Almost a Lady (17 page)

“That I was looking for some,” she responded from deep beneath the huddle of blankets. “It’s too cold for silk, so if Ana didn’t make provision for bad weather, I’m going to have to stay in bed until it gets warm again.”

“Well, as it happens there are garments that Ana would have worn in inclement weather,” he said, and there was a glint in his eye that put Meg on her guard.

“Where are they?” she asked suspiciously.

“In one of those cupboards, I believe,” he said with a vague gesture to the rank of cupboards under the port window seat.

“I looked there, I didn’t see anything.” She sat up, drawing the covers up under her chin.

That glint intensified. “You might not have recognized them for what they were.” He sat down to pull on his boots. “They’re a little unusual, but they will keep you warm.” He stood up again and reached for his boat cloak. “I own I’m looking forward to seeing you wear them. I believe they will suit you admirably.” He came over to the cot and kissed her hard. “Come up on deck when you’re dressed.” His chuckle carried a note of amused satisfaction that only increased her suspicions.

“Now just what is he talking about?” Meg asked of Gus, who was preening himself on his perch.

“G’day,” he said irrelevantly.

“And to you too.” Meg climbed out of the box and wrapped herself in the top blanket as the cold air hit her heated nakedness. She went to the port-side cupboards and knelt before them. As she’d found before, they contained only Cosimo’s undergarments, cravats, shirts, stockings. She began to pile them up around her and then at the back of the cupboard saw another pile. Heavy cotton shirt, long woolen underdrawers, nankeen britches, thick woolen stockings, a leather jerkin. She took them out and examined them.

A somewhat incredulous smile tilted the corners of her mouth. These garments certainly wouldn’t fit the privateer. But they would fit her. “A little unusual” was an understatement, she reflected, experimentally slipping her arms into the sleeves of the jerkin. A little large on the shoulders, a little long in the sleeves, but nothing that would inconvenience her.

She slipped off the jerkin and tossed the clothes on the cot, then knelt again to return the contents of the cupboard to their shelves. As she reached in, her fingers encountered a small hard shape. Curious, she took it out. It was a velvet drawstring pouch. Meg opened it and shook the contents onto the palm of her hand. A small silver key. A key perfectly sized to fit the only locked drawer in the cabin.

She tossed it from palm to palm for a few seconds. Cosimo had hidden it, therefore he didn’t want anyone unlocking that drawer. Not a difficult conclusion. She didn’t have the right to unlock the drawer, another obvious conclusion. But did she have the right to discover as much as she could about the man who was her lover, on whose mercies at this point she was entirely dependent? Through her own choice, certainly, but that didn’t alter the reality. Didn’t she owe it to herself to be prepared for anything?

Meg decided that she did. She shuffled on her knees the short distance to the drawer beneath the chart table and tried the key. It fit like a glove and turned with well-oiled ease. The drawer slid open. She stared at its contents, a sudden sick dread clutching at her stomach. A row of knives, highly polished, lay on a baize cloth. There was nothing ordinary about them, nothing that might imply they would be used for a mundane purpose, like whittling wood, or splicing rope, or cutting paper or material. A stiletto blade; a curved blade like a scimitar; a wickedly serrated blade; one shaped like a cleaver; a small silver dagger with the narrow blade of a rapier.

They were knives used to kill. And they were locked away for just that reason.

Meg slammed the drawer shut, locked it with quivering fingers, dropped the key back into its pouch and thrust it into the back of the cupboard, piling the privateer’s clothes on top of it. He’d told her to look for clothes in the cupboard, so if he noticed things were put back out of order, he wouldn’t question it.

Who did Cosimo kill with those knives? She didn’t think they were used for self-defense; there was a deadly aura about them, about the way they were so neatly laid out, each one for a specific purpose. Pistols were noisy and clumsy; knives were silent and lethal.

She thought of his hands, those hands that had been on her body just a short while ago, brushing her skin, touching with knowing intimacy, so that she moaned beneath his caresses. Large, powerful, long-fingered hands that would wield a killer’s knife as unerringly as they could bring her to the heights of ecstasy.

Slowly Meg stood up. Was she being fanciful? Perhaps there was a perfectly logical explanation for such a collection. Perhaps he was just that, a collector. But she knew better. She had seen his dark side, sensed the ruthless core buried deep beneath the humorous, easygoing exterior. Whatever this war work was, it was not of the straightforward, fighting-in-the-open kind. Otherwise he’d be in the navy, commanding a frigate or some such.

