Irresistible

by ROBARDS, KAREN

  “Well met, Captain: You saved me the trouble of seeking you out to bid you farewell.” Belying everything her senses told her about his state of mind—and those no-nonsense pistols—Hugh’s manner was both easy and courteous. “You have been most hospitable, but we must needs be on our way.”

  “I think not.” The captain’s voice reflected mild regret, and he shook his head in a fashion that was almost commiserating. His pistol, however, never wavered in its aim, which was directly at Hugh’s heart. Then he snapped his fingers. The men behind him fanned out so that the five of them formed a barrier as impenetrable as a wall. A wall armed with pistols. Claire, from her position behind Hugh’s back, noticed that she did not seem to be the intended target of a single weapon, and could only thank fortune. However, she had little doubt that if shooting started she would find herself very much in harm’s way. Hugh, as a primary target of all that gun power, would undoubtedly be brought down in a trice. He would die. . . .

  For a moment, for Claire, time seemed to stand still. Hugh would die—at the image that conjured up, she went suddenly weak at the knees. It shook her to realize just how important he had become to her in such a short period of time.

  Out in the bay, the wind blew long ruffled lines of whitecaps toward the shore. The sound of them breaking and receding on the muddy beach formed a murmuring backdrop for the low-voiced, mingled French and English conversations of the smugglers, who were still hard at labor around them and appeared largely oblivious to the scene being played out amid them. About a dozen feet to Claire’s left, a wagon groaning under a heavy load of barrels got stuck in the sand. Locals converged on it, trying to push it out. The driver got down and, amid a torrent of Gallic curses, jerked the reins over his horses’ heads and tried to help them pull, with no success that Claire could see. Wheels squeaked as other, apparently less heavily loaded wagons rolled past, away from the dock. From the look of things, the night’s labor was almost done.

  “Forgive me, Colonel, but we do much business here. Sometimes, in the name of business, we have to throw the French a bone. Tonight, you are that bone, you two and the lady here.” The captain never even glanced at his henchmen as he added brusquely, “Search them. Get their weapons.”

  With five pistols trained on them, opening fire was clearly suicidal. Breathing fast, her knees suddenly rubbery again, Claire prayed that Hugh and James would make no move, and they did not. She stood mute, taking care to remain behind Hugh and as much out of sight as possible, as they were relieved of their pistols and subjected to a hand search for additional weapons. Hugh’s knife was taken from a sheath hidden beneath the waistband of his breeches. Then the sailors stepped back, nodding at their captain as they pocketed the weapons they had taken.

  Claire’s blood began to drum in her ears as she realized that no one had given a thought to her. The pistol Hugh had given her suddenly seemed big as a cannon in her hand. Her fingers trembled, and she took care to press the gun close against her thigh, praying that no one would see it amid the folds of her cloak. She, alone of the three of them, was still armed. What should she do? Her mouth went dry as she considered the possibilities. She could not possibly pull a pistol on five armed men—but she could not just meekly let Hugh and James and herself be taken, either.

  They would be killed, all three of them. Possibly tortured, probably, in her case, raped, but certainly killed. She was as certain of that as she was that the tide was coming in.

  “No longer the loyal Englishman, Captain?” If Hugh was as frightened as she was, his voice didn’t reveal it. In fact, he sounded as calm as if he and the captain were having a pleasant conversation after a chance meeting on a London street.

  The other man shrugged. “When it suits me. But too many people know that you crossed to England on my vessel. If I protect you, I suffer, my men suffer, and my business suffers, and that I am not prepared to tolerate. Better to turn you over to my friend Brigadier de la Falais, and let him have the credit for capturing an English spy.”

  He nodded toward the far end of the quay.

  Claire glanced in the direction he indicated and discovered, to her horror, a small band of French soldiers, chasseurs she believed they were called, unmistakable in their uniforms and tall hats with cockades, picking their way through the crowd on horseback. To be captured by the French—at the thought, sweat broke out on her upper lip and she had to clamp her lips together to keep her breathing under control. Would they be hanged, or shot, or imprisoned in some horrible dungeon until they died of old age? Gabby and Beth would never know what had happened to her. She would simply disappear.

