The Merman and the Barbarian Pirate (13 page)

Kemp got up, leaving Raef trying to work out what lobsters were doing out of the sea. He stuck his head out of the door, glanced side to side, then grabbed Raef and pulled him up. "You see, I didn't just come here for you," he said. "I've got to rob the castle before Haverford gets back."

Rob the castle? Raef's nerves pitched and he snatched his hand from Kemp's grasp.

Kemp noticed Raef's grazes from the ropes. "Sorry. Was I hurting you?"

"No." Actually, quite a bit. "That's not the point. Why are you robbing Haverford's house? I thought you’d want to get out of here."

"Oh, no." Kemp's grin puzzled Raef nearly as much as it melted him. "You see, hidden in this castle is a treasure map. I need to get my paws on it, then the game is afoot."

Doubtless this was the map Kemp had been asking Cecilia about. How intriguing.

Raef let Kemp tug him outside, where a strong wind buffeted them. Fortunately, the game larder's entrance was up an alley between outbuildings, so they were under cover for now. Smoothing back his hair, Kemp edged forward to check all was clear by the house.

"It'd better be fine treasure indeed to be worth this risk," whispered Raef.

"Oh, it is." Kemp glanced back and his beam brightened. "We're not after mere gold and silver. We're after proof that this castle—and the whole coastline within thirty miles of here—doesn't belong to Lord Haverford at all."

"Who does it belong to, then?" Raef's head spun nearly as wildly as when he'd been struck.

Kemp smoothed his lips, eyes twinkling. "It's all Cecilia's, and I'm going to make sure she gets it back."

Eight

Cecilia. Everything was Cecilia's.

The notion left a bitter taste in Raef's mouth. He gulped it down, refusing it. Though shaken by his ordeal, his prospects were looking up now that Kemp was here. The idea of going into the castle beguiled him more than it ought. He'd been drawn to this place as long as he'd been drawn to Haverford. Unlike that devil, it lured him still.

"What happens next?" he asked. "How are we going to get inside?"

"Shhhhh." Kemp yanked Raef around a corner, then through a door into the laundry Raef had found the other day. It was empty, though a woman was humming a melody in an adjoining room that formed half of the same outbuilding. They crouched behind a tub containing an enormous, ribbed washboard.

"One of maids is in the buttery," murmured Kemp. "It's best she doesn't see us, though silence can be bought from servants who've no love for their master, and I'll wager this crew has none. The gardener who told me your whereabouts lacked affection there, for sure."

How mistaken Raef had been about Haverford, though his heart no longer ailed as it had. He wondered why. Maybe it was because his ill-fated love had been transformed so completely to hate… or perhaps it was because Kemp was at his side. Kemp and the contents of the laundry certainly proved diverting, particularly Haverford's beautiful suit of clothes set on a frame. Kemp was scanning the room, but he must've read a hungry glint in Raef's eyes. "You like the togs," he said, "nab them."

"What?"

Kemp jumped from their hiding place, removed the jacket and gorgeous embroidered waistcoat, and tossed them in Raef's direction. "If you don't want to stick out like a sore thumb," whispered Kemp, "you'd better cover them with something more modest."

After a moment of hesitation, Raef discarded the jacket and put the waistcoat on, tucking the fabric in his trousers to make it fit. He briefly admired the embroidered flowers, which rambled in strips down the facing, before covering the garment with a modest brown smock from the wash tub. Stealing was wrong, but hell, after what he'd learned about Haverford, it didn't feel that way. Thieving from somebody he disliked turned out to be fun. As was being with Kemp.

"That's what I'm looking for." Kemp pointed to a trapdoor in the floor. "Haverford's had tunnels cut for his slaveys to use between the outhouses and the kitchens beneath the castle. So he doesn't have to look at the poor buggers." Dropping to his knees, he threw the trap open, heralding a blast of musty air. Raef scurried to his side. A flight of steep steps led downward. "One way will lead me to the castle, and the other will lead you to an exit near the ice house. From there you can—"

"No. I want to come with you." The strength of Raef's feelings took him by surprise. He should wish to get away, to lick his wounds and rest. Instead, he was dying to see the castle, and he didn't want to leave Kemp. Not yet, with so much left unsaid. He'd not even thanked Kemp properly. "After all, I am a jewel thief."

