The Cornish Heiress (29 page)

“But you do not need to bother with that with me,” she
replied. “I am quite willing without that nonsense.”

“It is not nonsense,” Philip said sharply. “Most men do not
like to be regarded as—as animated penises.”

Désirée’s eyes opened wide with shock. She had probably
never heard that word spoken by a man before, but she knew what it meant.

“A man likes to think he has chosen a woman and she has
accepted him because she finds something of value in him.”

“But that is love,” Désirée protested. “I do not want love.
I love Papa. I do not want to leave him. What would he do without me? Do you
not see that it would be wrong in me to allow a man to think I cared for him?”

Although Philip realized that Désirée wanted to eat her cake
and have it too, he was moved by her honesty. He told her how to handle him,
and soon enough he was ready for her. He also suggested that she ride him. That
way he could hold off longer and she could do what would best satisfy her.
Indeed, Philip sincerely hoped she would exhaust herself so thoroughly that she
would leave him in peace until it was time to go. To forward that purpose he
lay with closed eyes, earnestly trying to think of a way to leave Boulogne.

It was not surprising that he did not find a solution to his
problem, but he did manage to delay his orgasm until Désirée collapsed into
stillness, sobbing with exhaustion. Then he turned her over to satisfy himself.
He was quite annoyed when she tried to push him away before he was finished. It
was easy enough to ignore her protest and hold her still until he came to
climax, but Philip was thoroughly disgusted again. He had never met anyone so
completely selfish and self-centered as Désirée—except his own mother. It was
not honesty that had spoken, he thought cynically—although the words were
couched in terms of her father’s need and a putative lover’s feelings—Désirée
simply did not wish to be inconvenienced by the responsibilities of marriage or
the importunities of a man who hoped to win her.

This was it, Philip decided angrily. He would rather have
his virility questioned than serve as a stud again to a woman who was not even
willing to allow him to satisfy himself, not to mention pretending a wish to
please him. Without a word he rose from the bed and went into the other room to
dress. Désirée had not made a sound after the angry protest he had ignored. He
assumed she had dropped off to sleep. He felt in urgent need of a little repose
himself, but was more than content to stretch out as far as he could on a sofa
that was more elegant than comfortable.

He thought again of Meg, of the peace and sweetness of lying
beside her when their lovemaking was ended. That was truly making love. He had
been a fool to yield to a physical need and a sense of curiosity. It was no
longer true for him, he realized, that all cats look alike in the dark. Now he
could really understand why his father never seemed to want any woman other
than Leonie. Then he grinned briefly, because of course, Leonie was jealous as
a cat. She looked like one too, her yellow eyes gleaming with rage, ready to
spit and scratch if she suspected her husband’s attention might have wandered.
Philip had defended Roger to her once, and she had shrugged her shapely
shoulders.

“So he is innocent this time, but—
du vrai
, he is too
handsome that devil, and too adventurous. It does no harm to remind him that I
am not a complacent wife—not I!”

And truly it did no harm. His father was a little upset and
indignant when Leonie flew into a jealous rage, but he was flattered also. With
a pang Philip wondered whether Meg would be jealous. He missed her acutely. The
longing for her, now untainted by sexual need, was so urgent as to come near to
physical pain. And each time he thought of Meg he was made more uneasy by
remembering what she did. It was not safe—no matter how careful she was. He had
to stop her from smuggling. Pierre could find another partner. Philip grew more
and more worried each time he thought of Meg surrounded by those rough men. And
was he really sure Black Bart would stay away from her?

He must leave Boulogne! But now he was worried that Désirée
might want to use him again. He felt sick at the thought, but she was just the
type to be spiteful and accuse him of something if she thought he was trying to
escape her. It was infuriating that he could not think of a good reason to
leave, but his mind would not work and his eyelids felt weighted with lead.

The next thing Philip knew he was being shaken awake. He had
a moment’s confusion and another brief sensation of near horror when he recognized
Désirée but before he could betray himself he saw that she was also fully
dressed.

“It is nearly time to go,” she said. “You will have to come
here alone tomorrow, and I will meet you. Georges will not be able to get leave
two days together, and I do not trust anyone but Jeannine.”

