The Gallows Bride

by Rebecca King

  “I don’t believe it,” Eliza argued. “He was bluffing. Trying to reduce your importance in his life so Scraggan’s wouldn’t kill you.”

  Jemima shook her head, unable to think. Although the fog around them had begun to lift, the fog deep in her head was still there, blocking out all sensible thought.

  “Jemima, I was there when Peter returned from the gaol on the night they tried to save you from the gallows. I also saw the state he was in the day after when he was grieving for you. He was drinking to the point of unconsciousness to try to avoid the pain your death caused him.”

  Jemima hadn’t been there, and had little to go on. Events had happened so fast since that day that she had barely had the time to think, much less ask anyone about what happened while she had been unconscious.

  “He was grieving for someone he cares about very deeply, Jemima. You don’t feel the kind of pain he did for someone you considered a source of information or who you could bed for a while,” Eliza shook her head slowly, a knowing look on her face. “Whatever he was up to, you need to give him a chance to explain.”

  While she had been talking, she had not removed her gaze from the two men still wrestling.

  “Oh God, is that a gun?” Harriett gasped, catching sight of the brief flash of metal held between Peter and Scraggans hands. They watched in horror as Scraggan managed to wrench it out of Peter’s hand. It pointed at Peter’s head for a brief moment, only for Peter to slam Scraggan’s wrist painfully down on a jagged rock. Scraggan cried out in pain and immediately released the weapon, dropping it over the cliff.

  Jemima ignored Edward’s glare when he glanced back, furious to discover they had ignored his orders and chosen to remain in danger. He shot them a warning look before turning to the fighting men.

  They were too close to the cliff edge for Edward to wrench them apart. If any one of them lost their balance, they could all go over.

  He wanted to shout encouragement, but knew this wasn’t a boxing match. This was very real, and very deadly.

  With little opportunity to do anything else, Edward stood back and watched, ready to pounce forward if Peter moved too close to the edge. As far as he was concerned, Scraggan could drop to his death, but Peter wasn’t going to die today.

  Blows were traded, and blood flowed. The fighting was raw and brutal. Peter was awash with wave after wave of pain that was as furious as the waves below them.

  Eventually tiredness began to affect both of them. Briefly Peter wondered if they should just take their chances and roll over the edge. The person surviving when they hit the waves was the winner, but his inherent sense of fairness demanded that Scraggan not find an easy way out; not after the misery he had caused everyone. He deserved to go to the gallows.

  With most of his anger now subsided, Peter placed one large hand on the wiry man’s throat, watching dispassionately as he began to gasp for air.

  For one brief moment their eyes met. Scraggan’s gaze filled with fear as he realised that he was at the mercy of a stronger man. A man who could kill him if he so chose.

  “Enough,” Peter growled when Scraggan’s face turned puce, and his eyes began to roll. “You won’t die today.”

  Hauling himself upright, he grabbed the gasping man by the front of his shirt dragging him off the ground. Drawing back one large fist, he landed a final blow with a satisfying crunch before releasing his hold.

  He stood, bent over at the waist, and stared at the unconscious man at his feet for several moments.

  “You alright?” Edward asked, eying Peter’s bloodied face with concern before he flipped Scraggan over and tied his wrists behind his back with the same ties Scraggan had used on him.

  Peter stood upright, every part of him aching. He watched as Eliza and Harriett rushed toward them. Eliza threw herself at Edward, who swept her into his arms and murmured reassurances into her hair. Harriett held the remaining strap and handed it to Peter who took some small comfort from gagging Scraggan. He had heard enough from the smuggler to last him a lifetime.

  It wasn’t lost on anyone that Jemima hadn’t approached, but had remained alone staring out to sea.

  Peter was soaking wet from lying on the wet stones, frozen from the cold mist, and was bruised from head to foot, but none of that mattered as much as the desolate vision Jemima made standing by herself on the windswept cliff-top, her cloak billowing out behind her as she stared blankly out at the vast expanse of ocean.

