The Curious Rogue

by Joan Vincent

  To Elizabeth’s surprise, Barney wagged his tail and followed the man willingly. She edged around Captain Hattern. Her legs threatened to collapse as the queasiness of her stomach menaced triumph. Fear and uncertainty added to the already churning sensation, and she went ash white.

  Glancing back, Martin saw the sickening hue of Elizabeth’s face. He shoved Barney into the closest cabin, locking the door before taking hold of Elizabeth’s arm. He dragged her roughly along the corridor, pausing outside the captain’s door. “I’ll speak to the lad alone,” he told Hattern, who was following.

  “Back to yer duties,” the captain ordered the few sailors who had gathered. With a man like Martin, experience had taught him, it was best not to question.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Closing the door behind him, Martin shoved Elizabeth towards the small window in the cabin and threw it open. “I should have you thrown into the sea,” he snapped.

  Elizabeth drew in deep gulps of air and prayed that her stomach would recede from so close to her throat.

  “The only thing that saves you from such a fate is that Comte de Cavilon would not appreciate it, Miss Jeffries.” He reached up, pulled the cap from her head, and eyed her speculatively.

  Some of Elizabeth’s temper returned as she became accustomed to the roll of the ship. “How do you know my name? What have you to do with Comte de Cavilon?”

  “Is it not your brother, Morton Jeffries, that I am being sent to liberate?”

  “You? This is the ship?” She stared at him in disbelief.

  “I am interested only in how you came to be aboard this sloop.”

  As Martin walked towards her Elizabeth backed until the wall stopped her. He placed one hand against it just above her right shoulder.

  “I... I told the captain... There were some sailors chasing me and I hid here.”

  “Is it a common practice of yours to run through the docks dressed thusly?” He leaned closer and placed his other hand against the wall by her left shoulder.

  Elizabeth’s heart pounded in her ears as she gazed into Martin’s dark, glistening eyes. Sensing his anger, she shrank from him.

  “I wonder, does Cavilon know you have come?” Martin cocked his head. “What are we to do with you, my pretty?” he asked with the assurance of a man who knew exactly what he wished of his women and had never been refused.

  Fear receded. Anger at his manner rose. Elizabeth lifted her chin proudly, yet knew not how to combat him.

  “A pity I must send you back to England,” he noted sarcastically.

  “Must you?” she snapped haughtily. “Then you do not intend to do what Cavilon has paid for?”

  “Your brother will be freed.”

  “Then let me come. I could be useful,” she told him earnestly.

  “Entertaining, perhaps, my pretty, or amusing, but hardly useful.”

  Martin’s smile chilled her. Elizabeth lowered her eyes. They landed on the pistol in his belt. She forced a smile to her lips and raised her face to his. Slowly, she put her arms about his waist.

  Anger blazed into Martin’s eyes. It evaporated when he realized what her intent.

  His hand closed over Elizabeth’s when she reached for the pistol. Pulling her arm behind him, he drew Elizabeth against him. “That would not be wise,” he laughed softly, then pressed his lips to hers.

  Shock froze her momentarily; then Elizabeth realized she must actively resist his caressing lips. Anger rose against him, against her reaction to him. She struck him forcibly with her free hand when he drew back.

  Immediately it was caught in a crushing hold.

  “I did not want you to misunderstand,” she told him, her chin raised proudly, her eyes defiant and unafraid. “Now remove your hands.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Comte de Cavilon would not be pleased,” she said, uttering the first thought that came to mind.

  “You wish me to believe he knows you are herein.” Martin cocked his head, his disbelief apparent.

  “How else would I know which ship to hide in?” Elizabeth lied unflinchingly.

  “The comte is more a woman than I thought,” he sneered.

  “My hands.” Elizabeth demanded ignoring his words.

  Slowly releasing them he asked, “What do you mean to do?” “Go with you, of course. It is my brother, after all.”

  “This is no journey for a woman. I will not risk my life by being burdened with yours. You will be taken back to Folkestone. Now put this on and keep it on.” He snatched the cap from where it had fallen and threw it at her.

