Ruth stumbled against the wall in the dark and went down on one knee. She leaned her head against the cool damp rock for a moment but the sounds of others nearby spurred her to rise.
Her candle had been lost when she dropped it while fleeing someone’s approach, a pair of men if she was right. The all-encompassing darkness pressed about her with fingers that stroked and prodded at a panic restrained with difficulty. The wrong turns, the dead ends, the small chambers would it never reach the sea? she wondered with growing urgency.
How long had it been? Ruth fretted. Too long? Was Lucian safe? Dear God please make it so, she prayed as she inched forward. In disbelief Ruth stilled and peered into the distance. She took several halting steps and then sagged back against the cave’s wall in relief.
The glow of many lanterns, strangely split in twain, danced before her. Giddy with relief a giggle escaped. Ruth clamped a hand to her mouth and cocked her head to listen.
Soft thumps, creaks, voices hung in the air. The same sounds she had heard that afternoon in the parlour. The transport of the smuggled goods was underway.
With great care Ruth stole forward. The glow of light grew steadily stronger, flickered ever more wildly casting grotesque shadows. The black band that divided it grew. Voices grew louder, clearer. Harsher. It was too like she imagined hell. She pushed back her fear this thought prompted. This was not hell. Lucian’s death would be hell for her.
The thought steadied Ruth. She edged her back against the wall towards the opening on the right side of that strange black band—a natural support wall.
The vastness of the chamber before her raised awe unbidden. The ceiling remained hidden in the darkness and the flaming torches in walls at the front and on posts within in did not reach to the inner walls. Salt tinged the air which was no longer heavy and dank. Crates and barrels, stacks of rounded sacks littered the area. Roughly clothed men, distorted hulking shadows, moved among those farthest from her.
Move to the right, Ruth decided. Only after she had chosen to always go that direction had she made any progress once in the dark. Screwing her courage to the point, she dashed for the closest set of crates and sank crouched behind them and thanked God that the support wall shielded her from the other side.
Ruth put her hand on one of the crates to steady herself. It shifted. Empty. She drew an easier breath. If all the containers in this rear area were like this one she could move forward with less fear of discovery.
In the midst of her third move Ruth had to dive behind crates to avoid a man who trudged in her direction. After that she advanced with greater care. By the time she reached the edge of the activity she could see the sea and straining on tiptoes, the men labouring to load the goods.
Ruth inched toward the mouth of the cave and grew hopeful when she saw the lip black against the lighter sky. But then a group of men tromped toward something in her direction and she scurried back to a stack of barrels. Sinking to the ground behind them, Ruth tugged her skirts close and struggled to still her ragged breath.
With great relief she heard them halt around the large stack of sacks she had almost reached. Still as a mouse she listened as they grunted and groaned and trudged away.
After several minutes of silence Ruth leaned to the side and peered around one of the sacks. Her breath caught. The stooped figure before her crocked a finger and beckoned.
* * *
Donatien sealed Peace Jenkinson from his thoughts as the last of the musket crates were loaded aboard the lugger. He glanced across the scattered disarray of the remaining crates, barrels and oiled sacks of goods. Only the prospect of the gang’s future possible use prevented him from taking this lugger back to the ship.
Mission achieved. Success. Back in the good graces of the powers that be. One more step toward the ultimate goal.
Donatien reached for the chain about his neck out of habit. His fingers stilled when he found only the chain. That had been a piece of foolishness, he thought about giving Peace the ring with disgust. Perhaps there was still time to retrieve it.
With a signal for the lugger to be off with its cargo, he stalked toward the centre of the mouth of the cave. It took only a moment to find Luke Walton.
The incompetence of the man more than his arrogance rubbed Donatien’s nerves raw. Only certainty that he would not last long with his uneven highhanded ways kept the duc’s dagger in its sheath.
Walton finished his harangue to a pair of young men and sent them off with clouts to the head. He pulled up his trousers and straightened his hat before insolently acknowledging the Riding Officer’s presence.
Hatred was plain to see in the smuggler’s eyes. It brought a smile to Donatien’s lips. “Your men are getting slow. The next set of crates should already be at the water’s edge.”
