He took her hands, held them between his big ones. “You are so strong, Virginia. I don’t want to leech that from you. When I thought about a wife, I did not expect to find everything I’ve found in you. I don’t want you ever to be less than you are, less than you were when I first kissed you.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, and she had to swallow to get rid of them. “You should not say that. You might get a reputation as a henpecked husband.”
He didn’t speak at first, not until she realized what she’d said. Husband. But what else could she do? “You?” She forced a shaky laugh. “Nobody would ever think that of you.”
“I sense that losing your independence makes you uneasy. I will do everything I can to make sure you have everything you always had, and more.”
* * * *
Francis did not sleep. After making love to Virginia and feeling guilty about it because she was so tired, he tucked her by his side and watched her sleep. They had gone to bed naked, and remained so, but he’d made sure clothes were laid ready for them.
He hadn’t yet told her he loved her, only showed her.
This house made him edgy. The caretakers had still not arrived. Where were they? There could be an innocuous reason, but they should not have left the house unsecured. This place was much better cared for than he’d expected, especially after Virginia told him that she had never visited.
How would Combe Manor compare to the other orphanages she had set up over the last four years? Eight, was it? Two a year since Ralph had died. Dulverton had left her a list of the houses he wanted to become orphanages. How had he selected them?
Francis had stationed Hurst and Butler in rooms either side of them, at each end of the corridor, effectively bracketing them and making Virginia as secure as possible. They were all armed, with the pistols they’d brought with them and with six more Hurst had found in the house. This was the most vulnerable they had been, stuck in this isolated place, but he didn’t know if Virginia knew it.
Profoundly grateful that she had not realized their peril, he let her sleep. He would stay awake all night and insist they leave in the morning. At first light, if necessary. Something was wrong here; he just knew it. Felt it deep in his bones.
He’d already instructed Hurst to go to the village and hire horses to pull the gig they’d found at the back of the house. That would take them to Newton Abbott. Then, by God, Virginia would travel in style. With outriders, and she would stay protected until they tracked Jamie Dulverton down and made him pay for his attacks on her.
He stood to gain much by Virginia’s death, or her marriage. That part puzzled him, but Virginia had told him that Jamie didn’t know the property would go to him, and not Francis, on her marriage. Her lawyer had not informed him. Jamie probably assumed he would lose all the wealth he should have inherited. That would give him cause to kill Virginia or warn off potential suitors.
Francis took some pleasure planning what he would do to Dulverton and to Virginia’s perfidious servants, including the devious lady’s maid. Better than sleeping.
He glanced out of the window, having chosen to leave the shutters open in this room. The overcast night showed a star or two, but little else, since this was the dark of the moon.
A floorboard creaked. Every hair on his body stood on end. Lying perfectly still, he waited. Perhaps Butler or Hurst had forgotten something.
But no. That was a booted footstep.
Another creak, nearer to his room. And then a shout, which made him sit bolt upright and clamp a hand over Virginia’s mouth. He brought his lips close to her ear. “Quiet, for God’s sake.”
That shout did not sound like Hurst or Butler. And the responding shout, which came from downstairs, sounded like neither of them, either.
“Sir!”
“Yes?”
“Somebody’s been in here.”
A raucous laugh exploded outside their room. Francis reached for the loaded pistol on the nightstand. The small grating sound as he lifted it clear made him wince. Virginia, now fully awake, lay next to him, perfectly still.
They listened.
“Go through the rooms.”
Damn.
He did not recognize the two voices, but that didn’t mean Dulverton wasn’t nearby.
Perhaps this was the real reason for the attempts on his life.
On the sea, a ship floated into view. A two-masted brigantine, sails out, barely noticeable in the dark of the moonless night.
At the end of the corridor, nearest to the stairs, someone opened the door, the latch rattling against the wood. Francis caught his breath. Motioning to Virginia, he rolled out of bed, hissing softly between his teeth when the sheets rustled as he drew them back.
Why hadn’t he memorized which boards creaked the most?
Virginia did the same, sat on the edge of the bed.
“Nobody,” a male voice said.
Another door, nearer, was opened. A shout went up. “Somebody’s been in ’ere!”
Footsteps, more than two pairs of feet, ran past their room. Covered by the noise, Francis took the two steps to the chair and picked up his breeches, then tossed Virginia’s shift and petticoat to her.
Then he picked up the second pistol, the one he’d left in the pocket of his coat. The spot he stood on did not creak, so he pulled on his breeches. He needed the pockets. And the knife in his pocket.
The noise from the room where Butler had been sleeping increased, wordless shouts of alarm. The sound of men talking came closer. Virginia had thrown her shift over her head, but she hadn’t yet pulled on her petticoat. She was standing closest to the door when it opened.
Francis fired the first pistol. The air filled with the stinging, choking stink. Billows of smoke obscured their vision.
When it cleared, Francis discovered that he’d found his target. A man lay on the floor, doubled up and groaning. Blood poured from a wound on his shoulder. Another man entered the room and shoved his colleague aside with his foot. Francis did not take his attention away from the newcomer.
