Rake Beyond Redemption (23 page)

As he explained the old well-recognised warning, he began to carry out the procedure, sending the signal beaming out across the bay. ‘This spells out danger. Anyone who sees it will know. And we hope that someone on land—in the village or even better George Gadie—will see and let us out.’

‘And if they don’t?’

‘They will—have you no faith in me?’

Hands braced on the shutters, looking back over his shoulder, his eyes were fierce and bright on hers.

‘I have. I have every faith. Have I not told you that I love you?’

‘No more than I love you. How can I deny it? Then come, my love, let us work for our escape.’

Together they opened and closed the shutters in rhythmic sequence, sending out a signal that all was not right for the return of the smugglers to Old Wincomlee. Their only hope. When Zan’s ill-used muscles trembled, Marie-Claude took the strain, giving him a moment to catch his breath. It should bring them aid. The problem as Zan saw it was that no one would have their attention on the Tower room. Would anyone even look up? All eyes would be on the fire that was clearly growing in strength, the glow strengthening into actual flames that leapt and caught in the gusting breeze. The old
house would go up like a beacon, like an old timber vessel. He wiped the sweat from his upper lip, wincing as he forgot his burnt wrists. They would continue to signal until all hope had gone.

‘Stop!’ He lifted his hand.

They froze, breath held, listening.

Footsteps. Climbing the stairs. Rapid. Clumsy.

‘It’s Captain Rodmell,’ Marie-Claude whispered, releasing the shutter.

Or it might not be. Until the door opened, there was no way of knowing. And until he did, Zan picked up the pistol and moved to put Marie-Claude behind him. As an afterthought, seeing a faint possibility, he clasped his hands behind him.

The door opened on the turn of a key. A curl of smoke, a faint but rank smell of burning preceded the figure into the room.

Captain D’Acre stood on the threshold. His boots and breeches were encrusted with mud and dust. There was a smear of blood on his face from a cut along his cheek, but otherwise he was unharmed. In his hand, held loosely at his side but no less threatening for that, was a pistol. He showed his stained teeth in a snarl, his face contorted with fury.

‘A neat plot in spite of all your denials, Mr Ellerdine, to sell me out to the Excise.’ He spat the words, barely controlling his rage. ‘It nearly worked. I’ve lost a complete cargo and the Fly-By-Nights have suffered badly. I’ve lost good men because of you. But some of us still live…’ he took a step forwards ‘…unfortunately for you. I trusted you and you betrayed me and The Gentlemen. You’ll pay for the blood you’ve shed tonight.’

‘So you’re still alive, D’Acre,’ Zan observed. No
point in trying to mollify him, only to buy some time in useless conversation. ‘A pity Rodmell didn’t manage to send you to hell with the rest of your rabble. Did Rackham manage to save his skin?’

‘Oh, yes. You’ll get to hell before Rack or I do, Ellerdine. And you with your hands bound and no weapon can’t do a thing to stop me.’ D’Acre nodded with some satisfaction. ‘But I might just keep the girl—’ now the snarl turned feral and chilling ‘—for a little amusement. It’ll be some weeks before I can rebuild my authority and put to sea again. I’ll have to lie low and lick my wounds—I’ll need some entertainment. So will the men who escaped.’ He raised his pistol until it pointed at Zan’s chest. ‘I deserve some compensation for my losses, don’t I? As for your punishment, Ellerdine, I’d like to make it long and painful, but time’s pressing and Rodmell is too well organised, damn him. So for you—a fast descent into hell with my bullet through your heart. Then the girl is mine.’ He took a step into the room. ‘I suppose I should offer you a last request.’

‘No request, D’Acre—except that you meet the justice you deserve.’

‘Not even that I treat your mistress generously?’

‘Your word’s worth nothing.’

D’Acre laughed harshly. ‘True. And I’d make you no such promise.’ The smile vanished from his face and he held out a hand. ‘We’re wasting time. Come here, girl.’

As he felt Marie-Claude stiffen at his side, the urgency of the situation clamoured in Zan’s head. There was no rescue. The signal had not been seen, no one would come to their aid. Zan knew his choices were narrowing by the second. There was only one left.

