Seduced by the Scoundrel (9 page)

‘No. You are an innocent—you don’t understand.’

‘I am beginning to get the hang of it, a little,’ she ventured, shocking herself.

‘Lucky Bradon,’ Luc said with a flash of the grin that made her smile back, a trifle uncertainly. ‘I’ll see you at supper.’

When he had gone she sat quite still for a while on the edge of the bed and tried to think. Luc said she was not wanton, only sensual. Was that true? He took the blame for that kiss becoming so much more, and yet she wasn’t ignorant, or unobservant. She should have stopped him the moment his fingers slid under her shirt. But she had not; she had wanted to undress him and to touch him intimately and—and then what?

Averil got up and let herself out, walked over the rise behind the hut and, once she was out of sight of the ships at anchor, began to climb towards the island’s little summit until she was at the top and looking out westward over open ocean. There was nothing between her and America, she realised, thinking of the endless
ocean the
Bengal Queen
had ploughed across to bring her here, to this tiny speck on the edge of the Atlantic.

The breeze was brisk and cool, and the sea spread out like crumpled silk with tiny white wavelets all over it and sudden, sinister, patches of foam and disturbed water to mark submerged rocks. She had thought perhaps she would see the wreck of the
Bengal Queen
from this height, but she could not. Was it out of sight behind that big island—Tresco, she thought they had called it—or had it sunk to the bottom?

How could anyone navigate at night through this maze of islands and islets and reefs? She pulled her braid over her shoulder and began to play with the end while she watched the sea. Only a few days since the wreck and so much had happened. She was a different woman.
I have suffered a sea change,
she thought.
I thought I knew who I was and what I wanted. Who I wanted.

‘But it doesn’t matter what I want,’ she said out loud, as though arguing with someone else. Or, perhaps, just with her conscience. ‘There is a contract, an agreement. Papa has said that I will marry Lord Bradon.’

There really was no option, after all. Whatever it was that was happening between her and the man she had met only days before, the man who had saved her life, it was not about the prospect of marriage. And marriage was her purpose in life: to marry well to help her family, then to be a good wife and support her husband and to raise happy, healthy children to carry on his line.

I have had a shock,
Averil thought, sitting down, then lying back so she was watching the sky and not the troubling, shifting, sea.
I am not quite steady in my mind.
Almost killed, mourning for her friends … Of
course she felt more for Luc d’Aunay than she would have under any other circumstances, she reasoned.

The bright sky hurt her eyes. Averil rolled over and lay on her stomach, propped herself up on her elbows and frowned at the short grass between them. It was starred with tiny flowers she did not know the names of and a minute black beetle was making its way through what must seem a jungle to it.

And what were those feelings when she came right down to it? Luc made her cross a lot of the time. He most certainly aroused wickedly sensual sensations that she was doing her best not to think about. He was attractive, although not handsome—she would not allow him that accolade. He was brave and strong and commanding and ruthless and even if he rescued women from admirals bent on rape he seemed to have no scruples over almost seducing her.

The world was full of strong, confident men like that, she told herself: Alistair Lyndon, the Chatterton twins, to name but three. She bit her lip—they were all right, they had to be. If she could reach land alive, then those men could.

Yes, there were thousands of attractive, courageous, dashing men and she was probably about to marry one. But in the meantime this one, the one she owed her life to, was going into danger. And behind his strength there was a darkness. His family tragedy and his isolation because of his birth would account for some of it. The injustice of the situation he now found himself in would be enough to make any man cynical and angry. She wondered if he would be in this position if he had been fully English or whether prejudice had told against him. Did he really know what he wanted? Did he secretly
yearn for acceptance as an Englishman as well as for his French identity and title back again?

Averil sat up and looked down the slope to where the men were gathered round Luc as he stood in the pilot gig on the beach and realised what she had been meaning to do ever since he had pulled her into his arms in the hut.

She was going with them.

‘F
erris.’

‘Yes, miss?’ As Averil reached the bottom of the slope the skinny little man looked up from the knife he was sharpening with loving care on a whetstone. She sat down beside him with a momentary thought about how convenient trousers were and how restricting skirts would seem when—if—she ever got back to them.

