The Cornish Heiress (Heiress, Book Two)

by Roberta Gellis

  They made love gently, lingeringly, without the frantic heat that had marked their first parting. Philip spent a long time just stroking Meg from shoulder to thigh, following the path of his hands with his lips. He was relaxed, certain of his purpose although he was not certain of how he would accomplish it. There was, nonetheless, no need for him to get as much of Meg as he could. He was sure this time he would be back to take her home with him in a few weeks.

  Megaera, on the other hand, kept telling herself this was the end, that she must break with Philip, that she could not deceive him any longer. She should have been completely miserable; in fact, she was not sad at all. Something inside her simply would not accept the facts as her mind stated them. Against all reason, against all denial, there was a sure expectation of continued joy and love.

  Their mutual climax—a thing they did not often achieve—was an additional blessing. If it was less explosive than other times, bringing sighs rather than groans, it was sweeter. They lay locked together as the long, soft thrills slowly faded. Then it was time to dress. They had taken so long over their foreplay that it was full dark and John might be back at any time. Still neither was inclined to light the lamp, fearing that the peace and fulfillment each felt might not be reflected, in the other’s expression. Better, then, to dress by the dim red glow of the braziers. They were not going to a ball. It would not matter if Meg’s hair was tousled under her woolen cap or if Philip had not shaved.

  This love and concern for each other, the unwillingness to show a face of joy or make too casual a remark and unwittingly hurt a less peaceful partner, saved their lives. Dressing quietly, silently, they heard the hiss of a whisper, the crunch of a step on a pebble that gritted on the stone floor. Into each mind leapt the same question and answer. John? No! John’s foot might crunch on a pebble, but to whisper was beyond him.

  Philip’s gun was in his hand, loaded and cocked, before another crunch confirmed the invasion. He did not wait or question, but darted around the screen and fired at the sound. There was very little chance that he would hit any target. It was utterly black in the cave, except for the faintest gray luminousness at the opening, and his movement spoiled his impression of where the sound had originated. What he hoped was that the fear generated by his shot would unbalance whoever had come into the cave.

  The noise itself would be a shock, and it would show that he was aware of the intrusion. This alone might drive away any single, unarmed person who had come to steal a keg or some tobacco. If there were more than one and they were armed, Philip’s loosing off a shot might be considered a panic reaction. The intruders probably thought Meg was alone and might believe she would need time to reload and might try to rush her. At worst, seeing his gun spit fire one of them might try to hit him by aiming at the sparks.

  It was the last that happened. As he fired Philip crouched, working his reload mechanism. Before he had completed his loading, a gun barked. Philip slammed home the lever and returned the fire, aiming as the other had done at the powder spark. A shriek followed, and Philip smiled grimly, moving sideways again as someone shouted, “That’s both her pops. We can take her now.”

  Two more shots went off simultaneously—Philip’s third and Meg’s first—both aimed at the voice but unfortunately that was a less sure guide than powder sparks and neither hit. A string of curses greeted the double shot as the intruders shouted warnings to each other to be careful, that the dummy was armed. It was a reasonable conclusion since the men did not know that Philip was back. It was also a dangerous conclusion. Four shots had been fired, so four guns must be empty.

  The only things that saved Philip and Meg from a concerted rush, which might well have overpowered them, were the men’s fear of coming to grips with John, and Black Bart’s terror of the cave itself. He had come in a little way past the entrance, the dark inside not being much greater than that outside near the opening, but he could not go forward another inch. It had been he who had shouted that Meg should be taken. Had he been able to rush forward—he still had an unfired gun in each hand—the three unhurt men would have followed. But Bart’s terror of the echoing black immensity facing him held him fast.

  The other three could not quite decide on their approach. If they delayed, presumably Red Meg and the dummy would have time to reload. If they rushed forward, the dummy might catch one of them and squeeze the life out of him. None would have minded much if it happened to one of the others; it would be a good thing because it would provide an opportunity to rush up to the screams and shoot the dummy in the head. Unfortunately, each was as reluctant to be the victim as he was indifferent to the victimization of the others.

