Fire at Midnight (16 page)

Rachael stopped. “No! I cannot go to Helston. My uncle lives there. It is too dangerous.”

This time it was Sebastién who stopped. He looked offended. “You think I am incapable of protecting you?”

“John Wyatt was killed trying to protect me,” she reminded him. “My protectors become targets.”

“All the more reason to stop your uncle before he gains the ability to buy pardon for his crimes,” he replied. “You will lead me to his home, and we will find the evidence we need to expose him. If we do not find evidence, I will coax the truth from him.”

Rachael didn’t care to speculate on how he might go about “coaxing” anything from anyone. She stared as tears of frustration filled her eyes. Before her stood the dangerous stranger from the night of the wrecking, not the charming rascal from Tor Pub. Her tears welled, and she brushed them away angrily.

“No! I will not take you to Victor’s house,” Rachael shrilly declared. “What will happen to James if we’re killed? Your note said that my brother’s safety relies on your safe return.”

“I did not write that note.” His mouth was set in an obstinate line.

“I want to see James,” she insisted.

“Your uncle first,” he said, adamant.

“My uncle has apartments in London as well as a home in Helston. He could be in London now.”

“Oui, but he is not.” He renewed his pace, expression grim.

“Is there anything I can tell you that you haven’t already discovered for yourself?” Rachael made no effort to hide her annoyance. He was still testing her.
So much

for the illusion of trust.

“Oui,”
he replied easily, “the exact location of your uncle’s home.”

Rachael’s angry response was lost amid the thunder of hammering hooves as a large contingent of riders suddenly converged on the beach.

T
he slight elevation of the low bluff they crossed allowed them to observe as two dozen soldiers combed the beach below. The terrain was a flat, treeless expanse of moor; they could not reach the nearest elevation—another low bluff—without crossing in full view of the men who scouted below.

The regiment had formed a line several hundred feet long in single file formation, allowing them to swiftly cover the path leading to the top of the bluff.

The situation presented the possibility of rescue for Rachael, while at the same time posing peril for Sebastién. She would not be forced to lead him to Victor’s home. To escape, she would have to alert the soldiers to their presence, and hope that he would somehow manage to escape.

Sebastién anticipated her move the instant she attempted to bolt. Seizing her arm, he dragged his hand over her mouth to prevent her from crying out.

A tributary of the Tamar River flowed nearby, and he yanked her toward its embankment. The mixture of sea rush and stiff, reedy grass gave beneath her feet and Rachael found herself mired.

Sebastién crouched and uprooted two pieces of the thick-stemmed, hollow grass. He anchored them between his teeth, and then pursed his lips and blew. The soft expulsion of air was audible. He grabbed two more pieces of the reed and held them out to Rachael, who hung back with a mutinous look on her face.

With a low growl, Sebastién captured her chin and jammed the reeds into her mouth while he jerked her toward the bank. The tide was low and there was little crosscurrent. The water was shallow, but the bed formed a natural terrace where depths could vary from five to twenty feet.

Rachael spat the reeds out of her mouth and tried to wrench free of Sebastién’s hold. His hand tightened in a bruising grip on her forearm and his other arm circled her waist like a steel band, forcing her up against him. She could hear the flutter of her own heart as it beat counter-rhythm to his.

Sebastién’s breathing was measured, as if he fought for composure, but when Rachael struggled again to break free, his arms constricted around her until she feared her ribs would be crushed.

“Remember,” he threatened, “your brother’s life depends upon my safe return.”

Rachael stopped struggling and glared. Relaxing his grip on her long enough to pluck another set of reeds from the bank, Sebastién pried open her fingers and forced the reeds into her palm.

“Use these to draw air through your mouth,” he whispered. “We will go only deep enough for the water to hide us.”

“The water is freezing,” she objected. “I will not put those filthy things in my mouth.”

With a growled imprecation, Sebastién seized Rachael by the shoulders and shoved her toward the water. “Then I hope you can hold your breath for a very long time.”

