The Reckless One (4 page)

He snapped the trapdoor shut. Raine looked at the girl. The odd light had leached the color from her skin.

“A kiss for luck,
ma petite?”

Her eyes grew round.
“Non,
Monsieur! I am but recently a—”

“—and I am but recently free.” He clasped the back of her head and pulled her forward, crushing her petal-soft mouth beneath his. For just one heady instant her mouth was pliant and then she fought, pushing him away.

“Get on with it,” Jacques called down.

Raine angled his head in a courtly bow, reached past her, and opened the carriage door. “Madame, your debt is paid.” He jumped down to the street and without bothering to look back crossed toward
Le Rex Rouge.

A tall man stood under a lantern hanging beside the door. He held his voluminous cape close to his body, warding off the stiffening wind. His expression was eager, his body tense.

Raine slowed his pace, glancing about. Three men stood huddled together at the corner the building, rubbing their hands together above the sullen glow of a small brassier. At the end of the street, a driver slumped atop a closed landau, his ill-matched pair shifting in their traces. It was too quiet.

The tall man stepped beneath the lantern. He’d a pale, cruel face.

“Lambert?” he called out.

“Yes,” Raine answered. He halted. Jacques had warned him to be discreet, yet the smuggler called his name loudly across a nearly deserted cul-de-sac.

At the corner, one of the men lifted his head. Down the road the chaise door opened. The tall man nodded with evident pleasure, extending his hand, moving rapidly forward, his pale face—

Pale.

No seafarer had a face so pale.

He’d been set up. He heard the woman’s voice call out behind him. “It’s a trap! Run!”

The advice was unnecessary. He was already running.

The girl watched the tall figure of the nameless young man sprint past the soldiers tumbling from the carriage and be swallowed by the night. From his position atop the carriage “Jacques,” also known as Jamie Craigg and more currently “La Bête,” cursed roundly, whipping up the horses and heading for the docks.

Once he got over his anger, Jacques would see she’d not only done the right thing, but the best thing. Soon the soldiers from the docks would join their fellows in chasing down the man they thought was
La Bête,
the most notorious smuggler to ever make mock of the French authorities. For the first time in a fortnight the docks would be relatively free of troops. The real
La Bête
could thus, in relative safety, load important cargo before heading back to his native Scotland.

The “cargo” touched her fingertips to her bruised lips. She had never been kissed before. Never known an unrelated man’s touch. His had been the first. A tall, hard Englishman with sherry-colored eyes, sprung from a fetid jail. He would not have liked his fate had she really been Madame Noir, of that she was certain. Then why did she feel so guilty?

The honesty the Sisters at Sacré Coeur had demanded of her provided a quick answer. She was no better than Madame Noir. She’d simply put the young man to a different use.

She bowed her head and offered a short prayer that he find his way to freedom. Yet, even as she finished her prayer and crossed herself, guilty at having used another being so wretchedly, she knew she would not have done one thing differently. She did not act on her own behalf now.

She drew back from the window, snapping the curtain shut as though by doing so she could shut out the Englishman’s image. What she did, she did for her clan, to rectify the decade-old wrong she’d caused them.

She was the only who
could
rectify it.

She’d been reared on that knowledge, molded and shaped by it. Even in the French convent where she’d been sent so many years earlier, the letters from Muira Dougal had kept her obligation ever before her. Now, finally, the time had come for her to act.

Favor McClairen was going home.

It took an hour to row out to the ship. The half dozen men in the long boat strained silently against the oars. At the helm, Jamie guided their way, threading the heavily laden boat through black water like Charon bringing the newly departed across the river Styx.

Except she wasn’t dying, Favor reminded herself. She was going home. She should be ecstatic. They’d made it when all odds were against them.

For days the entire north coast had been covered with not only soldiers but guards and laborers, merchants and seamen, all seeking the notorious smuggler,
La Bête
—or more to the point seeking the unheard-of sum being offered for his capture. Apparently Jamie had made fools of the French authorities once too often.

After a few days in his company she understood how he’d managed that not inconsiderable deed. ’Twas Jamie who’d determined that their best odds in evading capture lay in hiding in plain sight. He’d anchored his ship in a port, not in one of the tiny inlets smugglers generally favored.

Still, while most of the authorities’ efforts had been concentrated on coastal areas, they hadn’t altogether neglected the harbor towns. It had been necessary to arrange a diversion that would give them time to load their contraband—as well as Favor. Again, Jamie came up with a plan. But for it to work they’d needed an Englishman—an Englishman they could leave behind. But where and how to find a willing dupe?

Amazingly, it was Sacré Coeur’s Most Reverend Mother who provided the answer.

Now, perhaps the Abbess had information from other sources, but it was certainly interesting that her brother, Father Dominic, was also Madame Noir’s confessor. For whatever reasons the Abbess was uncommonly well versed in that notorious lady’s habits and for this Favor was grateful.

