The Cornish Heiress (22 page)

Suddenly she wondered why she was killing herself to hold on
to Bolliet. Why not let the gull-gropers have it? Mrs. Edward Devoran could
simply disappear. Red Meg could marry a smuggler’s bastard. She sat up
abruptly. That was insane! She could not abandon her father. He would be thrown
out to die like an old bag of bones. And the people on the estate? What would
become of them? But she could not take back her “yes” either. She bent to kiss
Philip one last time. When he came back, she would tell him—something.

Gently she disengaged herself from his clinging arms. “I
will meet you at the cave at the usual time,” she said. “What do you want done
with Spite?”

“I have a place to leave him,” Philip replied, his voice
harsh.

Megaera nearly went back to the bed, but she knew that would
only make it more painful. She dressed quickly and then, quite suddenly, fled
the house without saying another word. Philip had started to get up too, which
was unusual, but he only called her name as she went out the door and he did
not follow. He could scarcely pursue her stark naked as he was, but it would be
wrong anyway, he told himself as he permitted his eyes to close. A faint,
reminiscent smile curved his lips as he slid deep, deep into an exhausted
sleep.

The smile was still on his lips when he woke some hours
later, the sun shining full in his face. He stretched slowly. The night he had
put in had almost made the parting worthwhile, and he had nothing to fear. Meg
was honest as the day. She had said she would wait, and she would. It would not
be so long. He would make all the haste he could.

Philip whistled happily as he pumped water, stirred up the
fire, and set a small pot to heat shaving water. He washed sketchily, shivering
in the chilly room at the touch of the cold water. Would there be time, he
wondered, to take a bath at Moreton Place? No, that was ridiculous. Even Perce
would find it hard to explain a friend who came in to take a bath and left
again, and there would be no way to keep that information from Lady Moreton.
Anyway, he would suit his role better as he was. Philip looked at his watch and
whistled again. He had slept longer than he thought. It wouldn’t take long to
ride Spite over to Moreton Place and leave him in the stable yard, but it would
take considerably longer to walk back from there to the cave.

Then he realized he would have to make a detour to the cave
first to leave his saddlebags and clothes roll. It was enough to carry himself
all those miles from Moreton Place without having to carry baggage too. He
reminded himself to ask Pierre whether it would be safe to carry the Parker
pistols and the muff gun into France. They were English-made and might betray
him. The Lorenzoni’s were safe—not that he would part with them even if they
were not. But it was as likely that a Frenchman would have a pair of Italian-made
guns as an Englishman. His clothing too—but Pierre would know.

Even with detours and the long walk, Philip reached the cave
before Megaera came through the passage from Bolliet Manor. She had guessed he
would be early and had come early herself, but she could not come before dining
with her father, and on this night when she would be returning alone to the
cave with the men, she needed the pistols and other things she kept hidden in
the passage, so she could not ride around the hill, as she had been doing to
deceive Philip.

Megaera peered cautiously out of the passage before allowing
John to lower the ladder. Fortunately, although she could hear Philip moving
around, he was on the other side of the screen that hid the “living” area. John
dropped the ladder very slowly so it would not make a noise when it touched the
floor, and Megaera clambered down as fast as she, could and ran quickly out
into the main body of the cave, calling, “Philip, is it you?”

As he turned she clasped him in her arms and kissed him
hungrily. It was a device to give John time to come down, push the ladder back
into concealment, and come out—but Megaera enjoyed it very much. So did Philip,
although he guessed the purpose.

“And where did you come from, bunny dear?” he asked
mischievously when he heard John coming and broke the embrace.

The question was more for the pleasure of seeing Meg drop
her eyes and blush furiously as she told a lie than with any real desire to
know. Philip was curious about her secret, but he was certain after the two
weeks of intimate living that there could be nothing shameful in it. The
dreadful difficulty she had in lying as well as Pierre’s assurance that she was
honest, precluded a criminal background. Philip was curious but not in any
hurry to have his curiosity satisfied. When he told Meg his secrets, he was
sure he could winkle out hers.

