The footsteps resumed, passing on and down the street. When he judged the cultists were far enough away he raised his head.
With Loretta, he looked, but the cultists were disappearing into the fog. Seconds later they were screened from sight.
He exhaled, stepped back, grabbed her hand, wound her arm in his and started strolling once more. “We need to get off the streets. The longer we’re out here, the fewer other couples there are around and the more we stand out and attract their attention.”
After a moment, she leaned in; her warm breath brushed his throat as she murmured, “The area near the dock we came in on—didn’t Julius say that was the wool merchants’ quarter?”
He nodded. “Lots of wool gets shipped in and out of Rotterdam.”
“So there must be wool warehouses.” When he glanced at her, she smiled meaningfully. “If we seek shelter in one, at least we should stay warm.”
Finding a wool warehouse took another fifteen minutes, but the search took them away from the area the cultists were patrolling—a very good thing. It didn’t take much effort to open the warehouse door; alongside more conventional lessons, Rafe had learned to pick locks at Eton.
Loretta, however, was impressed.
While he prowled the warehouse checking for other doors, she plundered open bales, constructing a fluffy pallet on which to rest, then pilfered yet more fleeces to fashion a heavy blanket beneath which they could stretch.
Eventually sliding between the sheets she’d made of their cloaks, he gave very real thanks that she was a resourceful and understanding woman.
She snuggled close. He raised his arm and drew her closer so she could rest her head on his shoulder. She did, then with a sigh relaxed against him.
After a moment, she raised her head, kissed his jaw, then settled down again. “Just promise me one thing.”
He glanced down at her. “What?”
“That you’ll wake me in an hour or so, so I can keep watch and you can get some sleep.”
He stared at her.
When he didn’t reply, she gave a little snort. “Yes, I worked it out. We can’t both sleep just in case the cultists somehow find us. One of us needs to be awake at all times.” Shifting her head, she looked up at him through the shadows. “I trust you to keep watch over me while I sleep. It’s only fair that you do the reverse—and you need to sleep. God knows what we might face tomorrow, and you even more than me will need your wits about you.”
She held his gaze. “So promise me that—that you’ll wake me in an hour or so and let me keep watch while you sleep.”
Resourceful, understanding—and far too intelligent. Trapped in her gaze … he could do nothing but nod. “All right. I promise I’ll wake you.”
Her smile was worth the small capitulation; radiant, it warmed him. “Good.” She patted his chest, settled her head down once more, spreading her hand comfortingly over his heart. He felt her smile, heard her soft, “Good night.”
He smiled too, reluctant, yet … he pressed a kiss to her hair, then, one arm bent behind his head, he looked up at the ceiling and settled to wait out his watch.
Loretta shook him in the darkness before dawn.
He came instantly awake, felt her lips at his ear as she whispered, “I heard someone go past whistling. They didn’t stop here, but I suspect we’d better be on our way.”
He nodded, reluctantly threw back the wonderfully warm covers. They rose, quickly bundled themselves back into their cloaks, then put back the fleeces as they’d found them, and crept out of the warehouse.
They headed for the docks—the same trade docks they’d come in at. Fishermen and navvies were up with the dawn, and the taverns near the docks were open and ready to provide hearty breakfasts.
Rafe chose a tavern a trifle more refined than the rest, and after a quick reconnoiter, risked hiring a room and requesting hot water so they could wash and use the facilities. When they came downstairs, a substantial breakfast was ready and waiting in the tiny parlor.
They ate, and felt much better.
But the instant they were back on the streets, they saw cultists.
“Is it just my imagination,” Loretta asked, as they emerged from yet another runnel down which they’d ducked to avoid closer inspection, “or are there more of them? Even more than yesterday?”
“There are more.” Grimly, Rafe took her arm. He didn’t add that some they’d seen that morning had been cult assassins; their appearance signified a significant deterioration in his and Loretta’s situation. “We need to find shelter—somewhere we can see out the day in reasonable safety.” Complete safety was something he couldn’t even imagine.
