Logic of the Heart

by Patricia Veryan

  Somebody else was coming. If the vagrants were in league with the big man, he was doomed. His bones felt like water, but if he lay here waiting for his strength to come back they’d put a period to him in no time. Dazed and panting, he forced his reluctant body up. A guttural voice full of pain groaned, “Who’s … it…?” Then the air was split by a shrill unearthly howl, a sound so unexpected and blood-chilling that for an instant Montclair was frozen. He realized then that one of the pair must have trodden on Welcome’s tail. A deep cry of terror rang out. He leaned over the rail and sent his left fist in a savage jab towards the sound. He connected in a glancing blow, then his arm was seized and he was jerked over the rail as though he had been a child. Powerless to protect himself, he landed hard and lay sprawled, hearing running footsteps that gradually faded into the distance.

  Gradually, his mind cleared, and he lay blinking into the blackness, trying to collect his thoughts. He felt bruised all over, and seemed to be lying on a very hard mattress. There was a sense of urgency. He tried to sit up and a complaining mew sounded. Welcome had settled down comfortably on his chest. Memory returned with a rush. The monster had come after him again in an encounter that would surely haunt his dreams for so long as he lived. It was very quiet now. Had both the intruders left? Welcome mewed again, and sniffed with fishy breath at his face. He put the little cat aside, and found the tinderbox in his pocket. Necessity was certainly the mother of invention; he gripped the box between his teeth and was able to scrape the flint with his left hand and awaken a flame.

  His eyes sought about desperately. A dark form lay crumpled at the foot of the steps, a candle beside it. Frantic with haste, he dragged himself down to that still figure and lit the candle. The man who lay facedown on the stone floor was slim, certainly not the growling monster who’d tried to kill him. More likely it was one of the vagrants.

  Moving as fast as he could, Montclair poured a puddle of melted wax onto the third stair, set the candle in it, then looked about for his crutch. It lay half under the vagrant, for there was no doubt in his mind now about the man’s identity. He wondered if he’d killed the rogue. His question was answered by a faint inarticulate sound. The huddled criminal moved, his stocking-capped head lifting slightly. He was probably armed. Valentine crawled with painful haste to the pistol and snatched it up.

  “All right … you treacherous cur,” he panted. “Get up. Slowly. One false move and … I shall fire!”

  The vagrant struggled to hands and knees and turned a bruised and bewildered face.

  Montclair’s pistol was aimed squarely between the eyes of Mrs. Susan Henley.

  15

  “Mrs. Sue?” gasped Montclair, flabbergasted.

  Susan had suffered through the most miserable day of her life, capped by a hideous encounter with an unseen and nightmarish creature whose great paws had seized her up as though she were a doll. Convinced she was about to be murdered, she’d been too terrified to give vent to the shrieks that had welled in her throat, and then someone else had struck her a cruel blow that had plunged her into unconsciousness. Now, to see Valentine’s battered but beloved face quite overpowered her resolution, and she reached out to him, whimpering, “V-Val…? Oh—is it—is it really you?”

  She looked like a frightened little girl, lying there with her arms outstretched, her dark hair straying in wild strands from beneath that ridiculous stocking cap. Struck to the heart, he threw the pistol aside and clawed his way to her, holding her close as she flung herself into his arms and clung to him, weeping hysterically.

  He cradled her clumsily in his right arm and pulled off the stocking cap, stroking back her hair and murmuring soothingly that it was “all right now,” while she sobbed and gulped out tearful little incoherencies.

  In a little while her panic eased, and she was quieter. Montclair’s befuddled head was beginning to function, and inevitably and inexorably came the questions.

  “Val,” gulped Susan. “What w-was it? That—that awful thing?”

  Inestimably relieved that his first question had been answered without the need to have asked it, he managed to give her his handkerchief and she dabbed at her tears. “I think,” he said, “it was the same man who threw me into the Folly.”

  She gave a gasp and pulled back to look up at him. A cut on his cheekbone had sent a crimson trail down to his chin and stained his cravat; his hair was wildly dishevelled, and the shoulder of his coat was ripped.

