His eyes cut to Dalziel before he met her gaze. “That’s the gist of it.”
Neither could see where she was leading them, what hole in their plans she’d discovered and was about to point out. She could sense unease coming from both of them.
She smiled, not smugly but—she couldn’t help it—a touch patronizingly. “While you’re defending him, who will be restraining Edmond?”
Gervase frowned. “I’ll order him to stay back. He’ll—”
“Listen?” Incredulity oozed from the word. “Please remember you’re talking about a fourteen-year-old boy—no, let me rephrase that more accurately—a fourteen-year-old male Gascoigne —who after being seized by a villain and his rough-and-ready henchmen finds himself in the thick of a pitched battle between the forces of good and evil, on a beach, with smugglers on his side, swords and knives flashing in the dead of night.” Her voice had risen slightly, her diction hard and precise; she pinned Gervase, then turned to subject Dalziel to her gaze. “Do you seriously imagine he’ll meekly stand back, watch, and not join in?”
They stared at her, speechless. Unable to answer, because she was right.
Satisfied, she drove home her point. “The instant he sees anyone he knows threatened, he’ll dash in to help. Armed or not.” She paused, then added, “Regardless of any injunction or prohibition you think to make, however forcefully.”
Silence fell. Gervase’s expression was stony, his eyes flat agate, impossible to read.
“Will he listen to you?” The quiet question came from Dalziel.
She met his eyes. And smiled thinly. “Oh, yes. You may be absolutely certain he’ll listen to me. And obey me. He’s been doing that for all of his life, and he knows there are instances when obedience is not negotiable. He’ll do as I say.”
From the corner of her eye she saw Gervase’s lips twist, but when she faced him his expression was as unrelentingly impassive as ever. How, in light of that, she knew he was to the bone opposed to her going onto the beach she couldn’t say, but she was. His opinion reached her clearly, without the need for words.
Dalziel turned; he walked a few paces away from her. “When you’re on the beach, you’ll need to be able to defend yourself—and Edmond, at least to some degree.”
He turned back, and she saw he now held two light swords; she looked up and confirmed they were the pair usually crossed over the mantelpiece. Gervase must have taken them down—one for Dalziel, one for himself.
Both swords were unsheathed. Dalziel hefted them lightly in his hands—then tossed one, hilt first, to Madeline.
She reacted without thinking, deftly plucking it out of the air, her fingers and hand sliding with familiar ease into the hilt.
It was Dalziel who blinked.
But then he waved her away from the desk with the sword he held. “For instance, what are you going to do if…”
He swung at her, not with force but with the transparent intention of disarming her. Habit again came to her aid; she whipped her blade up and blocked.
And had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes widen.
He disengaged with a twist and came at her again, but this time she was prepared; grabbing up her skirts, she sidestepped, slammed her blade down across his, forcing it to the side, low. The unexpected move unbalanced him; before he could recover she stepped inside his guard, lifted one slippered foot and jabbed sharply at the outside of his knee.
His leg buckled.
Flailing wildly, he fought to right himself. Ducking his arm, twisting out of his reach, she kicked a small footstool behind him, then shoved hard at one shoulder.
The look on his face as he went down was pure magic.
Even better was the look in his eyes as, flat on his back, he stared up the long length of her sword, from the tip she pressed into his neat cravat to her hand, steady on the hilt.
Eventually, eyes narrowing, he lifted his gaze to her face.
She smiled. Openly smug. “I have three brothers. I don’t fight fair.”
He didn’t blink. “You’ve been trained.”
She raised her brows. “Well, of course. Did you think only men could wield swords?”
He was clever enough to make no reply. She let her smile soften, lifted the sword’s tip from his throat. “My father taught me, then had me taught, so I could later teach my brothers, then have them taught.”
Raising the sword, she studied it, then looked at Gervase. He’d said nothing throughout—hadn’t moved an inch—yet she’d been conscious of the explosive tension that had gripped him the instant Dalziel had “threatened” her.
