The fall into ruin, p.6
The Fall into Ruin, page 6
One thought pulled him up short and nearly made him stumble as he rounded the damp stone corner of the castle emerging into the gardens. Was she running away? No, not in her nightgown, surely. He had refused her his help unless she told him what had happened. What if she wasn’t on her way to a secret assignation? Had she seen no other way out and was on her way to throw herself off the deadly cliffs?
God, he’d been so stupid. He should have told her father at once that she was in danger. He wouldn’t have cared for the information to start with but he could have intervened. He could have locked Rose in her room until she’d calmed down. The chit was cracked and hid it very well.
Damn it all to hell!
With each stride, his ankle throbbed. He hadn’t run anywhere in months. Skirting the same hedge as Rose had the last he’d seen her, he hoped there was nothing deadly in the dark he could run into or fall down. Only by the light of the moon was he able to see anything at all but when he reached the corner of the garden, he didn’t know where to go next. A narrow path disappeared into the tree line and he stopped, his hands on his thighs while he took heaving breaths of cold air into his burning lungs.
A sound carried on the wind and he straightened. Was it a gunshot? Or an explosion? This time he didn’t hesitate as he took off down the path. Branches whipped at his face and grabbed at his shirt and trousers. A misstep nearly sent him tumbling head first into the undergrowth as he yelped, his ankle twisting. He righted himself the best he could and slowed down as complete darkness descended.
*
Rose shuttered her lantern and dropped to a squat next to a wide-trunked tree. Though her heart thundered in her ears and the wind hissed and howled through the foliage, she’d known her follower was right behind her. She’d quickened her pace but so had they.
When the shriek came, followed by vulgar curses, she hoped whoever it was had come to grief and broken his bloody back. Only a short way ahead of where she hid was the end of one path and the beginning of the next. Rose knew Michael was bringing in a new shipment to the sheltered beach and hadn’t wanted to miss out but the house party meant her actions were being watched. Or so she’d thought until she’d been completely ignored by her family for the entire night. They didn’t give a fig about her or what she did. Judging by her brothers’ vicious comments in the capital, they probably assumed she sat around and ate cake all day.
Yes, it had been a risk setting out but she was only going to watch from the safety of the cliff’s edge. She’d even left her nightgown on just in case anyone from the house found her coming back in. She would pretend to be sleepwalking so long as they didn’t see her boys’ trousers beneath. It had worked a time or two in her younger years and she had become a much better actress since then.
Her lady’s maid, Molly, would turn away anyone coming to her rooms in the night—not that there would be a reason for anyone to knock at her door—but if her mother or father suddenly worried for her wellbeing and came to check on her, Molly knew what to say and do. The servants in the castle were completely loyal to Rose. She paid them far more than the estate ever would, which is exactly why she was in the smuggling game to start with. They had become her friends and co-conspirators once she’d discovered how very little Hell’s Gate provided for them to live, or rather, survive on. They had more to lose than she did if their antics were discovered.
If Mr Smith made good on his threats, they were all doomed anyway. Damn Anthony Germaine for being so soft. He clearly wasn’t frightened to marry her yet he was a man of the law. A man who wouldn’t abide Rose’s smuggling activities or admire her adventurous spirit. She could never marry a man like that.
Which is why Rose had ventured out into the freezing cold, windy night to watch over the men’s activities and make sure no harm came to Michael or their crew, not that she could do much to help them if something did go wrong. Staying away from smuggling while her family were in residence physically hurt her and they couldn’t stop altogether because once the weather turned for the season, the goods would dry up and so would the money her tenants required to make their ends meet since her father didn’t take proper care of them.
She herself needed a few good shipments so she could raise enough blunt to disappear into the night and never be found again. Right after the problem of Mr Smith was taken care of and she could rest easy knowing her friends could smuggle on once Rose was gone.
Confident whoever had followed had given up and gone back the way they’d come, Rose left the lantern and crept from the tree line to the edge of the cliffs. In the pocket of her cloak was a loaded pistol and she took it out before lying on her stomach and inching forward until she could see the beach. Waves crashed down on the shoreline leaving white foam behind when the sea retreated, only to crash back again and again.
It didn’t take long for her eyes to adjust and she could make out a few men standing, waiting. She saw six but knew there would be more—staff from the house, tenants and some from the village between Hell’s Gate and the Duke of Ashmoor’s estate. The rowboats were missing, which meant some had gone out to meet the ship and bring the goods back. It was their only mode of transport since Mr Smith had ordered his pirates to intercept their sloop and burn it to the waterline.
Tea and lace were their trade for this evening. They’d already sent out their cargo of wool some weeks back and now it was the night to collect their swap. A whole seasons’ worth of blood, sweat and even a few tears had departed the dock sheltered behind Hell’s Gate—merely wool to the excise men’s eyes if they were caught, but also gold beneath the sheep’s clothing. And she wasn’t a party to any of it this time, the risk of her discovery too great. Rose wasn’t good at standing idly by.
