The Cornish Heiress

by Roberta Gellis

  “When I come,” Philip said, “I will leave a message for you in the cave, if you are not there.”

  “Leave a message for me?” Megaera repeated blankly. “But won’t you come ashore with the kegs? I will be on the beach.”

  “I—” Philip started to say that he might not return by sea, and swallowed the words. “I might not be able to do that,” he said. Then, hurriedly, “Do not lose hope, Meg, if it takes long. I will come. If I am alive, I will come.”

  “Alive?” she breathed. “Why should you say—”

  He stopped her mouth with a kiss. “Only because my duty may take a long time to discharge. And I know you will begin to wonder whether I have forgotten you. Never think it, Meg. It may be many months, but I will come I will never forget you. Will you wait for me?”

  “Yes.”

  She stared at him in the pale light of dawn. He appeared more tired than when they had gone to bed—which was not surprising. His large, dark eyes looked anxiously at her from under lids heavy with lack of sleep. They were ringed with mauve, and his cheeks appeared hollow under the heavy black stubble of beard. Usually Philip shaved when they returned to the house after delivering the orders. Megaera enjoyed watching him and liked the faint odor of shaving soap that clung to him. Last night he had not bothered because of their eagerness to make love.

  Suddenly she wondered why she was killing herself to hold on to Bolliet. Why not let the gull-gropers have it? Mrs. Edward Devoran could simply disappear. Red Meg could marry a smuggler’s bastard. She sat up abruptly. That was insane! She could not abandon her father. He would be thrown out to die like an old bag of bones. And the people on the estate? What would become of them? But she could not take back her “yes” either. She bent to kiss Philip one last time. When he came back, she would tell him—something.

  Gently she disengaged herself from his clinging arms. “I will meet you at the cave at the usual time,” she said. “What do you want done with Spite?”

  “I have a place to leave him,” Philip replied, his voice harsh.

  Megaera nearly went back to the bed, but she knew that would only make it more painful. She dressed quickly and then, quite suddenly, fled the house without saying another word. Philip had started to get up too, which was unusual, but he only called her name as she went out the door and he did not follow. He could scarcely pursue her stark naked as he was, but it would be wrong anyway, he told himself as he permitted his eyes to close. A faint, reminiscent smile curved his lips as he slid deep, deep into an exhausted sleep.

  The smile was still on his lips when he woke some hours later, the sun shining full in his face. He stretched slowly. The night he had put in had almost made the parting worthwhile, and he had nothing to fear. Meg was honest as the day. She had said she would wait, and she would. It would not be so long. He would make all the haste he could.

  Philip whistled happily as he pumped water, stirred up the fire, and set a small pot to heat shaving water. He washed sketchily, shivering in the chilly room at the touch of the cold water. Would there be time, he wondered, to take a bath at Moreton Place? No, that was ridiculous. Even Perce would find it hard to explain a friend who came in to take a bath and left again, and there would be no way to keep that information from Lady Moreton. Anyway, he would suit his role better as he was. Philip looked at his watch and whistled again. He had slept longer than he thought. It wouldn’t take long to ride Spite over to Moreton Place and leave him in the stable yard, but it would take considerably longer to walk back from there to the cave.

  Then he realized he would have to make a detour to the cave first to leave his saddlebags and clothes roll. It was enough to carry himself all those miles from Moreton Place without having to carry baggage too. He reminded himself to ask Pierre whether it would be safe to carry the Parker pistols and the muff gun into France. They were English-made and might betray him. The Lorenzoni’s were safe—not that he would part with them even if they were not. But it was as likely that a Frenchman would have a pair of Italian-made guns as an Englishman. His clothing too—but Pierre would know.

  Even with detours and the long walk, Philip reached the cave before Megaera came through the passage from Bolliet Manor. She had guessed he would be early and had come early herself, but she could not come before dining with her father, and on this night when she would be returning alone to the cave with the men, she needed the pistols and other things she kept hidden in the passage, so she could not ride around the hill, as she had been doing to deceive Philip.

