Burning Bright (Brambridge Novel 2)

by Pearl Darling

  The boat’s French design meant that it didn’t matter if it was seen. It wouldn’t be believed that it was British, merely another fast fishing boat, cruising the coast in the summer.

  Tommy showed Harriet to a small cabin separate to the rest. Lying in her hammock, she hugged the words to her like a blanket.

  I would know her anywhere. Her last thought warmed her more than any blanket. He’d recited the Kubla Khan for her.

  She awoke early the next morning, and took time putting on her clothes. The word anywhere still floated in her head. Still, she pulled on the ruined breeches with care. She needed to get it just right in the daylight in order not to raise suspicion. The shape of her waistcoat hid the rounded mounds of her breasts. The breeches she could do nothing about.

  The day broke gloriously, sun bright in the sky glinting off the sea. She sat, with a steaming cup of coffee in her hand, enjoying the sunshine. A hat perched on her head at a jaunty angle, and her unruly hair tied back in a queue. The deck was warm and the timbers reflected the heat of the sun on her bare feet.

  “I thought I recognized those breeches.”

  Harriet pulled her feet beneath her as James appeared beside her. He was as quiet as a cat—she hadn’t even heard him arrive. He put a hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her back down to the deck again as she tried to stand.

  If only she hadn’t had to wear his breeches. She hadn’t had any choice—the night he had accosted her in the dark, she had climbed up on to the cart so quickly in an effort to get away that she had split the trousers she had made seam to seam. They had been irreparable in the time that she had left. She’d taken the chance and pulled on his stained breeches instead.

  “And there aren’t many lads or lasses in the village with your color hair.”

  “I… I can explain.”

  “One might think that you poured tea on me on purpose.”

  “I didn’t,” Harriet replied hotly. “No, I did, but not to get your trousers.” Oh dear, the situation was getting worse. A hot flush rose to her neck.

  James quirked an eyebrow at her. “Interesting.” He sat down next to her. Harriet closed her eyes. He was too close. She swallowed and opened them again to see him looking at her.

  “Harriet, what are you doing here?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Did you know I was coming?”

  “No!” Harriet closed her mouth with a snap. “No,” she said again in a softer voice. She had hoped he wouldn’t think that.

  She glanced up at him, but James turned his head away from her and looked out across the bow of the boat. He was dressed in typical sailor’s garb. A pea jacket and cloth trousers and a common hat with a jaunty orange ribbon tied around it completed the ensemble. It shouldn’t have looked good on him but it did. He seemed comfortable in the clothes, not like the stuffed shirt with shiny boots Harriet had assumed he had become. What had happened to him in the war?

  “I’m not following you, James,” she continued in a soft voice. “I’m not a young girl any more. I have my own life to lead, and my own concerns to foster.”

  “That is abundantly clear,” he muttered, still not looking at her. “I still want to know what you are doing on this boat. This is not a jaunt that delicate young ladies should undertake.”

  Harriet swallowed and crossed her legs underneath her. Did he mean that he thought her a delicate young lady? Or that she wasn’t a delicate young lady because she was on the boat?

  “Not like Melissa Sumner?” she ventured, forcing a little jollity into her voice. She braced her fingers against the warm deck.

  James gave a snort of mirth and looked at her. She drew in a quick breath. His eyes sparkled, and the frown lines that he wore habitually on his forehead smoothed away.

  “Melissa? No, you would never find her here.”

  “Oh.”

  “Or her mother. Gods take me. She’s like a leech. I can’t seem to get rid of her.”

  “Why don’t you just ask them to leave?” Harriet bit her lip as small creases formed at James’ hair line.

  “I can’t,” he said flatly.

  “Do you remember when I turned up at the manor kitchen door just after the… err… sandbank incident?”

  “Mmm yes.”

  “Do you remember how you persuaded me to leave then?”