  Peter slowly walked toward her, knowing he had a lot of explaining to do. He knew from the way she held herself, that she was deeply distressed. Her arms were folded across her waist, as though helping to hold her upright. Although she wasn’t crying, there was a desolation in her eyes that was deeper than anything he had seen before.

  He looked for the right words but came up empty.

  The importance of getting her to understand, to believe him, was simply too much for his battered mind to deal with.

  With a sigh of frustration at his own inadequacies, Peter stalked the last few paces to stand before her, unsurprised when she didn’t acknowledge him. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t speak past the fear in his throat.

  The silence lengthened between them for several moments, until Peter couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “Jemima,” he whispered, trying to find the right words. “I love you,” he whispered.

  He mentally cursed at the solemn look she gave him. He could cope with her shouting and ranting at him, but the silent hurt was harder to bear.

  She didn’t return the declaration, just looked at him, doubt clearly written in her eyes.

  “We had better go,” she whispered, moving back up the path to the others.

  “Jemima, please? Listen to me,” Peter asked, cursing when she ignored him and walked away.

  “What will we do with him?” Jemima asked, glaring down at a now conscious, if dazed Scraggan when she drew close. It helped her to focus on something other than the feelings churning inside her.

  “We need to take him to Padstow and hand him over to the Redcoats. You ladies can go to Tintagel and wait in the carriage while Peter and I take him. There is no sense in you traipsing back to Padstow unnecessarily.” Edward didn’t add that Jemima didn’t look as though she could make it across the cliff path, let alone cover the several miles to Tintagel.

  “I’m going back to Padstow. Given all the misery and suffering he has caused, I want to see him behind bars. If that’s on the back of a prisoners’ cart on his way to Bodmin, then so be it.” Her voice was flat and emotionless as she stared down at Scraggan before dismissing him with an indelicate snort of contempt.

  At that moment she couldn’t really think of anything. Her mind just wouldn’t form thoughts. Eliza’s cautionary words that she needed to listen to Peter’s explanation before she judged him, came flooding back to her, and she accepted the wisdom behind them. But they were mingled with Peter’s cruel confirmation of the real reason why he had chased after her when she had left Devon all those months ago. Every word he had spoken had fitted so many boxes for her, that she couldn’t really see any other explanation. She longed to cry out in denial, to beat his chest, and bruise him some more but something held her back. Some inner part of her simply refused to accept what she had heard with her own ears. Surely she couldn’t have been that wrong about him. She wasn’t sure what to believe.

  She needed some time to think and, if walking to Padstow meant people would leave her alone with her thoughts, then she would walk to Padstow.

  She didn’t wait to see Edward haul Scraggan to his feet by his shirt and push him roughly in front of him. Jemima was already walking some distance away, head down, clearly lost in thought and not wanting to talk to anyone.

  Eliza glanced sympathetically at Peter and offered him a small smile. “Don’t worry, she’ll listen to you, just give her some time.” Although she tried to be positive, she had never seen this side of her sister before, and it scared her.

  Had her ordeal
in Derby Gaol changed her so much? Eliza had also been near-death in much the same way as Jemima had; being rescued at the very last moment before death snatched her into its ruthless grasp. But Jemima’s ordeal had been tainted by her hellish experience in the condemned cell, and thinking she was going to be hanged. The cruelty of it wasn’t lost on her, and she was worried about the long-term damage it had done to Jemima, who was usually so gentle and kind-hearted.

  “I lied,” Peter assured her, his eyes meeting Eliza’s. “I followed her from Devon for no other reason than I loved her from the second I laid eyes on her in the dining room.”

  “Then you need to tell her, but would you take a word of advice?” She lifted a brow at him in query, her eyes telling him that he would be a fool not to listen. “Let her have some time to herself, then speak to her later when we are safely tucked up in a tavern, with no threat from Scraggan. Get him out of your lives once and for all, and then explain everything. Leave no stone unturned, no truth hidden.” She threw him a cautionary look. “If you don’t, you will most certainly lose her.” With that, she quickened her pace to catch up with Edward, who was shoving Scraggan ahead of him with a little too much enthusiasm.