  Megaera peered cautiously out of the passage before allowing John to lower the ladder. Fortunately, although she could hear Philip moving around, he was on the other side of the screen that hid the “living” area. John dropped the ladder very slowly so it would not make a noise when it touched the floor, and Megaera clambered down as fast as she, could and ran quickly out into the main body of the cave, calling, “Philip, is it you?”

  As he turned she clasped him in her arms and kissed him hungrily. It was a device to give John time to come down, push the ladder back into concealment, and come out—but Megaera enjoyed it very much. So did Philip, although he guessed the purpose.

  “And where did you come from, bunny dear?” he asked mischievously when he heard John coming and broke the embrace.

  The question was more for the pleasure of seeing Meg drop her eyes and blush furiously as she told a lie than with any real desire to know. Philip was curious about her secret, but he was certain after the two weeks of intimate living that there could be nothing shameful in it. The dreadful difficulty she had in lying as well as Pierre’s assurance that she was honest, precluded a criminal background. Philip was curious but not in any hurry to have his curiosity satisfied. When he told Meg his secrets, he was sure he could winkle out hers.

  “From one of the other caves,” Megaera said hanging her head.

  It was harder and harder to lie to Philip, particularly since she trusted him implicitly now. The only reason she had not confessed and lived with him in the greater comfort of Bolliet Manor was her fear that the knowledge that she was a lady would make him feel awkward or embarrassed. She could not speak now, either. It would make him unhappy, and that word “alive” had haunted her all day. She believed now that Philip was going to do something dangerous. If that were true, he must have nothing to distract him. He must be secure and confident so he could think only of his own safety.

  “Little liar,” Philip said, kissing her lightly on the nose. “There is another passage you have hidden from me. Never mind, love, I will not pry now, but when I return we will have a reckoning.”

  “Oh, Philip—”

  “Never mind, I said. You are such a terrible liar, you could not convince me. Meg, for the last time, will you not just leave this cargo in the cave or sell it all to someone else to distribute? I am afraid for you.”

  “Afraid for me? Don’t be silly, Philip. Don’t you worry about me! Only come back safe. I’ll be fine. I’ll wait however long. Just come back safe.”

  “Love, love, of course I will be safe. Whatever put the idea that I would not be safe into your beautiful head?”

  Clearly he didn’t remember what he had said that morning, half asleep as he had been. He must not worry about that either. Megaera looked up and smiled. “Oh, Philip, everything is dangerous. Every trip Pierre makes he might be caught. I’m sure disposing of the goods we have for him will be dangerous. Such things must surely be forbidden—well, you told me yourself that Bonaparte had forbidden them.”

  Philip laughed and kissed her nose again. “Adorable idiot. Pierre has never been caught in nearly forty years. Do you think he will suddenly forget everything he knows, just because I am with him? I may distract you, my love, but he is quite indifferent to my charms.”

  But then it was dark and John came with the ponies. They made their way to the cove. Pierre was not delayed either by a cruising ship or by contrary wind. His signal flashed right on time, an
d after Megaera had answered with hers they were all too busy to be sad or frightened. Pierre’s goods, which had been brought down by the ponies, were loaded into the outgoing boats. Philip had no chance after that to think of anything but what he was doing. Unloading from and reloading the small dinghies was a ticklish job. It was only in the early hours of the morning, when he had finally maneuvered himself into a spare hammock and stretched his aching limbs, that he realized he had overlooked one essential thing that might be of enormous value to Meg.

  He sat up so suddenly that he banged his head on a beam and almost fell out of the hammock. Ignoring the muffled laughter of a couple of newer crewmen who did not know him, he went to find Pierre and tell him he had changed his mind about going ashore to meet Meg when she paid for the cargo she had received. It had been agreed between them that Philip would not come. Both felt it would be too painful to part again under the restraint necessary in The Mousehole.