Philip opened his mouth to refuse. He was really infuriated
by the girl’s calm assumption that he was a sexual machine that would function
at her order and—assuming his story to be true—had nothing better to do on his
vacation than service her. However he remembered in time his last thought
before sleeping, that she was likely to be a spiteful bitch, and instead of
refusing outright be shook his head as if he were not yet completely awake.

“What?” he asked blurredly.

Désirée repeated herself in more detail, explaining that she
did not wish to bother finding another excuse to take him with her in the
carriage, particularly when she had no female companion. He could ride out
himself. She would forget her reticule. If he were waiting for her inside, the
coachman, who never came into the house, would not know she had met him.

“It will not take us long,” she said baldly. “I can be out
in half an hour or so, and it will cause no surprise that I should stay that
long.”

By the time she was finished, Philip had seen his chance. He
was furious, but he smiled as sweetly as an angel and agreed to everything. He
would leave Boulogne at first light. Let her come and find that he had not kept
the appointment. Perhaps that would make her understand that men were neither
bulls nor stallions and should be treated as human. He would have liked to go
back to Boulogne at once, but was not given any choice in the matter. They
moved on about half a mile and had dinner with Madame Miallis, Jeannine’s aunt.

It was not as unpleasant as Philip had feared. Georges was a
nice enough man, who jestingly railed at Philip’s pretended profession.
Apparently Jeannine had, told him about Philip’s finding the smugglers’ cache. “You
had better watch your back,” he said. “There are those who are not fond of
Customs in these parts, especially of strangers who intrude into what they
consider their private affairs.” Then he smiled. “And I do not know how we poor
soldiers are to clothe our wives if you gentlemen really stop imports from
England.”

Philip made some stuffy reply about Lyons silk being better
and cheaper and that smugglers should be in the navy where their maritime
skills would be of use. He had a little difficulty getting these pious
sentiments out, aware that be sounded like a prig, but fortunately Georges took
the whole thing as a joke, laughing loudly and winking as if to say he
understood that Philip could not afford to say anything else.

That avenue of conversation being closed, to Philip’s great
relief, another opened concerning the doings in the camps Bonaparte had
established around Boulogne. Georges was a very junior officer and did not know
much, but what he told Philip served to confirm the information he had gleaned
from listening to Bonaparte’s conversation with the men who had accompanied him
the previous day. The men were being taught to swim so that fewer should be
lost by drowning if boats were upset during the landing. All the talk was of
currents and roadsteads, about wind and anchorage. In Georges’s opinion, at
least, there were no doubts as to the success of the enterprise. He assumed
they would move in the spring, when they would have a hundred and fifty
thousand men trained, but claimed in ringing tones that he was ready to leave
on the morrow.

Philip was afraid even so poor an observer as Georges would
notice how spurious his enthusiasm was. Fortunately the lack was taken to be
envy because Philip, desk-bound as he was, would not share in the glory and the
spoils of the conquest. Philip gratefully accepted the excuse and even mumbled
something, about considering changing his service. The talk ground along, and
finally it was time to go. Georges kissed his wife. He said nothing about when
he would see her again. Philip assumed either it was already arranged, or
perhaps Désirée acted as go-between so that she could provide for her own
liaisons.

The carriage was waiting when they came to the door. The two
girls kissed Madame Miallis, and Philip bowed politely and thanked her for
allowing him to visit. Then, at last, they were on their way. This time Désirée
made no objection to Philip taking the forward seat. He was well enough pleased
to do so, having no inclination to have Désirée in his lap again. In fact he
could hardly bear to talk to her. He closed his eyes and pretended fatigue, not
caring whether or not the girls would giggle about it. Actually they were also
quiet after a few sentences exchanged. The carriage rolled on over the rutted
road, bumping more than it had on the way up to Ambleteuse. The moon was bright
and full, but it was still harder for the coachman to see than in full daylight
and the horses were moving a little faster on the downhill slope.

