by Jayne Davis
Once more she met him, pressing herself forwards with uptilted face, her lips slightly parted, her breath warm on his cheek. This time he put his mouth on hers, running his tongue along her soft lower lip. Heat flooded through him at the feel of her body against his, the way her lips parted further. She responded tentatively at first, then more confidently, testing his control as she put a hand up to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
He deepened the kiss, wanting more, to touch more of her, without their layers of clothing in the way. That thought finally made him lift his head and relax his hold on her. They stood close while his breath slowed.
“I’m sorry.” He didn’t know why he was apologising. Nothing could some of it, but he wasn’t sorry in the least, no matter how much he should have been.
Phoebe put a finger on his lips. “Don’t be.” Her eyes searched his again. “Don’t be sorry—be careful. Come home safely!”
He took her hand and kissed her palm briefly, then picked up a bundle and set off after the Dumont brothers, with one more look behind him as he entered the trees.
Phoebe leaned on the wall of the hut, watching him go, her heart still beating uncomfortably fast. She put a hand to her lips. Whoever would have thought a kiss could melt her insides, reach right down to her knees and turn them to jelly?
“You only met him five days ago,” she told herself. So why did this farewell leave her feeling so empty?
Closing her eyes, she concentrated on the sharp tang of the salt air, the sounds of surf in the distance, until her pulse returned to normal. They were not safe yet, and she had the message to deal with as well.
She stood there until Pierre returned, saying something about fetching Brevare before he walked on down to the shore. Not wanting Brevare to find her standing outside on his return, she entered the hut and sat down next to Gwen. She knew she should rest until it was time for the boat, but the warm memory of that kiss kept her from sleep.
Pierre roused everyone an hour later. Phoebe had reduced her things to only a small bag, abandoning the orange dress without a qualm. At a word from Gwen, she took their little girl’s hand and waited outside. Pierre, laden with his family’s possessions, led the way through the dunes onto the beach, a darkened lantern in his free hand. Phoebe waited until everyone else had left the hut then brought up the rear, feet sliding in the loose sand.
A light shone off to the north, large enough to be a bonfire—that must be Alex’s diversion. She could not think of him as Westbrook now, not after that kiss.
Further west, a faint flicker of light showed against the black void of the sea. Although the wind was blowing from the land, waves broke on the beach.
“Is that our boat?” Brevare shouted to Pierre, his voice almost lost in the noise of the surf.
Pierre nodded.
“It’s miles away! What’s it doing over there?” Brevare looked around. “Where’s Westbrook?”
Ignoring him, Pierre walked on across the sand and into the shelter of a rocky spit. Phoebe sat next to Gwen on a protruding rock slab, happy to be out of the wind. She settled herself to wait, hoping the boat would arrive soon and soldiers would not. Hélène sat in miserable silence while the comtesse complained bitterly and long about the wind, the noise, the sand in her shoes, the lack of respect from the others. Keeping her eyes on the surf, which was glowing faintly in the moonlight, Phoebe shut out her aunt’s voice.
By the water’s edge, Pierre fiddled with his lantern, opening a shutter to allow a narrow beam of light to show, then directing it out to sea. Gazing across the water, Phoebe finally made out the pale splash of oars beyond the waves breaking on the sand. The shadowed form of a boat drew closer. Four men rowed, one oar each.
Wading into the surf, Pierre grabbed the prow and dragged the boat onto the beach. He turned and waved. Gwen, ready and waiting with the baby fastened to her front by a pair of knotted shawls, moved forward with her daughter, Phoebe close behind. One of the oarsmen scrambled out and ran up the beach, giving Gwen a swift hug before picking up the girl in one arm and a bag in the other. Pierre swung Gwen and the baby into the boat and Sophie and the bag followed.
Phoebe stood by the prow, bag in hand, gasping as she was lifted with similar lack of ceremony into the boat. A hand reached out to steady her, and she sat down as Pierre passed over the rest of the family’s luggage and then Hélène. Phoebe made space for her cousin beside her, and ducked her head at the shriek emitted when the comtesse was dumped on board.
