Seacliff (49 page)

“’Ave you got it?” a wary voice asked.

“I have what it takes,” Griff told him without hesitation. “I have what it takes,” he repeated, chuckling.

I
t was so cold beneath the surface of the water that Caitlin nearly lost consciousness, but she held on grimly, her cheeks puffed with air as she pushed down and away from the sinking boat. She did not swim far, however. Her sense of direction was thoroughly befuddled, and she needed to return to the surface as quickly as she could before she was either dragged out to sea, or smashed against the base of the cliff.

Though her eyes were open she could see nothing, hear nothing but the roaring of her blood in her ears, and her limbs were growing numb startlingly fast. She struck out blindly once her tumbling had been controlled, reaching with long strokes and pulling herself along to where she remembered the steps were last seen, praying and hoping her direction was right. Not far away she could faintly hear the crash of the breakers. It terrified her. She almost panicked. Her lungs began to bum, and bubbles of air sifted between her lips.

Up, she told herself; damn you, Caitlin, up!

It seemed that she fought the boiling surf for hours before her hand struck rock just as the last of her air exploded from her chest. No, she thought, it wasn’t rock at all. It was wood. A long piece of wood. But it was too late. Even as her hands closed around it and pulled weakly, her mind was losing its spark. Clouds of soft, gentle black velvet drifted over her, enticing her, coaxing her to abandon the struggle and give herself up to the sea. It was tempting. It was remarkably tempting, considering all she had vowed, all she had been through. All she had to do—the undertow snaring her legs while the shove of the water slammed her hard against the wall—all she had to do was let go. First the right hand, then the left hand, and she would belong to Neptune for eternity. And she would be with her parents. She could hear them calling to her. Urging her to flee the land of mortals and come into the shade of heavenly warmth. Warmth. That’s what she wanted now— pulling, banging, pulling without feeling—that’s what she needed. A fire and a warm embrace and the voice of her father scolding her for nearly toppling over the side into Bristol Channel.

Pulling. Her lungs were afire, her throat scorched.

Her parents were shouting at her now, demanding she forget her foolish notions and leave all behind her. Her soul was all that mattered. And the wood. The wood. Hang on to the wood.

“The wood, mistress! Damn you…”

Jonson, his legs held by Danny, whose legs in turn were being held by another, ducked his head beneath the sea’s foam and grasped Caitlin’s wrist. She came without a struggle, and as he broke the surface, gasping and snorting, he feared he’d been too late. She was dead; at the last, she had died to allow him to live.

Tugging, squirming, as the sea grasped for them greedily, they hauled her up laboriously, swearing at her, swearing at each other until they were above the surf at last, huddling against the slick stone wall on a broad step.

“Be she alive?” Danny asked anxiously. The others looked over his shoulder at the woman lying in Jonson’s lap.

“Don’t know,” Willy said, a catch in his voice. “Don’t know.”

They talked incessantly to each other while they tried to push the water from her lungs, drive the blue from her lips and bring back her color. They talked…

… and Caitlin heard the voices.

“No,” she murmured. “I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go. Not now. Not … not … now.”

A shouting above the thunderous breakers puzzled her. Why were her parents yelling like that? Why were they so gleeful? Hadn’t she told them she didn’t want to go with them? Weren’t they listening to her? Weren’t they?

She opened her eyes to confront them and saw a bold man peering at her, water from sea spray dripping from his face as if he were crying. She closed her eyes again, reopened them, and remembered where she was.

“Thank God,” Jonson said prayerfully, falling back in relief. “Thank God.”

36

D
awn slipped closer by an hour before Caitlin was able to stand and breathe freely again. But once she was on her feet she wasted no time leading Jonson and the others up the path, the surf growling below them, the clouds racing overhead, their edges lined with shining gray. The wind had abated for the time being, reduced to a deceptive whispering through the treetops. Caitlin listened to it for a moment as she pulled herself along the slick, rattling railing. The wind had no message for her, however, and she moved onward, upward, until the wall was within reach. Then she dropped to her knees and lowered her head.

