Devil's Desire

by Laurie McBain

  "Do you know that what you said is exactly what I believed love to be. Oh, it is precisely how I feel!” Louisa looked over her shoulder to be sure they were alone, and then continued in a confiding tone. "I have met the most wonderful man, Elysia. He is tall and handsome–and has the most beautiful, blue eyes and auburn hair." She looked starry-eyed as she thought of him, her cheeks flushing rosily.

  "His name is David Friday, and he is the kindest, most gentle soul on earth. I met him for the first time one day a couple of weeks ago. I was out rid­ing when Dove started to limp. We weren't far from the stable, so the groom went back to fetch another horse, and I was staying with poor little Dove when this young man came out of nowhere and removed the pebble from Dove's hoof. He talked to me so gentlemanly-like, that fin sure he is one-even though he was dressed as a seaman. I felt so at ease with him, not at all tongue-tied, like I usually am with those London gentlemen."

  "A seaman, Louisa?" Elysia asked doubtfully, afraid her friend was sure to be hurt. "Your parents, surely they would not . . ."

  "Exactly," Louisa interpreted Elysia's thoughts.

  "They would not be at all pleased. In fact, if Papa found out that a seaman had dared to talk to me­–why, I don't know what he might do in his rage. They have high hopes for my making a successful marriage–even though the Marquis is no longer available," she chuckled, and then bit her lip as tears brightened her gray eyes. "Oh, Elysia I'm sure if you met him you would see that he is indeed a gentleman, and worthy of my love. I only doubt that I am worthy of his:"

  "What have we here?" Lady Woodley asked amusedly from the doorway. "Schoolroom secrets? Well, you'd better return to the salon, for your Mama is worrying about your whereabouts, and that of her 'Guest of Honor’ Hurry along and tell your Mama that we shall be with her shortly-before she sends you back to the nursery for being rude and spiriting one of her guests away. Luckily I saw you leave, and had to play tattle-tale," she contin­ued maliciously, and laughed cruelly as Louisa hur­ried past, giving her a resentful look.

  "Oh, please do not leave yet, Lady Trevegne," Lady Woodley said, moving towards Elysia, her eyes staring trance-like at the Trevegne emeralds. "I would like the opportunity to speak with you."

  "Really," Elysia returned politely, yet not fully trusting the young widow. "I had not thought we would have much to say to one another."

  "There you are mistaken, for there are quite a few details of which you should be aware. I would not have you ignorant of the truth, my dear Lady Trevegne," she replied, reluctantly dragging her eyes away from the green stones, only to stare into equally-green eyes. "I would have changed those ancient settings to something more modem," she said, almost to herself, before her eyes narrowed and a thin smile curved her lips. Then she contin­ued, "you do know that you possess a hollow title? It is a title that you did not gain by your own cun­ning and efforts to ensnare Alex. You are only the Marchioness because I turned Alex's offer of marriage down. He married you out of pique—to save his pride. Alex knows I shall be marrying a Duke shortly, and after all the speculation about him and myself, well, you can imagine what people say. Alex would never allow himself to become the laughing stock of London, so naturally, he would have to take drastic steps to appear heartwhole, and show an unconcerned visage to the world. What better way than to take a wife, look the devoted husband. No one could possibly believe that he had been hurt by my refusal. But he still loves me—and I still love him. Just remember that Alex and I shall continue as we have in the past, once he gets over his offend­ed pride, of course. But he always does as I wish." She looked at Elysia venomously. "You did not re­ally imagine that he could be in love with you? I was his mistress for over a year. I know him. And you . . . you've only known him for a fortnight or so. Can that measure up to how long I've known him?"

  "Maybe you have known him too long—possibly he became bored with your . . . er, charms; Elysia retorted smoothly, yet feeling sick with despair in­side. But she would not let this creature know how wounded she felt.

  "Bored! Bored with me?" Mariana demanded in­credulously. She was enraged all the more because she knew it might be the truth. But she could not accept the remark from this beautiful, younger woman. "How dare you . . . you little slut. Do you actually believe that you could hold a man like Alex?" She looked Elysia up and down insultingly, laughing derisively. "He will come back to me—he always does. He still wants me, not you! You have nothing but his name—you don't possess his love."