Philip opened his eyes cautiously and sighed softly with
relief. In spite of the bumping, the girls seemed to be asleep. He would not
have minded following their example, except that a bad lurch might throw him
onto them. Just as he thought it, there was a very bad bump. However, instead
of Philip pitching forward, it was Désirée and Jeannine who slid off their
seats because of the slope of the road. Philip put out his hands to catch them.
In that instant a pistol went off, the coachman shouted with alarm, and the
carriage came to a jolting halt in response to a loud voice, which ordered them
to “stand and deliver”.

Just as he heard the shot Philip had grabbed the girls.
Instead of bracing them back into their seats, he pulled them roughly to the
floor of the coach. Both screamed shrilly. Ignoring their shrieks of pain and protest,
Philip put a knee into Désirée’s back and pressed down hard with his left hand
on Jeannine’s head. He could not hear what was being said to the coachman
because of the cacophony of screams, but he had his gun out and cocked. Cuffing
Jeannine hard, he snarled an order to be quiet unless she wanted to be shot.

Then his left hand was free and he could lower both windows.
He was barely in time. A shadow fell along the road at the right side of the
carriage. Philip leaned out and fired. There was a bellow of surprise, but it
did not come from the man Philip had aimed at. He was now one with his shadow,
flat on the road. The female shrieks that had quieted a bit after Philip’s
order to Jeannine began anew.

The second man came up fast, more cautiously, squeezed
against the other side of the carriage, but Philip had not waited. He had
opened the door and leapt to the ground on the same side as the man he had
shot. There was one on horseback, too, his guns trained on the coachman. It was
fortunate that Monsieur Fresnoy’s horses were placid animals, for the way the
reins trembled would have sent a high-spirited pair plunging ahead at a gallop.
Philip was afraid even these horses would bolt, but he had no choice. Raising
the long-barreled Lorenzoni, he aimed and fired. The man on horseback screamed
and fired his own gun, but he was already falling forward, clutching with a
weakening hand at his horse’s mane.

Philip sprang back from the carriage as the horses, unnerved
by the noise and the twitching reins, finally bolted ahead. He worked the
reload mechanism of his gun frantically, knowing he would be completely exposed
on the open road. However, he did not need to fire again. The man who had been
pressed against the side of the carriage had not been expecting it to move. He
had been knocked down when the horses bolted, and a rear wheel had passed over
his legs. He was screaming in agony, but Philip wasted no time on him. Instead
he ran to catch the horse of the mounted man, which had not been able to get up
any speed because the dead rider had fallen with his arm tangled in the reins
and the beast could not free its head.

Philip worked at untangling the rider in frantic haste,
flung himself into the saddle, and rode off after the carriage. He had a vision
of certain curves in the road that came dangerously close to the edge of the
cliff. If that idiot coachman should faint or be unable to get his horses under
control, the equipage might plunge right off into the sea below. Just what he
could do to prevent this, Philip was not sure. Luckily his inventiveness was
not put to the test. When he came in sight of the carriage, he saw that it was
moving fast but certainly not out of control.

As soon as Philip was sure that the coachman could manage
his team, he slackened the speed of his own mount. There was no way he could
identify himself without coming very close, and to pursue the carriage too hard
might make the coachman think he was another highwayman out to revenge his
fellows. Philip followed just out of sight, judging by the creaks and bangs the
carriage made how far ahead the girls were. After a little while he began to
laugh, realizing that those selfish little bitches had abandoned him without a
thought. It made him think of Meg again, riding to his rescue with blazing
pistols and then nearly fainting—but only after she knew he was safe—because
she had actually shot someone.

Just outside of Boulogne he caught up with the carriage. The
coachman babbled excuses as Philip rode alongside. He had wanted to stop, but
the ladies were so hysterical they would not hear of it. Philip assured him
that be did not blame him. It was necessary, of course, to get the young ladies
to safety. Philip got the direction of the police station from the man and rode
off to make a report as soon as he had seen the carriage safe to Monsieur
Fresnoy’s door. The Chief of Police was summoned from his home, men were sent
out to see whether the bodies and injured man were still on the road, and the
chief himself accompanied Philip back to Monsieur Fresnoy’s house.

