With a shaky hand, Ratel held up his open hand with the two coins. Melvyrn snatched them out of dirty palm, and Ratel hissed, “You’ll be sorry.”
“Non,” Melvyrn said, grabbing the Frenchman by the front of his jacket and shoving him into the tree. “For your continued good health, you’d better hide. I promise you the French will soon learn of your duplicity.” He turned and took Rosalind’s arm and helped her to her feet. “Can you walk?” She nodded, and keeping a grasp on her arm, he led her down the dirt track.
~~~~~
Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, Melvyrn asked her, “Hungry?”
Rosalind nodded and gratefully accepted the piece of bread he offered. It was doughy from being in his pocket, but she didn’t care.
He ate the bread in two bites. “Why did you leave the barn?”
“Soldiers were searching the area,” she said.
“How did Ratel find you?”
“A lot of people were out, and I thought it might be safer if I took the main road to Jacques’s cottage.” She glanced up to see his reaction, but his eyes were intent on the road ahead. “I saw him coming out of a café and ducked into a store. When I came out, he was waiting for me.”
They’d gone about a mile when Rosalind easily spotted the dark blue uniforms with their wide, white lapels of several French soldiers up ahead on the road just before Melvyrn grabbed her arm and pulled her off the road into a copse of trees.
“We’ll keep to the woods as much as possible,” he said, leading her along a narrow path. “There’re too many soldiers about, and we can’t risk being stopped and questioned.”
They soon came up behind Jacques’s cottage. Bending down, Melvyrn whispered, “Stay low.” He threw his arm across her shoulders, then half ran with her across the narrow clearing toward the small horse shed attached to the rear of the cottage. Melvyrn pressed her into a corner behind a bale of hay, and she could hear Jacques’s voice through the thin planked wall being questioned by a soldier.
“You’re hiding British soldiers,” a gruff, angry voice yelled.
“Mais non, you’ve the wrong one, I tell you.” Jacques voice was soft, even. “You’ve already searched my home. Did you find anything?”
She heard a thump, then Jacques’s groan. With fear constricting her heart, she clutched Melvyrn’s arm. What had they done to her old friend? Melvyrn’s hand covered hers as their eyes met.
“I want the truth,” the soldier shouted.
“Oui, so do I,” answered Jacques. “Who told you these lies, huh?”
Rosalind heard another slap, and Melvyrn’s hand squeezed hers.
“Go ahead,” she heard Jacques say. “Search my home. Search my garden. I tell you, this is the wrong place.”
“Baaah!” There were sounds of a scuffle. “Old man, you’d better not lie to me. I’ll be back.” The front door opened, and the soldier shouted orders for his men to move down the road. Moments later, they were gone.
When Rosalind made to rise, Melvyrn stopped her. “Wait,” he whispered in her ear. “Give them time to disappear.” He rose slowly and moved to the shed’s entrance and peered out. “We can make it to the woods and then work our way back to the Arrow. The sooner we leave, the better.”
She stood up and moved toward him. “But we must help Jacques,” she whispered.
“No. They may have left an outlook to see what Embree does. He is safer if we do not show ourselves.”
“Please,” she whispered, not knowing what they could do to help Jacques, only that she could not leave without trying.
He nodded once and bent down on one knee by the back wall. Rosalind quickly knelt beside him as he softly tapped on the cottage’s back wall. He waited, then repeated the taps. Moments later, she heard Jacques whisper.
“Is that you, ma petite angel?”
“Oui, did they hurt you, Jacques?”
She heard his soft laugh. “Non, only bruised an old man’s ego. Are you with the nobleman?”
“I am here,” Melvyrn answered.
“Go with him. Do not come back, Rosalind, for it is not safe.
Tears stung her eyes as Rosalind heard the imploring note in Jacques’s voice. “Non, what will happen to you?”
“I will be safe, have no fear,” he said emphatically. “But you must not return. This war cannot last forever, and we will meet again.”
“God be with you, Embree,” Melvyrn said.
Choking back a sob, she said, “Take care, Jacques.”
Melvyrn grabbed her hand and pulled her away from the wall. “Come on.” They started for the woods. “We’ll head for the beach. Hopefully, Tolly and his men will be ready to leave early.”
