My Lady Smuggler

by Margaret Bennett

  “The man who works for the British War Office and is organizing this wants to meet with you. If you are agreeable, he will be here in a few hours.”

  The old man looked thoughtfully at Rosalind, then asked, “Do you trust this man? Is this what you want me to do?”

  Rosalind bit her lower lip and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I want the war to end, Jacques, but I don’t want to put you in any more danger. The French already suspect you of helping English soldiers.”

  Jacques nodded thoughtfully, then asked, “Have you eaten?”

  “I had breakfast.”

  “Come inside, and share some bread and cheese while we wait.”

  Shortly after noon, a knock sounded on the cottage door frame just before Tolly’s black bushy head appeared bending down to peer into the room.

  “Entrez, Tolly, and bring your friend,” Jacques called out from where he sat at a battered trestle table with Rosalind.

  Following Tolly, Melvyrn ducked his head coming through the low doorway to stand just inside the little room. “Monsieur Embree?” he asked after an uncomfortable silence. His eyes squinted as they adjusted to the cool dimness of the cottage interior.

  “Oui, monsieur.” Jacques remained seated next to Rosalind.

  Melvyrn introduced himself. “I am Phillips.”

  “You are the gentleman who wants me to betray my fellow countrymen by passing British correspondence?”

  “Forgive me, Monsieur Embree,” the Earl said in flawless French, much to Rosalind’s surprise, “but the lad here assured me of your help.”

  “Oui, I have agreed to help you.”

  “Then you will also forgive my curiosity for asking why?”

  Jacques studied the haughty English nobleman for several moments before rising from his seat. “No doubt the lad here,” he said pointing to Rosalind, “has told you how I have watched my countrymen suffer at the hands of our Emperor. I also have lost three sons for his foolish wars, and my mother and father were victims of Madame Guillotine. Enough blood has been lost on both sides of the Channel. If I can help save a life, French or English, then it is my duty to do so.”

  Melvyrn nodded, apparently satisfied with the old Frenchman’s explanation. “Will you go with me to meet my contact? He has come from Marquise to introduce me to another contact here in Wissant to help you. It would simplify working out the details.”

  “Let me get my hat.”

  As Jacques went into the back room, Rosalind turned to Melvyrn and in an accusing tone said, “You did not say you spoke French?”

  “You didn’t ask,” he answered curtly.

  “You will see that Jacques does not come to any harm?” she asked, still glowering at Melvyrn.

  He returned her regard. “You have my word that I will do everything in my power to ensure the safety of both men.”

  Before Rosalind could respond, Jacques came out of the bedroom with an old tattered straw hat on his head.

  “We had better hurry. My neighbors know I always rest in the afternoon heat,” he said, leading Melvyrn out the cottage door.

  When they’d left, Tolly helped Rosalind up from her chair. “We need to get back to the boat,” he said.

  She looked at his stern expression and asked, “You are angry with me?”

