Hope's Betrayal (30 page)

“Seeing sense at
last.”

“At least tell
me why you're using me to get to Huntley?”

A dry chortle
echoed from the gathering darkness. “Come now, Miss Tyler, no need to be so coy.”

“Truly. I have
no idea.”

Behind her
Oswald leaned in close, his breath warm against her cheek. She shuddered. “He
took someone I loved, so I’ll take from him. At the Langham’s Ball, I heard
Huntley declare his undying love and propose to you.”

A sense of
unreality gripped Hope.

“And you think
it’s right, to take the life of an innocent person to avenge the death of
another?”

“In this case,
yes. But since you put it so prettily, and because I like you, I will ensure
you are unconscious before you suffer a slow death from drowning.”

A chill settled
on Hope’s bones and she cast around for help.

“If I am to die,
might I know whose death it is I’m avenging?”

Oswald had her
arm now, gripping the elbow so tightly she feared it might snap. Night was
approaching and she felt doubly helpless. The sand turned to shingle underfoot,
and just a short distance away she saw the white foam of breakers reaching the
shore. She shuddered. On a night like this, drowning would be a cold and
miserable death. She dragged her feet, fascinated by the water, fearing to go
near it as if it were made of acid.

“I don’t like
the cold.” She said simply.

“Can’t do
anything about that.”

Hope refused to
move. In a deft movement, Oswald swept her over his shoulder like a sack of
coal and marched to a fallen tree on the water's edge. As he thumped her down
on the fallen tree trunk, she felt a sense of relief. She had expected him to
force her into the sea and push her head under, hold it there until her throat
and lungs filled with water. Dare she hope he only intended to frighten her?

Menacingly, he
planted his arms either side of her body, pushing his face into hers. She
turned her head away to evade his kiss. In the growing darkness she could
picture the snarl of his upper lip and sarcastic crease of his brow. He
breathed heavily, the weight of his presence oppressive. The wind whipped in
off the sea throwing up salt spray, prickling her skin. She shuddered again.

“Why?” she
whispered. “Why hate Huntley so much?”

She felt Oswald
grow tense.

“He took
everything.” A globule of spittle hit her cheek. “Before he arrived, smuggling
was profitable and people turned a blind eye.” Rage shimmered off his body and
Hope cowered.

“George was only
a small part of the Excise men’s work—it wasn’t just him.”

“No? But it was
him that made the difference. For starters, he caught you….”

 “I could have
been hung, but he spared me.”

“Because he
lusted after you.”

“No! Not at
all,…that wasn’t it at all.” Hope’s insides turned to ice.

“Tis what the
Excise men said.”

Her heart beat
in hammer blows. “No, he hated me at first. It was Lady Ryevale who stopped him
handing me over.”

The heat of rage
radiated from Oswald’s skin. The wind eddied around them, tugging and pulling
at their words.

“Traitor! You
betrayed your own kind.”

Hope shook her
head. “Never! I never betrayed anyone.” Her mind raced as she struggled to
explain. “It was me who learned the landing had been rumbled! It was on my
information that you were able to substitute fish offal. How was that betrayal?”

Silence, except
for Oswald’s heavy breathing. She waited.

“I’ll tell you
why! Because you were looking out for yourself. As long as you were
comfortable, we could all go to hell.”

“No. You’ve got
it all wrong. It wasn’t like that at all.”

“Then tell me
how it was.” He voice rumbled low with menace.

Acid despair
stuck in her craw. How could she explain, for the answer hung on the difference
between right and wrong, and she doubted Oswald would understand.

“I never did
anything to harm anyone. Merciful heavens, once I was a smuggler. My brother
and father still are. Do you seriously think I’d do anything to endanger my own
kin?”

“Indirectly,
you're culpable.”

“No. Please…let
me go. I've done nothing.”

