by Nancy Butler
They had waited until dusk to slip out of the barn, praying that the Gables’ ruse would keep Finch and Connor from following them. Every five miles or so during their flight, MacHeath had scanned the horizon behind them with his spyglass, but, so far, there had been no signs of pursuit.
They kept on through the night and into the next day. Few noted them since they stayed away from any towns. They barely spoke, barely acknowledged each other, but when their eyes happened to meet, they both smiled. And then looked away.
After their confrontation in the barn, MacHeath had convinced Alexa to sleep for a few hours. She’d insisted that he remain with her in the attic room, and he had ended up kneeling beside the bed, his arms crossed on the counterpane. They had done nothing more intimate than gaze at each other, and once or twice, MacHeath had stroked a tendril of hair away from her face.
They did not speak of what had transpired in the barn, but it was clear that something almost miraculous was growing between them. Alexa had seen tenderness in his expression and what she hoped was a sweet reciprocation of her own budding feelings.
At one point she touched his false hand, again obscured by its leather glove, and then drifted her fingers up his arm. “Will you tell me about this?”
He lowered his gaze. “There’s little to tell. My ship met up with a French man-o’-war off Calais and was blasted out of the water. Before the ship went down, a falling spar crushed my hand. A French surgeon took it off, and a Scottish doctor up in Edinburgh put it back—in a less fleshly form.”
She pinched his arm gently. “Why do I get the feeling you are leaving out a great deal?”
His dark eyes, for once unobscured by their long lashes, gazed intently into hers. “Because there’s no use talking about it, Alexa.”
“I understand,” she said. “But thank you for telling me anyway.”
He hesitated, and then said in a gruff whisper, “Thank you for understanding.”
As it happened, it was MacHeath who had dozed off first, his head cradled in his arms, and Alexa was able to trace her fingers over his face for the first time. She felt the rough stubble on his chin, where three day’s worth of beard was showing, and the smooth line of his cheekbone. She caressed, the creases beside his eyes and the delicate filigree of his long eyelashes. As though he was aware of her touch, he sighed in his sleep, and she leaned forward and brushed her lips over his mouth.
And then she slept, with one hand twined in his hair.
Alexa turned to him now as they pulled up at a river ford and smiled at the memory of his lean face beneath her hands. She wondered if he would ever feel such a strong compulsion to touch her. Considering the way she looked at this moment, she somehow doubted it.
Her hair had been twisted back into an untidy tail and tied with a bit of twine. Over Mrs. Gable’s rose-colored dress, she wore a man’s woolen jacket and a heavy cloak. The gown’s cut was too narrow for sitting astride comfortably, and it had ridden up over her half boots and heavy woolen stockings. She tried to tug the hem down into a more modest arrangement and caught MacHeath looking at her legs.
“You’ve a neat ankle, ma’am,” he said with a crooked grin.
“Yes, and these stockings are so flattering,” she responded tartly.
“I’m not complaining.”
His grin widened to a smile that showed off his white teeth and softened his weathered face. Their rousing ride had whipped his dark hair into unruly waves, and the bright sunlight had turned his dark-gray eyes to shining silver. He’d traded his black cape for one of deepest brown, courtesy of Mr. Gable. Its edges lifted and danced around him in the wind as he sat, relaxed and graceful, in the saddle, and she thought that if there was a more stirring vision in the whole of the land, she had yet to see it.
“What are you looking at, hoyden?”
“I am enjoying the prospect,” she replied.
“So am I,” he said softly with a look of barely contained hunger. She realized with relief that her mismatched attire had not put him off her. Not by a long shot.
They crossed the water without mishap, and then raced to the top of the hill on the river’s far side. The winter-bare downs rolled away from them to the south. “Smell that?” he asked, drawing up his horse.
She raised her head and tested the air. “We’re near the Channel, aren’t we?”
He drew his spyglass from his pocket and held it out to her. Alexa could see the city of Bournemouth in the distance, the towers of Corfe Castle straight ahead; to the east lay the shadowy presence of the Isle of Wight, looking like a great gray whale basking in the paler blue of the Channel.