  Philip, of course, was already reloaded, ears straining for a sound, but it was his eyes that gave the clue. Periodically his glance went to the cave opening, still faintly lighter than the interior. He had no idea whether John had been waylaid or whether he would suddenly appear. If so, Philip wanted to warn him. But how could one warn a man who could not hear a shout? Nonetheless he looked at the cave entrance. Suddenly there was a flicker of a blacker shadow there. He fired at it before he thought and before he could hate himself for having hurt John when he had just been thinking about him, a scream responded followed by gasping moans. Philip sighed with relief. That could not be John.

  Two men had been hit, but Philip had no idea whether they had been put out of action permanently—or how many more there were. An outburst of obscenities came from the right of the cave entrance. To Philip’s left Meg’s pistol barked. The obscenities cut off abruptly as the bullet whined in ricochet. Philip could hear Meg sobbing softly and fumbling behind the screen, then the tiny scratch of paper tearing. Good girl! She might cry, but she didn’t lose her head. She was opening a cartridge to reload. Philip’s own gun was ready, but he had no target. He stared hopelessly into the blackness, feeling the approach of a dozen men, although he knew there could not be so many close; he would have heard their breathing.

  Then, as his eyes swept back and forth, he saw a faint gilding of the lesser darkness that marked the cave entrance. John? Reinforcements for the attackers? No, it must be John. The intruders would not show a light. It was maddening not to be able to warn the man. All Philip could think of was to fire his gun when John was fully in the entrance. Perhaps the deaf-mute would see the powder flash. But would he know what it meant? John was not exactly quick in his thinking.

  It would never work. The gilding grew brighter. Probably the intruders had not yet noticed it since they were looking in toward the back of the cave, but the light would soon be strong enough to draw their attention. Philip started to edge forward. He could not let John walk into the cave carrying a lantern in his hand. They would shoot him down at once at point-blank range because the big man would be blind to anything outside the small circle of light and, at the same time, the light would make him a perfect target.

  Between one step and another, Philip hesitated. Would he be leaving Meg to be caught if he went to warn John? And then there was no time for decision. Everything happened at once. Someone saw the light and shouted, turning suddenly, feet grating on the stone floor. Philip fired at the sound, quite close to him, too good a target to miss. A shriek and more grating, a thud, proved his aim had been true. Simultaneously the cave was full of light! Philip was temporarily blinded. Two guns went off, but there was no response and Philip did not know whether the shots had missed or, although hit, John could not scream.

  As his sight adjusted Philip realized that the lantern had been dropped, spilling its oil across the floor. That had ignited, furnishing the sudden blaze of light. Although blind, Philip had reloaded the Lorenzoni, but he never had a chance to use it. John had just come to his full height after he had fallen or crouched. He opened his mouth, perhaps to scream, but no sound came out, not even his usual distressed gobbling. Philip had to glance away to look, around the cave, for enemies. When he looked back, he saw John lurching to the side, heard a man scream—a high, thin shriek of mindless terr
or that stopped abruptly on a creaking noise that ended in a small, sharp snap.

  As both men fell, two others ran—one limping and the other, staggering, both whimpering—out of the cave. Philip sent a bullet after them on principle, but he did not think they would be back immediately. He hurried over to where John lay, and gasped. The light from the burning oil was dying down, most having been consumed and there being nothing else to burn on the floor, but there was enough light to see the blood, a huge pool of it. Philip could not imagine how so much blood could pour out of a man in so short a time. Both were dead. John had been hit at close range. How he could have stood up and—Philip shuddered and looked away. He had twisted the other man’s head right around. Although the body lay on its stomach, the face horribly contorted, eyes bulging, stared right at Philip.