Almost everything had now been shipped out to Calais. The brandy had come in on a successful midnight run already; now came the other half in tea and lace. The lace was to be sent straight to Michael’s benefactor in London and the tea was to stay hidden for a few weeks and then be sold off in smaller amounts. They were to make double their money just from the brandy profits so it was well worth the risks. It wouldn’t have been much of a risk at all if Mr Smith hadn’t taken an interest in their comings and goings.
For at least five years the people of the estate and village had enjoyed reasonably hassle-free smuggling since her father and Ashmoor were veritable misers when it came to cottage repairs. Hell’s Gate itself was mildly profitable but the inhospitable land made farming difficult and running cattle hard and dangerous work, which meant less money for her father and much less for tenants. From what Rose now knew, smuggling from this coastline had been going on for decades, if not a century or more even in legal times because the excise taxes were so high.
Now their French friends grew wary and had threatened to stop their trade altogether if the pirate wasn’t taken care of. That’s where Anthony Germaine was to have stepped in. His father was the most notorious pirate the seas around England had seen in many a decade. Now that word spread about Richard Germaine’s retirement, Mr Smith all but owned the Channel. Anthony could have sent a message for her, calling on his father to help his bride-to-be since she’d failed to deliver the note in London, which was to beg aid.
Failing to deliver that missive after she’d been ruined, Rose had needed a plan B. Or was it C or D now? It was the only idea any of them had come up with since that night. Just a tiny bit of blackmail. He would offer his assistance and she would offer him an escape from their impending nuptials. Only a tiny little bit of blackmail. But Anthony had shot it all to hell when he’d refused to help. She needed a pirate to fight a pirate. In her mind, it had made perfect sense. Of all the people in all the world to fall on her, it had been a stroke of luck.
Now she had no clue what to do. About any of it.
Activity just off the rocky beach drew her attention and she squinted a little to make out which of the men it was. Riordan, the blacksmith—he was the easiest to recognise as the rowboat crashed through the last of the breakers to slide ashore with a crunch. She let out her breath with a sigh of relief as Michael leaped down to help drag it further out of the waves. Behind him another two tiny boats were tossed about, one making it through, the other pushed back out by the retreating currents.
Half a dozen more men streamed from their hiding places to help carry the goods to a sheltered cave. They had the rhythm down to a fine art, each man with his own job to do.
Rose pressed her palms to the damp ground beneath her shoulders to push back to her feet and return to the castle but as the wind abated for just two heartbeats, there came a crashing behind her. Before she could turn or roll, she was pinned to the ground, sharp rocks biting into her thighs and knees, the breath squeezed from her lungs.
“Well, well, well,” a voice crooned into her ear. “Just how many secrets do you have, Rose Clairmont?”
Chapter Seven
When Anthony had lain in his bed earlier that night, trying desperately to get to sleep but failing dismally, not once had this scenario crossed his mind. He used his body weight to press Rose into the ground and with each buck of her hips to throw him off, he felt only pillowy softness against his chest and stomach.
“A lady spy are you? Or your father’s snitch perhaps?” he wondered out loud.
“Get off me,” she hissed beneath him with another buck. She may have been lighter on her feet than he’d expected but she wasn’t strong enough to lift him.
Anthony raised one hand and tried to untie her cloak so he could pull it back a little but she fought him every inch. He didn’t want to get rough with a lady, especially not this lady, but he would know what she wore around her body to make herself large and soft. Was it actual pillows? It certainly felt like pillows as she kept trying to dislodge him. He knew when he’d caught her at the dining table, when she’d tripped, that there was more to Rose, or less as this case might have been, but he’d been distracted and hadn’t given it enough thorough analysis.
“Be still for a moment,” he commanded.
She ignored him but he was prepared for that. As quick as he could manage with his ankle still smarting like a horse had kicked it, he raised himself up and rolled Rose to her back, pressing into her right away with his body while he caught her hands in his own lest she punch him in the face.
She hissed and wheezed. “I can’t breathe, you big oaf.”
He’d never been called that before. He smiled and met her eyes. “You certainly don’t need the spectacles,” he said but more to himself than to her. By the light of the moon, her big eyes flashed a murderous gold but for a moment, he was entranced by the length of her lashes fanning across her cheeks as she blinked.
Anthony pulled away and swore. “Did you just try to butt me with your head?”
“Let me go,” she said, still fighting him. “I told you I don’t need your help now.”
Careful of the weapons she made out of her body parts, Anthony pinned her two hands with one of his, noting a discarded pistol just above, and then began to undo the buttons marching down the front of her nightgown.
Rose went dead still. “What are you doing?” Was that genuine fear in her voice? He bloody hoped so.
“What are you wearing beneath your gown?” He straddled her now but he could feel laces or buttons or something digging into his backside right beneath where the softness ended. Ladies’ drawers wouldn’t have sharp edges at the front. He’d undressed enough women to know how their undergarments worked.
Rose resumed the fight, thrashing and attempting to knee him in the back. “You cannot do this. You’re a gentleman.”
He scoffed and paused for a moment, holding her wild gaze. “Who told you that?”