  But she still had the pistol. One shot. What should she do?

  “Ye would turn your own countrymen over to the Frogs?” James demanded in a hoarse voice. He was betraying all the agitation that Hugh was not. His fists were balled and his beard quivered with fury. His belly seemed to swell with indignation.

  Be careful, James, Claire whispered inwardly, and her hand tightened on the pistol. Should she just pull it out and try to hold five men at bay? Once the thing was fired, its value as a deterrent was spent.

  “With regret,” the captain said, and smiled. “Believe me, with much regret.”

  His gaze traveled past Hugh to find Claire, barely visible as she peeked around Hugh’s shoulder. To her horror their gazes met, and she froze, terrified. The pistol seemed as obvious as a signal fire in her hand. How, she wondered, dry-mouthed, could anyone possibly miss it?

  “Miss Towbridge, it would perhaps be in your best interest to walk over here to my side. You need have no fear, you know. The French will doubtless welcome you with open arms—unless, of course, you choose to cast in your lot with your unfortunate countrymen here.”

  Miss Towbridge. Dear Lord in heaven, he was laboring under the same misapprehension as Hugh had been at first and James still was: He thought she was a traitor to England—a spy for the French. No wonder they had not searched her for a weapon. Under the circumstances such a mistake was no very bad thing, she calculated swiftly. In fact, it might prove a godsend. A quick, frightened glance to her left, past the stuck wagon, told her that the soldiers were drawing near. There was not much time. . . .

  All at once she became aware of Hugh’s hand behind his back, his fingers wiggling madly. After a single startled glance, she jerked her gaze away. She knew what he wanted.

  “La, no,” Claire said airily, doing her best to assume the identity of Sophy Towbridge as she pressed the pistol into Hugh’s hand and stepped out from behind him. Thank goodness for the torches with their flickering shadows, for the wind that sent coattails and cloaks flapping, even for the stuck wagon and the driver cursing in voluble French and those of his neighbors who were trying to help him push his load free. So many distractions could only work in their favor. She did her best to provide another one as she walked slowly toward the captain and his men, pushing her hood back from her head and smiling at them. The effect was all she could have wished for. Five pair of eyes fastened on her.

  And might God help her if she should end up in their hands, she thought grimly.

  “I am most grateful to you, sir, for rescuing me. I have much that they will find interesting to tell my friends in Paris. While as for these fellows—I cannot call them gentlemen—they would have seen me dead, I think.”

  “Perhaps we can make a deal, Captain,” Hugh said abruptly.

  “A deal?” The captain lifted his brows, shifting his attention to Hugh. Claire, glad of any excuse not to join the enemy, stopped where she was and turned to look at Hugh. She was only a foot or so in front of him, but his gaze just brushed her before fixing on the captain. In the torch-lit darkness, his eyes looked almost as black as his hair, and his height coupled with the breadth of his shoulders made him appear formidable indeed. The wind was blowing the tails of his coat; his hands were by his sides, the pistol lost in the shadows. To Hugh’s right, James was glaring at her. Claire realized that her actions had confirmed everything h
e had suspected about her: He was now absolutely convinced that she was, indeed, Sophy Towbridge.

  Of course, he did not know about the pistol even now in Hugh’s hand.

  Despite the brisk wind, she felt sweat trickling down her spine as she realized that Hugh must soon make his move. The little troop of oncoming soldiers was now almost even with the stuck wagon. It was a matter of minutes until they were upon them. Once they were in the custody of the French military, she feared, all would be lost. But Hugh faced the same problem that had plagued her: one pistol, one shot, against five armed men—and a contingent of well-armed soldiers now drawing perilously close.

  “Miss Towbridge was carrying with her a letter that the French want quite desperately. I’ll tell you where it is—if you let my man and me go.”

  The captain laughed. “What, did you take it from her? Miss Towbridge, is what he says true?”

