Capturing Sir Dunnicliffe (The Star Elite Series) (3 page)

That, as far as Harriett was concerned, was the crux of the problem.

She didn’t belong.

Anywhere.

As a witch, she had never been accepted into any social circles. Although nobody had been outright rude to her – the villagers had needed her medicinal healing too often to offend her and risk her refusing to treat them – she hadn’t been welcomed with open arms either. They treated her with a wary respect. They were polite; dropped by when they wanted something; stared at her if she was in the village, and nodded to her politely if they passed in the street. None of them ever stopped to chat, and none of them ever invited her to take tea with them.

Until Jemima and Eliza had reappeared in her life, Harriett had been more than happy
to live this way. But her visit to Willowbrook had changed all that. She had been left with a sense of loneliness that had made her feel more ostracised from the villagers than ever. Although she knew her mother had been vilified by some of the village matriarchs years ago, they were all now dead, and luckily their offspring hadn’t continued the spiteful harassment of Harriett.

The image of a tall, dark-h
aired man with gorgeous emerald-green eyes flew into her mind and hovered there, taunting her with all the things she would never have. Immediately she tried to blank it out, but found herself wondering about him anyway. Where was he? What was he doing?

He had attended the wedding, at
Peter’s insistence, and had made a point of singling her out to escort her into the church. Harriett knew that he had been asked to look after her by Jemima, or Eliza, who hadn’t wanted her to be alone on their special day. While Harriett had been grateful for their forethought, she wished they had chosen someone other than the rather too-handsome officer, who made her feel things she had no business feeling.

She had
spent the day acutely aware of his towering presence beside her. He was so tall that he had towered over most of the congregation, giving him an air of command that he seemed to carry naturally. His thick brown locks fell in stylish disarray, touching the collar of his pristine white shirt that was accompanied by a neatly tied cravat. His breeches were of the finest cloth, and his highly polished boots were cut from the thickest leather. He was exactly as he appeared; an extremely handsome man, comfortable in his world.

Hugo had left the day after the wedding
. Harriett could still feel the sharp pang of disappointment that had swept over her when she had appeared at breakfast only to find Hugo on his way out. He had taken his leave of her, thoroughly polite, but clearly eager to leave. Thankfully, he had been oblivious to the thrill of pleasure that had swept through her when he had bowed politely over her hand, his gorgeous eyes staring directly, but dispassionately, at her for a brief moment before he had walked away, leaving her far more bereft than she had any right to feel.

She was more shaken than
she wanted to admit, and had pasted an over-bright smile on her face that had remained for the rest of the day, until Jemima had asked her if she was feeling quite all right. Then Harriett had felt the need to be at home, by herself, well away from interested eyes, and far from any reminder of the awakening feelings she didn’t want. She had made plans to leave a couple of days later and, although she was sad to say goodbye to her friends, had left for home with an eagerness she had been unable to hide.

W
hen she had returned to her little cottage with Harrold, she hadn’t felt the sense of homecoming she had anticipated. Instead, she felt as though she didn’t belong there either. The plants and herbs she had spent many years nurturing had withered, having had nobody to tend to their needs. The house was cold and had an air of dampness that had made her shudder.

It felt as though the house was empty -
waiting for something that she alone couldn’t provide. The sense of isolation had continued to grow relentlessly until Harriett felt quite discontent with her lot in life – which she had previously found acceptable.

Not perfect; just acceptable.

Even Harrold appeared quite discontent with his situation, and had taken to wandering aimlessly around the cottage, growling at nothing and howling in the middle of the night. It was as though he also sensed something was going to happen, and didn’t like it either.

Outside, the dull clouds had merged into the night skies.
Heavy rain clouds had descended, covering everything in a thick haze that blanked out all sign of the harbour. The faint flickering of the candle behind her did little to penetrate the inky blackness outside the window, and showed her a clear reflection of herself in the window.

She didn’t possess a mirror of any kind, and took the opportunity to
study the features staring back at her.

Although she wasn’t beautiful by any stretch of the imagination, she was passably pretty. Her red hair was more of a dark brown, with red flecks running through it that made it an intriguing colour
of reddish brown. If it wasn’t so thick and wildly curly, it could be brushed and swept into an elegant knot like most ladies wore and would look alluring. But Harriett couldn’t manage the wilful strands by herself, and when she had tried to tame it into some semblance of order, had found the results looking more like a beehive than anything attractive. More often than not, she swept it back into a simple knot at the base of her neck that emphasised her long, slender neck and the delicate point of her gently rounded chin. The high arch of her cheekbones were faintly smattered with freckles that matched the dark green of her eyes. When combined with her red hair, they helped to convince everyone that she was part Celtic, and thus had to be a witch who dealt in the black arts, rather than a white witch interested in nothing more than the healing powers of herbs and plants.