“We’re less than an hour from the sea, I would guess.”
She handed him the glass, and then touched his sleeve. “We’ve both been away too long, Simeon.”
He pulled back from her, his face now somber. “I won’t ever go back to the sea, Alexa. There’s nothing for me there any longer.”
She understood then, and felt like a fool for not having figured it out sooner. This was his Great Tragedy. Not the loss of his hand, but of his livelihood, of his only true vocation. Men who went to sea, she knew full well, were spoiled for life on land. They chafed and fretted when they were not on board a ship.
“Surely other men who have lost a hand were able to remain at sea.” She had a moment of inspiration. “What of Nelson? He lost both an eye and a limb.”
“Nelson was a blasted admiral. I doubt he ever went anywhere near a line or a rigging.” He sighed, and added, “I tried, Alexa. I tried more than once to get another berth.”
He didn’t have to tell her the result; the misery in his face was answer enough.
“There are other roads, surely.”
“Not for me. I was born to work on a ship. Life is an empty cask without that.”
She wanted to protest, to plead with him to let her be the special thing that replaced the sea in his heart. But it was too soon—the feelings that were growing between them were too new, too delicate, to bear such a burden.
They rode on again in silence, but this time their journey was no longer leavened by shared smiles.
Just outside Bournemouth, MacHeath turned down a narrow track that cut to the west. The village where MacHeath’s friend lived lay so close to the water that the main street was practically part of the beach. They dismounted and led their horses along the waterfront, past a group of men who were sharing a smoke beside the sheltering hull of a rotted fishing boat.
Just beyond a chandler’s warehouse, they followed a winding path to a small cottage. When MacHeath hailed him, his friend, Nat Tarlton, came hobbling out his front door. Alexa guessed his age to be something near sixty. He was bent and gnarled, but with the deep-water tan and piercing eyes of a lifelong sailor.
When he recognized his visitor, the man’s craggy face split into a broad smile.
“MacHeath, by all that is unholy! You rascally son of a sea dog.” The old man began to thump him repeatedly on the back. “I heard you lost the Bess some years back. That was a sad day. Heard about this, too—” He raised MacHeath’s right hand, and then pushed his cap back in wonder. “But I didn’t know you’d gone and found yourself a false hand. It’s good to see you didn’t let a paltry injury get you down.”
MacHeath gritted his teeth slightly, then tugged Alexa forward. “Nat, this is Miss Prescott. Alexa, my good friend, Nat Tarlton.”
He took up Alexa’s hand and patted it. “A pleasure, miss.”
When he ushered them into his cottage, and lit a lantern against the darkening afternoon, Alexa saw that the main room was filled with wooden crates.
“Still in the trade?” MacHeath asked with some surprise.
“Naw, this ain’t contree-band. I am holding onto some inventory for my nephew. He lost his tackle shop in the last big storm.”
MacHeath fidgeted with his cuff, and then looked up. “I need a favor, Nat.”
“Anything, you know that.”
“We need a boat to
get us to Cudbright, and someone to captain it.”
Nat’s watery eyes crinkled. “Ho, that’s a good one, Mackie. You needin’ a captain.” He turned to Alexa with a wink. “This here’s the best natural sailor I ever come across in all my days. Got a nose for the wind and an eye for the sky. He understands the sea ... I wouldn’t of given him the Black Bess otherwise.”
MacHeath was wearing a scowl, and Alexa feared what he might say to the old man. “Can’t you take us there, Mr. Tarlton? Mr. MacHeath has not sailed for a very long time and—”
“What’s that to do with anything? It’s in his blood, by God.” He spun to MacHeath. “You ain’t turned scared, have you? No, that’s not what’s happened. You weren’t never scared of nothing.”
With a resigned sigh, MacHeath shrugged back the edge of his cape and slowly held up his right hand.
“So?” Tarlton asked scornfully.
“I can’t hold a line, I can’t raise a sail. I certainly can’t climb a rigging.”
“The lady can help with the lines and the sails.”