  “He is a pig,” Claire sniffed, inspired by the real-life porkers, several of which were at that moment snuffling in the mud nearby. What was Hugh up to? There was no letter, nothing of the kind, as he had already discovered for himself, simply because she was not Sophy Towbridge. But she certainly hoped she was up to snuff enough to play along. “But he is telling the truth: He took the letter. I am glad he reminded me, because I would have it back.”

  “Well, Captain? Do we have a deal?” Hugh sounded almost bored. Claire met his gaze—her head was turned so that only he and James could see her face—and his eyes told her that, indeed, the time was at hand. She could see nothing of the pistol, but she knew it must be cocked and ready. Her muscles tensed, and she could feel the little hairs prickling to life on the back of her neck.

  “Certainly, my friend. You have only to tell me where the letter is, and we will work a deal. Not for you, perhaps—I must give the French their bone after all. But for your man—freedom.”

  “Master Hugh . . .” James began in a hoarse voice, his gaze swinging wildly around to Hugh.

  “There is no need for us both to die,” Hugh said, silencing him. Then, to the captain: “The letter is in my pocket. I rely on you as one officer to another to keep your promise.”

  “As you may.”

  “Is that where you put it?” Claire, doing her best to play her part, was proud of how cool she sounded. The letter in his pocket, as she knew very well, was the one he himself had written in the cabin. Why did he draw attention to it? Was it simply a stalling tactic, or was there a reason she didn’t yet comprehend? Her heart was pounding so hard now that she was surprised the sound didn’t reverberate through the air. She met Hugh’s gaze again, but she could read nothing in that impassive countenance.

  “If you will get the letter, Miss Towbridge, and bring it to me, I would be most appreciative.”

  Claire nodded, and stepped toward Hugh. A more accomplished actress would doubtless have made a production of searching all his pockets, as if she didn’t know where the letter might be. But she was too frightened—so frightened that her hand was trembling as it delved into the pocket where she knew very well the faux letter was. Her breathing was shallow and fast, and her heart raced. A quick sideways glance as her fingers closed on the letter told her that the soldiers on their big, glossy horses had now drawn even with the stuck wagon.

  They were almost out of time. Her throat was so dry she had to swallow before she could speak.

  “I have it,” she said loud enough for the captain and his men to hear. Her gaze, wide and frightened, met Hugh’s even as she pulled the letter from his pocket and held it up. If he was going to shoot someone, anyone, now was the moment.

  “Drop it,” he hissed as she was about to turn back toward the captain and his men. She must have looked incomprehendingly at him, because he said it again, in a low growl that this time she could not mistake. “Drop the bloody letter.”

  “Miss Towbridge, is there a difficulty?” The captain, voice raised, sounded suspicious. Had her glance, or Hugh’s command given them away? He couldn’t have heard the words, Claire was willing to swear. He was too far away, and there was too much noise around them.

  “None at all.” Holding the letter high so that he might see it, Claire turned almost gaily to face him. “As you may see for yourself.”

  Then, mindful of Hugh’s instructions and also of the French soldiers bearing down on them, looking tall and menacing astride their huge horses and now no more than perhaps three yards away, she opened her fingers and let the wind take the letter. “Oh! Oh, dear!”

  The white rectangle fluttered, swirled in a circle, then floated to the ground. The eyes of the captain and his four men followed it down until it hit the mud and lay there, absorbing water like a sponge and threatened by a curious pig.

  Claire was still staring at the letter herself when, from the corner of her eye, she saw Hugh’s arm jerk up. The pistol fired, so close at hand that it was like a thunderclap next to her head. Ears ringing, she screamed; no sooner had the sound emerged from her throat than it was cut off by a tremendous weight hitting her in the back, knocking her face-first into the sand and crushing her down. As she fell she got just a glimpse of the captain’s head snapping up. Then there was a tremendous boom, followed by an explosion and a rush of hot air as a fireball shot over her head, which she instinctively buried in her arms.