  “This is no business for a young lady,” the big fisherman said, showing more emotion than Rosalind had ever seen before.

  ~~~~~

  At the last minute, Melvyrn decided to leave Embree at the cafe inside the village coaching inn so that he could meet the new Wissant contact before he exposed the old Frenchman.

  Antoine Ratel was a turncoat who was offering his thatched, one room cottage as a safe house for British soldiers who had been cut off from their regiments. All for gold sovereigns, of course. But that was not what Melvyrn found troubling. Rather, when earlier he’d met Ratel, a small, wily man with roving eyes, the Frenchman seemed overly anxious to help, almost as though he needed Melvyrn’s cooperation.

  Melvyrn’s contact from Marquise swore the disagreeable little man could be trusted. Still, after meeting with the weaselly Ratel, Melvyrn refused to give the old Frenchman’s name when Ratel pressed for it. Jacques Embree had risked his own life many times to aid British soldiers, and Melvyrn would not put the old man in jeopardy when it wasn’t necessary.

  Pulling his cap down lower and shoving his hands in his pockets, Melvyrn made his way back to the white washed coaching inn on the outskirts of Wissant. He ducked his head to avoid any eye contact with any patrons as he entered the cafe. Hunched over a tankard of ale, Embree was seated at a small table set against a back wall.

  Melvyrn ordered ale for himself before he sat down and met Embree’s gaze.

  “Did all go well?” the old man asked.

  “Yes,” Melvyrn said, taking a long draft of ale. “But I’ve decided you don’t need to know each other. Instead, we’ll set up a drop point. It’ll be safer for you that way.”

  Embree gave a small, derisive laugh. “You do not trust your contact?”

  Melvyrn studied the old man’s lined face, then heaved a sigh. “Not entirely. But he wants the gold, and I need him for now.” He explained how the drop would work and added, “I will be present for the first one to make sure everything goes as planned.”

  “You are a good man, Monsieur Phillips,” Embree said.

  Melvyrn snorted. “Let’s hope I’m a good judge of character. The first dispatch should arrive soon. I’ll deliver it to you and show you the drop myself.”

  “So our partnership begins,” said Embree, reaching his gnarled hand across the table to seal the deal.

  *** Chapter 10 ***

  The return crossing was uneventful. Curled up in the back of the stern, Rosalind stayed by Tolly. At one point, Melvyrn came back and asked Tolly, “How far are we from Folkestone?”

  “Several hours.”

  “The boy?” Melvyrn asked. “He’ll be all right?” He looked down at her, but with his cap pulled low, Rosalind could not read his expression.

  “Go up front,” Tolly growled. “I’ve got the lad.”

  Melvyrn didn’t move. “At some point, I’d like to talk to the lad.”

  “Don’t need to,” Tolly answered gruffly. “You got the Frenchman now.”

  The two men stared at each other for several tense moments before Melvyrn said, “Aye, Captain.” Then he turned on his heel and made his way toward the bow.

  Hours later, when Tolly called out for Cleggs and Finley to look alive, Rosalind knew when they were close to the coastline. Rousing herself, she found a woolen blanket around her and instinctively knew Tolly had draped it over her. She took her time folding it as the sound of the surf became louder and the dark mass made up of the cliffs loomed ahead. When the moon slid out from behind the clouds, the fury of Tolly’s curse startled her.

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  “Been dark for most of the crossing. Don’t need this now.”

  “We have had brighter moons than this,” she said.

  “Aye, but lately been more soldiers from Shorncliffe Redoubt snooping about.” He ordered Cleggs and Finley to trim the sails as Rosalind felt the surf lift the lugger’s bow. Moments before they beached, Tolly said, “I don’t like this.”

  Rosalind hoisted herself up to stand next to Tolly as Melvyrn climbed over kegs to get to them. “What is it?” he asked.

  Looking over the bow toward the beach, he said, “Usually can see one or two of the men. But nary a soul about.” He scanned the cliffs and shook his head. “Cleggs,” he bellowed, “take the rudder and take her back out--you know where.”

  It was not a question. But before Rosalind could ask what he meant, Tolly scooped her up in his arms and jumped overboard with her.

  “Wait up,” Melvyrn called out.

  When Tolly set her down on the beach, he said, “Make to your horse fast. Anything happens, you just keep going. Understand?”

  Me
lvyrn stopped beside him. “Where’s the lugger going?”

  “Get going, lad,” Tolly growled.

  Just as she turned to race up the beach, they heard someone call out, “Halt, in the name of the King!”

  Rosalind gasped as fear paralyzed her. Her heart thudded in her chest and her legs remained rooted to the sandy beach.

  “Where are they?” Melvyrn’s voice, a near whisper, came from beside her.

  “On the cliff, coming down,” Tolly said softly. He grabbed Rosalind’s arm. “Run!”

  With Tolly pulling on her arm, she got her legs moving again. She began to run when a volley of shots were fired. Tolly yanked her behind him, using his body to cover her, when she felt a searing pain in her shoulder. “Aahhhh, Tolly!”

  Tolly picked her up and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of wheat. With her head hanging down Tolly’s broad back, she felt Melvyrn’s hand reassuringly on her own as he said, “Hang on, lad.”

  They ran for the brush where Devon was tied up. Rosalind knew Thomas wasn’t about. Ever since the Earl had joined the Arrow’s crew, she’d instructed Thomas to remain at the Hall for fear that the nobleman would recognize her groom and make the connection.

  “They’re coming down the west cliff. Can you ride?” Tolly asked.

  “Yes,” she hissed. She felt the warm blood oozing over her shoulder. The pain was excruciating, bringing tears to her eyes, but she could move her arm. More shots were fired, and she cried softly, “Please, get us out of here, Tolly.”

  “What!” Melvyrn cursed, then growled, “The lad’s a girl.”

  Tolly’s huge hands gently brought her off his shoulder and lifted her up on Devon’s back. Before she could gather up the reins, Melvyrn snatched them from Tolly’s hand and threw himself behind her on Devon’s rump. “Run for it, Tolly,” he said as he pushed her down on Devon’s neck, using his body as a shield.

  They broke out of the brush, and the gelding galloped along the beach. She heard more shots, and tried to turn to see Tolly, but Melvyrn’s weight prevented her. “Stay down,” he ordered.

  “Tolly?” she sobbed. If anything happened to him . . . .

  “He knows the area like the back of his hand,” he said and urged the gelding to run faster.

  She felt his weight shift as he glanced over his shoulder. “We’ve gained some time,” he said. “Where’s the path up the cliff?”

  She peered into the darkness ahead, searching for a landmark. Finally she saw the rocks at the foot of the path. “There,” she said, pointing to a steep, narrow trail, barely discernable through the overgrowth. “It is over there.”

  More shots were fired as they began climbing. Devon stumbled, and Rosalind tried to sit up, pressing herself against Melvyrn’s broad chest, to help the horse regain its footing.

  “Stay down,” growled Melvyrn before he crooned to the gelding, “Easy boy, that’s it, you’ve got this.”

  When they reached the top of the cliff, they could hear the soldiers shouting below as they tried to find the path. They could also see the lightening of the skyline as dawn approached. Melvyrn patted the horse’s sweaty neck. “Not much farther, boy.” Rosalind wasn’t surprised when he urged Devon toward the field that led to the woods behind Ashford Hall.

  Once in the trees, she felt Melvin’s arm around her good shoulder, pulling her up against his chest. His warm breath flowed over her ear as he said, “We’re safe now, for it’s still dark enough that the soldiers won’t be able to follow us.”

  She nodded, and when he lowered his arm about her waist, she leaned her head against his chest. She closed her eyes and, despite the pain in her arm, was overwhelmed by the comfort she derived being in his arms.

  Melvyrn never let the big gelding slow down, and they soon arrived at the back of Ashford Hall, headed for the stables. In the gray, early morning light, Rosalind saw Thomas coming out of the stables. Like other mornings, he was waiting for her to return. When he saw them, he reacted quickly, throwing open the stable door, waving for them to ride Devon in, and closed it behind them.

