Sandra Heath (27 page)

Amabel kept out of his way, for he had been further irritated by the crew’s consternation at having a woman on board. She’d gone briefly on deck the previous day, hut had met with such hostility that she’d soon retreated to Charles’ cabin again. She was devastated by what had happened at Mulborough. Instead of securing the Treasury gold for France, and at the same time ridding herself of Henrietta, she had been forced into ignominious flight. Her plan had been to return to London and George Sutherton, to resume her agreeable social existence, while at the same time continuing to spy for France. Because of Henrietta and Marcus, that was all at an end. There would be no more George, and instead of the freedom and pleasures of London, there would be the turbulent atmosphere of Paris.

The need for revenge contorted Amabel’s face as she sat alone in the cabin, dwelling upon her misfortunes. She prayed the
Avalon
would be captured and those who’d interfered made to suffer, especially Henrietta. Oh, how she loathed her old school friend now. The vapid little creature had everything, while she, Amabel, had lost all!

If the privateer captain and his sister were in foul moods, so was the bogle, which did not know how it was going to get out of its watery scrape. The Thames tide had changed at about the same time the
Avalon
had gone about, so that the current now bore the bucket in the same direction as the sloop. The bogle sat disconsolately in its unlikely conveyance. Maybe it would float aimlessly like this for weeks! Then something thudded against the side of the bucket, and the bogle peered out. Its wicked little eyes widened as it saw an ice floe, and then several more nearby, one of them disconcertingly large. The bogle swallowed, but then heard the telltale rush of a ship’s bow slicing through the water. The manikin’s eyes nearly popped from its head as it saw the
Légère
bearing down on the tiny bucket at a rate of knots as she tried to cut off the
Avalon’s
escape.

The privateer was only yards away when she opened fire with her howitzers. The bogle squealed and flattened itself at the bottom of the bucket, its hands to its ears. As the shots whistled overhead and fell harmlessly into the water, the manikin peeped out again The
Légère
was upon it, and as the bucket spun uncontrollably along the privateer’s hull, a hanging net came providentially within reach. Lunging up, the bogle hauled itself to safety and climbed through one of the many open gun-ports on the main deck. There it crouched beside the nearest cannon.

Its fear was soon a thing of the past as it watched the French crew dashing to and fro. The wicked gleam returned to its eyes and it rubbed its bony hands together in glee. But first a little rest after suffering ordeal by bucket. It would commence its troublemaking in a little while. Slipping slyly across the deck, it vanished through a hatch into the hold, where it soon found a comfortable corner in which to doze. But the doze became a deep snoring sleep, and it was to be some time before it wrought the same havoc among the French sailors that it had among the British.

Throughout the long morning, as the
Avalon
managed to keep ahead of the
Légère,
Marcus gave more thought to his plan to rid British shipping of the privateer. It all depended upon the shift of the sands, for just as at Mulborough and the Black Deeps, the currents and channels around the Goodwins could never be relied upon. A single bad storm could shift countless tons of sand, sometimes to devastating effect. Channels closed and new sandbars appeared where none had been before, lurking beneath the water to trap unwary vessels. Just one such spit had been detected a month ago by a naval survey, and he himself would not have known of it had he not encountered the captain of the frigate that came weekly to Mulborough to escort the packet vessel. They had fallen into conversation, and knowing that the Marquess of Rothwell’s country seat was on the coast facing the Goodwins, the man had mentioned the matter.

Marcus pursed his lips thoughtfully. Charles Lyons could not yet know anything because the
Légère
had been in northern waters for some time. What was needed was for the
Avalon
to reach the new spit as the tide was falling, which, by his reckoning should be toward the dusk. With her shallow draft, the sloop would pass safely over the hidden peril, but if the
Légère
attempted to follow, she would strike it hard. The tide would retreat apace as always it did on the sands, and the privateer would be left high and dry, soon to break her back. The only risk to the
Avalon
was that the sand had moved again since the survey, and either disappeared or been raised that fatal foot or so to trap her as well. It was a chance that he had to take.

