Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (17 page)

For all his flippant manner she saw something flicker in his eyes
before he masked it. She shook her head slowly.

‘Even though I readily admit to being bad to the bone?’

‘I do not believe you, sir.’

He raised one eyebrow. ‘And why might that be? I assure you that
all of it is true.’

‘For all that I disapprove of your methods, I do believe that you
are trying to save my brother’s life and mine.’

His eyes met hers, and she could see his torment and his pain.
She forgot all about being calm and unswerving and strong. All of those
pretences slipped away.

They stared at one another, unmasked. And in that moment it was
as if there was a communication, an understanding, a connection.

‘A single act of honour might wipe away all of a man’s sins,’ she
said quietly.

Their eyes still held.

‘I hope so,’ he whispered, and then he looked away and the moment
was gone. In its place was thinly veiled surprise and embarrassment. ‘We should
speak of something else,’ he said rather gruffly.

‘What subject do you suggest, sir?’

‘Politics, religion, the theatre—I do not care, Miss Linden.’
There was a touch of the lazy arrogance that she had seen when he had spoken
with Mr White.

But Francesca was not fooled. She had seen the truth of him and
she knew that, contrary to all impressions, he cared very much.

‘Linden, fetch the nets with Ginger and take them up on deck.
We’ll need them for the transfer.’ White sounded irritated.

‘But Mr Black…’ Tom said, unsure whether their sudden appearance
would interfere with Lord Holberton’s plan and endanger Francesca.

‘Mr Black will be too damn busy with the wench to notice you two
clodhoppers.’

Ginger gave a nod and rose from his makeshift seat. ‘Come on,
lad.’

There was nothing Tom could do other than follow.

The two men walked towards the cabin.

Footsteps sounded by the door. Before Francesca could even
register what was happening Mr Black had rolled on top of her. Despite the
material of her shift, she could feel the graze of his chest against hers. Yet
she could see that Mr Black had been right: she was in no danger of being
crushed, for he was taking the bulk of his weight on his elbows.

Just as he had said he would, he began to kiss her. But this time
Francesca knew what to expect.

Someone knocked at the door.

Black pulled back enough to break the kiss, but kept his face
down low next to hers. She saw the warning that flashed in his gaze.

The knock came again.

By the time the door opened he was kissing her again. She looked
up into the darkness of his eyes and something flowed between them—something
that was not play-acting. And then she remembered that she was supposed to be
resisting him, and blushed that she had forgotten. Her embarrassment lent
strength to her struggle.

‘Release me, you fiend!’

In response, Black captured her wrists into his hands and held
them above her head.

She could hear the hesitant tread of feet cross the threshold,
could hear a man begin to speak. ‘Sorry to be botherin’ you, sir, but Mr White
has sent us to fetch the nets.’

Black glanced behind.

Francesca felt the change in his body, a sudden tension, a coiled
stillness that had not been there before, and knew instantly that something was
wrong. Yet from where she lay she could see nothing of the man who stood by the
door.

‘Take them and get out,’ Black said coldly. ‘Both of you.’

She knew then that there was more than one of them, and was
thankful that he was shielding her from them.

‘Yes, sir—thank you, sir,’ said the same voice.

She heard him hurry across the floor. There was no movement, no
sound at all from the second man.

‘Come on, lad,’ she heard the man whisper urgently.

She felt the ripple of cold foreboding down her spine.

Black rolled off her, making a play of fixing the fall on his
breeches.

She clutched the blanket to her and looked across the room. She
barely saw the tall ginger-haired man who was struggling to lift the nets. Her
eyes widened, and the breath stilled in her throat. For not five paces from the
bottom of the coat on which she was lying stood her brother, his face pale, his
eyes glinting with a rage she had never before seen.

Jack saw Francesca give her brother a small shake of the head,
warning him off, her eyes signalling him to stay calm. But it was too late for
that. Tom was beyond logical thought or reasoning. Jack doubted he even
remembered the risk to his sister from White. He knew what the boy would do.
Tom was acting on instinct—and enraged instinct at that. If Jack did not act
quickly Tom would jeopardise everything.

‘You bastard!’ Tom ran at Jack.

‘No!’ yelled Francesca. She was scrabbling up, pulling the blanket
with her.

‘Stay down,’ Jack said to her.