Harriett had no doubt that had her potions not worked
so well, the villagers wouldn’t venture anywhere near her; but she was cheaper than the doctor, who most people couldn’t afford, and she didn’t object when people called for her help in the middle of the night.

She didn’t mind people believing she dabbled in the dark arts, and knew Harrold p
layed a large part in her charade. He was a huge beast, with yellow eyes that glared balefully at everyone and anyone. She had heard the rumours that Harrold was the result of a spell gone wrong and was a child who had to remain as a feline as punishment for crossing her mother. Harrold’s hatred of strangers was legendary within the villagers, who had all learned not to approach the house until Harriett locked him away.

A particularly strong gust of wind rattled the window pane to
her side. The thin draught of cool air that swept over her skin made her shudder and gave her a gentle nudge. With a sigh she stood, closed the shutters and curtains and, picking up the single candle from the small table by the door, shuffled off to feed a still grumbling Harrold before heading off to bed. Once in her bedroom, she changed into her nightgown, added more logs to the fire, and climbed between the cold sheets.

As she lay
in the darkness, Harriett felt the sense of unease settle over her once more, stronger than ever. When she usually had this strange sense of foreboding, she inevitably received bad news. The last time she had felt something so strongly, her mother had died. But there was nobody left to grieve for. Her father, such as he was, had limited contact with her, and she didn’t know him well enough to consider him close. She knew Jemima and Eliza were in the safest place possible, in the loving arms of their very protective husbands. Even Harrold, although still grumpy, was fighting fit.

Harriett simply couldn’t
understand what was wrong. These feelings had plagued her since she was a child, arriving suddenly, without warning, and sometimes remaining with her for days. The sense of foreboding dragged at her senses, until it disappeared just as suddenly, immediately before the bad news arrived.

Tugging the blankets up to her ears, she closed her eyes
, tried to block out the haunting rattle of the window panes as the wind sought to gain entrance, and attempted not to feel so alone in the world.

It had started to rain a few hours ago,
just as Hugo arrived in the harbour of Port Isaac. He hadn’t wanted to head outside on such a stormy night, and would have been tucked up in bed if Pie Masters’ cover hadn’t been compromised. As it was, Hugo had been the only man nearby who was available to go to the small village of Port Isaac, and witness the arrival of one of France’s most notorious spy masters.

He wasn’t planning on engaging in any skirmishes. He was just going to watch the man come onto English shores, and get some idea of who he was meeting. Once he h
ad the information he needed, Hugo was going to follow the man and see where his contacts took him and, more importantly, to whose house. The information would be used by the Star Elite to make sure the man was constantly watched, and everyone who came into contact with him would be duly noted and also followed. In this way, they could follow the chain of people sheltering the smugglers from beginning to end. They could then ensure everyone was brought to justice and all of the foreign spies rounded up and interrogated.

It seemed that news of Scraggan’s execution a few weeks ago had only just reached
the French. According to their informant, the spy master was coming to England to re-establish the links Scraggan had used to transport spies into the country. He was due to arrive tonight.

Hugo knew that Port Isaac was a small, almost nondescript
, Cornish fishing village with very little to offer anyone except a small tavern, but it seemed almost too small to be a reliable landing place. He wondered just how many villagers were involved in the smuggling of spies and goods, given that little could happen in such a small village without someone being aware of it. It didn’t seem probable that spies appeared without a few of the villagers being involved.

His thoughts immediately
turned to the larger fishing port of Padstow further around the coastline, and the ruthless grip Scraggan and his men had once held on the villagers there. He briefly wondered if the same thing, albeit on a smaller scale, was happening in Port Isaac.

Hugo sighed and leaned against the stone wall of the
empty house. Hidden deep in the shadows, he drew his cloak tighter around his legs, partly to stop the thick material flapping and giving his position away, and partly to stop the cold wind sneaking beneath and chilling him even further. The large hood was already partially covering his face, shielding his eyes from the worst of the rain; the thick, black scarf he wore covered his mouth and nose. He had a dagger tucked away in his boot, and a pistol on his hip for added protection. The only people who knew he was there were Pie Masters, one of the best men he had in the Star Elite, and his boss, Lord Montague, who was waiting for news in London.