There both girls, still sobbing intermittently with shock
and fear—and perhaps a little for dramatic effect—threw themselves at him,
hailing him as their savior. Nothing could be done in their presence, because
they shrieked every time Monsieur Fresnoy or the police chief asked a sensible
question or Philip tried to answer. Nor would they consent to being left alone.
Fortunately Monsieur Fresnoy had had the good sense to send for Jeannine’s
parents. Her mother took charge of the shrieking “maidens” and the men were
left in peace.

Everyone was exceedingly shocked at what had happened. There
was the trouble with the thieves, of course, but that had subsided considerably
after Bonaparte’s severities in the Vendée. Moreover, they were rebels who operated
in larger groups and were not known to attack carriages on the road. Usually
their raids were directed against well-to-do farmers or businesses whose owners
were known to support the government. As for common highwaymen—it was most
peculiar that they should be on the road to Ambleteuse, which was not heavily
traveled and would be, in a general way, slim pickings.

Since Philip did not dare mention the kind of establishment
they had been visiting, he kept his mouth shut at first, although he knew it was
common enough for a “madame” to work with a gang of thieves. Then another
common connection of those who kept bawdy houses leapt into Philip’s mind.
Surely here on the coast such a place would be in league with smugglers. No
“madame” in her right mind would pay the tax on the wine she served, and the
clinging, transparent Indian muslins were just the kind of thing a procuress
would use to clothe her girls. True, Philip had not seen any “girls” at the
house, but it was logical they would be kept out of the way when the place was
used for an assignation. Thank God, there was his reason for leaving Boulogne.
Philip assumed a worried frown.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I am afraid that I might be the cause
of this attack. Monsieur Fresnoy knows that, by accident, I came across and
exposed a smuggler’s cache. Could it be that this was an attempt of the gang I
discommoded to punish me? I did not speak of it before because I had no proof
and did not wish to seem like a nervous fool, but when I came to dinner in this
house yesterday I had the distinct impression that I was followed from my
lodging.”

This proposal became a matter for lively argument and
speculation, Philip adding this and that remark, trying to encourage the notion
without seeming to do so. In fact the idea did not seem so farfetched to him as
the discussion went forward. He remembered that Désirée had told his story to
the First Consul in the dockyards in full hearing of at least half a dozen
workmen and probably a great many others who had found a reason to pass close
by in order to see Bonaparte. Eventually everyone seemed convinced that
Philip’s suggestion was the likeliest explanation.

“I do not wish to seem a coward,” he remarked then, “but I
begin to think that the wisest thing I could do is return to Paris. I have only
a few days more of leave in any case, and these men seem to be quite without
scruples. Mesdemoiselles Désirée and Jeannine could have been injured in this
stupid attempt.”

As he said it Philip realized that if he had not resisted
there would have been little danger to the women. Obviously the men had not
expected him to be armed. That first one had approached without the slightest
caution. Perhaps if they were smugglers they would have pulled him out of the
carriage and beaten him or killed him as a lesson. The women would have been
permitted to continue on unhurt, although they might have been robbed.

However Philip was certainly not going to voice this idea,
and if it occurred to anyone else, he did not mention it either. The two fathers
in particular fell on his suggestion with joy. His continued presence in
Boulogne could only cause them either embarrassment or danger. No doubt their
daughters would insist on entertaining the “hero”. To refuse would be churlish;
to agree might draw unwelcome notice to them from the smugglers, who did not
seem to stop at violence. The Chief of Police hesitated fractionally, wondering
whether Philip might be useful as bait, but actually he was not eager to tangle
with the smugglers either. It was not impossible that too-close investigation
would reveal things he did not wish to know. Soon all were in agreement that
the interests of peace and safety would best be served by Philip’s departure.

He spoke his regrets with an appearance of sincerity that
was all the more convincing because of his passionate relief. He was ready, he
said, to leave at once. He hoped they would be so eager to be rid of him that
they would agree. No one could doubt his courage or think he was running away
to save himself—not after the men the police chief had sent out returned with
the two dead bodies. The man with broken legs was gone; they had not sought him
in the dark. For that Philip was grateful. If the man had confessed that the
group were simply highwaymen, his opportunity to depart would have been ruined.
As it was, they would not hear of his going in the dark, and Philip had to wait
until morning.