  ~~~~~

  “Glory be, Miss,” Thomas said, grabbing Devon’s reins. “What’s this all about?”

  The groom’s quick thinking to hide them told Melvyrn that Miss Wensley’s servants were well acquainted with her nocturnal activities. “Soldiers were on the cliff,” Melvyrn said, dismounting. “Your mistress has been shot.”

  “Miss Rosalind . . . .” Speechless, Thomas’s mouth gaped open.

  “Rub the horse down and walk him in here,” ordered Melvyrn as he gently lifted Rosalind from the saddle and cradled her in his arms. “It’s imperative everything looks normal should anyone show up.”

  Shutting his mouth, Thomas nodded his head and led Devon to the stable door and opened it for Melvyrn.

  “I can walk,” Rosalind said, wrapping her arms around his neck.

  Melvyrn pulled her closer. Any other time, he’d revel in the feel of her pressed against his chest. “Hush,” he said, carrying her toward the Hall’s kitchen entrance. “Save your strength.”

  The sun was up by the time Melvyrn reached the back of the house. Using his elbow to lift the latch, he kicked the door open and saw Cook before the stove, preparing the first meal of the day. All activity stopped, however, as Melvyrn entered. Mrs. Borough, wearing an apron, and an older man who was obviously the butler hurriedly rose from the table which was set with a basket of rolls, plates, and coffee cups. Before anyone uttered a word, Melvyrn barked out orders.

  “Miss Wensley’s been shot. We need to tend the wound. Also, soldiers may be coming this way, so appear as normal as possible.”

  “Here, my lord,” said the butler, who quickly pulled out a chair. “Put Miss Rosalind down here.”

