A Daughter's Destiny (11 page)

“A lady?” The man laughed again, then reeled down the wooden quay, bouncing good-naturedly off stacked barrels and bales of cloth.

“Sit yerself down, lady.” Marksen crossed his legs and leaned back.

Gingerly she did as he ordered. If she let him discover how unsure she was, he would take advantage of her. “Captain Marksen, I need to get to France. If you could arrange passage for me, I will be sure no one knows how I crossed.”

“Two 'undred pounds,” he announced past his teeth gripping the stem of the pipe.

“Excuse me?”

“Two 'undred pounds, and I'll take ye.” He eyed her up and down. “Yer small. Won't take up too much room. Got the money?”

She dampened her lips. “Captain, I cannot pay you such an astronomical fee.”

“Astronom—? What the 'ell does ye mean by that?”

“It is too much.”

Grasping her arm, he tugged her to her feet. She started to protest, but he growled a warning to her. He led her along the busy pier. No one appeared to notice them, and she guessed if they did, they would forget seeing her with Captain Marksen.

He turned her into a dusky alley, and she cried, “Where are you taking me?”

“I thought ye wanted to go to France.”

“But—”

His hand over her mouth silenced her. In terror, she tried to pull away.

“Be quiet, lady. If we're seen 'ere …” He did not have to finish his threat.

She peeled his fingers off her mouth. In a whisper, she stated, “I understand the danger.”

Brienne's bravado vanished as he faced her. Suddenly she realized how alone they were in this narrow alley. She tried to edge away along a brick wall, but his hand against it halted her. Staring at him, she knew it was useless to try to escape. He wanted the money she could pay him, so she should make him a deal to take her to France.

“'Ow much can ye pay?” he asked.

“Ł25 is the most I can pay you.”

He chuckled. “Ł25? Only Ł25? Ye be bold, girl, to come to me with such a ridiculous offer!”

“Do you want it or no?”

His smile became a frown. “All right. Be at the Fox and Swan at sunset. Ye know where the Fox and Swan tavern be on the marsh road, don't ye?”

“No, but I shall find it and meet you there at sunset.”

“If ye ain't, I sail without ye.”

“So you'll take me for Ł25?”

Again he laughed, the sound slicing through her. “I said be there. What 'appens after that is up to ye. Sunset, lady.”

“I understand.”

“By the way, darlin', what be yer name?” He put out one hand to the wall, paying no mind to the filth left by many chamberpots dumped in the alley.

“Miss Clark. Miss Bridget Clark.”

“Be that so?” At his laugh, she realized she had not fooled him. “Miss Clark, it'll be. Be there at sunset, Miss Clark.”

As she watched him lurch away, she realized he was as intoxicated as his comrades. The horrible stench of his pipe had masked the odor of whiskey. She doubted if any of the sailors could afford to drink the fine brandy they smuggled from France. That was all bound for the clubs and homes of the rich.

She followed Captain Marksen out of the alley. Her foot slipped into a pool of some liquid that smelled like the privies edging the docks. She grimaced, wishing she could clean her shoe. Mayhap she could buy some water from the innkeeper at the Fox and Swan. She could spare a few pennies for some water so she could wash before supper.

The thought of food spurred her forward. If she could find this inn right away, she might be able to eat before she met Captain Marksen again. Hurrying along the docks, she ignored the small voice that urged her not to keep the appointment, to go back to London where she belonged.

She wished she could, but a promise must be kept.

Brienne's legs were aching from fatigue by the time she found what she believed was the marsh road. Fearfully she glanced at the sun which was hanging low in the western sky, barely cutting through the fog oozing up from the ground. Sunset came so early this time of year, and she would not have time to retrace her steps if she had chosen the wrong way.

Damp oozed into her bones, and she longed for the comfort of the hearth in Evan's house. She might as well wish for a fancy house of her own, because she would never be going back to that haven. She feared she would never be that safe again.

Evan believed that the men who had set fire to L'Enfant de la Patrie would not be content until they found the vase or killed her. They would hunt her as long as she remained in England, but she doubted they would be able to chase her to France.

Brienne hurried to the side of the road as she heard the rattle of a wagon. As it materialized out of the mist, she saw the slow-moving gray horse was almost the same shade as the fog.

