Once they each had oars in hand, she asked, “What is Michelson doing here anyway?”
“Something to do with his son. He’s been obsessed with some red-haired society miss who eloped and jilted him. He’s going to try and convince the girl to leave her husband.”
She pulled her oars from the water. “The red-haired woman sounds like my sister. If they have her, she is in serious danger, for there is no gentle convincing with this family.”
He put his oar over his legs and slapped his thigh, as though pieces to a puzzle he couldn’t see fell into place. “It all makes sense, why you targeted The Stallion and how you came to possess such skills as a captain and a fighter. You know Michelson. You’ve been planning this for years,” Longe said. “Given who your sister is, I even know who you are.”
“Please—”
Holding up his hand, he stopped her frantic plea. “Don’t fret. Your secret is safe with me, but now I’m curious as to what prompted you to choose this life.”
“Michelson has ruled my family with power and wealth for too long. My father is a weak man and has never defended himself to Michelson. He sold my sister Amelia to Michelson’s son Jeremy in exchange for cessation of aggressions between the two. When my sister eloped with her husband, I imagined her to be safe. Fool! I should never have left her.”
“Recriminations do nothing but intensify guilt. Trust me. Action is better suited to the remorse churning inside. Let’s row. He has a private home near the beach. If they’ve taken her, she’ll be there.”
The two rowed in silence and soon landed on shore. They pulled the boat onto the sand and concealed it with some large branches. “I leave you here,” Longe said. “I can’t risk Michelson seeing me and taking action against my brother and his children. In another life, I could see us…” He shook his head and smiled, the first genuine smile she’d seen on his rugged face since their introduction. “Good luck, Captain Braithwaite.” He kissed her on her bearded cheek and fled, his escape cloaked by the inky darkness and the roaring waves pounding on the shore.
Chapter 23
Dielette, France, October 1810
Thomas and Stefano steered the sailboat to shore on the western coast of France and docked her in Dielette’s port. A return of rainy weather and choppy seas delayed their arrival, and Beatrice had almost two weeks’ head start. Thomas was frantic, though he’d not admit to such an emotion. Not in front of Stefano. The man had been insufferable and smug their entire two-week sea voyage, having read Beatrice’s note and learning he, Thomas Wickes, was responsible for her late night departure to France. In her scrawled note she had pinned to the door, Beatrice confessed she’d heard the entirety of his conversation with Stefano. She’d discovered his parentage and had decided their entire relationship, which was built on a small omission on his part, was a fictitious fairytale he’d woven to gain her cooperation in his vendetta.
Barmy female. Thomas had never questioned Beatrice’s mental state before, but this twisted logic convinced him her mental faculties remained addled. A pretty female traveling alone across war-torn France was concerning enough, but when the woman was a befuddled and lethal Lady Beatrice Westby, Thomas’s level of concern elevated to near historic heights of agitation. He must find her—and soon—or risk losing her forever.
A patrol of French soldiers passed by their hiding spot, and they retreated farther into the shadows. “We need some sort of transportation,” Thomas said. Obtaining any sort seemed an impossible task, as large numbers of French soldiers swarmed the port. They’d been lucky to avoid detection thus far, using the cloak of darkness to conceal their entrance. He’d not risk their luck and tarry on the docks much longer.
“What do you recommend? A coach? The public roads are unsafe, and any horseflesh capable of pulling a rig has been conscripted to Napoleon’s army.”
“Walking will take too long. Beatrice has been gone for almost two weeks. She could be anywhere.”
“Or she is where she said she would be in her note, investigating reports of Michelson’s whereabouts in Paris.”
Thomas didn’t like Stefano’s answer any more than he relished the idea of walking across the battlefields of northern France to Paris. He ran his hands through his hair and scrubbed his face with his palms. “I need to find her, Stefano, but first we need to hole up someplace safe.”
Stefano beckoned. “Come on. There’s a small pub not far from here. During the day it’s swarming with officers, but this late at night it might be less crowded.”
