Myriah Fire

by Conn, Claudy

  Abduction it seemed was out of the question, for she was too well guarded by her groom. No, he would not be able to abduct her whilst they had their meeting tomorrow. What of Wimborne Towers, he thought, one brow low over his eye, the other going up, for suddenly he had a notion. Yes! Could he not linger about Wimborne unbeknownst? Certainly he could. He would wait for the right moment, and with the special marriage license he had procured safely tucked in his pocket he would be one step ahead of his game.

  He entered the inn, feeling suddenly ravenous, and proceeded to the tavern room.

  “Hallo!” Stone called from the counter. “I was just about to have my dinner. Why not join me?”

  Sir Roland nodded amiably enough and thought, Why not? The fellow might have more to tell. Pointing to young Stone’s pewter dish, he ordered a plate of the same and a bumper of ale before joining the preventive officer at his table.

  The young man sighed heavily as he leaned over his plate and gave Roland a calculated look.

  Sir Roland discarded his greatcoat, hat, and gloves, on a nearby chair and returned the look with a smirk. “Catch any smugglers lately?”

  Stone scowled. “Everything has been quiet—too quiet—but following a lead we got in Winchelsea.”

  “Oh? Anything interesting?”

  Stone opened his mouth and then shut it quickly, for the innkeeper had sidled over with Sir Roland’s dinner. They waited for the man to depart, and then Stone inclined his head and lowered his voice. “I think we got ’em this time. Aye, that I do. Tonight we’ll have the bastards …”

  A lad, thin, small, and not more than nine years of age, pressed himself against the narrow opening of the tavern counter and sighed. His mother had placed the brown package in his hands and bade him deliver it to the innkeeper’s wife. He had tried to hand the thing into Thomas’s hands but found the busy tavern keeper almost impossible to halt. Then the sound of Stone’s voice filtered through his boredom, and his head moved sharply at the words.

  Stone was well known to the lad. The preventive officer was known to all the men (and their boys) who worked Lord Wimborne’s galley. Cautiously, he painted himself against a recess in the tavern wall where he was well hidden from view.

  Stone continued, feeling safe by the emptiness of the tavern room. “Know they plan on a crossing just about seven or so tonight. Mean to be there when they do … Tide is in, and we have it on good authority that their galley be leaving from Wimborne Dike. Our Winchelsea informer tells us they plan their drop at Knockholt Beach, and our Revenue Cutter will be waiting, on ’em. Lord, but I’ve been waiting for this night, I have.”

  “You talk as if they were the Hawkhurst Gang themselves.” Roland smiled mockingly.

  “Aye, maybe I do, and maybe they ain’t, as I have to admit the Hawkhurst were a bloody bunch, and these gentlemen be but a speck of dust in comparison. All the same, they be traitors to the Crown, for they are giving the French our gold.”

  Sir Roland’s sharp eyes caught the movement at the bar entrance, and he motioned Stone to silence. The preventive officer turned around at once, and his dark brows met over his hawk nose. “Eh—what are you doing there, boy?” he demanded of the lad.

  “Me? Nuthin’ … I be waiting on Thomas, that’s all—got a gown, m’mum done up for his wife, I do.”

  “John Bilkes!” Thomas the innkeeper appeared from nowhere and took the lad by the arm. “The missus be upstairs waiting on that dress. You best take it to her quick.”

  “Aye,” the lad said, scurrying out of the tavern room and rushing down the corridor. He turned to find the heavy Thomas laboring after him and shoved the package into his hands. “Take this, sir. Got to go after m’pa, I do. Got to tell him.”

  “Tell him … tell him what, lad?” the innkeeper asked, frowning, but the lad was already running off.

  * * *

  Myriah heard the thumping of the knocker and ran down the stairs to fling open the door. There she found a young lad staring up at her just before he collapsed to his knees. “Oh, you poor boy—whatever is wrong, child?” Myriah asked, observing his condition.

  The boy blinked, opened his mouth to speak, and found no breath left with which to form the words. He sucked in air and tried to get up. Myriah helped him and steadied him against the doorjamb. “What is it? What is wrong?”

