Isabella watched him go with a terrible, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t want this to be the last time they spoke, but she knew that whatever he was about to do was extremely dangerous.
But since she didn’t want to be more of a hindrance, she understood there was nothing to do be done for it, but wait anxiously for his return.
She stood up, slowly this time, and walked across the room to do as he asked, and also to gather the clothes he’d set aside for her use. Once she’d peeled off her gown and undergarments, she laid her sad looking attire over the captain’s chair. She braided her hair into one long plait, but she didn’t return to the bed. There was no way she could sleep now, even if her body was humming for it. She was too restless to do anything but walk over to the porthole and look out at the sea, the dark, dreaded expanse that was swiftly carrying them to enemy territory.
***
As the cutter drew closer to French shores, Ridge instructed for the British flag to be hoisted, along with a white one to announce that they were a friendly foe and meant to parley. Even in the dark of the early morning hours, as he stood at the bow of the ship and anticipated their approach, he could tell that the Smuggler’s City was swarming with French soldiers near the specially constructed encampment at the edge of the port city.
Neither were they the only British vessel to anchor at the docks.
Several ships were sitting in the harbor and flying the Union Jack, ranging in size of a sloop to more elaborate brigs and frigates, many of which also bore the insignia of the EIC.
Ridge couldn’t help but snort. He didn’t miss those days at all.
“Are you ready for this, Claymoore?” Montgomery asked, as he joined him at the railing.
Any other time he would have said yes, the thrill of the moment coursing through his blood, but when he recalled who was below deck, he hesitated. Turning to Logan, he said, “Promise me something.”
As usual, his fellow agent was rather perceptive. “I will see that Lady Isabella gets back to English shores safely.”
Ridge inclined his head. “Then let’s go do our job.”
As his crew was securing the ship to the docks, Ridge and Logan headed down the gangplank. The moment they stepped foot on French soil, they were greeted by several Infantry soldiers. The highest-ranking officer, a major, stepped forward and spoke in accented English. “What is your purpose here?”
“We have come to barter for the release of one of your prisoners,” Ridge announced. He nodded to Logan, who withdrew the heavy purse from inside his jacket. He shook the pouch, and several gold sovereigns glinted in the moonlight as they tumbled into his palm, taking on the appearance of a true pirate’s treasure. Wasting no time, Logan slipped them back in the purse and tucked it away in his jacket pocket.
The major’s mouth turned upward greedily. “What is the name of your… friend?” he asked.
“Pierce Rutherford,” Logan supplied.
The officer nodded. “I know this man. Follow me.”
They set off after him, surrounded by the rest of the soldiers. Then again, this wasn’t the first time that Ridge had been here, but he vowed it would be the last, for he’d made Isabella a promise, and he intended to keep it.
***
Isabella watched as Ridge and Logan took off with several French soldiers. How she had come to detest those blue uniforms over the years. And yet, there were plenty of red-coated patriots on these shores as well, laughing and chatting as they exchanged wares, all whilst on battlefields, the blood of their countrymen was being spilled.
She turned away from the porthole, unable to watch anymore. Ridge had told her why he was here, and yet she prayed he wasn’t also looking to line his pockets. It certainly didn’t seem like something he would do, and yet, when faced with the persona of One-Eye, did she really even know Ridge at all? She’d always thought he had two different identity traits, but which one was the truth, and which was the pretense?
Isabella rubbed her arms, feeling a sudden chill. Ridge had instructed for her to remain where she was, but surely going onto the deck for a moment to get some fresh air wouldn’t matter overmuch. And it was not as if she would engage the crew in conversation. She would stay out their way and keep to herself.
She went over to the door and slid the metal bolt back. Cautiously, she peeked outside, but the passageway was deserted. Gathering her courage, she stepped away from the confines of the cabin and made her way up the stairs on bare feet.
However, the moment she turned the corner, she flattened herself against the wood at her back, concealing herself from view in the shadow of the sails. She stilled her breathing as she watched the low murmured exchange between the scarred crewman she’d first met on this vessel, and a French solider, the conversation striking fear into her heart, for it became quite obvious that they were speaking about her.
“How do you know this captive is worth anything?” the soldier asked with a scoff. “It sounds like she’s nothing but a bothersome Englishwoman, while you’re looking to line your pockets with our country’s coin.”
“Th’ cap’n’s been guardin’ ’er, as if she was a prized treasure,” the crewman argued. “Surely that must count for somethin’. And th’ fact he hoisted ’er up from th’ sea.”
“Now you’re just being nonsensical,” the soldier returned dryly. “I suppose next you’ll tell me that she’s a mermaid?”
“No. I think she’s Wistenberry’s escaped bride.”
Isabella covered her mouth with her hand. How did this man even know her tie to the viscount?