She met his gaze, then tossed the sword to him. “I have my own weapons—I had them brought from the Park.” She looked at Dalziel, but it was to Gervase she spoke. “You needn’t worry about me on the beach—any locals there will recognize me, the others at the very least will know me for a woman, and just as you did, they’ll underestimate me. They won’t strike hard—they’ll imagine I’ll be easy to disarm. But underestimating women is never wise.”
Stepping around Dalziel, she headed for the door.
Behind her Gervase shifted. “We’ll have to wade through surf waist-high or deeper—”
“You needn’t worry.” At the door, she turned and met his eyes. “I won’t be wearing skirts.”
With that final decisive declaration, she opened the door and went out.
Gervase stared at the partly open door, remembered the early dinner waiting for them. He looked down at Dalziel. His erstwhile commander slowly sat up; draping his arms over his bent knees, he looked disgustedly at the footstool.
Despite all—the seriousness of the situation, the sheer horror he felt over Madeline having inserted herself into the thick of their planned action and in a way that left him with no viable arguments—he felt his lips twitch.
He rapidly straightened them as Dalziel lifted his gaze, eyes narrowed, to his face.
“If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll deny it.”
Gervase couldn’t help it; he grinned. “The memory will be its own reward.”
Chapter 19
The sun went down and night closed in. It was dark and stormy, but at least it wasn’t raining. On the castle watersteps, Gervase stood by Madeline’s side, his fingers about her elbow, waiting for the larger of the castle’s rowboats, manned by a select crew of Abel’s “boys,” to draw alongside.
He’d made one—only one—attempt to dissuade Madeline. He’d followed her upstairs to change into garments more conducive to slogging through waves and then fighting on a beach; entering the bedchamber Sybil had assigned Madeline on her heels, he’d shut the door and faced her.
She’d glanced at him, then raised a brow.
He’d looked into her eyes. He understood all too well her motives in going. Admired them, and her, even though he, all he was, was in violent opposition. “I don’t want you to go.”
“I know. But I have to. I can’t not go.” She hesitated, then added, “It’s not that I don’t trust you to protect Edmond—it’s because I know Edmond, and I trust him all too well to behave exactly as I said.”
He’d paused; he hadn’t thought she didn’t trust him—that hadn’t entered his mind. He’d wondered for one second if there was any leverage there…then he’d leaned his shoulders back against the door.
Sinking his hands in his pockets, he’d watched her unbutton her jacket. “I honestly don’t know how I’ll react if you’re there—if you’re beside me in what might very well be close and dangerous fighting.”
He hadn’t meant to tell her that, but it was the simple truth.
She’d looked at him; head tilting, she’d studied him for a long moment, then she’d smiled—wry, in some indefinable way tender. “It looks like we’re going to find out.” She’d looked down, unlacing her riding skirt. “You know I have to go.”
He had known; despite the railings of his more primitive masculine self, somewhere deep inside he understood and accepted that. She’
d been her “brothers’ keeper” for more than a decade; impossible to ask her to step aside—to change and become a different person, a different woman, a different lady—now, just because he couldn’t bear even the idea of her being exposed to danger. And deep inside, he valued her as she was; he couldn’t with any sincerity argue for a change.
He’d sighed, briefly closed his eyes. “Very well.”
He’d turned to go; grasping the knob, he’d heard a similar sigh from her.
“It isn’t only for Edmond that I’m going—he’s not the only one I…feel compelled to protect. If not actively defend, then at least watch over.”
He’d glanced back, but she hadn’t raised her head, hadn’t looked his way.
“I know you understand because you’re like that, too. What you might not appreciate is that some women, some ladies, feel the same. We protect, we defend—it’s what we do, who we are.” Then she glanced at him. “It’s what I am—and I can’t change that, not even for you.” She’d smiled, a swift, rather misty gesture, and looked down at her laces. “Especially not for you.”
He’d hesitated, then he’d left the door, crossed the room, swung her into his arms and kissed her—swift, urgent. Sweet.
