Rake Beyond Redemption (14 page)

Abruptly he released her, to press a final salute between her brows, against her temple. Then he pushed her away.

‘Exactly as sweet as I recall. A shame the Earl and Countess broke up our liaison.’ He gave a harsh laugh.

‘You are the most despicable man I have ever met!’ she cried.

‘No matter! There are plenty of sweet lips and willing arms in Lewes. Other arms more accommodating than yours.’

‘Then make yourself free of them. I care not!’

‘No, I know you don’t. Goodbye, madam. Remember your promise. I expect you to keep it, no matter your opinion of me.’

He raised his hand as if he would have touched her cheek again, but did not. Instead he strode to where his mare waited impatiently. With a brusque summons to his spaniel, and a flamboyant wave to Marie-Claude, completely at odds with the sudden harshness of his handsome features, he mounted and rode out of the courtyard.

Marie-Claude watched him go.

Furious with herself. With her reaction to him. With her own foolishness in putting herself within his reach. If she hadn’t the sense to stay away from him, she deserved to be punished by his mocking behaviour.

Oh, Lord! She could still feel his lips on hers. Every inch of her skin was sensitive to the warm air as if she could still feel the slide of his fingers. Her blood ran hot and urgent in memory of what had been between them. Heat warmed her cheeks and…How humiliating this all was. That her heart should still hold such need for a man whose cruel indifference to her feelings was entirely heartless. Damn Zan Ellerdine and all he stood for! And how could she allow herself to be so weak willed, to be drawn into a response?

Marie-Claude marched over to the stall where George was tacking up the solid cob. Beside him in the straw was the promised packet of tea. And hidden in the pocket of his coat, as she knew very well, was some entirely different commodity.

‘What did Mr Ellerdine want?’ she demanded brusquely.

‘Just to bring a packet of tea, mistress.’ George’s
glance in her direction, she decided, was infinitely untrustworthy. He turned away to continue to fasten the buckles with his gnarled fingers.

‘I think that was not all,’ she remarked, stepping to the cob’s head so that the old smuggler had no choice but to give her his attention.

‘No, mistress. That was all—and news of the run planned for next week. Nothing to trouble your head over.’

She pursed her lips in thought. So he would treat her like a child with a pat on the head. He had no intention of telling her any more than that.

‘Nothing to do with Captain D’Acre? With smuggling business here at the Pride?’ she persisted.

‘No smuggling here, mistress. The Earl don’t approve and Captain Harry’s given up.’ George gave a gusty sigh. ‘Those were the days when we used the Tower room and the cellars when the Preventives came down on us. Wonderful cellars, they be. But now—’

Marie-Claude broke in before George could become well set in his reminiscences. ‘Are you so certain you can vouch for Mr Ellerdine’s intentions?’ she asked. ‘Has he some dangerous scheme afoot?’

George Gadie was suddenly serious. ‘Mr Ellerdine’ll do nothing to harm you, mistress.’

‘I know he’s in communication with D’Acre and Rackham. Can you deny it?’

‘A difficult one, that.’ He rubbed his nose thoughtfully, but with a sharp glance. ‘I’ll not say. But as for Mr Ellerdine—perhaps you’d do well to trust him, mistress.’

‘How can you say that? Even you warned me off.’

‘So I did.’

‘He lacks all sense of honour, with no thought for the truth. He breaks his promises.’ How could she love a man
like that? She stoked her fury, pouncing on the one trivial moment to creep into her mind. ‘Even that first time—when he rescued me from the tide—he promised to come and see me the following day. To ask after me. He even broke that promise. I should have known better than to trust him from the very beginning. He did not care.’

‘He did care.’ George’s voice was gruff with emotion. ‘Mr Ellerdine thought he should not come himself. And I can’t say as I blame him. But he sent Tom, his groom, to find out what he could. Early the next morning. And I told him.’

‘Oh!’ Marie-Claude blinked, furious that she had misread him. ‘But it’s not the same!’

‘No, mistress, perhaps not. But he asked if you were well—had suffered no hurt.’ Unexpectedly George stretched out his hand to touch her arm, his calloused skin rough but warm. ‘All I’ll say is—don’t take everything as you sees it, mistress.’

‘How can I do otherwise?’ she asked despairingly.