Well, she’d certainly learned a lesson about prying, Meg reflected grimly. One might well uncover something much better left unknown. She definitely would have preferred not to have discovered the knives. Now she’d be tormented by speculation and she couldn’t get at the truth that might put her mind at rest or at least produce an acceptable explanation because she dare not ask Cosimo and reveal her invasion of his secrets.

There was nothing to be done about the knowledge except hoard it and watch for further clues. With customary resolution she put the knives to the back of her mind and turned her attention to the much less disturbing if somewhat provocative issue of the clothes on the bed. On occasion she’d envied men the freedom of movement their attire gave them, but had never seriously considered how it would feel to dress that way herself.

The idea intrigued her now and she threw off the blanket, hurriedly putting on the shirt. The material was thick but not coarse. She fastened the horn buttons that ran down the front and at the wrists and pulled on the underdrawers, tying the string at the waist. They felt odd. She was not used to having close-fitting garments on her legs. Stockings came next and then the britches. They were of luxuriously soft, warm Saxony cloth. Ana was obviously accustomed only to the best, Meg reflected with a degree of relief. Coarse wool could be hot and scratchy. She flexed her knees, swiveled her hips, did a few experimental high kicks. It was wonderfully liberating. But the waist was too big and she could imagine them sliding inexorably over her almost nonexistent hips. She needed a belt.

Cosimo had a narrow waist, but it was still a man’s waist. No belt of his would fit. However, Ana would surely have taken that into account. She was still standing in a quandary, holding up the britches with her hands, when Cosimo entered the cabin on a perfunctory knock.

“Ah, yes,” he murmured, looking her over in one long sweeping gaze, an appreciative smile on his lips. “I thought so. You have exactly the figure for them, my love.”

“That may be so,” Meg declared, “but I can’t walk around in them because they’ll fall around my ankles within minutes.” She let go of the waistband, spreading her hands in dramatic demonstration.

“You need a belt.”

“I had come to that conclusion myself. Did . . . does,” she corrected herself hastily, “Ana have one?”

If he noticed the slip, he gave no sign. “No, they fitted her well enough without, but we can adapt one of mine.” He rummaged in a cupboard. “Here, let’s try this one. It’s quite thin.” He shook out a thin strip of tooled leather. “Come here and let me measure it.”

Meg stood still as he slung the belt around her waist, drew it comfortably tight, and made a tiny scratch with a paper knife. “Are you going to cut it?” The image of the neat array of knives filled her mind’s eye.

“Cut it and add a couple of notches,” he returned.

“With a knife?” She swallowed.

He looked at her a little oddly. “With what else?”

Meg shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. You could have all sorts of tools . . . ship things, that sort of thing.”

“Oh.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’m not aware of any peculiarly specific items that are only found on board ships.” He reached into his britches pocket and drew out a small folding knife. He flicked out the blade and deftly sliced through the leather.

That, Meg thought, was an ordinary knife, the kind of knife that ordinary people going about their daily business might carry for just such a mundane purpose. Perhaps in another life he’d been a knife thrower in a traveling fair.

Her absurd sense of humor could come to her rescue on occasion and this was one of them. The idiotic image banished the residue of dread that had come over her when she’d opened the drawer.

Cosimo pressed the tip of the knife into the leather where he’d made the initial mark and turned it to open the hole. “Now, let’s try.” He fastened the belt, settled it on her waist, and said,
“Et, voilà, mademoiselle.”

“Et, voilà,
indeed,” Meg said, holding her waist, feeling the neat fit of the britches. “Thank you, sir.”

He laughed a little, darting a kiss into the corner of her mouth. “My pleasure, ma’am.” He folded the knife and dropped it back into his pocket. “Are you warm enough to come on deck now?” He helped her into the leather jerkin.

“Is it still raining?”

He shook his head. “No, but it’s cold and damp. The wind’s dropped some though, and the sea’s less heavy, so I’ve given order to light the galley fires. Silas will make a hot supper.”

“Now, that sounds appealing.” She slung her cloak around her shoulders, buttoning the collar high against her throat. “Will we sail all night?”

“Yes, I need to make Quiberon before dark tomorrow.”

Meg merely nodded. She guessed that Quiberon was where he was going to go ashore. If he was expecting news there, she guessed too that there would be a courier-pigeon outpost as there was on Sark.

