A Reluctant Courtship

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  Ashmoor’s hand settled on her back, strong, steadying. When she started to straighten, he held her down. He slid to the deck and tugged her down beside him. He did not speak. The Frenchmen and whoever directed them stood on the dock, shuffling, muttering, making far too much noise in a sudden lull of the wind.

  Then the boat jerked forward, bumping into the dock with a thud that resounded off the cliff. Someone had pulled on the mooring line. They were going to board.

  “Attendez.” Again a command in French, but now that the owner of the voice stood so close, his English origin became obvious.

  An Englishman, a traitor, stood not a dozen feet away.

  They crouched in the corner of the boat shelter, Ashmoor’s arm around Honore’s shoulders. Her ears ached from trying to hear the slightest nuance of movement or voice. Her eyes ached from staring into the near total darkness. Her body ached from her awkward position, the cold, a longing to simply lay her head on Ashmoor’s shoulder and forget about smugglers, traitors, and decades-old murders.

  She remained motionless. So did Ashmoor beside her. Honore’s heart thudded so loudly the men on the dock must surely think someone marched along the cliff to the rhythm of a drum. Her heart beat so hard she felt rather than heard the thump of a person landing on the deck. Her eyes widened, her breath caught in her throat. One man of average build, judging from all of him visible as a silhouette against the pale cliffs, strode toward the stern and straight to the shelter.

  “Come out.” His voice was a mere rasp. “I have a gun and can’t miss at this range.”

  Tears stung Honore’s eyes. A trap. It was a trap, and she had led Ashmoor straight into it.

  “Don’t move,” he murmured to her. Then he rose, too tall to stand upright beneath the low overhang. “A gun will be heard for miles around and could cause rocks to fall. But I have a knife, and at this range I can’t miss. You’ll die without a sound.”

  26

  Of course both of them were wrong. The man could miss in the dark, cause a ricochet, and injure himself. Meric could miss with the knife, receive the shot, and leave Honore vulnerable to this man and the others still ashore. If he did nothing, however, Honore and he would be in more trouble than either of them wanted or needed.

  “You can only hit one of us,” Meric pointed out in a calm tone.

  “But the Frenchmen will take whoever is left to protect themselves.” The man laughed with a low, mirthless chuckle. “In the event it’s the young lady, they might just take her.”

  Meric was moving, diving low, knife in hand, before he realized the man had made his crude remark about Honore for just that reason. The chuckling laugh rolled across the deck again, and then the shot came, a blast of sound, a stab of light over Meric’s head.

  “Honore!” He cried out her name in the silence, then he struck the man at the knees, sent him tumbling onto the deck with a resounding thud.

  The Frenchmen chittered like squirrels after acorns. One tried to come aboard.

  “Non, non, non.” The man on the deck issued the negative, and then the distinctive click of a cocking pistol sounded nearly as loud as had the shot. “Get off this boat. I can’t miss her with this one.”

  The rasping growl of the man’s voice grated across Meric’s ears like a razor over dry skin. He rolled, his knife still in hand, and took in the scene of Honore poised not two feet from the barrel of the pistol. The little fool. She should have stayed in the dark beneath the canopy. She was safe, appearing unharmed, only for the moment.

  The man was right. He wouldn’t miss from that distance. Meric could stab him, and Honore would still be shot before the knife gained its end.

  “We will go.” Honore’s voice held little more strength than a puff of summer breeze, but it was steady and clear.

  “The Frenchmen?” Meric asked.

  The man didn’t answer. He gestured for Honore to go before him, prodded her with the barrel of the pistol when she passed closely enough to him. Meric’s hand gripped his knife hard enough to bruise his palm through his gloves. He’d been bested. The man had known they would be there. Someone had betrayed them again.

  Probably grinding his molars to pulp, Meric led the way to the bow and grabbed the painter with one hand. It wasn’t enough to drag the craft against the dock and away from the tug of the ebbing tide. He needed to slide his knife back up his sleeve and grasp the line with both hands.

