Rake Beyond Redemption (20 page)

‘Yes, they’re safe,’ D’Acre admitted. ‘No thanks to you, I might say.’ The smuggler was not persuaded to abandon his aggressive stance. ‘Perhaps you’ll explain the other
minor
inconvenience, as you put it, with the same ease. All the doors to this place were locked. Now why would that be?’

‘I’ve no idea. I opened them—front and back—when I arrived.’ Assured, unperturbed. An easy smile. Marie-Claude’s throat was so dry she could barely swallow. No one would have guessed that Zan, not half an hour before, had been unconscious with a blow to the head. The fluent explanation was perfectly reasonable. ‘I came in by the kitchen door, then opened the front. I think Wiggins is your culprit here. He’s old and forgetful. I expect he relocked them, as he has done every night for the past twenty years. How did you get in?’

‘I broke a window,’ D’Acre snarled, in no way mollified.

‘You’re an enterprising man, Captain,’ Zan acknowledged cheerfully. ‘I suppose I have to admit to my mistake. I should have kept an eye on Wiggins.’

‘It’s someone’s mistake!’ D’Acre’s narrowed eyes gleamed. The suspicion was still there, as strong as ever.
‘I don’t like it. Something’s not right. I haven’t been a smuggler for nigh on forty years without having a nose for danger. And for betrayal. Double dealing, I’d call it. I can
smell
danger—like sulphur in the air.’ He cocked his head. ‘I can smell it now.’

The hand around Marie-Claude’s wrist closed like a vice. She could feel the sinews tense in Zan’s arm, and knew that the outcome here was very much in doubt. He was trying to deflect the blame from her, taking it on his own shoulders, playing the negligence card for all it was worth. But Zan was neither hapless nor irresponsible and D ‘Acre must have known that before agreeing to take him into the Fly-By-Nights. Bewildered, she realised that he was not careless of her safety as she had thought, but was prepared to put himself in danger to shield her from D’Acre’s wrath. She did not understand why he would do it. Then she felt an increased tension in him as if he had come to a crossroads in his own performance.

‘Are you accusing me of double dealing, D’Acre?’ No longer the easygoing acceptance of his mistakes. Zan’s hackles had risen.

‘Not yet, Ellerdine. Not yet.’

‘I don’t appreciate being accused of disloyalty,’ Zan snarled.

‘And I don’t accuse you.’ D’Acre continued to glare. ‘But just so’s you understand me, boy—if anything else goes wrong, I might consider the direction of your loyalties.’

‘No danger of that.’ At last Marie-Claude felt Zan’s grip soften. ‘Everything’s in place.’

‘You’re more confident than I’m prepared to be,’ D’Acre growled. ‘Next thing we know there’ll be Preventives on the cliff top—and then where will we be? I
don’t even know that this miraculous double cellar exists. Any more—mishaps—and I’ll be looking to you for answers, Ellerdine. Now enough of this. The cutters’ll be ashore by now.’ He took on long last look between Marie-Claude and Zan, then nodded briefly. ‘Come with me, Mr Ellerdine, if it’s not too much trouble. I need you to unlock the doors and open up the cellar. I presume you have the keys?’ A thick layer of cynicism. ‘We don’t want to waste time searching for them, do we?’

‘I have them.’

‘Then let’s move it, man. I’d like you with me, at my side for the rest of this venture, if you take my meaning.’

As she felt a reaction in his body, Marie-Claude thought for a moment that Zan might have answered sharply. ‘We should leave the woman here,’ was all he said. ‘She’ll be in the way otherwise. I’ll lock her in until we’ve finished.’

D’Acre hesitated, but not for long, his mind now on his profits of the night. When he grunted his assent, Zan turned to her at last, sliding his hands down her arms as if in memory of what had just passed between them in the Tower room, even though his expression was desperately stern, at odds with his words. ‘Lovely mermaid. A shame we were interrupted. I’ll come back when the shipment’s safe stowed.’ A sharp grin, with an edge to it. A quick kiss. ‘You’ll be safe here. Wait for me. We’ll take up where we left off. How fortunate the room has a bed. Narrow and uncomfortable, but enough for me to take my pleasure…’

‘Come on, man. She’ll not run away. I might come back for her later myself,’ D’Acre added with a laugh as he set off down the stairs. ‘If Ellerdine doesn’t satisfy
you, madam, I’ll make compensation.’ A coarse guffaw. ‘Just one more gain from this night’s operations.’

