The Wicked One (35 page)

"Yes, well, speaking of Charles, what I want to know is how we're going to get close enough to Calais to bring him and Perry out without the French sending their own warships down on us.  One glance at
Arundel
here and they'll
know
she's British.  And there was that fort the captain pointed out on the map, too.  I'd hate like hell to get too close to
that
. . ."

"Eva explained everything to me.  The plan is to keep
Arundel
just out of sight of the coast and send
Magic
in, flying American colors, to report on things and land Eva and our men; that way, the Frogs won't catch on that this is an English operation."

Andrew never looked up from his notes.  "Sounds good, but we all know that in wartime, anything could happen" — he curled his arm around the lead box — "which is why
I've
come prepared."

Gareth didn't pick up on Andrew's veiled implication.  "Eva will go ashore tonight under cover of darkness.  She'll rendezvous with Charles, who'll be waiting there with horses.  Then they'll both go to the gaol tomorrow morning as representatives of the American contingent in Paris, obtain Perry's release — peacefully, it is hoped, but if not, that's why Admiralty sent this ship and its complement of marines — and meet us back at the landing point tomorrow evening."  He shook his head.  "No wonder Luce looked angry enough to commit murder when we saw him earlier!"

Andrew glanced up.  "What, is he not going with her?"

"Captain forbids it.  Says if anything happens to a duke, his own head will roll, so Luce stays here with us."

Now Andrew was grinning, too.  "By God, that
does
explain Lucien's foul mood.  He'll not follow anyone's orders but his own.  I predict fireworks, Gareth."

"So do I.  But really, I'm sure Eva is more than capable of getting Perry out.  Unless Luce and the captain kill each other, we'll be back in England by tomorrow night, no shots fired, no blood shed, everything done quite peacefully."  Gareth suddenly noticed the lead box at his brother's elbow.  "I say, Andrew, what do you have there?"

"My explosive."

Gareth went bug-eyed.  "Good God, man, you'll get us all thrown off the ship if the captain hears of it!"