He summoned the senior members of his crew to his cabin to tell them what he intended. With Rowley asleep on her lap, Henrietta sat on the window seat as the men pored over a sea chart, and the stratagem unfolded. She lowered her eyes as she imagined Jane’s reaction to learning they were to make for the Goodwins after all. Henrietta knew her own resolve was frail. She wanted to place her complete faith in Marcus, but since the phantoms’ disappearance she had been forced to share Jane’s conviction that the past
was
going to be repeated. If Jane was right, not only would the
Légère
suffer the
Basilic’s
fate upon the sands, but the
Avalon
would perish as the
Wessex
had perished. And so would all on board.

Mr. Barrington’s voice interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up. Marcus had finished outlining his plan, and asked if the others had anything to add. “Well, my lord, in theory it seems infallible.”

“But?”

“But we can’t be sure of getting to the spot at the right time. If the tide’s gone that bit too far, we’ll strike fast as well.”

“I know, but I’ve calculated that we should be able to get it right. And if we keep our course and speed steady at this, the
Légère
clearly can’t close on us sufficiently for capture
before
we reach the sands. Provided the weather doesn’t change, I think we stand a good chance.”

“The tides are untrustworthy once we round the North Foreland, my lord,” Mr. Padstow reminded him.

“I grew up with those tides, and I think I know them well enough,” Marcus replied, studying the chart again.

Mr. Harrington studied the chart as well. “My lord, how can we be sure the
Légère
will risk coming that close to the Downs? There’s a constant naval presence, to say nothing of the batteries on the Kent coast.”

Marcus glanced up and smiled. “I think I have the measure of Lyons’ arrogance. Remember how audacious he was at Mulborough? By the time we reach the Downs, he’ll have given up attempting to take us as prize. Instead he will be intent upon sinking us. By my figuring, he should just have us within range as we have the Goodwins in sight, and he’ll fire with everything he has forward.”

“Which is considerable,” the first officer observed quietly, thinking of the privateer’s formidable howitzers.

Marcus nodded philosophically. “Yes, and we have nothing mounted astern to give as good as we get, but he’ll have to be accurate immediately because in a very short time we will have sailed safely into the Downs. If he’s to sink us before that, he will have to gain the measure at the first few attempts, and in my experience very few vessels manage that. We must sail on as if the channel ahead is absolutely clear. On no account must Lyons be alerted, for the
Légère
is nimble enough to extricate herself even at the last moment. She must be lured right into the channel, where it is impossible to turn until the very edge of the Downs. Then, while we glide serenely over the hidden sandbar, he should pile up most fatally. With her immense spread of spar and canvas, the
Légère’s
demise should be a sight to behold.”

Mr. Padstow smiled. “I will follow wherever you lead, my lord, for I owe you my life. Besides which, I think it an excellent scheme.”

“Thank you for that vote of confidence, Mr. Padstow.”

The boatswain spoke again. “One last thing, my lord. Assuming it works, and the
Légère
is wrecked, what if there are survivors?”

Marcus straightened from the chart. “In conditions like this, the good men of Kent will no doubt put out in their luggers to rescue them. The wreck will be plundered, then Lyons and his crew will be flung in jail, where they belong.”

Another man grunted. “The captain of the
Légère
has hoisted a red flag enough times to be undeserving of any mercy. I’d leave him and his cutthroat crew to the justice of the sands.”

“There won’t be any mercy for them once the authorities have them. The hangman’s noose awaits privateers,” Marcus reminded him.

Henrietta spoke. “And what if Amabel survives?”

Marcus turned and met her eyes. “She’s a traitor and a spy, so I cannot answer what fate will befall her. Don’t waste your pity, for she deserves none of it. She was the most false of friends, even to the extent of attempting to murder you.” He glanced at the men again. “That’s all. I think we know what to do.”

As they nodded and filed out, he rolled up the chart and put it away. Then he came over to take Henrietta’s hand, but as he did so, Rowley awoke. The spaniel immediately took jealous exception to the intimacy and growled. Marcus looked down toward the sound. “So I’m trespassing, am I?” he murmured to Henrietta.

“It would appear so.”