And Marie-Claude found herself pushed back into the room and the door locked against her. So she was alone, not knowing what would happen next. Nothing was as it seemed. For in her hand, shielded by the fall of her skirts, was Zan’s pistol, passed to her under cover of his kiss.

T
he footsteps died away. Marie-Claude looked around almost in a daze, finding herself standing in the centre of an empty room, the door locked at her back, preventing any escape, a candle in one hand and pistol in the other, with no clear idea of what she should do next. Not that there was anything she could do. For an age it seemed that she remained rooted to that same spot, listening for any creak or groan in the old house. Voices. Hoofbeats. Anything but this dreadful intimidating silence.

Any ability to make a decision had been shattered by the events of the past hour.

What is Zan doing now? Is he safe?

D’Acre had been so threatening, so suspicious—and rightly so. Marie-Claude had done her best to stop the use of the Pride, and Zan had deliberately deflected the blame. But D’Acre was still wary, and she knew deep within her heart that Zan’s life was on the line. As he had said, D’Acre would not hesitate to remove those who worked against him.

Placing the candlestick on the nightstand as she sat on
the edge of the bed, the pistol beside her, her heart raced, her skin felt icy cold, clammy to her own touch. The image of Zan at D’Acre’s mercy simply refused to be buried. She forced herself to take a deep breath and apply cold logic to what she knew and what she could guess.

What was happening? Her first reaction was that she had been caught up in the smugglers’ attempt to take possession of the Pride and make use of the cellars. Zan had obviously planned the run and the hiding of the contraband, and D’Acre and his gang were in the process of carrying it out. By remaining at the Pride against all advice and warnings, she had fallen into their hands, nothing short of a prisoner.

You are in danger! And it’s your own fault! Why did you not leave when you could?

‘Because I’m stubborn and wilful,’ she announced to the empty room, unnerved when her voice caught on the words. ‘I can’t blame anyone but myself. And now I’ve put Zan in danger as well, by my intransigence.’

She studied her fingers, gripped tight, white-knuckled on her lap. She need have no fear for Alexander Ellerdine. He was just as unprincipled as the lot of them and would soon slither back into D’Acre’s good books.

Then if that was so, why had he stood for her, allowing D’Acre to surmise that Zan had put the gang at risk by his own lack of attention?

Would D’Acre take his revenge for that?

She squeezed her hands together. And why did it matter to her anyway?

Because no matter what he had done, she loved him. Somewhere deep within her she believed he could not be as black as he was painted. He had tried to protect her. He had given her his pistol.

And there was the crux of it. He had given her the opportunity to protect herself. Or—fierce hands gripped her heart—if the worst came to the worst, she could take her own life. Would she do that? Could she bear to be thrown to D’Acre’s men for their gratification? A fate worse than death. But then, if she pre-empted the smugglers in the only way possible, Raoul would be left alone. She could not do that either.

Marie-Claude stared at the weapon as if it might give her advice.

When Zan had slid the pistol from his pocket into her hand, had that been some kind of sign, a slide of his fingers against her wrist, a quick clench, then release? She had felt his intensity. His eyes had held hers. Such urgency there.

‘You’ll be safe here. Wait for me.’

Innocuous words. Was it more than a trite farewell? If so, she had put herself in Zan’s debt and it was likely that he would have to pay the price for her mischiefmaking. What would that price be?

Such conflict.

The candle flickered. How long would she be kept here? The candle would soon burn down to leave her in the dark, which suddenly seemed entirely appropriate.

A sharp noise brought her to her feet, to the window. Obviously Zan had opened the doors. Was the contraband beginning to be delivered so soon? She had not expected it quite yet. But there was the sound of a horse ridden fast into the stable yard. Running feet. The opening and slam of doors. An exchange of words outside on the gravel. The horse and its rider departed. Then silence.

Probably just news that the contraband was on its
way, loaded on to the backs of men and ponies alike. Marie-Claude paced the room. So all was going to plan. No reason why Zan should not be safe. D’Acre needed Zan for his organisation. Any differences would soon be patched up over a glass of brandy. Why would she worry about him? He was quite capable of fending for himself.