  “Good heavens!” she exclaimed, wiping the blood from his cheek. “Did it—he—come inside the house searching for you, then?”

  “I don’t know. I thought— Sue—what are you doing down here at this hour, and wearing those—those breeches?”

  She realized belatedly how absurd she must look. “I sometimes disguise myself as a man, if I sail with Andy. I can’t help with the boat otherwise. And today he needed help with the cargo, so—” She saw shock in his face and changed the subject hurriedly. “Oh, never mind all that. Val, your leg isn’t—”

  “Broken again? No, I thank God.” Remembering how the intruder had hurled him across the steps, he could only marvel that he hadn’t broken his neck. “I thought you’d gone up to bed. Have you been down here working all these hours?”

  “I stayed to lock up. Andy and the men were absolutely exhausted. And—and I thought I heard Welcome in the lower cellar. I went down there, but couldn’t find him, and—and I began to have the most ghastly feeling that there was someone—something else down there … in the dark … w-with me!” She put her hands over her face, and Valentine pulled her to him again. Shuddering, she gulped, “And then I—I heard someone creeping down the steps, and I was terribly … frightened. So I blew out my candle and waited.

  “Poor girl. Don’t think about it. Come”—he smiled down into her grubby, tearful face—“can you stand?”

  Susan peered tremblingly into the shadows. “You—you don’t think it—he—is still—”

  “No, no. I heard him run off.”

  She stood, retrieved the crutch, and helped him up. He moved with slow caution, and she said with ready sympathy, “I wonder you were not killed. Valentine! Whatever were you doing down here?”

  The sudden suspicion in her voice reminded him of just why he had ventured those cellar steps. “I heard someone creeping about,” he said in a half truth. “I’d a notion your prized vagrants were down here robbing you blind, so I decided to catch them in the act.” He gave a wry smile. “I got rather more than I bargained for.”

  “Do you say that—with only one usable arm and your leg broken—you came down here all alone—to fight for our sake?”

  The look of awed wonderment in her eyes was making him feel about an inch tall. He said gruffly, “Not—entirely. You see … I thought … Well, I was afraid—” And in a rush he said, “Monteil’s a very slippery customer, Susan. I feared he was very likely using you to store cargo that—well, that wasn’t what you believed it to be.”

  Susan’s heart sank, but she still thought it the most courageous act she’d ever heard of, and thus her voice was kinder than it might have been when she said, “So you came down in the middle of the night, when you thought we were all asleep, to find out—is that it?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry if that sounds deplorable. At all events, I didn’t have time to spy. That great brute came roaring and snuffling after me, and I was too dashed busy to—”

  Susan closed her eyes, shuddering. “Don’t! Don’t!”

  “You are overwrought—small wonder. And your poor face is so bruised! Gad, what a villain I am! But I’d never have done it had I known it was—”

  She jerked her eyes open and stared at him. “You struck me?”

  “I didn’t mean to. It was so dark. And I thought you were some rascally smuggler.”

  She shrank away from him, her expression one of pure horror.

  And suddenly, he knew. He gasped, “My God! You are a smuggler!”

  How appalled he looked; how stunned. Perver
sely, she felt as if a weight was gone from her shoulders, and with a small sigh, she said, “Yes. I can imagine how that must appall you. But it is one of the reasons why we wanted Highperch. The proximity to the river, our own private dock, and so far from prying eyes.” She smiled tremulously. “Or so we thought.”

  Valentine’s physical distress was as nothing to the searing rage that possessed him. ‘“So you thought,’ is it?” he snarled. “Say rather, ‘So you did not think’! Good Lord above! Where were Lyddford’s wits gone jauntering that he would involve you in such—”

  “My brother only went into this for my sake!” she said defensively. “We were left all but destitute after my husband’s death. Andy loves Priscilla and me, and—”

  “And his love for you sanctions that you should lower yourself to wear breeches? He sees no objection to putting you in danger of being exposed to fire from a Revenue cutter? Or have you already had a Navy sloop put a shot across your bows? Dammitall! The man must be mad to—”

  “To try to keep us from going hungry? To be without a roof over our heads? Much you know of such horrors, Mr. Montclair, coddled and pampered all your days and—”

  “Don’t attack me, so as to defend him! Did neither of you idiots give a thought to Priscilla? What the devil do you think would become of her if you were thrown in Newgate? Did you plan to take her with you into that hellhole?”