The plan had been simple. One of the convent’s milkmaids dropped a word into a French lieutenant’s ear regarding the Abbess’s anticipated windfall of fine Scottish wool blankets on a certain night at a certain locale. In the meantime Favor went to the local prison disguised as Madame Noir to select an Englishman who might readily be mistaken for the infamous English smuggler.

Everything had gone as arranged.

Except for the Englishman’s eyes. And that he’d sworn he would never return to prison again. And that in asking her permission to touch her hair he’d looked quite as naked as Favor had ever felt.

The rowboat bumped lightly against the side of the ship’s barnacle-covered side. Favor frowned. She had nothing to feel so guilty about. Once the guards realized they didn’t have
La Bête,
the Englishman would simply be sent back to prison where he’d have ended up if she had been Madame Noir.

Hushed voices called out from above and Jamie answered in kind. A second later a rope ladder dropped down and two men leaned over the side of the ship. She took hold of their hands and they hauled her onboard. A second later Jamie, panting and swearing, hoisted his girth up and over the gunnel, followed shortly by his men.

“Get her to the cabin,” he ordered in a heavy Scottish accent, jerking his head in Favor’s direction. “Hoist anchor and put yer backs to settin’ sail. We’re fer home, laddies.”

A rumble of approval met this announcement. Curious glances followed her as a balding man took her elbow and steered her through a doorway into a small cabin. Before she could turn, the door closed behind her.

She looked around. A narrow cot was nailed to one wall, likewise a table on the opposite wall. On this stood a chipped washbasin. Gratefully, she dipped the end of her kerchief into the frigid water and dabbed at her face.

Outside the door she heard a woman’s voice. Apprehension followed her surprise. It could only be Muira Dougal, the woman whose iron will and driving determination had shaped Favor’s last nine years. No one had told Favor Muira would be onboard. She hadn’t prepared herself to meet the woman who’d … Favor floundered for a word that could adequately describe the degree to which this woman had influenced her life. All of it done from hundreds of miles away, mostly through letters.

In some very real ways, Muira Dougal had invented Favor McClairen. Certainly the child who’d arrived on this foreign soil no longer existed.

“How did it go?” Favor heard her asking Jamie.

“Well enough, Mistress,” Jamie Craigg answered deferentially. “The guard at the prison didn’t blink twice when the girl said she was Madame Noir.”

“Is she any good then? Will she succeed in what she must do?”

Jamie paused before continuing. “Aye. She’ll do. Though I’ll say this”—a deep chuckle rumbled out—“if a man was in on the joke, so to speak, he would see right enough that the lass dinna understand the woman she played.”

“Well, Jamie Craigg”—Muira’s voice dropped in pitch, became biting and hard—“I’m glad you’re so amused. But this isn’t a joke. It’s our last chance to regain what was stolen from us and if you no longer hold that a sacred endeavor, there are those of us that still do.”

“Forgive me, Mistress,” Jamie said gruffly. “I just found the lass—enchanting is all.”

“Enchanting?” the woman echoed thoughtfully. “Good. She’ll need to be enchanting, and more, for her purpose. What happened next?”

Favor pressed her ear to the door, straining to hear Jamie’s reply. “… wary and hard, as hard a man as I’d not like to cross. But she had him eating out of her hand soon enough and sending him into the arms of the French as docile as a lambkins.”

Favor’s throat knotted with guilt.

“But then, just as he’s about made it to the lieutenant’s side, the lass calls out a warning. The Englishman dashes one way and we dash the other.”

The door to the cabin suddenly swung open and Favor scuttled back. An elderly woman stood before her, her lantern raised. Favor squinted at the bright light, trying to see past its glare.

“Listening at doors, Miss?” the woman asked.

“If it aids my cause,” Favor answered calmly.

“Ach!” A wide grin split the face of the thin woman. She turned her head toward Jamie, who filled the door frame behind her. “Bold!”

The bright light dangled a moment longer in front of Favor’s face. Finally, irritated by it, she forced herself to face it squarely. “Would you kindly take that thing out of my face, Madame?”

A low chuckle greeted her imperious tone. The old woman lowered the lantern to her side. “Speaks like a McClairen wench. Uncrowned royalty is what the McClairens always thought themselves.”

Muira’s smile faded. “That’s good, lass. You’ll need all that queenly bearing and more. But tell me, come nightfall does a haughty manner keep the vision of Merrick murdering your kin at bay? No.” She answered her own question fiercely. “Only an act of recompense will do that.”

Favor backed away, caught off guard by the old woman’s bald-faced reference to the night Favor had all but destroyed her own clan. She chided herself for her naivete. She’d thought Muira might offer her a word of welcome. She should have known better. She’d had a decade’s worth of letters to instruct her differently.

The old woman studied her impassively and Favor returned the examination. Muira Dougal,
née
McClairen, had the sort of face seen on ancient Greek coins, genderless and refined, arrogant and haunted. Her eyes were heavily hooded, the narrow face hung with crepelike flesh. Her thin mouth was uncompromising. Only the bright blue eyes blazed as though lit by a fire from within.