She followed him on deck and the air was like a cold wet blanket on her face, but her body was warm. Miles and Frank, huddled in boat cloaks, were on the quarterdeck. Frank had the helm and Miles was standing behind him, watching the sails and calling out adjustments to the course. Mike, the helmsman, stood laconically to one side, smoking a pipe, the bowl cupped in one hand against the occasional gusts of wind, his eyes on the two young men.

“They have more than one tutor,” Meg observed, drawing the cloak tightly around her, suddenly self-conscious at revealing her unusual costume.

“A ship full of them,” Cosimo returned. “Miles is a natural sailor; Frank has to work harder, but he’ll get there.”

“Quiberon,” Meg said. “Will you go ashore into the town?”

“No,” he answered. “We’ll put into a small cove some five miles along the coast.”

Meg waited to see if he would say anything more, but after a minute he strode up to the quarterdeck and calmly stood behind Frank, placing his hands over his nephew’s. He began instructing him quietly, adjusting the wheel as he did so.

Meg watched them, wondering. She had never heard Cosimo say a harsh word or raise his voice. He had the look, but that was his only weapon, his only obvious manifestation of his authority. And he used it rarely. In fact, she thought ruefully, as far as she was aware, she’d been its only recipient since she’d found herself on the
Mary Rose
. So what was he? He inspired loyalty, but much more than that, devotion. Unquestioning devotion and trust, even from a man like David Porter. An educated, sensitive surgeon, who had no need to cast in his lot with a man who lived on the edge . . . a man with a locked drawer of killing knives in his cabin.

Chapter   12

T
he anchor chain rattled, the sound unnaturally loud in the hush of the night. The
Mary Rose
shuddered to a halt on the swelling waves as the anchor flukes bit into the sandy bottom off the coast of Brittany. The night was dark, the moon showing fitfully between the cloud cover, the stars invisible. But the rain had stopped and the sea was quieter than it had been all day.

Meg, as usual in the stern on the quarterdeck, could just make out the rugged cliffs of the coast about half a mile away. The sound of waves breaking angrily on the notorious Breton rocks was as ominous as the occasional flash of white spume. Somewhere beyond those rocks was the sheltered cove where Cosimo intended to make landfall. Not in the
Mary Rose
, she knew that without asking, but in one of the dinghies lashed to the mid-deck.

She turned her back to the coast and looked along the darkened deck. There were no lights on the
Mary Rose
tonight. Cosimo was talking to Mike and the boatswain, Frank and Miles standing a discreet distance away, but close enough to hear the conversation. Once Cosimo glanced towards Meg in the stern, then returned to his conversation.

Meg had sensed an unusual tension in him as afternoon gave way to evening. She wondered if he was concerned about the news he hoped to receive about Ana. She thought she knew enough to know that something bad had happened to prevent Ana’s making the rendezvous in Folkestone. Was Cosimo expecting the worst? That his lover, his partner, his friend, was dead? Killed in the same war he fought. A war that relied on spies and assassins.

She crossed her arms over her breasts in a convulsive hug. She couldn’t come to terms with any of the implications of such logical speculations.

“Coffee, ma’am?”

“Oh, yes, please.” She took the mug that Biggins was offering, wrapping her gloved hands around it. “An inspiration. Thank you.”

“Captain says to put a drop o’ this in it,” Biggins said, opening a flask of cognac. “Says you’ll be needing it.”

Meg was too startled to object as the sailor slurped a generous measure into the thick black liquid in her mug. She blew on the cup and took a tentative sip. The cognac instantly warmed her throat and settled comfortingly in her belly. Her next sip was far from tentative. Who was she to argue with a privateer?

They were lowering the dinghy now, and Miles went down the ladder first, followed by the boatswain and a young sailor Meg now knew as Tommy. Cosimo stood at the rail, watching the descent of his men and presumably waiting for his turn. For the first time, it occurred to Meg that he was going to go on this enterprise without a word of farewell. He’d left her with cognac in her coffee and not even a kiss.

Then he looked over at her. “Are you coming? We don’t have any time to waste.”

Her jaw dropped.
Bastard
. He was laughing, enjoying every minute of his little game. He’d thrown her totally off course and it delighted him. She drained her mug, savoring the last lingering heat of the cognac, set the beaker down on the deck, and strolled over to him. “A little warning would have been appreciated.”