  A yard away on the dock, the Frenchmen set up a murmuring chatter. Meric thought he knew some French from the Canadian trappers he had encountered upon occasion. The French of these prisoners sounded like gibberish to him, with the occasional comprehensible word poking through, enough of the latter to indicate they were confused, concerned, a little angry.

  Meric understood how they felt. Instead of holding on to Honore, ensuring her well-being, he held on to a rope and drew a boat to shore with a gunman threatening the lady he had determined to protect at all costs.

  Other hands joined him, hands from the men on the dock. They were coming aboard. They would escape. They would escape in the Bainbridge fishing boat, with Meric none the wiser of who was behind the smuggling of prisoners out of the country.

  He released the line and glanced behind him. If he could distract the man away from Honore long enough, or maybe stab his gun hand—

  “Hands on the rope, Yankee.” The hoarse, growling voice ripped through the air like canvas shredding in a gale. “My gun is at the back of her neck.”

  “Is that true, my dear?” Meric posed the question without intending the endearment.

  Of course it was true. Only something that deadly could silence his Honore.

  No, not his Honore. He had rejected her in that way because she wasn’t good enough for him. Yet she had risked her life for him.

  “It is true, mon chou.” Her voice was slow and steady and clear, as it had been on the cliff when a shredding shrub was all that was between her and death.

  He didn’t understand the last two words, but he read her tone—warm and affectionate. Her own endearment to him.

  His chest tightened. “Let us go free then.” He grasped the line, now to hold the craft against the dock rather than close the distance, as the Frenchmen had done their work. The best he could do now was get Honore away to safety—like her own house.

  Another sharp command in French came from the ringleader. The Frenchmen moved aside, still holding the mooring line. “Get ashore, Yankee.” This time the command came in English.

  Meric climbed ashore, then turned to grasp Honore and lift her over the gunwale and onto the dock.

  “Start running.” The command lashed out. “And don’t spy on us again.” A shot emphasized his words, a blast close enough the pistol ball buzzed past Meric’s ear.

  He grabbed Honore’s hand. As one, they began to run. Behind them, the Frenchmen cried out, words that sounded like curses and protests. He mustn’t look back. No time. Not safe. Must get Honore away, home, locked behind a solid door.

  They reached the path. He nudged her before him.

  “What’s afoot?” She was gasping for air or from fright.

  “Never you mind now. Just go.” She went. He followed.

  So did others. Their footfalls crunched on the shingle. Their voices rattled off the cliff.

  The Frenchmen hadn’t gone on the boat.

  Meric dared a glance back. A swarm of men poised at the edge of the sea, waving and shouting at the boat bobbing about on the surf like a bucket in a stormy pond.

  The man with the growling voice had cut the mooring line and left the prisoners behind.

  “He will never survive.” Honore grasped his arm. “Those waves will swamp him. He doesn’t have rigging.”

  “And who knows what the French will do to us if they come to their senses. If I had more than just a knife, I’d round them up and deliver them back to the prison. As is, they can overwhelm us by sheer numbers.”

  And they had turned, their faces pale in the glow from
sea and stars breaking through the clouds. One man started forward, heading toward the cliff path. Another joined him. A third. A fourth.

  “Honore, start running—now.”

  She ran. Her skirt and cloak gathered in her hands, she sprinted up the path. Meric paused long enough to gather handfuls of stones and fling them at the Frenchmen in pursuit. Rattle, rattle. Thud, thud, thud.

  Nothing he had thrown should thud. No human footfalls made that much noise.

  Horses’ hooves made that much noise. Horses. Several of them cantering along the cliff top. Too fast for the location. Drunken horsemen or—

  Grabbing Honore’s hand again, Meric sprinted across the cliff top to the pasture wall. He lifted her over, then dropped to the grass, drawing her down beside him.

  “Halt in the name of the king!” The voice trumpeted the command like the end of the world.