  How much Philip’s regret over this decision inspired his idea, he did not investigate. However, when he told Pierre that he wanted to leave two letters with Meg—one explaining that if she should by any mischance be caught, she should send the second letter to his father and appeal to Roger for help. Pierre agreed that the notion was most excellent. He grinned a little, but he was kind enough not to mention that it would be easiest simply to entrust the letters to him. Pierre did not think much of women, but he was by no means immune to their charms. It might be long in the past, but Pierre could remember finding excuses to see this or that pretty creature one last time. He simply furnished Philip with writing materials and told him he was going to bed.

  Philip did not find either letter easy to write. He did not wish to give his father and stepmother any reason to think he was acting like an idiot and contemplating a permanent association with an obviously unsuitable woman. This would cause them considerable anguish and could not help Meg. Not that his father would not exert himself in her behalf—he would, of course, but he might also insult her by offering to buy her off.

  In this Philip wronged and underestimated his father, who would have recognized Megaera’s quality instantly. Roger might have been stunned to find a lady of quality engaged in such an enterprise—although that was doubtful too. After twenty years as a barrister there was very little that could surprise him. Nonetheless, since it was not likely Roger would be too dazzled by Megaera’s beauty to notice anything else he would have known her for a lady. Furthermore, having a reasonably clear understanding of his son’s character, he would have welcomed his peculiarly employed but gently born prospective daughter-in-law with open arms—after extricating her from the grip of the law.

  Like most sons, however, Philip did not guess his father was so perspicacious. Therefore, he controlled his transports about Meg’s character and person as well as he could and tried to place emphasis on how well Pierre thought of her, how eager she had, been to make sure the smuggling did not give aid to Bonaparte either through helping his agents or providing goods useful for war, and how helpful she had been to him. This was a waste of effort. When Leonie saw the letter, she would read between the lines immediately. Philip, though, was well satisfied with his effort when it was completed.

  The letter to Meg was even harder to write. Philip hoped, of course, that she would never have to open it. However, if she did there was no way to guess when it would be. He did not dare confess his mission lest the letter fall into other hands. In the end he decided to tell her nothing, only that if she should be taken by the law she should demand that Roger St. Eyre, M.P., of Stour Castle, Kent, be informed and the second enclosed letter be delivered to him. Using the name of a gentleman and member of Parliament would obtain consideration for her immediately. No local official would take the chance of offending a man who might be of importance, and if the arresting officers were from the Customs Service in London, they might know his father. Now if he could obtain Meg’s promise to do as he asked, Philip felt he would not need to worry about her.

  He was completely happy when he and Pierre were set ashore at a quiet beach not far from The Mousehole. There was a rough pier near the inn itself, but Pierre preferred not to use it. He believed it was unwise to appear at the same time and place in a vulnerable position—and there was nothing more vulnerable than a man caught on a ladder between a pier and a moving boat—too frequently. Thus he came ashore sometimes east, sometimes west of the place and walked, which also gave him a chance to look over the ground and the inn with some care.

  The beach on which they landed did not run all the way to The Mousehole. A rocky headland protruded right down into the water. This was not at all unusual, and Philip and Pierre scrambled up the flank of the hill by the light of the dark lantern Pierre carried, for it was a nasty night, cold and misty with light rain. When they reached the top of the rise, Pierre stopped to look around and orient himself. He knew the area well, but in the absence of moon and stars he had to use the lantern to identify a landmark he knew to be nearby.

  It was not where he expected, but they could not be lost as long as they kept the sound of the surf to their left. They walked few minutes, Pierre occasionally turning the light inland, hoping to pick out a cairn of stones. Apparently in the dark they had missed the beach he wanted and landed at one even farther east than he had intended. They walked for nearly ten minutes before he spotted the pile of rock; it was a good deal farther south than he expected. He uttered a short exclamation, and they turned toward the marker. They would come out on the road at the very northern edge of the straggle of huts that surrounded The Mousehole rather than on the shore near the inn.