“Yes, I can,” Alexa said. She’d been sailing with her father since she’d learned to walk, and could crew a ship as well as any man.
“I want you to take us,” MacHeath insisted.
“Can’t, lad. My arthritics come along bad this past year. I can barely get down the path into town some days. Still have my ketch, though. My nephew takes it out now and again.”
“Then, perhaps he can sail us to Exeter.”
“ ‘Fraid not. He’s gone off to Bournemouth with his wife—lookin’ for a new place to set up shop.”
Alexa pulled MacHeath aside, with an apologetic glance at Nat.
“We don’t have time to stand here arguing,” she whispered forcefully. “If he will let us use his boat, there’s an end to it. Between us, I’m sure we can manage.”
He shook his head. “After the last time I was turned down for work, I vowed I would never set foot on another ship. Isn’t it enough that for your sake I am forgetting that promise, without you asking me to sail the blasted boat?”
“That was an idiotic promise,” she said between her teeth. “And I will sail the blasted boat. All you have to do is steer.”
“Oh, so you will navigate as well?” he drawled.
“No,” she practically shouted. “But I would imagine a man who’d lost his hand would still have the ability to navigate. Or have you lost your wits, as well?”
“I lost my wits when I decided to rescue you. And see where it’s gotten me?”
“It’s gotten you back to sea, you overbearing, insufferable, boneheaded clot!”
Nat Tarlton seemed to be enjoying their mutual display of temper; he rocked back and forth on his thick brogues, grinning widely. But when MacHeath spun to him and asked gruffly where he might find someone who could take him to Devon, Nat instantly wiped the grin off his face and pointed to a cove beyond the end of the village.
“You might want to take a gander at my little ketch,” he added. “She be named the Bluebird. Blue hull with a red stripe.”
MacHeath went striding out the door, muttering to himself. Nat watched him go and then turned to Alexa. “Always thought he’d make sommat of hisself. He warn’t cut out for the smuggling trade, though he did well by it, for a time.”
He scratched his balding head and gave her a long look. “There was a wee girl he used to talk about back then ... when he was in his cups mostly. I allus hoped he’d find her again someday and carry her off. Wonder what happened to her. He used to call her a black-haired she-devil.”
Alexa tried not to grin. “I believe that was me.”
Nat Tarlton whistled softly. “So, did he do it? Did he finally carry you off?”
She leaned over and whispered against his weathered cheek. “Mr. Tarlton, you have no idea.”
* * *
Nat decided to go after MacHeath, so he could, as he put it, “knock some sense into him.” He left Alexa with instructions to pack up whatever she and MacHeath might need in the way of supplies. She scouted around and found an old sack behind one of the crates.
Nat Tarlton’s larder was not overflowing, but she managed to locate a tin of biscuits and some salted beef. She also unearthed a small crock of cider. She removed a biscuit from the tin before she stowed it in the sack, and munched on it while she examined the interior of the small cottage.
There was no doubt that its owner was of nautical inclinations. Yellowed maritime charts decorated the walls, and ship’s lanterns hung from the rafters. The window ledge was decorated with oddly shaped seashells, and on a narrow table littered with the paraphernalia of a pipe smoker, she saw a framed pencil sketch of a brigantine. She recognized MacHeath’s handiwork. This must be Tarlton’s ship, the Black Bess. She bent to examine the drawing, and out of the corner of her eye she noticed two men peering into the window at the side of the cottage.
Her heart skipped a beat.
Without giving any sign that she’d seen them, she set the drawing down and picked up a large cowry shell, pretending to study it while she sneaked glances at the window. Her heart eased its thudding when she realized that it was not the ugly customers—there was not enough disparity in their sizes, for one thing. However, the overhang of the roof set the two men in shadow, so she was unable to make out anything else, especially since they both had their mufflers pulled up to their noses.
She wondered how it was that the instant she was out of MacHeath’s sight, two pursuers invariably appeared. And here she was, trapped in a cottage that had only one door. An unlocked door, she observed from across the room. Just as she moved toward it with the intention of sliding the bolt, the faces disappeared from the window.