"The captain
won't
hear of it.  Besides, it's wartime" — Andrew was all innocence — "and one never knows when a new, extra-potent explosive might prove useful, eh?"

~~~~

Night fell.

As
Arundel
prepared to rendezvous with
Magic
, the Duchess of Blackheath stood on the lonely, wind-tossed deck, her hair hooded, a cloak protecting her against the harsh winter sea wind.  Beneath her feet, the mighty ship rose and fell on the waves, its lanterns doused, its crew working in total darkness.  In the ever-nearing distance, she could see the dark coast of France.

It was nearly time.  She thought of Nerissa so many miles away, probably awake and praying for the safety of her loved ones.  She thought of how she had struck Charles down and humiliated Andrew during the robbery.  And she thought, too, of how she had hurt Lucien and forever denied him an heir, all because of her own damned pride.  Sorrow filled her, and she raised her face to the wind.  The time had come to make amends.  To repay her debt to the de Montfortes.  And yes, to prove herself worthy of that which she valued more than anything in this world — Lucien's love.

Suddenly she knew she was no longer alone.  Knew that
he
had come.

"Lucien," she murmured.

He came silently up beside her, sliding an arm around her shoulders.  She turned into his embrace, feeling his heartache, his anxiety for her safety.

"Forgive me, dearest," she said.  "I know it's hard for you to let me do this, but please, Lucien, understand that I must."

"I don't understand.  But I am also trying to tell myself that that doesn't give me the right to prevent you from going."  He reached down and tilted her face up to his, blocking the wind and spray with his back so she would not suffer the full brunt of the elements.  He cradled her jaw within his palms and gazed steadily into her eyes.  "Will you not change your mind, Eva?"

She shook her head.  "I cannot, Lucien.  This is something I must do.  For you.  For your family.  But mostly for myself."

His own eyes darkened and she saw the desperate ache and worry there before he concealed it behind a mask of pained resolve.  Then he pushed her hood back and bent his head to hers, his mouth claiming hers with a desperate hunger.  Wind lashed her hair across their faces.  The timeless sound of the waves faded, and she heard only his breathing, felt only his hard, powerful body, sensed only his fear that this might be their last embrace. 
Trust me, trust me,
she thought.  And gave herself up to this sweet good-bye, pressing her body up against his, feeling the evidence of his desire against her pelvis and wishing, wishing, wishing she could have him inside her, because she wanted more.  So much more.

"When I return, Lucien —"

"No promises, my love.  Just come back to me, safe and sound."

"When I return, there is something I must tell you."

"Tell me now." 
Because there might never be another chance.

Eva pulled a deep breath into her chest — even as she heard someone coming up behind her.  It would be so easy not to say it until she got back.  So easy to put it off until she felt she had the right to its reciprocation.  So easy to —

"Your Grace, the boat is ready; it is time to leave."

— just wait until she returned.

For once she would not be a coward when it came to matters of the heart.

She reached up and laid her hand against Lucien's cheek, her gaze meeting his, her heart constricting.  The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself from saying them.

"I love you."

He swallowed.  His lashes came down, and he reached once more for her . . . but she knew that if she went into his arms, she would never leave.  Steeling herself, Eva stepped back and turned away, head high as, swallowing the lump in her throat, she followed the lieutenant toward the waiting boat.  She could feel her husband's anguished stare on her back.  Could feel his love, his worry, his agony.  Leaving him was the hardest thing she had ever done — but she had a job to do.  The most important job she had ever undertaken.  They would have a lifetime to spend in each other's arms.

Shunning the lieutenant's assistance, she climbed down into the boat . . . and looked toward the dark, menacing coast of France, trying to shake off the feeling of premonition that had nagged her all evening.

Of dread.

A lifetime.

She could only hope.

Chapter 30

Charles, wearing a black greatcoat and pacing fretfully, was waiting for her on the darkened beach.  He stepped forward and helped her from the boat as it nosed against the sand, eyeing her in concern.

"You're sure you're up to this, Eva?  We have a bit of a ride ahead of us."

She turned and gave the seamen the signal to depart.  "Never felt better," she said, following Charles toward the three horses tied and waiting nearby.  "Bodies heal.  But other wounds take a little more effort."

"Meaning?"

"That this is something I must do — for you, for your family . . . for myself."

He nodded, understanding.  Then a smile softened his taciturn face.  "In that case, I'm honored to have you at my side.  I must confess, it's good to have a real Yankee here, as I don't know how long I can carry on with this false American accent.  It is only by virtue of the fact that English is not the primary language of those with whom I've dealt that I have managed to fool any of them."

"Have you seen Lord Brookhampton yet?"

"I have."

"And you're certain that this man we're about to rescue is indeed your friend?"

"I am certain."

"Did he recognize you?"

"No.  He was asleep.  I hadn't the heart to disturb him, to raise his hopes of rescue.  Ah, here are the horses.  I've brought an extra along for Perry — providing we are successful in bringing him out."

Eva tossed her head.  "We will be."

