The Devil's Waltz (26 page)

Annelise took a deep breath, leaning down to touch Gertie's neck, whispering calming words that were meant more for her than for her horse. She was about to urge the horse forward when a small movement caught her eye.

Her first instinct was to get out of there. But if whoever or whatever hid in the shadows was any danger to her he would have attacked already.

“Who's there?” she demanded in a sharp whisper.

A rumpled head of hair appeared over a bale of straw, followed by the stable lad's woebegone face. Jeremy, she remembered. “I'm sorry, miss. I was afraid,” he cried.

He was probably not much more than fifteen. The age of her niece, the one Chipple had threatened. “Do you know where the Brownes are being kept?”

He shook his head. “Mebbe in the cellars—you can
lock them easily enough, and I don't think anyone would dare mess with Mrs. Browne if they had any choice.”

“Do you think you can help them?”

He shook his head again, frankly terrified. “I'm not sure where they are, miss. And I'm afraid of those men.”

He truly did look petrified. “But you could ride for help, couldn't you? Take one of those horses and go find someone?”

“Yes, miss,” he said, nodding, still not looking too eager.

Now that Jeremy would help, she had a decision to make. Should she go down to the coast, to warn Christian before it was too late? Or north to rescue her sister? Annelise knew where her duty lay. She knew where her heart lay. And she knew her sister was twice as formidable as Bessie Browne and Annelise put together.

“I want you to ride north to Marymede,” she said to him. “My sister and her family need to be warned that Chipple is sending men after them, as well. It should be easy enough to find—my brother-in-law is the vicar, and their house is next to the church.”

“Are more of those men there?” Jeremy questioned, looking less than resolved.

“Not if you get there first.” The boy was panicked and witless. Christian was a grown man, more than able to take care of himself, while the vicar's household consisted of her sharp-tongued sister, her gentle husband, her niece and possibly the two lovebirds, Will and Hetty.
And somehow she doubted Will would be much defense against Chipple's marauders.

There was no question what she
should
do. And no question about what she was going to do anyway.

“Go,” she said. “Head north and with any luck you should be there by daylight. Lives may depend on you.”

Probably the wrong thing to say to a trembling boy, but he straightened his shoulders and suddenly looked very brave. “Yes, miss. Are you coming with me?”

“No,” she said firmly. “I'm going to save your master.”

E
ven riding hell-bent didn't stop Christian's fertile mind from working. As far as he knew, Crosby had never done an unselfish thing in his life. That was one of the advantages of having him as a friend and companion—he was possibly even more unsentimental than Christian himself. Only the promise of money would send him haring off into the countryside, and it would have to be a very large sum of money indeed. Not the simple repayment of a bribe to a simple freetrader.

Perhaps his baby brother had somehow managed to survive all these years. If there was even one chance in a hundred he'd risk everything, walk into a trap, in order to try to save him. And he had little doubt that was exactly what was happening. He just didn't know how Crosby had gotten mixed up with a roller like Chipple.

The sun was setting when they reached the bluff overlooking the rocky coast of Devon. They stopped at the top of the narrow path. There was no sign of anyone on the beach, not even footprints, but the tide was going out, taking everything with it.

“Where are your smugglers, Crosby?” he asked.

Crosby looked as innocent as a lamb, and it appeared a little too forced, an act. “Where do you think they are, old man? Hiding down there by the caves. Smugglers don't usually advertise their presence in broad daylight.”

“Can our horses make it down the path?”

“You're not suggesting I walk?” Crosby said in horror. “Of course they can. But we'd best move along before it's fully dark.”

“Indeed,” Christian said in an even voice, one hand touching the pistol tucked beneath his waistcoat. If Crosby had lied to him, betrayed him, he'd shoot him. It would be that simple. He expected treachery from his friend. But not treachery that involved his lost family.

He let Crosby lead the way, noting that he seemed far too familiar with the stony path. It was almost full dark by the time they reached the pebbled beach, and there was still no sign of the smugglers that were supposed to lead him to France and rescue.

“Where are your smugglers, Crosby?” he asked again. Crosby had dismounted, and he was looking around him in the dusk with a fair amount of nervousness.

“They should be here. I was told they'd be waiting.”