The others gathered as closely as they could about her. The scrape of their weapons leaving their sheaths and scabbards was lost in the roar of the breakers. Their own gasping and panting matched hers, and when she finally looked up she saw a motley collection of bedraggled, trembling men fighting off the cold of both sea and air. It was a wonder no more of them had been lost in their travels, she thought, and forced herself to give them a smile to prove she’d not left them.

Then, puffing her cheeks and releasing the air in a long, meaningful sigh, she poked at four chests and signaled them to make their way around to the front of Seacliff by way of the south tower. One, she directed in mime, should detour to the second staff cottage, just in case Wyndym or his followers had not made it. As far as she knew these men were the only ones left. Since she’d heard no fighting or sounds of struggle, she told herself she had to assume she was on her own for the time being.

The scrape of a boot against a stone sounded not far away. The men pushed as close as they could to the stone face just below the wall, listening, holding their breath. The snap of a twig breaking in two could next be heard. Caitlin, putting a finger to her lips, eased herself up to the last step and put her shoulder against the wall. Slowly, infinitely slowly, she raised her head to the top and saw a man standing not ten feet away, his face upturned toward the sky. She was puzzled until she saw in the wash of light from the house a flask in his hand. When he’d finished his tippling, he secured the flask somewhere in the folds of his cloak, and turned toward the water. She ducked just in time, held her breath and waited. Then they heard him walk past and stop.

A second set of footsteps neared, and stopped, and a man with a heavy Yorkshire accent said, “Not much time now, is it? They’ll be comin’ to relieve us.”

“Ach, if they wake up. Christ, man, y’know, if it weren’t for the gold I’d be on the first coach out of here.”

“Ye’d best not let the old man hear ye say that.”

“Or One-Eye.”

They laughed, and she heard one thump the other’s shoulder companionably. A moment’s more chatter, and the first man was alone again, muttering to himself about the weather and the country and why he had to listen to talk of damned Welsh women when the only one worth having that he’d seen since coming was long since gone, and wasn’t that the devil’s promise.

Caitlin grinned at the left-handed compliment, then drew her dagger from its sheath and cupped one hand around her mouth. She coughed lightly. Though he was out of sight, she could sense the man turn sharply, could see him frown, could feel him question the soundness of his hearing. She coughed again, and waved a hushing hand at the stirring below her.

He was coming. Though he was trying to be silent she was able to pick out the swish of his cloak, the rub of his trousers, the irregular slap of his musket’s stock against his arm. Her lips suddenly went dry, and she licked them. Her legs began to cramp, and she ignored the dull pain as she kept her gaze upward, waiting.

The light from the house spread out in a series of golden bars across the lawn, those from the upper stories slanting gently downward and casting shadows all the way to the wall. She had no problem sorting out his shadow. His capped head almost immediately afterward came into view directly above her. He was staring perplexedly at the water. Then, just as he was about to turn around, he changed his mind and leaned forward, peering through the darkness at a spot just in front of Caitlin. When she judged he wouldn’t bend any farther, she moved—her right hand whipping up and grabbing the front of his shirt, pulling sharply outward and down. Her left hand followed the right instantly, driving the dagger into his throat. With a cry and a gurgling noise, he fell past her like a giant night creature whose wings had failed. When he tumbled, his musket tumbled with him, and the only sign that he’d fallen into the water was a brief and sudden explosion of white in the writhing black maelstrom.

Swiftly, then, she pulled herself up and over the wall, the others right behind her. The second guard was walking aimlessly in the opposite direction, and they kept to the wall as they ran, breaking for the house only when they were opposite the south tower. Caitlin took the lead, waving the four men on when she reached the door to the staff quarters and fell against the tower wall. Jonson, crouched beneath the single window, inched his way up and peered in, dropped down again and held up one finger. Caitlin pointed to her breast. Jonson, after a moment, nodded. She breathed deeply, stepped away from the tower and took hold of the door.

A dog barked in the stables.

The door opened and she raced in, running across the floor and throwing herself on Mary and knocking her to the floor before the chambermaid could utter a single cry. But her eyes, when she recognized Caitlin, widened, and she paled; she groaned beneath Caitlin’s palm and would have fainted had not Caitlin slapped her with the daggered hand.