Hope tried to
wriggle away as Oswald pressed closer. Seated on the trunk, he stood pressed
between her legs, arms either side of her body, pressing her backward.
Everything happened so quickly, she had no idea what had happened.  Oswald
pinioned her against the tree trunk, like a butterfly on a pad. She tried to
struggle and free herself, but his grip tightened.

“Lie still.”

But Hope had no
intention of cooperating and taking best guess at the location of Oswald’s
groin, swung her knee up hard. A dull groan was her reward, swiftly followed by
a stinging slap to her face. Roughly he grabbed her hair, yanking it by the
roots. Repeatedly he hammered her head against the tree trunk, a dull thudding
pain slamming up through her skull —until she blacked out.

When she
regained consciousness, Hope had a feeling of being securely tucked up in bed,
and almost sighed. But on the hinterland of waking she tried to turn over, to
rest her head on the cool side of the pillow, but couldn’t move. In fact, her
shoulders stung from being held at an unnatural angle behind her. She opened
her eyes and blinked, but the landscape was blanketed in gloom. A heavy,
shuddering fear resurfaced at the memory of Oswald smashing her head against
the tree.

Now fully awake,
she realised the throbbing in her head wasn’t just a headache but the pounding
of the nearby sea. Wondering if her captor was close at hand, cautiously she
tested her arms. Something rough bit into her wrists; she lay prone on her
back, with her arms twisted back around the trunk and bound together—locked in
a bizarre backward embrace with a fallen tree.

She was cold, so
very cold. Numb, in fact. Her feet stung they were so icy, as the tide licked
at her skirts. With a convulsive effort she pulled against her bonds, which
tightened them. From out of the darkness, a dry chuckle echoed.

“Where is your
precious Captain Huntley now then? Not going to save you, is he.”

“Let me go!”

She almost
wrenched her arms from their sockets as she heaved against her bonds, panic
squeezed her heart as a wave splashed over her ankles.

“My dear Miss
Tyler, as you have been honest with me, I shall consider making your end swift.
I’m not a cruel man and one who wouldn’t make a chicken suffer. If you ask
nicely, with one blow you will be unconscious and not know the slow torture of
drowning.”

More than
anything, Hope wanted to live. At least while she was awake there was a chance,
if she kept him talking— no one was coming for her. Oswald was right. It was up
to her, somehow, she had to change his mind.

She blurted out.
“Tell me, tell me about the brother you lost"

"Huntley
murdered my brother."

Hope swallowed
hard, she could no longer feel her feet and the cold was making it difficult to
think. “Tell me.” Above the pounding waves, the trunk reverberated—Oswald must
have struck it and struck it hard.

“That bastard
shot my brother on a smuggling run.”

“I’m so sorry,”
Hope whispered, “but he was on a raid, it wasn’t in cold blood.”

“But Clive was
my responsibility, my baby brother. I shouldn’t have let him come along but he
begged, said he’d sneak along anyway.”

“How long ago?”
Hope had the uncomfortable sensation she already knew the answer to that
question.

“Need you ask?
It was a landing, a big one. Oh, I’ve known for a while things is cooling, but
I needed one last consignment to set me up. Had it planned perfectly,
everything in place, should have gone like clockwork—no moon, calm seas—when
all hell breaks loose. Gunfire. One second Clive is standing beside me, and the
next he’s gone. Knocked clean off his feet he was, squirming like a stuck pig
with a bullet in his guts.”

Oswald lapsed
into silence.

Hope gathered
her courage. “But anyone might have shot Clive. In the dark with shots
everywhere. How can you be so sure it was Huntley?”

“On account of I
fired at the man who shot Clive—and hit him. Damned near killed him as well.”

“Oh,” nausea
washed over Hope. “So you…?.”

“He wasn't meant
to live, but as he has, then I'll make his life a living hell. My only regret
is that your death won’t be as slow as Clive's, who died of infection, four
days later.”

“Hasn’t there
been enough killing?” Hope squeaked.

“Aye, that there
has.”

“Then let me
go.”

