled and warm from an energetic ride, tied in the courtyard. A chestnut mare with a flighty eye who raised her head in interest when Marie-Claude approached to run her hand down its neck. It didn’t take much of an inspection for Marie-Claude to recognise the pretty animal.

Disconcerted by the little throb in the region of her heart, she ran her fingers through the silky mane. It was no better, no matter how often she might try to convince herself that it was. Time did nothing to assuage the pain. A sense of loss overwhelmed her, to the extent that she was horrified by the sudden threat of tears. It was no better. It was no better at all.

She patted her cheeks with her sleeve. She would not weep.

‘Your master is a villain,’ she whispered to the mare. ‘He’s unprincipled and manipulative. I will not love him.’

Retreat or challenge?

Definitely not retreat.

With a final caress of the mare, she walked into the open stabling where she could now hear the rumble of voices. Two culprits together, she decided, both knee-deep in contraband and methods to circumvent the law. She should be disgusted with the pair of them. Alexander
Ellerdine and George Gadie. The throb in her heart became a bound that took her breath as her eyes travelled over the tall, leanly muscled figure, the familiar fall of dark hair.

She was in time to see Zan hand over a flat package that George tucked into his jacket with a nod of thanks and a brisk salute.

‘Much obliged, y’r honour.’

‘You’ll know where it’s best needed.’

‘Aye, sir. There’s a number of families where it’ll be welcome. What about D’Acre?’

The name of the notorious smuggler slammed into Marie-Claude’s mind.

‘Nothing yet. I’ll let you know.’

‘Dangerous work, sir.’

‘But necessary. Keep an eye on things here, will you? Don’t put yourself in unnecessary danger. Just let me know if—’

So they were in league with D’Acre over some nefarious act of law-breaking. Marie-Claude waited to hear no more.

‘What are you doing here, Mr Ellerdine?’

Both heads snapped round. George Gadie acquired a look of extreme innocence. Zan became still, brows raised.

‘You are not welcome on this property.’ This was not what she wanted to say at all. How harsh it sounded even to her own ears, but her throat was dry and she was horrified at her reaction to simply the sight of him within touching distance.

High colour slashed along his cheekbones. The muscles in his jaw tensed, his chin lifted, his mouth set in a firm line. For the briefest of moments she thought that Zan, caught out in this dubious transaction, would simply
leave without a word. Instead he obviously decided to brazen it out. He made a supremely ironic bow.

‘Madame Mermaid,’ he drawled. His teeth glinted in a careless grin. ‘An unexpected pleasure.’

‘Hardly unexpected. This is my home.’

‘So it is. Allow me to make my apologies for sullying Hallaston land with my disreputable feet.’

The drawl became more pronounced, insolent in its smoothness. Marie-Claude drew in a breath as she caught a breath of emotion behind the apparent contempt. She did not know what to say in the face of such bitter irony. Then realised that he had no need of any compassion from her when, entirely composed, Zan turned from her to look back over his shoulder to George.

‘My business is done here, Gadie. There’s a packet of tea for your wife in my mare’s saddlebag if you would collect it.’

‘Aye, y’r honour. She’ll be grateful.’ George moved between them, giving a strong impression that he would be glad to escape. ‘Excuse me, mistress. Beg pardon…D’you need me for something?’

‘Harness the cob to the gig, if you please, George,’ she replied coldly. ‘I’ll drive along the cliff.’

‘Aye, mistress.’

He stomped off, leaving Marie-Claude alone with Zan.

She found that he was watching her, a smile on his face that was bleak and unforgiving, but whether directed at her or at himself she could not say. His eyes were dark and impossible to read. As he sauntered towards her she felt suddenly breathless. Intimidated.

‘You are not welcome here,’ she heard herself snap.

‘And as I said, my business is done. I’ll be off.’ He took one more stride to walk past her, then stopped, too close
for comfort, eyes narrowing on her face. A hesitation. ‘You are too pale. It looks like you have not slept. Are you well? I don’t like to see shadows…’ He raised a hand as if to touch her cheek, the faint shadowing there.

