“About a nautical mile.”
Rafe frowned. “Where exactly are we in relation to the coast? ”
“Wait there.” Ned turned away. “I’ll fetch a map.”
By the time he returned and, crouching, spread a map on the deck in front of their hiding place, Rafe was itching to stand.
“We’re here.” Ned glanced over the gunwale, then pointed again. “The nearest ship, the one waiting to intercept us, is here.”
To Loretta’s surprise, Rafe glanced only briefly at the map, then he looked up, studied the sky, then looked at Ned. “In these conditions, can you swing to the southeast?”
Ned nodded, frowned. “But they’ll follow, and there’s nowhere we can put you ashore until Walton-on-the-Naze, and they’ll come up with us long before then.”
“We’re not going that far.” Rafe stretched up, peeked over the gunwale at the ship ahead of them, then sat back and focused on the map. “You need to take this course.” He traced a path on the map. “Let them think you’re running south to Walton, but as you pass the mouth of Hamford Water, if you slip us over the side in the clinker, I’ll row in. Once we’re closer to shore, the breakers will catch us—with the tide running our way, we’ll get in easily enough. Meanwhile, you and your crew sail on and away. The boat following will follow us, not you—either go on to Walton or back out to sea, whichever you think is safest.” Rafe handed over a purse, the rest of the agreed fee and a sizeable tip, then glanced again at the vessel lying in wait ahead. “If they try to follow the clinker in, they’ll run aground, so the best they’ll be able to do will be to send a rowboat after us.”
“But …” Ned’s concern was back in full measure. He glanced at Loretta, then back at Rafe. “Hamford Water’s all marshes. Once you get through the mouth and behind the Naze, it’s hard to find your way.”
“Unless you had a bird-watching uncle who used to haul you all around Hamford Water every summer for years.” Rafe glanced at Loretta; the look on his face, in his eyes, reminded her that his nickname was Reckless. He grinned. “I never thought I’d be so grateful to Uncle Waldo, but"— he looked back at Ned—"night or day, I can find my way through there.”
Ned hesitated, but then agreed to the plan.
Loretta didn’t argue. One glance over the gunwale at the vessel drawing ever nearer—at the black-scarf-bedecked figures on its deck—and she was ready to quit Ned’s boat whenever Rafe gave the word.
The next minutes went in brisk preparations as the clinker, suspended over the water at the ship’s stern, was brought aboard and readied for launch over the ship’s starboard side.
Loretta was touched by the sincerity of the crew, who paused by their hidey hole to bob their farewells and wish them luck.
Then Ned, who had retreated to the wheel and was watching the nearing vessel closely, called out a warning, and swung the wheel to the left.
The Molly Ann’s prow swung across the waves. The sail swung, was adjusted by ready hands, then swelled, puffed taut, and they started to run.
“Come on.” Rafe took Loretta’s hand and eased out of their cramped quarters. “We need to get ready to go over the side.”
Dusk was deepening toward night when Rafe dropped from the boat’s rail into the clinker, bouncing, suspended over the rushing waves.
Gripping the side of the smaller boat, he steadied, then, planting his feet wide, rose and reached up as the crew passed his satchel and Loretta’s embroidery bag down. He stowed both beneath the crossbench, then, bracing his booted calves against the edge of the bench, reached for Loretta.
It was dangerous to attempt such a maneuver while the boat was running under full sail, bouncing every time it hit a wave crest, but they had no choice. Far better face this danger than the cultists in the boat swiftly following in their wake.
Rafe held his arms up, out, watched Loretta being lifted over the boat rail by one of the crew. The man held her until she got her feet on the deck’s outer lip, held her until she gripped the rail … then he let her go. She held there for a moment, then lifted her eyes to Rafe’s.
“Come on, sweetheart. I’ll catch you.”
She leaned forward, and let herself drop. Rafe caught her, wobbled, but managed to slowly ease her down. He heard her exhalation of relief when, her feet finally on the boards, she slid from his grasp and dropped onto the rear bench.