“No, it ends
with you. Once I've had my revenge, then it ends.”

*****

Back at The
Grange dread gripped Huntley, thinking it might already be too late. He forced
the thought away, focusing his anger into keeping a clear mind; once Hope was
safe, that was the time for vengeance.

"Follow
me." Moving as swiftly as his leg allowed, Huntley entered the house, and
made for the study, Thomas Tyler keeping pace. Ignoring everything else, he
unlocked the bottom drawer of the desk to pull out a mahogany box, which he set
down on the desktop and threw open the lid. Tom Tyler whistled, for inside
nestling on green velvet was a pistol.  Huntley pocketed some shot and a bag of
powder, then tucked the pistol in the band of his breeches.

"Just in
case."

Tightlipped, he
reached to the back of the drawer and removed a dagger and a hunting knife. He
handed the latter to Tom.

"You know
how to handle this?" 

"That I
do."

"Good
man."

Urgent footsteps
in the corridor and Jenkins appeared. "Miss Tyler failed to return at her
usual time and no one's seen either her, or the dog."

Close behind,
Lady Ryevale stood in the doorway; white as paper, her hand at her throat.

“Good Lord!
Jenkins wanted to know where Hope was, but wouldn’t tell me why."

"There
isn’t time to explain it all, but Oswald financed the smugglers and we suspect
he has Hope.”

"Oh my! Is
she in danger?"

“We don't know
that for sure. Mother, where does Hope go on her walk? It could give us a head
start.”

“Bluebell Woods
is her favorite.”

“Does she always
stick to the same route?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Think Mother,
please.”

 Her face
brightened. “The track up through the woods with the view over the bay. Beneath
the horse chestnut, there's a big flat rock where you can sit and look at the
sea. I distinctly remember her saying there is nothing to compare with that
view.”

Huntley’s mind
raced, he knew the exact spot. "Not far from the sea." Huntley
grimaced as a new thought occurred to him. “Change of plan. Thomas, take Nero
and ride to the Custom's Office.  Tell Bennett the man he seeks is Oswald
Choake—and we think he’s abducted Hope. Get him to put out a boat with armed
men, fast as he can, to check the coves and inlets. I've a hunch Choake has a
boat somewhere close...”

"I should
come with you." Tom said.

"No, I need
someone who knows these waters like a smuggler does, to guide Bennett. Besides,
I know these woods better than you."

"Sir, how
can I be of assistance?"

"Yes
Jenkins, assemble a search party and follow after me." Huntley dashed a
kiss against his mother’s forehead. “Don’t worry, we'll bring Hope back,"
he muttered under his breath, "or I'll die trying.”

In his childhood
George loved playing in Bluebell Woods. But that afternoon as he entered, the
paths he once knew were overgrown, and his confidence began to ebb. He cursed
his preoccupation with his career and wished he spent more time enjoying the
land around his home. 

At first, the
going was easy as he followed a sandy track which lead into the heart of the
woods. Several hundred yards on and Huntley fancied he saw recently disturbed
leaves, perhaps brushed aside by a woman's skirts. Then he saw a paw print,
freshly made in the sand. Taking heart he quickened his pace, as much as his
leg would allow. But further on still the path forked—which way should he take?
With cool detachment he searched for a trail, for some telltale footprint or
patch of crushed bracken. But there was nothing. Huntley started to sweat.
Think damn it! If Hope had been walking to the lookout point, then she was
heading towards the sea. With renewed purpose Huntley selected the path leading
most directly to the cliffs and set off.

After what
seemed an eternity, as Huntley half-ran, half-hobbled along the path, the trees
began to thin overhead and he glimpsed clouds moving swiftly against an ashen
sky. The sandy soil gave way to chalk and rocks, and hawthorn changed to
bracken. George's heart quickened. If memory served correctly, just around the
next bend was the spot his mother recalled. He stumbled into the clearing. He
spun around, calling out Hope's name, but the only answer was the cry of a lone
gull on the wing.