Brevare hung back. “Where’s Westbrook?”
“Get in the boat,” Pierre said. “Westbrook is not coming.”
“What? But he—we must wait!”
Pierre shrugged. “Wait if you want to.” He pushed the boat until it was afloat before scrambling aboard and sitting down next to his wife.
Phoebe turned her head, wondering what Brevare would do. His gaze swung back and forth between the beach and the boat. At the last minute, he waded into the water up to his waist, grasping the gunwale and making the boat rock alarmingly. Pierre swore and grabbed his coat, pulling until Brevare landed in ungainly heap in the bottom of the boat.
Her aunt shrieked again as the boat pulled out into the swell and began to pitch, plunging up and down as the waves passed under them. Neither Pierre nor the oarsmen looked at all concerned, so Phoebe gave Hélène an encouraging smile and took a firm grip on the gunwale. As they cleared the breaking swells, the motion of the boat eased and her grip relaxed as she relished the wind and spray in her face.
Squinting against the moisture-laden wind, she spotted an intermittent gleam of light out at sea, and could hear shouted commands and the slap of canvas as it grew closer. Finally a shadow loomed large against the moonlit streaks of cloud.
Their boat came alongside the larger vessel, two of the oarsmen grasping a rope ladder let down over the side. The others shipped their oars, gesturing to the passengers. Pierre helped Gwen onto the ladder and climbed it right behind her, clearly ready to support her if she slipped. At a shout from Pierre, one of the oarsmen did the same with Sophie. From the way they moved, Phoebe guessed that this was not the first time they had boarded a boat in such a way.
She tucked up her skirts as Gwen had done and gingerly stepped up to the gunwale of the rocking boat. The remaining oarsman steadied her as she pulled herself up the ladder, the ropes rough and wet in her hands. Then her arms were grasped from above and she scrambled up onto the deck, staggering as they let her go. Jostled by the men bustling around the ladder, she moved over to the rail, almost falling onto it as the Lily rolled.
Looking over the side, she watched with amusement as the men remaining in the rowing boat gave up trying to persuade her aunt and cousin to climb the ladder. They caught ropes flung down to them, making them fast at the prow and stern. The boat was hauled upwards, complete with baggage and whimpering women. Once on the deck and unloaded it was quickly lashed down.
Another shout to ‘get those damned women out of the way’ prompted Gwen to usher the comtesse and Hélène through a door that must lead below decks. Phoebe was about to follow them when she felt a hand on her arm. It was the sailor who had hugged Gwen.
“You’ll be all right here, miss, if you want to stay out for a bit. Not enough room to swing a cat in the cabin.”
His accent brought a smile of recognition to her lips. “You’re not from these parts, then?”
“Gwen’s brother, Owen Jones.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr Jones,” Phoebe said.
A series of shouted orders had men pulling on ropes, and the Lily heeled over and turned west, dark sails filling with wind. Phoebe looked towards the land, trying to make out the signal fire.
“You’ll have to share a cabin with Gwen and young Sophie,” Owen went on, leaning on the rail beside her. “Unless you want to go in with your… your aunt, is it?”
“It is,” said Phoebe. “But we do not get to choose our relations.”
There was a snort of laughter.
“Won’t Gwen be with Pierre?” she asked.
“Not enough space for this many passengers,” he said. “Pierre and that fancy man who nearly got left behind, they’ll have hammocks with the rest of the crew.”
Phoebe nodded, giving him only part of her attention. She’d finally spotted the speck of light that was the decoy bonfire. Was Alex still there? Had someone worked out where to send the soldiers from Granville?
“They will be fine,” Owen said in reassuring tones. “Been dodging revenue men for years, see?” He pointed to a couple of lanterns being hauled up into the rigging. “That’s the signal that you are safe on board. Watch for the answering signal.”
Phoebe glanced up as the lights rose from the deck, then turned her gaze to the land again. At least Alex would be able to do his job without worrying about her and her relatives.
“Don’t stay out too long, miss. It’ll be cold.”
