Rake Beyond Redemption (16 page)

Could he be so very bad, when he rescued you?

Yes, he could.

She could not fathom his motives, but there was no reason to read honour into them. More likely male possessiveness—that D’Acre should not take what he, Zan, could not have. A quick rub of her sleeve removed the tell-tale moisture as Marie Claude admitted quietly, despairingly, but with calm honesty, for her own ears.

‘In spite of everything I know about him, Zan Ellerdine has a place in my heart. I wish he hadn’t. It’s a place I can never offer him, nor would he ever wish to claim from me. Unfortunately, I love him still.’

The gulls swooped and dipped overhead with raucous cries. The sadness of them found an echo in Marie-Claude.

‘I must mourn his loss. I must live without him. Perhaps one day I shall forget he ever existed.’

But she knew she would never forget.

At the Silver Boat Zan endured his body’s reaction to the assault on his groin with as much sang-froid as he could manage. Easier to tolerate was the coarse ribbing, which he did with trenchant good humour that effectively masked any other emotions that might stir him. He would consider those later. For now, he had got away with it against all the odds. Marie-Claude was safe. Perhaps he could even argue that his supreme discomfort had been worth it. If he caught a speculative glance in his direction from D’Acre, it could not be helped.

‘Playing a deep game, are you, Ellerdine?’ Rackham’s jaundiced eye rested on him as he passed him another tankard of ale.

‘Nothing deep about me, Rack,’ Zan retaliated with a grin and a heavy swallow of the ale. ‘Just an eye for a pretty girl. As you have. Sal’s casting an eye in your direction…’

And as Rackham let himself be diverted by Sal’s attentions, Zan sat down with D’Acre to work out the fine detail of an undercover cargo of contraband, planned to make land in Old Wincomlee.

‘Now tell me.’ D’Acre fixed Zan with a speculative and acquisitive gleam. ‘Tell me again about this double cellar in Lydyard’s Pride. And how we can make use of it. How do we get into the property that’s locked up right
and tight? Tell me how you plan it, Mr Ellerdine, that Lydyard’s Pride should fall into the hands of the Fly-By-Nights without a shot being fired.’

Z
an paced the elegantly balustraded but weed-strewn terrace at Ellerdine Manor and allowed his dilemma to invade his mind. By God, it had sharp teeth! It had kept him awake, and he was no nearer a solution than when he had first realised the problem. He’d been struggling—unsuccessfully—to keep it at bay since the day of the Incident at the Silver Boat, as that terrible afternoon had come to be named in his mind. Now the dilemma loomed imminently and dangerously.

Momentarily his eye was caught by the scuff marks and deep gouge on the instep of his boot that all his polishing could not remedy. Marie-Claude’s heel had been applied without pity. His lips curled in appreciation at her thoroughness, then twisted in uncomfortable memory of the more personal agony she had inflicted on him. Now where had she learnt that trick? In the hands of her French captor Noir, kept in a smuggling inn in a port, she had probably learned all the tricks to keep herself from harm. She’d certainly been effective. His lovely girl had not held back. His jaw tightened at
the remembered jolt of pain that had almost brought him to his knees.

But he was digressing.

The night of the crucial run was almost upon him and could not be changed. Zan knew he must not even raise the possibility of postponing it for another week or two. If he did it would stir immediate suspicions and he dare not risk it. Nor was he certain that a postponement would remove the essential difficulty. No, it had to be next week. It was perfect weather, calm and still, and the night of a waning moon—no bright moonlight to highlight suspicious vessels putting silently into a bay after dark—when the tides were running right to get D’Acre’s two cutters to France and back, fast and safely. D’Acre’s enthusiasm for the enterprise grew with each day, as did his ambition to make a killing with the large shipments of contraband, unloaded and snugly hidden from view in the double cellar at Lydyard’s Pride. This was the largest, most ambitious operation D’Acre had planned for years. Zan curled his lip. Perhaps he was feeling his age and was set on bowing out with a grand gesture. A superb swansong.

Except that Zan could never see D’Acre handing over the reins to any other man. He enjoyed the power and the fear he engendered in his smuggling compatriots. No, D’Acre might be advancing in years, but he was still a force to be reckoned with. For now.

Zan’s part in this run, as he well knew, was crucial and still a subject of intense scrutiny. It was the first time he had joined hands with the Rottingdean smugglers on so major a scale. Oh, he had run with them often enough in recent months, deliberately so, astonished at the financial reward when the business was
in the hands of a man such as D’Acre who had blood on his hands. The Captain had no compunction in removing any obstacle in his path, with the result that no one stood against him. The Captain drove a hard bargain and obliterated rivals. So Zan had lent them the use of the
Spectre.
Passed information on the whereabouts of the Excise. Even joined in with a handful of their bread-and-butter operations. Just enough to make a toehold in their brotherhood. Financially it had done him no harm at all—Zan’s lips thinned in displeasure as he considered the accumulated wealth—no harm if he had the stomach to spend blood money.