“From one of the other caves,” Megaera said hanging her
head.

It was harder and harder to lie to Philip, particularly
since she trusted him implicitly now. The only reason she had not confessed and
lived with him in the greater comfort of Bolliet Manor was her fear that the
knowledge that she was a lady would make him feel awkward or embarrassed. She
could not speak now, either. It would make him unhappy, and that word “alive”
had haunted her all day. She believed now that Philip was going to do something
dangerous. If that were true, he must have nothing to distract him. He must be
secure and confident so he could think only of his own safety.

“Little liar,” Philip said, kissing her lightly on the nose.
“There is another passage you have hidden from me. Never mind, love, I will not
pry now, but when I return we will have a reckoning.”

“Oh, Philip—”

“Never mind, I said. You are such a terrible liar, you could
not convince me. Meg, for the last time, will you not just leave this cargo in
the cave or sell it all to someone else to distribute? I am afraid for you.”

“Afraid for me? Don’t be silly, Philip. Don’t you worry
about me! Only come back safe. I’ll be fine. I’ll wait however long. Just come
back safe.”

“Love, love, of course I will be safe. Whatever put the idea
that I would not be safe into your beautiful head?”

Clearly he didn’t remember what he had said that morning,
half asleep as he had been. He must not worry about that either. Megaera looked
up and smiled. “Oh, Philip, everything is dangerous. Every trip Pierre makes he
might be caught. I’m sure disposing of the goods we have for him will be
dangerous. Such things must surely be forbidden—well, you told me yourself that
Bonaparte had forbidden them.”

Philip laughed and kissed her nose again. “Adorable idiot.
Pierre has never been caught in nearly forty years. Do you think he will
suddenly forget everything he knows, just because I am with him? I may distract
you, my love, but he is quite indifferent to my charms.”

But then it was dark and John came with the ponies. They
made their way to the cove. Pierre was not delayed either by a cruising ship or
by contrary wind. His signal flashed right on time, and after Megaera had
answered with hers they were all too busy to be sad or frightened. Pierre’s
goods, which had been brought down by the ponies, were loaded into the outgoing
boats. Philip had no chance after that to think of anything but what he was
doing. Unloading from and reloading the small dinghies was a ticklish job. It
was only in the early hours of the morning, when he had finally maneuvered
himself into a spare hammock and stretched his aching limbs, that he realized
he had overlooked one essential thing that might be of enormous value to Meg.

He sat up so suddenly that he banged his head on a beam and
almost fell out of the hammock. Ignoring the muffled laughter of a couple of
newer crewmen who did not know him, he went to find Pierre and tell him he had
changed his mind about going ashore to meet Meg when she paid for the cargo she
had received. It had been agreed between them that Philip would not come. Both
felt it would be too painful to part again under the restraint necessary in The
Mousehole.

How much Philip’s regret over this decision inspired his
idea, he did not investigate. However, when he told Pierre that he wanted to
leave two letters with Meg—one explaining that if she should by any mischance
be caught, she should send the second letter to his father and appeal to Roger
for help. Pierre agreed that the notion was most excellent. He grinned a
little, but he was kind enough not to mention that it would be easiest simply
to entrust the letters to him. Pierre did not think much of women, but he was
by no means immune to their charms. It might be long in the past, but Pierre
could remember finding excuses to see this or that pretty creature one last
time. He simply furnished Philip with writing materials and told him he was
going to bed.

Philip did not find either letter easy to write. He did not
wish to give his father and stepmother any reason to think he was acting like
an idiot and contemplating a permanent association with an obviously unsuitable
woman. This would cause them considerable anguish and could not help Meg. Not
that his father would not exert himself in her behalf—he would, of course, but
he might also insult her by offering to buy her off.

