Fire at Midnight (20 page)

“I almost forgot,” Paxton called after them, “Mr. Winstanley is due out to make repairs on the lighthouse in a day or so. I trust you will explain our arrangement?”

Sebastién’s head came up sharply at the news.

“Winstanley shouldn’t be surprised to find us there,” Rachael said. “After all, he gave me a key.”

“Oui,” Sebastién said grimly, “he may expect
you,
but he does not expect
me.
And as rumor has it, he is less than fond of French privateers.”

Rachael placed her slim white hand on his, and Sebastién glanced down at their joined hands. When he looked back up, she was smiling.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I will protect you.”

Avery Paxton paused in front of the Grog and Gavel. His mouth was dry. He walked into the pub and was roundly greeted by one and all.

He visited the pub with the same dependability that the Cornish people had come to equate with rain on Sunday. After several tankards of stout ale, Avery Paxton could be counted on to become the most amusing source of gossip in all of Cornwall and Devon combined.

Sebastién battled a strong crosswind as he steered the tiny rowboat in choppy seas. They came close enough to the great foundation of rock to which the Eddystone Light was anchored that Rachael was afforded a glimpse of its underpinnings: iron rods of at least twelve feet in length in a stone base some two dozen feet tall.

This was no ordinary lighthouse. She squinted up at the tower as they stepped onto the landing platform that led to the front entry. The ten-sided upper section bore an artist’s impressions of the sun and moon, plus various inscriptions, mostly in Latin:
Post Tenebras Lux
(“After Darkness, Light”),
Salutem Omnium
(“For the Safety of All”),
Pax En Bello
(“Peace in War”), and
Glory Be to God.

Directly below the great lantern with its massive glass windows was a skillfully engraved shower of stars and the inscription
Anno Dom
in bold work, flanked by a reference to the reign of William the Third.

Sebastién urged her forward, whispering that he expected to find the décor of a Parisian bordello inside. As they passed through the main door, she glimpsed another engraving in Latin, this one a proclamation that the lighthouse had been designed and constructed by Henry Winstanley.

The interior of the tower upheld the lavish style promised by its exterior. Rachael had expected to find steep, rust-corroded spiraling stairs, drafty landings, and hard pallets tossed onto cold floors. Sebastién, evidently expecting the same, gave a low whistle when he opened a door and discovered an attractively appointed bedchamber.

The room was richly gilded, with a large closet and a small chimney. While Sebastién noted the barred outside shutters with a grunt of approval, Rachael marveled at the fine woodwork and the quality of the tapestry rugs.

They climbed carpeted stairs to the next floor, where they discovered the “state room,” a chamber similar to the one below but with a larger fireplace and enough closet space for a monarch’s wardrobe. The two sash windows had also been equipped with shutters to bar and bolt.

The next level, called “the airry,” was an open gallery with a huge leaden cistern used to hold rainwater. The cistern could also be used to allow the sea to pass through in the event of a violent storm.

They wandered into the kitchen, a semi-domed room of moderate size. The kitchen was equipped for basic needs and hinted of past use with its casual state of disarray and, lingering cooking odors.

“Mr. Paxton lives here,” Rachael guessed.

The room had a huge fireplace, a recessed oven with a level of ash attesting to frequent use, two dressers, and a long trestle table. A large standing bed dominated the remainder of the room. Casually strewn pillows and crumpled sheets told of a lone occupant who found sleep elusive. A stack of books rose in a haphazard pile atop one dresser.

The uppermost volume contained a small, square, white placard that slipped from between the pages when Rachael lifted the book. She flipped the card over to see it was an undertaker’s business card. The artwork depicted a skull and coffin and the customary message about the brevity of human life. She replaced the card between two random pages and snapped the book shut.

Rachael moved away from the dresser to a sizable closet along one wall that bore a crude handmade calendar. She idly noted the date: November 25, 1703, displayed next to the charted phases of the moon. A new moon was due.

The hallway leading from the umbrella-shaped room opened onto a narrow walkway, and Rachael followed the walkway until she reached an open gallery that housed a large standing crane off to one side of the tower. The crane was used to bring up goods when a supply boat could not venture near the rocks due to rough seas.

“It is also used as a signal tower,” Sebastién informed Rachael with a circumspect look around as he pulled her back inside.

They continued up another narrow flight of stairs and entered a small hexagonal bedchamber. It was barely large enough for two cabin beds and a tiny walnut dresser. The simple room promised comfort, and Rachael claimed the cozy chamber as her own. Joining Sebastién in the doorway, she stood looking into the area adjoining the modest bedroom.

A dining room and a series of large lockers lined one side. Sebastién entered the room and pulled open one of the lockers. It contained a neatly bound cylinder of candles. He opened several other lockers, and all contained candles to light the great lantern. Several nearly depleted sacks of food staples and other provisions lined the opposite wall.