Rachael scowled as she jammed the reeds into her mouth, and then nearly swallowed both water and reeds when she gasped at the shock of the frigid water. She strained to keep the stiff reed between her teeth and above the surface of the water, but the soaked mantle and riding suit beneath it weighed her down.

Furious, she began to splash about as noisily as possible while she tried to rise to the surface. How could she make enough noise to attract the soldiers?

Sebastién grappled with Rachael, overstepping the shelf bottom, and they plunged deeper into the water. She was in danger of pitching forward, and he jerked her upright, holding her in a position that would keep her air source peeking above the waterline.

Rachael tried to land a blow to Sebastién’s shins, but the flow of water cushioned her motion until she gave up the effort, sapped of energy and seething with frustration.

Sebastién no longer made a pretense of being gentle; Rachael could feel the fury emanating from him through his touch. No doubt if he did not have his arms around her midsection at the moment, they would be on her throat instead. When she tried to shift her position, his fingers dug into her arms and he hauled her closer.

Desperate to escape, Rachael considered her options. What would he do if he thought she was drowning? She drew a deep breath and went limp in his arms, allowing the weak current to float her. As her body went slack, her mind raced, and she inhaled a deep breath and let go of the reed. For full effect, she allowed her head to loll against his shoulder.

Rachael felt Sebastién draw a deep breath and attempt to steady his grip, pulling her close and sliding her up the length of his body. He did not panic and immediately release her as she had expected, and she soon regretted having relinquished the reed. She felt as though she would burst from the simultaneous need to inhale and exhale.

Sebastién cradled the back of Rachael’s head, mouth covering hers, and gripped her jaw, applying ruthless pressure until her mouth opened. He forced air into her lungs and she gasped in reflex, biting down hard on his lower lip. He immediately released her.

Rachael propelled to the surface and cleaved the water, choking and spitting. She clung to the grassy shelf, shivering with cold as her desperate gaze searched the immediate area. The soldiers had vanished as if they had been ghosts in search of mortals to haunt. She levered herself toward the edge of the embankment, but her heavy, sodden clothing made it impossible to pull herself onto the marshy ledge.

Sebastién stood on the bank above her, reveling in her predicament as she tried to pull herself out of the water. She had never seen a more obnoxious smile than the one on his flushed, livid face. He spread his feet wide and rocked back and forth, keeping her well within reach as she tried edging along the side of the bank in either direction. She ducked away from his outstretched hand and attempted to dive back down into the water, finding the thought of drowning preferable to whatever punishment he might have in mind for her.

Finally, Sebastién grabbed a handful of Rachael’s hair and yanked her close enough to gain hold of her arm. She yelped and struck out at him with her free arm, but he seized it as well, hauling her up and onto the embankment with such force that water exploded all around them.

“I do not know how you have managed to stay alive this long,” he exclaimed, giving her a shake.

Rachael tried to twist free and scored a vicious kick to his shin in the process. Sebastién raised one powerful arm as if to retaliate, and Rachael gasped and cried out, cringing.

He checked his reflex, a horrified look edging out the fury on his face. “
Non
,” he said. “You will not goad me into behaving like the devil you think I am, even when you make one treacherous move after another against me.”

Sebastién shook his head vigorously and his long, wet hair rained water. His hands were still locked on her arms.

“Take your hands off me, Frenchman.”

He canted his head with such elaborate grace that there was at once both elegance and menace in the gesture.

“Pardon?”
His eyes were a frigid, clear green. His skin gleamed with moisture, and the contours of his lean jaw set off the hollow planes of his face. “What did you say to me?”

“Take your hands off me,” she said, readily obliging.

“Non,
all of it.”

Rachael faced Sebastién warily, and he acknowledged her silence with a rancorous smile. “You said, ‘Take your hands off me,
Frenchman,’”
he supplied. “It had the ring of an insult.”

“Interpret it any way you like.”

“Oui,
I will. I wonder if you would have taken such a haughty tone with my brother.” He pushed her away with such violence that Rachael stumbled. His lip curled as his eyes raked her. “I have no desire to touch English whores.”