“Flint,” she whispered in the woman’s ear. “Flint!”

Mary struggled to break free, and Caitlin shifted until she was sitting on her stomach, the dagger’s point pressed into her throat.

“Flint, damn you,” she repeated.

“Mistress!” Jonson warned suddenly in a whisper, pointing at the door to the tower’s lower hall. “Someone be comin’.”

“Bradford?” Caitlin asked. Mary shook her head. “Gwen?”

Mary whimpered, and the dagger jabbed her skin once.

Jonson and Danny, with clubs in their hands raised and at the ready, stood on either side of the door. Now she could hear the footsteps, a man’s by the sound of them and not stopping at any of the rooms along the way. She held her breath, glaring at Mary to keep her silent, then turned to face whoever entered.

The door opened, and Nate Birwyn came through. He was four paces into the common room before he realized something was wrong. By that time, Jonson had closed the door behind him, and Danny had drawn his own knife from his belt. The others stepped into the light, but Nate saw only Caitlin straddling Mary on the floor.

His good eye bulged. “My God!”

Caitlin slapped Mary once to warn her, then rose, letting Jonson take her place, push Mary into a chair, and stand threateningly over her. “Mr. Birwyn,” she said, “how nice of you to welcome me home.”

Birwyn tensed, but a quick appraisal of the force ranged against him made him see the futility of attempting to escape. He shrugged acquiescence and perched on a comer of the long table.

“Didn’t expect you,” he said.

Time, she thought; I can’t waste time. “Where’s Flint?”

“How’d you manage it, m’lady?” Birywn asked innocently. “Didn’t think you had the army.”

“The bay,” Danny told him, moving nearer to show him the glint of his blade.

“Ah.” Birwyn nodded. “James, y’see, didn’t think you’d try anythin’ in a storm like out there.”

“Flint!” she demanded.

“You heard the mistress,” Danny growled. “Where’s Mr. Flint?”

Birwyn shrugged maddeningly, and Caitlin lost her patience. She walked up to him and showed him her blade, still marked with the blood of the guard. His eye narrowed, and his mouth grew taut. She suspected he was thinking it hadn’t been she who’d done the killing, and though she had not allowed herself to think about her action, it seemed to her, too, that someone else had held the dagger and plunged it into the guard’s throat. Someone else had used his weight and surprise to cast the soldier down into the sea.

“Flint—for the last time!” she said harshly, and held the point of the dagger close to his eye.

“Well,” he said without flinching, “there’s a story in that, y’know.”

G
riffin paced the length of the barracks yard and back again, glancing in the door to see if his men still watched their charges. He was worried. Something should have happened by now, and he blamed himself for allowing Caitlin to take such complete charge without offering some advice of his own, or at least suggesting a system of warning and victory signals. As it was, he’d sent Peter to search the grounds around the house, to see what he could learn. And he realized that soon enough his prisoners were going to realize that a concerted rush on the outlaws would overwhelm them handily.

He walked, and stared toward Seacliff as if the sheer force of his will would allow him to penetrate the darkness and determine Caitlin’s whereabouts. And as he stared, he became aware of a light dancing at the comer of his vision. With his weapon at the ready he spun around just as a wall of flame roared up the front of the barracks across the green. He whirled to snap an order to his men, but he knew it was too late. A guard materialized out of the darkness to his left, saw the fire raging, saw Griffin standing in the full light, and vanished again.

Courage, he told himself as he hurried inside; have courage, lad, or we’re done for.

The mercenaries were milling about in their cramped comer, and Griffin, with a stern glance at his men, faced them as he studied the sleek blade his right hand held high.

“Gentlemen,” he said calmly, “it appears the wind is up. You’re in no mortal danger, of course, if you stay here. I doubt the fire will jump in your laps. But,” he added, slightly louder, using his left hand to wave his men from the building, “I do suspect you will lose something of your lives if you try to leave very soon.” He smiled. “And please, do remember what I told you before. The man who fills your purses will fill them no more.” He moved backward to the door, reached out and took hold of its edge, the heat of the fire nearly scorching his back.