His footsteps retreated across the deck, but she kept her eyes on the shore. There—a light some distance from the dying fire. Of course, any soldiers would be heading for the fire.
The lanterns in the rigging were lowered. Letting out a breath, Phoebe watched until she was sure there would be no further signal from the land, then went to find Gwen’s cabin.
Alex and Henri huddled in the shelter of a hedge, Alex keeping an eye on the bonfire half a mile to their south while Henri’s attention was fixed on the sea. The fire would burn for another half-hour or so without attention, by which time the Lily should have spotted it. So far, there was no sign of anyone approaching: no precautionary shots, no shapes passing in front of its light.
Henri’s elbow dug into Alex’s ribs, and Alex followed the man’s pointing finger. At last, a light—one more step in the plan. This rendezvous pick-up felt different, more nerve-racking than usual. It was the first time he’d been concerned about more than the success of the mission, but that kind of sentiment could be dangerous.
Taking out his watch, he squinted at it in the moonlight, wondering how long they’d have to wait for the Lily’s signal.
Henri settled back, his face impassive. What was the man thinking? Brevare’s actions had put the Dumonts out of a home, and although Marstone would see them set up somewhere else, that would likely mean settling in Britain. He doubted Gwen would mind, not with another baby on the way, but what about Henri?
Perhaps it was just as well. The soldiers had come to the inn quickly enough, so the Dumonts may have been under suspicion already. At least now Pierre and Gwen were on their way to safety.
Reminding Henri to keep an eye out for the Lily’s signal, Alex stood and walked around a curve in the hedge to where they’d left the horses. He tightened the saddle girths so they were ready to leave; they hadn’t seen any soldiers so far, but that didn’t mean it was safe to stay this close to the pick-up point. They would ride inland for a while before finding somewhere to spend what was left of the night.
“Westbrook!” Henri’s voice was barely loud enough to be heard above the wind. Out at sea, Alex could make out two lights, one above the other, and some of the tension in his body relaxed. Phoebe should be safe enough on the Lily—he’d have Trasker’s guts if anything happened to her.
He caught a flash of light as Henri returned the signal then, dousing the lantern, Henri joined him and mounted his horse. Alex kicked his own mount into motion, and followed Henri across the field.
Chapter 18
Phoebe breathed the smell of coffee, becoming aware of creaking wood and the sound of rushing water, a hard mattress beneath her.
“Coffee, Miss Deane?”
Opening her eyes, Phoebe blinked at the beams only a couple of feet above her head, beaded with condensation. She turned on her side; Gwen’s face was level with her own, dim in the lamplight.
“Careful now,” Gwen said. “Ceiling’s low.”
“What time is it?” With no window, there was no clue from outside.
“Middle of the morning. Lovely day outside, it is. Owen thought you’d be wanting something to eat by now.”
Phoebe rubbed her face, her thoughts finally coming together and her stomach giving her the answer. “Yes, please.” She propped herself up on one elbow and took the steaming mug from Gwen.
“I’ll tell him you’ll be out soon.” Gwen smiled. “There’s water there, if you’re wanting a wash. Food’ll be in Cap’n Trasker’s day cabin, down the passageway.”
Phoebe drank the coffee, beginning to feel more awake. She stretched as well as she could in the cramped space before scrambling down to the cabin floor.
Last night, she’d stayed awake long enough to remove her gown and stays, but she felt sticky and grubby. There was a piece of towelling next to the bucket of warm water, and she had a quick all-over wash which made her feel much better. Oh, for a bath, though!
Phoebe pulled her bag from beneath the bottom bunk. She chose the cleaner of her two spare chemises and donned the peach gown again before going in search of food.
The day cabin had windows across the stern of the vessel, giving a view of blue sky with puffy clouds and the white streak of the Lily’s wake across the rolling swell. A table took up over half the floor, with a bench seat around three sides of it. The only sign of life was a place set with a bowl of stew, a hunk of bread, and a spoon. Phoebe’s stomach rumbled at the savoury smell; stew for breakfast was unusual, but she wasn’t going to complain. She slid awkwardly into the seat and tucked into her meal with relish.