“We’ve worked dammed hard bringing those last boxes out first,” Walton snarled. “Ain’t seen a bit a blunt.”
“It’ll come when the last lugger comes back,” Donatien said. “What about the men sent to find our meddlers?”
“Reckon they’re still on the hunt. ‘Haps ye should a seen ta it,” sneered Walton.
Only strength of will and the damnation of personal preference had won Donatien that particular hard fought battle. He would have had Peace but for de la Croix.
Donatien ruthlessly pushed down revenge’s lure. Well taught by experience that it took much planning to ensure success and he had neither the luxury nor the opportunity. This time. With luck his reward would be that the pair was taken but he would settle for getting away before the pair found him.
A quick glance out to sea revealed the approach of an empty lugger. “If you want to see your money you best get the men moving on that cargo,” Donatien snapped.
“Ye don’t give the orders,” Walton snarled, his hand to the knife at his side.
“Neither do dead men,” purred Donatien.
Walton lowered his gaze first. With a disparaging oath he turned away and began to shout orders.
Satisfied the task would be done Donatien strode through towards the rise that led up the trail to Whitby and the Wise Owl.
* * *
On the far left of the cave hidden in the shadows half way to the mouth Lucian and de la Croix continued to study the scene as they had for some time.
Lucian’s heart sank as he counted the number of men bustling about their work and the lack of any sign of Ruth. Where was she? Lord, keep her safe.
“There’s Geary,” André said lowly. “There with Walton.” He pointed to a pair of men visible only in glimpses as others passed on either side.
A small cart pulled by two men loaded with barrels blocked Lucian’s view. “Where?”
“They are angry with one another,” André noted softly. “Mayhaps we can use that.” He stole forward and across the chamber towards the support wall.
Lucian followed but halted him at the crates closest to the end of the wall in the centre of the cave. “What do you intend?”
“If we can get Geary we can bargain for Miss Clayton.”
“What about Walton? He might be glad to be rid of the captain?”
André grimaced. “I wish we had found her.”
“Bloody hell,” Lucian swore under his breath. He crouched low and half ran to a stack of large sacks.
With a curse the baron followed. “What in the blazes do you think you—”
“I saw Sairy Jane on the far side,” Lucian whispered. “‘Haps they set her to watch Ruth.”
“Grasping at straws there old man,” André told him. “You know the women are as apt as the men to run goods. She’s probably watching over her interests.” He searched the mouth of the cave and half rose when caught sight of the Riding Officer.
“We’ve got to go after Geary. He’s leaving.”
Lucian tugged him down but didn’t stop tracking Sairy Jane’s deliberate progress. “She’s got something in mind.
“Is Geary going out to the ship?” Lucian asked glancing toward the lugger being loaded.
“No, looks to be going back to Whitby. But he may have a boat we can’t see,” André hissed. “He’s the best chance of getting Ruth back—if they even have her.”
The rationale was excellent, Lucian knew but gut instinct held him in place. “Do you think you’d have a chance alone?”
“Better than you would with the old woman.”
Lucian cocked his head and met André’s gaze. “Truly?”
“You are mad,” André half grinned.
“No, the devil himself with the devil’s luck,” Lucian threw back. He peered over the barrels and found the old woman. “Bloody hell,” he breathed in profound relief. “Ruth.”
André tore his gaze from Geary’s retreating back. He narrowed his eyes and studied the pair of women. “She means her no harm. She’ll keep her safe,” he bit out. “Let’s—”
“What’s this?” a voice roared.
Lucian watched Luke Walton grab Ruth’s arm and roughly drag her towards the mouth of the cave. He leapt up.
With a frantic lunge André tried to halt him but missed. To his dismay he saw their movement had caught the eye of those closest to them. “You go for Ruth. I’m for Geary,” he shouted as he twirled out of the reach of one man and kicked the feet out from under another.
Lucian swung the butt of his pistol hard against the forehead of a charging figure. He leapt over a crate pulling his sabre free.
The commotion halted Walton. Ruth twisted around and saw Lucian nearly surrounded by men as he circled, his sabre at ready.