The wagon stopped, and she heard a voice call, “Lost?”

She looked up at the elderly face of the driver. At first she thought the wizened features belonged to a man. When the person repeated the question, she realized the voice was feminine. Bundled in a variety of rags and wearing a bright handkerchief over her head, the woman smiled at her.

“I hope I am not lost,” Brienne answered. “I am looking for the Fox and Swan.”

“Yer goin' the right way, but what's a fine-looking lass like ye goin' there fer?”

She was amazed that anyone would think that a mud-splashed urchin looked fine, but not surprised that the inn at which Captain Marksen had arranged to meet her had a poor reputation. Choosing her words carefully, she asked, “They still have a coach leaving for London from there, don't they?”

“Aye.”

She smiled. “I must hurry if I want to reach there before it leaves.”

“Girl!”

She glanced back.

“Climb 'board, girl.” The old woman patted the seat. “I be goin' past the Fox and Swan. Ye might as well rest yer feet a bit.”

“I—I don't have any money to pay you.” Accepting charity from Evan had bothered her, but not as much as being offered a ride by a stranger. Only a few days ago, she would have been grateful, but harsh lessons had taught her not to trust blindly.

The old woman's eyes almost disappeared in the wrinkles of her wide cheeks. “Did I say a word 'bout money? C'mon, girl. Climb 'board if'n ye want to get there afore the coach leaves. I likes company other than this old nag and me own voice.”

Brienne climbed up the spokes of the wheel and onto the narrow seat. Rearranging her heavy cloak around her, she sat just as the dray lurched. She clutched her bag to make sure the vase was safe.

“Sorry,” mumbled the old woman. “Old George goes when 'e wants.”

“George?”

What Brienne guessed was a chuckle emerged from the collection of rags. It sounded like a metal file rubbed on a dull knife. “Why not? This old nag's as mad as old King George 'isself. I be Granny Wilder. Who be ye, girl?”

“Bridget—Bridget Clark.” She hated lying to this kind woman.

“Goin' to London? What fer?”

Dampening her lips, she said, “I thought I would find myself a job.”

“Talk right nice, ye do. Like one of them fancified ladies on the arm of a lord. Could get yerself a position like them.” She slapped the reins on the back of the horse, but the pace continued the same. With another grumble, she cursed, “Damn 'orse! Goin' to sell 'im one of these days if'n I can get a tuppence fer 'im.”

Unsure how to respond, Brienne listened in silence as the old woman rambled on about any subject that struck her fancy. She offered her opinions on the king, the Prince Regent, the state of the weather, and the inevitability of England being invaded by Napoleon's army.

“Not that we won't beat their Frenchie arses right back 'cross the Channel. Almost wish Boney would come.” She whipped an imaginary staff through the air. “Sure would like to see 'im racin' away like a cur with 'is tail 'tween 'is bandy legs.”

“Yes,” she agreed when Granny Wilder seemed to be waiting for an answer.

The old eyes, which once might have been blue but had faded to a gray, regarded Brienne steadily. “Cain't be trustin' none of them Frenchies. They be a bunch of sinners, I 'ear. Bad as old King Louie. Mayhap they'll send Boney to the guillotine, too.” Her grin returned. “Chop! No more Boney.”

In horror, Brienne pulled away. Sickness roiled in her stomach. Although she heard Granny Wilder asking what was amiss, she could only shake her head as she remembered how Maman had revealed one rainy, winter afternoon that Brienne's father had died on the guillotine.

“Squeamish?” persisted the old woman. She chuckled and drew back on the reins as they drove down a slope toward a house with a barn beyond it. “Well, 'ere ye be, Bridget. Fox and Swan.”

Brienne glanced around in dismay. Although the inn was as busy as the one in London, the hostlers here tossed the bags from the waiting coach directly into the mud. Shouts and curses filled the air.

Looking beyond them, she realized the inn was identifiable only by the sign hanging awry on a single hook. Like the barns, it needed a whitewashing. Paint had peeled to hang along the walls. Windows were patched with pieces of oiled paper.

She glanced at Granny Wilder and realized the old woman was waiting for her to say something. With a tentative smile, she murmured, “I guess it could be worse.”

