The Black Rose

by Christina Skye

  A lantern flashed once from the foredeck of the French vessel and now received an answering flare from the slim figure who'd moved to a position near the end of the line. The galleys were already being launched from the shingle. In a matter of minutes they fluttered near the hull of the brig, like moths drawn to a flame.

  One by one they took on their quota of kegs filled with overproof brandy and geneva, along with chests of uncustomed tea, tobacco, and China silks. Their cargo loaded, the stout crew turned swiftly and pulled for shore, where eager fingers waited to heft the goods into waiting wagons.

  Less than a half hour later the wagons were nearly full. The galleys had already turned back for their final run, which would take one of them by sea to Winchelsea and another to Hythe. The remaining two craft would return to their hiding place beneath the Camber sands.

  The whole maneuver was performed with the precision of a military exercise. Indeed, the Fox prided himself on the drilling of his gentlemen and the care of his calculations, especially when dealing with a new contact, such as the captain of the Liberte. Even now the smuggler was careful to communicate only through intermediaries.

  No, the Fox was not a man who left any detail to chance. Which was precisely why he was so successful at his trade.

  Beneath him the big black horse pranced skittishly. "Gentle, Fancy," the smuggler whispered, his sharp eyes narrowing as he studied the horizon. Seeing no untoward movement there, he swept his eyes over the toiling figures. Frowning, he studied the slight figure holding the snub-nosed lantern. Something tugged at his consciousness, something he could not quite place.

  His hands tightened on the reins and he cursed silently. What was it about the lad that bothered him?

  But his thoughts never had a chance to run their natural course. Just then a cry went up from the dunes bordering the beach. Suddenly a line of dragoons darkened the crest of the sand.

  "Halt in the King's name, ye bloody vermin!"

  The Fox was already moving. "Steady, lads!" he ordered, his voice hard and commanding. "Keep your heads and make for the marsh! Leave the goods where they fall. There'll be plenty more where those came from!"

  As he spoke, the big man urged his black horse between the wagons, reaching down to offer a steadying hand or a supportive tug amid the chaos of retreat.

  The first of the excisemen began plowing down the dunes toward the beach. But the smugglers were quicker, bolting to the east, where the sand stopped and the dark stretches of the marsh began.

  The galleys, at least, were safe at sea, the Fox saw with satisfaction. There they would continue to take on their cargo, then steer for safe coves farther west and east, as prearranged in case of just such an event.

  Suddenly the Fox spurred his horse forward. The lad with the lantern was down, he saw, thrown by that brute Tom Ransley as the big smuggler jumped free of his wagon. Already the dragoons, along with the main body of excisemen headed by Amos Hawkins, were swarming toward the last figures straggling along the curve of the beach.

  With a taut curse, the Fox bent down, straining to reach the slim shape stretched on the sand. The boy's head was thrown back, his floppy hat askew, revealing a pale oval face, fragile cheekbones, and wide, frightened eyes.

  "Tess!" the Fox breathed in horror, his heart constricting painfully. "Sweet Jesus, lass, what daft thing have ye done this time?"

  What indeed? Tess thought wildly. But the question came too late. Her adventure had turned into a nightmare. Her rib throbbed where that fool Ransley had kicked her, and she could hardly move. Around her came the angry cries of plunging horses, the bark of pistols, and the savage curses of Hawkins's men.

  "There the devil is!" the squat customs inspector bellowed. "Five hundred pounds to the first man among ye who levels the bastard!" A roar went up from the company, who began elbowing each other viciously in their eagerness to cross the beach.

  "Grab my hand, lass!" the Fox ordered, fighting to calm Fancy as he reached down to the slim figure kneeling in the sand. "Hurry!"

  Blindly Tess fought her way to her feet. She was nearly within reach of the Fox when she glanced up to see Hawkins's heavy figure silhouetted against the moon, one arm raised as he took careful aim.

  At the Fox. And Jack was too busy trying to help her to notice.

  "Behind you, Fox!" she cried, the words thin and reedy. But her warning came too late.

  For in the same instant, a pistol cracked and the tall, mounted smuggler crumpled over his saddle. Gasping, Tess gritted her teeth against the pain in her ribs and stumbled toward the big, pawing horse.