“I thought the cognac would have alerted you,” he said with an assumption of innocence. He pointed down to the black sea. “You first.”

“I’d prefer to follow you.”

He shook his head. “I’m behind you, Miles is in front of you. Now, if you’re going, go.”

Meg swung herself over the rail and onto the ladder. In britches it was a completely different maneuver and she accomplished it with ease, descending the swinging ladder swiftly, trying to ignore the heaving blackness beneath her. Reassuring hands grasped her ankles. “Just step down, ma’am,” Miles said, guiding her foot.

She landed in the dinghy with an exhalation of relief and sat down instantly in the stern as the boat rocked. Cosimo stepped in without causing the slightest ripple of the boat on the water and took his place beside her in the stern.

Miles and Tommy took up the oars, the boatswain sat in the bow, and they pulled steadily towards the sound of breaking waves.

“Well, this was an interesting invitation,” Meg said with a touch of sarcasm. “Most unexpected.”

“I thought you were curious.”

“I was . . . am. It would have been nice to have had some warning though. Time to prepare, use the privy, perhaps . . . how long are we going to be gone?”

“If the worst comes to the worst, you can use the sea,” he said. “My men are very discreet, and we’re all accustomed to dealing with such a necessity on the water.”

“How very reassuring,” she said, but she was smiling to herself even as she wondered whether this invitation was a challenge or a vote of confidence. It didn’t seem to matter. She let the hood of her cloak fall back and enjoyed the damp caress of the night breeze on her face. The sound of the breakers grew louder but she was no longer apprehensive.

Then the rocks rose up in front of them, a ragged line of ugly-looking black crags sticking up from the sea that churned white and green at the base. The four men in the little boat showed no consternation. The boatswain called directions softly to Miles and Tommy at the oars. Cosimo sat silently in the stern, but Meg could feel that he was alert, every muscle poised for action, his eyes on the rocks ahead. The tiny gap appeared in a moment of dim moonlight, then was gone again as the clouds scudded over the light, but it was enough for the boatswain and the oarsmen. There were a few minutes of soaking spray and then peace. The water slapped gently against the dinghy; the roaring of the waves was behind them, ahead lay the pale glimmer of a sandy beach, and around them rose craggy gray cliffs.

The oarsmen beached the little boat in the sandy shallows and shipped their oars. Cosimo said briefly, “Hold here for me. If there’s trouble, get out at once and return for me the same time tomorrow.”

To Meg, he said, “Stay here, right where you are.” A smile flickered across his eyes. “That should be sufficient adventure for one night.” He blew her a kiss as he stepped over the side of the dinghy.

Sufficient adventure? Meg was not quite so sure. She watched him lope up the beach towards a narrow path that threaded its way up the cliff. Did he have his knives with him? She acted on impulse, stepping into the shallow water that lapped over her boots.

“Ma’am . . . Miss Barratt . . . where are you going?” Miles’s anguished whisper followed her.

“Come back, ma’am,” the boatswain ordered, much more gruffly and with much more authority.

“Soon,” Meg whispered over her shoulder. “I’m just going to walk a little way up the path.” She guessed rightly that they wouldn’t leave the dinghy and follow her. She was their captain’s responsibility and theirs was to wait for him to return, preserving their only means of escape back to the ship.

She walked quickly across the sand, not worried about the sound of her footsteps; that would be muffled by the sand. Cosimo was way ahead of her on the pathway when she reached its base. He was climbing fast but using the screening bushes that lined the path as cover as much as possible.

Meg climbed steadily upwards, making no attempt to catch him up, reckoning that the farther away she was, the less likely he was to sense her presence. She ducked behind a scrubby and rather prickly bush when he slowed, and held her breath when he turned to look behind him down the path. His black cloak was pulled tight around him and he was a mere shadow in the black-gray night. From a distance, no one who was not looking for him would make out his figure.

Of course, if someone was . . . Her heart picked up a beat and then resumed its normal pace. Cosimo knew what he was doing. If he expected someone to be watching for him, he would be ready for them.

He resumed his climb and Meg climbed steadily after him, choosing to keep as much as possible to the grass beside the path, thinking that there would be even less noise from her footfall than on the sandy pathway.

And then Cosimo disappeared. She gazed upwards and saw only the grayish line of the path leading to the cliff head, the black-gray sky arching above. She looked down and saw only the gray line of the sand and the black water touched with white foam as it broke on the beach. At first she couldn’t see the dinghy and had an instant of panic. It was their only way off the shore, and then she thought she could discern a faint shape tucked against the edge of the cliff. She realized that the men had moved off the beach into the shadows so that they were invisible to anyone who might be watching from above.