“By whom, Crosby?” He dismounted as well, his voice even. He could see movement in the shadows, over by the edge of the cliffs. Presumably from the caves Crosby had talked about, and he expected he was about to get his answer. The pistol wasn't primed and ready, and in defense it would provide little more than a club. But he'd been taught to fight by the best and the
worst, and he had more weapons than Crosby would even begin to suspect, including the jeweled blade his mother had given him, strapped to his ankle.

“What do you mean, old man?” Crosby was sounding nervous now, and the shadows were separating into the shapes of men, moving toward them.

“Who paid you to bring me here, Crosby?” he asked in a calm voice. “What was your price to sell me out?”

A rueful smile touched Crosby's thin lips. “You've always been a smart one, Christian. And I have to tell you that it pained me, deeply, to do this to you. But it's very costly to live a gentleman's life and my expenses were crushing. You would hardly expect me to turn down such a magnificent offer.”

“Hardly,” he echoed. There were at least twenty of them, scum of the earth, if he was any judge. “What was my Judas price? I'm just curious what I'm worth on the open market.”

“Oh, quite a bit, old man, if the one who wants you dead is determined enough. Five hundred pounds for me, plus the expense of all these good men. They really are smugglers, you know.”

“I imagined so. Only five hundred pounds? I'm offended, Crosby. You should have held out for more. I'm certain Chipple would have met your price.”

“There's not much one can put past you,” Crosby said in admiring tones. “When did you figure it out?”

“At least an hour ago.”

“And you still came along?” he said, astonished.

Christian shrugged, no longer caring that it was such
a Gallic gesture. He had more important things to attend to at that moment. “There was always the slight chance that you weren't lying.”

“Worth your life?”

“I'm not going to die, Crosby.”

Crosby looked at the ring of men who'd surrounded him. “I'm afraid you are, Christian. A pity, because I've always admired you, but—”

“Will you shut yer bleedin' trap?” One of the smugglers stepped forward, clearly the leader. “We have our orders, and we'll follow them, but that doesn't mean we have to listen to the likes of you jawing on and on.”

Crosby looked affronted. “I beg your pardon? I brought him here, and—”

“And your part is done. You're expendable.” He turned to the other men. “Isn't he, lads?”

The response was far from heartening. Crosby began to back away, looking nervous. “Then I'll just leave you with him,” he said. “I'm certain you're more than capable of doing your job.”

“I don't think so,” the leader said. “I like your horse.”

“You're a smuggler—you can't put a horse in a boat!” Crosby cried.

“True enough. But we have places to store things—that pretty little horse will be just fine for a few days while we go to France.”

“You really are taking Christian to France?”

“Hell, no. We'll drop him overboard halfway between—that way there'll be no trace of him.”

“Oh,” Crosby said blankly, still backing away. “But
I'm certain you wouldn't leave me here without a proper mount. When the tide comes in this place is flooded.”

“True enough,” said the leader. “And we can't take you to France with us—the boats will be crowded enough with his nibs along. I think we'll just have to finish you right now.”

“You wouldn't—”

The pistol flashed in the gathering darkness, bright enough to expose the expression of outraged shock on Crosby's face before he crumpled onto the rocky beach, blood streaming from the hole in his forehead.

“Good shot,” Christian said coolly. Crosby's one drawback was that he'd always been more greedy than wise, and he had just paid the price. And Christian had no inclination to feel regret.

The leader sized him up. “Don't waste your breath with compliments, m'boy. You'll be just as dead as he is before long.”

“I expect so. Why not now?” He was merely curious. Not that he had any intention of dying, but the logic behind the smuggler's actions was interesting.

“I was told to take you out to sea and cut your throat, and Dick Parsons is a man of his word.”

One of the smugglers snickered, and Parsons whirled around with a snarl. “Don't you be trying yer luck, Hoskins! The sea will take yer body as well as that toff's without any trouble.”

All trace of amusement vanished from the assembled men. There was no way Christian could fight his way past the lot of them—he'd simply have to take them one
at a time. If worst came to worst, he was a very strong swimmer, and he could simply dive overboard when they weren't expecting it.

“It's an honor to be dealing with a man of his word,” Christian said politely. “When are we planning to leave?”

“What's it to you?”

He shrugged. “I'd like a chance to clear my conscience.”

“What are you, some bloody Frenchie? We don't have no priests here!” the man snapped.

“You astonish me. But I have no interest in popish rites. I'd simply like a quiet moment or two to go over my sins in private and come to terms with my demise.”