He quickly sat facing her, checking the oars, then looking around. Ahead. Through the deepening gloom, he could see the spray where the waves were breaking against the shore, but then came a relatively sprayless section—the opening of Hamford Water—then the spray gushed up once more from the waves breaking on the southern promontory’s shore.
He looked up. The first mate was standing by the rail, squinting in the same direction. Then the man called to Ned. Immediately, the boat’s speed slackened, then rapidly fell away as the main sail was loosened off.
Rafe glanced back at the pursuing boat. Earlier he’d used the spyglass to check, and almost wished he hadn’t. The boat didn’t carry just cultists, but assassins as well. They would definitely give chase.
At the moment, however, Ned and his crew had run hard enough to give him and Loretta a reasonable chance to make it into the marshes. After that, Rafe would have to rely on his wits to elude their deadly pursuers.
The boat slowed, and slowed.
Finally, the first mate gave the order and the crew waiting on the winches bent to their task. “Hold on!” Rafe warned Loretta. She grabbed the clinker’s sides with a white-knuckled grip as it jerkily fell, bit by bit, until with a splash they were in the water.
With quick flicks, the sailors released the ropes.
With one oar, Rafe pushed away from the boat’s side, then raised a hand in salute. “Thank you! Now go!”
Grabbing the oars, he bent and put his back into forcing the rowboat through the rolling swell. Once the clinker gained a little momentum and slid out of the boat’s wave-shadow, the waves caught it and pushed it on.
They heard a “Good luck!” come over the water. Loretta twisted around and raised her hand in farewell.
Then the main sail on the boat filled again, and it drew away, steadily gaining speed.
Loretta turned the other way and peered back through the deepening twilight. “The other boat is coming on, but I think it’s slowing.”
Rafe glanced up from his task, confirmed it. “I need you to watch the shore and guide me, so I can row without looking around.”
Loretta instantly faced forward, peering past him at the shore.
“Can you see the tower to your left?”
“Yes. A tall round tower?”
“That’s the Naze Tower. We need to keep it on our left, and aim for the space further to its right where the water runs differently—flatter because it’s rolling in and there’s no shore for it to break against. Can you make that out?”
“Yes.” Her voice grew stronger. “I can see it. At the moment, it’s almost directly behind you.”
“Good. The waves are going to push me off course a little—tell me which way to correct to keep heading for that spot.”
He put his back into rowing while she kept her gaze trained on the shore, every now and then directing him a little to the right to keep on course.
Because she was facing the shore and was so absorbed, she didn’t see the boat that had been pursuing them—a small frigate—draw nearer and nearer, but then veer to the south, slow, and come to a halt, bobbing on the waves. Clearly a local captain who knew of the shoals and tricky shallows at the mouth of the marsh.
As he rowed, Rafe prayed that the captain, knowing of the marsh, would convince the cultists that there was no point pursuing them … but that was one prayer that went unanswered. Through the increasing spume as they neared the shore, he saw two rowboats lowered over the frigate’s side—with two cultists as oarsmen in each, and an assassin in each prow.
Mentally cursing, he redoubled his efforts.
Loretta
signaled for another correction, and he leaned back, hauling the oars through the waves—felt the give, the sudden easing of resistance as they slipped past the line where the surf met the calmer waters of the marsh.
The crest of a last wave caught the hull, lifted it and sent it sliding between the low headlands.
Rafe looked around, desperately locating landmarks, even more desperately making his next plans.
The deeper they went into the marsh, the darker the night became. The dense blackness as yet unbroken by any moonlight or even a glimmer of phosphorescence worked to their advantage. To Rafe’s relief, memories washed through him with the ease of old friends, and guided him. All he needed was the lay of the surrounding land to have a reasonable notion of where he was; silhouetted against the stars, shapes triggered recollections, even in the otherwise pervasive dark.
His senses remembered the different sounds of the water as it slid, softly sibilant, beneath the hull, told him whether he was in a deeper channel, or had strayed too close to a marshy hillock. He used the oars to check depth, then push them on.