  James looked at her in surprise. He thought for a moment. “You wouldn’t go away. My father was at home and would have skinned me alive if he had found you.” He laughed suddenly. “I had to steal one of cook’s pastries for you and promise to re-enact the scene from Romeo and Juliet… Mercutio and Tybalt! No wonder you managed to stick me in the side with your dagger.”

  Harriet nodded. “I’d wanted to thank you but you wouldn’t let me get a word in edgeways. You were too nervous about your father discovering me that you promised anything to get rid of me.”

  “My father was a tyrant.”

  She nodded. He had been. She scraped at the surface of the deck with a finger. “At least he’s dead now. There’s nothing more he can do to cause trouble.”

  James shook his head, his overlong black hair brushing against his shoulders. The orange ribbon of his hat caught in the breeze and flapped against the back of his neck. He brushed it away. He took a long breath in, and laid a large hand over hers, stilling it.

  “Boat ahoy!” A cry from the aft deck silenced James. Harriet silently urged him to go on. Was it about Melissa? His plans for the future?

  But James took his hand away from hers. He got to his feet, leaving her looking after him as he walked to the side of the boat and peered over the edge. It was only a returning party of the crew who had gone ashore; they had left early when Harriet had first reached the deck.

  James glanced back at Harriet for a moment, but then with a set of his jaw, walked towards the rope ladder where the returning party would climb back up.

  Harriet wanted to drum a hole in the planks she was sitting on. Could a man have been more frustrating? Being enigmatic in theatre was all very well, that was expected, but in real life it was infuriating. What was so interesting about the returning party that James hadn’t finished his sentence? In truth, why was James on the Rocket at all?

  Harriet put out a hand and, pulling hard on a halyard, drew herself to her feet. She peered over the side of the boat. The little skiff seemed to be much fuller than when it had left. Perhaps Renard was among the returning sailors. She looked hard, but none of the skiff’s occupants appeared to have that dangerous allure that she assumed a smuggler of some renown would have. Some of the crew were dressed oddly for sailing though. French fashions were more different than she thought.

  CHAPTER 16

  Thank God for the returning skiff. It had saved James from blurting out everything, from the conditions of his father’s will to his need to reach out and brush the ever present flaming curls from Harriet’s face. He’d wanted to kill Bill as soon as he had caught sight of Harriet’s drawn face framed by the ludicrous hood of her cape. He’d wracked his brain to think of a way to keep her spirits up, to bring back the customary fire to her features. The only thing he could think of was Kubla Khan, a poem so dramatic that it was sure to appeal to her. He had had to work hard as he stumbled over the words, ‘As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted, By woman wailing for her demon-lover’.

  He would kill Bill with his bare hands, he’d decided. Or perhaps even slowly with his knife.

  Treading quickly along the smooth planks, James kept his eye on the skiff. He closed his eyes briefly as the skiff hooked onto the side of the boat. He wasn’t one to talk. Melissa hadn’t said yes either. In fact she hadn’t said anything at all when he’d asked her to marry him. She’d just stared at him with wide, blue eyes and then whirled around and had disappeared into her room.

  No amount of shrieking by her mother had been able to draw her out.

  James grasped on to the railing and held out a hand as the first member of the crew reached over the d
eck and hauled themselves onto the side.

  “Merci,” the figure said, before blinking exceedingly long eyelashes in his direction. “I mean, thank you.”

  Good God. More women dressed as men.

  He swallowed and held out a hand again to pull up the next passenger. Mercifully it was a man.

  “Bonjour,” he drawled.

  “Bonjour,” said the man before swallowing. “’Ello. My name is Jean.”

  “You mean John.”

  “Oui, err, yes.”

  Jean side stepped to the side of the lady with the long eyelashes. Glancing to make sure James was not looking, he patted the lady on the hand.

  James shook his head. Émigrés. That was what Bill was smuggling. No wonder he had been so close-mouthed about what he was shipping. James should have made the connection when Ned had referred to his clientele and the sumptuously decorated blue room.