  Lady Woodley turned to leave the room, a smile curving her lips mischievously at the doubt she had planted in Elysia's mind.

  "Yes, I possess the title. I bear Alex's name, and I also shall bear his children. You say I hold only the title. Well, the position entitles me to the jewels you have coveted for so long, and the estates, and Westerly, and a place in society that is permanent. Alex married me, and that is forever. Yes, I hold all of these," Elysia spoke, halting the other woman in her tracks. "But you deceive yourself, if you imagine I shall not keep Alex—for I shall—and not in name only. You are the one, Lady Woodley, who has nothing. You possess none of the things you so confidently lay claim to–—neither Alex, nor that title you covet. I would caution you not to count your chickens before they hatch. Good evening, Lady Woodley," Elysia spoke haughtily as she passed the speechless widow, and returned to the salon where she heard the mingled sound of men's and women's voices.

  The carriage returning from Blackmore Hall bounced, as it hit a pothole in the rutted road, and threw Elysia against the Marquis. She pulled back as if burnt, and moved even farther to her side of the seat. She turned her face away from his curious stare, pretending to be absorbed in the darkness beyond the carriage window. Her mind kept return­ing to Lady Woodley's vicious words, her cruel laughter echoing around her troubled mind. Would Alex return to the Widow? Had he indeed asked her to marry him—and been rejected? From the gossip, it would seem that he had not asked the Widow to marry him. But if what she said was true, his pride would have been salvaged as he planned, marrying her to save himself from looking the fool, She could never let Alex know that she had fallen in love with him–especially now—if he still felt love for Lady Woodley.

  She had lied when she told the Widow that the estates and riches of. Alex mattered to her. She would gladly have suffered the direst poverty to have but a part of his love. What was wonderful about a grand house if she had to wander through its halls and rooms alone? Who was there to see her dressed in fine silks and satins, bejeweled from head to toe? It was not an empty title she possessed, but an empty heart.

  She foolishly thought that given time she could make Alex fall in love with her—eventually he might have, but she had not known that he married her on the rebound. She had believed him when he said he was in the mood to marry–serving his purposes, and saving her reputation. "Lies, lies, lies!” she cried in her heart. Everything was ruined now–now that she knew there was another woman in his life. He would hardly fall in love with her if he was in love with Lady Woodley.

  Elysia sighed dispiritedly, half-listening to the conversation between Alex and Charles, their voices taking on a droning quality as she continued to stare out into the blackness of the night. She nar­rowed her eyes as she thought she saw a flash of light out at sea that quickly disappeared–probably a reflection from the lighted sconces from inside the coach on the glass of the window. She could see her own face reflected palely, her eyes distorted un­til they seemed to glow iridescently like white-hot coals in her face. Elysia hugged the warm fur-lined cape about her body, luxuriating in the feel of the soft fur against her bare shoulders and cheeks. Clos­ing her eyes she dreamed of what could have been.

  A finger of rock detached itself from the rest and moved silently from its shadowy concealment out onto the road The man stood statue-like as he watched the big, black coach disappear down the road to become lost in the blackness, the sound of the horses' hooves fading until silence reigned su­preme, once again.

  He lo
oked out to sea–his eyes alert and search­ing, until he was rewarded by the Hashing of a light three times. Then it disappeared. He glanced along the cliffs of the coast, knowing he would not see the answering Hashes from the shielded lantern he knew was signalling the ship at sea from some hidden spot. The ship would now sail into one of the nu­merous coves along the coast. If he had not had a general idea of the area the ship would venture into, the chances of his locating such a ship–wish­ing to unobtrusively dock and unload its contraband cargo-would be a million to one. The whole length of Cornish coastline was honeycombed with small secretive coves and deep- penetrating ravines where a ship could moor undetected and go about its sur­reptitious business.

