How To Vex A Viscount (31 page)

“Well, my Lady Clavenhook, adventure calls among the rustics. Shall we sally forth?”

“Let’s. But tread warily, Sir Knight,” she warned. “Or Lady Rowena of the Deadly Pike will be forced to rise again.”

Sir Alistair consulted his map once more. They’d met the other tilt boat heading back downriver, without its passengers, but the bends in the Thames prevented them from seeing where Viscount Rutland and Miss Drake were put ashore. An island rose ahead of them, mist-wreathed and ethereal even in the early afternoon.

“There,” he said, pointing toward it. “That’s Braellafgwen.”

“It may be, but the party you’re followin’ didn’t put in there,” the boat’s captain said. “An ill-omened sort of place, that island be. I’ve heard tales. Reckon the folk you’re after have gone to that village over there. Fine little dock they have, to be sure.”

“Nevertheless, that island is our destination.” Alistair rolled up the small map he’d torn from the pages of Edlington’s
Age of Magic
and stuffed it into the turned-back cuff of his jacket.

“That’s as may be, gov, but lookit how steep the land lies. No proper beachhead, not according to the charts. Without no dock, we got no place to put ye ashore.”

“Just get us close enough,” Alistair said. “We’re not afraid of wet feet.”

“It’s not yer feet I’m frettin’ over. It’s the bottom of me boat. This water’s so silty ye can’t see a foot down. I’ll not ruin me boat for a single fare.”

“Perhaps you’ll like me to alter our arrangement.” Alistair pulled Lord Montford’s pistol from his pocket and pointed the business end toward the man at the tiller. “Now, order your men to row and take us to the island with all speed.”

The tilt-boat captain barked an order and they crept toward Braellafgwen. One of the rowers knelt in the prow, trying to judge the draft beneath the craft with his oar. As they neared the island, the current quickened and they had to row faster to maintain even their slow pace.

“Bottom’s coming up fast, Cap’n,” the crewman shouted when they were still ten feet from the steep banks of the isle. “There’s naught but two feet under the keel. Maybe less.”

The captain called a halt and the rowers shipped their oars. One of the crewmen dropped the anchor over the side to hold their position in the current.

“Shoot if ye must. I’ll not risk the boat or the crew another moment in this madness,” the captain said. “A mist like this on a cloudless day ain’t natural. This is an evil place. Don’t ye feel it?”

“What are we to do now?” Brumley whined.

“We leave ignorance and superstition behind.” Alistair threw a leg over the side and stepped down into the dark water. It rose to mid-thigh. Lord Montford followed suit.

“But I can’t swim,” Brumley whimpered.

“You don’t have to swim. You can walk, fool. Now come,” he ordered. When Brumley still hesitated, he added, “Or crawl back to your well-placed wife with your manhood tucked between your cowardly legs.”

The moment Brumley lowered himself over the side, the tilt-boat crew hauled anchor and rowed away, pulling for all they were worth.

“Come along, Brumley.” Alistair sloshed toward the island. He heard a yelp behind him and turned to see Brumley step into a hole and sink from sight, his white wig bobbing in the current. Alistair scrambled back to the spot, felt under the water and grasped a handful of his hair. He jerked him to the surface. Brumley came up sputtering and gasping and trying to climb up Alistair’s arm.

“Good thing you’re not bald or you’d be a dead man,” Alistair said. He kept hold of Brumley’s collar as he waded back toward the island.

Ahead of them, Lord Montford ploughed through the water steadily, but was not making much progress. He held his pistol over his head to keep his powder dry. Alistair would have to reload his later. For just a blink, it seemed as if the island retreated from them with every step, but Alistair dismissed that notion as fanciful in the extreme.

“Evil place, my aunt Fannie’s arse,” he said with derision when he finally reached the steep shoulder of the island. He’d never admit it to a living soul, but for a few heartbeats, he’d been beginning to believe the island might indeed be “ill omened.”

The men scrambled up the fifteen feet of nearly vertical face before the slope relaxed and the island spread out, a tree-covered oval with a high point in the centre.

“Let’s get a fire going so we can dry our clothes,” Brumley said.

“We can’t have a fire.” Alistair wished he’d never brought Brumley into this venture if the man was going to be so dense. “Someone might see the smoke.”

“So we’re stuck here like this. Wet and miserable and . . . I’ll bet neither of you thought to bring any food.” Lord Brumley plopped down on the decaying trunk of a fallen ash. “Why didn’t we go to the village, like Rutland and the Drake girl?”

“Because two strangers are enough for one small hamlet to absorb,” Lord Montford said. “Three more would be impossible to conceal without the first two becoming aware of them.” He tossed Brumley a withering glance. “Since we have arrived on Braellafgwen ahead of my son and . . . that other person, we will be able to easily shadow them once they arrive. Our presence here must remain a secret until the opportune moment.”

“Quite,” Alistair concurred. “To that end, let us find a spot to conceal ourselves and take turns watching for boat traffic from the mainland. If we miss them, we might lose the trail.”

Permanently,
he added in silence. Besides, they’d need whatever craft Daisy Drake and Lucian Beaumont travelled in to carry them away from this cursed rock.

“Braellafgwen?” the innkeeper, whom they discovered was called Mr Dedham, asked. “Why ever would ye be wanting to go there? No one goes there. Haunted, it is. And the woods—all full of eyes, they says.”

The innkeeper’s surprise reassured them that no other party had asked about Braellafgwen recently. Perhaps Fitzhugh wasn’t dogging them, after all.

“Nevertheless, my sister and I wish to visit the island,” Lucian said.

