No mercy. No quarter.
They couldn't have done much anywhere else, would have had to stand back, rely more on Ethan and Valentine and even Chance. But this was Romney Marsh, a land that had seen centuries of smuggling, shipwrecking, pirates and violence. It was its own small country, physically attached to the rest of England, but often a land and a law unto itself, loyal, sympathetic first to its own. The violent Hawkhurst Gang had once ridden here, the Groombridge Gang, the Addington Gang and so many others, and the wool laws and the war with Bonaparte had resurrected the owlers once more. The populace, even many of the Waterguard, had learned to look the other way when the gangs rode out, for to pay too much attention could prove fatal.
The fact that the Black Ghost gang had aided much of the population feed their families for several years could also play a large part in the success of Ainsley's bold plan.
The trick would be in protecting Becket Hall, as well as effecting Ainsley's rescue.
"I may be very late," he told her at last.
She nodded. "I doubt I'll be able to sleep, in any case. Oh, I forgot— Papa wants you to christen the frigate."
"Bloody hell." He shook his head. "We don't have time to— "
"She's to be called the
Isabella.
Papa said…he said we take her with us, to freedom."
Courtland felt as if he'd been punched in the stomach, all his air gone from him. "I'll see that it's done."
"And Mama's portrait? He'll want that, too, won't he?"
"I'm sure we'll all want many things, Callie, eventually. For now, most of them remain here, with Elly and Jack. We can have them shipped to Hampton Roads. For now, every inch of available space will be needed for human cargo."
"And the Empress?"
"That damn stone? Callie, I don't know. It'll end up somewhere. Maybe Ainsley plans to toss it into the sea. That's what I'd do with it."
Cassandra smiled, stepped closer to him. "So unflappable, Court, that's how I've always seen you. Yet this stone seems to unleash something in you, doesn't it? Toss it in the sea? Papa says it's priceless."
"It's had its price, Callie," Courtland told her, a muscle working in his jaw. "I've seen it on the island. Its victims are already buried in the sea, so why shouldn't the damn thing join them?"
Callie's smile faded. "I know, Court. I'm sorry I teased you. The world's gone mad again, hasn't it? Hold me for a moment before you leave, please?"
How could he possible resist her? "It's going to be all right, sweetheart," he said, pulling her against his chest. "I promise. I'd wager my life on our success."
"Don't die for me, Court," she said passionately. "I need you to live for me. I need you to be with me. I need you to hold me, not just to keep me safe, but to share with me, the good times and the bad— to treat me as the woman I want to be. Your woman, Court. Please."
The tensions of the last days pulled taut, snapped, and he crushed her against him, bringing down his mouth to meet hers, seized by an almost overwhelming passion he'd never felt before, not for anything, anyone, any hope, any dream he could dream.
He wanted her. God, he needed her.
"Don't go, Court, not yet. Stay here with me," she whispered as he kissed her hair, the slender stalk of her throat. "Can you do that?"
"More than anything…I want to…"
She put her hands against his shoulders, looked up into his face. "But you can't, can you? You've got your…duty. I understand."
"I wish to hell I did," he told her, cupping her chin in his hand. "Not that I don't understand. In my mind, I understand." He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to marshal his words. "It's…it's my heart that doesn't want to be anywhere but here, with you."
"Oh, Court," Cassandra said, standing on tiptoe to kiss his mouth again, and the innocent gentleness of that kiss forced him to close his eyes against the sudden, stupid burning of tears. "Go…do what you have to do," she said, clasping his hands in hers. "But then come back here to me. I'll be waiting, no matter how late the hour."
Court wanted to say no, to tell her that there was a time and a place and a— "Are you sure, Callie? You're afraid for your papa, for all of us. It's natural you should feel…are you sure?"
"I've never been any more sure of anything in all of my life, and I've been sure of my feelings for you for all of that life. Don't make me be alone tonight, Court, not if you care for me."
He squeezed her fingers, and then slowly, reluctantly, let her go. "Lock this door behind me," he said before kissing her one last time.
"You lock it from the outside," she told him, handing him the key. "And then you can open it again."
Courtland smiled, shook his head. "One of us is crazy, Callie. Or maybe both of us…"
He left her then, heading for the common room, knowing that only those from Becket Hall now occupied the inn, and that two dozen good men from Becket Village and volunteers who had been protected by the Black Ghost and had already heard of the trouble stood guard around the perimeter at all times.
Rian met him with a tankard of ale and a quizzical look. "Well? How is she? How is he?"
Courtland quickly flashed on how Cassandra had looked when he'd left her, so soft and willing, doubting Rian would want to hear any of that, so he forced himself to concentrate on Ainsley. He pulled the folded note from his pocket and tossed it on the scarred tabletop. "See for yourself. We have a busy three days ahead of us. But I will say this, brother mine, for all that Beales made a first strike none of us expected, Ainsley Becket is still a bloody genius. And one thing more, Rian. Edmund Beales is in Dymchurch— and within our grasp. Chance is going to arrive just in time for the fun."
* * *
"THE ENGLISH REFLECTION of her mother, isn't she?" Edmund Beales asked as Ainsley, once more with his ankles and wrists bound by shackles and chains, was pushed roughly into a chair in a small office in the gaol. "Last we spoke, you failed to mention her. Little Cassandra, all grown-up, nearly the age Isabella was when you first brought her to your pretty little island. I was quite startled— pleasantly so— to see her, and thought immediately of Isabella. So beautiful, so foolish. I would have treated her as my queen."
Ainsley looked at his onetime partner, unblinking, as Edmund slipped a few small, dark green leaves into his mouth, between teeth and cheek. Lisette had told him, in great detail, of everything that she remembered of her father, his actions since removing her from the convent. "An idle question if you will, Edmund. Are there any teeth left in that side of your head? Any brains left, as well, or do the coca leaves do all of your thinking for you now? Not to be insulting, but you really don't look well. Perhaps a recent wound has done more damage than one would suppose?"
