“The goods are late. They’ll be here in two hours,” hissed Luke Walton as his eyes flicked across the customers in the tavern. “I say we—”
“You have little say,” Peace Jenkinson cut off the man with dead calm. He didn’t fear her but he did the apparition Hobbleday and knew about the token that was clearly a warning given just days ago. She opened her hand so he could see the token—a strangely set short length of coal black hair which had tied about it three tiny feathers and a shrunken berry—and she stared him down. “Everything will be alright if you keep your head,” she said. The thing in her hand was a Yorkshire folklore that would rile the owlers for it warned of death for death. More worrisome at the moment was Geary’s reaction to the delay in the shipment’s arrival. He had set something afoot this eve to draw Merristorm away from the vicarage for the delivery and would not be pleased if the timing failed.
“It’s you as should be thinkin’ on that,” Luke returned but low enough for no one else to hear. “Ye be sure of Geary?”
“You saw the letter that Geary brought from Seth,” Peace explained though she too was uneasy over the preventive man’s claimed acquaintance with her husband. Still it was a measure Seth might well have taken. Certain he had not trusted her with everything he had arranged, Peace worried only about that which she had been given responsibility. “He did well by us on that run a month past and only just arrived.”
“Aye, but this be bigger fish and an age in the plannin’.” Luke swung his gaze around the room and stiffened. “Bloody hell.”
Peace already knew Geary had entered the tavern. Anticipation fluttered in her belly as if she were still that silly young aristocrat in the salons of Paris. But she was not and had yet to think of an explanation for the Hobbleday’s warning token. Who and what were the forces at work?
“Good eve, Mrs. Jenkinson. Walton.” Geary waited, as he always did, for Peace to indicate he should take a seat.
His fine manners troubled her more than the cold cunning intelligence she caught glimpses of in his eyes at odd moments. “Has Mr. Clayton been found?” she asked with a wave at the chair across from Luke.
“Safely so,” Geary answered as he sat. “A friend of Mr. Merristorm has arrived in Whitby.”
Walton stiffened. “I told ye that’ un’d be trouble,” he told Peace and then looked to Geary. “Do they ken what’s up?”
“I doubt it,” Geary said and accepted the glass of wine Peace had signalled to be brought to him. He breathed in its bouquet and raised it to her.
“Thank you.” The Preventive Officer drank and then set the glass down. “The new arrival gent, Sir Brandon Thornley, hates Merristorm. I wouldn’t be surprised if he took care of that particular problem.”
“We should put a knife in both of ’em,” Walton urged.
“You are too eager, Mr. Walton,” Geary said before Peace could speak. “They shall distract one another. ‘Haps Thornley has already put a ball in Merristorm’s brain.”
“What did you do?” Peace demanded.
“Just a diversion as I said.”
“How’re we ta get the cargo into the tunnel then?”
Geary looked from Peace to Walton. “It hasn’t come?”
“Delayed. Less’n two hours ‘til it does.”
Geary drained his glass. He slowly traced the rim, angered that the need to meet with Damler to finalize details of the run had kept him from tracking the pair along the quay. “Merristorm is either dead or back at the vicarage. They are exhausted after the past day and will sleep soundly. Especially Merristorm who’ll likely take to his bottle.”
“How do ye know that?” Walton asked belligerently.
“I know about matters that may affect my success,” Geary said very quietly.
The words a threat, Peace flashed a warning glance at Luke. “If that is so we can still use the south entrance to the tunnel.”
Geary considered it and then nodded. “They saw the monster come from the north. Yes, a slight risk, I think.” He looked at Walton and warned, “Take extra care for silence.”
Luke scooted back his chair.
“Kill no one,” Peace warned.
“Or what?” he asked on a cold laugh.
Peace turned her palm upward. “You know what this means. You’ll be the next.”