“It is. Inside.” She leaned forward and put a gnarled hand on Brienne's knee. “Ye sure ye want to be goin' to London, Bridget? Ye don't seem like ye can take care of yerself too well.”

“I will find a way.” Sliding away from the fingers that were as hard as a tree branch, she eased off the seat, then carefully climbed down. She grimaced as her feet sank into the mud.

“Find yerself a good man. Or a fancy one.” She winked and chuckled as she waved a farewell. “Mayhap I be seein' ye soon on the arm of a fancy gent. If ye get a rich one, don't forget old Granny Wilder who did ye a favor today.”

When the wagon clattered out of sight in the fog, Brienne picked her way through the mud toward the inn. Captain Marksen had not said where he would meet her, so she would wait in the public room. Even a decrepit inn like this must have the luxury of a fire on the hearth. More than anything she wanted to be warm. No, more than anything, she wanted to be safe.

She had no idea what waited on the other side of the Channel, but she knew too well what lurked in the shadows of the English countryside. Her future was in her control. Only by taking the greatest risk of her life could she assure herself of staying alive. There was no turning back.

Brienne held her dress out of the mud as she sidestepped an argument between two men. Now she understood why Captain Marksen had chosen to meet her at the Fox and Swan. With the chaos here, no one would note their negotiations.

She gasped as the men's loud discussion exploded into a fight. She cringed when one man struck the other. She tried to flee, but the press of spectators pushed her toward the melee.

She clawed her way out of the crowd. The spectators stepped aside reluctantly, for their attention was on the fight. Suddenly a broad hand clamped onto her wrist and snatched her through the crowd.

Captain Marksen's grim face offered her neither a smile nor a greeting as he cocked his head to the left. Pulling her hand out of his, she followed him. She knew better than to ask questions, because she risked losing his help.

Rushing to keep up with his longer strides, she jumped aside at a shout from a wagon speeding across the inn's yard. “Look out!” called the driver.

The curse Captain Marksen shouted back heated Brienne's dirt-streaked face. Neither man noticed as they exchanged obscenities. Marksen seized her by the wrist again. When the driver gave her a bawdy wink, she gasped.

“Shut up!” Marksen ordered.

She tightened her hold on her bag as he tugged so sharply she almost tripped.

“Watch where yer goin',” he growled.

“I am! I could walk much better if you did not shove me around.”

“I said ‘Shut up!', and I meant it.” With another oath, he grumbled, “Not only is she cheap, but she chatters like a damned monkey.” Before she had a chance to retort, he halted just inside the stable door. “D'ye still plan on givin' me only Ł25?”

“It cannot be more than twenty-five miles across the Channel to France. I think one pound for each mile is fair compensation.”

“Compen—by all that's blue, lady, why don't ye speak the king's English?”

“I—oh, never mind. Will you take me to France for Ł25?”

“All right. Come with me. We shall see what me boys 'ave to say about yer offer.” He grinned with malicious delight. “Of course, there's a thing or two to do afore we go.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Such as?”

“The money, darlin'.”

“On your ship.”

“Ye don't understand, Miss Clark. I ain't takin' ye nowheres until I see the pound notes.”

Her smile erased his. “Then, I guess we are not doing business any longer. Good evening, Captain Marksen.”

When she started to walk away, he caught her arm and spun her to look at him. She did not cower. She had let him see her terror, and he had tried to bully her. She could not afford to be so honest again. Staring at him, it took all her strength not to look away from his glower.

“All right!” he snarled. “I'll be trustin' ye a bit, but …”

“But what?”

He pulled some dirty material from a pocket. “Ye can't see where me and me boys meet. If'n ye want to go tonight, ye'll wear this until we get there.”

Brienne hesitated, but knew his request, under the circumstances, was reasonable. Nodding, she turned so he could tie it in place. “Go ahead wi—”

He wrapped the cloth around her mouth. She reached for it, but he caught her hands and bound them behind her back. With a laugh, he shoved her to sit on the ground. She moaned as she struck the stable wall. When she pulled her feet under herself to stand, he raised his hand. “Move, darlin', and I'll be introducin' ye to the back of me 'and.”