Louise Allen Historical Collection (26 page)

He turned and made for her, hearing the creak of oars as the boat was driven towards the beach. ‘Get behind me,’ he ordered as he reached the sand. He backed up the beach, assessing the situation. There were too many of them, he was in a completely indefensible position and already they were splitting up, flanking him to cut off his retreat to the lane.

At his back Meg was silent, although he could hear her breathing. ‘Listen. In a moment they will attack. You run, do you hear me? Tell Heneage to open the gun room, arm the footmen, grooms, tell them to get down here and make as much noise as they can as they come.’ If he could provoke them to all go for him, she might have a chance to get away. By the time she returned with any help this unequal battle on the beach would be long over…

‘Leave you? I—’

Whatever Meg was going to say was lost in the blast of a shotgun. The men turned as one towards the caves as a figure walked out on to the sand, gun in hand.

‘Billy.’

‘Aye. Damn fool time to go fossicking about in the water, boy. You lot, get out before I blow someone’s thick head off.’

‘What about the casks? You promised delivery today.’ The big man took a step forwards and the barrels of the shotgun lifted. He stopped.

‘You can whistle for them. You don’t threaten my boy and his maid and still do business with me. Go on, shift and take your money with you. I’ve got both barrels loaded if you want them.’

The language and the threats they hurled were predictable, but they backed down, shambling back to the boat. Ross reached out a hand and pulled Meg to him, wet and shivering, but he watched the sea until the rowers were swallowed up by the darkness.

With Meg tight against his side, he looked at Billy. ‘Thank you.’ There was not a great deal more to say, not in front of Meg. He could strangle the old ruffian for getting involved with smugglers and he could kiss him for saving Meg.

The old man grunted. ‘You take that maid back home and her clothes with her. Catch her death, she will, water’s that cold.’ He stooped and picked up a bundle. ‘Here’s her clothes. And where’s yours, boy? Downright indecent, the pair of you.’

Meg gave a choked laugh. ‘He sounds like my father,’ she whispered. There was a shake in her voice, Ross could hear it under the bravado, and it was nothing to do with the temperature. He felt like shaking himself, with her near-naked body so close.

‘Mine are at the foot of the lane—make a bundle of the lot, would you, Billy?’ Ross bent and scooped Meg up in his arms before she could protest. Her chilled wet body against his bare chest made him catch his breath. That was nothing to do with temperature either.

‘Ross? What are you doing?’ Her voice was breathy now, both her vulnerability and her bravery making him want to kiss her. His heart was pounding from the aftermath of action and the unfulfilled violence that he had been ready to unleash.

‘Carrying you home. Can you manage the clothes?’ She nodded as Billy dumped the bundle into her arms, her wet hair clinging to Ross’s skin. ‘I’ll come and talk to you tomorrow, you old fool.’

The poacher had the grace to look sheepish. ‘Not going anywhere,’ he muttered as he melted into the shadows.

‘You can’t carry me.’ Meg was beginning to wriggle. ‘Your leg—’

‘I’m not limping any more.’ It was half-true. If he concentrated and ignored the deep ache that still came back when he was tired, he did not limp. And it gave him a ridiculous pleasure to be able to carry Meg in his arms, although he expected her to start protesting and struggling at any moment. Instead she gave a little sigh and snuggled in to him.

‘Are you all right?’ Ross asked, suspicious of her sudden docility.

‘I am sorry,’ Meg said, so softly that he had to bend his head to hear her. ‘I should never have gone down to the sea at night.’

‘I had no idea you could swim.’ Ross slowed and looked up at the house. There was a light in the hall, but he could hardly march in through the front door half-naked with his equally undressed housekeeper in his arms. ‘Have you got a back-door key?’

‘Yes, in my pocket.’ She fell silent, then, as he veered off the path towards the rear of the house, added, ‘I learned to swim in the millpond when I was very small, when Mama was still alive. I thought I might be able to remember how and I wanted to… to get away for a while.’

‘So did I.’

‘Penelope Hawkins might do. The Vicar’s niece,’ Meg suggested, following his unspoken meaning. ‘I liked her. She seems rather sweet.’

