Mary Jo Putney (30 page)

“I
t’s a beautiful day for a picnic,” Helen Broome said as she surveyed the castle ruins. She closed her eyes to listen to the boom of waves at the bottom of the nearby cliffs, accented by the piercing cries of gulls. “And a beautiful place for it.”

Sarah agreed. The ancient stones were set in a lush carpet of green spring grass brightened by wildflowers. They’d chosen a quiet site protected from the wind by stone walls on three sides and a hill rising behind them.

On the fourth side, directly in front of them, a small headland thrust into the sea. Half of the brew house perched precariously on the lip, with remnants of walls and small outbuildings scattered artistically across the grass.

The dowager countess had come from Bath for the occasion, and she was ensconced in a Windsor chair brought from the house for her comfort. The old woman said querulously, “I thought the boy was supposed to be here today. His own daughter’s birthday, after all!”

Sarah wondered if Rob realized that his grandmother called him “the boy.” Compared to the dowager’s initial reaction to her only surviving grandson, the words sounded almost affectionate. “Kellington has a lengthy ride home today, but he said he’d try to be here by midafternoon so he could join us.”

Like Helen Broome and Ruth Holt, the other chaperones, Sarah was perched on a fallen stone. The eight children preferred the informality of sprawling on blankets.

Picnic baskets contained elegant little sandwiches and delicious pastries accompanied by hot tea or bottles of tangy West Country cider. It was a feast fit for a birthday girl who was also celebrating a new life.

Bree had been ecstatic to see Alice Broome and her other two friends from Bendan. The girls had been entranced by Bree’s romantic tale of being swept away to wealth and luxury by her lordly father. Her friends were nice girls, genuinely happy for Bree, and only a little envious. Meeting Bree’s father would be the perfect crown for the tale, so Sarah hoped Rob returned in time for the party.

Having eaten well, most of the guests were content to bask in the sun and chat. The youngest Holt was asleep in his mother’s lap. But as usual, Bree was full of energy. She bounced up from her blanket. “Sarah, would you like to see more of the ruins?”

Sarah would have preferred to bask in the sunshine, but it was true she hadn’t seen much of the site. “I’d love to. If you’ll excuse me?”

The others waved her off good-naturedly. As Sarah followed Bree, she said, “I trust you don’t go out onto the headland that’s crumbling away. The other half of the brew house looks ready to fall off at any moment.” She studied the land that thrust out into the sea just in front of the castle, wondering how much farther it had extended when the castle was built.

Bree looked a little guilty. “I did go out there once, just to see, but only once.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “I’m glad the headland didn’t choose that day to collapse under your feet. Please be careful. Ruins are dangerous.”

“That’s what Papa told me. He said I should have another person with me when I explore.” Bree grinned mischievously. “That’s why I asked you to join me.”

Sarah laughed. “Fair enough. I’ve only been here twice and haven’t explored much at all.” They climbed a grassy mound and she shaded her eyes to study the area beyond, which looked more like a village than a castle. “The ruins are really large, aren’t they? I’m surprised that more of the stone wasn’t carried away to build elsewhere.”

“Mrs. Holt said the village was abandoned after practically everyone was killed by the plague,” Bree explained. “People don’t use the stone because it’s seen as an unlucky place.”

The path ran near the cliff edge. Sarah looked down to see a boat moored between the headland that supported the broken brew house and a wider headland to the north. The large yawl looked vaguely familiar, but Sarah was no expert on boats despite Rob’s best efforts to educate her. She shaded her eyes with one hand and tried to see more detail. Several men were on the deck, but she was too far away to see much.

She frowned with a vague sense of unease. “Do boats moor here often?”

“Sometimes.” Bree studied the yawl. “Usually smaller boats. Fishermen. I’ve not seen that one before.”

“Is there a path up the cliff along here?”

Bree nodded. “It comes up the other side of that headland. It’s quite the climb, but safe enough.” Her voice quickened with excitement. “Do you think those are pirates down there? Or smugglers?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t have a good feeling about them. Can we get a closer look? I’d like to see if they’ve climbed the cliff.”