Raising his head, he’d looked into her eyes, amazed all over again at how dazed she—his Valkyrie—became, then he’d felt his face harden; setting her on her feet, he’d nodded and turned away. “I’ll meet you at the back of the front hall.”
He had, later, and escorted her here, to wait for the boat that would carry them—her, him and Dalziel—to the beach. The smugglers brought the boat cruising in alongside the steps; Gervase caught the rope one threw him, pulled the boat in tight, expertly steadied the prow. Dalziel stepped down into the boat. He turned to assist Madeline; with his free hand Gervase steadied her as she followed, clad in her trousers and a shirt and drab jacket borrowed from a groom. The instant she was safe aboard, Dalziel moved back and sat on the rear crossbench; Madeline stepped over the fore bench and sat in the middle of the boat.
As soon as she was seated, Gervase let the rope play through his hands. He made a quick half leap into the boat as the oarsmen, with perfect timing, pushed away from the steps.
He sat and they were away, the four oarsmen pulling strongly, smoothly, through the night, through the increasingly choppy waves.
The journey around Lizard Point in the dark, with a storm blowing up and the seas rising, wasn’t one for faint hearts.
The boats pitched and dipped on the waves, but all those at helms and oars were seasoned sailors who knew these waters, knew where the currents ran, how best to use them. Spray washed over the prows, half drenching those crouched between the oarsmen. The wind strafed, knife-keen; no one had worn hats.
Had it been winter, the trip would have been impossible. As it was the summer seas, although cold, weren’t freezing, and the wind, although biting, wasn’t iced; as long as the boats steered clear of rocks, the long minutes were bearable.
They eased around Lizard Point, yard by yard making way through the surging waves.
How long the journey took, no one could guess; no one had risked carrying a timepiece. It was full dark, the sky above a roiling mass of charcoal and midnight blues, when through the spume and spray they glimpsed flares in Kynance Cove, the first cove north of Lizard Point.
“He’s there.” Dalziel leaned forward, staring across the tops of the waves; they were so big, those in the boats, bobbing up and down on the deep swell, only occasionally caught a clear view of the beach.
“No beacon.” Gervase scanned the dark where he knew the clifftops were. He glanced at Dalziel. “The wreckers must be working with him, or they’d have their beacons lit by now.”
Between them, Madeline shifted. “I’ve counted twenty-three men on the beach.”
More than they’d expected, but not so many as to jeopardize their plan. “We’ll deal with them.” Gervase swayed with the roll of the boat. Gripping her shoulder, he lightly squeezed, then caught the helmsman’s eye; with his head he indicated the rocks at the southernmost tip of the cove.
The helmsman nodded, and leaned on the rudder. As the boat swung, the oarsmen waited…then grasped their oars and bent to. Silently their boat cleaved through the waves, leaving the others in their small flotilla drifting, dipping their oars only to hold their position strung out in a line parallel to the beach.
In one, Madeline glimpsed Charles saluting them.
Gradually the rocky point drew near. On the beach proper, the retreating tide had left a ten-yard strip of reasonably dry sand at the base of the towering cliffs. Her lungs tight, nerves taut, Madeline searched the cove, scanning furiously every time the swell raised them high enough for a clear view; finding the figure she sought, she groped blindly for Gervase, found his arm and gripped, pointing. “There. Edmond.”
Her brother was a small figure made even smaller because he was sitting cross-legged close to the cliffs, between the point they were heading for and the center of the cove where, as Harry and Ben had predicted, the attention of all others on the beach was concentrated.
Flares—tall poles wrapped with oil-soaked rags—were planted in the sand in a large ring, creating a circle of light that made the shadows immediately beyond even darker. Edmond sat at the edge of the flickering glow. The awkward angle of his arms suggested his hands were tied behind him.
In the heavily lighted area ringed by the flares, many men were digging, sifting through the heavy sand. Other than one man guarding Edmond, no lookouts had been posted on the beach. All activity, all attention, was focused on the excavation; they didn’t expect to be interrupted, certainly not via the sea.
