Fire at Midnight (32 page)

What ordained priest would willfully disobey the vow of poverty? Even an insubordinate priest would not wisely flaunt such a breach. Who was he, then? What had been the purpose of such an elaborate deception? She slowly sat up on the sofa, wondering what her pliant tongue had cost, and whom it had cost.

S
ebastién had found a weather crack in one of the rough boards that formed the east wall of the cage. There was a two-hour respite in the afternoon when faint light pierced the dark hole that had swallowed him.

Today the beam was solid and steady. It thrust through the minute fissure in the wood and crisscrossed the cramped space at an angle, slanting diagonally to the floor. Although it provided no heat, it was a reminder that a world existed beyond the earth and timber coffin.

Sebastièen sat on the dirt floor with his long legs drawn up, eyes fixed upon the beam of light. He had looked upon that thread of sunlight daily, and never once had he felt hope or even experienced a desire for freedom.

Why escape? To be hunted again? To be looked upon with hatred by those he loved? To confront those who had deceived and then abandoned him? Rachael had forgotten him easily enough. It had been a recurring theme in his life; the women he loved had always betrayed and deserted him.

Many of his most trusted friends had already met a fate similar to the one he faced. He would die soon enough; his own brother would see to it. Why struggle merely to exist, when he would never again feel alive?

Sebastién lifted his head when a key turned in the latch, followed by the groan of hinges as the cell door swung open. Light flooded the squalid chamber, and he squinted. The tension in his face slowly relaxed, and he opened his eyes, narrowing them against the painful influx of light as he greedily inhaled the fresh air.

Pity and revulsion filled the eyes of the man who paused in the entryway looking down at Sebastién. He did not attempt to stand, being fairly certain his legs would fail him. Instead, he peered up at the man in the doorway, resentful that his visitor’s presence obstructed the flow of light and air.

He had first met the man only a few days ago, but there was something about him that encouraged trust. The man was well into middle age, brown-eyed, bespectacled, with an olive complexion and a bright, gap-toothed smile. His upturned nose was too dainty for his broad face, and his left cheek bore a birthmark. The black silk riding ensemble he wore spoke of wealth and station, and his heavy gold rings tossed a wink of burnished light as he absently stroked his chin.

“
Monsieur
Porter,” Sebastién rasped in acknowledgment.

Porter stood staring down, frowning pensively. “I have a bargain to propose to you, Mr. Falconer,” he said.

Porter stole a surreptitious glance at the attending guards, and then took a deep breath before he crept into the dark, fetid cage and pulled the door firmly closed behind him.

“Father Porter” had provided the only clue to Sebastién’s whereabouts, and although the village of Black Head was modest in size, its taciturn, close-knit population was reluctant to share its secrets with an outsider. Not even a murmur of scandal rippled through the village with regard to a priority assize involving an infamous French privateer. Black Head was possessed by the sort of eerie calm that preceded a gathering storm.

Rachael set out to locate Sebastién by frequenting taverns and other meeting places where snippets of information might be gleaned as strong ale loosened tongues. One such establishment was Kilkenney Tavern, a place popular with soldiers, messengers, tide waiters, Customs officials, and other assorted types.

The tavern was not crowded when she entered the common room. Her slim hope of finding information that might lead her to Sebastién was capriciously answered when she spied Jacques seated at a corner table.

He did not notice her until the straggle of humanity surrounding him parted like some biblical sea and she swept toward him with a look of determination on her face, all rustling skirts and pricked nerves. In a bold move, she took the seat opposite him without waiting to be asked.

“At last!” she said loudly. “I’ve finally lifted up the right rock and found you.”

His answer was a rude, resounding belch. Long fingers caressed the tankard he held, and when he raised the cup to his lips, his hand shook.

“I was certain you were not privy to my whereabouts, Miss Penrose,” he said, speech slurred. “How resourceful of you. You must have missed me terribly.” His eyes were watery and bloodshot, but his gaze was alive with insolence.

His coarse appearance invited Rachael’s biased, critical inspection. His longish hair hung dirty and matted, and his lean, muscled frame had lost mass. There were bruised hollows under his eyes, and his skin glowed with an unhealthy sheen. He looked haunted, ill, and desperate. The dapper, expensive cloak he wore did nothing to dispel her impression of a haggard wretch pretending refinement.

“Seeing you thus, I cannot bear to contemplate your brother’s condition,” she muttered.

“I am certain he would be touched by your concern,” he sneered, eyes piercing her with animosity. “What brought you here? Curiosity? Will you be in attendance at the trial tomorrow, or is the hanging the focal point of your visit?”

She reacted to his biting sarcasm with icy poise. “I am here because I want to see him and you know where he is.”

“Oh? You want to see him? For what purpose?”

The mild elevation of black brows and the spark of challenge in his eyes tugged painfully at her heart. His expression was one she had often seen Sebastién use.

“For what purpose?
“ she repeated, mocking him. “So that he does not believe I abandoned him! Will you deny me that much? I have no ragged army at my heels, no plan of escape, no miracle to save him. You punish me simply because I love the man you despise.”

He was silent while he considered her words. “It was never my intention to punish you, Rachael,” he said softly.