She gasped at the insult and slapped him, open palm leaving a white imprint across his tanned cheek. Sebastién’s narrowed eyes promised reprisal. Rachael had never seen him so angry, and she uttered a cry, picked up her sodden mantle, and sloshed through the muck, sliding and slipping in an effort to get away.

Sebastién prevented Rachael’s flight by connecting his booted foot with her posterior and giving a stout push, propelling her headlong into the mud, where she lay on her stomach, buried up to her chin.

Rachael flopped over onto her back and raised one mud-covered leg in time to send Sebastién sprawling. She heard his muttered oath when he came crashing down beside her, sending a spray of mud flying in all directions.

Rachael was on her feet and dashing toward the narrow footpath of the lower bluff before Sebastién could free himself from the mud. The path widened and became a flat expanse of moor, thick with gorse and the shriveled ghosts of summer flowers.

The moon poked out from the clouds, illuminating her flight. Water-logged garments clung to her, chilling her to the bone. Rachael unclasped the frog closures at the front of the mantle and dropped it as she ran.

If she had not spied Sebastién crouched on the ridge above her, she would have followed the path that descended from a shallow crag overlooking the beach. The cliff also had a steep face with a much sharper descent and no true path other than a sheer drop onto the sand below. It was a shortcut, but a dangerous one.

The sight of him made Rachael reckless, and she abandoned the safer path to dash across the summit toward the more dangerous descent. Sebastién’s shout of warning carried to her as she reached the ragged edge of the bluff.

Rachael stood poised at the lip of the crag, indecisive and afraid. There were a few places to gain a foothold, but one clumsy move would send her hurtling down to the rocks and sand below. She was aware that Sebastién’s shouts were sounding closer with each passing moment.

Why hadn’t he abandoned her and gone on alone? Was it possible that he was taking her to Victor because he had been ordered to? His brother had insisted he was a wrecker, but she had not wanted to believe it. The night she had discovered his identity, she had encountered him on the beach after a wreck. The recollection, and his insistence upon taking her to Helston, fueled her frantic resolve to escape.

The slant of the cliff face was too severe to scale upright. The outer rim was not solid, and Rachael felt the base shift under her feet as she crouched, perching in a partially seated position that would allow her to slide part of the way down. She glanced back and watched in mounting terror as he tore across the space separating them.

Sebastién faltered and then stopped in his tracks. “Rachael,” he coaxed, “come away from there.” She stared back at him, exhausted and numb. “This is foolishness!” he raged.

“Why would you care what happens to me, Frenchman?”

“I abhor needless death.” His rigid jaw shone like granite in the moonlight.

“Oh? That is not what I have heard.”

“Bait me all you like,” he said, temper flaring.

“Stay where you are,” she shouted. “I would rather die than allow you to hand me over to my uncle.”

“Is that what you think I plan to do?”

There was something in his tone that made Rachael strain to see his face more clearly. When she moved, loose stones tumbled over the side of the ridge. “I don’t know what to believe,” she said. “It is unlikely that you would admit to being a member of Victor’s gang.”

“If I were part of your uncle’s gang, why would I need your help locating him?”

“It could be a trick meant to gain my trust. You have proven to be the better strategist by far,” she said bitterly.

“I am a smuggler, Rachael. I am not a wrecker. I have no affiliation with your uncle. If you are so eager to die, you will have to jump.” His voice was brittle.

“You will not take me to my brother. Why?”

“I’m not convinced you don’t know the answer to that.” His voice was sharp. The arm he had extended fell limply to his side. “We are at an impasse, then. You do not trust me. I do not trust you. How can we ever hope to change that?”

“I tried to change it when I warned you that Jacques had set a trap for you.”

“How do I know that your warning wasn’t part of a larger snare? How can I be certain my brother does not await me at the cottage?”

“You don’t; any more than I know your real reason for taking me to Helston.”

“I do not have to give you a reason.”

When Rachael remained silent, Sebastién sighed. “I can find Brightmore’s home without your aid,” he admitted. “But if there is any truth to your story, the only safe place for you is with me. I will not leave you with Jacques. He used you to get to me. It is safer for you if my brother believes I abducted you rather than thinking you betrayed him.