Walton’s nostrils flared at the short length of coal black hair with its three tiny feathers and a shrunken berry. The center feather was blood smeared. He rose and strode away taking six of the men at various tables with him, emptying the tavern.
Geary studied Peace as she watched them go. He warmed at the memory of the first night he had come into the Wise Owl. The spark she had lit within him had proven stubbornly resistance. Especially now that they were alone. Donatien put a finger to her lips. “Rest easy.”
After a long pause, Peace kissed his finger and then clasped that hand. “It is many years since I have trusted anyone. Dare I trust you?”
Never, thought Geary. The impulse to say it aloud threatened his iron will.
“You do not trust easily either,” she murmured.
The concern, the care he saw in her eyes almost undid Geary. He thought of the many women he had wooed to bend to his devices and betrayed without a second thought. There would be too many thoughts about this woman.
“Peace, I—” Geary halted when Peace leaned into him. He sucked in a sharp breathe as her lips feathered against his. The bolt of lightning their movement sent through his veins pierced his heart. With a groan he moved his lips over hers; trailed kisses along her jaw.
Her sigh pushed him to the edge of surrender. Geary cupped her chin.
Peace smiled serenely, the decision she had wrestled made.
Geary made himself think of the French ship that would await his signal in a very short time. Only a day or two more with Vianne. And nights. He tilted her chin up and kissed the tip of her nose. “Are you certain?” he asked with uncharacteristic care.
“Why are you not?”
“It is impossible for us to marry.” Geary saw regret, then acceptance flicker in her eyes. He was not surprised when she did not ask why, but a pain deep inside his heart crept free. This was a bitter trap of his making. If he made love to her now, she would hate him when his success delivered the truth. It presented a dilemma he had not faced since a young child. The Frenchman tried to shrug away the prickle of conscience. He sat back, easing Peace away and fingered a strand of the hair in the object she held. As he hoped this altered Peace. She turned grim and clutched the warning from Hobbleday.
“I have had too much of death,” she whispered. “No more.”
“The past is the past. Over and done.” Geary took the length of hair from her hand and turned it over. “We shall all come to death.”
“It is living that I oft fear,” Peace said.
Despair filled her voice. It brushed the Frenchman’s heart like none ever had. He laid the token on the table and gently traced the calluses that marred her once beautiful hands. But for the tragedies of the past they would have never met.
“What is it?” Peace whispered. “You look— It is very strange.”
“I was thinking of what could be,” he said and met her gaze. What he saw in her eyes made him quake. He trembled. The past as well as the present was there to tell him how foolish it was to think life would be any different than it was. Could he abduct her and carry her to France?
“You will keep Merristorm from harm?”
Geary noticed the movement of her hand toward the token. He fingered the strange hank of hair. “You believe that is a warning not to harm him?”
With a nod she clenched her fingers about it.
“Why is his life important to you?”
Peace wondered again at the strained undertone that appeared at any mention of Merristorm. She clutched Hobbleday’s warning. Did it foretell Geary’s death? She fluttered a hand. “The man means nothing to me. That is not why I wish him to live.” She leaned close. “Hobbleday will set a curse on the one who kills him.”
Geary began to smile but she grabbed his hand. “Everything Hobbleday foretells comes to pass. I shall pay a forfeit if Merristorm dies.”
“Who is Hobbleday?” Geary asked impatiently.
“’Tis our lives if I tell you. You must make certain Merristorm is not harmed.”
Geary damned the superstition but pretended agreement. He gave a slow nod.
“And you must not harm him,” Peace whispered insistently.
Geary bristled. Not at the order, but at the impulse to do as she asked. Merristorm will have to die, he immediately pledged but nodded again. It was but another falsehood and she no different from all the women he had lied to across the years.
“Kill him and you damn us both.”
“Perhaps,” he said curtly as the future sank into the past.
Peace looked to object but grimaced and withdrew her hand. “With this shipment the list of goods is complete. When will the ship arrive?”