  “Need Master Billy.”

  “Master Billy is … resting.”

  “Came straight here hoping Master Billy could go warn ’em. Don’t know where the galley is m’self.” The lad gasped in staccato breaths.

  “Warn them? Tell me at once.”

  The boy eyed her for a moment, caught some air, and managed, “You must be the one saved Master Billy … aye, then … is he able yet to get about?”

  “No … so tell me now.”

  “Lookee, I don’t know if I should, but I ain’t got no choice, besides it don’t make no ha’porth o’difference, at this point, do it? So … I’ll tell ye all I know. I was in the tavern, and I heard Stone. He was saying to some flash cove how’s they got ’em tonight. Oh, lordy, lordy, my poor pa … they mean to catch ’em and hang ’em, they do!”

  “What?” Myriah shrieked. “Explain yourself.”

  “They know the galley be going down the dike, plan on cornering ’em at the entrance to the channel. But if they don’t manage the thing … then they aim to ’ave at ’em at the Knockholt Beach where they land.”

  “I see—right then, lad. I know where they are. Go upstairs and tell Master William what has occurred. Don’t let him get up—mind now. If he tries, you get my groom who is sitting with him to help you bolt him to the ground if you have to. Tell him I know where his brother is and mean to warn him. Hurry!” Myriah said before she rushed out of the house and felt the night air on her cheeks.

  Thank God she had fallen into the dike this morning, Myriah thought as she sped across the little arched bridge on her way to the spot where the galley boat was housed. Faith. This morning? How long ago it seemed, and how much had passed since. All the pain and the tears that loving Kit Wimborne had caused her to shed meant nothing in that moment. She only knew that she would not, could not, allow him to be uncovered in his game. His game was wrong. She knew that and did not care. What had she to do with right and wrong? What had she to do with proprieties? She only knew she loved, and for that love she would give her all if she could, even if she never saw him again.

  They hanged smugglers—but they would not hang Kit. No, being an aristocrat would win him, instead, a subtle destruction. They would take his name and drag it through the slime, and that would destroy all trace of his heart—of his pride. She would die before she would let them do that to him. He was no doubt driven to desperation for his people … his tenants and himself. She had to get to him and warn him. She had to stop him from going out with the galley this night.

  She held up her skirts as she ran through the tall, swaying grass, her eyes peering into the darkness, when suddenly she stopped to listen. Then she saw him in the galley and ran to him. She jumped into the boat with more speed than finesse, which set the lads to complaining as she rocked the vessel; hands outstretched, she cried, “Kit, oh Kit … Stone is coming, and if they don’t get you at this end, they mean to trap you at Knockholt …” Myriah’s breath came in quick spurts.

  Kit held her shoulders and looked into her face. “What is this?”

  She told him about the lad who had come to warn them as he had overheard Stone’s conversation.

  Kit turned to his men. “Right then, lads. John, go off and have our crew meet us at Beach Head instead of Knockholt. Hurry now, there is no time, and make it blue lanterns! Ride sharp now, mate.”

  “Aye,” the heavyset boy said as he scrambled out of the boat and up the slope, disappearing from their view.

  “No, Kit—no, you don’t mean to go still! You can’t. It’s too dangerous. Please … think of Billy—think of your name,” Myriah cried, taking his lapels into her hand and attempting
to bring him to his senses by wrinkling them furiously.

  “Hush, sweetings. I damn well want to set your mind at ease, but I have to go tonight. There is no help for it. Don’t ask me any questions, only believe me—it will be all right. Now you’ve done us a good turn—so out with you …”

  Realizing she was in the boat with him, Myriah folded her arms across one another and replied, “No.”

  “You will go and now—I’ve got no time to waste convincing you, love. If I have to pick you up and dump you into the sea in order to get you to go home, I shall.” His tone indicated that he would not spend any time arguing the point, yet Myriah felt she had to stay with him and wouldn’t budge.

  “Please, Kit. I can help—I could be a lookout.”