Entering the pub, Wickes pulled his sailor’s cap low over his forehead and found a table in a darkened corner while Stefano bought each of them a pint. When he brought them to the table, Stefano slid into the empty chair next to Thomas’s own and took a long swallow of his ale. Thomas stared into the foamy liquid, worry churning his stomach.
“Why the urgency to find her, if not for your sense of guilt? You did mislead her, and as she said in her note, she is more than capable of caring for herself.”
“We didn’t leave each other on the best of terms. When she left me in London early in May, she went north to find the captain of The Stallion of the Sea. I followed and reunited with her in Oban, where we had an ugly disagreement. She boarded the ship and sailed south, while I remained behind to fix a mess her father had made. In her absence, I was shot and could not travel to Southampton as soon as I would have liked, and I feared she’d have sailed before we could talk and finalize plans. With the deluge of rain this June, I was able to intercept her one night at a local pub before she sailed, when she terminated our romantic relationship and told me she was retiring from a life of espionage once the final job was completed. There was no time to convince her otherwise, and I didn’t take it well.”
“Why did she end things with you?”
“She said she had used me enough, and I was too good a person.”
“Implying she wasn’t. How ironic, though, for her to leave to avoid using you when you have been doing the same your entire relationship.”
“The irony is not lost on me, Stefano,” he said, his voice a thunderclap of anger. “Regardless, guilt festers within her and she blames herself for what her husband did to her. She has also never forgiven herself for ending the bastard’s life.”
“You didn’t tell me she killed her husband.”
“I didn’t want to overburden your conscience, not after I told you so poorly about your child. It haunts her to this day. His death and the loss of her child.”
“My poor Tris. Such a hard life she has led. It explains why she screams at night.”
“You’ve heard?”
“It’s…unearthly. I asked my grandmother about it. Aba said she had experienced great anguish, and her mind suffered. I can’t even imagine the pain she has had to endure. A lesser woman would have broken.”
“Hell, anyone would have broken after the horrors she’s lived. I want to help her, but she said she doesn’t need me anymore.”
Stefano smirked and rocked back in his chair. “So to prove her wrong, we’re going to chase her across a battle-strewn country to find her.”
“She needs me, even if she’s too stubborn to admit it.”
“Maybe she’s not the stubborn one.”
“When we find her and she tells me to go, I’ll go.”
“But not without a fight.”
“No, which is why I must find her. I love her.”
Stefano’s arms bunched and tensed before he sighed. “Merde. Why did you have to go and say that?”
Thomas stiffened, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn’t know what Stefano was about, but he was positive he wasn’t going to like it. “It’s true, and what’s it to you? I said it before.”
“Not like this. Not like she was your entire world.”
“It’s none of your business whether she is or not.”
“It is now.” Stefano stared at his glass, his jaw clenched, as if he were coming to some decision. He heaved a sigh and nodded
once. “I can get you to Paris within a week, if not sooner.”
“What? How?”
Stefano pushed up his sleeves. “Do you trust me?”
“Not particularly.”
“You haven’t a choice. Do you speak French?”
“Yes, but—”
“Sorry, Thomas. Don’t take this the wrong way.” Stefano made a fist, reared his arm back, and punched him in the face.
Blood gushed from his nostrils and dripped to his mouth, the iron tang coating his lips and tongue. “What the hell?” He was wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve when the bastard hit him again. Thomas ducked, rallied, and managed to clip Stefano’s jaw before the nomadic traitor kneed him in the stones. Thomas dropped to the ground and gasped.
“Salaud! Quiet, you filthy anglais!” Stefano yelled. “Gardes!”
Several French soldiers who had been drinking in the next room came running, including a young capitaine.
Thomas’s instincts screamed at him to stand and defend himself, but the pain was too intense. Luka solved the problem for him, yanking him from the floor and plopping him in a chair. With a length of rope from round his waist, Stefano tied Thomas’s hands behind his back. He was stuck.