Moments later, they were cantering along the road to Calais, the reins of the spare horse in Charles's capable hands.  Trees, pastures, distant villages were becoming faintly visible in the gloom.  It would be dawn soon.

They stopped and broke their fast at an inn just outside of Calais, where Charles's impeccable command of French got them immediate service and a table near the fire.  By the time the sun was breaking through watery cloud, they were back on the road, the distant gaol looming upon the horizon.

They pulled the horses up just outside the gates.

"What condition is he in?" Eva whispered, dismounting as a guard approached.

"Bad.  But between the two of us, we should be able to manage him well enough."

"And you got Captain Lord's message about the plan of action?"

"Yes.  Get Perry out as diplomatically as possible, ride calmly away, spend the rest of the day out of sight, and meet the marines from
Arundel
just after dark."

"Providing this all ensues without complication."

"If it doesn't?"

Eva smiled grimly.  "We're on our own."

The guard was swinging open the gates now, eyeing them suspiciously.  "Your business?" he inquired in French.

Eva answered him haughtily in his own tongue.  "I am the Comtesse de la Mouriére.  This is my colleague, Charles Montvale.  We are here as members of the American contingent in Paris, on orders from Dr. Benjamin Franklin.  Our business is with your commander."

The guard, recognizing authority in Eva's manner, bowed low.  "If you will leave your horses here and come with me . . ."

Dismounting, they followed him toward the building of dark gray stone.  Behind them, another guard appeared, hauling the gates shut with an ominous clang that sounded frightfully final in the early morning stillness.

Eva and Charles exchanged silent looks, and, then, tight-lipped, continued on.  Eva, her nerves taut, reached down and touched the pistol hidden in the pocket of her petticoat.  She told herself they were in no immediate danger, but her senses were on high alert.

"This way,
s'il vous plait
."

The guard pushed open another door, and then they were in the gaol.  Eva blinked, trying to adjust her eyes to the sudden gloom.  But it was nothing compared to the stench.  She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her nose as the guard led them deeper into the prison.

Its commander, a Monsieur Durant, was seated in an office well away from the stink of the main prison, eating a breakfast of eggs, sausage, and what looked to be a very dark ale.  He was a large man, wide across the gut, with small, distrustful eyes set in a face pooled with fat.  He looked up as Eva and Charles were shown in, nodding in recognition to Charles, and eyeing Eva with curiosity and undisguised lust.

Her skin crawled with revulsion.  "I am the Comtesse de la Mouriére," she announced in haughty, Boston-accented English.  "I am here on business of Dr. Benjamin Franklin, with orders to secure the release of one of the prisoners taken from the British ship
Sarah Rose
during her capture."

Durant pushed his plate aside, settled back in his chair, and with a dirty fingernail picked at a piece of meat lodged between his front incisors.  "You have papers?"

Eva smiled, though she was well aware that those shrewd, ugly eyes were on her breasts, the flare of her hips beneath her riding jacket.  "From Dr. Franklin himself," she murmured, producing the documents she herself had forged.

Durant's pudgy hand plucked them from her grasp.  He eyed her suspiciously, then scanned the document.

"It all seems to be in order," he said, frowning as he handed it back.  "But me, I cannot understand ze Americans' desire to have me release zis Briton.  Why is he so important to you?  He is crazed in ze head."

"Yes," Eva agreed, folding the paper.

"He says he is a British lord.  Now, even if zis were true, why ze devil would ze Americans want a British lord?"

Eva gave him her most flirtatious smile and rapped his shoulder with the document.  "Because, my good sir, if it
is
true, one British lord is worth a hundred American seamen when it comes to trading prisoners.  You French are not the only ones at war with the despicable English. 
We've
been fighting them for nearly three years."

"You hate ze English as much as I, no?"

"Loathe them," Eva seethed, meeting Durant's shrewd, piggy eyes.

"Zen I will take you to zis — how you say? — obnoxious Briton who says he's a lord.  He is difficult.  Arrogant.  We have had to punish him for his disobedience.  Put him in ze solitary confinement . . . give him ze beating or two, you know?  You will have your hands full with him, I zink."

He heaved his huge bulk up from the table, pushed his chair back, and, grunting with the effort of moving such a large bulk through space, led them out of his office.  Eva cast a glance at Charles.  His eyes had hardened like ice.

Down through the dank halls of the gaol Durant led them.  From behind blackened, dingy doors came noxious smells, and the sounds of despair:  moaning, sobbing, futile singing, a tin cup clanging against the bars of a window.

At last, they came to a door at the far end of the building.  Durant took a huge ring of keys from his belt, inserted one into the lock, and jiggling it, finally unlocked the door.

It swung open to reveal gloom.

Silence.

And a single figure slumped in a corner, his cheek pressed against stinking wet stone, his unblinking eyes turned heavenward toward the gray light streaming in through a window far out of his reach.

"As you can see, ze prisoner is in solitary confinement once more," Durant crowed, looking at the man, who half sat, half lay, in a pile of damp, filthy straw, making no attempt to move or even look their way.  "He struck at one of my guards last night.  Ze guard — he had to strike back, no?  But I zink we have finally broken
le Seignueur
's spirit.  He will not give you any more trouble."