Rachael had no particular interest in the storeroom. She wandered back into the bedroom and sank down onto the bed, the firm mattress barely yielding under her weight. Her head throbbed, her muscles ached, and her eyes burned from lack of sleep. She pulled off her shoes and fully reclined. Within moments, she was in the grip of a deep sleep.

Rachael awoke with a start to the sound of of water churning and a voice elevated in a tortured cry. Cringing in alarm, she sat up in the bed, arms dimpled with gooseflesh. The sounds came from the kitchen below the bedchamber.

Stumbling into furniture, bumping her shins as she sought the door, Rachael flew down the steps, and as she neared the kitchen, what had sounded like an immense flow of water became a moderate sloshing. She realized the cry of distress that had awakened her was actually loud singing.

Sebastién crooned what was undoubtedly a ribald rhyme mated to a robust melody. He sang in a fractured key, in thick, garbled French and with a gusto that made her certain the translation would rival the raunchiest composition any English minstrel had to offer.

She crept the remainder of the way down the narrow spiral of stairs and entered the kitchen area that doubled as Paxton’s living quarters. There, in the center of the room, rested a great wooden tub, filled to the point of overflowing with hot water.

As wispy tendrils of steam drifted upward, Sebastién sat luxuriating in a bath. Eyes closed with pleasure, he reclined against the tub’s curved end. The water crested at mid-point against his lightly furred torso, and he had one leg arched over the rim, the white-lathered limb dangling.

He seemed to sense her presence just as she was about to flee back up the stairs and into the relative safety of her bedchamber. His eyes snapped open.

“Are you here to observe or to scrub my back?” His eyes danced with merriment.

“With all the noise you were making, I concluded you were being murdered,” she said, flustered. She could feel the heat creeping into her face, and it had nothing to do with the steam rising from the bathwater. She was staring at him and could not seem to stop.

“If I were being murdered, you would be the first to know,” he quipped.

“No,” Rachael gravely replied, “but I would certainly be the second.” Her remark hung in the air, a reminder of the danger stalking them. Sebastién grew morose, and she regretted her hasty words. “Since I am here,” she said briskly, “I might as well be of some use.”

Rachael raised her skirts and crossed the floor. Snatching the soap from his hand, she began to lather his muscle-corded back. Casting a glance over his shoulder, Sebastién shrugged and leaned forward to make the task easier.

He relaxed and tipped his head back, closing his eyes as her hands abandoned scrubbing and began to massage his shoulders.

The play of his muscles beneath Rachael’s hands made her acutely aware of him. The breadth of his shoulders reminded her of his easy strength and how it felt to be held by him. As he exulted in the soothing power of her stroking hands, she felt sensual and powerful in her own right.

When the soap slid from her grasp and plunged into the water, Sebstién lunged to retrieve it with such alacrity that a great wave of the bathwater crested above the confines of the tub, slapping Rachael with a flat, warm wall of water. She stepped back with a cry of dismay, soaked from the waist down.

Sebastién whirled and took in her drenched state with an impish smile. She wanted to rail at him, but he looked like a rascally child.

“You’re nearly as wet as I am,
ma chérie
,” he said with a straight face. “You may as well join me!”

A noise escaped her as she eluded his hand. “I’ll have my bath soon enough,” she said.

Her folly was in placing herself so near the tub, within his reach. Laughing, Sebastién lunged forward, gripped Rachael’s wrist, and pulled her to the edge of the tub. She shrieked and attempted to wrench free, but he locked both hands over hers and pulled with such vigor that her firmly planted feet slid across the floor.

Rachael tumbled forward and fell thrashing into the huge tub, her enraged outcry mixed with Sebastién’s puckish roar of delight. Water flew in all directions as she made several fruitless attempts to climb out of the tub, but his long legs and pesky hands thwarted her efforts. Eventually she sat across from him, unprotesting, clothing completely saturated.

“You may as well join me,” he said again, with gleaming eyes and provocatively elevated brows.

“That was a childish thing to do,” she huffed.

His eyes glittered and Sebastién smiled warmly. “Now which one of us has no sense of humor?” he taunted. “Would you like your words seasoned before you feast upon them?” A tart retort hovered on the tip of Rachael’s tongue, and he made a taunting noise. “Ah, so it is not as funny to be the object of the jest?” He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “These English,” he said in a rhetorical tone, recalling her words to Paxton, “these English can make a joke of someone else, but they cannot bear to be the brunt of one.”

He laughed, slapping at his thigh and sending up a spray of water, most of which managed to catch her directly in the face. Her hair dripped water in torrents. A blob of lather floated down and perched on the tip of her upturned nose.

“Allow me,” he said, reaching out to dab at the droplet of foam. “Your nose is restored,” he said, cracking a broad smile. “Now, what can we do about your disposition?”

“My mood will improve the moment I am out of this tub,” Rachael replied stiffly.