‘I will not go with you,’ Marie-Claude stated in a clear voice that shook Zan to the core. ‘You’ll have to shoot me as well.’

‘Don’t be so quick to refuse. If you show me your gratitude for sparing your life, I might be persuaded to make it a less painful death for your lover. A bullet to the heart is better than a bullet to the gut.’ D’Acre beckoned with his fingers. ‘Now come here to me.’

‘I’ll never come to you. I’ll never belong to you.’ Zan felt her hand close on his arm as she stepped to his side. ‘I’ll die with my lover rather than spend even one minute in your company.’

‘A vixen!’ D’Acre laughed harshly. ‘I’ll enjoy that. I like a woman with spirit, in bed and out. We’ll deal well together. And when Ellerdine’s dead, who else will care for you? You’ve no reputation left. I doubt the Hallastons will want to know you.’ Suddenly he lunged, surprisingly agile for so heavy a man, and gripped her arm. ‘Your time’s run out, girl.’

‘Never!’ Marie-Claude responded, and pushed against him with all her weight.

Taken by surprise, he staggered back. ‘You vixen!’ D’Acre spat and lunged, hand raised to strike.

But Zan was there. ‘Time has run out for
you
, D’Acre!’ And without a second thought Zan raised and fired his own pistol at the smuggler’s chest.

D’Acre fell like a tree at his feet, the breast of his jacket red with blood. There was no doubt of the outcome.

‘He’s dead.’ Marie Claude was white with shock, but her voice was clear and calm. There was no panic.

‘It was my intention.’ Zan’s eyes were ablaze. ‘Did I not promise that I would not allow him to humiliate you? Now, let’s get out of here whilst we still can.’

He stripped the covering from the bed and shrouded it round Marie-Claude’s head and shoulders, the only protection he could think of against smoke and flames. At least they now had a chance. Closing his hand around hers, he pulled her towards the door that stood open to their freedom. Barely had they reached it than a clatter of feet on the stairs announced another figure emerging from the smoke. Zan raised the useless pistol as a threat and held Marie-Claude against this side. Rackham might still be on the loose.

George Gadie’s smoke-streaked face split into a grin as his brows rose.

‘Well, y’r honour, you didn’t need saving then. As it happens.’

Zan lowered his arm, relief flooding like a balm through his veins. ‘By God! I’m pleased to see you, Gadie. I thought you might be one of D’Acre’s crew.’

‘No. Most are dead—those we missed have run for it. Don’t know about D’Acre.’

‘D’Acre’s dead.’ Zan stood aside to indicate the figure on the floor.

‘Good riddance.’ George spat on the floor next to the body. ‘Gabriel was bringing some reinforcements from the village—in case the Excise needed more muscle. He saw the beam, so we knew someone was up here who knew the signal for danger. It had to be you, y’r honour. Seems you dealt with D’Acre without our help. And you, mistress.’

‘Zan saved my life,’ Marie-Claude explained, as if explanation was necessary.

‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he, mistress.’ George turned his head at a noise on the stairs. ‘That’ll be Rodmell.’

‘Ellerdine.’ The Riding Officer ran up the final steps
and cast a rapid hard-eyed glance round the chamber. ‘Thank God you’re safe. We weren’t sure…’

‘Better late than never, Captain,’ Zan said in dry welcome.

‘We’ve been a bit hard pressed for the last half-hour, but it’s done now.’ Rodmell surveyed the body on the floor. ‘I see you’ve saved me one job. Some of them escaped, but the gang’s broken beyond repair.’

‘A good night’s work, I think, Captain.’ For Zan, the danger receding, the pain that had been kept at bay with the need for action flooded back. All he needed was to sit—or lie—on the floor, or even better, a bed. It seemed as if the events that swirled round him had no reference for him. The only reality was the pressure of Marie-Claude’s fingers around his arm. He felt her take the pistol from him and he allowed it because his brain did not seem to be functioning.

Only one thought stayed in his mind. It was over, and she was safe.

‘I owe you a debt, Ellerdine,’ he heard Rodmell say as if at a great distance. ‘The whole of Sussex owes you a debt that can’t easily be paid. Too many have died or have suffered at D’Acre’s orders. There are many who’ll sleep easier in their beds now he’s gone. Now let’s get you all out of here before the whole house goes up in flames.’