Tom’s face was now suffused with deep colour. He swung his fist
at Jack. ‘What are you do—?’

Jack landed a single jab to Tom’s throat.

Tom made a suffocated sound and crumpled to his knees, before
fainting on to the floor.

Francesca was up and running towards his prone body before Jack’s
hand caught around her arm, swinging her back. He threw her a warning look,
hoping that she was not as foolish as her brother. ‘Get back down there!’ he
barked, knowing that there would soon be an audience at the doorway—if there
wasn’t one already.

‘Take the nets and that fool and get out,’ he snapped at Ginger,
who was standing gaping as if he could not believe what he had just seen unfold
before his eyes.

And then White was there, a look of surprise on his face. ‘What
the hell is going on in here?’ He looked from Jack to Francesca, to Tom’s still
body upon the floor.

‘Young Linden objected to my use of the woman.’

‘What in hell has it to do with him? He’s been acting strangely all
night.’

‘Probably been drinking.’

White didn’t look convinced.

‘By the way, I’ve finished if you want her.’ Jack gestured
towards Francesca, ignoring the tug of his heart at her sudden expression of
shock and betrayal, and the small clenched fingers that were clutching the
blanket like a shield against her.

White’s gaze lingered over her, the sight of her bare shoulders
and the promise of what was to come distracting him from Tom Linden. ‘Not
enough time. The contact’s in sight. We need to make ready for the transfer.’

‘Keep her for the way back. I promise you she’s worth it.’ Jack
picked up his shirt, pulled it lithely over his head and tucked it into his
breeches.

‘Well, if she’s that good, maybe I will,’ said White.

Tom gave a groan and began to stir on the floor.

‘He’s becoming an annoyance,’ said White, and delivered a nasty
kick to Tom’s ankle.

‘I agree,’ said Jack, praying that Francesca would have the
wisdom to remain silent.

‘I’ll deal with him later,’ said White.

Jack gave a small cold smile. ‘It might be better to let me do
that.’ He balled his fist and cracked his knuckles with the other hand. ‘You’re
going to be busy with…other things.’ He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

White chuckled. ‘Very well.’ He turned to the men who were
crowding in the doorway, staring at Francesca. ‘Fetch the nets and get up on
deck.’ When Ginger moved towards Tom, he snapped, ‘Leave that buffoon where he
is.’

‘In here with the woman?’ said Ginger.

‘She’ll be safe enough,’ snapped White, ‘since he’s so keen to
play her defender.’

Jack took his coat from the floor, dusted it down and eased
himself into it. His actions were smooth and unhurried, almost carefree. And
all the while he was aware of Francesca Linden, standing there with her head
held high.

He sauntered from the room, following in Mr White’s wake. The men
had already gone, taking the huge pile of netting with them. His foot was on
the first step of the ladder when he stopped and touched a hand to where his
shirt gaped open at the neck. ‘Neckcloth. Forgotten the damn thing.’

‘It doesn’t matter. You’re supposed to be a bloody fisherman.
We’re not going to Brooks’s,’ said White.

Jack raised a single eyebrow and stared at him.

White gave a sigh and rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll be on deck.’

Jack gave a look as if to say that was better, and meandered back
towards the hold. He opened the door and stepped inside, pulling the door
behind him but not closing it. Francesca was crouched by her brother’s side,
her hand to his face. She jumped at his entry, clambering to her feet, staring
at him with angry eyes.

‘You could have killed him,’ she said.

‘If I’d wanted to kill him he’d be dead. I had to find some way
of silencing him. He was about to give the game away.’

Her expression told him that she knew he was right. But she did
not give up her fight so easily. ‘You didn’t have to hit him so hard.’

‘Yes, Francesca, I did. Your brother will have nothing more than
a sore throat for a few days, which is a sight better than having it cut from
ear to ear.’

‘You told White he could have me—you even persuaded him to take
me.’

‘Rather than have him ask too many questions about Tom, or beat
him senseless.’

‘True.’ She glanced down, and then back up at him. ‘But you did
say that White would not…’

He closed the distance between them until he was standing so
close that the skirts of her dress trailed over the tatty leather of his boots.
‘And neither he will.’ He had the urge to take her into his arms. ‘I shall not
lock the door.’ He touched his fingers gently to her cheek. ‘Have faith, Francesca.
All will be well.’ Then he moved quickly away, collected his neckcloth and was
gone, leaving Francesca Linden standing like a statue, staring after him.