  He stood and turned, holding out a hand to warn Meg away, but Meg was not coming. Then Philip screamed! In the last of the light he saw her lying on the ground, her face covered with blood. He was beside her in a moment, cradling her in his arms, too frozen with grief and loss to cry. His utter silence, breath held in horror, was the source of his relief. He realized that she was not dead, that the low, whispery moan was his beloved drawing breath.

  Then he became frantically busy, carrying her to the bed, covering her warmly, lighting the lamp, pouring water from the pitcher to sponge her face. He was trembling with terror. He had no idea how long she had been unconscious, but if it was really long… Half mad with fear, Philip sponged her face, her hair, but blood was still flowing. At last he found the place of the wound.

  Just above the temple on the right the bullet had struck, but it had not entered. There was a horrid gash showing white bone under the welling blood and matted hair. Philip nearly fainted. He had been saddened by the pool of blood that marked John’s death, but not even that really bothered him. He had toughened since he shot that first highwayman. Only, this was Meg! His Meg—and he did not know what to do for her.

  Turned idiot with fear, Philip could think of nothing but Pierre. Pierre would know what to do. He wrapped Meg in her cloak and then in both blankets and carried her out. Mounting was a nightmare, but fortunately the sturdy ponies were shorter than horses and very placid. Holding Meg against him with one arm, he got his foot in the stirrup. He nearly dislocated his arm, but he managed to haul her up with him as he rose. Then they were off. If Philip had not envisioned what would happen to Meg if they took a spill, he would have whipped the beast into a gallop. As it was they went far too fast, but the pony was surefooted as well as sturdy.

  Eons of fear and despair passed, perhaps twenty minutes in real time. Philip would have gone mad except that Meg moaned every so often so that he knew she was alive. Still, he was shouting at the top of his lungs for help and for Pierre by name by the time he was fifty yards from The Mousehole. Several men came running from the inn, pistols drawn. That mistake was quickly rectified, but all Philip could do was to keep repeating, “Meg’s hurt. Meg’s hurt.”

  “Give ’er to me, you fool!” Pierre bellowed, tugging at the blanketed form.

  At last Philip released his precious burden and slid from the saddle, running to catch up with Pierre. “Her head,” he cried. “It’s her head.”

  “I am not blind,” Pierre snarled, but his hands were very gentle as he laid her on a table and lifted her blood-soaked hair. Seeing the injury, he sighed with relief. Philip bent to kiss her, crying now. Pierre pushed him away. “Out of my light,” he ordered. “Paul,” he called to the landlord, “give me, a tankard of brandy to wash this out with, the strongest, and bring a lamp over ’ere. Then take away this fool!”

  “No,” Philip choked.

  Pierre looked up. “She is not badly hurt. You can see the bone is not broken or dented. You are too much moved. I must sew this up. Do you wish to watch?”

  “No,” Philip gasped, and turned away.

  One of the men, he never knew which, put an arm around him and led him across the room to Pierre’s corner. He sank onto a seat, resting his elbows on the table, his hands over his face. He could hear muted voices and hurried footsteps. Time stretched again so that Philip could not guess whether it was seconds, minutes, or hours that passed. Someone pulled at his hand, thrust a tankard into it. He sipped, coughed, then pushed it away, whispering, “Meg does not like me to drink brandy.”

  “She won’t know nothin’ of it, cully, not for some while. You knock that back and you’ll feel better. Yair, it’s a shaker to see a dimber mort damaged.”

  Philip looked dazedly at the speaker. He knew the man meant well and was trying to comfort him, but all he could do was wonder how he had ever permitted Meg to associate with such people. Why had he not sent her to Leonie where she would have been safe and protected?

  “I should not have allowed her—” he muttered.

  “Nah, nah! It’s no use worritin’ that. You can’t stop ‘em. If a mort sets her head to summat, save yer breath to blow yer porridge.”