  David Friday crossed the road and untethered his horse, where he had left it behind the rocks, and swiftly mounted. He headed down the road in the opposite direction from the coach that had swiftly traveled past only moments before, He rode along the road for several miles until he could see the curve of the coast jut abruptly outwards, forming a natural harbor with a deep ravine. A moorland stream flowed through it to empty into the sea leaving a rock-carved passage to the high cliffs above, and easy access to the road.

  David dismounted and left his horse in the shelter of a group of pines and made his way quietly to the edge of the ravine, ―carefully lowering himself over the edge-his booted feet seeking footholds among the slippery rocks. Suddenly his foot slipped, and he lunged perilously forward, falling to the floor of the ravine. He landed on an outcropping of rock that formed a narrow ledge just wide enough to stop the descent that would have ended in his death.

  He lay still, his breathing heavy, as he tried to re­gain his breath and listen for any sounds of voices raised in alarm, followed by searching footsteps .. But no sounds of panic reached him―only the rumble of the sea. David breathed a sigh of relief. They must still be at the mouth of the ravine unloading cargo.

  The pounding of the waves masked the noise he'd caused by his fall, and the lookout-posted up on the road to watch for revenuers―would have been too far away to hear anything and give the sound of alarm.

  David Friday looked about him from his vantage point. He could clearly see the little harbor, and the outline of the lugger anchored beyond the swell of the waves. A small boat was rowing ashore where a group of figures were standing in readiness on the sandy beach.

  His ledge overlooked the path, directly beneath his perch. Yes, this was a perfect spot for observa­tion. He settled himself more comfortably, in prepa­ration for the loading to be completed and for them to begin their ascent up the path from the ravine to the road above. He felt no impatience with this job―for he wanted to catch this nest of smugglers. It wasn't so much the smugglers themselves he was after―men who risked their necks to sail across the Channel that was patrolled by His Majesty's Navy and Coast Guard; they were only the arms and legs of the operation. He wanted the head of the body―the man who sat safely on British soil, masterminding everything yet never dirtying his white, uncal­loused palms―except with gold guineas.

  Every major port, small fishing village, or hamlet, bad a gang of smugglers. From the Romney Marsh to as far north as York, smuggling was rampant. It seemed to be an accepted community activity. One could enjoy fine, French brandy after dinner at the Vicar's, or at a local tavern, and fragrant imported tea in the afternoon in an elegant and highly respected lady's drawing-room.

  Taxes were high, shortages of every imported item were prevalent with the continuing of the war, and people had come to enjoy these luxuries-hesi­tant to give them up. He was not after these people, and their small horde of brandy, silk, tea and choco­late. The village fishermen and farmers who banded together once a month to row across the Channel and bring back a cache of black market goods en­gaged in small-time smuggling, and were relatively harm-less.

  He was after the smuggler who brought in 'hu­man cargo,' and dealt in goods on a grand scale―not a bolt of silk and several kegs of brandy, but a cargo of a thousand casks of brandy, and hundreds of pounds of Chinese tea, and a storeroom full of fine silks, velvets, and lace. A great profit was har­vested from the sales of these contraband commodi­ties to the fashionable shops on Bond Street and the gentlemen's clubs of St. James. But the highest profit was reaped for ferrying a passenger across the Channel from France to England The fare was indeed high for the man who wanted to enter En­gland by night, his face unremembered by the silent crewmen, to disappear into the countryside, only to reappear 'in a crowded street in the heart of Lon­don.

  David Friday wanted desperately the man who would betray his country by bringing in French spies. Napoleon had eyes and ears in London, thanks to the greed and avariciousness of these trai­torous men who dared to call themselves English­men. They allowed the enemy to enter England to plot and deceive, and then helped him to sneak away with secret documents and information. But the traitor was far more deadly than the spy who was acting under orders from his country, and at least had a loyalty to it. The English dog who would bring in the enemy had no beliefs. He would act only for the gain and profit he would receive from his actions. He felt no love or loyalty to his country-only an allegiance to the craving for money.