  Screams rent the air, along with shouts and curses and the shrieks of terrified animals. Fire was everywhere, blazing brightly toward the dark sky, burning so fierce and hot that Claire felt as if her face was being singed when she dared to glance up. It was the wagon—the stuck wagon that had somehow caught fire and exploded. The captain and his men were down. One soldier was on his feet, thrown from his horse but having managed to hang on to the beast’s reins, though it reared and fought as it tried to get away. She couldn’t see the others, though perhaps a dozen sprawled bodies lay on the ground within her view; others were rushing to their aid. All this Claire registered as the most fleeting of impressions. Then the weight on her back lifted and she was dragged to her feet.

  “Run!”

  A hand locked around her wrist before the command had quite filtered past the ringing in her ears. Without any more warning than that, she was yanked into motion. Hugh was running, dragging her after him, and as his identity registered suddenly she realized that they were escaping and she began to run, too, her feet in their flimsy slippers scrabbling for purchase in the muddy sand.

  “Sacre bleu!”

  “My wagon! My so beautiful wagon!”

  “Bloody English . . .”

  “Aidez-moi! Aidez-moi!”

  More explosions, fast and powerful, rocked the night. Fire, orange and yellow and red, lit up the sky as brightly as a giant’s bonfire. The heat and smoke were tremendous. All was chaos, confusion; everywhere people screamed, and ran. Toward the explosion, and away.

  “This way!”

  Hugh pulled her behind a sand dune, into the blackness of the night beyond the reach of the worst of the fire’s intensity. Claire caught just a glimpse of two more of the French soldiers, on their feet now, trying to catch their fleeing mounts, before the dunes obscured her view. Then Hugh was pounding through the tall grass toward the dark village, pulling her behind him, and she was running too, as fast as her feet would carry her. Running, she realized, for her life.

  18

  “What did you do back there?” Claire gasped out the question as Hugh lifted her bodily over a low stone wall that ran along the road in front of the village.

  “The barrels in the wagon were loaded with gunpowder. I shot one of them.” Placing one hand on the top, he vaulted the wall with remarkable ease.

  “And they all exploded?” Claire remembered how he had knocked her to the ground a split second before the wagon blew up. “Did you know that was going to happen?”

  “I hoped.” He was breathless too, she noted as he grabbed her hand and pulled her after him again as he dodged behind one of the darkened houses.

  “The horses—they should
be in—that barn near the woods.”

  Claire had not realized that James was running with them until she heard his gasping voice behind her. Glancing around, she saw the heavyset man panting and lurching in their wake as he pointed toward a tumbledown barn. It was located on the far edge of the village, set back a little way from the farmhouse to which it apparently belonged and just in front of a dense copse of tall pines that swayed in the wind.

  Although Claire had no idea what he was talking about, Hugh apparently did. He ran through the field in front of the barn, pulling Claire willy-nilly after him. She had a stitch in her side, pebbles in her slippers, and sand in her mouth from being facedown on the beach, but still she ran headlong over the rough ground because there was no help for it: Hugh’s hand was like a vise around her wrist, and he wasn’t letting go.

  There was no doubt that they were being pursued. The only question was: how closely?

  The barn was dark and smelled of hay and manure. Cows milled in a group at the far end of the structure, lowing as the three humans burst in to disturb their rest, their liquid eyes shining faintly at the intruders. Hugh let go of her wrist as soon as they were inside, and Claire practically doubled over in relief. Hands on her knees, she gasped for air, unable to inhale deeply because of the pain in her side. Vainly she wished her corset to perdition; the thing still continued to bind her just when she most needed her lungs to be able to expand.

  “Are they here?”

  James, still panting audibly, asked the question as he passed her, then followed Hugh into the depths of the barn.

  “They’re here. Minton’s a good man. He’s never let me down yet.”

  Still bent over just inside the door, doing her best to catch her breath and at the same time spit out sand from the beach, Claire missed the rest of the conversation. The men’s voices mingled with the soft whicker of a horse, the stomping of hooves, and a leathery creaking.