T
o Marie-Claude’s mind the atmosphere in Old Wincomlee underwent a subtle change, bringing an air of unease, of waiting. A threatening heaviness in the atmosphere that owed nothing to the sultry heat of the July days.

‘You shouldn’t be going out into the village alone, miss.’ Meggie was at her bossiest. ‘And certainly not along the cliffs.’ She scowled as Marie-Claude selected a day gown of cream-striped muslin, suitable for striding along the cliff top. A charmingly elegant picture.

‘Why not?’ Marie-Claude, who valued her freedom of action in the vicinity of the Pride, looked up sharply. She’d had enough of social strictures on young women who walked unchaperoned in London; she would not give up her independence here without a fight.

‘Miss Harriette would never forgive me if you were caught up in the goings-on hereabouts. A God-fearing place we were,’ Meggie pronounced with dark inference. ‘Our smugglers were a threat to no one, and a more peaceable place as Old Wincomlee I’ve not known. And now a body never knows what she’ll meet…’

‘What’s happened?’ To Marie-Claude this smacked too much like Zan’s strange warning of impending but invisible danger.

‘Nothing as yet. But the warning signals are out. The Fly-By-Nights.’ Meggie sniffed her derision. ‘Out and about round here, God rot them. Up to no good, I’ll be bound. All I’ll say is—take one of the servants when you go out, mistress. Or one of the grooms. George Gadie if you can get him to stir himself from the stables or his fishing boat. I’ll have a word with him.’

Marie-Claude stifled a sigh. ‘I will if I must.’

‘And don’t you go talking to Mr Ellerdine,’ Meggie warned with an arch of her eyebrow.

‘I’ve no intention of talking with that—that reprobate!’ she responded, on her dignity.

True enough. But neither had Marie-Claude any intention of rousting out one of the grooms, or George Gadie, every time she wished to take a walk, but she agreed to be more circumspect. It did not trouble her overmuch. When she sailed in
Venmore’s Prize
, as was her intention later that day, either George or Gabriel was always with her. How could she come to harm in Old Wincomlee where she knew every face, where the fishermen and their wives greeted her?

She was perfectly safe.

So she lingered to exchange the time of day with Mistress Gadie outside her cottage near the little quay, leaving George and Gabriel to pull the cutter up on to the beach. It was pleasant to stand and talk of her day and her plans for the next. Eventually she waved farewell and threaded through the cottages, deciding which route to take towards the Pride, opting for the village street with its interesting nooks and crannies to investigate.
She strolled leisurely, whilst in her mind she registered that it was noisy at the Silver Boat, which was unusual for this time of the day. Horses were tied up outside. And an empty wagon as if a delivery had been made.

The raucous bellow of laughter took her attention. Marie-Claude slowed her steps as half-a-dozen men, men of the fishing community by their clothing, pushed through the open door to fill the seats and benches in front of the inn. Their voices were raised, fuelled by drink as became clear when tankards and jugs of ale were carried out by Sal and passed around. Not Old Wincomlee men, she decided, recognising no one. Perhaps, on closer inspection, there was more than a touch of affluence in their garments, rarely seen in the village fishermen. A fine cloth coat. A pair of new boots. And an air of sharply confident arrogance that repelled her.

A foreboding blew across the nape of her neck, lifting the fine hair. It dug deep along her spine when two men emerged from the inn to mingle, obviously part of the crowd. Marie-Claude felt the shiver of anxiety expand to grip her belly with fear. There in the midst of the fishermen was the man she recognised from her previous meeting, Rackham, and the stout red-haired, bearded figure with a stamp of authority in his face and gestures next to him must be the notorious Captain D’Acre.

Then she stopped in the middle of the street. Striding from the dark interior of the Boat to take his place amongst them, hip propped against the wooden table, was Zan. Perfectly comfortable in his company, now in the act of raising a tankard snatched up from Sal’s tray. Much as she despised herself, from that moment she had eyes for no one but him.

He fit well into the Fly-By-Nights, she thought.
Coatless, hatless, an embroidered brocade waistcoat worn open over his linen shirt, dark breeches tucked into highly polished topboots, he had the air of a successful but ruthless smuggler. Even down to the pistol tucked in his belt. He tossed back his dark hair so that she could see his vividly handsome features, the gleam in his eyes.

‘To our enterprise,’ he announced.