Although in this area the advantage of terrain was his, the instant he’d seen the assassins in the rowboats, he’d jettisoned any thought of trying to eliminate their pursuers. Four cultists, and he would probably have made the attempt, but six in all, with two being assassins … it would have been too risky even if he hadn’t had Loretta with him.
So stealth and guile had to be his weapons. He had to use both to gain as much of a lead over their pursuers as he could, enough to allow them to escape.
God only knew what waited for them ahead, but he’d deal with one problem at a time. Luckily, after deserting them for several hours, luck had again swung their way. The wind had picked up, whistling through the reedy grasses, the eerie sound masking the dip and drip of his oars.
Since slipping into the marsh, neither Loretta nor he had spoken. When she’d glanced his way, he’d caught her eye and signaled her to silence. Sounds carried all too well over water, wind or not. She’d swung around on the stern bench and kept watch, peering back over the marsh behind them.
He rowed as fast as he dared, which in these conditions wasn’t that fast. He paused constantly to check the landmarks he recalled, to make sure he was where he thought he was, in the channel he thought he was. The last thing he needed was to run the clinker aground on some spit, and have to splash about refloating the boat.
From the cries and curses that reached them on the wind, at least one of the pursuing boats had either accidentally or on purpose made landfall, only to discover that there was precious little firm footing. It was easy in the dark to mistake the squelchy marsh islands peppering the channels for true land.
Rafe doggedly followed the course in his head, one drawn from his long-ago memories. Grim, tense, he prayed the channels and islands hadn’t changed too much in the decade and a half since he’d last seen them.
His relief when he came upon the outlet of the stream more or less where he’d thought it would be was acute. He swung the prow of the clinker into it, then, bending forward, rowed harder, pushing the small boat upstream.
Gradually, the banks of the stream closed around them.
Loretta allowed herself to breathe a touch easier. The banks were now high enough to conceal them, and the stream wound along, quickly hiding them from any pursuers. It was like traveling along an open tunnel cut through the land. Gradually she realized the stream was growing shallower, and shallower. She wondered where Rafe was taking them, but even now didn’t want to risk a question. Although they’d evaded their pursuers, they couldn’t be far away.
Then they rounded another bend and a jetty loomed ahead, a denser black against the night sky.
She looked at Rafe, pointed. He glanced over his shoulder, then nodded. He changed course, and made for the jetty.
Expertly he turned the boat, and it slid slowly, silently, into the jetty’s shadow. Just beyond, the ground rose, and further back yet, a thatched roof was discernible against the sky. After shipping the oars, he stood, gripped the slatted ladder fixed to the jetty’s side, signaled her to silence again, then waved her up. She rose; he helped her to her feet, then held the boat steady as she climbed.
Stepping onto the jetty, she turned, and took her bag and his satchel as he passed them up. Instantly felt the weight in the satchel. He was wearing his scabbarded saber, and was carrying pistols and shot; nothing else could be that heavy.
He swiftly climbed the ladder, then reclaimed the satchel. After scanning the area, he passed the satchel’s strap over his head and one shoulder, then crouched to tie up the clinker.
Loretta looked up at the sky. The moon had finally risen, but was screened by scudding clouds. Only faint light seeped through.
Rafe rose, caught her in a quick, reassuring hug, then he released her, grasped her hand, and started walking quickly up the grassy bank, away from the stream.
Before them lay a small hamlet—a few houses behind hedges, a small village inn with a shop beside it. She read the script above the inn door. The Beaumont Arms.
Rafe strode on, past the inn and on down a lane. More cottages lined it, scattered here and there. Lights glowed behind the curtains in some of the windows.
Loretta tugged at Rafe’s hand. When he looked inquiringly her way, she pointed at the nearest cottage.
He looked, but shook his head. Leaned near to whisper, “It’s too close to the stream and the rowboat.” He looked ahead, along the lane, then turned back to add, still speaking low, “I know a place we can hide.”