Ross grunted. ‘I do not want a wife who might do. I wish I did know what I want—other than to make love to you.’ She gave a little gasp, but did not struggle in his arms. ‘Here we are. Home. Can you stand up a moment and find the key?’

Meg slid out of his arms and handed him the bundle of clothes while she rummaged for the key. ‘That’s the second time you have said it tonight—did you realise? Home. You have stopped saying
the Court
.’

‘So I have.’ And he was thinking of it as home now, too. The whole atmosphere of the place had changed since Meg had begun to work her magic on it. The door opened on to a dimly lit passageway and Meg slipped in ahead of him. He must ask her to look at his bedroom next—then he might be able to sleep without feeling he was in his father’s bed surrounded by ghosts.

Bedrooms. No, he was not thinking about interior decoration, or ghosts as he reached the door to the housekeeper’s rooms, with her standing there, her limbs pale in the gloom, her chemise clinging damply to every curve. Hot, dark, desires flooded his body.

‘I’ll take my clothes.’ The after-effects of the incident were making themselves felt now. He could feel the tension in the nape of his neck, the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He had been wound up for action and violence and what he had got was a safe anticlimax.
God, am I so addicted to killing that I cannot even be grateful that Meg was spared seeing fighting and bloodshed?

‘Ross?’ She looked up at him and the self-loathing gripped him. If he didn’t get a grip on the animal inside himself he would just bundle her into that room and take her like the savage he was. Meg was frowning a little, her underlip caught by her teeth, her eyes questioning in the dim light of the passageway lamp.

‘Go to bed,’ he said. ‘Give me my clothes.’ He saw her flinch at the brutality of his tone, but he was beyond caring. He just needed to get away from her.

‘Here.’ Meg thrust the top bundle of clothes into his hands. ‘Thank you. We could have been killed, just now, because I was so foolish.’ She could feel the doorknob behind her and she turned it, stepping back into the dark of her room without taking her eyes from his face. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight.’ And he was gone.

He was angry with her, of course, and quite rightly so. Meg put down her damp and sandy clothes and went to find towels and the water jug. She got as far as filling the basin and then sank down on the end of the bed, wrapped her arms around herself and shook.

Ross had stood there, protected her in the certain knowledge that he would be severely beaten, if not killed, as a result. She loved him, she wanted him and he had walked away just now with angry finality. She deserved that.

In the silence she gradually became aware of a soft
tick
she did not recognise. Puzzled, Meg got up and searched for it. There, tangled in her stockings by its chain, was Ross’s pocket watch.
Tick, tick
, the smooth gold case with its worn engraving of a coat of arms lay in the palm of her hand. She must give it back to him first thing in the morning. Meg reached out to put it safely on the table, then stopped. It was old, an heirloom. What if he missed it, went out again to search for it? What if the smugglers had returned?

She would go upstairs now, open his door a crack and just hang the watch by the chain over the inner door knob. Then he could not fail to find it. Meg pulled off her wet shift, scrubbed herself with a towel and put on a nightgown and her wrapper. The house was still as she padded on bare feet out of the servants’ quarters and up the stairs towards his room.

There was no light showing around his door. Meg eased the handle round and opened it, just enough to slide her hand in with the watch.

‘Blood. God, so much blood. Blood and guts and mud.’

She froze at the sound of Ross’s voice, angry and anguished and cracked as though speaking hurt him. For a moment she did not understand, then the deep voice dropped to a confused mutter: he was having a nightmare.

Meg stood there, transfixed, listening. She felt like an eavesdropper and yet she could not close the door and step away. There was so much pain and self-disgust in his voice. He was hurting so badly—how could she leave him? Meg pushed the door open and went in. The click as she shut it did not wake him, nor did the sound of her bare feet brushing over the carpet as she approached the bed.

The moonlight struck through the uncurtained window across the bed where Ross lay, naked in a tangle of sheets, his head turning restlessly on the pillow, his big fists clenched, one of them pounding into the mattress.