Edmund Beales only smiled. "That's the best you can do, Geoff? Fling words at me? Fling my daughter's traitorous action at me? Yes, I suppose it is. We can't all be lucky in our daughters. The mother of mine was clearly unsound. The shackles. Do they chafe?"
Ainsley said nothing. He'd first been shackled and dragged into Edmund's presence the previous evening. The man had offered him a glass of wine, which Ainsley threw into his face, at which time Liam Doone, who Edmund now called Thibaud, had run him face-first into one of the stone walls, rendering him unconscious. Ainsley wouldn't make that same mistake in his second conversation with his former partner. He was no good to himself or anyone else injured, and it was time to set his plan into motion.
"You weren't very cooperative last night, Geoff," Beales continued from his seat behind the desk. "And it's been so long since we've last had ourselves a pleasant chat. Too many years. Let's see, whatever shall we talk about, hmm?"
"How you would prefer to die?" Ainsley suggested, earning himself a sharp poke in the back from the belaying pin Thibaud had already threatened to use to smash both his knees.
"Leave us, you fool. He's wearing more chain than an anchor. Brute force is unnecessary. My good friend Geoff wishes to speak about death, and I'm inclined to oblige him. Did you know, Geoff, if the knot isn't set correctly, a man can slowly choke to death for long, painful minutes, rather than have his neck neatly snapped by the drop? Oddly enough, the hangman is known to me, his instructions already given as to where to position the knot. You'll do a fine dance, Geoff, and a quite lengthy one."
Thibaud mumbled something and quit the room.
"Not your so-loyal Jules, is he, sharing your delight in the sound of your own voice?" Ainsley said, smiling as he mentioned the man Spencer had seen and destroyed in London. "Also quite painful, I would imagine, being burned alive. My men told me he screamed for a long time."
Beales shrugged. "He failed in his most important mission. He would be dead, screaming, if he'd returned to me. But you're correct. Our friend Liam is a sad disappointment. They grow old, Geoff, and weak. We're the only strong ones left. And how is our good friend Jacko?"
"Dead these last two years," Ainsley lied, looking at Edmund levelly. "Did you really arrange this charade so that we could reminisce? If you have, I'd like to be returned to my cell. It smells better there."
Edmund leaned his elbows on the desk top. "Oh, but I so long to speak of the old days, one in particular. How did you escape? There were three warships escorting those merchantmen. You should be dead."
"I was dead, for many years. Odd that the man who killed me now gives me new life."
"Ha! That's good, Geoff, very good. I should almost be afraid, were it not that you're sitting here in chains, waiting to be tried and hanged and— well, and I'm not, am I?"
"You were always overly confident, especially for a man of your limited talents."
Edmund's smile left him. "Oh, you'll be hanged. While I watch you dance, your legs vainly stretching to feel solid ground beneath them. I won't be cheated a second time, the way your ungrateful wife cheated me."
Ainsley felt every muscle in his body tensing. He could release the stiletto, fling himself across the desk, stab the blade deep into Beales's throat. Except that the chains would slow him, and Beales had a pistol lying close beside him on the desktop. He would gladly die if he could take Beales to Hell with him, but the odds, at the moment, were against that happening. So Ainsley remained silent, tried his best to look unimpressed.
Beales tapped at his own cheek. "You've got a tic, Geoff, working just here. Feel it? How dare I speak of your beloved wife? Your dead wife? Your
stupid,
wasteful wife."
"You killed her," Ainsley said, unable to stop himself. "And now you blame her for what you did?"
Beales sat back against the chair, shook his head. "You don't know, do you? Perhaps that's best. After all, the insult was to me."
"Knowing you still breathe, Edmund, is an insult to humanity at large."
Beales leaned forward once more, and Ainsley could see the hatred in his dark eyes, the spittle born of the juice of the coca leaves forming at the corners of his mouth. "I told her— told her how it would be with me now that you were dead. She'd be mine, my wife, my consort in all things, as we conquered England together. I was offering her the world, Geoff! Any other woman would have been
honored
to have been so chosen. But not that stupid Spanish strumpet. If you— her so wonderful Geoffrey— were dead, then she would die, too, though it damned her to Hell. I damned her to Hell— that's what she meant."
"What are you saying? In Christ's name, Edmund— tell me what you think I need to hear and have done with it."
"She jumped," Beales said baldly, striving for bravado, but even Ainsley could hear the frustration in the man's voice. "She broke free of me and ran up the staircase, to the railing, while I chased after her like some lovesick fool, begging her to stop." He put out one hand, formed it into a tight fist. "I nearly had her…I almost had her as she lifted her leg over the railing, calling your name, over and over again, until she fell."
Beales slammed his fist against his chest. "She dishonored me, in front of my own crew. After that, everyone had to die. Everyone! I would not be made to look the fool!"
Ainsley slowly closed his eyes, traveled back in his mind to the moment he'd burst into the nearly destroyed house and seen Isabella, his darling Isabella, lying on the marble floor like a beautiful, broken doll. "Oh, God. Oh, my God…
Isabella.
"
He flinched as Beales brought both his fists down hard on the desktop. "Enough! The Empress. Where is she? You can't save yourself, Geoff, you'll understand that I want my pound of flesh, but I am willing to bargain."
"I would have given you the emerald," Ainsley told him dully, raising his head once more. "I was going to give it to you before we left for England. Christ, Edmund, it's just a pretty piece of rock, that's all. Not flesh and blood, not half so precious…"
"So say you. I know differently. In the right hands, in
my
hands, the Empress is
