Rake Beyond Redemption (18 page)

He bowed his head in acknowledgement, no more to say. Since when had he become so tongue-tied, so lacking in social graces? But then, this was no social occasion.

‘I suppose I should thank you for rescuing me for a second time,’ she said, surprising him.

‘Thank me? I deserve no thanks from you, rather that you should damn me for my presumption. My methods were despicable.’

The abrupt reply startled Marie-Claude. How dark and glowering he was. Intense and brooding. Her heart shivered. How difficult it was to keep her composure when her whole body seemed to tremble. But she would do it, she would not show him how much he mattered to her in spite of everything.

‘I would rather your despicable methods than D’Acre’s assault,’ she replied coldly. ‘And as I recall, he threatened to throw me in the way of his men after he’d had his pleasure. You at least spared me that even if I had to suffer your embrace. I suppose I should be grateful—’ that same
disdain coated her words, dripped like venom ‘—but I still find your methods hard to forgive.’

‘Then you must add it to the rest of my sins.’

She saw his hand tighten white-fingered on the reins, causing the mare to sidestep uneasily. She thought he was going to say more, but his mouth closed in an uncompromising line. Suddenly she remembered how he had kissed her in the stables and refused to let her go. And here he was barring her way again.

‘I wish to go on,’ she announced. ‘If you would let me pass…’

Immediately with a muffled oath he dragged the mare aside and Marie-Claude shook up her reins.

But Zan stopped her, a hand to her wrist, forced into an apology he’d not intended to make.

‘Wait, Marie-Claude. I’ve nothing to say that you’d listen to—but I regret any distress you’ve suffered.’

‘So do I. I made a mistake. I did not know you—that’s my only excuse.’

‘And now you do know me.’ If his hand did not hold her still, his eyes did.

‘It was a lesson,’ she snapped, forcing herself to look away, ‘in not giving my trust where it is not warranted.’

She was so close. It took no effort for him to bend his head and to take a final kiss. Nor did she prevent him, but sat passively as his mouth took. Soft, gentle, tender. Heartbreaking. Encompassing all that he felt for her, telling of passion promised and destroyed. Hopes of love obliterated. This was truly the end, Zan acknowledged, and the beginning of an endless lifetime of sadness and loss for him.

‘Farewell, Marie-Claude,’ he whispered against her lips.

Stifling a sob, Marie-Claude placed her hand on his
chest to push him away, and Zan, with no more words, drew back and bowed his head.

‘Goodbye, Zan. You promised me so much. I thought you had turned my life to gold. Instead it was all dross.’

He sat and watched as she cantered along the headland and disappeared behind the distant stand of trees that obscured the Pride itself. It was as if she had taken his heart with her. An empty space opened in his chest, ached. She was gone. But at least she would be safe.

Marie-Claude wept as she allowed her horse to find its own way home, tears blinding her. Now she must set herself, as George Gadie would have said, to batten down the hatches and repel all boarders.

Z
an let himself into the Pride through the kitchen door. It had been easy enough to charm a key from Jenny, one of the village girls who worked at the house. It was nearing midnight, a dark night with a blanket of cloud and no hint of the sliver of moon. The maids were long gone home to the village. Temple was in his rooms—Venmore’s installation of the efficient manager had not aided his plan, but there were ways around it. Jenny had been very useful on the predictable habits of Venmore’s employee. Wiggins, as expected, sat alone at the kitchen range, dozing over his habitual bottle of port.

‘Wiggins!’ Zan roused him from his stupor, a hand on his shoulder.

He blinked owlishly. ‘Mr Ellerdine…’

‘Evening, Wiggins.’ He kept his voice low, even if there was no need. It seemed the right thing to do on the occasion.’

‘What did you want, sir?’

‘Don’t disturb yourself. I need the keys to the rooms in the house.’

Wiggins blinked again, rubbed his eyes, but made no demur, merely lurched to his feet to rummage in the drawer of the kitchen table. ‘Are you wanting the keys for the cellars too, sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not sure about this…’ A puzzled frown worked its way through the fumes of alcohol.

‘Don’t disturb yourself. Go to bed. Whatever you hear, keep to your room. As in the old days with Captain Harry. Understand?’

Wiggins thought about it for a long time, until Zan’s patience threatened to snap. ‘Yes, sir,’ he muttered eventually and shuffled off with the port and a candle. Zan exhaled slowly and tossed the keys in his hand. So far, so good. If the rest of it ran according to plan…He fastened a black mask over his face and pulled down his hat low on his brow. How melodramatic. He grinned sardonically beneath the black cloth, but better not to be recognised if Venmore’s man was on the prowl.

First he opened up the door that led down to the cellar. Time enough later to reveal the well-camouflaged double cellar when the contraband arrived. Then, carrying a branch of candles, he walked from the kitchen into the entrance hall where he unlocked the front door. At some point in the proceedings that might be necessary, either as access or escape.