  “Remain in this cabin if you don’t want to encounter someone who doesn’t care what Cavilon thinks,” Martin added and left.

  Elizabeth walked slowly to the captain’s chair and weakly sank into it. She raised a hand to still her pounding heart. Never had anyone kissed her like that. Not even Cavilon’s gentle embrace had produced such an effect within her. The arrogant, swaggering strength of the man angered her. She found it difficult to believe that this was the same man who had stolen into her coach that March night, now so far in the past.

  Why has fate brought me to this ship? Elizabeth wondered. Thank God I am to go back, she thought. To go on with him was to dare more danger than she had ever thought to encounter.

  But would Morton be rescued by such a man as this? How could she be certain?

  * * * *

  On deck Martin stared at the rising sea. Elizabeth’s presence had been a true shock, unusual for a man accustomed to viewing nothing as a surprise. It was also a complication which showed him with too great clarity for his peace of mind just how deeply she affected him.

  The sting of her hand upon his face echoed through his mind. There had yet to be a woman who could long resist his good looks and steady persuasion. To keep Elizabeth with him, his arrogant confidence told him, would be to add her to their number.

  But would it? an inner voice questioned.

  The temptation to test her beckoned, but his love refused to permit the danger of the journey to her, much less risk his heart. Conflicting thoughts tossed about in his mind like the waves now dashed into whitecaps, strove to drive the sloop from its course.

  Captain Hattern joined Marten, a slicker warding off the spray the wind was blowing over the deck. “A ship ‘as been spied just on the ‘orizon. She’ll see us soon if she ‘asn’t already. Should we run for the open sea, or do ye still want to try fer Talbert? We near it now.”

  “Keep on course.”

  A sailor ran up to the pair. “Cap’n, there be two corvettes with the ship.” The rumble of cannonade echoes across the water.

  “Must be one o’ ours. Ready the guns,” Hattern bellowed.

  “I go to land on my own,” Martin told him. “Keep the lad with you until you can get him back to Folkestone. I want no harm to come to him. Your word?”

  “Aye.”

  “Land close by,” a voice called.

  “Ready the dinghy,” Martin shouted and dashed to collect his gear.

  * * * *

  Below deck in the captain’s cabin the sound of the cannonade disturbed Elizabeth. An increase in the wind was evident from the pitch of the flooring beneath her feet. She ran from the cabin and scrambled up the stairs.

  The cold wind paused her. She pulled the cap tightly about her ears and buttoned the light coat. All about her men ran to and fro in answer to shouted orders.

  Elizabeth put out a hand to stay a sailor who was rushing by. “What’s happening?”

  “French corvettes pursuing an English ship,” he answered and hurried on.

  Martin suddenly loomed beside Elizabeth. “Get below deck!”

  “Is that France?” she shouted, pointing to the black hulk of land standing against the glistening waves.

  “Yes.”

  “The dinghy is ready, sir,” a sailor called.

  “You’d better hurry,” the captain said as he joined them.

  Elizabeth scurried towards the stairs.


  “Keep him below deck,” Martin shouted, running to where the dinghy was being lowered over the side into the heaving sea. Climbing down the rope ladder, he dropped into it, then caught the canvas bag a sailor tossed over the side.

  Returning from the hold, where she had retrieved the duffel bag, Elizabeth moved as quickly as she dared across the windswept, slippery deck. She made her way to a group of sailors leaning over the side. Seeing the tossing waves, Elizabeth gulped.

  Then her eyes lit on Martin working at the ropes that held the dinghy against the ship. Taking no time to think, she tossed the duffel bag over the side into the small boat. After a moment’s hesitation, she gripped the ropes, slipped over the side, and dangled in the air above the churning sea.

  A shout from those above him raised Martin’s head just as he released the last rope holding the dinghy. Lunging, he grabbed Elizabeth as she fell, saving her from dropping into the sea.

  His action threw both to the bottom of the boat. The dinghy swirled away from the Tigress. The sailors above it scurried to man the guns as Hattern turned the sloop to engage the corvettes.