  Peter watched her go, and caught the sympathetic smile Harriett gave him as she too increased her pace to walk beside Edward and Eliza.

  Briefly Peter wondered where Harold was, before the feline stalked haughtily past, his tail flicking angrily before he ran to catch up with his mistress. Clearly the moggy wanted to go home too.

  With a deep sigh, Peter wearily followed. He too had a lot of thinking to do, mainly about how to keep the woman he loved from leaving him and taking his heart with her.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Peter’s last sight of Scraggan was of the older man curled up in the corner of the prisoners’ cart, his wrists and ankles still tightly bound, the gag preventing any final words.

  The small beady eyes he turned on Peter were defiant and filled with malice, in spite of his downfall.

  Peter stood and watched the door of the prison cart slam shut seconds before the sound of a whip pierced the air, causing the horses to set off on their journey to deliver the prisoners to Bodmin.

  Many of the villagers within Padstow had left their houses to watch the smugglers who had blighted their lives for so long being taken away.

  An air of solemnity fell over the sea port as they watched the steady procession of prisoners’ carts dragging men away, one after another after another. All morning, men had been rounded up, pushed into the carts and taken away.

  There were some cries of distress from wives who had watched their husbands being dragged from their homes, but most people were simply glad that they had been caught and were going to face punishment.

  In reality, a lot of the local fishermen who had been dragged into Scraggan’s activities were going to be reprimanded and allowed to return home, on the understanding that they resume their lives as fishermen. If they were caught committing any crimes in the future, all their crimes, including smuggling, would be considered when they were brought to trial. For the majority of men, a second chance was all they needed to resume their lives of peace and tranquillity.

  The men the government were after were directly linked to Scraggan. The information gathered by the Star Elite over the past few months was enough to ensure convictions resulting in execution for everyone. Including Scraggan.

  While Peter and Edward had delivered Scraggan to a startled Hugo, Jemima had remained at the harbour with Eliza and Harriett, for a long time, watching as the Redcoats went from door to door in groups of six. Some locals held their doors open, clearly waiting for their turn to have their house searched; recognising the inevitability of it and the futility of protesting at being invaded. Some preferred to wait for the hammering on the door.

  Deep within the houses came cries of distress from the wives of the smugglers as they watched their husbands being dragged off to gaol. Children screamed in fear; babies cried in their mothers arms.

  Had she not hated him already, Jemima would have loathed Scraggan for all the pain he had caused so many innocent people. In a brief moment of uncharacteristic spite, she hoped with all her heart that Scraggan would endure a long and very painful death at the end of the hangman’s noose.

  Feeling sick at the sights and sounds battering her already dazed senses, Jemima slowly turned, feeling more weary than she had ever felt before. Whether it was the sight of the prison cart, or everything that had happened to her over the past few days, she wasn’t sure; but she was struggling to believe that it was over. She could finally have a life without Scraggan.

  Immediately, her inner voice asked her if she could really face life without Peter.

  She knew she couldn’t, but she didn’t know what to do next. She had felt such immense pain upon hearing his words that she wasn’t sure how to handle her devastation.

  Was she numb? She wasn’t sure. Were her feelings due to the fact that he had just confirmed everything she had already considered to be possible? Probably; but where did that leave her?

  The cries of the babies and the hum of the crowds grated on her already shattered senses.

  “Let’s go to my house and have a cup of tea,” Harriett murmured, grabbing Jemima’s elbow with a gentle hand and guiding her toward the hill road leading to her small cottage. “I understand from the captain that they have already finished there, and we are free to return to it.”

  Jemima meekly followed, aware that Eliza had joined them. As she turned off the path that led around the harbour, she caught sight of Peter standing on the corner of a side street, deep in conversation with Hugo. He stopped talking and watched her pass, but made no move to approach her.