‘With Dawkins injured you are one man down for tonight.’

‘Aye, we are that.’ He spat on the stone and drew the knife down it again with a sinister hiss. ‘Clumsy lummock.’

‘Is it all boarding and fighting or does someone have to stay in the pilot gig?’ She had been trying to work out the tactics for boarding a brig from a much smaller boat and it seemed to her that they could not just all swarm on board and leave the gig to float away.

‘Someone has to stay, miss. If Dawkins wasn’t such a big lump, perhaps the cap’n would have taken ‘im
anyway, but he can’t row with that bad foot—you can’t get the strength behind the stroke, see—and we can’t haul ‘im on board, not and fight at the same time, and he’s a great hulk of a man.’ He tried the edge of his knife with the ball of his thumb and grunted with satisfaction. ‘In the gig Dawkins is just that much more weight if he can’t fight or row. We’ve got the extra weapons and the charts and stuff as well—you can’t climb up the side carrying that lot
and
fight, so the man in the gig ‘as to look after those.’

‘So whose job is it to stay on the gig?’ That would make them two fighting men down.

‘Mine, miss.’ He sighed. ‘I’m the smallest and the fastest. Pity. I’d like to ‘ave a go at them treacherous bastards. I gets to fight when we board the French brig, though. We’ll come alongside, tie on and then jump ‘em.’ He held the knife up to catch the light and grinned with blood-curdling anticipation.

‘Ferris, can you get me on board the pilot gig without the captain seeing?’ His mouth dropped open, revealing a snaggle of stained teeth. ‘I can stay in the gig and then you can go up and fight—you’d prefer that, wouldn’t you? I’ve got a pistol and I can fire it if someone tries to climb down.’

Ferris looked thoughtful, and very much like his nickname. She could almost see his pointed little nose twitching as he scrubbed a hand over his whiskery chin. One benefit of dealing with a cunning, unscrupulous, wicked man like this was that he had no concerns about doing something against orders, if it suited him. And, apparently, the opportunity to kill and be killed tempted him more than any fear of the consequences deterred him.

‘Aye, I’ll do it. You’ll need something dark and warm on your top, and a hat.’ He squinted down the beach at the gig. ‘I’ll be in the prow so I can catch hold and tie us off. Cap’n will be in the stern on the tiller. This is what we’ll do …’

‘You will be all right.’ Luc said it firmly, as though giving an order. He had come back to the hut after all. It was a good thing she had not changed into the dark clothing Ferris had given her yet.

‘Of course I will. I know exactly what to do.’ Averil smiled up at him with cheerful reassurance, then made her face more serious. It would not do to let the relief that she felt because she was going with him make him suspicious. And it was foolish to think that her presence could keep him safe. But it would give him one more fighting man in Ferris, and one more pistol.

They stood in the hut in front of the fire, suddenly as stiff and awkward with each other as two strangers at a social function.
Kiss me,
she urged him silently, as he stood, bare-headed, his hair disordered from the breeze that was getting up, his body indistinct in the dark clothing he wore, with no trace of white at cuff or throat. Luc showed no sign of wanting to even touch her hand in farewell.

‘Will you kiss me goodbye?’ She blushed to ask it and he looked, as far as she could see in the flickering light, less than enthusiastic.
How very flattening. I thought men about to embark upon danger welcomed kisses.

‘There is no excuse for a kiss now. We are beyond the need to deceive the men. I wish you well, Averil, and I am sorry if my actions have sullied the innocence you
had every right to take to your husband.’ He sounded deadly serious and his voice held, for the first time, the faint trace of an accent as he made the stilted speech. He was probably translating from the French in his head, she thought. Was that a sign that his emotions were engaged?

‘I have to admit that I enjoyed what we did together,’ she confessed. It was hard to resist the temptation to touch his face, caress his cheek, dark with evening stubble. ‘I would like you to kiss me again.’
Must I beg?
She was beginning to feel angry with him, and she did not want to feel that, not now.