Their informant had sugges
ted Pie wait beside an old boat house, to one side of the small harbour. Hugo, having never been one to trust even the most reliable sources with his life, had instinctively chosen a different vantage point, and now stood on the opposite side of the harbour watching not only the boat house, but the harbour entrance, as well as the small row of houses lining the port.

He had been there as soon as dusk had
fallen, and was now stiff, cold and thoroughly fed up.

It seemed strange to be in Cornwall again
. He had hoped never to go near the place for a very long time; long enough to forget an intriguing pair of green eyes and a certain witch who seemed to have cast a spell on him. It was the only explanation he could come up with for why he kept thinking about her so much. Whatever he was doing, wherever he was, she always came into his thoughts.

He tried to blank out the image of her beautiful face, but it swam alluringly before him anyway, teasing his senses with something that he found intensely annoying. He was a man dedicated to his job. His life was spent protecting
English shores from foreign enemies. He had no business thinking about women, let alone one particular woman who was only a few miles along the coastline. If his aversion to romantic entanglements wasn’t enough to deter him from thinking about her, the damned beast she called a cat was enough to dampen the interest of even the most ardent admirer – which he was not.

Her only saving grace was the fact that she was currently in Oxfordshire spending some time with Jemima and Eliza. Well away from Cornwall, and
- more importantly – him. He wasn’t going to spend any time thinking about her wild red hair, and cautious demeanour that made him want to kiss her, just to see how she would respond.

She would probably put a curse on him,
Hugo thought ruefully, wondering if she already had and that was why he felt so frustrated. Despite his aversion to romantic entanglements, he had found it a wrench to leave her behind in Willowbrook. The clawing need to look behind him and take one last look at her before he left the house had haunted him as he had trotted down the driveway, until he had been unable to prevent one last quick look back at the mansion. Of course she hadn’t been visible, but he had felt strangely reassured to know that she was nestled inside, safe and warm and looked after. Cursing himself for a fool, he had abruptly turned away and spurred his horse into a gallop, eager to be on his way and free of the new feelings that were beginning to bother him.

Her safety, wellbeing or future happiness was nothing to him.
She was a reclusive witch. A very beautiful one, undoubtedly, but she was still everything he needed to avoid. He had no intention of getting involved, least of all with someone like Harriett.

At the moment, he had other problems to consider. On the other side of the harbour, he watched as a dark figure wal
ked down the narrow cliff path that led from the clifftop to the harbour at the back of the boat house. Sure enough, the figure became furtive as it approached the looming bulk of the stone structure, and disappeared around the back out of sight. Hugo mentally shook his head, all his senses on alert, waiting for any sign of danger to his present location. Without moving, his eyes wandered over the various houses lining the harbour, toward the boat house, before sweeping carefully around the harbour wall.

Their source hadn’t told them what time the spy master was due to arrive, and it was
some time yet before dawn would herald a new day. Hugo tried hard not to shuffle his feet, and drew on his experience of many years in the army, standing perfectly still and alert. He counted to one hundred before the dark figure appeared at the far side of the boat house, and stood contemplating the area for several long moments, clearly looking for his missing quarry.

He had the distinct impression that the man wasn’t
intending to meet his acquaintance and rekindle old friendships. Every instinct warned him to remain still and keep watching. To give his location away now would almost certainly mean entering into a skirmish, and that was the last thing he needed. He had no support; nobody to fight at his back if it came to hand-to-hand combat. He had little doubt he could handle the man across the harbour. It would be the arrival of the spy master and his men that would leave him hopelessly out-numbered. He had no intention of dying on the job, especially at the hands of French spies in his own country.

Hugo watched the man disappear
around the rear of the boat house again. A furtive movement out of the corner of his eye made him blink. His gaze was fixed on two men as they walked cautiously past him. They could have been out for an evening stroll – that is, if they hadn’t been dressed in black, and studying the area around the harbour almost as intently as Hugo himself.

They walked toward the harbour w
all, mere feet in front of Hugo, without even realising Hugo was there, and stood staring out at sea, waiting. Unfortunately the very place they had chosen to wait was directly in Hugo’s line of vision, blocking his view of the boat house across the harbour. Hugo silently cursed and contemplated shifting a little but, as the new arrivals were so close, it would be suicide to do anything to draw their attention. It was imperative that nothing hinder his quest for information about the spy-master.