“I will kill you if you so much as lay a finger on me.”
Anthony felt it pertinent to point out, “I could do more than lay a finger on you and then I could murder you and toss your body from the cliffs. This is why ladies do not wander about in the dark in their nightclothes. But then I’m beginning to think you are no lady.”
With each button he undid—which was bloody hard considering how small they and their corresponding holes were—he revealed more and more. First was the fabric of her chemise, her breasts straining against the material, a little ribbon tied between. But then came the puzzling part. Just below her heaving chest was the pillowy softness. Clearly stitched well and showing a lot of use was a type of waistcoat. It pulled over her shoulders and down her sides beneath her armpits. He couldn’t see how it was fastened and as he put three fingers between it and her body, he could feel the thickness. He gave a little tug but it held firm. “Ingenious,” he muttered, staring at what seemed to be compartments of sorts. Individual pockets but to hold what?
She had gone so still, Anthony looked back to her face to make sure she was still alive. She watched him more intently than he had her. “What are you going to do now?” she asked right before biting down on the delicate flesh of her bottom lip to await his answer.
He was saved words, words he couldn’t think up right then anyway, by a bright glow from the shoreline. From the roiling black ocean came flying lights. For a half second he marvelled at their beauty. Rose’s neck craned back to see what he saw. But then a boat on the shoreline caught fire and the men scrambled back from the flames. He’d almost forgotten about the smugglers while he’d practically undressed his future wife in the scrub. The more seconds that passed, the more he was sure she had been giving him an act in the garden and at dinner. Clearly what Rose Clairmont really wanted was a man she could easily manipulate.
She gasped and turned her body. He let her up but then pushed her back down when she made to stand. Fumbling forward, she reached for the pistol and held it not at him but at the ocean.
“Put that down,” he told her, grabbing the top of the presumably loaded weapon.
“I have to help them,” she said, trying once again to stand.
More flying lights appeared, well-lit arrows hitting their mark over and over as fire consumed yet another rowboat. Within seconds the men on the beach had fled into the rocks without a shot fired or an answering arrow. Not that they could possibly see what they shot at. It was darker than dark across the horizon despite the moon and its light. The cliffs must have bordered a cove or inlet and deep shadows hid anything beyond the breaking waves.
Instead of cursing the darkness, Anthony was grateful for it. “We haven’t been seen yet. Either we stay down or we go back into the trees.”
“Michael will need my help. What if the pirates come ashore?”
“Michael? Is he your lover? Were you to meet with him after he stashed his ill-gotten goods?”
“For the absolute last time, I don’t have a lover. Michael is my friend.” She pulled away and made to stand again. “He might need me. Mr Smith will kill him if he is captured.”
A deadly chill ran the length of his spine and Anthony leaped to his feet. He took Rose by the shoulders and propelled her back into the trees. Once he was sure they were hidden by huge branches and rustling leaves, he turned her so he could face her. He might have even shaken her a little as he said firmly, his tone low, his anxiety high, “I need you to repeat what you just said.”
She eyed him warily, skittish now and aware something was wrong, more than her own situation called for, though that should have been bad enough. “Which part?” she asked.
“You said Mr Smith will kill him.”
Rose nodded but didn’t elaborate.
This time Anthony did shake her. “What do you know of Mr Smith?”
“He’s the pirate I needed your help with.”
“Have you seen him? Met him? Does he know you are involved in this?” He paused and then drew her closer so he could see her eyes better. Dread filled him. “What exactly is your involvement in this, Rose?”
“I’ll need your word before I tell you anything.”
His grip tightened on her arms. “You have no idea who you are dealing with, do you? No idea of the danger you are in if Smith has marked you.” Because of his broken ankle, Anthony hadn’t been there the night Smith had kidnapped a duke’s children and then attempted to kill them to prevent their witness to his awful deeds. Anthony’s pregnant sister had also nearly died. His brother-in-law had been searching for the blackguard ever since but there’d been no trail left to follow. Perhaps Rose was wrong about the name or perhaps it was coincidence?
Only, Anthony believed in coincidence about as much as he believed in miracles. They were the stuff of faerie tales.
Rose’s lips flattened to a thin line before she opened her mouth again. “I’ll not tell you any more until I have your word you won’t tell my father. I don’t need his interference.”
“You need a spanking is what you need. You need to be locked in your room or supervised around the clock. Damn it, Rose, tell me the truth.”
She finally wrenched free of his grasp and bent to retrieve her lantern. “Unless you wish to make our fight yours, then you are better off not knowing.”
He was left very little choice at that stage. It was either give her his word or be left in the proverbial dark, possibly even see her killed before the end of the week. Perhaps that was what she had meant by ‘there won’t be a wedding’ the day before.
Rather than rushing back to the cliffs, Rose lifted a shutter on the lantern and began to walk back up the path to the castle, her cloak flapping around her ankles. The wind picked up, her hem floated and he swore again. Was the chit wearing trousers? Had that been the sharp edges he’d felt as he’d pinned her?