  “That answers that question.” Meric dropped his head against Honore’s soft curls for a moment, inhaled the sweetness of jasmine, then jerked away. “It was a trap.”

  Just as his father had been trapped, lured to the cliffs with riding officers who were warned he would be there.

  “I think,” Honore murmured, “it still is a trap. We aren’t exactly safe here.”

  Indeed not. Anyone who glanced over the wall could probably see them even in the darkness, especially if they carried torches.

  They carried torches. Their light suddenly flared from above. Meric raised up enough to peer over the wall. The riding officers headed down the path to the shore and the bellowing Frenchmen.

  “Time to go.” He scrambled to his feet, drawing Honore up after him.

  They began to run across the field. It seemed a short distance on a stroll during the light of day. At night, with a likely hangman’s noose about to catch up with them, the pasture looked a dozen miles long. Miles of open territory with not a hint of shelter.

  If only the clouds had remained. If only fog as thick as porridge covered the countryside. If only he had found a way to lock Honore in her room to stop her from coming out to the rendezvous.

  “Halt or we shoot!” The shout soared across the field, too close for comfort. Meric changed their course. Changed it back. Honore stayed with him, following his lead. If shooting started, they would not make good targets, running and not in a straight line.

  “Halt!” A gunshot accompanied the command.

  “Not even close,” Honore gasped out.

  Meric smiled. That was his Honore.

  Ha. If he had any honor he would marry her.

  But wasn’t that the difficulty? He wouldn’t marry her so no one questioned his honor? He was a lout. A fool, a—

  Another shot boomed through the night.

  This one didn’t miss.

  Beside her, Ashmoor grunted and staggered. His fingers loosened from her hold.

  “What is wrong?” She caught him around the waist with one arm.

  “That one . . . got me.” He leaned against her for a moment. “Go on. They won’t want you once they have me.”

  “What? Are you mad? I will not leave you to hang. Come on.” She laid his arm over her shoulders and clasped his waist. “We are almost there.”

  “I don’t think—”

  But they had reached the far wall. Honore poked, prodded, and partly rolled him over. He landed on the ground with a thump. She crouched beside him below the level of the wall, listening to the revenue men bumbling about in the field, calling to one another about how they saw a man fall.

  “Where?” she asked.

  “Shoulder. Back. Hip. I can’t rightly tell.” He started to groan, swallowed it down. “All three?”

  “There is a great deal of blood.” It covered her arm, sticky and metallic, gagging her. “Let me help you up. If we can get to the gate . . .”

  She could lock it. The men would have to go to the house to gain access to the land. Perhaps she could hide Ashmoor by then. No one would believe Miss Bainbridge had been out with Frenchmen. Not even Miss Bainbridge.

  “You can’t lift me.” He lifted himself to his knees with the aid of the wall.

  “I can get you up the rest of the way.” She grasped him under the arms and tugged.

  He sucked in a sharp breath but got one foot under him, then another.

  “Good, good, good. Let us go now. I think they are coming.”

  Difficult to tell in the dark with men shouting, a horse neighing, another gun exploding. Sounded like chaos in the field and beyond to the cliff. Good. Darkness and chaos worked to their advantage.

  She staggered under Ashmoor’s weight. Likely half again her own eight stone. She would not fall and drag him down. He might not get up again. She would be responsible for his death.

  God, if You love us . . . No, that was testing God, was it not? God loved them no matter what.

  God, if You get us out of this . . . No, that was bargaining with God.

  She stopped, not knowing how to talk to God. With Father, she wheedled, bargained, or tested his love to get her own way. She was not supposed to do any of those things with the Lord, but how else did she treat a loving but distant parent?

  “Please, Lord, just help us.” She said the words aloud. “You are not supposed to be a distant parent but here with us always.”

  “Does God help those who do stupid things?”

  “We are still alive, are we not? After all the stupid things I have done, I should probably be dead. But this was not entirely stupid. I think—”

  “Not now.”