  "Leave m-me, lass," Jack whispered. "Make for Pett Level. I canna protect ye now," he rasped, one hand gripping his chest. Already a dark pool of blood stained the white ruffled shirt beneath his black cloak.

  "I can't leave you," Tess sobbed. "Not — like this."

  The Fox wavered in the saddle and nearly fell. White-faced, Tess gripped the edge of the saddle and pulled herself up behind the sagging rider. Wrapping her arms tightly about Jack's waist, she held his slack frame steady while she urged the giant black horse forward. "Go, Fancy!" she cried.

  This time there was no protest from the man slumped before her.

  Her face grim, Tess fought to calm her whirling thoughts. Perdition! The sea was at her back and the galleys were all gone. Already the cursed officers were dropping to a firing stance.

  The Fox moaned slightly and Tess's trembling fingers tightened. No time for panic, she told herself, dragging in a lungful of cold air. A rush of icy calm descended upon her. They'd never take her alive, nor the Fox! Damned if she'd see her friend dangle from a noose!

  Since Hawkins would expect her to run before his troops, Tess decided to do exactly the opposite. With a hoarse cry she wheeled the great horse about and made straight for the ragged line of men kneeling in the sand.

  Her heart in her mouth, she spurred the horse up the slope, the drumming of his great hooves deadened by the sand. Over her head whined an angry volley, and instinctively she crouched lower, pulling the Fox down to make a smaller target.

  Only ten yards to go, Tess calculated.

  The dragoons kneeling in the sand were already reloading.

  "Get yer heads out of yer arses and fire, ye bloody fools!" Hawkins roared from his position behind the line. One of his men stumbled in his eagerness to prime his rifle and Hawkins gave him a vicious kick that sent him flying facedown into the sand. "Drop the pair of them or by God ye'll find yerselves meat for the press-gang!"

  The wind was whining in Tess's ears. Her blood sang with fear and reckless determination.

  Five more yards!

  One of the dragoons rose. His rifle levelled as he took careful aim. Time seemed to stop.

  For an agonizing eternity Tess stared down his muzzle into the mouth of Hell.

  "Now, Fancy!" she screamed, and the great beast's hooves lifted, earning them sailing over the astonished line of dragoons just as a ball whined furiously past her ear.

  Behind Tess the excise officers broke into chaotic shouting as she plunged over the crest of the dunes. As soon as she was out of sight she turned the big horse sharply toward the west.

  Just beyond the mouth of the Rother, narrow now at low tide, there was a small track that led through the treacherous canals and pools of Pett Level. By day it was difficult enough. But by night ...

  Tess did not hesitate. There was no other way. At least no one would attempt to follow them. There were too many dead ends, too many narrow tracks which ended abruptly in marshy pools.

  No, she thought, her brow furrowed with pain, not even for the impossible bounty of five hundred pounds would the cowardly excisemen attempt Pett Level by night.

  Before her the wounded man stirred, groaned once, and began to cough harshly. "What've ye done, lassie? Sweet Mother of God, if I'd known what was brewin' in that stubborn head of yers, I'd a taken my own whip to ye," the Fox rasped, his native accent very pronounced.

  "That you might hav
e tried, Jack," Tess whispered. "But even you couldn't have changed my mind."

  There was no answer from the man before her. Once again he slumped, his body a dead weight against Tess's tired arms.

  "Oh, Jack," she whispered hoarsely, struggling to keep him upright as she plunged across the sand.

  She prayed that the skiff was still moored in the reeds at the edge of the river, where she had concealed it the day before. Her eyes narrowed as she searched the edge of the Rother, stretching like a pale ribbon of silver in the moonlight.

  When she saw the outline of an oar, she swung down to tear at a concealing mat of reeds. In the saddle the wounded smuggler swayed, and Tess rushed back to anchor him. "Steady, Jack," she said urgently. With shaking fingers she pulled his bent frame from the horse, nearly stumbling beneath his weight. With precious minutes ticking off in her head, Tess half dragged, half shoved him toward the little skiff. Behind her, from the other side of the dunes, came the shouts of Hawkins's men in hot pursuit.