His speech was a garbled mishmash of flowing vowels and swallowed consonants. Drunk. He was drunk and had no idea what he was saying. He studied her face, his own clouded and inscrutable. Then, just as quickly, the brief flash of compassion was gone. The misery and fleeting uncertainty she had glimpsed in his expression were quashed as his jaw tightened.

“If you wish to see my brother, the visit will come at a price.”

“Name it,” Rachael responded without hesitation.

He reached out and stroked her hair, the backs of his fingers gliding along the length of her jaw in an overt caress.

Rachael drew back, appalled. “You’ve mistaken inebriation for ardor.”

He said nothing, but sat staring at her with the trace of a smile.

Rachael felt color flood her cheeks. “You seek a new way to hurt your brother,” she accused.

“You underestimate your appeal,” he scoffed as he withdrew his hand. He grinned wolfishly and slumped in the chair. “You judge me too harshly,” he protested. “I simply wanted to express my gratitude for all your splendid aid.” There was a peculiar archness to his voice.

Rachael had unconsciously leaned forward in her effort to understand the garbled, drunken words and sat back abruptly, as if she had been slapped, her bearing rigid.

“You know I’ve never willingly aided you. How can you think—?”

“The ledger.” It was a gruff, terse bark. “I destroyed it, just as you had guessed I would.”

His words were slurred, yet unmistakable. He watched as shock and then fury animated her face as she digested the information.

Rachael’s face betrayed her intention to strike him, and his hand seized hers in a resolute grip when she acted on the impulse.

“Cause a scene and you will regret it,” he warned with a bland, false smile as he scanned the room. “Do not make the mistake of misjudging me.”

His hold eased and Rachael snatched her hand away. She was beyond propriety, pride, or panic. He had seen to it that she had nothing left to lose.

“Mr. Falconer,” she said coldly, “I advise you to listen carefully to me. If I doubt you comprehend my meaning, I am prepared to raise my voice until anyone in the lane outside can make clear to you what you did not hear or understand.”

His jaw worked, his teeth snapped together with an audible sound, and his eyes narrowed in warning.

“You have deliberately kept me from Sebastién,” Rachael said, voice rising. “I thought the ledger would convince you of his innocence. Had I known you would destroy it, I would have taken pains to conceal its existence from you.”

“Sit still and be silent,” he ordered in a low voice, gaze sweeping the room.

“Am I embarrassing you? Good.”

“Sit down,” he said again.

Instead, Rachael stood, and he sprang to his feet as if he had anticipated her move. She noted that he was not armed.

“Your brother did not kidnap mine, and you know it! Your brother is not a wrecker, but you refuse to believe it! You planned to have the hanging done before anyone who knows the truth could interfere. You are the lowest form of coward!”

“Continue, and there will be consequences,” he cautioned.

Weaponless and intoxicated to the point that he swayed on his feet, he did not inspire fear.

“I want to see him!” she demanded.

He seized her arm and shook her, but she continued to berate him, trying to wrench free as he dragged her along with him.

Rachael hung back as they neared the door, guessing that his intention was to remove her from the safety of the crowd, and their difference of purpose evolved into an outright skirmish.

Rachael launched an attack on his shins, making full use of the pointy-toed shoes she wore, although he managed to retain his hold on her while she repeatedly kicked.

“You demand to see my prisoner, Miss Penrose?” he growled. “I can do better than that. You will share his cage.”

“Fine! I would rather share his cage than your bed!” she shouted in reply, with a contemptuous toss of her head as he thrust her through the doorway and into the street.

After they left the tavern, he was silent and his hold on her lapsed into a mild prodding, as he propelled her across the lane toward a series of storefronts. When he produced a key and steered her to a wealthy merchant’s abundantly stocked shop, she was too surprised to resist.

They entered the shop, and he marched her across the floor then stood at the top of a dark landing from which sprang a narrow set of stairs. It was obvious that he expected her to follow and descended part of the way. When he did not hear her tread on the boards behind him, he spun, reaching for her with an impatient hiss of exhaled air.

Rising panic overcame her daring, and Rachael jerked away as his hand groped for her, compromising his balance and sending him sprawling down the stairs. She heard his descent, wincing in spite of herself as his fall was punctuated by assorted thuds, crashes, bumps, and curses.

“Merde! Fils d’une chienne! Son of a bitch!”

Poised to flee, Rachael was riveted to the floorboards by the disembodied voice as it continued to issue a string of florid curses, all uttered in cogent, flowing French.

Too shocked to speak, she turned back to the stairs. Why would Jacques have imprisoned his brother in some shopkeeper’s basement? She took the steps one at a time, fearful of what she might find at the bottom.

The fourth step brought a wash of illumination over the tops of her shoes. The basement was filled with bolts of silk, undoubtedly some smuggler’s booty safeguarded by a merchant in exchange for a portion of what it would fetch on the black market.

A lone figure rested at the foot of the stairs, leaning against a displaced bolt of red silk. He had rolled up the right leg of his breeches, and his right shoe and stocking lay discarded on the floor beside him. He probed his right ankle with careful fingers, grimacing as he made his inspection.

“Sebastién?” Rachael stood looking down at him, openmouthed.

He froze at the sound of her voice, his concentration arrested by her presence. He gave a shallow nod. “Do I dare admit it now?” he asked. Now that he no longer impersonated his brother, he sounded unmistakably sober.