My Runaway Heart

by Miriam Minger

  "And I told you he left London, at least from the sound of it. Said somethin' to the driver about takin' him to Sussex and he was gone. Poof! Now if you'll excuse me, I've got me payin' customers to think of."

  "Yes, yes, of course." Lindsay turned to leave, but then she stopped, glancing back at Della as her heart seemed to pound even louder within her breast. "Are you sure he said Sussex?"

  "Aye, that and Seaword, I recall, or Seafirth."

  Seaford! Lindsay suddenly felt as if she couldn't breathe, and she fled from the tavern without another word.

  "Oh, Miss Somerset, I was growin' so worried," Gladys cried out, scrambling over in the seat even as Lindsay alighted.

  "I'm sorry, Gladys, but you'll have to climb down."

  "Wot, miss?"

  "You'll have to find your way home by yourself—I can't explain. But I promise I'll make amends as soon as I can. I'm so terribly sorry. Please, Gladys."

  Feeling absolutely wretched for having had to ask, but knowing no way around it, Lindsay could only watch as the chambermaid jumped down from the carriage and looked uncertainly around her.

  "Just follow the way we came—there's plenty of daylight left."

  "It's not me I'm worried for, miss, but you. I don't think Lady Penney will be happy—"

  "I'm truly sorry, Gladys—take care on your way!" With a last guilty glance, Lindsay veered the cabriolet out into the traffic and quickly left the Boar's Head behind her.

  Her feelings of wretchedness didn't lessen, but comingled with the restrained excitement and sense of purpose now driving her, one thought burning bright in her mind.

  Jared must have been ordered upon another mission, surely! Why else would he not have taken the time to see her first and explain himself if he did not require such haste, such secrecy, such seeming deception?

  It must be a dangerous mission, too. Hadn't Della said a few months? If Jared had gone to his ancestral home in Seaford, she doubted his stay would be but brief before he disappeared on some daring adventure. Dear God, she had to hurry. She was not going to be left behind without him, not when she could do so much to help!

  By the time Gladys found her way home, Lindsay would be miles and miles away, with no chance of anyone finding her or even knowing where to look. Not Matilda or Aunt Winifred . . .

  Fresh guilt stabbed at Lindsay, but she tamped it down. Instead she thought of Jared, her heart leading the way as she threw all caution to the wind and turned the carriage into a crowded thoroughfare wending south from London.

  Chapter 12

  "How long will it take to transport the supplies?"

  "From the look of it, mayhap fifteen minutes, no more."

  "Good. Let's move, then. We've ample cover with the fog, but I want to be gone as soon as everything's loaded." Wiping sweat from his eyes, Jared turned from the squat Irishman to a trio of silent figures whose faces were smudged with coal, wool caps upon their heads and their clothes soot-dark, even though the moon was no more than a hazy sliver through the mist, the night black as tar. "You three, come with me. I've a few kegs of fine Scotch whiskey I'd rather we didn't leave behind."

  Low laughter erupted, but it died when Jared motioned for the three men to follow him, all four of them clambering along the steep path leading from the narrow secluded cove known as the Devil's Den. At the top of the rise Jared glanced back at the beach, the efficient skeleton crew hard at work ferrying foodstuffs to the men waiting aboard ship, two heavily laden galleys scraping against rocks and sand as they were pushed out into the waves.

  Cowan had judged right. It wouldn't take long for them to unload the galleys and then send one back to help with the last boat loaded and still waiting on the shore. And that suited Jared more than he could say. He wanted to be gone from this windswept scrap of Sussex coastland with its ghosts and bitter memories.

  If he hadn't brought the Scotch whiskey all the way from London, he would have said to hell with the stuff and already been aboard the ship, but he'd won it in a wager, after all.

  He'd never seen a merchant as proud of the quality of his brew as he was misguided about his bets, the fellow gambling four kegs that the champion, Tom Cribb, was past his prime and due for a sound trouncing. The merchant had lost, but that hadn't kept him from good-naturedly offering to half the onlookers at Offley's a sample of the same batch of whiskey he claimed would soon be bound for Portugal and Lord Wellington himself.