  The very thought made her feel sick. Tears came into her eyes again, and she began to shake inside. “I—We— She would be—provided for,” she gulped.

  “Would she now?” he said jeeringly. “By whom? Your devoted admirer, Monteil? Is that the hold he has over you? Is that why you let him paw you and—”

  Wrath blazed through her. Before she could stop herself her hand shot out and slapped his face hard.

  Taken off balance, Valentine staggered.

  With a sob of remorse, Susan flew to put her own dirty hand over his gripping fingers, and look tearfully up into his strained face. “Oh, Val! Why must we always quarrel? I am so sorry!”

  Looking down into her woebegone face, his frown faded. “And I’m a proper fool,” he groaned. “Of all the times to take you to task when you’ve had such a dreadful time and are likely feeling poorly.”

  Her lips trembled. “Only that—my head does ache so,” she quavered.

  “Of course it does, poor sweet. Gad, what a brute I am!” Bracing himself, he lifted her hand and pressed his lips not onto the fingers but into the warm palm.

  A tremor raced through Susan. Her headache was forgotten and her heart began to thunder. What a magic this man wielded over her, even at a moment like this. Mesmerized, she gazed up into his lean bruised face, the dark eyes, now as soft as velvet, the smile of such tenderness that hovered about his lips. He bent to her, and she made no attempt to evade his questing mouth, but raised her face eagerly. Her eyes closed as their lips touched. A flame seemed to enfold her. He pulled her closer. Who would dream the invalid still had such power? Who would dream a kiss could be so sweet, so fiery, so all-consuming? He kissed her again, and again, and joying in his caresses she felt dazed and weak and enraptured, and saw the same emotions in his eyes. But she saw also how pale he was, and when he tried to kiss her again, she pulled back and said breathlessly, “No, sir. You think me—shameless, I do not doubt, but—I’d not have you think me heartless as well. Come. You must get to your bed.”

  Valentine took a deep, steadying breath. “No. Susan, my lovely Free Trader, so long as we’re down here, there’s something I must do.”

  “But you are so very tired.”

  “And what of you?” He touched her cheek. “How indomitable you are, my dearest. Humour me on this one last point. What do you really ship for Imre Monteil?”

  At once she stiffened again. “What would you expect?”

  “No—pray do not go into the boughs. I don’t ask out of jealousy or vindictiveness. I’ve told you my feelings where he is concerned. I’d trust him as far as I could throw this house. Have you ever seen what is inside his bales and boxes?”

  Frowning and reluctant, she said a curt “No.”

  “Where are they stored?”

  “Mostly in the lower cellar. But some”—she gestured to the far wall—“over there.” She caught Valentine’s arm as he started toward the piled boxes. “What do you mean to do?”

  “Have a look.”

  “No! You must not! Val—he has been so kind. So helpful. It would be very wrong to interfere with his goods.”

  “It was very wrong for him to store ’em in my house!”

  She argued, but he was adamant, and at length she watched helplessly while he sat on one box and began to struggle with the ropes that contained another. She was sure he wouldn’t be able to manage with just one hand, and refused him any aid in what she said was a “dishonourable enterprise.” Welcome had no such compunction and came to pounce with great ferocity at the jerking ropes and generally impede Valentine’s progress. The strength of his long fingers stood him in good stead, however, and after a tussle he at last pulled the rope away, the cat dangling determinedly from the end.

  Despite her aversion to this, Susan’s curiosity got the best of her, and she stepped closer. Montclair gave an astounded exclamation when he opened the lid. For a moment Susan thought the dimness deceived her, but then she gave a little cry of astonishment.