And this imminent operation? Zan felt a shiver of unease down his spine. D’Acre still watched him carefully—he watched everyone—but Zan didn’t think the Captain had any doubts about his commitment to this run. Some of the Fly-By-Nights—well, that was another matter. They suspected anyone not native to Rottingdean. Rackham’s lively suspicions were often turned in his direction. A new man in an operation was an unknown quantity. Of course he would be an object of interest and speculation. Zan only hoped he had made enough of a reputation to offset any major doubts.

On the other hand he could not afford to be complacent. What if…?

But Zan shrugged. Perhaps he was looking over his own shoulder far too much. He had covered his tracks. His neck was safe enough. The proposition for this run had been his, and much of the planning. The gang had enough trust to go along with him since the resulting gold to line their pockets would be more than they had earned in the past six months. All should go according
to plan. No reason for it not to. Within a week it would be over and done with.

Except that…

Zan scowled at the spaniel that kept pace with him.

Except that…And here was the burden that sat on his shoulders, the knife that twisted in his side. The essential difficulty to this neat little scheme to bring D’Acre down. Marie-Claude was still in residence at Lydyard’s Pride.

How could he have guessed that she would remain here for so many weeks with no suggestion that she would leave? How could he have believed that she would have put her experience at the Silver Boat aside? Not to mention his own unforgivably heartless treatment of her. True, she was out and about in the village far less than before, never alone, and who could blame her? He had spies enough to tell him of her comings and goings. It must have been a terrifying experience, enough to drive most women into headlong flight. When she did venture out, there was a servant or one of the Gadies with her.

But she was still at the Pride. Marie-Claude was not most women to turn tail and run!

And this could cast the whole operation into jeopardy.

Well, no, he acknowledged, coming to a halt to stare across the fields towards the Pride where the lady would be passing her day with no inkling of the storm cloud that was gathering over her head. The operation would go ahead as planned. Marie-Claude would simply not be allowed to stand in its way. And that was the dilemma that ate at Zan’s mind. At his heart. If D’Acre found Marie-Claude threatening his magnificent triumph, and was of a mind for it, he would do whatever was necessary
to remove her interference. Lock her in her room. Shoot her dead. Toss her over the cliff…

D’Acre would not give a damn one way or the other.

Zan’s mind refused to move on from that appalling picture of Marie-Claude having fallen to her death on the rocks of the bay. He would live without her if he had to—had already made up his mind to that, even though he knew it would be like tearing away one half of his soul. He could live, he supposed, knowing that he had brought her nothing but distress and a broken heart. He thought he might just be able to tolerate the crippling pain that he had brought sadness into her life. But if he helped to put her in physical danger or worse…

How could he live with that?

His thoughts swung back to his meeting with her in the stables at the Pride where he had gone to confirm arrangements with Gadie. She had looked drawn and pale despite her spirited challenge. The faint violet shadows printed below her eyes had made her appear more delicate than he knew her to be. Haunted by her, he had been driven to an ill-considered gesture of gallantry, to make his offer of help when he had intended to say nothing at all and simply get himself out of there because he could not bear to see the sorrow he had created. And then when he had moved to walk past her, she had turned her face away and deliberately flattened herself against the stall door so that even the ruffles of her gown would not come into contact with him.

Rejection was hard to take. The fact that it was all of his own making, and deliberately so, did not make it any easier at all. He had played the rogue superbly.

Her words had bitten deep.

‘How should I be threatened here at the Pride? The
only threat comes from you.’
He remembered the pain of the strike, fast as a snake.
‘Why would you care?’

He had been able to think of no reply that would not destroy the whole edifice he had so carefully created since that grim confrontation when she had come to the Manor to force him to tell her the truth. Already he could read the quizzical expression in her eye as she took note of his offer of help. Definitely an unwise move, to give her cause to think him capable of finer, more honourable motives. It had been necessary to undo the damage, to reinforce his alter ego of unscrupulous libertine. It hadn’t been difficult, only at some cost to his own control.

He was not proud of what he had done.

He had kissed her. Not with the tenderness that she deserved, but with hard demand. He had ravished her lips, mastered her struggles, setting himself to ignore the thrust of her hands against him for release. A disgraceful performance on his part, but it had had the desired effect. She now hated him magnificently.

It had been for her own good.

He made a turn at the end of the balustrade, stepping round the spaniel. His frown deepened. He supposed he had been effectively punished for his actions towards her. Her taste, her scent, the soft lure of her mouth had stirred his desire for her all over again. Not that it had ever been quenched, but that one kiss had caused it to leap again to a raging torrent. He loved her beyond reason, but could never have her.