Kemp snorted. "Yes, a jewel thief who's never gone out-a-prigging." Raef supposed he meant thieving. "You'd best get out of here, go back to whence you came. Though—" Kemp regarded him sidelong, thoughtful, and Raef felt like he'd burst with hope and anxiety, "—I do
want
to ask you a few little questions. Now, come on. Let's get down there, before that mopsqueezer comes in to sluice her frillies."

Kemp checked all was clear, and they descended the stairs into the tunnel, where the walls were alive with trickling water and sprawling green lichen. On pulling down the door above them, Kemp shut out much of the light. A grill in the ceiling admitted a hazy shaft, the best illumination the dour day could offer. The passage was high enough to stand straight, and Kemp rounded on Raef.

"All right, you cut the line and tell me the truth now," said Kemp. "How did you survive your dip in the sea yesterday?"

"I'm a strong swimmer." That answer sounded less convincing than ever. He should've concocted a better lie, some cobblers about being picked up by a boat.

"You were sick as a horse. It's impossible, lad." Kemp drew close. Raef edged backward, mind scrabbling wildly. He wished he could see Kemp's expression and read him better, but it was too dark. "Unless," continued Kemp, "you are what I think you are."

Oh, gods.
Could he suspect what I really am?

He gathered himself fast. Maybe Kemp thought he was part of another pirate crew, or an escaped prisoner, or something along those lines. "I-I'm nothing special."

"I've been at sea twenty years. I might not have
seen
your kind before, but I've heard the legends." Every muscle in Raef's body locked tight. Kemp edged back, and the dim light revealed no malice, just a heated interest. "I also want to know why you tried to help me earlier."

"I-I can answer the latter," stammered Raef. "I wanted to help you and your men, because you were good to me. And I felt bad, leaving you as I did. But I… erm…"

Kemp's gaze remained as patient as it was probing, that masculine musk overwhelming. Raef teetered on the verge of surrendering the truth, but he had to think things through. Stall for time before he made another mistake. "I'll tell you the truth of how I survived the swim," he said, "if you let me come into the castle with you. I won't do anything silly, I swear it. I'll leave the thieving to you."

He wasn't a mad boy, though he was beginning to suspect he was a less-than-sane merman. He'd worry about that later.

Kemp shrugged, but then like the sun bursting through storm clouds, he grinned. "Very well. Do exactly what I say." Raef nodded, enthusiastic. "Come on."

They stole down the passage, silent as gliding swans. Raef's heart beat a riot. If Kemp already suspected the truth of him, and still treated him well, maybe Kemp wouldn't entrap him after all. Perhaps they could be true friends without secrets.

Or might they be even more to each other?

He bit his lip hard enough to sting. He mustn't read Kemp's actions in helping him as anything to do with love. He was wiser now. Well, slightly. It would be best to keep his passions in check, and he
really
didn't want to be hasty this time. It couldn't be so hard.

After walking about twenty yards, Kemp edged open a door and led him into a domed lobby, its white tiling reminiscent of the game larder. Raef shuddered.

"That must be the way up into the castle." Kemp pointed to a spiraling staircase at the far end. They'd climbed the first few steps when they heard a door open a short distance above. Kemp's urgent turnabout spoke louder than words.
Retreat. Fast.
They tore back down and through the only portal in the lobby save the way they'd come, closing it behind, but not letting it slam. Inside, barrels were stacked to the vaulted roof, and the air was thick with the tang of fermented fruit. They headed for one of the murkiest corners and squatted behind a large vat.

Slowly, the door swayed open, and a butler stepped in, his livery black with yellow stripes. Kemp grasped Raef's knee, and Raef's flesh prickled. He was scared… but not as much as he ought to be. Having Kemp's large hand on him kindled that unwonted tightness in his trousers, that burgeoning warmth. He must forget it.