  Jemima wasn’t sure what she would have done if he had come close. She didn’t know if she wanted to hit him, kiss him, or both. But right now, she couldn’t speak to him. She didn’t know what to say.

  Instead, she ducked her head and kept her eyes down while she climbed the hill to Harriett’s house.

  Once inside the cottage, she lit the fire, while Harriett got the tea things ready. Eliza fetched a warm blanket, which was wrapped snugly around an unprotesting Jemima, who sat in front of the roaring fire, gazing blankly at the flames.

  “Now that Scraggan is on his way to Bodmin, you can stay here for as long as you need to,” Harriett offered generously. She felt the fresh sea air, and tinctures she would make up for Jemima would help her recover from her ordeals.

  Eliza was torn. She wanted to return to Leicestershire with Edward. Not only to see how Isobel was getting on, and learn for herself whether the babe had been born yet, but she didn’t want Edward to leave her. On the other hand, though, she didn’t want to leave Jemima behind in Padstow, especially while she was behaving so strangely.

  “Thank you,” Jemima replied quietly, thinking of the dank mustiness of her own home further down the road. “If we could stay tonight, that would be wonderful. It is very kind of you, Harriett.”

  “Phah! Kind?” Harriett shook her head, plonking herself down on the hard wooden chair opposite Jemima and giving her an almost stern look. “I’m just as glad as you are to see the back of Scraggan and his men. At least now I don’t have to spend hours scrawling notes about the smuggling, not knowing if anyone is going to bother to read them.”

  “We have all taken risks,” Eliza murmured, thinking of her own mad flight to Padstow with Edward, Dominic, Sebastian and Peter, that was so abruptly diverted. “I have done things over the past few weeks I never considered possible, especially for a lady.” She shook her head ruefully, thinking over what had happened to her in such a short length of time. It was remarkable she still had all of her faculties.

  “Such as?” Harriett’s brows rose in challenge, and she rose to pour the tea when the pot began to boil.

  “Oh, I’ve ridden bareback, dressed as a man -” she ignored Harriett’s gasp and stared into the fire. “Been chased by smugglers, stood in the middle of
a swordfight, been chased through fields in the middle of the night -” her voice was monotone and as unaffected as if she was reading from a menu, “oh, and worked in a whorehouse.”

  Eliza jumped when Harriett dropped the teapot with a thud on the table, and turned to stare at her. She quickly looked at Jemima, who was staring at her with a look of abject horror on her face, and the penny dropped.

  “Oh! Not as a whore! Good God, no,” and she couldn’t smother the smile that threatened. “Although if it weren’t for Edward appearing in my life, I would have been the star attraction.”

  Sensing the other women’s curiosity, Eliza recounted what that had happened to her since her first meeting with Edward.

  It was nearly an hour later by the time she lapsed into exhausted silence. Now she thought about it, even she hadn’t realised so much had happened to her.

  “Isn’t it strange how much you can cope with when you have to?” Harriett murmured, staring thoughtfully at Jemima. “I mean, although crises happen to everyone, most of the time you just cope with it, and move on. Probably more battered than you were before, hopefully wiser, and most definitely more cynical than you were. You have to just get on with life really, don’t you?” She didn’t ask anyone in particular the question, it was more a voicing of thoughts.

  “If someone had told me a year ago what would happen to me, I would have laughed in their faces and said it was impossible. Now? Anything can happen.” Jemima said.

  “As long as you have life, health and happiness, everything else is a triviality,” Harriett added wisely.

  They were interrupted by a soft knock on the door. Jemima didn’t need to look to know who it was. Eliza rose to slide back the bolt for them to enter.

  Jemima was aware of the soft murmur of voices, before silence descended upon the room. It came as no surprise when Peter sat in the chair Harriett had vacated.

  His heart lurched at the sight of her. Her glorious hair hung in gentle curls around her shoulders, still damp from their walk on the cliff top. The shadows beneath her eyes were darker than ever, giving her a haunted look.