  “Bricks!” gasped Montclair. “Nothing but—bricks and old sacking! What the deuce…? Sue—let’s have a look in another.”

  This time she did not refuse him, and together they opened two more boxes, one of which was nailed shut so that she had to search around for a suitable tool, finally locating a screwdriver with which to pry the top up. The result was the same.

  On her knees, Susan stared in bewilderment into the third box. “Small wonder they were so heavy.”

  “But why on earth would he hire you to haul such a nonsensical cargo? Unless…” He took the screwdriver and chipped off a corner of one of the bricks, then scowled at it.

  “No gold?” said Susan with a tired smile. “Does it not strike you that there might be a perfectly simple answer to all this, Valentine?”

  His scowl deepened. “I am very dense, I fear. What is your simple answer? That the Swiss gentleman is a philanthropist and invents cargoes only to throw some income in Lyddford’s way?”

  She nodded. “I can think of nothing else. And how very kind that he would—”

  “Kind, my Aunt Maria! If Imre Monteil ever did one thing in his life but what there was some ulterior motive, I wish I may learn of it!”

  He looked so fierce. She smiled a faint inner smile and, infuriatingly, did not argue.

  * * *

  “No, I do not understand,” said Lyddford angrily, turning from the sunny withdrawing room windows to face his sister. “You should have awoken me at once! A fine thing to have murderers popping in and out of the house at all hours of the night! And furthermore, I’d like to know—”

  “But I did waken Starry. And she and Deemer searched the whole house and secured all the locks. You were so tired, and—”

  “And I suppose you were not!” He eyed her pale face and shadowed eyes, inwardly amazed by her courage, but fuming none the less. “A fine night you had, and me snoring like any dullard through the whole! Dammit! If I lay my hands on the man who dared put that bruise on your face, I’ll—”

  “I reckon as we all feel the same, Mr. Andy,” Bo’sun Dodman put in, his ruddy face grim and set. “When we find him there’ll be one less murderer roving England’s by-ways. The thing is—what was he doing here?”

  “Looking for Montclair, I suppose,” said Mrs. Starr, seated beside Susan at this morning council of war.

  Lyddford ran an impatient hand through his dark locks. “I don’t see that. If he meant to put a period to Montclair, why was he lurking about in the cellar? He certainly didn’t expect to find him sleeping down there!”

  “I thought the same,” said Susan. “Unless pe
rhaps he broke into the house and then decided to steal something from the cargo.”

  “He’d have had to know we’ve been off-loading cargo,” said the Bo’sun thoughtfully. “Could have, I suppose. But why would anyone want to steal a brick?”

  Mrs. Starr observed, “Now there’s something makes no sense whatsoever.”

  “Chess,” Angelo de Ferdinand agreed from the windowseat. “Monsieur theses bricks he’s is wantings, whys it?”

  Susan said, “I believe he may have done it out of kindness.”

  “The devil!” snapped her brother, a flush staining his cheeks. “D’you mean ‘charity’ by any chance? I comprehend he has a tendre for you, but I’ll not stand still for that sort of flummery! You may be sure I’ll tax him with it!”

  “Can’t do that, Mr. Andy,” the Bo’sun pointed out gravely. “Not unless you’re willing to own that we poked our noses in his boxes.”

  There was a chorus of agreement, and Lyddford muttered that he’d have to think about how to broach the matter. “Meanwhile,” he added, “what I’d like to know, Mrs. H., is how you and Valentine Montclair came to be down in the cellar together in the first place.”

  Susan felt every eye turn to her, and knew her face was scarlet. “We weren’t,” she said. “Not exactly. I had intended to follow you straight up to bed, Andy, but I sat down to pull my boots off, and fell asleep. When I woke up it was past midnight, and I thought I heard someone in the cellar.”

  “So you went tripping down there, all alone, and unarmed. Famous behaviour, upon my word! I never fancied you short of a sheet, Susan.”

  “I thought it was Welcome,” she said simply.