The young captain sneered at Stefano before taking Thomas’s chin in his hand. The French officer studied his face and spit on the floor. “Who have we here, peasant?”
Stefano crossed his arms over his chest, towering tall and massive as a stone slab. Thomas had never seen anyone as formidable as Luka Stefano. He was no lightweight himself and had, therefore, underestimated the man. Staring at him now in the dim light from the tavern lanterns, civility’s thin veneer vanished and revealed him as the warrior he was. “A gift for General Reynard.” Thomas registered the moment Stefano’s expression changed from grim to dangerous. The young captain did not do so and sneered at his own peril.
“What do you know of Reynard?”
“Enough. You will take me to him.”
“Reynard has moved on to Paris. Besides, I’d sooner take a pox-ridden whore to Reynard than a half-breed mongrel like you.”
Stefano stalked closer to the captain, towering over the smaller man. He smiled, a wicked flash of gleaming white teeth against bronzed skin. The captain gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing from nervousness. “What message do you want me to deliver?”
“Tell him the French Wolf has brought him an English dog.”
****
Much of what occurred next was clouded in a haze of pain and betrayal. Once the guards were convinced of Stefano’s identity, Thomas was trussed like a Christmas goose and thrown into a rickety cart. He slept and awoke to a gentle swaying. Various barrels and boxes surrounded him, the smell of salt air coated his tongue, and the loud groaning and creaking from shifting deck slats oriented him soon enough. He was at sea. From the dim light, stale air, and cargo piled around him, he was in the hold. “Where are we going?”
A hard poke in his ribs roused him, and he tilted his head back, squinting to see who had found him. Stefano loomed above him, his grim expression and palpable worry poor compensation for wounded pride. Thomas scowled.
“Good. You’re awake. I brought you some whisky to dull the pain and see to the cuts on your face.” Stefano untied him and handed him the bottle.
Thomas hefted the bottle in his hand like the stones in the schoolyard of old, calculated the effort to raise the bottle over his aching head, and winced when a raw wound stretched and opened on his jaw. Better to use the liquid inside to cleanse the wounds before bashing Stefano’s brains with the empty bottle. Several questions lurked, waiting to jump out, but he recalled the most surprising revelation Stefano’s betrayal had revealed. “You’re the French Wolf? We’ve been hunting you for years. You’ve stolen hundreds of thousands of pounds in supplies meant for British troops. You’re a wanted man.”
“By the French, as well. I’ve angered many people.”
“For what? To secure Napoleon’s reign?”
“I told you not to take it the wrong way. It’s nothing personal. England was once my home, as is France, but I needed coin. My people were starving, and scavenging provided for them when nothing else did.”
Stefano offered his arm and hoisted him up. He snatched his arm away and rubbed his jaw, glaring at the man. “I should kill you, for no other reason than because you throw a mean right punch. My jaw is throbbing.”
Stefano crossed his arms over his chest and widened his stance, unconcerned Thomas had threatened to kill him. “We were in a difficult situation and needed a quick way to get to Paris. Across land was near impossible. We’d be stopped and questioned, or worse, conscripted. This way, we’re avoiding the majority of the fighting and will be escorted directly to Reynard. You’ll be with Tris before week’s end.”
“Not if I’m a prisoner.” Thomas rubbed his wrists, the rope burns raw and painful, and prodded his ribs. He cringed but a more thorough prod didn’t reveal any were broken.
“You won’t be. I will.”
“What?”
“I don’t need to escort you to Reynard’s camp. Others have delivered goods I’ve salvaged, so it won’t be unusual for me to refuse to continue into Paris. When we near the city, we’ll switch places, and I will be taken to Reynard instead of you.”
“We look nothing alike, and despite the young captain’s obvious fear of your reputation, it has not rendered him witless.”
“Our builds are similar enough I will pass for you.”
“You’ll be killed.”
“Probably.”
“But why?”