  Once her burden was settled in the boat, Tess turned and slapped the black horse hard on the rump. "Home, Fancy!" she ordered.

  Everyone knew the Fox's great black horse. This would buy them time they desperately needed, for it had taken far too long to maneuver Jack into the little skiff.

  Quickly Tess pushed off, sliding down to pull against the oars, her ribs burning with every move. Gritting her teeth against waves of pain, she concentrated on keeping the boat steady. It was low tide, fortunately, and the other shore was no more than ten yards away.

  With a quiet thud the boat met the far bank. Behind them Hawkins's men were spreading out to comb the sands.

  A pistol cracked. "Over there, ye bloody fools! It's the Fox! This time don't let the bastard get away. Remember — five hundred pounds for the one what brings me the pair of 'em. Dead or alive!"

  * * * * *

  Lord Ravenhurst sat before the crackling fire, still a good distance from the mindless oblivion that was his fervent goal.

  He shifted slightly, his wide shoulders straining uncomfortably against an ancient, fragile wing chair far too small to contain them. His greatcoat hung awry from the back of the chair, and his long, powerful legs were stretched out toward the fire. With piercing lapis eyes he assessed the half-empty glass cradled in his right hand.

  He'd forgotten how cold it could be here on the coast, even in early summer. After his months of pampered luxury in London, the dampness seemed to creep into his bones, making him ache all over. Thank God Hobhouse had ordered a fire made up.

  Already he was growing bloody soft and indolent, Ravenhurst thought grimly.

  The flames hissed and popped companionably as the viscount stared deep into their dancing light. Before his fixed gaze the colors began to flicker and bleed together.

  He smiled faintly. Maybe he was closer to oblivion than he had realized. Still smiling, he tossed down the last of his brandy and poured himself another.

  Yes, he'd forgotten a great many things about this place, things like the ghosts that haunted Church Square and Watchbell Street.

  Ghosts with dark, haunting eyes and silken hair.

  That was when Ravenhurst realized he was not nearly drunk enough.

  * * * * *

  Tess shivered as the cold wind flung rain into her face.

  Perdition! she cursed inwardly, looking off toward Camber. In minutes this deadly game would be played! Hawkins would have her right where he wanted, and the Fox would hang.

  Then she stiffened, giving a silent prayer of thanks, for she saw Jupiter waiting exactly where she had tethered him, hidden behind a lush curtain of reeds.

  Now, if only she could shove Jack up onto the horse! "Wake up, Jack! You'll have to help me." She knelt over the unconscious figure in the bottom of the boat and tugged off his mask, slapping his cheeks gently.

  Sweet heaven, let him come around!

  Slipping one arm beneath his shoulders, Tess struggled to pull the big man upright. "Help me, Jack," she pleaded.

  Her desperation penetrated the smuggler's haze of pain. "I'll try, lassie, but 'tisna much — use I'll be to ye now. Pull me f-forward a wee bit," he rasped. He managed to sit up awkwardly, wavered for a moment, and then righted himself. With grim determination he struggled to his feet, supported by Tess.

  Somehow, she never knew how, they stumbled from the skiff. "Only a little farther, Jack," she whispered urgently. "Don't stop now."

  With his good hand the smuggler reached toward the horse's back and pulled himself up, then slumped sideways over the saddle. Immediately Tess jumped up behind him, her cold hands steadying his back and ribs.

  All the time Hawkins's wild curses drifted toward them across the river.

  If only they could make the Level, they would be safe, Tess thought. No one would follow them through its canals and dikes at night.

  Her arms screamed with the weight of Jack's big body, but Tess knew she could not stop. Ashen-faced, she changed her position, trying to ease the strain of his weight.

  That was when she felt her fingers slip through something warm and sticky.

  A cry of horror burst from her lips. "Dear God," she whispered. "I'll get Hawkins for this, Jack. I promise you I will."

  Suddenly Tess caught her breath, reining in Jupiter sharply as they nearly plunged into a pool that seemed to loom up out of nowhere. Her fingers white on the reins, she carefully nudged the big horse forward, skirting the silver water while she searched for the small clump of grass that marked the safe track up to Fairleigh.