She flung herself against the door and grappled with the lock. There was a good sturdy bolt on the door itself but no corresponding pin for it to slide into on the frame. She cursed people living in safe, little villages who never felt the need to keep their door locks in good repair.
Snatching the sack of provisions off the table, she quickly doused the lantern above her, and then darted behind a stack of wooden boxes. Hiding was not very productive, she knew, since those men had certainly seen her moving about in here. But she wasn’t going to make it easy for them. In the small space of the cottage, crowded as it was with furniture and crates, there was a chance she could elude them and get away to her horse. It was a slight hope, but the only one she could think of to keep her courage up.
The door creaked open, and she heard footsteps on the plank floor.
“Miss Alexa?”
She didn’t recognize the voice, but that hardly surprised her, since it was muffled behind a woolen scarf. With a wild shriek, she overturned the topmost box on the stack, and its contents—about a thousand fishhooks—spilled out onto the floor. She jumped up, swinging the sack around her head like a shepherd’s sling. It struck the slighter of the two men, making him cry out as the crock connected with the side of his head. He skidded on the fishhooks, trying to right himself and cursing loudly, while the larger man danced back from her makeshift weapon and found himself also entangled in the hooks.
The door had been left open, and she darted toward it.
Her mare was tethered at the back of the cottage, and she flung herself into the saddle, still only half seated as the horse skittered forward. She snatched up the reins of MacHeath’s hunter, and then headed toward two horses that were tethered farther up the narrow lane. She keened like a banshee as she raced toward them. Both horses reared back onto their haunches, snapping their reins. Then they were gone, clattering up the hillside away from the village. She drove her heels into the mare’s side and turned her toward the cove. Behind her she heard the cries of the two men as they went charging after their horses.
She raced along the rocky path toward the water, relieved to see MacHeath and Nat Tarlton below her on the beach. MacHeath was speaking to another man, while Nat hovered in the background, an unlit pipe in his mouth. They all looked up a
s she came galloping toward them, leaving a wake of splattering gravel and sand.
“Two men ... at the cottage!” she cried breathlessly as she tumbled down from the horse. “I managed to get away ... but they’ll be right behind me.”
Nat stepped forward and thrust past the fisherman with whom MacHeath had been negotiating. “Take the Bluebird,” he growled. “Get the girl away.”
MacHeath pulled out one of his pistols, his eyes intent on the beach path. The two men, still on foot, had just appeared over the rise.
“No,” she said, pushing down the barrel. “It’s not Finch and Connor. It might be those men from Dagshott. But I don’t think we should wait around to find out.”
He nodded once and slipped the weapon back into his pocket. Crossing quickly to his horse, he tugged his saddlebag and the bedroll from its back. Nat was already beside his beached ketch, untying the line that held it to a piling. He handed Alexa over the side, and then he and MacHeath shoved it into the water.
“Pole out past the shallows,” Nat said. “You’ll catch a fair wind beyond the breakers.”
MacHeath drew out his pistol again and tossed it to Nat before he leaped into the boat. “In case those fellows turn ugly,” he said. “I’ll be back for the horses within the week.”
Alexa was already hoisting the sail. It rippled a few times, and then, as the ketch moved into deeper water, it belled out and the ketch began to pick up speed. She cast a quick look over her shoulder to the beach; Nat had backed off from her two pursuers, who were now dancing around on the shingle, waving their arms and shouting to her. Fortunately the wind was carrying their cries away from the small boat.
She glanced at MacHeath, who was sitting on the stern seat minding the tiller, and gave a guilty sigh. As soon as the men had entered the cottage, she’d known who they were. For one thing, a ruffian wouldn’t have addressed her as “Miss Alexa.”
Once she recognized them, she nearly laughed that she had been so frightened. But that they meant no harm didn’t matter—she had no mind to be rescued. Things were progressing in a most interesting manner with MacHeath, and furthermore, she had an overriding instinct that he needed to get back to sea. That wouldn’t happen if she’d let those men apprehend her.