Madeline recognized some of the men digging, and her heart sank. Leaning into Gervase, she whispered, “The Miller boys.” John Miller’s two sons.
Gervase followed her gaze, grimly nodded. “And the Kidsons from Predannack.”
The night would have repercussions beyond those they’d anticipated. Earlier Madeline had glimpsed a man in a greatcoat, but now they were closer, the bodies were harder to distinguish, shifting and merging in the flickering light of the flares.
She leaned toward Dalziel. “Can you see your man?” Her whisper was little more than a breath; they were sliding slowly in to the rocky point.
His gaze locked on the beach, Dalziel shook his head. “But he’s there somewhere—they wouldn’t be digging so assiduously otherwise.”
Gervase tapped her arm, signaled to her and Dalziel to stop talking. Then he shifted forward to where an oarsman in the prow was checking the depth.
They were relying on the experience of the helmsman and oarsmen to bring the boat in smoothly and silently to the rocky point, close enough that they could slip over the side and wade to the beach. The sound of the waves breaking on the rocks and the froth and spume would give them cover, both for sound and sight.
Madeline looked again at Edmond. The man guarding him was relatively short, scrawny, not a local. The man’s attention wasn’t on Edmond, or on the stretch of beach beyond him, or the deeper shadows hugging the base of the cliffs at Edmond’s back; like everyone else, the guard was watching the activity in the center of the beach.
Gervase tapped her arm again, then, like a seal, he slipped over the side and was gone. The boat bobbed, and there he was, standing, the water across his chest, below his shoulders.
Madeline gripped the edge of the boat, swung one leg over, then let herself fall. Gervase caught her, righted her before a wave could swamp her. He took a firm grip on her arm. Then Dalziel was in the water on her other side; he grasped her other arm. Each of them took the weapons the smugglers passed them, blades unsheathed, then they were moving, steadily wading to the beach.
Even in the water, both men moved with their customary animalistic, predatory grace; between them, Madeline was swept effortlessly along. She barely had time to register the water’s coldness.
They came onto the beach among the rocks; crouching, they slipped u
ndetected into the dense shadows at the base of the cliffs. They waited, watched, but the men on the beach had no inkling they, or the boats, were there. The group’s attention remained fixed on their excavations; Edmond must have been entirely convincing.
Her lungs tight, every nerve stretched taut, Madeline glanced back; even though she knew the boat had been there, she could no longer see it. The five smugglers had slipped out beyond the first breakers as silently as they’d slipped in.
The oncoming storm and its elemental effects—the crash of the waves, the rising shriek of the wind—was now an advantage; it would mask their approach, the sound of their footsteps in the sand submerged beneath the unrelenting rumble and roar.
Gervase, ahead of her, glanced back and signaled. They straightened; in single file, hugging the cliff face, they moved stealthily, steadily, closer to Edmond.
Madeline gave thanks he was looking away from them, stoically watching the men dig. He seemed entirely unperturbed, as if he knew it would be only a matter of time before rescue arrived. A typical Gascoigne trait, that unshakable belief in his own invulnerability.
Gervase halted less than two yards from Edmond; she halted beside him, and Dalziel halted behind her. An instant later, she felt a touch on her shoulder. She looked around as Dalziel slipped past her, then past Gervase, to take the lead.
Dalziel’s target—the traitor, their villain—was somewhere on the beach. Madeline stared, trying to see each man clearly, but again the shifting bodies defeated her. The man in the greatcoat she’d spotted earlier had merged into the melee.
This was their moment of greatest danger. Exposed, in the shadows yet perfectly visible if any thought to look their way, they had to wait until Charles saw them in position, then marshaled the boats for the beaching. How long that might take—
A sudden roar reached them, one that owed nothing to wind or water. Five boats came crashing onto the beach, carried on the crest of a single large wave. In the prow of one, his black hair in tight curls, a sword flashing in his hand, Charles looked every inch a pirate. The instant the keels grated on sand, men poured over the boats’ sides, brandishing swords and long knives.