But finding such a place …
“You said the cultists aren’t Christian.” Loretta glanced at him. “Would they be likely to search in a church?”
When he looked at her, she pointed … to a small stone church wedged between two other buildings.
He raised his brows. “It’s worth a try.” He glanced carefully around. “No cultists in sight. Let’s see if the door’s open.”
It was. They spent the day in the rear pews of the old church, surrounded by the warmth of old wood, the chill of stone, and the musty smell of old prayer books and kneelers. The church remained quiet, its ancient silence undisturbed; they took turns napping, stretching out along the pew, head in the other’s lap.
They left the church as the last of the daylight faded, and the smothering fog grew thick once more. By a circuitous route they returned to the tavern where they’d arranged to meet Johnson, backtracking frequently to ensure no one was following, then circling the tavern until Rafe was convinced that Johnson hadn’t in any way—intentionally or unwittingly—betrayed them.
“No cultists watching,” he finally declared. “Let’s go in.”
They claimed the same table they’d occupied the previous night. The same serving girl brought them the same food.
Unappetizing though the heavy mutton pie was, Loretta forced it down. She would need energy for whatever was to come; the last thing she needed was to faint from hunger at some critical moment.
Rafe seemed much less sensitive to the fare’s shortcomings. He broke the coarse pastry, scooped up the filling and steadily ate.
Loretta poked at a piece of something unidentifiable coated in thick gravy. “I expect you’ve had much worse rations than this in your years of fighting.”
Rafe swallowed, considered the pie in front of him, then raised his eyes to hers. “Much worse.”
“So what was the worst?” If she could keep him talking, she might be able to get the pie down without thinking too much about it.
His smile suggested he understood; he obliged, regaling her with descriptions of dishes that rendered the unpalatable pie, in comparison, delicious.
She managed to adequately clean her plate. He’d ordered watered ale for her; she sipped, grateful to be able to replace the taste of stewed mutton with the less objectionable taste of hops.
The dinner hour was long past and the tavern had grown crowded again when Johnson arrived. He saw them, nodded their way, ordered ale for himself and the younger man by his elbow, then, mugs in hand, they made their way to Rafe and Loretta’s table. With respectful nods, they drew up stools and sat.
“This is my son, Ned.” Johnson tipped his head toward the younger man. “He’ll get you to Felixstowe and those heathens be damned.”
Ned looked thoroughly delighted; Rafe inwardly sighed. He was getting too old to watch over wet-behind-the-ears youngsters. The last one he’d schooled had been … James.
The thought sobered him. He leaned on the table, caught Ned’s eyes. “Make no mistake. They may appear to be lightweights, but they wield knives like devils. They’re dangerous—it would be a mistake to think otherwise.”
Ned’s grin faded a trifle, but he nodded, still eager. “We saw a few of them on the way here. There are so many Indians and such like on the docks, I thought nothing of them until Da pointed o
ut the black scarves.”
Rafe nodded. Glanced at Johnson. “As long as you know the enemy, and respect what they’re capable of.”
Johnson grinned. “He’s steady enough behind the wheel, never fear.” He clapped his son proudly on the shoulder. “So—I’ve checked the tides and we’ll be able to get you off in the wee hours.” He glanced at the room, at the many sailors surrounding them. “I’m thinking it would be best to remain here until closing time at midnight, then we can head straight to the dock.”
Still grinning, Ned bobbed his head. “I’ve left orders to have the boat ready to set out the instant we have the tide.”
Rafe glanced at Loretta. He and she were one step away from Felixstowe and the safety of his waiting guards. He had little doubt that once they made contact with Wolverstone’s men, whatever happened, they would prevail.
Turning back to Johnson and Ned, he nodded. “You’ve planned well.” He raised his mug to them both. “We’re in your hands.”
They all drank, then a commotion at the bar had the other two men turning. Rafe saw it was only two sailors arm wrestling, and turned his attention to Loretta.