  And if that rowdy throng had enjoyed a taste, so would his crew, Jared thought grimly; the kegs that had been delivered to the Boar's Head yesterday morning were marked for export, just as the merchant had boasted.

  "First man to the whiskey wins the first drink once we're under sail," Jared goaded his compatriots, the three matching his hard sprint toward a thick copse of elms where he'd hidden the kegs earlier in the day, before heading to Dovercourt Manor. He could barely see the lights of the main house for the thick mist billowing in from the sea, but he didn't miss them. He missed nothing about that hated place where his sister had suffered—Blast and damnation, what was that?

  "Shhh, get down, all of you!"

  The three men threw themselves onto their stomachs. Jared dove beside them into the damp grass, cocking his head and listening. He could have sworn he heard a horse whinnying very near, so near that he judged they might have run directly across its path. But the fog was becoming so thick that he couldn't see anything more than fifteen feet away.

  "Cap'n, do you think Simon—?"

  "No, there was only the one wagon of supplies." Yet Jared wondered if the loyal old codger who served as caretaker of Dovercourt Manor during his long absences and butler during his brief stays might have forgotten to include some foodstuffs and had decided to ride back out to this desolate spot.

  But no, Simon Tuft would have made himself known to them by now; to do otherwise might risk a metal ball in the gut. Jared listened for another long, silent moment, then lunged to his feet.

  "Let's go. Cowan and the rest are waiting—we can't risk a delay."

  Keeping low, Jared signaled for the three men to run ahead of him into the trees even as he kept scanning the fog.

  ***

  Lindsay slipped and slid down the rock-strewn path, her heart pounding so fiercely that she felt its throb in every fiber of her being.

  She knew she had to hurry. Jared and those three men would surely return at any moment, and who could say how soon those other men might row back to the beach? She couldn't see the ship for the dense fog—dear Lord, to think she had stumbled so innocently upon Jared in this remote place!—but she could hear low bursts of command and pulleys creaking as supplies were hoisted aboard, and it was all so exciting she could barely contain herself.

  She had been almost in despair, the night grown so late and she had yet to reach Dovercourt Manor. The directions she had received from a sleepy innkeeper in Seaford had taken her along a rutted coastal road which seemed to lead to nowhere when the fog had arisen. And her poor horse had been so exhausted from the long journey, she feared he might collapse, so she had disembarked and tethered him to a tree just short of the cove and begun to walk, hoping someone from the house could come back for him.

  It was only then she'd heard male voices drifting to her as if from the sea, one rich baritone making her heart stop— Oh, Lord!

  Hearing the splash of oars cutting through the waves, Lindsay darted across the sand to the lone galley and pulled back the canvas covering with trembling hands. The boat was filled with supplies, but she climbed in anyway, shifting and clearing a narrow space for herself near the stern. Then she flipped the canvas back into place, pitch darkness enveloping her, and listened breathlessly to more splashes and the sound of men wading to shore.

  "Any sign of them?"

  "Not yet, Cowan."

  "I don't see them, either," came another man's reply.

  "Well, we'll not wait with that galley. Tie the rope to her prow and shove her into the water. She's loaded so full it'll be
the devil to tow, but as soon as they return, the seven of us should manage. Go on, now, and be quick!"

  Lindsay gasped as the boat was heaved with grunts and low curses from the shore, the sudden rocking of the waves causing a small barrel to shift and jam sharply against her ribs. Yet even that discomfort couldn't temper her mounting excitement, her imagination aflame.

  The cove, the creeping fog, the dead of night. What better setting could there be for a gallant spy to embark upon his latest mission? And Jared clearly had an entire ship at his service. With all these supplies, it was clear, too, that he would be gone a long time, which only made her more glad that she had followed after him.

  He couldn't fail to think her the most daring of women now . . . couldn't fail to see that she had a flair for secrecy that matched his—she'd successfully come this far, hadn't she? Most importantly, he couldn't fail to see that she was bold enough to face any danger they might encounter together

  "There he is! There's the cap'n now!"