Geary raised an eyebrow. “Soon,” he said. “I shall be there when it does. All shall go well.”
“Walton grows arrogant. I fear he may try to make his own bargain.”
“Then he will have to deal with me,” Geary said coolly. “Unlike your Hobbleday I do not rely on curses.”
“It is not wise to jest.”
For the first time Geary suspected Peace might not be Hobbleday. If the apparition was not her, everything became more uncertain. He stilled his inner turmoil. Peace had shown an uncanny ability to read him.
Geary took her hand and kissed it. Her flinch did not come as a surprise. She had grown more skittish every day since he had kissed her but he could not regret doing so. Raising his gaze to the troubled blue eyes and fear-filled features an uncommon twinge occurred in the area of his heart.
Remember that she plans something she does not tell you, Geary reminded himself. But in his heart he damned having ever met her.
* * *
Lucian turned over and ploughed a fist into the coverlet. Women. He sighed.
Ruth.
But now the pleasure of Ruth in his arms, her lips on his, her body pressed against his rocked him.
Her words taunted Lucian. You think I would wed you for convenience?
Damme her, he thought as he wrestled the covers and turned onto his back once again. Lucian stared into the darkness. Who was she to tell him to face the truth? he asked with rising belligerence.
See things how they are, should I? Damme her. Lucian heaved out of the bed and tossed the blanket to the floor. He snagged his jacket which he had cast across the table by the bed and found his Hessians at the foot. Out in the hallway he glared into the darkness toward her door.
I should go in there and bring her to her senses. If Marietta wasn’t in that room— Lucian’s thought stuttered.
He stalked in the direction of the stairs but stopped short when a couple of his stocking-clad toes collided with the base of the top newel post.
Biting back a choice epithet he gingerly put his throbbing foot down and fumbled for the railing. By the time Lucian reached the bottom of the stairs he wondered why he had bothered to come down at all. Thrusting arms into his jacket he sat on the second step and rubbed his sore toes.
The hoot of an owl floated from somewhere behind the house and sounded again.
Lucian thought nothing of it until another pair of hoots followed close on the first’s heels. He listened intently but heard only the ordinary creaks of the house and the brush of a branch on a window at the front of the house. Even with the silence Lucian’s nerves remained stretched taut. It’s nothing.
The unease that rides me is all about Ruth, he told himself. He stifled a groan. You knew better than to even think it. What did you expect?
If you were Ruth would you have accepted the proposal?
The past eight years rose like a plague of devils.
His sane mind had known he had no chance with a woman like Ruth. If only he could think when he was around her. His heart hitched at the sound of her voice. The sight of that magnificent red hair and those too lovely green eyes wreaked havoc with his body. As badly as he wanted, as he needed her body, Lucian wanted her soul. He wanted her safe.
I can’t keep him safe anywhere. The ache that echoed in Ruth’s voice when she said those words tormented Lucian.
Open your heart and mind to the truth of what happened.
Lucian lowered his head into his hands. Ruth urged him to examine the past. If only he was as certain as she that he could.
Hoot. Hoot.
Those bloody owls.
Hoot. Hoot.
Damnation, Lucian swore. He snapped his head up. Owlers.
He slipped back up to his room and came back down with his pistol in his waistband. At the foot of the stairs he thrust his feet into his boots cursing lowly at the bruised toe’s protest.
In the kitchen Lucian moved silently to the window. He scanned the darkness to the north, then the south and back. Nothing.
‘Haps I’m wrong and the smugglers aren’t out. Lucian prowled down the dark hallway to the parlour. He felt his way to the fireplace, went past it, and pressed his ear against the wall.
Not a single sound.
Lucian growled. There was nothing to it but to reconnoitre. Following a hunch, he slipped out the front door and inched around the south side of the house. He had barely passed the corner when a tiny light twinkled and was gone.