  An owl hooted, and within an instant, it was an­swered by four hoots from the top of the cliff. The lookout had signaled the all-clear, and shortly after the dark horses, loaded down with kegs and casks, and the sturdy wagons with their wide iron-made wheels―to keep the heavily-laden carts from sinking deep into the sandy beach―would begin to move toward the safety of their drops: hiding places in caves and barns, quiet - crypts in cemeteries, false-bottomed floors, and hidden closets in the walls of homes in the villages.

  David was lying flat, his chest pressed against the rocky ledge, as the pack train moved slowly up the path. He heard smothered curses, as feet slipped and arms were scraped against the rough cliff wall, along the narrow and uneven path.

  David watched carefully as the men and beasts trundled by. His eyes were searching for a lone figure in an all-concealing cape and hat. But the men were all dressed similarly in smocks and rough, woolen coats. He knew most of these men from his previous observations. Most were hard-working men from the village. The others were hired men from other parts-vicious and dangerous, with loaded pis­tols tucked under their wide belts. He could see no new faces. His vigil tonight had been in vain. It was only for cargo, this run―no extra man that would separate from the rest to make his way alone in the night, or return to sea with the unloaded boat.

  He waited until the smugglers had got to the road and were well on their way down it before climbing back up the face of the cliff to the top. He mounted and rode off toward the moors, across the road and away from the smugglers' train. He had no need to follow them, for he knew where they would cache the goods. He had watched them seven times in the past as they'd unloaded the ship and prepared the horses, then slowly and quietly moved through the narrow lanes to various drops. But the major part of the load was separated from the rest―this was destined for London, and stored away. in a deviously conceived cache―an innocent-appearing summer house. David had watched astounded as cargo after cargo had been unloaded and carried into the small pagoda-like structure―only to disappear. He had searched it in vain after the smugglers left, but found no evidence that contraband had been con­cealed there. He knew there was a secret panel that must conceal a hidden cave or passage, but he had been unable to find it, despite his thorough search­es. It seemed inconceivable that this small struc­ture could hide a cache of contraband―yet it did. The cave probably connected by a subterranean passage to―the home of the mastermind―for the summer house stood back from the cliffs, and there was no natural harbor for ships to anchor in. Nor had he found a coastal sea cave in his traversing of the area. So that left one place―Blackmore Hall.

  Squire Blackmore was the man he wanted. A man so insidious as to force the villagers and farmers to smuggle for him by enclosure of their lands, and the village common, leavin
g them no place to raise food or livestock. He closed down the tin mines, putting countless numbers out of work. The village was un­der his control and with the fishing poor―few men returned with full nets―rather than starve, they smuggled for him.

  Yes, David Friday wanted Squire Blackmore. He would enjoy seeing the walls of Blackmore Hall come tumbling down about the Squire's head. But then he thought of two misty gray eyes looking trustingly up into his face. How could he destroy Louisa Blackmore's world? She was such an inno­cent―completely unaware of her father's nefarious villainy. David had never before met such a demure and lovely young woman. She was still a young girl, actually, for she could not be more than sixteen or seventeen.

  He would not allow her to become besmirched by this affair. He must protect her in some way. But how could he? It was his job―his duty―to catch, and arrest her father as a traitor. How could she feel anything but shame and degradation when that happened―and what would she then feel towards the man who had brought about her father's down-­fail? Hatred? Disgust? What a tangle he was in­volved in, he thought in despair, as he sighted the small moorland hut directly ahead.

  David glanced over his shoulder to ascertain that he had not been followed, even though he had taken a circuitous route. He was taking no chances of being discovered. He dismounted, and knocked twice on the door before entering the hut.

  It was a small hut with one room, and lighted by a flickering lantern that threw a dim light over the crude furnishings and the solitary man sitting at the rough wooden table in the center of the room.

  "Good evening, Sir," David saluted smartly. "Hardly a good evening, Lieutenant," the man an­swered disgustedly, pulling his coat tighter about his broad shoulders. Only his bushy, iron-gray brows and deep-set eyes were visible from behind the high collar. "Come and sit down, Lieutenant, and relax. You look rather dishevelled. Run into any trouble?" he asked sharply.