  Captain? Obviously one of the men she'd seen disappear into the fog with Jared was the master of the ship, although it had been clear to her, from her hiding place behind a huge rock, that they all followed Jared's commands. And, of course, that was only right. With Jared forever risking life and limb for Britain, she imagined he must need a ship and a loyal crew who adhered strictly to his orders to better accomplish his mission.

  Lindsay held her breath as rapid footfalls scrunched upon the sand, but she nearly cried out when a heavy object was dumped atop the canvas, just missing her head.

  "All this bloody trouble for Scotch whiskey—no, man, this galley's too full. Take the rest to Cowan's boat and let's be gone."

  "Jared . . ." she whispered, her face burning at how close he'd just been to her, and now he was forging with the others into the surf. But at least he had saved her from being crushed; the man seemed fated to come to her rescue.

  She heard no more but the slapping of the waves against the hull. The oars sliced with rhythmic strokes through the water, as the boat she'd hidden in was towed by the other galley, leaving behind the fog-shrouded cove, Sussex . . . England. Where might they be bound? France? Russia?

  Her mind dancing with possibilities, Lindsay nonetheless couldn't stifle a yawn, the gentle rocking causing her to feel the long, tense hours since she'd left London. She was hungry, too, a gnawing ache at the pit of her stomach; she'd had no money to buy food along the way. But what did any of that matter compared with her finding Jared—she could have trudged on to Dovercourt Manor and missed him entirely, but she hadn't. They were together . . . blissfully together . . .

  "Throw down the ladder! Captain coming aboard!"

  Lindsay nearly sat upright, she was so startled, realizing she must have dozed off for a moment. She snuggled back into the cramped space as best she could, but was jarred once again when the boat bumped into something hard and massive.

  "Easy, now; give us a bit more rope. Aye, that's it, under the prow. Pull it tight under the stern; that's it. All right, lads, swing her up nice and easy."

  Recognizing the thick Irish brogue as belonging to the man called Cowan, Lindsay grabbed onto a barrel when the galley suddenly lifted clear of the water and swung free in the wind, her stomach jumping to her throat. She could hear winches and hoists creaking just as before and realized they were bringing the boat aboard, and here she was, hiding right in the midst of tins of biscuits and crocks of salted fish and fresh vegetables and, oh, yes, a keg of Scotch whiskey.

  Preparing herself to be exposed when the galley came down with a hard bump upon the deck, Lindsay couldn't help wondering with sudden nervousness what Jared's reaction might be. Of course he would be surprised, but she hoped pleased as well—

  "Not now, men; we'll unload when it's light. Hoist up the other galley and raise the anchor."

  "Already raised, Cap'n, soon as you came aboard."

  "Good. Unfurl the sails!"

  Lindsay slumped onto the galley's floor, confusion vying with her keen disappointment that, for the moment, her surprise had been spoiled. She would swear that had been Jared, so why was he answering to "Captain," and so forcefully? She had heard tension in his voice, too.

  "A welcome sight to have you back aboard, friend. And just in time. Roscoff was growing a bit dull—"

  "Later, Walker. I'm not sure, but I think someone or something was afoot on the coast."

  "Excisemen?"

  "I don't know and it doesn't matter. We've been sitting in this bay too bloody long, fog or not. Get us out of here."

  Doubly confused, Lindsay heard Jared stride away, then stop to utter another command.

  "Cowan, get some men over here now! Have them train their guns at the shore. If anything moves to follow us, blow them out of the water."

  Blow them out . . . ! Lindsay gulped, scarcely recognizing Jared's voice for its harshness. And she didn't dare move a muscle now, either, for fear some skittish sailor might train his weapon upon her instead and squeeze the trigger.

  Dear Lord, what if she had found a small rowboat and tried to reach the ship or had set off swimming from shore? Would they have blown her to tiny bits? Obviously, being a military spy was more dangerous and secretive than she had imagined. So much so that Jared was even concerned about excisemen. But after three years of helping Corisande evade those snoopy fellows, she could teach him a thing or two about the King's customs men and ways to fool them, another benefit to having her aboard.