‘Not dead…can’t even manage a decent headshot. He’s screaming…like a stuck pig. Die, damn it. Shoot again. Yes, at last. Dead. Another one dead. Come on men, reload, faster, you bastards. They’ve all got to be killed. Giles, Mother, the French. Killed them all. I’ve killed them all and they still keep coming.’

Appalled, Meg caught his hand, only to have him pound it painfully down. ‘Waves of blood, like the sea. Wade in it. Find Meg or she’ll drown in it. I’ve drowned her in blood like all of them…’

There were tears streaking his cheeks and the sight brought a sob to her throat. ‘Ross!’ She leaned over the big, tortured body, grabbed his shoulders and shook him. ‘Ross, wake up! Ross, listen to me, it is Meg.’

His eyes opened, dark and unfocused. His hands lifted and he surged up into a sitting position, brushing her off like a fly. She crashed into the foot of the bed, rolling over his legs as she went, and he lunged for her.

‘Ross!’

‘Meg?’ The hands that gripped her shoulders relaxed until they were just supporting her. ‘God, have I hurt you? What are you doing here?’

‘I’m all right. I brought your watch back, I was just going to slip it inside, but you were having a dreadful nightmare, Ross. I tried to wake you.’

He closed his eyes for a moment, then let her go and rolled over to strike a light for the branch of candles by his bed. ‘I can just catch the tail of it still in my head,’ he said grimly. ‘The usual one about blood and death. I am sorry you had to hear that.’

‘It sounded so real,’ she murmured. ‘But then you mentioned Giles and your mother.’

‘I killed them, too, one way or another. And then I spent years perfecting being a killer. And now—that is what I am, what I am worth.’

‘No!’ She knelt up, grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him. ‘No. I saw you on that beach. I know what you were planning—you would have sent me away, safe, and stayed to face all of them. You could have been badly hurt and yet you would have fought for me. A killer doesn’t think like that.’

‘I was enjoying myself, up to the point I knew you were there,’ he confessed, as though admitting a crime.

‘Of course you were,’ Meg retorted. ‘Any man of courage would have done. It doesn’t make you evil or worthless—it makes you brave and worthy.’ His eyes were still bleak. ‘You had a tragic accident when you were a boy, you were thoughtless and heedless like all young men—but you cannot punish yourself for that for the rest of your life. Were you a good officer?’

‘Yes!’ He drew back, affronted. She almost smiled.

‘A worthless killer doesn’t make a good officer. I’ve seen the difference, don’t forget, every day for years, following the army. Ross, the fact it affects you so only proves that you aren’t steeped in evil, that you aren’t in the grip of some bloodlust. They will fade, those memories, the dreams will go in time. You didn’t dream on the ship or you would have woken me.’

‘No, I didn’t.’ He stared at her, the bleakness fading. ‘Perhaps you are my cure.’

Perhaps I might be part of the medicine
, Meg thought, watching his face, seeing the nightmare drain away. This was the real Ross Brandon, here in front of her, not the dark, brooding man who had come back to a home he rejected and a duty he loathed. This was the man who had comforted her, even though she had thrown his father’s memory in his face; this was the man who was prepared to show her his vulnerability as well as his strength. And she wanted him with every fibre of her being. Years of being prudent, sensible, seemed to melt away and she was Meg the dreamer again, Meg who believed in fairy stories.

How had she ever thought him cold and brutal? There was so much warmth in those dark eyes now, so much gentleness in those big hands. So much potential for happiness.

And there was beauty in those sculpted muscles, in the sheer physicality of the man in front of her. It was time she understood all the joys of lovemaking, a voice inside told her. She leaned forwards and kissed him on the mouth, her lips telling him without words that she needed him.

He re sponded gently, silently answering, his kiss full of doubt. ‘Meg,’ he said when he pulled back from her, ‘I thought you must be afraid of me. I have given you reason. I want you, but I thought I was too big, too ugly, too much of a brute for you.’ He gestured away her protest. ‘I thought you could not stay with me for myself, not as my lover, so I had to offer something else, suggest a business proposition as my mistress.’ He shook his head. ‘I have not been thinking very clearly about anyone but myself, these past few weeks.’