Back to the kitchen, he collected some necessary items. Time was moving on. He looked at his watch. Not long now. The cutters should be here within the hour—sooner if the operation on the French side had been slick and well managed. Time to signal them home to a welcoming bay, a safe landing and a well-organised dispersal of the contraband. The perfect end to a well-planned
venture. D’Acre would already be anticipating the value of the silk and tea in gold coin weighing down his pockets, filling the coffers in his lair in Rottingdean.

He’d actually been talking of moving into the Pride. Of taking personal possession of the house.

By God, he wouldn’t! Zan swore. Over his dead body! There’d be no scion of the ignoble D’Acres living in Lydyard’s Pride. Zan’s mouth twisted in dark humour, diverted, as he climbed the stairs to the Tower room, only to pull his thoughts back. For now he must do everything in his power to ensure a smooth outcome. Nothing must go wrong at this final hour after all the months of planning. The silence of an all-but-empty house wrapped around him. He’d always had a soft spot for it and regretted its passing to Harriette in his mother’s will. Not the time to be thinking of that now. It was not his and would never be his. Making a short diversion along one of the landings, he took the precaution of locking the outer door to Temple’s rooms. The last thing he needed was Venmore’s man coming out to investigate, or not until it was all over.

At least there was no Marie-Claude to worry about.

For a moment outside her door he closed his eyes and breathed deep.

It was better this way.

Zan climbed, rapidly now, to the Tower room. The turn of the stair, the slide of the banister under his hand were intensely familiar. How long since he had done this? Not for five years, since Captain Harry’s last run and his own final fall from grace. He grimaced at the memory of it as he unlocked the door. Unused and long shut up, it had the musty smell of mildew and stale air. For all the improvements and refurbishment at the Pride,
they had not touched this room. Now if he had his way he would furnish it as a place to sit to watch the sea and the clouds, the ever-changing picture of the coast with the ships, the fishing vessels, the sea-birds.

The use of this room would never be his choice to make.

Zan rolled his shoulders. Time to get busy. He’d come prepared, but there was the old oil lamp still sitting on the floor in the corner. The scarred table still positioned in the widow embrasure. Zan set himself to refill the lamp with oil and remove the shutters from the windows.

This, he thought as he struggled to unfasten and fold back the warped wood, would be the final time he signalled from this room. The last time he signalled to a cutter waiting in the bay. A fitting swansong for him. D’Acre might not be planning this operation as his final flourish, but, by God, Zan was! His smuggling days were over. Under D’Acre’s expansive grip, they had suddenly become distasteful.

And then what? He had no very clear idea.

He lifted the lamp on to the table. Checked the wick, trimmed it and lit it from the candles. The light grew until the little room was filled with it, shining out, its beams cutting through the darkness across the sea to welcome the cutters home.

So it was done. Now he must retrace his steps to the kitchen and wait for D’Acre to make contact. He took a pistol from his coat pocket.

If she were one of the Brotherhood of Free Traders, with a run to plan and carry out, Marie-Claude decided that this would be the night. The tides were right. There was a dark sky, with a fitful moon. What better night?

Marie-Claude sat at her window, seeing only her reflection in the glass. How alone she looked, the light from the single candle highlighting her hair, darkening her eyes with shadows, touching the lace at her neck with a soft glimmer. A creak of settling boards somewhere in the house. The scrabble of a mouse behind the old wainscoting. Marie-Claude stiffened, senses stretched to catch every noise, but she knew all was locked and barred at her express orders. Neither Mr Temple nor Wiggins would let D’Acre and his rabble in. If D’Acre chose to make use of the stables, she could not stop him, but he would not set foot in the house. She was perfectly safe.

Her breathing grew easier again.

Footsteps! She stiffened, breath held. Relaxed with a little laugh. Wiggins, of course, shuffling to his bed. Earlier than usual. She heard a distinct stagger in his step, followed by a muttered curse. It crossed her mind that perhaps she should restrict the bottles of port he managed to consume in one day.

Silence again.

Was she being ridiculous, staying on here? She decided she was. Well, she would give it a few more days and then leave the Pride to its fate.

Marie-Claude considered going to bed.

A footstep. Soft. Not Wiggins. Too sure. Too young. Moving swiftly, silently, Marie-Claude went to stand at her door and listened, head bent. Mr Temple, perhaps? She did not think so. The creak of old timber under booted feet. There was no hesitation. The intruder was not searching for anything. The steps came to a halt outside her door and she held her breath. He must be only three feet away. She closed her eyes. Then to her relief
they moved on, fading. More soft creaks and she immediately knew where—on the stairs to the Tower room.

Without hesitation, Marie-Claude kicked off her shoes, snatched up a candlestick and opened her door. She could see the glow of the intruder’s candle from the turn in the stair. Heart beating in her throat so that she could barely swallow, she followed. It might be far more sensible to lock herself into her room, but she would not allow this…this
miscreant
—one of D’Acre’s men for sure, but how had he got in?—to make use of Hallaston property! He had no right to be here and since she had the advantage of surprise she would put a stop to his plans.