  Smiling to herself, Lindsay closed her eyes and tried to get comfortable, yet she wondered how long it might be before it was safe to leave her hiding place. But at least it wasn't chilly, the canvas covering keeping things quite snug and dry.

  And thank goodness she was wearing a pelisse, in case the coming day proved cool; she imagined in open water the weather might be fierce. She had no other clothes, but she trusted Jared would help her think of something.

  Lindsay grew so sleepy, she paid no heed to the sails flapping in the wind and the spars creaking when the ship gathered speed. All she was conscious of was a soothing rolling motion, her sore, travel-weary muscles relaxing, her arms dropping to her sides, Jared's name upon her lips as she smiled contentedly and fell asleep.

  ***

  "Is it . . . ?"

  Jared didn't have to answer; he knew his grim smile was all Walker Burke had to see, his long years of friendship with the wry-witted American having fused a bond stronger than words.

  "Well, well, what do you know? Couldn't think of a finer way to welcome the sun—Cooky's coffee, thick as tar and about as tasty, and a sluggish merchantman at the horizon, soon to make our acquaintance . . . unless you've decided to let this one pass?"

  Jared lowered the spyglass and quickly weighed his options. He usually preferred to wait a few days after leaving England to make a first kill, so as to rule out any connection with his sudden absence, but then again, this voyage wouldn't be like any that had come before.

  He had already decided it would be different; he had a record to break—thirteen vessels during his last cruise—and, with the heightened level of fervor he had seen in London for his immediate capture and execution, his immortality to flaunt.

  Blast them all to hell. By the time he was done, they would pray he was no more than myth.

  "You've got your wish, Walker. We attack."

  Chapter 13

  It wasn't so much the deafening clap of thunder that woke Lindsay; she tucked her fists under her chin and snuggled against a barrel, thinking drowsily that a storm must be brewing. But when an acrid stench burned her nostrils, she blinked open her eyes in alarm, disoriented by fading dreams and the darkness all around her.

  Oh, God, Aunt Winifred's house was on fire! She had to get out—Lord help her, she had to get out!

  Lindsay punched wildly at the blackness, wincing when her left elbow connected with something hard, pain shooting like prickly pins through her arm. She couldn't breathe, the stench had grown so strong, and she began t
o cough as she renewed her desperate flailing. Her eyes tearing, her lungs ready to burst, she clawed at the inky void, crying out with relief when blinding light poured down upon her.

  Blinding light . . . ? As a shaft of realization pierced her brain, Lindsay remembered then that she lay in the bottom of a boat but that did nothing to allay her panic. Pushing aside metal tins and loose cabbages, she lunged to her feet and stood squinting as she tried to get her bearings.

  "Fire!"

  The roared command startled her even more than the ensuing round of explosions. Lindsay spun about in place, her eyes growing wide.

  The entire world seemed ablaze, brilliant sunlight glinting like a thousand mirrors upon the water, the deck alight in the blinding morning sun. And everywhere seemed commotion, teams of men—young and old—working furiously around starboard gunports to reload a row of gleaming black cannon. With a nervous laugh, Lindsay realized the caustic smoke choking her lungs wasn't proof of fire at all, but bore the unmistakable reek of gunpowder.

  Heaven help them, they were being attacked! Her heart hammering, she ducked back into the boat and peered through an oar ring, supplies shifting and tumbling around her as the ship listed sharply to port. Oh, Lord, sinking, too! But the deck righted itself in the next instant, the blinding sun behind her now.

  Lindsay looked out over the waves and gulped at the sight of another ship, a prosperous merchantman from the look of it, much as she'd seen on shopping excursions to the port of Penzance. But what caught her gaze was the British flag fluttering proudly against the blue sky, yet at such a queer angle, and it appeared the flag was being lowered, too . . .

  She felt the color drain from her face when she spied the merchantman's shattered hull, peppered with holes. The ship was listing visibly even as men's frantic voices carried across the narrowing distance, desperate commands ringing out that longboats be lowered. Dear God, what terrible manner of enemy had they encountered? Not one but two British vessels were under vicious attack, Jared's ship and the merchantman!