In this Philip wronged and underestimated his father, who
would have recognized Megaera’s quality instantly. Roger might have been
stunned to find a lady of quality engaged in such an enterprise—although that
was doubtful too. After twenty years as a barrister there was very little that
could surprise him. Nonetheless, since it was not likely Roger would be too
dazzled by Megaera’s beauty to notice anything else he would have known her for
a lady. Furthermore, having a reasonably clear understanding of his son’s
character, he would have welcomed his peculiarly employed but gently born
prospective daughter-in-law with open arms—after extricating her from the grip
of the law.

Like most sons, however, Philip did not guess his father was
so perspicacious. Therefore, he controlled his transports about Meg’s character
and person as well as he could and tried to place emphasis on how well Pierre
thought of her, how eager she had, been to make sure the smuggling did not give
aid to Bonaparte either through helping his agents or providing goods useful
for war, and how helpful she had been to him. This was a waste of effort. When
Leonie saw the letter, she would read between the lines immediately. Philip,
though, was well satisfied with his effort when it was completed.

The letter to Meg was even harder to write. Philip hoped, of
course, that she would never have to open it. However, if she did there was no
way to guess when it would be. He did not dare confess his mission lest the
letter fall into other hands. In the end he decided to tell her nothing, only
that if she should be taken by the law she should demand that Roger St. Eyre,
M.P., of Stour Castle, Kent, be informed and the second enclosed letter be
delivered to him. Using the name of a gentleman and member of Parliament would
obtain consideration for her immediately. No local official would take the
chance of offending a man who might be of importance, and if the arresting
officers were from the Customs Service in London, they might know his father.
Now if he could obtain Meg’s promise to do as he asked, Philip felt he would
not need to worry about her.

He was completely happy when he and Pierre were set ashore
at a quiet beach not far from The Mousehole. There was a rough pier near the
inn itself, but Pierre preferred not to use it. He believed it was unwise to
appear at the same time and place in a vulnerable position—and there was
nothing more vulnerable than a man caught on a ladder between a pier and a
moving boat—too frequently. Thus he came ashore sometimes east, sometimes west
of the place and walked, which also gave him a chance to look over the ground and
the inn with some care.

The beach on which they landed did not run all the way to
The Mousehole. A rocky headland protruded right down into the water. This was
not at all unusual, and Philip and Pierre scrambled up the flank of the hill by
the light of the dark lantern Pierre carried, for it was a nasty night, cold
and misty with light rain. When they reached the top of the rise, Pierre
stopped to look around and orient himself. He knew the area well, but in the
absence of moon and stars he had to use the lantern to identify a landmark he
knew to be nearby.

It was not where he expected, but they could not be lost as
long as they kept the sound of the surf to their left. They walked few minutes,
Pierre occasionally turning the light inland, hoping to pick out a cairn of
stones. Apparently in the dark they had missed the beach he wanted and landed
at one even farther east than he had intended. They walked for nearly ten
minutes before he spotted the pile of rock; it was a good deal farther south
than he expected. He uttered a short exclamation, and they turned toward the
marker. They would come out on the road at the very northern edge of the
straggle of huts that surrounded The Mousehole rather than on the shore near
the inn.

This was scarcely important, as they had plenty of time, and
Pierre and Philip walked along talking softly in French of Pierre’s success in
obtaining an excellent set of papers for Philip and Philip’s success in
obtaining a cargo of great value for Pierre.

“Yes, well, I hope it is not too dangerous to handle,”
Philip said.

Pierre laughed. “You mean now that you are of the
Douane
you will report me?” Then, before Philip could react to this teasing, Pierre
said, “My God, a thought of the most excellent. So you shall, Philippe!”

Aware that Pierre could not mean this literally, Philip did
not cry out in protest but only remarked calmly, “Here is the road, do not fall
into the ditch.”

Pierre started to swing the lantern to delineate better the
edge of the rain runoff ditch, when a voice cried out, “It is he!” and almost
before the last word a pistol barked. Another voice, deeper, hoarser, shouted,
“No!” but Philip and Pierre were already in the ditch, and Pierre’s pistol had
returned the shot in the direction of the sound. It seemed as if he had been
more successful than he intended, for a scream rang out and a shadow darted
across the road.