A thud. A slam of a door. Booted feet, a heavy dragging sound. Muttered curses that grew louder. Savage instructions.

Marie-Claude hurried to the door, hands pressed hard against the wood, listening. They were approaching. Yes, the boots were coming up the stairs.

She leapt back with the presence of mind to push the pistol beneath the coverlet on the bed as the key was thrust in the lock and the door slammed back to crash against the wall, sending up a cloud of dust.

There was Zan, flanked by D’Acre and Rackham. She saw immediately what had happened, even in the flickering candlelight. Zan was unable to walk unaided. Eyes wide, breath shallow, she watched as Zan was dragged forwards by the two men and thrust into the room, to fall heavily and lie face down at her feet. He did not move. His jacket was gone, his breeches filthy and his shirt, what there was left of it, bloodstained and torn.

‘What have you done to him?’

D’Acre, red-faced from the exertion, bared his teeth. ‘Here’s Ellerdine to keep you company—until we’ve finished.’

‘What have you done to him?’ she repeated.

‘He’s not dead. Not yet at any rate. Just a little difference of opinion.’

‘He’s bleeding.’

‘That’s the least of his worries. And when we’ve
finished the landing, I’ll come and collect you both. Those who betray me, pay dearly. Enjoy the rest of the night. Perhaps you should pray for a successful outcome, lady. I promise you—it’ll be a warm ending for both of you, if we’re caught.’ D’Acre turned and stomped from the room.

‘What do you mean?’ Marie-Claude demanded.

‘Ask your lover here, when he finds his voice,’ Rackham replied, nudging Zan none too gently with his boot. ‘So just pray it all goes well for us.’ He slammed and relocked the door.

Marie-Claude promptly sank to her knees. The words of warning had made little sense—but that was not her priority. She turned all her concentration to the state of the man who lay broken and bloody. She could immediately see why he had fallen so heavily. His hands were tied behind him, cruelly tight, from wrist to elbow.

Was he dead? Fatally hurt? There was so much blood.

‘Zan,’ she murmured tentatively, terrified of what she might discover. Then more urgently, ‘Zan!’ She closed her hand gently over his shoulder.

‘I’m not dead,’ he croaked, voice raw. ‘Not yet, by God! Untie the ropes so I can move.’

Without a word she set to worrying at the knots with her fingers. Impossible. They were tight and complex, tied by a master sailor, the rope unfrayed, of good quality.

‘I can’t move them.’ She dared not think about Zan’s injuries or the already discolouring patches she could see on his ribs through the remnants of his shirt.

He turned his head on the floor, dark waves of hair falling away so that she could see his face. What she saw made her draw in her breath. It was brutally clear how D’Acre and Rackham had spent the last ten minutes.

‘Have you nothing sharp?’ he asked.

‘No. Nothing.’

‘Not even a hair pin?’ The ghost of a laugh on a sigh of pain as he tried to move his shoulders.

She saw what he meant. ‘Too fragile for these knots.’

‘Then use the candle.’

Marie-Claude felt the blood drain from her face. Horror and instant refusal. ‘I can’t do that. Your wrists—’

‘Will be singed—but better that than lying trussed up here like a fowl prepared for the pot, for D’Acre to come back and haul me over the cliff! I’m not going to lie here and wait for him to finish us off.’

‘Zan!’ His words forced her to accept the truth. She could not deny it or argue against it. Their lives would probably be forfeit now, whether the run went well or not.

‘Sorry!’ he groaned instantly. ‘I wasn’t thinking. It won’t come to that!’

But she knew it would. And knew he was trying to protect her.

‘Get the candle, Marie.’ The command was harsh, brooking no refusal. ‘You’ve got to do this. I can’t. And we don’t know how much time we have.’

If she thought about it she would weep. Instead she set herself to carry out his instructions. If he could stand the pain, then so could she inflict it on him. She would set her heart and her mind and just do it with as little damage as she could encompass.

‘You need to sit up.’ She was impressed by the brisk matter of factness she managed to achieve even though her belly lurched with nausea at what she must do.

‘You’ll have to help me there too.’