The man who faced them was nobody he knew. Dressed in a collection of clothes that looked as if they belonged to other people, some big, some small, stood a man of about Virginia’s height, half a foot shorter than Francis. His wig was tattered and askew, his hat jammed over his forehead. His thick leather belt was bristling with pistols. The man behind him held a rifle, a Brown Bess if Francis wasn’t mistaken.
“Drop them,” the man ordered.
Francis didn’t move but kept his pistol pointing square at the man’s chest. He didn’t look away when another man forced his way into the room. Four in all, counting the one groaning on the floor, all heavily armed.
His opponent swung his weapon around, pointing it at Virginia. “I said drop it,” he said to Francis.
Jagged fear made Francis obey him. “Hurt her and I’ll kill you.” Not a threat, but a promise.
Virginia stood absolutely still, chin up, glaring defiantly at their attacker. “Who are you?” she demanded.
Silently Francis begged her not to tell him who she was. If they knew that, they’d capture her and ransom her. And what were the odds that Dulverton would reject the chance, when Virginia’s death would suit him so well?
“You can call me Crace,” the man said. “So what are you doing in my house?”
Chapter 19
Virginia bit back her instant response. What did he mean, his house? She didn’t need Francis to tell her the trouble they could be in if Crace found out who they were.
For the first time on this journey she was glad of her plain garments and apparent lack of wealth. The only thing of value she had on her was the silver pin, which she’d kept fastened to her shift, and the gold brooch pendant in her pocket.
She felt horribly exposed, and for once glad that the shift was a thicker, cheaper version of the g
ossamer-fine lawn she usually wore. At least they couldn’t see through it easily. But without her armor of stays and petticoats, she felt as bare as if she was naked.
Crace stepped forward and plucked the silver SSL pin free. He turned it over in his hand. “This your name?”
“Sarah Lansbury,” Virginia said, pulling the name out of thin air. But it went with the pin. “My husband and I were stranded here when our carriage lost a wheel.”
“Where is it?”
She shrugged. “The coachman went to the village to hire a horse to get to Newton Abbott. We needed a place to stay. If you want, we can pay, Mr. Crace.” Lord, that excuse was full of holes. Would Crace spot them?
The minute she’d seen that ship silently slip into view, she’d known. These men were up to no good.
In a flash she understood. They were smugglers. Their kind were endemic in Devonshire and Cornwall. Some people claimed that without it the counties would be in abject poverty. As it was, smugglers ruled whole villages, ran organizations more efficient than anything seen in Westminster. And smugglers would behave with this kind of arrogance. Of course that was what they were.
Everything fell into place. The bay was private and secluded; the house was isolated on the cliff. No doubt there was a way down to the bay, so the men could come and go without causing comment.
The clock on the mantel struck three, the chimes falling into the air.
Crace regarded them stoically. “That ain’t going to work, now is it?”
The chill creeping up her spine had nothing to do with the weather.
A shout came from outside, and a ruffian shoved Butler into the room. He brought light with him, a lantern that cast a golden glow over the room. Butler was in shirt and breeches. A bruise was forming on the side of his face, and he cradled his arm. “Found this one,” his captor said.
“That explains the used bedroom,” Crace said.
He gave Butler a push, and if Francis hadn’t moved aside, he would have crashed right into him. Francis caught Butler’s shoulder to steady him, but said nothing. Butler winced and turned to face the men crowding the room. Five of them now.
Hurst was nowhere to be seen. Had he escaped? If so, they could expect help. But not from the village. Nobody there would be trustworthy. But if Hurst could find a horse, he could get into Newton Abbott and to the excise men.
The trouble was, in this part of the world many excise men, and the occupants of the villages and towns on the coast, were in thrall to the smugglers. Gangs ruled this part of the coast. But as far as she knew, Virginia didn’t know of any large gangs operating nearby, the ones that caused the officials in London to scream in horror, but that just meant they hadn’t raised a dust.
“Lansbury,” Crace said, turning the pin over in his hand. He was standing so close to her that she could smell the tobacco and wine on his breath, although she tried not to.
If Crace decided to kill them, they might never be found. No sign of Hurst, but in this part of the country he did not stand much chance of getting help back to them fast enough. If he had managed to get away at all.
Their vaunted status would not help them now. Only compliance, and perhaps even not then since they’d seen all the smugglers’ faces.
“Where are you from?”
“Brampton,” said Francis, naming a town on the north coast of the county.
“And you decided to make yourselves at home here.” Crace grunted and slid the pin onto his coat.
Virginia wanted to snatch it away, but she stayed where she was, only clenching her hands into fists to stop herself rushing forward and grabbing it. That pin was precious to her, more than diamonds. It represented friendship.
The man on the floor groaned, drawing Crace’s attention. Leaving his men holding Virginia and Francis captive, pistols pointed directly at their hearts, Crace bent down. “Told yer that yer shouldn’t be in a hurry,” he said, the long drawl of the West Country strong in his voice. “People in a rush never get there first. You’ll live.”
Straightening, he addressed the man with the army rifle. “Get ’im out of here. Put him in one of the carts and get him ’ome. We’ll manage without ’im.”