Holding a candle aloft, the butler turned to a rack containing a range of dusty bottles, then proceeded to examine them for what seemed like an age. At length, the dry stench of the alcohol made Raef want to sneeze, and he pressed his fingers to his nose, fighting it. Nearby, some animal scuffled and squeaked. The noise was slight, but the butler turned. The light from the candle licked across the room. Raef held his breath.

"Damned rats," murmured the butler. He selected a bottle and left, shutting the door before turning a key in the lock. Raef's stomach flipped. He and Kemp were imprisoned under a mantle of undiluted blackness.

"Bad master, bad servants," seethed Kemp. "The wine cellar should
always
be kept locked and then we wouldn't be in this mess."

"Sorry," mumbled Raef, because somehow he felt he ought.

"Not your fault, matey." Kemp lifted his hand from Raef's thigh. Raef fought a pang and quietly cursed himself. He should have taken the tunnel in the other direction. He'd have been free now, waiting back by the sea for the dusk to take its grip. All alone.

A rustling and a clonk indicated Kemp was groping around in the dark. "Ow!" He grunted. "Bloody barrel."

"What are we going to do?" asked Raef.

"I'm going to find the damned door," replied Kemp, a disembodied voice to Raef's left. "And pick the damned lock without the use of my peepers. I suggest you make yourself useful by finding a bottle of damned wine and negotiating your way into it for us. A tipple should put some hairs on your chest, and I'm damned well thirsty."

Humor colored Kemp's rough tones and made Raef keen to please. He pulled a face; he wasn't sure how he'd find a bottle, let alone open it. Light slithered in from somewhere, because his eyes were starting to adjust. He crawled in the direction in which he hoped to find the rack of bottles. He could make out the shape of the larger barrels and only bashed his sore forehead once.

He ran his hand along a row of dusty corks, fingers snagging in cobwebs. "Found the wine."

"Good," said Kemp. "Because I'm betting there's enough springs, rivets, and screws in this locky bastard to keep me going all night, I can't see it, and time is of the essence. So you bash into the liquor. I'll get picking."

"All right," said Raef. If Kemp could get them out of here, the least he could do was navigate his way into some wine to whet Kemp's whistle. However, the silence set questions niggling. Raef figured he'd better get his in first, before Kemp started an interrogation and he couldn't hold anything back. "Um, Kemp," he ventured, picking a bottle. "I wondered if you could tell me more about Cecilia and this map."

Kemp was quiet for a moment, then a thin, scraping sound resumed, as he returned to his task of lock breaking. "Have you noticed the ruin tucked at the top of the northern headland of this bay?" he asked.

"Yes, of course." Raef recalled each feature as if they were on the back of his hand.

"Then you know the setting for my tale. The ruin was once a chapel, where it all started on a wild October night, twenty-eight years ago."

The wind battered the walls of the tiny chapel, mixing with the pummel of the waves and the grind of the undertow to raise a deafening roar.

Cara struggled to hear the voice of the old priest above the tumult. "Wilt thou have this Man," he croaked, "to thy wedded Husband, to live together after God's ordinance in the holy estate of Matrimony? Wilt thou …"

All but snatches of the rest were drowned as the mightiest gust yet assaulted the ancient structure. A slate trailed down the roof above, scraping like a dragon's claw. With an effort, Cara blotted out the din as she fought her escalating dread. She fixed on the man she loved—his body hunched, his eyes sunken in hollows, and his face wasted to that of a lanthorn-jawed phantom. She could trace the contours of his skull through his skin.

Lord Henry Haverford had coughed and wheezed his way through his part of the ceremony. He now leaned against one of the bewildered servants, who'd been brought here to act as witnesses. When Cara managed her answer—"I do"—he curved his frayed lips into a semblance of a smile. She loved him, never more so than now. A hot tear trickled down her cheek, a weak offering compared to the rain that hammered the roof. She wiped it away, mortified when her lord's dull eyes grew watery, too. Tremulous, she smiled back.