She was wiping the bowl with a piece of bread, glad no-one could see her poor table manners, when Owen entered and asked if she wanted more.
“Yes, please. Are you the cook? It’s very good.”
“We don’t have a cook, miss, not properly. I do a bit when we have passengers. But mainly taking buckets to her ladyship, I am.” This last was said with a grimace as he filled her bowl again.
“Are they both seasick?”
“Only the old bi… er, biddy. But it’s not proper for Lady Hélène to dine with us common sailor folk without a proper chaperone, see?” Owen’s words sounded matter-of-fact, but Phoebe caught a twinkle in his eye.
“I don’t count as a chaperone?”
“I haven’t told her you’ve woken up, miss. Thought you’d like a bit of peace to eat first.” He winked.
Owen had only just left when her uncle’s steward came in, looking tired and rumpled, but with a smile of greeting on his face.
“Anson!” She stood, staggering slightly at the motion of the ship, and held out her hand. “Oh, I’m so pleased to see you!”
“And I you, Miss Deane.” He shook her hand briefly, then sat at the opposite end of the table. “I wasn’t sure I should have taken orders from that Mr Westbrook, but it seems to have turned out for the best.”
“What did you do?”
“He told me to take the diligence to Avranches and then find the Dumont brothers near Granville. They got word to Captain Trasker, and I’ve been staying on board while we waited for you. It was remarkably easy. No-one took any notice of me.”
“I’m glad you didn’t get caught up in the trouble my aunt caused.”
Anson allowed himself a rueful smile when their eyes met, then turned his head as the door opened. Hélène entered, glancing around the cabin with a frown. Owen followed her in, carrying a tray. He placed a plate of stew in front of Anson, then one near Phoebe, clearly intended for Hélène.
“Good morning, Hélène,” Phoebe said politely. “I hope you slept well?”
“In that tiny cabin, with Mama being—?” She shook her head. “The accommodation might be the kind of thing you’re used to, but not me.”
“None of us is used to taking passage on a smuggling vessel,” Phoebe pointed out.
“Smugglers?” Hélène’s eyes became round.
A retort sprang to Phoebe’s lips, but she didn’t speak. She couldn’t be bothered with Hélène’s naivety, especially as there were li
kely to be far more interesting things to see up on deck. She quickly ate her second helping and excused herself, leaving Anson and Hélène finishing their meal. Collecting the disreputable coat from her cabin, she wrapped a shawl around her neck and scrambled up the steep stairway to the deck.
The cold, salt-laden breeze took her breath away at first. Phoebe tried to remember some of the books she had read about sailing, and Joe’s impatient lessons in the proper language to use about ships. The wind was coming from the front of the vessel, on the starboard bow. They were heading northwards, she thought, leaning on the rail and taking in the sun sparkling on the white tops of the waves, and the way they seemed to roll endlessly on to the horizon.
She soon retreated to stand by the mast, making the most of the meagre shelter it offered from the wind. The trip between Dover and Calais never had this feeling of being far from land, the sense of adventures to come. Her lips twisted in a wry smile; she’d had adventure enough in the last few days, although she couldn’t regret anything that had happened. This was different, though—the sense of unknown possibilities, new places, different people. No matter that things would change when they were safely back in London, or that she would appreciate it more with Alex beside her; she would enjoy the moment.
“Ah, there you are.”
Brevare’s voice made Phoebe jump, her heart accelerating as she spun around. The wind in the rigging had masked the sound of his footsteps, and now he stood glowering beside her—too close. She took a step away, but he put a hand on her arm. He didn’t grip tightly, but she sensed that he would if she tried to move further.
“You were supposed to bring me that message.” There was anger in his voice.
Phoebe resisted the temptation to pull away, glancing sideways but seeing no-one nearby. She’d hoped to avoid this confrontation, but had forgotten about Brevare in her excitement at coming on deck. Being here alone had been a mistake.
“Well, girl?”
“I’ve got it,” she said.