The man hoisted the injured smuggler to his feet and slung his good arm around his shoulders. He half lifted, half dragged the man out, ignoring his colleague’s shouts of pain. They echoed down the hall.
Another man came in to take the other’s place. He had the rifle.
Crace eyed Francis, giving him a close scrutiny, up and down and back again. “You look like you could do some work. How do you fancy earning a golden guinea?”
Francis shook his head. “No. I won’t help you ship contraband ashore.”
“Pity.” Crace turned his attention back to Virginia. “Not even to ’elp ’er?”
“I told you,” Francis said patiently, as if he was talking to a child. “Hurt her and I’ll kill you.”
The men burst into raucous laughter when Crace looked around at them, but it sounded a bit forced to Virginia. “Get them downstairs,” he said. “We don’t want any loose ends. And we’ve got enough mess ’ere. We don’t want more when we do these two.”
He was going to kill them. Francis glanced at Virginia. He would fight, no doubt about it, and he would die. Not much doubt about that, too. But better to go out fighting.
Despair racked her. Nobody would know where they’d gone until it was too late. The patch of blood on the floor belonging to the man Francis had shot would be cleaned up, and nobody would be the wiser. Where were the caretakers here? Had they already been killed? Or was this man one of them?
Crace stepped back, a pistol in each hand, as the other men nudged her into moving. Francis growled but made no move. He would, though.
And she hadn’t even told him that she loved him. Their only chance now was Hurst, and who was to say he wasn’t dead already?
As they passed the chair, Virginia made a grab for her clothes. The man behind her wrapped his arm about her waist, dragging her away.
“Take them,” said Crace, nodding to the clothes. “We don’t want to leave anything behind.”
One of the ruffians picked up the pile of clothes, throwing them over his arm. Something fell to the floor with a clunk, and Crace bent to sweep it up. Virginia swallowed, praying Francis did not make his move yet. There had to be a way out of this. There must be.
Crace dug into the first pocket, coming out with her handkerchief. Damn, the monogram. But it was embroidered white-on-white, and something else caught his attention first. He picked out the brooch pendant and turned it over, studying the gold coin carefully.
He pulled at his watch chain, and there, at the end, was a gold coin identical to the one on her pendant brooch.
“Where did you get this?” He looked up, fixing Virginia with a glare.
She thought rapidly. Why not tell the truth, or some of it anyway? “My first husband. He was from Newton Abbott, and he told me it would keep me safe.”
Crace narrowed his eyes. “What was ’is name?”
If she told him she was Ralph’s widow, she’d tell him her worth. Although these men were smugglers, they wouldn’t hesitate to ransom her. That would at least keep her alive. But what about Francis?
Belatedly she recalled the name of a servant from Newton Abbott who worked at Dulverton. “Sam Satterley.”
He regarded her through narrowed eyes. “The soldier?”
Trying not to be too eager, she nodded.
“He was a deal older than you.”
She shrugged. “He was a husband.”
“You should’ve gone to the village,” Crace said. “Stayed with them there. Then you wouldn’t be in this mess.” He tossed the gold brooch in his hand and caught it. “I wouldn’t say this will keep you safe, and Sam shouldn’t have had it. But I won’t kill you.”
; She let him see her relief. Her shoulders sagged.
He handed the pockets to the man who held the rest of the clothes, and pocketed the coin.
She’d told the truth, except for the name. That pendant brooch had been their salvation, but they weren’t free yet.
They followed Crace, fully aware that two men were bringing up the rear, both fully armed. They kept enough distance to stop Francis grabbing their weapons, although Virginia caught him looking, assessing. She shook her head slightly. He reached for her hand, clasped his around it, and reassurance flowed through her. They could survive this.
They went down to the kitchen, the big fireplace dominating the space, flooding them with welcome warmth. The rough tiles were chilly under her bare feet, though.
Crace opened a door next to the fireplace and pushed at the empty shelves inside. It swung open, revealing a set of stairs leading down.
Her heart in her throat, Virginia followed him, Francis close behind her. The flickering light of the lantern held by the man at the back followed them down.
The second flight was cut into rock. Virginia counted. A hundred steep stairs led down, as a damp chill surrounded them like a living thing and the tang of salt in the air told them how close they were to the sea.
They were in a cave, and the sound of the sea was close by.
Crace nodded to some hooks driven into the gray rock. “Tie ’em up.”
Butler screamed when a smuggler roughly dragged his hands behind his back. Virginia had never heard such a sound from a human. Jerking forward, Francis tried to reach him, but he was pulled back, arms banded around him.
“You’ve already broken his arm!” Virginia yelled above the din. “Stop torturing him!”
She had nothing to offer them, nothing she could do would make any difference. If she’d thought the gold coin did anything but spare her from immediate death, she would have been severely disappointed. Frustration and distress tore her up.
Francis was white with anger, his mouth pulled tight, his eyes promising murder.
Crace smiled, the gaps in his teeth doing nothing to improve his appearance. He nodded at the man. “Carry on.”
Virginia And The Wolf Page 22