Meeting her eyes, seeing hope building, still banked but there, beneath the table he found her hand, squeezed, leaned closer to murmur, “I hope Hassan and Rose have been equally fortunate in finding passage to Harwich.”
She squeezed back. “Who knows? Depending on who they found to take them, they might already be there.”
Lifting her hand, he raised it to his lips, briefly kissed. “We can hope.” He wasn’t just talking about Rose and Hassan.
She knew. She smiled. “Yes, we can.”
Seventeen
Johnson’s boat, a good-sized fishing trawler, went by the moniker the Molly Ann.
They boarded her in the coldest, blackest hour of the night, just after the town’s bells had tolled one o’clock. The fog had thinned somewhat, enough to see the black water of the river rippling beneath the gangplank.
After leading them aboard, Ned introduced his crew, all of whom were more his age than his father’s. Johnson clapped Ned on the back, recommended the crew to be on guard, then, with gruff wishes for Rafe’s and Loretta’s safety and the successful completion of Rafe’s mission, he left.
Ned conducted Rafe and Loretta to the prow, where a triangular section of planking designed to mount a forward anchor stretched from rail to rail, creating a small open compartment underneath. “This is probably the best place for you both. You can see me at the wheel"—Ned turned to point—"but you’ll be out of sight of any other boat, and out of the wind and spray, too.”
A young sailor rushed up with an armful of cushions. He bent and stuffed them into the space, quickly patting them down. Straightening, he blushed. “It’s a fair ways to the other side—you’ll be cramped enough as it is.”
Loretta smiled and thanked him, which made him blush even more, then she inclined her head graciously to Ned, and sank down, then wriggled back under the overhang.
Rafe thanked Ned, then joined her.
Seeing them both stowed, Ned grinned, saluted, and walked off to oversee his craft.
Rafe smiled to himself, caught Loretta’s questioning look. “The enthusiasm of youth.”
She gripped his arm, lightly stroked over the spot where the bandage still covered his wound. She’d yet to miss a day of her ministrations. Rafe closed his hand over hers, then settled to watch the crew at work.
They upped anchor and slipped away from the dock as the bells tolled two o’clock. Ned guided the boat between the others anchored in the basin; they passed many other medium-sized fishing vessels readying for sailing, but none had yet got underway.
The Molly Ann was the first vessel into the main channel; under sail, with the night inky black about them, her running lamps reflecting off the dark water, she rode the river out toward the sea.
Beside Loretta, Rafe stirred restlessly. She glanced at him. He was sitting with his arms about his knees, but glancing out and about; she sensed his frustration that he couldn’t see what was around them and therefore couldn’t adequately guard against danger.
She faced forward. “Once we meet with our guards, what then? Do you have any idea where they’ll take us, or when?”
He frowned. “I assume … I’m certain that eventually they’ll escort us to wherever Wolverstone is waiting, but I don’t know where that is, or when we’ll go there.” He settled, considering. “As I’m carrying the vital document, I would think they’ll want to get us to Wolverstone immediately, but with the other three possibly close by, too, there may be a need for delay. In which case they’ll have to have somewhere to hide us, somewhere highly defendable against cult attack.” He paused, then grimaced. “The truth is, once we meet with our guards, our immediate future will be in their hands.”
“What about once you hand the document to Wolverstone?”
“That’s … even harder to predict. It may take some time for him to focus the necessary attention on Ferrar.”
“So what will you do while you’re waiting? It’s nearly Christmas, so assuming you get your letter to Wolverstone in the next few days, what then?” She looked at him, met his eyes.
He held her gaze for a moment, then, lips twisting, looked ahead. “As I mentioned, I haven’t told my family that I’m returning. Given the risks of the journey, it seemed wiser to wait until I reached England safely, and my mission was complete. Time enough then to let them know I’d returned. So they’re not expecting me for Christmas.” He glanced at her. “What about you?”