Marie-Claude flinched. ‘I shall be better when you have left.’ Then tensed against his instant response. He looked strained, savage almost. Definitely menacing. Perhaps it would have been better not to provoke him. She held her breath.

Zan flung back his head as if she had struck him, letting his hand fall away. Abruptly he moved to push past her, as if he could not bear to be in the same space as she, to breathe the same air. As pain tightened around her heart, Marie-Claude turned her face away so that he might not read her grief, and stepped awkwardly back against the stall door. Immediately he reacted. He was so close. She felt him halt, stiffen. Then Zan seized her wrist so that her eyes snapped to his.

His words—that were seemingly wrung from him—startled her.

‘Listen to me, Marie-Claude. Forget your hatred of me for a moment. If anything happens to worry you…If you feel threatened in any way—however trivial it might seem—send me word.’

‘How should I be threatened here at the Pride? The only threat comes from
you.
’

‘Anything that troubles you,’ he persisted, ignoring her accusation, ‘send Gadie to me. Promise it.’

‘No! I need no help from you.’

‘Promise, Marie-Claude.’

‘I will not. Why would you care?’ she said bitterly.

‘I care because…’ He shook his head as if to dislodge an unwanted thought and tightened his hold on her wrist
that suddenly seemed fragile in his larger hand, against his obvious power. ‘That’s not important. Promise me!’ he demanded with a heavy frown.

‘Very well. I’ll say the words,’ she retaliated in a cold little voice even though her blood hummed at his closeness. The heat of his body, the sheer maleness of him, turned her knees to water. She hid it perfectly, callously. ‘I promise to send George if I feel threatened. Will that do? Why not perjure myself? Since promises are cheap and mean so little to you, I don’t have to keep it. And I’d thank you to let go of my wrist!’

‘Ha!’ He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the centre of her palm. ‘As soft and pretty as ever, my Sea Serpent!’ He laughed when her hand promptly clenched into a serviceable fist. ‘And just as forceful. But I doubt you’ll use it against me.’

‘It would be below my dignity!’ But still her fingers were tight-clenched.

‘I’ve no intention of allowing you the liberty!’ he retorted. He took possession of her fist, holding tight when she would have snatched it away, smoothing out her fingers against her will. Once again he pressed his mouth against her palm, watching the emotion chase across her face as he did so. It did not seem to please him. His own emotions were instantly masked by a shuttered coldness, an icy bleakness enough to turn a knife in her heart. Then he gave her hand a little tug, taking her by surprise, so that she must step forwards against him. His arm slid around her waist. His hand caught her chin.

‘Madame Mermaid,’ he purred, ‘I recall your kisses with delight. Perhaps we should repeat the experience. It makes me remember the soft gleam of moonlight on the cliffs, on the curve of your shoulders…’

‘How dare you! Let me go!’ she gasped.

‘Oh, I dare. You have no idea what I would or would not dare.’

Before she could sense his purpose, his mouth took hers. A thorough owning, exploring the softness of her lips with his tongue. Growing firmer, more forceful, so that her lips must part beneath his. He held her hard against him when she struggled to be released, driving his fingers through her hair to hold her still beneath his possession. Instinctively, to protect her tumbling emotions, Marie-Claude forced herself to become rigid, refusing to give him the satisfaction of acknowledging her dislike of his touch. Or the wicked delight that insisted on creeping through her veins, betraying her rejection with its sweetness. She stood in his embrace, straight and unbending, as he took his pleasure. Horrified when her lips softened, warmed, entirely against her will, and lured him on. When he gentled his kiss, sweeping his tongue over her bottom lip, then sliding his mouth along her jaw to the tempting hollow below her ear, she was lost. The scent of his hair, his skin, swam in her brain…She gasped as his manhood surged against her in physical demand and he pressed her hard against him so that she would know his need.