Which seemed a good idea.

Gathering all the strength that remained to him, he took Marie-Claude’s hand and led her from the room.

A
night of terrible, unimaginable anxieties. Heartwrenching fear mingled with a desperate compassion. A night of terror at being consumed in flames, or killed by a bullet from D’Acre’s pistol or thrown to the mercy of the Fly-By-Nights, layered over by a pain so intense in her heart that it matched Zan’s physical suffering as his flesh scorched and blistered beneath her own hands. How could the mind face such emotion all in one night, how could her courage and control stand against it?

But she had withstood it all. She had rejected the hopelessness of tears, the weakness of doing nothing because her mind and her limbs almost refused to obey her. And now it was over. The storm had passed. The danger was gone. Zan and Captain Rodmell had it all in hand. Suddenly all Marie-Claude needed to do was to sit on the straight-backed chair in the hall and watch the unfolding of Zan’s plot to its end. What a strange anticlimax it was. Marie-Claude sat in a world of insubstantial images, divorced from reality whilst the ultimate destruction of the smugglers continued around her. With
only minor interest she watched and listened, feeling no relief, but a continuing nagging anxiety.

She knew its source. There was one more barrier for her to scale if Zan would allow it. But for now the events of the night must be tied up.

Lydyard’s Pride was, it seemed to her blurred senses, to be in no danger of being destroyed by fire. Under increasingly deadly attack from the enthusiastic excise-men, the smugglers had made a ham-fisted job of firing the whole structure of the house. The stable block would need rebuilding, that was true enough, and the storage rooms adjoining the kitchen would need some attention to repair the effects of smoke and water. Other than that, there was no major damage and all the horses in the stables had been safely rescued.

Marie-Claude sat and watched the final playing out of the drama. The Fly-By-Nights, who were still on their feet, were rounded up and taken off with callous lack of sympathy for those who had been wounded; with wrists bound they were hauled to the nearest gaol in Hastings. From there they would be transferred to Lewes and a court of justice. The bodies of those slain were loaded ignominiously on to the backs of ponies. Marie-Claude noted it all in passing, senses still frozen from the experiences she had lived through. Even when D’Acre’s body was brought down from the Tower room, she was astonished at how inconsequential it all seemed.

She was aware of Zan in conversation with Captain Rodmell. He had recovered his coat from somewhere and now wore it to cover the evidence of D’Acre’s fury. It failed, she thought. The clumsy bandaging round his wrists showed below his cuffs. Prints of fists bloomed livid on cheekbone and jaw. The shocking evidence of
the contact of boots told its own tale when his coat swung open as he stooped to pick up a discarded pistol. Yet, dishevelled and weary, there was still a light in his eye, a heated simmer of exhilaration, of achievement. It was fading rapidly and she could see reaction begin to set in, but the energy still fuelled his blood, still drove him on to complete the task.

How she loved him, the heat of the emotion wrapping her around, a comfort in the bleak, battle-stained hall. She would never deny it again. No matter what he did, no matter what she had to face about his past. She loved him and would for ever.

His first concern had been for her. After leading her down from the Tower room, he had pushed her gently to the seat where she still sat.

‘Stay there.’

‘Surely I can do something…’ Weary as she was, it was still difficult to sit and do nothing.

‘You have done all that any could ask of you, Marie-Claude. More than enough. Let others take the weight now. The night is not over and you’ll still have need of your strength.’ He smiled and gently kissed her palm, folding her damaged fingers close over the caress. ‘There is nothing more for you to fear.’

So now she was free to watch him and think about what she had learned of him that night. His courage, his selflessness in his care of her. The driving force to bring D’Acre to justice. Whatever she had still to uncover, to lay bare in the light of day, Alexander Ellerdine was not a man of dishonour. She would stake her heart on it. At the thought, as if he had sensed it, he turned his head and looked across the ravages in the hall to capture and hold her gaze.

He smiled.

The warmth in her blood erupted into flame.