“Fair enough,” the chief smuggler replied. “We're waiting to be paid, and I don't do nothing for free. Unless you annoy me. I expect our employer will want to see us cut yer throat for himself, but I'm hoping we can reason with him. If he expects us to drag a bloody corpse into the boat he'll have to pay us more than he has already. I expect we'll be leaving at high tide. Take him into one of the caves and tie him up until we're ready.” He glanced over at Crosby's corpse. “And you can toss that one into the water.”

“Won't the tide wash him ashore?” Christian said.

The smuggler looked at him with new respect. “You're a cool one, aren't you? There's a strong current in these parts that'll carry him halfway down the coast before he's found. By then there won't be much to recognize.”

Merci beaucoup,
Christian thought. That information could be very useful if he ended up swimming for it. “You've thought of everything,” he said with tones just admiring enough to be believable.

“I'm a careful man. Don't ever forget it.”

“I don't expect I'll have a chance to,” Christian replied.

The cave was cold and damp, not unexpectedly, and they tied him tightly, not bothering with a gag, then left him. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, looking repentant, and they wandered off, chuckling.

It would take him less than five minutes to free himself, he reasoned. They'd deprived him of his pistols, the small sword and the jeweled dagger, but they'd never considered that a gentleman would be conversant with back-alley tricks, and the knife tucked behind his back remained hidden there.

He had two choices. He could free himself immediately and make his escape before they even knew he was gone. Or he could wait until Chipple arrived. The latter was infinitely more risky, but undeniably appealing. He owed Chipple; not for the kidnapping and the murder plot but for the cruelly false hope about his brother that he'd given him for a precious hour or so.

Yes, he would wait. Long enough to finish Chipple, and then he'd fight his way out of there. And if he failed, so be it. There wasn't anything particularly inspiring to live for.

Would the dragon mourn him? he wondered. Probably not. He'd left her with a solid hatred of him—the best thing he could have done—and if she was the sen
sible creature he hoped, she'd rejoice at the news of his disappearance and probable demise.

But she wasn't the sensible creature she appeared to be. Beneath that starchy surface was a soft, melting woman, one who was foolish enough to think he was worth loving. She'd mourn him, and he hated to think he'd cause her more tears.

The answer was simple. He wouldn't die. If only to let her keep on hating him.

He leaned his head back against the damp wall of the cave and closed his eyes. It was early evening and high tide wouldn't come till after midnight. He had no idea when Chipple was expected, but he imagined it wouldn't be for a few hours. In the meantime he could conserve his energy for when he needed it. And stop thinking about the maddening Miss Kempton.

The noise and shouts came sooner than he expected, startling him into full alertness. The moon was only partway across the sky—and yet someone had clearly arrived. It didn't sound as if it was a particularly welcome guest, and he wondered if Harry Browne had come to his rescue. It would be the foolish sort of thing he'd do, but he would have no idea where Christian had disappeared to. By the time he found him, Christian would be long gone.

Maybe it was just some poor sailor who happened onto the wrong section of the coast. In which case the shouting would be done, the sailor would have joined poor old Crosby, and he could go back to sleep.

He could hear them approaching the cave, and he
quickly closed his eyes in prayerful repose. He doubted it was Chipple himself—the men were making obscene comments that would hardly befit the man who was paying them. And then he felt a sudden horror shoot through his body, opening his eyes just as they dumped a bedraggled package of humanity a few feet away from him.

“This your lady friend?” Hoskins, the one who'd dragged her and dumped her unceremoniously, questioned. “You should be able to do better than this.” He prodded her huddled form with his foot. “Cap'n Parsons ain't too happy to have another one, but he's thinking Chipple might pay double for her. Otherwise we'll just cut her throat.”

“I don't know what you're talking about—” he said in a bored voice. She was no more than a bundle of wet rags and he wondered what they'd done to her. At the thought, he felt a rage sweep over him, so powerful that it took all his self-control to feign disinterest.

“The ladybird. Came looking for you, she did, carrying a pistol and everything. Too bad she didn't know how to shoot.” Hoskins leaned over and grabbed her hair, dragging her to a sitting position. She didn't make a sound.

“We'll leave you two together. Shouldn't be long now, and if she's one of your sins you can always ask her forgiveness.” He chuckled, dropping her back against the wall. She lay unmoving, her eyes closed as the man left them, still laughing.

If she was dead he would kill every one of them. And then she opened her eyes, and he decided he'd kill her instead.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” he demanded in a sharp whisper.