J
ACK’S
shabby neckcloth was in place and
neatly tied by the time he climbed up the ladder and out on to the deck. The
night was cold and dark. The December sea was rolling, heads of white foam
visible through the darkness. The
Swift
bobbed, but held her own. The
wind was bracing, and he could feel the cold damp spray of saltwater upon his
cheeks. But it was none of this that caught Jack’s attention. He looked instead
to the other boat that was some twenty feet away from them.

He made his way over to the bulwarks on port side and came to
stand beside White. ‘Mr White,’ he said, ‘it seems we are in business.’

‘Crouvier is bringing her round. With the wind as it is the
transfer is not going to be easy.’

‘Another challenge,’ said Jack, and smiled.

The two men stood and watched while the other vessel was brought
around. She was smaller than the
Swift
, but sturdy enough. The darkness
of the night made it difficult to see details other than the fact there was a
body of men busy upon her, their faces pale in the yellowed lights of the
lanterns that hung around the deck.

The dark shadow of a flag fluttered to her rear, but it was
impossible to see her colours. She drew alongside the
Swift
’s starboard.
Grappling hooks were engaged. This was where Weasel and Ginger’s expertise came
in. They used the hooks and ropes to slowly, carefully bring the two boats together.
In winter seas this was a delicate operation. One mistake would bring the boats
crashing together, splintering their wooden bodies, sentencing the men to death
in the violence of the freezing waters. It was clear that Weasel and Ginger had
done this before…many times.

Jack felt the energy surge through his body. Every muscle was
poised ready for action. He could feel the steady thud of his heart in his
chest and the race of blood through his veins. He forced himself to control it.
Wait. Hold. Steady. Timing was everything. The moment was so close.

He let his gaze wander out into the blackness beyond, to where
the roar of the sea was constant. Dark night hid what Jack knew would be there.
The cloud cover in the sky was thick, but as he stood there waiting, poised on
the precipice of all that he had worked for, a tiny gap opened up, like a tear
between the clouds, and through it peeped the moon. Just for a second the thin
silver crescent shone its cool light over the water. Jack held his breath and peered
harder into the distant darkness. There was the tiniest suggestion of something
out there amidst the black.

He thought of what it would mean if the plan went wrong. He
thought of Francesca Linden and her fate. His heart skipped a beat, and he knew
that he could not let that happen, no matter the cost.

Not one sign of his disquiet showed. He pushed off from the bulwarks
and turned almost indifferently to where the men had successfully secured the
two boats together.

‘We’re ready,’ said Weasel.

White walked briskly over to the point of joining. The hoist and
tackle system was in place on the other boat, which Jack could now see was
named
Bien Aimé
, ready to start lifting the barrels. A man from the
French boat clambered across the bulwarks, keeping a grip of the securing
ropes. Jack watched the man’s squat frame, broad and strong from years of
physical work, saw the dark woollen cap that hid his head, heard him greet
White with sullen tone.

‘Monsieur Crouvier.’

Edmund and Crouvier conversed briefly in French. Jack stood by
and listened to every word.

A hundred half-ankers of the best French brandy at five shillings
a gallon. In England it would be sold on for five times that amount.

The sea was empty. They had seen no one on their way out here.
The night was cold and held the promise of bad weather. There would be another
shipment in two weeks’ time. They agreed on the day after Twelfth Night.

Jack watched while White and the Frenchman exchanged small
leather satchels. He knew that the satchels contained the documents at the
centre of this whole treacherous debacle. Documents and money. He felt disgust
and anger whip through him, but he was careful to keep his face impassive. Then
the men began the operation of transferring the brandy from the
Bien Aimé
to the
Swift
. It was a cumbersome process; the wooden tubs were not
large, but weighed heavy at more than fifty pounds apiece. On land they were
not difficult to handle, with the tub-carriers managing a climb up the steep
cliff paths with two half-ankers roped across their chest and shoulders, but
the darkness and wind and turbulent water made the transfer between ships more
complicated. With the block and tackle transferring four tubs secured within a
rope net at a time, the operation ran smoothly enough. Tom’s absence did not
seem to slow things too much aboard the
Swift
.