For a full five minutes the two women faced each other, neither willing to break the silence. Even Jamie seemed loath to interfere in their silent discourse. He shuffled uneasily on his feet, glancing anxiously from one to the other. On the one side stood the woman who had for nearly a decade, single-handedly bound the far-flung McClairen clan together. On the other side stood the girl whose brother was that same clan’s long-missing laird, in essence an uncrowned king, the girl that Muira Dougal intended to sacrifice in order to return the McClairens to their full glory.

“Yer nineteen years old,” Muira finally said, her tone giving nothing away.

“Oui,
Madame,” Favor answered.

“Jamie says you improvised your escape here. Called out a warning to the English bastard you’d duped. Is this so?”

“Oui.”

“From here on there’ll be no more improvising. None at all. Is that understood?” The woman’s hand darted out like a striking snake and grasped Favor’s chin.

“Oui,
Madame.
D’accord.”

“Agree? I did not ask you to agree. I asked if you understood.”

Favor felt herself flush.
“Oui.”

“And there will be no more French,” Muira muttered distractedly.
“She
had only a smattering of French. Remember that.” She looked over to Jamie. “You knew her. What do you think?”

The big man cocked his head. “I don’t see much of the McClairen in her, that’s a fact. They be a black-headed breed, like yerself. All of them taller than she by some measure. Regal, yes, but gay. This one is handsome enough but fierce-looking.”

“Hair can be dyed, brows can be plucked,” Muira murmured. “A resemblance can be created out of gestures and habits, a way of standing, a turn of speech.”

She twisted Favor’s chin, pulling her face this way and that in the light. “There’s not much here to work with, I grant you, but it’s there in the angle of her jaw and the purity of her skin. Her nose is all McClairen. And when I add the rest …”

Resentment made Favor pull away from the cold, dry fingers. She disliked being spoken of as though she were unformed clay waiting the potter’s hand. She already had a set of features, individual and her own. ’Twasn’t much, true, but when one could not call her future her own; even so little was precious. Though she did have Thomas. The thought of her long-unseen brother brought an attendant wave of worry.

“Thomas is gone?” she asked.

“Aye, lass,” Jamie answered.

“Good,” she said, but she could not keep the wistful note from her voice. She hadn’t even been aware her brother was alive until a few years before when his letters had begun arriving at the convent. Thomas McClairen, bondage servant, sea captain, Marquis of Donne and laird of the McClairen.

She hadn’t seen him since he and their older brother John had been taken to London to await trial for treason. He’d been sentenced, deported, and sold into bondage for his part in the uprising of ’45. Their older, thus more “dangerous,” brother, John, had been hanged, drawn, and quartered. John had been sixteen.

“He’ll be gone a fair length?” she finally asked.

“Long enough for us to accomplish what we must,” Muira answered.

Favor nodded. Thomas would be a dangerous man to defy and impossible to deceive. He’d spent his years of servitude on the deck of a ship, his master being the captain-owner of a small shipping business. He’d won his master’s respect and later his trust. After his bond had been satisfied, Thomas had bought a share in his former master’s shipping business and become captain of his own vessel.

He’d prospered and looked to prosper even more but his sight was set on a different goal. He’d returned to Scotland seeking the downfall of the man who’d betrayed the McClairens and stolen their birthright: Lord Carr.

To accomplish this he’d taken “Donne” as his surname, it being one of the McClairen lairds’ old, long-forgotten French titles. In London he’d established himself as a disreputable ne’er-do-well and attached himself to a group of young devils who habitually made a pilgrimage to Wanton’s Blush, once the McClairens’ castle, now a hellhole of gaming and debauchery. There he’d befriended—to whatever degree such a creature as Carr was capable of friendship—Carr himself, all the while looking for the perfect manner in which to, in one fell stroke, destroy Carr and all he owned or held dear.

All this Thomas wrote to Favor in letters, in dribs and drabs. Favor pieced the hints together, discerning Thomas’s goals in what he said and what he omitted. But something had gone wrong with Thomas’s plan. His last letter to Favor had said only that his resolve had been shaken and he needed to regain it somewhere far from Scotland. Which was good for Favor’s purposes.

Thomas knew naught of Muira’s plan. If he caught wind of it he would do everything in his power to keep Favor from becoming involved. But she was involved. Muira had written hundreds of pages to her elucidating just how very involved she was.

Because Favor was responsible for her clan’s near extermination.

And if the good Abbess at Sacré Coeur had eventually convinced Favor that God had forgiven her, she knew very well that the same could not be said of her clan.

Favor pulled her thoughts away from her dark musings. She looked up, finding Muira’s cool, appraising gaze fastened on her. How could she have thought that woman would have a kind word for her? Muira held her responsible for the death of every person she’d ever loved and more, of the death of her heritage.

Favor’s return to Scotland was no prodigal’s homecoming, no happy end to a decade-long exile.

It was penance.