The Frenchman seemed to consider this. “That certainly puts a new light on the matter. He promised the lady as payment for his latest escapade. If you believe that she is the same woman, then perhaps I should go take a look—”
As they began walking in her direction, Isabella panicked. While she was still out of sight of the men, she ran toward the stern of the ship and dived over the side, hitting the water with a light splash. She broke the surface and clung near the edge of the vessel, waiting to see if her presence had been noted. If there was one thing she could be thankful for at the moment, it was that she was wearing trousers. It was certainly easier to tread water when her legs were free, rather than hindered with several layers of skirts. And by wearing black, her presence would be easier to hide under the cover of darkness.
She heard a door slam, and her heart pounded as she waited for an alarm to be sent up. When she heard a string of curses from above, she swallowed heavily.
“She was ’ere when th’ cap’n left, I swear it!”
She heard the hiss of metal being withdrawn from a sheath. “I don’t take kindly to liars.”
Isabella closed her eyes as she heard the rustle of quick movement, followed by the gurgle of life being expunged. When bright red blood started to drip over the ship’s side, she decided she’d stayed there long enough.
Her arms still ached terribly, but she gritted her teeth past the pain until she reached the edge of the docks. There, she wondered what her next move would be, for she certainly couldn’t return to the ship. But dare she try to find Ridge in a place filled with cutthroats and miscreants who wouldn’t bat an eye when it came to handing her over to the enemy?
She looked around the busy harbor and spied a cart being loaded down with supplies not far from where she bobbed in the water. Two Frenchmen appeared to be in charge of it, but while her interpretation of their native language was a bit rusty, she was able to discern enough to know that they were headed toward the Smuggler’s City. They threw a canvas tarp over the top and tied it down, and then headed toward the driver’s seat to pick up the reins.
As Isabella glanced around, she decided this would be her best chance. It was now or never, so she pulled herself up out of the water and rushed toward the cart, the sharp pebbles tearing at her bare feet. As the wagon began to pull away, she slipped inside and curled up between two barrels.
Her heart was lodged in he
r throat as she closed her eyes and prayed that no one had witnessed her latest stowaway attempt.
After a brief but particularly bumpy ride, the cart came to a halt. Isabella stiffened and drew shallow breaths as a short exchange took place, and then they were on their way once again. She yearned to look outside, but she didn’t dare until she could be certain that she could leave undetected. She didn’t wish to push her luck any further than necessary.
After they came to another halt, the cart rocked with the weight of the men leaving their perch, and she realized that this was their final destination. Whether or not she was ready, it was time to go.
She crawled out of her hiding spot and silently fell to the ground, rolling under the cart and then lying as still as possible. Again, fortune was smiling on her, for her presence hadn’t been noted. She peered out at the darkness, but other than a few bobbing lanterns to light the way of the few soldiers who were strolling among the encampment with its various shadowed outbuildings, it was difficult to discern much else.
She was starting to think she’d embarked on a rather foolish endeavor when a familiar British accent reached her voice, the footsteps close to where she crouched under the cart.
Her heart sank when she realized whom it belonged to, and she feared her luck was about to run out.
While one man unloaded the cart, Simon addressed the other Frenchman, and he didn’t sound too happy about it. “I told you, she got away.”
“Bested by a woman,” the other man said with a chuckle. “No wonder you English are losing this war.” Then he sobered. “Francois will not like to hear of your failure, Lord Wistenberry. You have an unpaid debt that has gone on for far too long.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Simon snarled in return.
He stomped off, the sounds of the two men following close behind.
It wasn’t until they were gone that Isabella released the breath she’d been holding. Now that she knew Simon was here, she’d have to be even more careful. As if a compound full of Frenchmen wasn’t alarming enough, but what other choice did she have? It had been either arrive under capture from the man on the ship, or on her own.
When it appeared that the cart wouldn’t be moved immediately, Isabella saw her opportunity, so she rolled out from under her confines, and after a quick glance around, she stood and sprinted for the side of the building before her. Once she was there, she closed her eyes to gain her bearings, and then opened them to get a better look at her surroundings.
Her mouth fell open.
This ‘Smuggler’s City’ was unlike anything else she’d ever seen before. Here she saw men of various rank and country walking together as if they weren’t in the midst of a bloody war. Barrels and various-sized crates, and even a few weapons were being hauled around by sailors and pirates while scraggly men who she could imagine were prisoners of war moved around cloth tents behind a high fence enclosure.
It was the most frightening thing she’d ever witnessed.
And Ridge was right in the midst of it.
Dear God, how were they going to get out of here unscathed?
Isabella was so focused on what lay in front of her that she failed to pay heed to what might be behind her.
The scuff of a boot caught her attention and she spun around to face a tall man with reddish brown hair sticking out of the edges of a worn cap, and the most unusual golden eyes she’d ever seen.
She had never yearned for a pistol in her entire life, or at least a knife, but since she had neither, she thought of Ridge and faced her opponent with a determined expression. He wasn’t wearing a French uniform, so perhaps she wasn’t yet facing her demise. Either way, she lifted her hands and clenched them in a threatening manner. She had no idea how to fight, but she’d spied her brother in this very stance when he’d returned from a bout of fisticuffs at Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon and demonstrated his prowess in the ring.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
His mouth kicked up at the corner. “Funny. I was about to ask you the same question.”