Mr Dedham slanted a knowing glance at Daisy. Evidently, more than one young man had travelled this way with his “sister” before.

“We’re very keen on old druid sites and heard the island has a connection to that defunct religion,” she said.

“Don’t know as I’d call it defunct. Not very loudly, at any rate,” the man said. “Don’t do to upset the spirits, they says.”

“But there is a way to travel to the island?” Daisy asked.

“Oh, yes, there’s a way. Peter Tinklingham has a shallow drafting punt what can make the trip.”

“Excellent,” Daisy said. “And where will we find Mr Tinklingham?”

“You won’t. Leastways not till tomorrow morning,” the innkeeper said. “He took the doctor upriver to see about Mrs Bossy. She’s carrying twins, ye ken.”

“Well, I hope all goes well for her,” Daisy said. Childbed was no light matter. Graveyards were littered with the final resting places of young mothers who met their untimely ends trying to bring a babe into the world.

“Aye, so do we all. Mrs Bossy is the best milker in the shire. And since Will Tweazle filed off her horns, she’s of a much sweeter disposition to boot.”

“So, Mrs Bossy is . . . a cow?” Lucian asked.

Mr Dedham regarded Lucian with raised brows, as if he thought the young man were a bit softheaded. Daisy was beginning to remember why she wasn’t sorry not to be living in the country any longer.

“If all goes well, Tinklingham should be back by tomorrow morning,” the innkeeper said.

“Very well.” Daisy pulled her coin purse from her reticule. “We require lodging then. Two rooms, if you please.”

“I’d be happy to oblige ye, but the Wounded Boar has only one room left. Tomorrow’s the day the skiff comes up from London with a load of goods. Folk come to town to trade and they want to have first pick, ye see, so we’re a mite more crowded than usual.” He tossed Lucian a wink. “The room’s got a fair-size bed. Ye and your ‘sister’ may find it a tight fit, but I reckon ye’ll do.”

“My sister will take the available chamber, sir,” Lucian said. “I’ll make do in the common room, if you don’t mind.”

If Lucian had wanted to flash his title about, Daisy knew he could demand one of the other rooms from the commoners. He was likely the first viscount the sad little Wounded Boar Inn had seen in centuries. Of course, Lucian wasn’t dressed like a lord, so Mr Dedham might not have believed him. His dark ensemble was serviceable, but worn. The only bit of wealth about Lucian was the lethal-looking rapier at his hip, but the hilt was so plain, so utilitarian, it was obviously not the ornamental small sword of a gentleman. It was a serious weapon for an uncertain world.

So Lucian would bed down before the common-room hearth. Of course, Daisy was in perfect accord about not sharing a room with him.

But it rankled her soul not to have been able to refuse him first.

“A man and woman may strip naked and couple in every conceivable manner, but there is still no true intimacy until they bare their hearts.”

—from the journal of Blanche La Tour

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Daisy and Lucian spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the village and picking their way through the small churchyard. They read the headstones that were still legible and wondered at the ones whose inscriptions time had reduced to mere dimples in the rock. The vicar turned out to be a genial man who was willing to discuss the island with them.

“Time out of mind, Braellafgwen has been a . . . a sacred place, if you will,” the vicar had said. “Some may name it pagan, but there’s no denying there’s an unusual power, a strange sense about the place.”

“You’ve visited the island?” Lucian asked.

“Only once,” he admitted with a sheepish half smile. “It’s difficult to describe what it’s like.”

“Please try,” Daisy said.

“Well, the nearest I can come is this,” the vicar said. “I used to live in London when I was a lad, and sometimes, I’m ashamed to confess, I used to creep out at night to explore. Once in a while, I’d wander down a dark lane where I didn’t belong and all the hairs would stand up on the back of my neck. It’s like that on Braellafgwen. The island doesn’t want me there. If a place has no use for you, it’s best not to tarry.”

As they strolled back to the inn, the vicar’s words rolled around in Daisy’s mind. The innkeeper claimed Braellafgwen was haunted, and Mr Crossly certainly hadn’t wanted to put in there. Now the vicar had added his testimony to the growing mound of evidence for the strangeness of the place.

“Braellafgwen sounds a bit daunting, doesn’t it?”

“If you don’t want to go, you can wait for me here,” Lucian offered.

“I didn’t say that.” Daisy clasped his arm a bit tighter than necessary. “It’s just . . . I hadn’t thought of it before, but the Roman treasure’s been lost for centuries. Perhaps with good reason. Do you suppose there are some things that aren’t meant to be found?”

“Rubbish. I think rumours of hauntings were started by the druids to keep the uninitiated from stumbling on their rites,” Lucian said. “No doubt Meritus saw the tales about the place as a way of keeping the treasure safe, even if someone managed to get this far.” Grim determination settled on his features. “I’m not about to let fairy tales or a nervous vicar’s talk of a prickly scalp stop me.”

His straightforwardness should have calmed her. When Daisy had helped her family haul up the hidden gold beneath the castle of Dragon Caern, she’d been a child, afraid of the boom and hiss of surf she mistook for a real dragon. Back then, she enlisted the help of an old pirate, her friend Mr Meriwether, to calm her fears.

Now the little pixies of fear were dancing once again on her spine. But this time, she was no child.

“No, you won’t be rid of me so easily.” Daisy wanted an adventure. She wouldn’t let jitters rob her of one. “I’m going with you tomorrow.”

He smiled at her for the first time since their kettle-hurling argument. “I’d be hugely disappointed if you didn’t.”

They strolled back to the inn in companionable silence, willing to declare a cessation of hostilities, if not a formal truce.