‘To our successful venture,’ replied D’Acre with a broad grin, casting his flamboyantly feathered hat on to the table, before he too drank deep. ‘And failure to all Preventives.’

‘Failure to our noble J.P., Sir Wallace Lydyard, and all men of like ilk!’ Zan added with a sweep of his arm.

‘Damnation to the government!’ D’Acre said for good measure.

‘Amen to that.’ Zan lifted his hand to Sal. ‘Another round, my girl. And then you can stay and keep us company.’ His smile glinted wickedly, his voice fell into a disreputably seductive purr that Marie-Claude recognised. ‘We’ve a celebration in mind. It’s not every day the Fly-By-Nights agree to pass some of their wealth and success in the direction of Old Wincomlee!’

‘Let’s drink to our association with the village,’ Rackham added. ‘Long may it last.’

The smugglers drank, breaking out into loud laughter and ribald comment as Sal laughed and swayed her hips.

Marie-Claude stood transfixed, unable to look away. Zan’s air of dissolute rakishness horrified her. If she had needed any further proof that he was hand in glove with D’Acre’s gang, this was it. He was entirely at ease with them, laughing at some aside from the grizzled leader. Instinct warned her not to pass the inn with its volatile customers even as her spirit urged her not to show such
despicable weakness. Why should she not be able to walk unharmed along her own village street? But perhaps on this occasion discretion would be a sensible choice, as she had promised. She made to turn down between two cottages, back towards the beach, and take the longer path up on to the cliff.

‘Now there’s a pretty picture!’

The voice, louder than the rest and definitely raised in her direction, made her quicken her steps. She recognised it. That was Rackham, the man whose eyes had frozen her blood. She would not flout fate. She needed to be out of there, and fast. Marie-Claude hastened even more.

‘Now why would you think she’d want to escape from our attentions? Such a pretty little thing as she is. And we such gentlemen.’ Plain enough to hear on the still air.

‘Why don’t you persuade her to stay, Rack?’

A surge of laughter followed. Marie-Claude hated the sly, almost ugly, amusement at her expense. Footsteps sounded, following her. A little spurt of panic urged her onwards. She almost broke into a run.

‘Not so fast, lady.’ Her arm was caught in a heavy grip that tightened when she tried to wrench away.

‘Let me go!’ Her eyes flashed as she was pulled to face the looming smuggler.

‘We’ll let you go.’ Rackham’s grin was lascivious, leering, enjoying her fright and his fingers were iron-hard, digging into her arm. ‘But not yet. Our Captain would like a friendly word and the pleasure of your company. Don’t be frightened. He’ll not hurt you—unless you’re reluctant to take our invitation. Captain D’Acre’s used to getting his own way.’

All the time Rackham’s arm was sliding around her ribs. Marie-Claude found herself dragged back towards
the inn clamped against the side of the man who was far too strong for her to resist. Full-blown fear rioted through her body so that even breathing seemed difficult. There was no one to save her here, no one to come to her aid. No point in looking to Zan. He was one of them. How would she come out of this with her honour intact? She fought against the paralysing terror even as she felt her courage ebbing away with every reluctant, stumbling step.

‘Stop that!’ Rackham snarled a laugh as she raised a fist to pound on his arm. He grabbed her wrist, at the same time continuing to drag her ruthlessly towards the Silver Boat where Captain D’Acre waited, sprawled in a chair. Marie-Claude fought and struggled every inch of the way. If only George or Gabriel was there. Zan would not help her. Seeing her plight, he hadn’t come to her rescue, had he? So much for his promises. When she was released to stand hot and dishevelled in front of the grinning, hooting crowd, she turned her furious stare on him.

Alexander Ellerdine. The man to whom she had given her heart and had loved enough to lie naked in his arms. The man who had loved her with his body. And she had believed him.

There was no love in his face now. It was closed, expression immaculately bland. He gave no recognition of her, no sign to the men around him that he even knew her name. She made her stare a challenge. She would not make this easy for him. He would have to reject her openly, without any pretence of still caring for her. Had he not promised his help if she were in need? She would make him stand by that facile promise—or break it in the full light of day so that both of them would see his treachery.

If you feel threatened
—
send me word.