Zan went outside with Rodmell, leaving her alone in a little space. She knew that George and Gabriel Gadie were busy ordering the closing up of the double cellar with its illicit cargo. She knew the slabs would soon fit perfectly with no trace of what was hidden beneath the flooring, a sweeping of sand to cover any tell-tale marks or joints. The contraband would remain there in the cellar until its collection could be arranged, and Excise paid on it. Meanwhile Wiggins, dazed from the noise and confusion, emerged from his room and applied port liberally to his recovery. Released from captivity, Mr Temple was justifiably angry at his incarceration—for which no one was prepared to take the blame—but was relieved that he did not have to report more damage to his noble employers. He willingly washed his hands of the proceedings and retired again to his rooms.

Marie-Claude sat, head laid back against the uncomfortable carving of the chair as the excise-men marched off, proud of their victory and their captives. At last silence fell around her. What now? What was expected of her now? Zan had told her to stay where he had put her, and so because she could not bend her mind to any more useful occupation, she obeyed and waited for him. She knew he would come to her. What she did not know was what would happen then. Anxiety began to trip again beneath her heart.

She would have recognised the confident clip of footsteps anywhere. Zan came back into the hall. Where did he find the energy to keep going after all he’d been through? They were alone. He came to stand before her, offering his hand to raise her to her feet. For a
moment they looked at each other and said nothing. The lines were deeply marked, the corners of his firm mouth tucked in, but his eyes were still on fire.

‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Is it finished?’ Suddenly realising how cold and final that sounded. No, it would not be finished. She would not allow it.

‘It is.’ He inclined his head in a formal little bow. ‘All complete, the ends neatly tied up in a magnificent bow by Captain Rodmell. Some few escaped—unfortunately Rackham’s one of them—but the Captain’s sent out a troop to scour the countryside. He’s every hope of picking them up by dawn. The Fly-By-Nights will fly no more. Your adventure is over at last.’ His lips curved infinitesimally into what might be a smile.

‘And D’Acre is dead.’

‘Yes.’ The smile remained, but his voice acquired a hard edge. ‘I promised I would keep you safe from him.’

Yes, he had. He had promised. Had she really asked him to put the pistol to her own breast if there was no other way? She shivered. He had promised on his honour that he would not leave her or allow her to suffer. And he had kept his word. Now it was time she swept away all his secrets, whether he wished it or not.

‘You’re safe now. You can continue your life without fear or harm.’ Zan turned away from her.

‘Zan!’ The passion had drained from his face to be replaced with cold exhaustion. Marie-Claude blinked when he abruptly released her hand and walked towards the door. ‘Where are you going?’ she demanded.

‘Home.’ It was little more than a sigh. He stopped, but did not turn back. ‘To Ellerdine Manor.’

‘You saved my life and you would walk away and leave me here alone?’

‘You are not alone. Rodmell has left some of his men on guard outside in case of trouble, but there will be none.’ He hesitated, his voice raw. ‘Better so, Marie. You know it is.’ He turned his head at last. The fire had completely gone out. Dark blue hardened to flat grey. ‘We can’t be together.’

He was tired and in pain. Perhaps she should let him be alone if that is what he wished—but she would not retreat. She would not allow him to reject her.

‘I know no such thing.’

‘You know that I was not in collusion with D’Acre, but all the rest stands between us still. That has not changed.’

‘Then it
must
be changed. I know what Luke and Harriette told me. I know what you allowed me to believe. I know now that you did everything in your power to push me away, playing the cold-blooded smuggler and heartless rake to make me hate you. Why did I not see it at the time?’ She shook her head, a little gesture of bewilderment. ‘I should have seen through it. But you were horribly convincing and I think I was too hurt to see the truth. Now I want the truth from you. All of it.’ She shook out her lamentable skirts and covered the distance between them. Walking round to confront him and block his escape, she rose on her toes to press her lips to his. ‘Tell me that you can leave me.’

‘Marie-Claude…’

‘If you love me, you will tell me the truth. It would be cruel not to. It would be dishonest. I don’t care what it is—I want to know.’

She kissed him again.

‘Unfair,’ he murmured. ‘Unfair. You know I cannot resist you even though I know I should.’

So he kissed her. No soft caress this time, but a fierce
meeting of mouths, a hot branding, a leap of flame to scorch them both.

‘I love you, Marie-Claude.’ It was wrenched from him, like an oath against her lips.