She smiled. “My family’s been expecting me and Esme to return this past month, but they know what she’s like, so won’t be surprised if we don’t appear. A letter to my brother and sisters to let them know Esme and I are safe, and where we are, and that due to a vital patriotic mission involving the Duke of Wolverstone I’ve been delayed but will be home shortly, will serve to allay all concern. Indeed"—she widened her eyes—"a letter like that will cause boundless curiosity.”
He reached over and took one of her hands, drew it across to cradle between his. “So what will you do for Christmas?”
She met his gaze, softly smiled. “I’d thought to spend it with you. If you’d like me to.”
“I’d like you to.” He raised her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “This Christmas, and the next, and all the Christmasses to follow, I’d like you to spend them with me, by my side.”
“Well, then.” She leaned her shoulder against his. “We have that to look forward to.”
They didn’t say more, but sat in companionable silence thinking—she hoped—of their shared future, planning, imagining … rather than dwelling on what dangers and threats currently lay between them and all they desired.
They saw the beam of a lighthouse, felt the ocean swell lift the hull, and knew they’d left the Continent and had started across the Channel itself.
From their position in the prow, they saw various of the crew draw Ned’s attention to something some way off the starboard side.
Leaving the wheel to his first mate, Ned picked up a spyglass, looked, but then shrugged, spoke with his men, and returned to retake the wheel.
Sometime later, when the boat was steadily forging through the waves and dawn was a pale glimmer on the eastern horizon, Ned came walking to the prow. Spyglass in hand, he halted by their hiding place.
“Just as well you stayed out of sight.” He kept his gaze up as if scanning the waves, but tipped his head toward starboard. “There were Indians with black head scarves on a flotilla of boats keeping watch on all the vessels coming out of the river mouth, and those leaving from up the coast, too. Howsoever, they didn’t give us, or any of the other fishing boats, more than a cursory look. Scanned our decks, but didn’t bother coming closer. They concentrated on the passenger boats, the ferries, and the private launches. Saw them come right up alongside one, hanging over their rails and looking at all the passengers.”
Rafe e
xchanged a glance with Loretta, then looked back at Ned. “Are they keeping pace, or have they stayed by the coast?”
“They stayed—they’re still searching. They’re far behind us now, but some of those boats are fast, so it might be best if you stayed out of sight.”
“We will.” Rafe grimaced at the thought, but there was no alternative.
Ned all but imperceptibly nodded. “At least the winds are better than I’d hoped for—we’re going at a good clip, faster than I expected. At this rate we should be in Felixstowe by late afternoon.”
“Excellent.” Rafe watched as Ned turned and made his way back to the wheel, then looked at Loretta, met her blue eyes. Arched his brows. “Looks like our luck’s still holding.”
Daylight was waning toward a slatey-gray dusk and the breeze had whipped up to a stiff cold wind carrying the promise of ice and sleet when Ned left the wheel and, spyglass in hand, came striding toward the prow. As he neared, Rafe saw the concern in his face, the worry in his eyes.
Sensed that their luck had run out.
Ned halted by the prow, head up, brought the spyglass to bear as if he were searching ahead.
“What is it?” Loretta asked.
Ned spoke without looking down. “There’s a line of ships—trawlers, yachts, even frigates—between us and the coast. Looks like some sort of blockade.” He paused, then went on, “There are men on board all the boats—not just crew. Some are English ruffians of one stripe or another, but others are foreigners, Indian-looking with turbans and black scarves like before. The sailors are manning the ships, but the other men are giving the orders. They’re stopping and searching all boats from the Continent looking to put in along this stretch.”
“They’re physically searching the boats?” Rafe asked.
“Yes. And we’re not fast enough to outrun them.”
Rafe swore. Stretching out his legs, he started massaging the cramped muscles. “How close are we to England?”
“Close,” Ned said. “Even without a glass you can see the line of the land, the spume of the breakers.”
“How far are we from the nearest enemy ship?”
The Reckless Bride Page 34