Eyes sparkling, Bree led Sarah to a sunken lane that ran between old, collapsed buildings. “There’s an old barn that’s usable at the other end of the village. It would be bloody perfect for smugglers!”

Perhaps, but most smugglers were on the east and south coasts, not on the west coast of Britain. They continued along the lane. At the end stood a broad, shambling stone building. Bree pointed. “There’s the barn.”

Two men came from the direction of the cliff path carrying a long, heavy box between them. Sarah grabbed Bree’s arm and pulled her into the shelter of a fallen house in case the men looked their way.

She waited a few moments before peering around the old building that concealed them. No one in sight. She whispered, “Bree, I want to get closer to determine if these men are a danger, but I don’t want you to come with me.”

Bree looked mulish. “I’m coming, too. I know these ruins better than you!”

Seeing that her stepdaughter was determined, Sarah said, “Very well. But we must be very quiet and careful. This is not a game.”

“I’ll be careful,” Bree promised. “If we move behind the houses on the other side of the lane, we’re less likely to be seen.”

“Lead the way.” Sarah looked out again. No one in sight. As she darted across the lane after Bree, she wished she had the freedom of the trousers she’d worn in Ireland.

As Bree had said, their new route was better concealed from the barn. The old building had stone walls with empty windows and a crude thatched roof that was fairly recent. Sarah guessed that some of Rob’s tenants used it for storage.

As they drew near, she heard the sound of voices. Familiar Irish voices. She froze in her tracks, heart pounding, and clutched Bree’s arm to halt her forward progress. Very clearly, they both heard, “Now that we’re here, how long till we go after that damned Runner and his bitch?”

It was the voice of Flannery, leader of the group that had abducted Sarah. Her stomach knotted with fear.

“Show some respect,” a woman’s ironic voice replied. She spoke like an educated Englishwoman with only a light Irish accent. “That damned Runner is now Lord Kellington, and I hear the bitch is now his countess.” Her voice turned malicious. “All the more pleasure in killing them before we go after Ashton.”

Bree stared at Sarah with shock, no longer thinking this a game. She opened her mouth to speak, but Sarah put a hand over it.

“I’ve never killed a bloody English lord before.” This time the voice was O’Dwyer’s. “I look forward to it.”

“You’ll wait your turn, boyo,” a gruff Irish voice said. “I have a score to settle with that Runner. Then we can get on with the first Free Eire raid on England. Get people frightened of us.”

Another voice spoke, this with a strong French accent. “You Irish are so bloodthirsty,” a man said with amusement. “That is what my master and I like about you. Free Eire is a finely crafted weapon to use against our mutual enemy.”

The woman spoke again. “The Runner will be easier to get than Ashton. That damned duke has guards all around his estate.”

“Kellington doesn’t,” the gruff voice said. “The locals talk mighty freely in the pubs here. ’Twill be easy to get into the house tonight.” His voice changed. “Then we can wipe out the village. We’ll put the fear of the Irish into these bloody English!”

“ ’Tis a fine thing to start with people we already know and hate,” the woman said with purring malice in her voice.

Sarah wanted to throw up. These brutes thought that slaughtering innocent, unarmed villagers would make them brave Irish heroes? They were just cowards who liked to kill so they picked easy targets. And the French were behind it, providing money and guns to sow terror. A perfect devil’s bargain: the Free Eire beasts got to kill, and the French got to cause trouble for England.

Thumping of feet and a new voice said, “Where should we put these rifles?”

“In the back room, with the ammunition,” the gruff voice said.

Heart pounding, Sarah was about to signal Bree for them to move away when she saw a dark, ferret-like man with an air of menace stalking toward the barn along the lane they’d used earlier. Sarah flattened herself to the ground and pulled Bree down with her, praying the man hadn’t seen them listening under the window.

He might have seen movement because he glanced their way, but by this time Sarah and Bree were hidden by the tall grasses growing around the barn’s foundation.