  James reached out a hand for the next passenger, but received instead a large cask corked with a small stopper covered in wax. Émigrés and brandy. The shipment had not changed so much, then.

  “No hand for me?” Bill agilely pulled himself onto the deck of the Rocket and took the cask from James. “Venez avec moi,” he said, jerking his head at the couple. They looked nervously between Bill and James. “Ne vous inquietez pas.” Bill put the cask carefully on its end on the deck. “Il est mon frère.”

  With a snap of his head James looked at Bill. He is my brother. Of course he was. Of course Bill was his brother. Why had he not seen it before? The same hair coloring, features and height? Everything but the eyes and sheer amount of muscles Bill carried were different. He opened his mouth to say something, but shut it again. Bill nodded at him, acknowledging the dawning comprehension on James’ face.

  James nodded back. Good God. A brother. A male Stanton who he always trusted. James frowned. Bill was one of his suspects, he reminded himself. Turning, he looked back at the émigré.

  The man’s shoulders slumped in relief. Taking the woman’s hand, he nodded at James and then turned to follow Bill to what he assumed was a cabin below.

  “’Ere don’t lolly gag around, take the cask, man.” James gazed in surprise as an older man pulled himself over the size with a visible wince. James bent and picked up the cask. He hadn’t carried something of the same weight since the night he had escaped England. He had travelled light as a scout across Spain.

  The older sailor gazed at him in horror. “Your Lordship. Oh dear, let me carry that.”

  James shook his head. “You don’t seem in any condition to be carrying casks around.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you in those clothes. It’s been a long time. The last time I saw you I was tending a fire on Longmans Point.”

  James frowned and looked again at the older man. He tilted his head towards the light, revealing a craggy face and large nose. “Tommy?”

  The sailor nodded gleefully. “The same. The face might be a bit older but I’m still willing.”

  “Where do you want the cask?”

  “Down in the fo’csle. We don’t bother to hide it. Our key need is speed at the other end.”

  James carried the heavy cask to the hatch on the deck which led to the fo’csle. Another sailor was waiting with open hands to take it. James let it go with relief, turning to see that Tommy had followed him.

  “We could have done with a bit of speed on that night a few years ago.”

  Tommy nodded. “Bad business that. Never believed you’d done it.”

  James frowned. “You were up by the fire that night. The officer was found below there. Did you see anything?”

  “No.” The old sailor frowned. “I put the fire out after I heard you hoot. There weren’t nobody else up there with me. I didn’t see anyone down on the beach either, mind you the tide was almost up to the cliffs and it was terrible dark like. I came down the back way, having a smoke. Didn’t want to go home see, knew the missus would take a strip out of my ear as soon as I got home for going on another brandy run.”

  “How long did you stay up on the point?”

  “No time at all after I put the fire out. The wind was whistling something fierce.”

  “And you didn’t see anyone?”

  “No. Mind you I had had a tot or two of brandy to keep me warm. Didn’t even see any rabbits.”

  James sighed. Tommy wouldn’t have noticed a monster if it had stood behind him if he had been at the brandy. The last person seen on the beach was Harriet. He looked towards the prow of the boat. She stood there, head cocked on one side, observing the unloading of the skiff. She had said she had heard the body fall.

  “She’s as plucky as she is beautiful, that girl is.”

  “I beg your pardon.” James turned back to Tommy.

  “That Miss Beauregard.” Tommy jerked his head in Harriet’s direction. He shrugged down his shirt at the shoulder to reveal a large red scar, punctuated by neat stitches. “Didn’t bat an eyelid when Bill dragged me to her door. Thought I’d died and gone to heaven when I woke up and saw her flaming hair. Then I heard my missus crying in the background.”

  The scar was really rather large. Tommy pointed to it with a gnarled finger. “She stitched me up she did. Threw brandy on my wounds. Blood everywhere. Never mind that silly Romeo and Juliety thing she’s doing at the school. That girl has guts. She had Bill and me jumping to her tune. Here. She’s got us in her bloody play too.”