  He laughed and chucked her chin, but at that moment they heard horses rumbling in the distance. The sound sent a shaft of silence through them all, and Myriah found herself face down against the wood planking of the boat.

  The smell of seaweed, salt encrustations, and fish threatened to overcome Myriah. Her eyes were shut tight, and her nose was pressed against the bottom of the seaworthy galley. She was vaguely aware of tremendous quiet above her until she heard Kit’s whispered command: “Steady, lads … keep the beat steady!”

  The open boat was moving through the still water at an incredible rate. She had never known what force men could apply to the oars. She heard the swish of water against wood, she listened to the quick, even beat, and a tingle of excitement swept through her. Then the sound of the dragoons slashed through the night. She heard Corporal Stone’s staccato orders and knew him to be close, too close. Still Kit urged his men on. He was like a god, wholly at ease, confident—instilling his men with the spirit to go on.

  Again they heard Stone’s command, followed by a series of gunshots. She prayed. She had often heard that smugglers would turn on the dragoons and engage them in gunfire. She couldn’t bear it if Kit were to kill a man who was only doing his duty. She put the fear away and refused to think about it.

  She loved him, and at the moment that was all that mattered—loving him and being with him.

  Suddenly the boat pitched to the left, and Myriah put her hands around the firm, strong leg beside her. Hoisting herself up to Lord Wimborne’s knees, she could see that the causeway had split. Faith—it had forked and left the riding officers standing foolishly at bay.

  The dragoons were on the wrong embankment with no immediate way to the dike the boat had taken. They stood like a pack of foolish boys, waving their blunderbusses and shouting threats and curses at the tidesmen’s heads.

  Kit looked back at them and, without slowing his pace at the oars, began to laugh. It was a merry sound and infected his crew until they were all giving way to mirth, well pleased with themselves and each other.

  Myriah shifted her position so that she sat, legs tucked under herself between the span of Lord Wimborne’s knees. She felt the salt-water breeze rush at her, for they were at the head of open water, and she heard Kit’s jovial voice. “Right then, lads, keep a sharp eye out, and it is to Boulogne!”

  The men around her chuckled, and she settled in between his legs to listen to the splash of water against the boat’s side. Myriah gazed up at Kit’s ruggedly handsome face with wonder. He was everything she had ever dreamed of in a man … and more—although she hadn’t counted on moonshining. She saw the pistol in his belt and touched it as she looked up at him. He smiled at her as she asked, “You would never use this … against innocent men … would you, Kit?”

  He chuckled. “What kind of fiend do you take me for, love? If I use it ’twould be to lay a few poor devils back … give them pause, not do them in.”

  She smiled, but the sea wind was strong and the cold shot through her thin silk dress, causing her to tremble. He frowned and pulled in his oars, balanced them, and shrugged off his cloak.

  She found herself being wrapped gently in its folds and felt a kiss planted on her forehead. “Here, sweetings, keep low right where you are, between my legs, and you should be warm enough. I wouldn’t have had you on such a journey, but there was nothing for it—couldn’t leave you to the dragoons.”

  “Kit, here with you is precisely where I want to be,” she answered breathlessly.

  He eyed her for a long moment but didn’t speak. To Myriah she felt as though he had to shake himself loose from her to keep an eye to their crossing. She smiled to herself.

  She scanned the men—his men—and reminded herself that they were smugglers all, and yet, something was off. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. They had the look of men born to the land, not the sea. To be sure, they were dressed as seamen with woolly caps covering their heads, kerchiefs round their necks, and they were working the oars with solid, strong movements. Still … something was off.

  They all had leather straps slung around their bodies, from which hung empty leather purses. She sighed and supposed those purses would be filled tonight.

  The sea was kind, the wind light and in their favor. There was no tossing to slow their pace, and Myriah looked at the calm water and sighed. It was too beautiful.

  The moonlight made a narrow white path from the sea to heaven, and the stars twinkled brightly in the black velvet sky.

  “It’s a full moon tonight, just what we’ve been waiting for,” Kit said to her casually.