  This was scarcely important, as they had plenty of time, and Pierre and Philip walked along talking softly in French of Pierre’s success in obtaining an excellent set of papers for Philip and Philip’s success in obtaining a cargo of great value for Pierre.

  “Yes, well, I hope it is not too dangerous to handle,” Philip said.

  Pierre laughed. “You mean now that you are of the Douane you will report me?” Then, before Philip could react to this teasing, Pierre said, “My God, a thought of the most excellent. So you shall, Philippe!”

  Aware that Pierre could not mean this literally, Philip did not cry out in protest but only remarked calmly, “Here is the road, do not fall into the ditch.”

  Pierre started to swing the lantern to delineate better the edge of the rain runoff ditch, when a voice cried out, “It is he!” and almost before the last word a pistol barked. Another voice, deeper, hoarser, shouted, “No!” but Philip and Pierre were already in the ditch, and Pierre’s pistol had returned the shot in the direction of the sound. It seemed as if he had been more successful than he intended, for a scream rang out and a shadow darted across the road.

  Actually Pierre had only intended to warn off whoever had been lying in wait. He assumed it was a case of mistaken identity, since no one could possibly have known where he and Philip would come from. An ambush laid on the road could not have been intended for them. It had been blind chance that brought them there. Pierre’s mind went no farther than that, but Philip’s leapt to the next conclusion. An ambush on the road might have been meant for Meg. She would come that way and she would be carrying a large sum of money.

  The Lorenzoni in his right hand spat fire, and the shot was returned with better aim—or better luck than could be expected in the dark. The ball whistled by fairly close. Pierre uttered a wordless protest, but before he could reach out and catch Philip, the younger man was up and running along the ditch. Pierre’s mind formed some choice expletives, but he did not utter them aloud. He was using his mouth for the more sensible purpose of tearing open a cartridge to reload. There were two more shots fired, and another scream before he was ready. Now he had time to curse, and he did.

  Three brief points of light close together coupled with a roar of sound betrayed the position of more of the attackers. Pierre fired in their direction, and the corner of his eye caught two more flashes
too close together to be separate men. That was Philip, firing both guns. There was no vocal response to any of the shots. All had seemingly missed. Pierre cursed again, but with relief at the knowledge that the second cry he had heard had not been Philip’s. Without stopping to reload this time, he continued along the ditch in the hope of catching his too-adventurous companion. It was clear to Pierre that there were too many attackers for simple robbery to be the motive. He thought they had got mixed into a war between two smuggling groups or between a smuggling gang and Customs.

  It occurred to him that the one French word nearly every smuggler knew was Customs—and that he might have been talking too loudly. It was just after he had said something about Philip being of the Douane that the voice had cried, “It is he!” and the shooting had started.

  “Philippe!” he shouted, reaching for him but missing. He had underestimated the distance in the dark.

  Pierre was not as young as he had been, and dashing around in ditches after a scrambling climb was telling on him. If Philip heard, he gave no sign. Pierre was close enough to see him dimly. He was working the lever of one of the Lorenzonis—presumably the other was already loaded. Hastily Pierre leapt and grabbed, but Philip had already moved. Pierre’s foot came down on a stone that shifted, and he fell headlong, just as a gun went off nearly in his ear.

  He did not see what happened next but knew from the results. Before he could get to his feet, another gun went off, very close, and a heavy weight smashed him flat. Apparently some fool, seeing both Philip’s pistols go off, had run down to the edge of the ditch to shoot him at point-blank range, assuming he couldn’t reload in time. That was his last mistake. The Lorenzoni repeaters could fire twelve shots each at only two- to five-second intervals. Nonetheless this was a near disaster. Pierre heaved frantically at the dead weight pressing him down into the glutinous mud. With no one to protect his back, it would not be long before Philip was shot down despite his superior guns.