‘I will kiss you when I get back,’ he said and smiled suddenly and her heart thumped with an emotion she did not understand, although fear was a large part of it. Her stomach felt hollow with apprehension. Was it fear for his life, or her own? Or for what would happen when they left this tiny island behind them?

‘Very well.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, the stubble prickling her lips. ‘Good luck and fair winds.’

He nodded, abrupt and withdrawn again, and she knew his focus was back with the mission, not this inconvenient female who had complicated his life for five days. ‘Goodbye, Averil.’ And then he was gone. She waited for ten heartbeats, then dragged the heavy navy wool Guernsey Ferris had given her over her head, making sure her collar and cuffs were tucked well inside. She stuffed her braid down inside it, then wrapped her head in the brown bandana he had found and blew out the lamp.

She knew the way over the slope of the hill now and she ran, higher than the route Luc would have taken
moments before. There was jarring pain in her foot when she stubbed her toe on a rock and she swallowed a yelp, hopped a few steps, then fell into a gorse bush, its thick prickly arms enveloping her in a wicked embrace. She hissed curses between her teeth until she was free and then stumbled along, picking tiny spears out of her hands and arms, until she found herself above the small group on the beach.

They were intent on loading the pilot gig and Ferris was where he had said he would be, in the water, holding the nose of the boat steady. Averil walked into the surf beyond the circle of light and crept back to him until he was between her and the beach.

‘In you get,’ he hissed as the group turned to pick up the weapons that had not yet been loaded. He boosted her up, over the side, and she fell on to the bottom boards. Her ribs found the rowing benches on the way and she clenched her teeth to stop herself crying out. She was going to have a fine set of bruises in the morning.

‘Hold it still, Ferret, for Gawd’s sake,’ someone called as the gig rocked. Averil caught her breath and curled into as small a ball as she could, right up in the prow.

‘Crab got me toe,’ the man called back. ‘Come on then, mates, I’ve got it and I’m ruddy freezing me wedding tackle off, standing ‘ere.’

The boat swayed and rocked as the crew climbed in, muttering and pushing as they got themselves into their rowing positions, the men not at the oars wedged down at the rowers’ feet. Ferris heaved himself on board and sat down, his dripping wet legs draped over Averil’s back. With the rest of the crew facing away from them
no one could see her; unless she moved or spoke, she was safe.

What she was not, was comfortable. It was necessary to remind herself whose idea this was, because she found it was all too easy to blame Luc for the discomforts of his pilot gig. The trip seemed interminable; her position was cramped, her feet were stuck in the cold water that washed over splintery boards and the little boat seemed dangerously low in the water as it powered through the waves. Every now and again water slapped over the side, drenching her.

What was worse was the waiting once they had got into position. She wriggled so hard that Ferris let her sit up and peer around, but his horny hand pushed down on her head the moment the men began to settle themselves for the wait, turning on the rowing benches to get more comfortable.

They seemed to be in the shelter of some rocks that rose like a jagged crest from the sea, but despite the natural breakwater the pilot gig rocked with the swell, and Averil told herself, over and over, that she did not suffer from seasickness. Not one little bit.

The men were quiet, for sound travelled great distances over water. But Luc was talking, his voice a murmur, barely discernible over the noise of the waves hitting the rocks. Averil could not hear what he was saying, but she felt soothed by it, encouraged. He was calm, so she was, too.
A little touch of Harry in the night,
she thought, recalling her Shakespeare—King Henry walking amongst the camp fires as his troops waited for dawn and the great battle against the French.

She must have dozed as she huddled at Ferris’s feet because the whisper from the men took her by surprise.
‘The light! He’s signalling.’ She wriggled round and peered over the edge of the gig and there to the northeast a pinprick of light flashed on and off, on and off, then swung back and forth. Then it was gone for the space of perhaps ten seconds before the pattern was repeated. The men shuffled and bent down, she saw the flash of starlight on metal as weapons were handed around and heard the click as pistols were primed.

Then all there was to do was wait, and now the anticipation in the pilot gig was tangible and her mouth was dry and her heart pounded so much that she did not hear when the order was given. The men fitted the oars back into the rowlocks and began to propel the boat out from the shelter of the rocks.