  Martin angrily swore as he untangled his limbs from Elizabeth’s and put the oars in place. The danger of the moment claimed all his attention as he put his back to them, stroking hard.

  Bright flashes of fire showed the struggle of the four ships. Elizabeth watched them slowly disappear beyond the horizon, then turned to watch the ever nearing land.

  The moment the dinghy touched the beach, Martin leaped out shouting for her to do the same. “Pull,” he ordered, taking hold of the small boat.

  They dragged it from the water and worked it onto the sandy beach. When they were fifty feet from the water’s edge, he stopped pushing and looked about. A hundred feet to one side and a little farther ahead was a sandy outcrop from which the wind had gradually swept the sand forming a half-cave. Martin motioned that they should conceal the dinghy there.

  By the time they manoeuvred it into the hollow below the outcrop, Elizabeth panted for breath and found her hands were rubbed raw. She flinched from the angry look of contempt Martin flashed her as he threw her duffel bag and his own from the boat.

  “Give me that coat. Now find branches—brush of any sort,” he ordered, tossing the jacket into the dinghy.

  Stung by his disdain, Elizabeth began to collect what was to be found washed up on the beach.

  Not a word did they exchange as they worked to cover the boat.

  Finally satisfied with the degree of camouflage, Martin paused to get his bearings. They were to have landed near the Sillon de Talbert with Treguier to the south. Captain Hattern’s expertise could be depended upon to have gotten them close.

  Seeing that dawn was about to break, he knew they must get inland. Drawing a French jacquette from his bag, Martin tossed it to Elizabeth.

  “Cover that English tunic and follow me,” he ordered curtly. Picking up his bag, he kicked hers towards her.

  For the first time Elizabeth noticed that he wore the simple clothing demanded by the revolution, the French culotte and plain shirt. His clothing would be the same as everyone they encountered, she realized as she shrugged into the jacquette and followed him. It did not take long to realize he set a relentless pace.

  If only I had brought my own walking boots, Elizabeth thought as she tramped along determinedly trying to ignore the blisters on her hands and the growing throb in her feet.

  If only you had remained safely at home, her conscience added.

  The thought shamed her anger at the broad-shouldered man who moved ever farther ahead of her.

  Trying to distract herself, Elizabeth began contemplating the rich undulating plain and low-rising hills of Brittany before them. Brush and trees increased steadily as they progressed. The soft tramp of their feet was joined by the song of birds and the lowing of grazing cattle as the sun warmed the air.

  By the end of the second hour Elizabeth was hot, tired, thirsty, and belligerent. Stumbling on the root of a tree, she fell to her knees, began to rise, but collapsed. The growling of her stomach reminded her that she had not eaten since late afternoon of the previous day.

  Sitting, she opened her duffel bag and searched out a hunk of cheese and a loaf of bread. Elizabeth was happily munching away when Martin came back to see what had happened to her.

  “Would you care for some?” she asked as he towered angrily over her.

  Snatching the bread, he fumed, swallowing the words he had meant to say. When he accepted the cheese Elizabeth offered he became aware of her reddened, perspiration-covered face.

  “Hrrummph!” Martin snorted and paced back and forth as he ate. Drawing a flask from the canvas bag on his shoulder, he drank and offered it to her.

  Elizabeth eagerly accepted it. She swallowed two large gulps before she realized what it was.

  “That should bolster you,” Martin grinned, taking the flask from her hand. He watched her splutter and cough from the brandy. “Remember,” he cautioned, “that I did not invite you to come.”

  When she rose stiffly and limped forward, he relented. “There should be a road near here. It will make walking easier.”

  And more dangerous, he added mentally.

  They reached the road after a few minutes and Martin strode on ahead. His pace was undaunted while Elizabeth’s limp became more pronounced.

  The beauty of the surrounding countryside was lost as Elizabeth put all her determination towards following his lead. She bolstered her spirits with the thought that her brother’s plight was far worse.