But now where was her quarry? Had he reached the cliff top? It seemed the only explanation. Meg set off again, her stride lengthening as she grew accustomed to the pitch of the path that at this point was no more than a goat track. She paused once, thinking she heard something, but the night was quiet apart from the chirp of crickets. She still couldn’t see Cosimo ahead of her and felt a niggle of unease.

Then it happened. She was grabbed from behind, an iron-hard arm encircling her body so that her arms and hands were imprisoned at her sides. She was pressed backwards and would have lost her footing on the slippery path but for the rock-hard body behind her. Something pricked sharply against her neck just behind her right ear so that she drew breath on a small cry of pain, a cry that was instantly smothered by a hand across her mouth and nose so that she could barely breathe. She could move her arms now and struggled feebly but the sharp point pressing behind her ear dug deeper with her struggles and finally she stopped, gasping for breath. When she was still, the smothering hand lifted slightly so that she could take a gulp of the fresh damp night air. Her heart was banging against her ribs but she knew who held her, although he had said not a word, made not a sound throughout.

His hand was still resting lightly over her mouth, enjoining her own silence, and she concentrated on breathing slowly until her heart stopped pounding and the nausea of fright faded somewhat. Now she could hear low voices somewhere up ahead, and caught the flicker of a lantern among the bushes farther up the path.

Cosimo drew her backwards into the scrub and pushed her down ungently onto the damp grass beneath a bush. He looked down at her, still without making a sound, but she didn’t need words to tell her what he was conveying. His mouth was set in a grim line, his eyes frigid. He pointed at her and she nodded her understanding. At the moment, she couldn’t imagine finding the strength to move even if he wasn’t telling her to stay put.

Cosimo gave her one last hard stare then stepped back onto the path. He was gone from Meg’s sight almost immediately and she began to shake in the aftermath of shock and fear. Something trickled down her neck and she touched it tentatively with a fingertip. It was sticky. She looked at the blood on her finger in disbelief. Cosimo had cut her. He hadn’t meant to; he couldn’t have meant to. But how could she know? The man she’d just seen was capable of anything.

The shaking stopped. Her fear did not diminish, but it was now infused with rage. How dared he treat her like that? An owl hooted somewhere in the distance and some small animal rustled in the bushes behind her. She resisted the impulse to leap to her feet and instead stood up carefully, trying not to make a sound. She could still hear the low murmur of voices from the cliff above her, and the lantern flickered again.

Meg kept to the bushes parallel to the path as she started upwards again, drawing the cloak tightly around her so that, like Cosimo, she was reduced to a dark shadow. She no longer wanted to follow him but she was driven now by a compulsion. She needed to see what he was going to do . . . to find out exactly who and what this man was.

She dropped to her belly as she neared the top of the cliff and squirmed upwards across the grass until she could just see over the cliff top. A derelict cottage that she guessed had once sheltered a shepherd or goatherd stood a hundred yards or so back from the cliff edge. Two men stood outside talking quietly a few feet from the building, a lantern on the ground between them throwing a golden pool of light. Of Cosimo there was no sign.

And then she saw him. He was coming from behind the building, something bright in his hand. How had he managed to get past the men? But the question seemed irrelevant. She watched in a kind of dread as he sidestepped with his back against the tumbledown wall until he was directly behind the men. Then he moved.

It was over in a second. The two men slipped silently to the ground with barely a cry and Cosimo left them without a backward glance and went into the cottage.

Meg had seen enough. She turned and scrambled back down the path. He’d killed them. In cold blood. They hadn’t put up a fight, they hadn’t provoked him, he’d just crept up behind them and murdered them. And what on earth was she to do now? She looked frantically for the exact spot where he’d left her and would expect to find her, no longer prepared to risk the privateer’s wrath any further. She thought she found the right spot and crouched down again behind the bush.

She heard Cosimo coming down the path, his step no longer stealthy. There was no need for quiet now, she presumed, now that the watchers on the cliff were dead. He stopped on the path and said curtly, “Come along.” He held out a hand to pull her to her feet and she hesitated for a split second, suddenly repelled by the prospect of touching him. But he mustn’t know what she had seen and she must do nothing to cause suspicion.