  “I … I don’t want to hear it …” Myriah answered, as she realized the enormity of their crime. This way of life—this smuggling—would make it impossible for them to be together … because of Roland.

  “You don’t? You are a mystery, Myriah—a veritable mystery. I would have thought you would love the adventure.” Kit smiled and nudged her gently with his leg.

  She placed her cheek against his knee, and the action brought his eyes upon her.

  “Myriah …”

  “Yes, Kit?”

  “Are you warm enough, love?”

  She felt as though he wanted to say more but couldn’t with all the interested ears around him. She smiled and answered, “Yes, Kit.”

  She was headed for Boulogne, France … and they were at war with the French. What was she doing?

  The bay was now well behind them, and their galley appeared no more than a dark strip of wood on a vast sea. Her map at home outlined the English Channel. On paper it looked so very narrow, but that was paper, and this … this was reality, and no land was in sight.

  Kit glanced at her, and finding her mouth dour, rallied her. “Well, sweetings, something has you by the tail—out with it.”

  She pulled a face at him. “That, my lord, is a most ungentlemanly thing to say to a lady.”

  He grinned. “Lady—my dear girl, tonight you are naught but a female smuggler!”

  “Thanks to you.” She wagged a finger at his face.

  “I thought you wanted to tag along with us?” his lordship returned amiably.

  “I did—what does that signify?”

  He laughed and began reciting.

  With her pistols loaded she went on board,

  By her side hung a glittering sword,

  In her belt two daggers—well arm’d for war,

  Was the female smuggler, who ne’er feared a scar.

  She giggled. “You are jolly, aren’t you? For I do assure you I have no weapons about me, and I am very fearful of being scarred!”

  “Then why are you here, Myriah?”

  “Not for the adventure,” she answered softly as she started to yawn, and it wasn’t long after that she fell asleep.

  The next thing she knew he was rousing her, calling her name. “Myriah … look … Boulogne … look, love … ’tis there …”

  She realized she had been sleeping and stretched both her arms and her neck as she peered through the darkness, past the gentle peaks of waves, but she couldn’t see a thing. “No—I don’t see a thing.”

  “Don’t you? Must see about your eyes, love.” He was grinning like a boy.

  She slapped his leg and then on
ce again cuddled against him for warmth. “It feels like we have been on the water forever …”

  “We have, sweetings—this same trip took us five hours the last time, but without checking my timepiece, I’d say we did it in three.”

  “Oh, Kit—must you smuggle?” she asked on a plea.

  He laughed. “Must I? No, there are many who would say I most definitely must not!”

  “Do not poke fun at me, Kit. I am serious,” Myriah said appealingly.

  He looked at her and opened his mouth, and she felt in that moment he wanted to tell her something. However, he turned away, and she couldn’t see his expression, even in the moonlight.

  She sighed sadly and looked again at the endless stretch of dark water, wondering why he had suddenly turned her up cold.

  The next thirty minutes passed swiftly, and suddenly Myriah heard one of the men call ‘land.’ She got excited in spite of herself, for she had never seen France. She had heard so much about it from her father, who had made the Grand Tour and who had seen Napoleon during the brief peace in 1802.

  She would actually set foot on French soil—and how she wished it were Paris and during peacetime. She had started to daydream about it when she spied two wagons and a crew of French sea worthies flapping their arms about in greeting. She then felt the galley scrape against the shore, and her heart jumped into her throat.

  Kit’s men were nimbly clambering out of the open boat, and then Kit himself was taking her hand and lifting her out, but not before he held her tightly against himself and breathed something low and heady into her ear.

  He led her along the pebbly beach and held her around her waist as he paused. She looked up at him and then followed his line of vision to a small, dark stranger.

  The man was dressed in what she imagined a French gentleman would wear, and his many-tiered gray greatcoat came from the hands of a skillful tailor. He inclined his head towards Kit and said in French, “Bon soir, mon ami … it was a good journey, oui?”

  “Oui, it was a good journey,” Kit replied, moving away to position the man on one side of him.