To his disgust the police chief insisted on having him
guarded and escorted out of town. Philip tried to protest that he could take
care of himself. This was acknowledged as true, with some laughter and head
shaking, but the police chief said he hoped another attempt would be made so
that they could capture some of the men. Philip’s methods of self-defense were
too permanent. He was spared taking leave of Désirée and Jeannine, however.
Their fathers felt it would be too harrowing for the girls to be reminded of
their horrifying experience, and Philip agreed with most insincere regrets.

Fortunately the road to Paris and the road to Brittany were
identical as far as Abbeville, and his escort only accompanied him as far as
Montreuil. Philip had no more difficulty returning to Monsieur Luroec’s farm
than he had had getting to Boulogne. It was a shame, he thought more than once
as he rode through the peaceful countryside, that Bonaparte could not be
satisfied to rule France without wishing to swallow up the rest of the world.
He had done enormous good for the country in the few years he had dominated it.

Philip was a little concerned that his presence at the farm
would be noticed, since he was supposed to be in Paris at his desk and a good
many people in the area knew him now. However, his luck remained good. Pierre
was actually in his own house when Philip arrived. That was not as much luck as
it seemed, although Pierre did not confess it to Philip; he had made only one
trip after bringing Philip to France. After that he had sat home and worried.
It was a greater relief to Pierre than to Philip when the young man was guided
safely through the dark without anyone but Monsieur Luroec and his daughter
knowing anything about it.

The reunion was all the more joyful because of Pierre’s past
fears. All he had thought about for several weeks was that something would go
wrong and he would have the unenviable task of telling Roger that his son was
dead. Now he could really listen to what Philip had done and how he had done it
and enjoy the adventure without feeling a sick anxiety under his encouraging
exterior. He took such a delight in Philip’s cleverness that he insisted on
hearing every detail, including how he had made out with Monsieur Fresnoy’s
daughter.

On this subject Philip was relatively reticent, but his
expression and the things he did
not
say, coupled with his description
of Jeannine’s “aunt’s” establishment, which he had to give to make the story of
the smugglers-highwaymen comprehensible, told the whole tale clearly enough.
Pierre laughed his head off, pooh-poohing Philip’s slightly nervous feeling
that things were going entirely too well and that when the penny dropped, it
would go right through the floor. Luck, Pierre insisted, was made by cleverness
and care, by foresight and planning. And even when chance threw misfortune in
one’s way, skill and a cool head could save the day.

This latter remark was put severely to the test when they
set sail for England a few days later. It was a fine, calm day with just enough
wind to make good headway, and they crossed the Channel in excellent time.
Here, however, misfortune was thrown in their way. Some alarm must have alerted
the British fleet. It seemed, just when they were too far to put safely back to
France, that every ship in the navy was scouring the Channel. Not that they
were looking for the
Bonne Lucie
, but they were looking. Pierre flipped
the
Pretty Lucy
signboards over the French name and ran up the Union
Jack, but they really could not afford to be stopped and questioned—not with a
crew of Frenchmen and a hold full of brandy and tobacco. They spent the night
running and dodging, and between their speed and skill escaped challenge.

Philip would almost have preferred that they were captured
to what actually happened. He had the papers that would identify him and free
Pierre, and they probably would have been brought to shore at Falmouth. As it
was, they dodged about all the following day, and by night they were much too
far east to make a signal to the cliff house for Meg in the allotted time. To
add to their troubles a brisk westerly sprang up, which grew fiercer and
fiercer until it was clear that they could not make port either in Lamorna Cove
or at The Mousehole. It was too dangerous to thread the rock-fanged Cornish
coast in the dark with such a wind blowing.

It was also too dangerous to idle about all the next day
where such a concentration of naval vessels was patrolling. Pierre gave up and
allowed his ship to run before the wind. It was hoped that, if the navy was
concentrating off the Cornish coast for some reason, the Kentish coast would be
free. Philip knew he should be glad of Pierre’s decision. It would permit him
to bring his information to the Foreign Office a full week sooner. Nonetheless
he could have wept with frustration. He had been looking forward so much to
seeing Meg, even if it was only for a few hours. He did not care whether they
had time to make love. He just wanted to see her, to smile at her and have her
smile at him, to tell her he was safe and would soon be back to make her his
own for good.