He entered and announced, “Sir, you told me to scout the ruins to be sure that no one was around. Turns out there’s a bloody damned picnic at the castle! Three women and half a dozen little girls. Shall we silence ’em? Wouldn’t want to fire a gun and alert the locals, but a little knife work will take care of them.” He gave an ugly laugh. “I can do it all meself if no one wants to join me.”

Sarah gasped, unable to imagine such viciousness. Then, horribly, she could.

The man’s suggestion was met with silence, until the Frenchman said queasily, “You know that the empire supports the Irish quest for justice and freedom from English oppression. But do you really want your first strike to be the murder of helpless women and children? Surely that honor should go to more worthy opponents.”

The gruff voice said, “You make a good point, Claude. But what if they discover that we’ve landed here?”

Claude! He must be the man Sarah had heard mentioned when she was a captive in Ireland. Here was proof of the French involvement that Kirkland suspected.

“Why not wait to see if we are discovered?” the Frenchman said. “We are some distance from the castle and little girls are not likely to wander this far.”

The woman snarled, “We can’t let our raid fail because of squeamishness!”

As an argument started, Sarah whispered to Bree, “Go back to the picnic and get everyone away! Then go to the house for help. Be sure to say there are a number of armed men. The militia might have to be called.” She prayed that there was a local militia, and it could be summoned quickly.

Bree frowned. “Aren’t you coming too, Sarah?”

“I want to listen a little longer. If they decide to come after us, perhaps . . . perhaps I can do something to slow them down.” Seeing Bree start to reply, she said sharply, “Don’t argue! I’ll be careful.”

Bree bit her lip fearfully but nodded and slipped away. Sarah lay in the grass listening to the argument and wondering how her life had become so dangerous.

The woman in the barn walked outside, still arguing what to do with the picnickers. The Irish rebel was middle aged, attractive—and Sarah recognized her. It was Georgiana Lawford, whom Adam had called Aunt Georgiana when he was young.

Just last year, the widowed Georgiana had tried to have Adam murdered so that her own son, Hal, could inherit the dukedom. She’d almost succeeded, too. More than once. When her vicious plotting had been revealed, Ashton had exiled her to her Irish childhood home, Ballinagh, instead of turning her over to the authorities, which would have created a humiliating scandal for the whole Lawford family.

As far as Sarah knew, there’d been no word from Georgiana since her return to Ireland. It looked like she’d found a rebel group to become an instrument of her revenge. This explained everything, including the attempted kidnapping of Mariah, who had been carrying Adam’s child. By thwarting that, Sarah and Rob had become targets as well.

Georgiana’s companions had also emerged from the barn into the sunshine. The oldest man put a possessive arm around her shoulders in a way that said they were lovers.

Coldly furious, Sarah considered what to do. Dear God, what if Rob was even now approaching the castle ruins for his daughter’s party? Even if he was armed, he’d be no match for the number of armed men in Georgiana’s party.

She frowned as she considered the possibilities. Barns usually had doors on both sides. If the weapons were in a back room and not guarded . . .

She worked her way around the barn on her stomach until she was out of sight of the people in front of the building. Then she stood and hastened to the back. Yes, there was a set of double doors on this end.

She considered cracking open a door to look inside, but old barn doors always squeaked, which would alert anyone inside. The window was too high for her to look in, but the old stonework provided plenty of footholds for climbing high enough to look inside. A good thing Sarah had been a tree-climbing tomboy.

Praying to go unseen, she peered through the corner of the empty window and saw no one. Cautiously she lifted her head higher, then sighed with relief to see that no one was inside. The room contained a few bundles of musty old straw from the year before, rusty tools leaning in a corner—and two long wooden boxes that looked as if they might contain rifles. Beside them were squarer boxes. Powder? Shot?

Palms damp with perspiration, she eased herself up through the window and made the short drop to the floor. Silently she moved to the boxes. French words were stenciled on each. She opened the first and found a dozen shiny new rifles packed inside.

She lifted one out and examined it. This was a much sleeker and more deadly weapon than she’d used when she learned to shoot on her uncle’s estate, but the principles were the same. She could handle it.