H
e only had to wait for a few minutes before he caught sight of a small rowing boat, silently gliding through the calmer harbour waters, into the harbour. At first glance there appeared to be four men on board, two rowers and two other men, one sitting at the bow and one at the stern. The men on the harbour wall immediately stood at attention and watched the boat approach, standing on the very edge of the wall to help dock the small vessel.

Hugo cursed his luck. Of all of the places around the harbour he had chosen, it had to be within feet of the landing spot.
It would be a miracle if someone didn’t spot him. Although he was shrouded from head to foot in black, there was still a possibility that someone would look his way and see him. If there was a break in the clouds big enough to allow the moon to shine through, his shadow would be outlined, leaving him with no choice but to attempt to fight his way out of the village. He daren’t move. The men before him were too alert, and would notice his movement, leaving him with no choice but to remain where he was – and watch. He didn’t want to risk a skirmish just yet.

One man he could manage;
maybe even two. Three - if they were poor fighters, but six men? The odds would definitely be against him. Almost certainly the two men on the harbour were there for added protection, and were going to lead the French men to the contacts. They would be looking for anyone watching, or following.

Even if he ignored the man waiting in the boat house, Hugo knew his situation had suddenly become
very dangerous.

He remain
ed silent and watchful as the small boat glided toward the harbour wall. A rope was thrown to the men ashore, who secured the craft and hauled the passengers on to dry land. Hugo couldn’t hear what was whispered. He didn’t recognise any of them but, despite the darkness of the stormy night, tried to commit each man to memory in case he ever saw them again.

A small wiry
man, with dark hair, climbed ashore first and waited for a large, burly man with an ample stomach to haul his girth out of the boat. Once ashore, the large man began to huff and puff and curse in French. Hugo had no doubt the two men left in the boat, the rowers, were also protection, but they made no attempt to get out of the boat. As soon as the two Frenchmen had climbed ashore, they silently released the craft from its mooring, and pushed it away from the harbour wall. Within minutes the boat was silently gliding toward the open sea, and undoubtedly toward the larger ship anchored several miles offshore.

Hugo
watched the men turn toward the village. There were no other boats in the harbour, or any sign of movement from any of the houses. His suspicions about the men being there for added protection were confirmed when one man moved to walk ahead of the two French arrivals, and the second man brought up the rear. 

He listened to the footsteps receding, and then counted to ten before slowly easing away from the wall. He took no more than four steps before a loud retort broke the silence. Pain
immediately exploded in his arm, followed by a fierce burning. He didn’t need to look to know he had just been shot. The warm ooze of blood trickling down his arm was in stark contrast to the cold flesh of his lower arm. He could feel the sticky liquid dripping from his fingers.

Gritting his teeth
, he tried to lift his arm, but it felt incredibly heavy. Cursing his luck, Hugo ran down the narrow cobbled street. He suddenly felt confused, and had no idea where he was going. A frantic glance over his shoulder confirmed that the assassin had left the shelter of the boat house and was tearing around the harbour after him.

Swearing, Hugo cursed the fact that his injured arm was on the same side as the gun resting on his hip, making it almost impossible to draw his
own weapon and retaliate. He was a crack shot and would be able to take the man out, but couldn’t risk stopping.

Hugo had no idea
if he was risking running straight into an ambush by the Frenchmen and their protection, and could only hope the new arrivals had moved into a villager’s house to await dawn, and further transportation out of the village. If they were still out on the streets making their way out of the area, they would have heard the gunfire and footsteps rapidly approaching from behind, and would undoubtedly be prepared to attack anyone who approached.

Trapped, Hugo had no choice but to send a silent prayer heavenwar
d – and run. He would have preferred to keep to the shadows and out of sight, but was aware that the edges of his cloak were flapping behind him, adding to the loud clipping of his boot heels on the cobbles lining the narrow roads between the old cottages.

Cursing the movement of his cloak, he quickly tugged at the ties, and threw the heavy item at one of the doors. Cold air immediately swept under the thin material of his
black shirt, but it was the least of his concerns right now.

In the darkness it was difficult to get his bearings. He had never been to the village during the daytime
, and had not had the time to check the area earlier. All he could remember was that he walked down the hill toward the harbour.

So, if he ran uphill, he should find his way out. Once at the top of the hill, he could head around the outside of the village to
his horse, which he had left tethered beneath an old yew tree.