  Pale pools gleamed to right and left. So beautiful, Tess thought, dizzy with pain and fatigue.

  So dangerous.

  By the time they reached the old sea wall, she had formed a desperate plan. Quickly she reined in Jupiter and slid down, giving the horse's neck a reassuring stroke. "Go home to Fairleigh, Jupiter," she ordered. "Follow the old track. You know the way."

  The big roan turned and nickered at her, unmoving.

  "Home!" she ordered fiercely.

  The man known on the marsh only as the Fox began to mumble, dragging himself back with difficulty from his netherworld of pain. "Tess?" he whispered hoarsely. His cold hand reached out to catch her wrist. "Nay, lass, I willna let ye! Take the horse and leave me here. I'll never make it anyway."

  "I can't, Jack," Tess said desperately. "Thomas is in the old caretaker's cottage. He'll see to you until I can make my way back." She steeled her voice to fine bravado. "Shouldn't take me much above an hour or two, I expect. Don't worry about me. I know these pools as well as I know the Angel's cellars!"

  The Fox swayed for a moment, and as he did so his grip wavered. Immediately Tess wrenched free and slapped the horse's rump sharply. "Move, Jupiter!"

  The big horse plunged off to the north, Jack's muffled curses echoing in the quiet air. "When I get my hands on ye, lass, I'll — I'll make ye rue this night. Just ye — wait. Aye, s-see if I bloody don't!" the Fox rasped.

  His warning was cut short as a harsh spasm of coughing racked his slumped body.

  Oh, God, Jack, that I already do! Tess thought, watching Jupiter plunge deeper into the marsh until horse and rider finally disappeared.

  Then, satisfied at last, she turned and began to stumble down to a narrow canal nearly concealed behind a ragged tangle of water plants.

  * * * * *

  Ravenhurst heard a gentle tap at the door.

  His eyes narrowed. Maybe if he ignored it, it would go away. Frowning, he tossed down the last of his brandy and stared into the fire, struggling under the weight of responsibilities that daily grew more urgent. Even now it was as if he heard a clock ticking inside his head. Two weeks, it said. Only two weeks left.

  The tapping came again, more insistent this time.

  "Who in bloody hell is it?" he growled, not looking up from the fire crackling in the grate.

  The door opened with a faint squeak. "Only Peale, Captain." Ravenhurst's leathery-faced valet entered quietly and put away the boots he had ju
st come from cleaning and polishing to a mirror-like sheen.

  "Don't call me Captain," the hard-eyed man before the fire muttered. "Not anymore. Now I'm just Dane." His voice hardened. "Bloody Lord Ravenhurst!"

  The manservant did not reply, knowing no answer would be acceptable when the viscount was in such a mood. Peale's stiff military bearing did not waver as he completed his task, then moved to unpack Ravenhurst's last remaining case, careful to keep his eyes from flickering toward the half-empty decanter on the table beside his employer.

  Since the candles were snuffed, he had to content himself with the weak light of the dying flames. But he had worked under worse conditions, the valet thought.

  Far worse.

  In a few minutes the case's half dozen shirts were tucked away into drawers. Frowning, Peale lingered, fingering the fine linen garments.

  All brand new. All unworn. Times change, he reminded himself sternly, and one had bloody well better change with them. Just as the captain — viscount, Peale corrected himself sharply — had to change too. It was that or be washed away like so much debris on the tide.

  The valet studied Ravenhurst's bent form critically. It was a hard, well-muscled body, the broad shoulders clearly outlined beneath his shirt. Gone was the weakness that had plagued the officer upon his return to England only months ago. The rippling shoulder muscles and taut torso were the result of daily boxing and fencing. When possible the viscount swam, Peale knew, but there had been precious few opportunities for that recently.

  Maybe that was why his lordship had become so damnably broodish of late. That and the stream of coded documents he'd been receiving from the Admiralty, Peale thought.

  The valet's eyes narrowed and he shook his head. There'd be no swimming tomorrow either. Unless he missed his guess, his employer would be nursing the very devil of a head by morning.

  His face carefully expressionless, the valet who was not quite a valet finally looked up. "Will you be wishful of more brandy before I go?" he asked blandly. "Your Lordship," he added, almost as an afterthought.