The glint from a fox’s eyes or some other beast most like, Lucian thought but halted. The sense of human beasts nearness kept him in place. He watched and waited with growing impatience. It was noth—
A flicker of light cut off the thought. Certainty moved Lucian’s hand to his pistol. That’s several paces to the east of the first. Shielded lanterns?
A smile curved his lips as Lucian headed due west for a time and then turned back to the north. A horse’s snuffle pulled him up short. He listened. The soft munch crunch was unmistakeable. Ahead of him stood a horse busy in his feedbag.
One way to keep the animal quiet, Lucian thought. Then the unmistakable clink of metal reached his ears.
Taking a firmer grip on his pistol Lucian crept toward it. He was almost upon the cart before he realized it was there. It took only a moment to discover it was empty. The horse, busy with its feed bag, ignored him. Lucian stole forward.
Moments later he found a second cart. A wink of light halted him, a second flicker showed it was coming towards him. Fading back into the brush he crouched and waited.
The scrape of a crate against the floor of the cart told Lucian the men had come to it. A grunt and the soft pad of feet followed. Then silence.
Lucian counted to fifty before he crept up to the cart. A single box remained in it. He stuffed the pistol in his waistband and put his hands on the edge of the lid. Pressing up against it did little. The weight surprised him.
The whisper of cloth against dried grass warned him of someone’s approach. Lucian melted back into the shrubs.
This time the scrap was followed by a thud and then low curses amidst a clatter of metal and wood.
“He’ll have our heads if’n some’un hears us,” swore one of the men.
“Shut yer mouth then,” snarled his partner.
Lucian thought about the clatter. Instantly a picture of a Portuguese cart being loaded with crates of muskets appeared before him. Why would they deal in muskets?
I must be wrong, Lucian thought. Else we’d have been murdered in our beds.
That danger remains if the smugglers think I or the Claytons mean to interfere in the business. Lucian walked slowly to the front of the wagon and realised the smugglers carried their goods towards the house.
There must be a tunnel near by. Best to find it.
With pistol cocked Lucian crept from the brush and past the cart. A few feet further and he heard the approach of cloth-covered boots treading on the dry grass. He slunk several feet to the side and sank onto his haunches.
Four men loomed out of the darkness. One carried a lantern shielded but for a narrow shaft of light. They paused when abreast of Lucian.
Don’t turn the lantern this way. Don’t, he willed.
The three short owl hoots very close to Lucian nearly set him into motion. A hand to the ground, poised to flee he waited for discovery. But the hoots sent the men along-side of him back to the carts at a trot.
Moments later he heard the unmistakeable sounds of carts in motion. They slowly faded and still he waited. When no one appeared Lucian slowly stood to ease cramped muscles. Intent on finding where the men had come from he crept forward.
Rounding a clump of brush Lucian found he was on the southern edge of the open area at the back of the house. The dark hulk of the vicarage loomed against the night sky. Lucian looked at the window of Ruth’s chamber and then slowly swung his gaze down and back to the right.
At first he thought he was wrong about a tunnel. Lucian narrowed his eyes and knew the odd black rectangle, darker than the night was real. It had not been there during the day. It had to be the entrance of tunnel.
Elation soared through Lucian but caution tamped it down. Before he could decide what to do the hair on the nap of his neck stood on end. A second later searing pain sent a flash of stars before his eyes.
* * *
Geary gazed at the prone figure with grim satisfaction. He slipped the thin stiletto from its sheath strapped to his forearm and knelt beside Merristorm. He brought the sharp edge of the blade against the side of Lucian’s neck and applied enough pressure to slice through the top layer of skin.
“Your life is forfeit,” he said softly but saw Peace Jenkinson and found his hand stayed.
All right. Not yet. With a grimace Geary shrugged upright. Only two days more at most. His death would arouse her distrust. No, there shall be time before I go.
Geary stared at Merristorm’s back and then looked toward the house. How to muddy the waters? A smile slowly formed.