  For all his anxiety Philip had to smile wanly. The man had a point. It was ridiculous to think about sending Meg—as if she were a package without volition. Meg… Fearfully he turned his head to look. Pierre was just straightening up. He swung around and caught Philip’s eye. Philip jumped up overturning his seat with a clatter, and rushed over.

  “Not so bad,” Pierre said as Philip bent over Meg. Pierre had cut her hair away from the gash, but not widely, and sewn the torn skin together quite neatly. Now that most of the blood had been washed from the area and the horrible gleam of bone was gone, Philip could see that the wound was not large. Meg looked terribly white, however, and was breathing very heavily, almost snoring. Philip looked at Pierre, his eyes wide with fear.

  “Her breathing,” he whispered.

  “She’s drunk,” Pierre said in French, with a wry smile. “I did not want her to come around, so we poured brandy down her. I tell you, she is not hurt much, although she may be dizzy for a day or two and she may not remember what happened. What did happen?”

  “I do not know,” Philip sighed, stroking Meg’s face.

  “You mean you found her like that?”

  “No. No, I was at the cave—the place where the kegs are taken. We were—we were saying goodbye. Suddenly there were men in the cave.”

  “What men?”

  “I have no idea. I only saw one.” Philip swallowed and shuddered, then laughed a little hysterically. “His head was on backward, so I—I did not look long.”

  “His head was on backward!” Pierre echoed.

  “John—oh, God! John is dead, but before he died…”

  “Customs officers?” Pierre asked. He needed no further explanation after John was coupled with the backward head.

  “I do not think so. Surely they would have called out when I fired.”

  “It is very strange,” Pierre muttered. “Mademoiselle Meg said nothing to me of any trouble.”

  “She would not,” Philip said, his voice shaking. “She is so brave. Not once did she cry out, and she used her pistols—”

  “But on whom? Ah! The Black Bart?”

  “I do not know,” Philip repeated helplessly. “I never saw the man before, and Meg—” Philip swallowed convulsively. “I would not have let her look at what John did anyhow.”

  Privately Pierre thought Meg might be less affected than Philip. There was a hard core inside that delicate-looking woman that had permitted her to take on a dangerous trade and manage it with great efficiency. He said nothing of that, however, having learned through broken friendships and other sorrows that it was not wise to try to destroy the illusions of a man about the woman he loved. Besides, he did not think Philip’s vision of Meg was all that illusory. For only the second time in his life Pierre regretted that he could not try to make a woman his own. The emotion was very brief. He was nearly old enough to be Meg’s grandfather not to mention her father, and he was comfortable enough without a woman who thought she owned him and would be forever telling him what to do.


  Then suddenly Pierre blinked, realizing that he was, or at least should be, surprised to see Philip, a thing he had not had time to notice previously. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  Megaera made an indistinct sound and moved a little. Philip bent over her. Her eyes flicked open, her brow wrinkled and she mumbled something. Philip kissed her gently, and her lips twitched toward a smile.

  “All safe now,” he murmured softly. “Go to sleep, darling.”

  Her eyes closed, and Philip sat back with a deep sigh. He finally believed she would be all right. He started to run a hand through his hair, then realized he was covered with dried blood and asked where he could wash. By the time he returned, he was pretty well back to normal. First he asked the landlord whether he knew where laudanum could be obtained. A golden guinea changed hands, and the landlord’s son went out to ride to Penzance, where he could wake up an apothecary. Then Philip went back to Pierre and told his story, starting from his return to Kent.

  “Eh, well,” Pierre said when he was finished, “I will be glad to take you, and your idea about selling the woolens and shoes openly is good. We have time to talk about that, but what is to be done about Miss Meg?”

  “She cannot be left here. For one thing, that sister of hers must not know about me. For another, I am afraid if I brought Meg to her house in this condition, her sister might refuse to receive her. I do not know who those men were, and now that John is dead, she has no one to protect her.”

  “The cargo?” Pierre asked.