  “I had heard.” He hadn’t really questioned what Bill was doing at the schoolroom in the play but now he was beginning to understand.

  It seemed that what he had perceived as Harriet’s youthful folly was in reality stubbornness and persistence. She would do anything to get what she wanted.

  Why was she on the Rocket now? He would need to keep a close eye on her. It wasn’t an unattractive idea. James sighed. He couldn’t think of her like that. Not whilst Marie Mompesson came between him, and his rightful inheritance. He would not be beaten by his father.

  “Ah, Thomas. Still showing everyone your wound from la guerre, I see.” A tall man with broad shoulders vaulted lithely over the railing and landed catlike at James’ side.

  Tommy’s mouth dropped open.

  “Renard.” James froze inwardly then relaxed as Bill stepped silently to his side. “Welcome.”

  “Salut, Guillaume. And who do we have here—alors James, but you have grown up, mon ami. And now aren’t you the peinture of a large English brute!” Renard circled James and Tommy and then leaned against a mast.

  “Enchanté,” drawled James. “And it is good to see you too, Renard. It looks like business has been good for you.”

  It was evident; Renard was dressed in courtier dress, although his hair wasn’t powdered. Gilt dripped from his shoulders, and at his waist an enormous sword hung loose.

  “Who did you rob to get that outfit, Renard?” James said. Bill looked at him in astonishment. Renard threw them both a lopsided smile. “Bah, we all have our little secrets, Guillaume. James and I had a little business throughout the war, how shall we say, toujours en secret?”

  James shifted his weight from one foot to another. The mention of the war had made his shoulder hurt.

  “I met Renard in the tavern in Calais. He was… instrumental in persuading me to join the army.”

  “I hope you don’t blame me still for that.”

  “Mmm.” It had been James’ choice to join the British army. Renard had merely been the messenger. “I didn’t realize that you were also smuggling on the side.”

  “Ah. We do what we have to.” Renard shrugged and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  James had never wanted to examine too closely how he felt about Renard. He had used him. Used him to protect his own troops and also to keep an eye on Bill, and by proxy, his sister and the goings on in Brambridge. He had not been shocked that they’d kept on their smuggling. He had not told Bill because he knew that he would have been angry to know he was being observed. He knew from Re
nard that Bill had continually asked throughout the country for the whereabouts of James Stanton, even through the network of contraband smuggling into Wales and far north into Scotland. On one memorable occasion he had received a short note saying ‘James Stanton sought. What message?’ It was signed simply ‘Renard’. He had thought for a week before replying ‘Not found’. He didn’t even bother to sign it.

  Bill glanced at Tommy and then at James. He beckoned to Renard. “Enough of the past. Let’s get to it. We’ve set up the back cabin.”

  James was surprised. It seemed that Bill was including him in everything. If he had been trying to do anything underhand, then he would have left James out of the negotiations.

  The back cabin was obviously where Bill and Tommy had bunked up. A table was set in the center, with several glasses. Renard produced a bottle from underneath his cloak.

  “I thought we should sample some of the goods before you pay for it.” He set the bottle on the table and levered up the cork with the edge of his sword. Thrusting the sword back into his belt, he straddled a stool and poured three glasses of brandy. “Are you coming to join me?”

  “Of course.” Bill took another chair and gestured at the last one. “Sit down, James. There is nothing to hide from you here. We’re all on business from the Hawk.”

  James glanced at Bill quickly. “We are?”

  “But of course, mon ami.” Renard frowned at James. “Did you not know? Why else would I have given the message to you? Why else do you think I meet with Bill now?”

  “I’m not sure.” James picked up a glass of brandy from the table.

  Devil bedamned. If he had been in France or Spain, hiding under a haystack, he would have put two and two together and already made four.

  “Bloody hell.” Damn Marie Mompesson, riding officers and damsels with flaming hair. They were turning his head to turnip mush. To think that he had suspected Bill. He took a gulp of the brandy and gasped.