  Running steps brought Elizabeth’s eyes up from the ground. She halted and watched in questioning wonder as Martin sprinted towards her, not slowing as he approached.

  He hit her with his full weight, hurling them both from the road and down an incline. Rolling over and over, they ended beneath a screen of weeds and bramble. Her breath was knocked from Elizabeth in the fall and prevented any protest. Before she could recover her voice, Martin clamped his hand tightly across her mouth while he pinned her to the ground with his body.

  Diverse questions careened through Elizabeth’s mind as she thought to understand his sudden madness. The steady tramp of many feet sounded first in the distance, and then came ever closer. Small clouds of dust slowly drifted where they lay hidden as a regiment of French regulars marched past and the baggage train following them.

  Martin removed his hand from Elizabeth’s mouth as soon as he saw that she understood. When the sounds of the baggage carts faded, he eased from off her until only his arm lay across her chest.

  Swallowing hard at the beat of his pulse Elizabeth whispered, “Would it not be safe to go on now?”

  “We had better move on,” Elizabeth said as she tried to raise her hand to remove his arm. Martin turned his head to gaze at her and she saw desire flicker in his eyes. Suddenly afraid she protested as he drew closer. “No. Don’t...”

  Martin silenced her with his lips. He savaged hers, crushing her to his taut body.

  The intensity of his emotion overwhelmed Elizabeth. An answering response rose in the depths of her being. It pressed her to surrender to the demands of his lips. On the verge of yielding, a vision of Cavilon exploded in Elizabeth’s mind. She erupted into a writhing mass, hitting and clawing at Martin.

  He released her as if struck by shot and watched her scramble frantically from him, sobs breaking loose when she reached the road.

  “Oh, God,” he swore, then rose and followed. Reaching the road, he saw Elizabeth a little way ahead, trying to compose herself.

  That she could not escape the man had come to Elizabeth as soon as the worst of her panic had passed. She was at his mercy in a strange and hostile land. The price of her brother’s freedom suddenly became very dear as she awaited him.

  “That will not happen again,” Martin said, no regret on his impassive face. “We must reach Treguier by nightfall and there are several miles yet to be gone.” He motioned for her to walk on.

  “
I’ll get them,” he told her when she began to walk back to find their bags. “Go.”

  Turning, Elizabeth walked as briskly as she could. Her tiredness, the aches and pains of her protesting body were forgotten in the clamour of her thoughts, in the confusion of her heart.

  Chapter Twenty

  Darkness had fallen by the time Martin and Elizabeth saw the village of Treguier before them. Each step had become a self-willed process for Elizabeth through the endless day. She did not protest when Martin told her to hide beneath some low shrubs while he went ahead and found lodging.

  Returning an hour later, he found her fast asleep. “Ma petite,” he murmured and gently picked her up. The comte smiled tiredly as he shifted her weight in his arms.

  “Mayhaps I have named you wrongly,” he quipped, unable to resist the tease, even though she could not hear it. His long strides brought them to a small, neat cottage at the end of a lane on the outskirts of the town. He hurriedly looked about, knocked, and slipped in when it opened.

  “This is the one you spoke of?” the handsome woman asked in surprise as she followed Martin up the stairs. Tapping at the door with his boot, he glanced up the stairs to a bedchamber.

  “Your tastes have changed, mon cher.”

  Martin frowned at the woman. “It is not as you think, Marie-Thèrése. I have explained.” He deposited Elizabeth on the bed.

  “Ah, oui,” she agreed sceptically. The gentleness with which he removed the sleeping figure’s boots reinforced her belief otherwise. “What ever happened to her?” she asked looking at Elizabeth’s dirt-stained face and clothing.

  Martin ignored her words, took her arm, and guided her into the corridor outside the bedchamber. “Let her sleep as long as possible. When she awakens, tell her I have gone to learn what I can of her brother and will return as soon as possible. Do not let her go out or be seen by anyone,” he cautioned.

  “I am suddenly become the fool?” Marie-Thèrése laughed gently. “You had best turn your mind to what you must do or you shall not return,” she warned.

  “You know what to do if that should happen?”