  Mrs. Boroughs, heading for the supply room, said, “I’ll get a few things and will be right back.”

  It fleetingly registered with Melvyrn that the servants knew who he was, but for now he was more concerned with the young lady in his arms. He eased her onto the chair and, keeping a hand on her good shoulder, he pulled another chair next to her and sat. He unwound the woolen muffler from Rosalind’s throat and unbuttoned several buttons. He drew the bloody gauze shirt off of her shoulder. “You’ve lost some blood,” he said, examining the wound. “Some brandy, I think, sir?”

  “Tinsley, my lord,” the butler said. “Should I send for Doc Pritchett?”

  “Not yet,” Melvyrn replied. “The fewer people who know about this the better.”

  “Here, my lord,” Mrs. Boroughs said, placing a stack of white linen cloths on the table along with several jars with labels. “There’s calendula and comfrey.”

  At the stove, Cook poured hot water into a bowl and brought it over to the table. Round eyed and round faced with brown hair pulled under her white cap, the short, rotund lady put the bowl down and, with a quick curtsy, returned to the stove.

  Dipping the linen strips in the hot water, Melvyrn carefully began cleansing the wound. “It’s not deep. Probably ought to be cauterized.”

  “No,” Rosalind said. “Please, this is bad enough.”

  Melvyrn laughed softly. “Ah, so the lady isn’t completely fearless.”

  “I can get blackberry leaves to help stop the bleeding,” Mrs. Boroughs said.

  He shook his head. “If we keep the wound clean and keep it covered, it will heal better.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Mrs. Boroughs said, who now had a pair of scissors cutting up more linen into strips.

  Tinsley returned with a bottle of brandy and several crystal goblets. After filling both goblets, he passed one to Melvyrn and said, “Here, my lord. Perhaps Miss Rosalind would like hers in coffee?”

  “This will do.” Melvyrn gave the goblet to Rosalind. “Drink up, Miss Wensley. It’ll help you rest more comfortably.”

  As Rosalind did as bid, the back door opened and Tolly, his expression grave, entered. He went immediately to Rosalind. “I’m sorry, Miss Rosalind. I’d rather take a ball my
self.”

  Rosalind reached out with her good arm and took his hand. “Please don’t blame yourself, Tolly. You had no way of knowing soldiers were on the cliff.”

  “She’s right, Tolly,” said Melvyrn. “And fortunately the wound is superficial.” He smiled at Rosalind and said, “It feels much worse than it is.” When Rosalind met his eyes, he was struck again by their size and unusual color and said softly, “I should have recognized those eyes.” He gave himself a mental shake and rose. “You should rest, Miss Wensley. If you don’t mind, I’ll borrow a mount to ride home?”

  “Please take Devon, my lord,” she said.

  “Thank you,” he said. “I will return him in a day or two, when Tolly and I come by.” Taking his leave, he and Tolly headed toward the stables. As the fisherman opened the stable door, Melvyrn said, “You’ve got some explaining to do, Sergeant.”

  *** Chapter 11 ***

  The next morning, Tolly appeared at the back door and conferred first with Mrs. Boroughs about her condition. When Tinsley showed him to the study, Rosalind thought he looked sheepish and decided he still felt guilty for her being shot. So, she asked him about the cargo.

  “The crew took the Arrow back out,” Tolly said, “and sailed down to Hythe. They roped the kegs together and sunk them. We’ll go tonight and float them to shore on a raft--that’s if the revenue cutter ain’t anywhere near.”

  “So the men all made it safely to their homes?”

  “Them revenuers hung about the village half the night, thinking to catch one of us coming in. Only thing to see was old man Pickard coming out of the woods after sleeping off his dinner.”

  “Did they harass him?”

  “Not after they got a whiff of him and had to listen to his whining about his old lady kicking him out for being too sick to help Squire Hopkins plant his oats.”

  “So the revenuers let him go?”

  “Not right away.” Tolly’s smile was evil. “The blighter started begging for some blunt, seeing as how the Mrs. wasn’t likely to let him sleep in his own bed without brining home enough to pay his own way.”

  Rosalind laughed, picturing the scene Tolly described about the neighborhood ne’er-do-well.