Donatien also heard the shouts and turned to look back. He found Merristorm first but movement to the side caught his eye. De la Croix’s dexterous evasion raised admiration even as it warned of danger.
Jerking the pistol from his waistband and a smaller one from his pocket, Donatien bolted for the lugger on the shore. As he ran he saw a dark cloaked figure emerge from the right rear of the cave. Thornley’s tread was purposeful and his direction certain.
With a chuckle Donatien dismissed Merristorm. His spirits rose even higher when he glanced back and saw four men with clubs hold de la Croix at bay. Leaping onto a barrel in the lugger he shouted, “Away. The Preventives are come.”
He looked back at Merristorm who was completely unaware of the advancing Thornley and of the pistol now raised in the man’s hand. Donatien accepted the rifle pushed into his hands and thought that precautions taken always reward.
Donatien braced against the lugger’s lurch as the men pushed it off. It righted itself and he shouted for those at the oars to pull hard. Donatien stepped down from the barrel, cocked the rifle and raised the sight to his eye. With quiet deliberation he drew a bead on de la Croix.
** *
Ruth twisted and turned in Walton’s hold. His sudden halt caught her unaware and she slammed into his side
With a curse, Walton released Ruth and grabbed hold of her shoulders. He threw her to the ground with all his might and headed for the melee with Merristorm.
Scrabbling to her knees Ruth threw back her hair which had fallen loose and cascaded over her eyes. Certain Walton meant to kill Lucian, she surged upright and turned about frantic for a weapon. The absence of anything with which to strike out weakened her knees. She sought and found Walton. Then Ruth saw the glint of a blade in his hand as he grew ever closer to Lucian.
Bunching her skirts Ruth ran headlong for him screaming at the top of her lungs. He turned, just as she had hoped, just before she collided with him. Both flew to the side. Ruth rolled and was up on her knees when she saw the approach of the cloaked man.
“Thornley,” she shouted, “help us!” But then her heart froze in her throat at the look of utter triumph and determination on his face and the pistol in his hand pointed directly at Lucian.
“Lucian,” she screamed with all her might. “Behind you.”
The words were barely out when the report of a pistol and a much larger weapon thundered through the cave with deafening force.
Complete terror shattered Ruth as Lucian stiffened and toppled over. “Lucian,” she screamed as she scrabbled frantically towards him.
* * *
Time hung still as Donatien centred the sight on André Ribeymon’s chest. A simple squeeze of the trigger and that problem would no longer trouble him.
Miss Clayton’s piercing scream warned him the conclusion on that front was near. Donatien swung the weapon in the direction and found Merristorm. Which of the pair? Merristorm or de la Croix? he debated.
Merristorm must not be harmed, Peace’s voice whispered in his ear.
Donatien increased the pressure on the trigger and narrowed his eyes to make his target clearer. Peace’s image danced before him. He blinked. Anger rose at this slip in his control. He sighted the weapon again and pulled the trigger home.
* * *
André kept Geary in the periphery of his vision as he bobbed and weaved away from the stabs and strokes of the four men who surrounded him. He feinted to his right and lunged sharply left. He snagged the club from the man there and jammed the end against his throat. The fellow staggered back. The baron spun around and slammed the club into the first’s neighbour.
This sent the other two back a few steps and André glanced again at Geary. The barrel of the rifle in the man’s hands centred on him. Dammed if I’ll let him kill me and get away, André swore. He flung his torso down and then up in an arc, club in hand and spun towards the remaining pair who backed further away and yelled for assistance.
Bounding past them André weaved toward the retreating lugger and saw Geary aim at Merristorm. He leapt and flung the club at the Riding Officer as hard as he could. The flash of fire in the pan and roar of two weapons hit him like a club in the gut. He was too late. Standing knee deep in water he watched helplessly as the lugger pulled ever further away.
Geary’s posture altered and he swept off his hat and gracefully sketched a royal bow of the style of Louis XVI.
Nettles danced up André’s spin. They settled like icy spikes in his gut. He knew that figure. He had seen that bow. Disbelief almost bowled him over. Porteur.
“Lucian!”
Ruth Clayton’s cry jerked de la Croix around. Men were fleeing in all directions. Lucian laid face down still as death on the cave floor.