As if she needed convincing, from a distance a curse reached them, borne on the shifting wind.
She nodded, tightened her grip on his hand, and beside him walked quickly on into the night.
Rafe led Loretta to Stones Green, an even smaller hamlet a mile further north from the jetty at Beaumont. Although they’d started off in a lane, he’d soon climbed a stile and set off across the fields, before joining another lane.
They crested a rise, and, descending, saw the first cottages ahead, but before they reached the first, he turned sharp left down a track so narrow it would be near impassable in even the smallest gig. Thorny hedges almost met over his head.
He hoped the shortcut he’d taken would buy them enough time.
He was hoping even harder, indeed, praying, that his Uncle Waldo hadn’t died while he’d been overseas. He walked swiftly to where a massive fir loomed dark and dense by the side of the track. Ducking under the thick branches that drooped nearly to the ground, he drew Loretta into the tiny porch of the cottage tucked into the lee of the tree.
Crouching, he slid his fingers behind the ivy that draped the cottage’s walls and into the crevice at the corner of the porch. Relief washed over him as he touched metal. Drawing out the key, he fitted it into the heavy lock, turned the key, and opened the door.
Loretta stared at him. He waved her in, then followed her over the threshold. She halted immediately. The room inside, the parlor, lay in absolute darkness. Setting a hand to her back, he urged her a foot further inside, then quietly closed the door and locked it.
Turning back to the room, to Loretta, a denser shadow ahead of him, he murmured, “Wait here. I’ll open the curtains over the opposite windows—that should let in some light.”
Not much, but enough for them, with their eyes already adjusted to the night, to see well enough to avoid the furniture.
He crossed the room without knocking over anything, pulled aside the curtains, then turned. In the increased illumination, he saw Loretta looking around her.
“A lamp?” She glanced at him.
He waved at the sideboard, but said, “Not yet.”
She froze. “Are they still following us?”
“I don’t know, but I don’t want to take any chances.” He pointed to the stairs leading up. “There’s a bedroom above—we can watch the lane from there.”
She nodded. Clutching her bag, she waited until he came to lead the wa
y, then followed him up the stairs.
The bedroom was as he remembered it. “This is my uncle Waldo’s hideaway—he’s an avid birdwatcher, and this is where he stays when he comes to study the birdlife on the marshes.”
The stairwell had been lit by a small landing window, but the bedroom lay in darkness. Loretta waited in the doorway until Rafe drew aside the curtains covering the windows facing toward the lane. Enough light seeped in for her to see the big bed against one wall. She set down her bag on the bed’s end and went to join Rafe as he stood looking out of the window.
Might they see us? The words were on her tongue, but as she neared the window, she realized there was little danger of that. The heavy branches of the fir draped across the window; although they could peer past the needlelike leaves, she doubted anyone glancing that way would see them.
As if he’d read her mind, Rafe murmured, “You can’t see the cottage from the main lane—the tree covers it.”
His breath warmed her ear. She reached for his hand, gripped it, and stared back at the rise where the lane into the hamlet was clearly visible.
Five minutes passed uneventfully, then Rafe leaned close to murmur, “Why don’t you lie down on the bed and rest?” When she glanced at him, he continued, “I’ll keep watch for a while, then join you.”
She hesitated, but now they’d stopped moving, tiredness dragged at her. She nodded. “All right, but tell me if you see anything.”
Rafe squeezed her hand, then released it. He kept his gaze trained on the exposed stretch of lane. He heard the bed creak, then heard her sigh.
Swiftly, he glanced at her, saw her lying on her side, her hand beneath her cheek, her eyes closed, her cloak gathered around her, then looked back at the lane.
It was too dark to read the face of his fob watch. By his best guess, close to half an hour had passed when two men came over the rise, almost running down the lane. Seeing the hamlet before them, they slowed, taking stock, then they moved quickly on, jogging past the opening of the track and on toward the visible houses.
At no point did either man glance toward Waldo’s hideaway.
The Reckless Bride Page 35