‘I love you, Zan Ellerdine.’ It soothed, assured. Healed.

Zan raised his head, but did not release her, so that they stood together in the ruins of the hall, Marie-Claude resting her forehead against his shoulder as he turned his face into her hair.

‘I can’t stay here,’ he whispered.

‘You can. If nothing else, I can do something about your wrists. Wash the wound, the blood from your hair, that I caused. I can put a proper binding on your ribs…’

‘George Gadie’s wife can sort that out.’

‘I swear I can make a better fist of it than Mistress Gadie.’

‘Are you sure you want me to stay? If you say yes, there’s no turning back. I can’t guarantee my self-control if I stay. I can hardly claim to act as a gentleman, but I’ll not take advantage of you, Marie…’

Placing her fingers against his lips, she knew exactly what he was saying. And it was what she wanted more than anything. ‘I am certain.’

‘You are as beautiful as you are generous. And so desirable.’ He kissed her again, the lightest brush of mouth against mouth. ‘No. I can’t leave you.’

‘Good. Wait here.’

She left him, detoured into the kitchen with rapid orders for Wiggins. Then reappeared—to find him still standing in the same place as if he could not find the energy to move—with a decanter of brandy and two glasses in her hands. She gave the decanter to Zan.

‘Carry that.’

‘I think I am capable.’ A wry smile. ‘A managing female.’

‘Sometimes. Tonight definitely.’

Because Marie-Claude felt that her future rested in the balance. He would resist. He would impress her with his disreputable past. He would live up to the reputation men had given him. Was he worth fighting for? Yes! So she would fight and she would win. She took his hand in hers and led him up the stairs to her own room.

Marie-Claude’s brisk instructions in an unusually acerbic tone had clearly galvanised Wiggins into astonishing action. She took the tray with the bowl and ewer of hot water, the linen and scissors and two pots of salve and closed the door on him. Locked it. Then lit the kindling in the fire-grate. Sluggish at first, she persisted until the flames began to lick and burn.

That, she thought as she turned to look at her reluctant guest, would be the easy part. How to get a determined man to go against the whole pattern of his life and bare his soul? Her heart ached for him, but she would lavish care and sympathy on him later. Now she would play the shrew.

‘Sit there, Zan.’

She pushed a low stool forwards in front of the fire and knelt beside him when he sat. It was important that she remain practical. How easy it would be to throw herself into his arms and weep on his shoulder. But he was damaged, hurt. First she would care for his physical needs, then he would tell her the truth. After that…If he wished to leave her she supposed she must allow it. It was his choice after all. He had been making difficult choices all his life and would do so even if he thought abandoning her was still in her best interests.

Damn her best interests! She loved him. She had no intention of being a sacrifice on the altar of Zan Ellerdine’s resurrected sense of honour!

She saw the pain in his eyes and her strength of will—how could he think her to be brave when her heart fluttered uncontrollably?—almost deserted her. Instead she stood, walked behind him and took the collar of his coat to ease it from his shoulders, down his arms. He helped as much as he could, but it was an anguished affair. He made no word of complaint, but she felt the abused muscles in his back tense and strain.

Once more she knelt before him. ‘Hold up your hands.’

When he did she unwound the rough bandaging on his wrists, wincing, as he did. The flesh was red and sore, blistered in places.

‘I made a mess of this,’ she remarked.

A ghost of a laugh. ‘You set me free. You probably saved our lives.’

‘After putting them in danger in the first place! This will probably hurt you. Meggie’s salve is good, but applying it will not be painless.’

He leaned and kissed her on her brow. ‘I absolve you of all intent to punish me.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Except that it smells disgusting.’

Marie-Claude sniffed cautiously. ‘Dreadful! Ivy boiled in wine, it says on the jar. But we’ll try it.’

She did what she could, anointing, rebinding with clean linen, tucking in the ends neatly, conscious only that he let his head fall back, his teeth clenched when she smoothed the salve over the weeping blisters. When a white shade crept around his mouth, she stopped and poured him a glass of brandy. He did not refuse it.

At last it was done. ‘I think it may scar,’ she told him.

‘It doesn’t matter.’

She longed to touch his face, to press her lips against his temple, but instead she stood and, gentle as she could, parted his hair with her fingers.