Relief flooded her when she detected a British accent, but after her experience with Simon and the turncoat crewman, she wasn’t taking any more chances. She lifted her chin and tried to appear more sinister. “I’m not someone to be trifled with.”
He lifted a brow. “I can see that,” he murmured. “I was just curious why a British female, of obviously good breeding, might be wandering about such a place…” He scratched his jaw where there was a decided amount of stubble. “Your presence here is a bit of a… curiosity.”
She hesitated. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Ah.” He nodded his head. “In that case, if you were hoping for a swift recovery effort, you might have chosen to at least wear some shoes.” He glanced down at her bare feet.
Isabella was losing patience. “Let’s just say it hasn’t been a very good day so far, and since I don’t have the time to have this discussion with you, perhaps you might be useful and direct me to where a prisoner exchange might be conducted.”
He looked her up and down. “I’m afraid you’re not going to get far like that,” he murmured.
“What I do is of no concern to you. I—”.
The man’s eyes shifted to a point past her shoulder. In a single smooth movement, he withdrew a knife from the back of his trousers and with a flick of his wrist, it sailed through the air with a particular skill. Stunned by the display, Isabella put out a hand out to steady herself against the building, fearing she might faint.
Gasping for breath, she whirled around, her eyes widening in horror when she saw the French soldier in campaign dress, lying still on the ground, the knife protruding from his neck as a river of crimson blood began to stain the ground.
“You killed him!”
The stranger didn’t even look at her as he walked past. “It was either him — or us.” He dragged the soldier around the back of the building and withdrew the weapon, which came free with a stomach-sickening sucking sound. He wiped it on the grass, and then tucked it back out of sight.
She was aghast as he began removing the man’s gray wool overcoat, black hat, and boots. “What are you doing? Do you not have a care for his dignity at least?”
As he tossed the items to her, he said evenly, “They’re for you.” He rose to his feet. “You need more of a disguise than what you’re wearing if you wish to make it out of here alive.”
Reluctantly, she donned the items once the logic of his words pierced her stunned brain. She tucked her braid beneath the hat and he eyed her critically. “Not a bad fit. You should thank God that most Frenchmen aren’t known for their height.”
While she was still skeptical of his ulterior motives, she had to admit that he had saved her from a bad situation. “Who are you?”
He shot her a wink. “You can call me Pierce.”
Chapter Sixteen
Ridge sat in an office across from an empty desk and tapped an impatient finger on his thigh. Logan was seated beside him and shot Ridge a sideways glance, followed by a scoff, which Ridge promptly ignored. His fellow agent might not be as eager as he was to return to the cutter and check on Isabella’s welfare, but Ridge was anxious to get this meeting over with so he could grab Pierce Rutherford and get back to the ship.
There weren’t too many times when Ridge gained a sixth sense that something was extremely off, but when he did, they generally didn’t steer him wrong. Ever since they’d been escorted here to wait for the man in charge of negotiations to arrive, the fine hairs on the back of his neck had been standing on end in warning.
Unfortunately, even with the concealed knife in his boot that the guards had failed to discover upon their arrival, he was sadly outgunned, a fact he was highly uncomfortable with, for he’d always been prepared when it came to fighting. Then again, when it came to talking their way out of a situation, that was Logan’s territory. Ridge preferred to take care of things with brawn and muscle.
He rotated his neck to
remove the kinks, grateful for the few cracks that followed. “You really need to calm down,” Logan murmured. “You’re starting to annoy me.”
Ridge snorted. “That would be a shame now, wouldn’t it? I should very much hate it if I were to put you out. It might ruin my whole day.”
Logan didn’t have time to retort as the door was opened and a man who was impeccably dressed in a blue and white uniform and wearing a rather impressive tall, black hat, entered the room.
“I’m sorry to keep you gentleman waiting,” he said in French-accented English. “My name is Capitaine Francois Caron, formally of His Imperial Majesty’s Guard.”
Ridge hoped that wasn’t supposed to impress him.
As the man took a seat behind the desk, he removed his hat and sat down. “I understand you gentlemen are here to exchange coin for the release of a prisoner by the name of Pierce Rutherford.”
“That is correct,” Ridge replied.
The Frenchman turned to look at him, a slight smile about his mouth. “Your reputation precedes you, One-Eye. You are the captain of the British cutter, Malice, yes?”
“For the moment.”
Capitaine Caron eyed him carefully. “The French could use someone of your rumored skill, One-Eye. You should consider switching sides in this war.”
Ridge smiled tightly. “I go where the profit is, and right now it’s not on the Continent.”
“That is an error that will soon be remedied.” The captain adjusted the cuffs of his jacket. “But let’s get down to business. My time here is very valuable.”
With that, Logan withdrew the purse from inside his jacket, and tossed it on the desk. “One hundred and fifty gold coins in exchange for the prisoner.”
The captain didn’t even reach for the pouch. He merely threaded his hands together. “This man is worth so much to your government, no?”
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