“My time has come. The choices I’ve made to ensure my clan’s survival have muddied my morals until I’ve had to search to find the man I once was. This is the right choice for me. No one needs me. My clan is taken care of, as is Tris. You’ll see she’s happy.”
“What are you saying, Stefano?”
“One of us can have her, and it’s not meant to be me. My destiny lies in a Paris prison. There are consequences to my actions, consequences I have avoided for years. No more. I won’t die a coward.”
“If you were planning on turning yourself in all this time, why did you have to hit me and turn me over to the French? I could have presented you and spared us both this ruse.”
“There was a chance you’d be taken too. Your French is not as good as you believe, and your acting skills are questionable. I saw how you tried to hide your anguish over Tris’s defection, and you failed miserably. Better you were unconscious and unable to open your mouth. Otherwise, you’d have given us away for sure.” Thomas’s inner child heaved a huge rock at the man’s head.
Stefano, oblivious to his turmoil, smirked and slugged him on the shoulder. “Plus, you’re getting my girl. You owed me some pleasure for my sacrifices.”
Gratitude for Stefano’s gift moved him beyond his petty jealousies, and he held out his hand. “Thank you. She will want for nothing the rest of her days.”
“Assuming you can convince her to return with you.”
“I’ll do my best. She’s worth it.”
“I have one favor to ask before we part.”
“Anything.”
“Tell her I love her.”
Chapter 24
The Stallion of the Sea, The Atlantic, June 1810
Beatrice closed the door behind her and rested her forehead on the wooden plank separating her from her sister, Evie, and the man who had stowed aboard The Stallion of the Sea to claim her. Alfred Coombes was a brave man, full of shrewd logic and integrity. He was also the perfect man for her headstrong little sister. Beatrice couldn’t be happier the two had found each other, and she prayed she had the strength to say goodbye forever.
Slipping between the shadows, Beatrice hurried across the deck, down the ladder to the hold, and through the connecting passage to the galley. There she prepared for her night’s work. Poison, Master Jones had said, was as intricate and demanding a mistress as physical combat, and Beatrice had bedded t
his particular lady for years. She’d studied which plants rendered a man immobile but aware, ideal for a particular brand of torture, and which killed within moments. The sleeping draught she had gifted her sister Evie on her eighteenth birthday was a potion of her own design, ensuring the victim would pass an oblivious afternoon none the wiser. It was this potion she now prepared.
The galley cook was abed, so Beatrice moved about the room unhindered by her attentive crew or her own attempts to be a man. After so many weeks, playing the part of Captain Allan Braithwaite came more easily with each passing day, though the continued ruse was tiring. The sooner this job was finished, the sooner she could leave this life behind. Thomas hadn’t believed her when she’d broken off their professional and romantic relationship, a week past in Southampton, but she’d never been more serious. The game’s cost was too dear, both physically and emotionally. It had been years since Beatrice had experienced any emotion other than the ones demanded by the part she played; it was impossible to distinguish between the two. Hence the decision to retire after this job. After the ship exploded and Michelson was dead, her debt to Thomas was paid. If Thomas had an inkling she viewed their relationship as such, he’d have terminated the professional aspect years ago. But a debt was owed. Thomas had saved her, given her a purpose, and taught her the skills she’d need to never be at a man’s mercy again.
She removed from her inner coat pocket a sachet containing her own blend of dried plants and stirred them into the pot of boiling water. Soon, a steady vapor arose from the water, dangerous if ingested. Taking out her pocket watch, she marked the time. Thirty more minutes of boiling, and the mixture would be ready to process. She sat at the small table Cook kept in the galley and removed an object from her breast pocket, unable to resist pulling out the worn parchment despite her efforts to ignore its presence.
Unfolding the letter, she traced the neat hand, her heart pounding in her chest at the man’s bold scrawl. He’d written her. The letter had awaited her at the local pub in Southampton, and had she not met Thomas there before sailing, she’d never have received it.
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