Her words struck home again, as clear as if she was here beside him, flinging her hatred at his feet.
‘You are the most despicable man I have ever met.’

And the emotion he had seen in her lovely eyes.
Outrage. Bright fury. A flush of humiliation. But not love, nothing tender. He had destroyed that well enough. And the worst thing she had said to him?

I would not have wished my son to be anywhere near you. I would not have him influenced by a man with so little integrity, so little honour.

The memory attacked his heart with sharp claws. Oh, yes. He had been punished. Why had he not simply told her? Why had he not told her the truth? For one shattering moment he had been tempted to do just that. For that one moment he had felt an overwhelming need to put himself right in her eyes and remove the hurt that swam there beneath the courage that it had taken her to face him. Until sense took hold. What proof did he have? It would be his word against all the formidable layers of evidence. Nor was he entirely innocent. Guilt trickled through his blood and formed a sour knot in his belly. He was no good for her. He shouldn’t have sought her out. Shouldn’t have touched her. Marie-Claude deserved someone fine and upstanding, a man with a reputation without stain.

So he had ended it.

And the easiest, most deadly way to do that?

He had lied. What was one more sin in the great scheme of things? Best if she thought the worst. She’d recover all the quicker for it. He had played the deceiver with impeccable dishonour and cruel attention to detail. He had lied and broken her heart, but at least it was a clean break that would heal under the onslaught of hatred that she now undeniably felt for him. And his penance? That he would live without her for the rest of his life. Except in his mind. In his heart. She swam in his blood like quicksilver.

Was that enough penance for any man?

But now he must take matters in hand. Marie-Claude must leave. Or be removed before the event. His mind ranged through the possibilities. Kidnapping her and bringing her back to the Manor to lock her up here until it was all over? Or even for ever. Ha! A beguiling picture. He could imagine her fury. And for a moment it brought him to a halt, an appreciative smile to his eyes. The lady would not willingly allow herself to be taken prisoner.

So not an immediately practical idea, and one sure to create a scandal of major proportions, damaging to the lady’s reputation. His pacing continued. He would do it if he must, but first he’d attempt to persuade her to leave, even though it would ensure that he would never see her again.

He wouldn’t think of that.

His own Madame Mermaid, the delight of his life, wouldn’t listen to
his
words of persuasion. Nothing was more certain. So here was an obvious task for George Gadie.

Whistling to Bess, he set off for Old Wincomlee, his mind a little easier that, away from Old Wincomlee, at least Marie-Claude would be in no fear of her life. But his heart was sore.

Later in the afternoon of the same day, a heavy knock disturbed Marie-Claude as she sipped a cup of tea in the parlour.

She was lonely.

She was lonely for one man. And he was not for her.

Deliberately, to prove to herself that Zan meant nothing to her, she tried to bring Marcus’s face into the forefront of her mind, and was horrified when her
memories were vague and indistinct, an impression of colouring and shape, but when she tried to bring features to mind, she failed. Instead she saw Zan Ellerdine all too clearly. It was as if he had entered the room and stood before her.

She closed her eyes to block him out.

At least the knock offered a distraction.

George Gadie entered, snatching off his cap. ‘Afternoon, mistress.’

‘George!’ She smiled. A chance for some distraction. ‘Can we go to Lewes one day? How long would it take if we left early?’

‘Ah, well…That’s what I wanted to see you about, mistress.’

Marie-Claude’s eyes and ears sharpened. If she were not mistaken, the old sailor was not at ease. But still determined on the path he had set himself, he cleared his throat.

‘I think you should leave, mistress.’

‘Leave?’ Not what she had expected.

‘The village. The Pride. It’s too dangerous. Too much going on…’ The words fell rapidly from his mouth, as if they were lines he had learned by rote.

‘Are we speaking of Captain D’Acre?’ she asked bluntly.

‘Aye, mistress.’ He seemed relieved that she had introduced the smuggler’s name. ‘I heard about the…the unpleasantness the other day at the Boat. I think it’s not safe for a young lady here on her own.’

‘You think I should leave and go back to London?’

‘Aye. Or the Earl’s fancy estate, wherever. Safer for you.’

Marie-Claude considered. She could, of course. But
not London. Too hot and airless. Venmore’s town house would be closed up until the autumn season began. The Venmore? No, she did not want to be a burden on Luke and Harriette at The Venmore until she had to, encroaching on their privacy.

Her eyes rested on George’s seamed face. He was watching her anxiously.

‘You should have a care for your safety,’ he muttered, his gaze falling before hers. ‘Wouldn’t want you to fall foul of the likes of the Fly-By-Nights.’