Carefully she grasped his shoulders and used all her weight to lift him until he could sit. Then for a long
moment, giving him time to catch his breath, she simply knelt and looked at him with horror, at what D’Acre had done to him. His shirt hung in bloody strips. He had been beaten, that was quite evident. Ugly red weals ran along his ribs, abrasions from frenzied fists to his jaw, his cheekbone. His lip was cut and still bled sluggishly. His knuckles, she had already noticed, were broken and bleeding—he’d obviously done what he could to defend himself before he’d been tied up. A knife had been used against him, slicing through the flesh of his arm. Heavy boots had done the rest. Rackham and D’Acre had kicked him when he had been helpless on the floor. There would be heavy bruises. Already his handsome face was marred by livid discolouring, one eye swelling.

So they had not settled their differences after all.

Was she the cause of this? Yes. Her meddling had forced Zan to make a choice. He had chosen to stand for her—and in doing so he’d thrown himself to D’Acre’s dogs.

It was Marie-Claude’s initial instinct to smother him with care and apologies. Soft hands to soothe, words of restitution and gratitude, tears of regret. Such womanly desires to heal and cherish. He had been hurt for her. Instead she clenched her hands in her lap. That was no good. If she were to allow her emotions free rein, she would be of no value at all. Nor would he want her tears or her compassion. She was not even sure he deserved them. If he chose to live his life by the precepts of vicious smugglers, then he could expect no quarter when deals and ventures went awry. It was his own fault in throwing in his lot with the Fly-By-Nights in the first place. He deserved no compassion from her.

No. I can’t believe that.

All Marie-Claude’s instincts cried out against her harsh judgement when she saw the lines of pain engraved deep between nose and mouth. When she saw the cruel marks on his flesh.

I love him, I love him still. I don’t care what he is, what he has done. He came to my rescue and no man of vicious character would have done that. There is honour here, and integrity, a sense of decency. I don’t know why he has lived the life he has, but he’s not as black as he would like me to believe.

It was as if a light had been lit in her heart. A little flame that grew until it burned steadily. It gave her strength. She would do what needed to be done and weep later—if she—if Zan—were still alive.

‘Well, Madame Mermaid?’ he asked with a travesty of a smile, breaking into her decision. ‘Behold a common, disreputable smuggler before you. Now you see what happens to a man who abandons the tenets of his upbringing and throws in his lot with criminals who have no sense of morality or rightness.’

Marie-Claude’s eyes widened in shock. She knew he had seen compassion in her face. And once again he would make every effort to destroy it.

‘Did I not warn you that I was not a man for you to associate with?’ The smile had become a hard line. ‘Now you see it for reality. Smuggling is not pretty, nor is it romantic. I don’t doubt I deserve everything handed out to me and you should damn me for my lifestyle and my chosen companions. I don’t suppose D’Acre’s improved my appearance any.’

So he would continue to decry his own character, would he? Well, for a little while she would let him. But when this was over she would force him to tell her the
truth. She would accept this lie he was perpetuating for now, but not for much longer.

‘No, he hasn’t,’ she replied caustically, deliberately smothering any pity she felt for him or it would swamp them both. Without another word she rose to her feet and brought the candle, set it between them. ‘Are you sure about this?’

‘Have you any better ideas? I’d rather not be helpless when D’Acre or Rackham returns.’

‘Then I’ll do what I can.’ How cold her voice seemed even to her own ears. ‘I’ll try not to hurt you too much.’

‘Just do it.’

‘Then turn round.’

He shuffled so that his back was to her and he could lean his shoulder against the bed for support.

‘If you can lift your arms up, away from your body…’

She lifted the candle with fingers that trembled and applied the candle flame to the rope.

They were the most excruciating of minutes she had ever lived through. It seemed more like hours, trying to get the dry hemp to catch without exploding into fire, to smoulder and weaken without burning Zan’s wrists beyond what could be withstood. At first he bore it all without a sound, merely turning his face into the edge of the mattress. She felt his shallow breathing, the moments when he held his breath against the agony. She felt the suppressed grunt of searing pain echo in her own body when the flame licked along his flesh. His fingers clenched and stretched, but he would not cry out. She used her own skirts to protect him as much as she could, but feared she would set the flimsy material alight and consume them both. It was not without pain for her, but she set her teeth and continued to apply the flame.

Zan gasped on an intake of breath as the fire licked round the rope.

It was too much. Her courage almost gave out, her heart refusing to continue the torture.