“Have I understood correctly that this particular ghost cannot pass through closed doors?”

“Yes.”

“And that he has a passion for sugared almonds?”

“Yes.”

“Then how fortuitous that this cabin not only possesses cupboards with doors that close tight, but also a supply of said sweetmeats, for which I also happen to possess a liking.” Marcus went to the cupboard concerned, flung the doors open, and took a little bonbon dish from the top shelf. Opening it, he placed it on the bottom shelf of the cupboard and then looked at Henrietta again. “Will you do me the inestimable service of placing our spectral friend in here?”

“You mean to shut him in? Oh, Marcus, I can’t—

“My need is greater than his, believe me,” Marcus replied softly, looking deep into her eyes.

Without another word, she gathered Rowley into her arms and got up. Before the spaniel knew it, he was shut in. Initially his clamor of protest was tremendous, but then he scented the sugared almonds. His noise was silenced, and instead came the scrape of the dish as he moved it around in his endeavors to consume the contents.

Marcus smiled at Henrietta and took her hand once more. He drew her close and slipped an arm around her waist. “We are at a perilous moment, Henrietta, and approaching danger is a most efficient clearer of the mind. I will be honest with you. I left Scotland early and called at Mulborough in the sole hope of seeing you again. I knew you’d be there, and I wanted to win you back.”

Down in the depths of hell, Old Nick had been watching the proceedings with increasing alarm. What was this? A proposal? Surely victory wasn’t going to go to St. Peter at this eleventh hour? His hand tightened upon his pitchfork and he held his breath.

Marcus smiled into Henrietta’s eyes. “I love you, and I believe you love me too.”

“I do, oh, I do.”

He crushed her tightly to him, bruising her lips with the passion of his kiss. Hungry emotions tumbled through them both, and as his hands roamed lovingly over her body, she felt how aroused and needful he was. His virility excited her senses and she longed to satisfy a desire that turned her blood to fire. It was a hunger that could be denied no longer, for it had ached through her ever since the masked ball. He was the only one for her, and always would be. Now they were sailing into danger, and maybe it would all go wrong, maybe they would not survive. What price propriety then? What good would have been served by denying themselves the love they yearned for?

She drew back and looked into his eyes. “Make love to me,” she whispered.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Marcus smoothed Henrietta’s hair hack from her forehead. “Make love to you? How shameless you are.”

“I’m in earnest.”

He gazed at her. “I want to more than you can know.”

“I do know, Marcus, for I feel it too. Please, for this is the right moment, and I think we both know it.”

“The sin against propriety would be cardinal,” he reminded her.

“I no longer care,” she said recklessly.

He put his hand to her cheek and drew his thumb lovingly across her lips. “You have always been temptation beyond endurance, my darling,” he breathed, “but I will continue to resist. One day soon the circumstances will be right, but until then ...”

Tears filled her eyes. “But I need to be with you now, with you in a way we haven’t been before.”

He smiled and lifted her into his arms. “Kisses and intimate embraces we can share in abundance, my dearest, only the final act of love must wait.” He carried her into the adjacent cabin.

Old Nick remained uneasy. Wait for what? The marriage bed? How could it be anything else? And if that was in Marcus’ mind, how easily he might suddenly put it into words! And how clear it was that Henrietta would accept! Hell’s overlord watched intently as they lay together on the bed, where Marcus’ caresses soon made her sigh with pleasure. A satanic eyebrow was raised at the extent of Marcus’ skills. Had he worn a collar, the Master of Hades would have run a bony finger around it. The Marquess of Rothwell was devilishly accomplished in the art of love, and had he been of a wickeder disposition, he would have made a superb diabolic agent.

But Old Nick’s anxiety was unnecessary, for Marcus left her a short while later without proposing. As he stepped outside to the deck and stood beside the helmsman, he marveled that he had restrained his passions. Surely even a saint would have fallen by the wayside, and the Marquess of Rothwell was certainly not a saint! Except, perhaps, where Henrietta Courtenay was concerned. A tender smile brushed his lips. For her he would face the fury and damnation of hell itself!