Well, that was an empty gesture! She had never felt more threatened in her life. Her heart quailed at the lack of warmth in his gaze as it touched on her. Icy cold, without concern, without compassion. She held his gaze with her own, daring him to allow this public humiliation.

And felt her heart sink as he continued to sit, spine rigid, the only movement the gentle swinging of one booted foot against the table leg. Every muscle in his face was tight, controlled. He had no intention of protecting her from this scum. If she hadn’t already done so, she would doubtless discover the worst of him today.

‘Well, pretty girl. And I thought you were about to run away from us.’ The Captain’s rasping voice held terrible insinuations.

‘I am not your pretty girl!’ she retaliated with a renewed flood of fear.

Thrust forwards by Rackham, stumbling again, she found herself directly in front of Captain D’Acre, who leaned forwards and grasped her wrist to pull her even closer so that her muslin skirts brushed against his body.

‘Perhaps not yet. But I think you’ll be mine very soon. Softly, my dove.’ Raising his hand, ignoring when she automatically flinched away, he pressed it against her breast, sliding it down. His eyes were beadily intent. ‘All you need is a little soothing. Me and my men’ll be pleased to accommodate you…’ He angled an invitation of a glance to his right. ‘Unless you prefer Mr Ellerdine here. I see that you know him. And I’d wager he knows you. I’d say he’s made himself free of your charms already.’

‘Yes, I know him,’ she answered contemptuously. ‘And I wish I didn’t.’

‘So he didn’t please you?’ D’Acre’s face crinkled with sly humour.

‘He did not!’

‘Well, then!’ D’Acre leaned back. ‘What do you think, Ellerdine? Is she worth my cultivating her affections? How well do you know the lady?’ His sneer grew. ‘Pretty well, I’d say.’ He leaned towards Marie-Claude again, his breath foul. ‘What do you think of our pretty gentleman, my girl? D’you prefer him to me?’

Unable to think of a word to say in reply to that appalling suggestion, Marie-Claude simply pressed her lips together and vowed to resist.

For the length of a heartbeat, indecision gripped Zan with a hard hand. What malign fate had brought Marie-Claude through the village today of all days? What had possessed her to stare at him in so blatant a challenge, demanding even in her silence that he acknowledge her and come to her aid, and finally to make it clear to anyone of any wit that she knew him and he knew her.

Well, of course she had. Hell and damnation! If a man made a thoughtless promise to come to the aid of a lady, a knight errant to the rescue, simply because he could not tolerate the thought of her living in fear, she should expect no less of him. And he had promised her just that. He saw the shattering fear in her beneath the raw courage that kept her facing D’Acre and knew he had no choice. He must act, and fast, before events got out of hand and beyond his control.

But, by God, this had put him in danger too. And here he was sitting as undecided and ineffectual as a gull on a rock in the harbour. He must get her out of this, whatever the cost to him.

‘So she knows you, does she, Ellerdine?’ D’Acre needled again, a harder note creeping in at Zan’s silence.

It would take so little for D’Acre and Rackham to question his new authority in the Fly-By-Nights. He dare not risk it. His brain scrabbling furiously to work a path through this disaster, Zan made the only reply that would be accepted by D’Acre.

‘Yes, she does know me. And as you so perceptively observed…’ he let boredom lie heavy on his tongue as he achieved an insulting leer ‘…I know her. I know her very well. I’ve passed an hour or two, sampling her charms. I’ve been in more welcoming beds—but she’s good enough for a brief dalliance.’

If Marie-Claude was afraid before, Zan’s callous reply filled her with dread. What had his words implied? That she was no better than a whore to entertain the likes of D’Acre and his gang? Not only had he done nothing to extricate her from this, but he had implied that her morals were as loose as his own. The possibility of escape for her vanished, if, indeed, it had ever existed.

She must do what she could as opportunities unfolded. She focused all her attention on D’Acre, hiding her disgust of his breath on her face, the reek of ale, the grossness of his body. She would not flinch. She would not show the disgust for all smugglers—and one in particular—that in that moment flooded her from head to foot in a cold hatred.

‘A lady of discerning tastes then, if you’ve set your eye on Ellerdine here!’ With a gleam of amusement, D’Acre’s hand stroked over Marie-Claude’s shoulder whilst she set her teeth at Zan’s betrayal and turned her face away, unable to look at D’Acre’s ugly features without shivering in horror.