By the time she reached the Tower room, the glow made it obvious that the old oil lamp was lit, signalling to whatever was waiting out in the bay. And there was her intruder, about to come out of the room on to the shadow-wrapped landing. His clothing was dark, hair covered by an old-fashioned tricorne, his face in shadow. Not that she would recognise him—as he half-turned she saw that a black mask covered his features, showing only the glitter of eyes. In one hand he held a candle, in the other a pistol.

Smuggler! Definitely up to no good.

She did not wait or think longer. As he turned to assess the state of his handiwork in the room for a final time, Marie-Claude stepped forwards through the doorway, raised her candlestick in both hands and brought it down on the man’s head. With a groan he dropped candle and pistol and fell in a crumpled heap at her feet.

Marie-Claude stared in startled amazement at how effective she had been, shocked at what she had done. No time now for second thoughts—not that she had
any. He was an intruder and deserved everything he got at her hands. What to do now? A smuggler possibly dead at her feet, the Smugglers’ Lamp still shining to bring D’Acre’s contraband into the bay.

She acted quickly. First she relit her own candle. Then, stepping over the inert body, she blew out the lamp. There’d be no illegal signalling from this room tonight. D’Acre would get no help from the Pride. She considered closing the shutters, but that could wait. Instead she grasped the smuggler’s shoulders and began to pull him fully over the threshold into the room. It was hard work, but she tugged and pulled enough to get him clear of the door so that she might lock him in and send for the Preventives.

She studied him where he lay face down. One of D’Acre’s crew, for sure, but not D’Acre himself. Too tall, too well muscled. Rackham, perhaps? Proud of her initiative in bringing him down, whoever he might be, she crouched and, with a hand to his shoulder, pulled him over on to his back. Stripped away the hat. And her heart stuttered as the familiar fall of dark hair brushed over her fingers. And then with a hand that trembled as her suspicion became irrefutable, she untied and removed the mask.

Marie-Claude sat back on her heels.
‘Mon Dieu!’
Well, it should not have surprised her, should it?

Alexander Ellerdine, breaking in, invading her home and lighting the Smugglers’ Lamp.

Had she killed him?

Sensations, feelings, raced through her; her thoughts whirled into a spiral of doubts. She placed her palm against his chest, relieved at the solid beat of his heart. Turning his head, touching his hair, she discovered that
she had hit him hard enough to break the skin and draw blood. Hardly surprising, then, that his face was so pale. She touched his cheek with her fingertips in momentary remorse. But regret and relief quickly fled as any fleeting hopes that she had misjudged him were snuffed out as effectively as she had doused the light from the lamp.

Kneeling beside him, Marie-Claude forced herself to accept the truth. Zan Ellerdine was up to his neck in this. Using the Pride, the Smugglers’ Lamp, using D’Acre’s power for his own ends. This part of the plan must have been his—to get access to the house. Only he would have known about the double cellars. Her heart sank even lower as she remembered. He had denied that he had set himself to charm and seduce her to get entry to the house. Obviously that had all been lies too.

But he’d refused to come to the Pride, a faint voice of reason insisted in making itself heard.

True. She stamped down hard on the little voice, but only to lull her into a false sense of security. Whatever route his devious, devil-driven plotting was meant to take, he was here now. When his scheme had foundered, when she had turned her back on him and she had proved to be worthless to him, he had found another even simpler means. Bribing Wiggins to open the door.

Marie-Claude huffed out a little breath of disgust. Zan deserved no sympathy from her. As unyielding and as cold as stone, she turned his face so that she could see it clearly. The face of a rogue for all the unquestionable glamour. She need feel no guilt over her future actions, not even for the blow on the head. She would hand him over to the Preventives with pleasure and hoped he would rot in gaol. He had betrayed her. His whole life was nothing but charade and deceit. It was
impossible to deny that she had loved this man, as it was impossible for her not to touch the hand that lay inert, fingers lightly curled on the dusty boards of the floor. He had such beautiful hands. Clever, skilful, wakening her to such pleasure.

Marie-Claude snatched her hand back as if the contact burned. Beautiful and skilful they might be, but they had blood on them for sure. How was it possible that so much depravity and evil existed behind those finely drawn features?

This is no good. Sitting and wishing is not going to change the man he has become.

Marie-Claude pushed herself to her feet and stalked out, having the presence of mind to lock the door behind her.

Some little time later Marie-Claude was back, carrying a large jug. She frowned. He was exactly where she had left him. She must have hit him harder than she had thought—but she would have no compassion. Or not very much. Marie-Claude relocked the door behind her, then poured half the jug of water over Zan’s face.

Zan groaned and turned his head. Winced at the obvious pain. ‘By God…!’

Marie-Claude emptied the rest of the water in sharp pleasure as he flinched, muttering another oath. He deserved it. He deserved all the pain and indignity she could heap on him.

Zan gasped at the second deluge and opened his eyes. She stood at his feet and watched as consciousness returned, as furious recognition dawned—of her and of his surroundings, his predicament—to be replaced by resignation. And then, she thought, as his mind began to work again, by a wave of sheer horror.

Marie-Claude offered no explanation. Let him make the first move. Let him try to make his excuses as to why he might be innocent. She would not believe a word of it.