As they slid into open water she saw the brig, sails dark against the slightly lighter sky, the bow wave a froth of white showing its speed. ‘
Go!
’ Luc said and the gig shot forwards, turned and angled in on the other vessel. She thought they would be rammed, then that they would plough into the side of the ship, but Luc brought her round so they slid alongside with scarcely a thump. Ferris flung himself up, his feet trampling on her as he lashed the ropes to the brig. All along the side other arms were working, heaving ropes, making fast. The pilot gig was tethered, riding alongside as the brig forged onwards. And no voice shouted from on deck. They had achieved surprise, Averil realised and started breathing again.

Luc stood up and she saw him clearly for the first time: a silhouette reaching for the ropes.
Leading from the front,
she thought with a surge of pride that killed the fear for a moment. The men scrambled after him
in ferocious silence and then she and Ferris were alone on the tossing gig.

‘Check all the ropes,’ he whispered. ‘And keep checking. Get everything together and bundle it into that net, ready to swing up. You got the pistol?’

There was a shout from on deck, the sound of gunfire, a scream, shouted orders. Chaos.
Luc …
‘Yes,’ she said and pulled it from her waistband. ‘But you take it. Someone might need it. Watch his back, Ferris, please.’

‘You call me Ferret, miss. You’re one of us. Yeah, I’ll watch your man’s back for ye.’

He was gone, swarming up the side like his namesake after a rabbit, and Averil was left in the tossing boat with no idea what was happening above. She got to her feet, was thrown down, crawled, flinched as shots rang out above and voices yelled. Her hands groped until she had collected up everything that was left. A long tube made of some hard material must contain the charts, she supposed. She stuffed it all into the net and tied the neck tight.

A man screamed, there was a splash. More yelling. Her foot found something sharp that she had missed: a cutlass. With it tight in her left hand she worked along the gig, testing each rope, each knot, as though they tethered Luc and his men to life.

A pistol cracked, the brig lost way and they were wallowing, so suddenly that for a moment it was like the awful, endless second when the
Bengal Queen
hit the rocks. The fighting had stopped. Averil shifted the cutlass into her right hand and stared up. Who was she going to see, looking down from the rail?

Then a voice roared, ‘Ferris, what the hell are you doing up here?’ and she sagged on to a rowing bench
in relief. There was the sound of Ferret’s voice, making excuses, she supposed, and then the wiry little man came scrambling down the ropes.

‘All’s well. Nobbut a few scratches all round and a hole in Tom Patch’s shoulder and that’s just an in-and-out,’ he said, as a rope came over the side and he lashed the net to it. ‘You better hold on tight to this, miss, and get pulled up with it. And keep yer ‘ead down when you get on deck—Cap’n’s fit to be tied. ‘E says you’re to stick with me and keep out of the way or he’ll leave you in the gig and cut the lines.’

‘He doesn’t mean it,’ Averil said and saw the glint of white as Ferret rolled his eyes.

‘Ha! Most likely drop me over instead. Up you go.’

It was worse than being swung on board the
Bengal Queen
in the bo’sun’s chair. Averil clung like a monkey and landed on the deck in a jumble of netting and sharp objects, rolled clear and stood up as Ferret came over the side to attack the bundle and free the weapons.

‘Where is he?’ she panted, looking round. They had lit a couple of lanterns and in the swaying light she could see that the deck of the brig was crowded. The original crew was huddled around the foremast with three of Luc’s men systematically tying their hands and feet and removing hidden weapons. The rest of the men were moving about the small ship with a purposeful air of getting themselves familiar with its workings and she could see Potts at the wheel, feet braced, face calm, transformed from cook to helmsman.

‘Cap’n’s below in the cabin getting them papers safe.’ Ferret dug the chart roll out. ‘Be calling for this any minute, I expect—you want to take that down to ‘im, miss?’

‘Not in the slightest,’ Averil said with complete truth, ‘but I might as well get it over with.’

‘Bark’s worse than ‘is bite,’ Ferret said as he tidied the net away.

‘He shot the last person who upset him, I hear,’ she muttered as she made her way along the sloping deck and down the steep ladder.