  He was right. Now was no time to talk. The riding officers were still in the field, though sounding closer, and the gate loomed before them. Honore fished the keys from the inside pocket of her cloak.

  And another shot accompanied a demand for them to stop.

  The gate was not locked. She had found it unlocked and left it thus. She shoved the latch down and pushed Ashmoor through with the opening gate. She closed it with the merest click and turned the key in the lock. That would slow the officers.

  The wound slowed Ashmoor. What felt like a quarter hour passed before she half supported, half dragged him into the shadows beyond the wall. It must have been only a few minutes, but long enough for at least two revenue men to reach the gate and begin to rattle it, then shout.

  “Keep moving.” Honore stood on tiptoe to whisper in Ashmoor’s ear. “Almost there.”

  Almost to the dower house garden. The house was not far beyond. What then? The king’s men might insist on searching the dower house, if they were allowed to search the property of a peer. She did not know. She could not take the risk. Ashmoor needed care, doctoring, at least bandages and perhaps even the lead ball removed. She could not do any of those things.

  She might have to. She must keep him safe until then or until she could go for aid.

  “Your cellar.” Gasping, Ashmoor leaned against the gate to the dower house garden. “No, not your cellar. Leave me out here. I can say I got here on my own.”

  “I will not leave you alone. You stay here, I stay here.”

  “Why?” He stroked her cheek. “I’m a—a—”

  She pressed the fingers of her clean hand to his lips. “No talking. Save your breath for staying alive.”

  She opened the gate, caught Ashmoor as he lurched forward. He grew heavier with each step toward the dower house—the dark dower house. Either Miss Morrow had not awakened, or she had decided she would remain quietly in her chamber until Honore returned home so as not to alert the two maids sleeping on the third floor. Whatever the reason, Honore breathed a prayer of thanks for the dark stillness of the house. Even the fire in the kitchen hearth glowed as mere banked coals, more testimony to no one being awake and needing fire to boil water for tea or light candles.

  But where to put him in the event the revenue men could search the house?

  She paused just over the threshold into the kitchen. “I wish we had a secret room of some sort, but this house is too modern for that kind of interesting
place.”

  “You have—” Ashmoor sagged against the wall, gasping for breath. “You have a lot of rooms in your cellar . . . Will do.”

  “Our cellar. That brandy.”

  More trouble.

  She had not known what to do with it, so she had cleaned up what had spilled and smelled so badly and left the rest. Now it screamed some sort of collusion with the smugglers, cried out that the house had been used in an illicit manner. No riding officers finding the brandy would stop until they found a man they suspected was a traitor, the man they had been suspecting of treachery since his arrival in the country.

  “I can hide behind the brandy.” Ashmoor’s hand closed on her shoulder with reassuring strength. “They find that, they may stop looking.”

  “May.” She said nothing of suspecting it would spur them on to search for more. “Can you get down the steps?” she asked instead.

  “Of course. It’s just a scratch.”

  From the quantity of blood soaking into his coat and her cloak, the wound or wounds were more than a scratch. He could be dying. But he took a step, then another and another on his own, before he stumbled and grabbed for the edge of the worktable. A wooden bowl tumbled to the floor with a bang like a sounding gong.

  “So sorry.” Ashmoor breathed with quick, shallow gasps like someone who’d been running. “Hide . . . trees . . . instead . . .”

  “You’ll catch your death and someone will find you in the morning.”

  Or find his body.

  She hesitated only a moment. “Sit here.” She pulled out a chair. “I will return.”

  She eased him into a chair, yanked off her cloak and wrapped it around him, then picked up her skirts and raced upstairs. She needed help. That was all that mattered. She needed Miss Morrow’s help.

  The door opened the instant Honore turned the key in the lock.

  “What happened?” Miss Morrow asked.

  “I will tell you all later. Right now—” Honore’s throat closed at the prospect of speaking her fears aloud. “Ashmoor has been shot and I am so afraid—” A sob broke into her words.