*** Chapter 14 ***
From the top of the dune, Tolly watched his men and the villagers pass the kegs of brandy from the two farm wagons to the Arrow, bouncing in the surf a half dozen yards out. Another twenty minutes and they’d be finished. His plan was to anchor several hundred yards off shore to wait for the Earl and Miss Rosalind.
The number of French soldiers running about the village had Tolly anxious to get away as soon as possible. Even the villagers were edgy, complaining about the soldiers taking what they wanted, riding across ploughed fields, trampling new crops. No, the sooner they got under way, the better, he thought.
He’d started to make his way toward the beach when he heard a noise behind him. But before he could turn around, he felt a blow to his back, which sent him tumbling down the dune. He managed to grab a low shrub and dug in his heels. Quickly, he stood and whirled around to face a gun pointed at him. He noted the torn and dirty red coat with filthy white facings--a sergeant-major if the markings were correct.
“Don’t move and be quiet,” growled the painfully thin soldier. His burr denoted a Scotsman. He jerked his hatless, curly black head, toward the Arrow. “That your boat?”
Tolly nodded.
“You French or British?” the sergeant-major asked.
“British.”
“Got a name?”
“Tolly.”
Not taking his eyes off Tolly nor lowering his weapon, sergeant-major called over his shoulder, “Whitmore, Jones, come down.”
Slowly, two men topped the dune. As they started down, Tolly saw the black bloodstains covering the left half of one soldier’s coat. The other soldier, a young lad, was limping with a tourniquet tied around his bloody right thigh. Under their stubbly beards, both men looked pale, their glazed, feverish eyes half sunken in their sockets.
“I can help,” Tolly said.
“Damn right you can,” the sergeant-major replied. “We’re all getting into that boat, and you are sailing us across the Channel.”
Tolly nodded. “Be my pleasure. But we wait a couple of hours.”
The sergeant-major bared his teeth in a grisly smile. “Don’t think you understand. I’m commandeering your boat. My men here need medical attention. We’re tired and hungry. And we’re leaving now.”
Tolly glanced down on the beach and saw that the relay line was breaking up, which meant the kegs had all been stowed. Looking back at the three soldiers, he said, “I’ll take you off shore, but I’ve got two other Englishmen to pick up.”
The sergeant-major cocked his pistol. “Afraid we can’t accommodate your wishes, Tolly. There’s a pack of French soldiers closing in on us. We’re leaving now.”
Shoving the pistol in Tolly’s back, the sergeant-major marched Tolly down to the Arrow.
~~~~~
It was late afternoon when they crested the dune. Melvyrn crouched behind a short shrub and peered over the sand--and muttered a curse. The Arrow was nowhere in sight, nor was Tolly or any of his crew.
“Something’s wrong,” he said.
“Tolly would not have left us stranded,” Rosalind said, peering over his shoulder. “Maybe he was forced to leave with all these French soldiers around.”
“Except for those out on the horizon, no boats are off shore,” Melvyrn said. “Did you hav
e a plan if something like this happened?”
Rosalind shook her head. “Not really.” Biting her lower lip, she scanned the water. “He will probably wait until dark to return.”
“That makes sense.” Melvyrn took her hand and started down the dune. “In the meantime, we need to find a hiding place where we can watch for his return.” Walking along the beach with Rosalind close behind him, he kept close to the dunes where there were outcrops off bushes and large rocks. Finally, he pulled aside some dense bushes that grew up against a large rock protruding from the dune. “Squeeze behind this,” he said. “Put your back to the rock.” Then he followed her, wedging himself into the space next to her.
Their positions were cramped, but at least they could see a good part of the beach through the leaves of the bushes. Most importantly, the thicket provided them the cover they needed. “Try to make yourself comfortable,” Melvyrn said to Rosalind. “Rest if you can.”
As the sun slowly made its descent, he spent a good deal of the time studying Rosalind. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow, the rise and fall of her chest even. The bruise on her temple was more noticeable, and Melvyrn’s fists curled, as anger roiled his blood and concern constricted his heart. When had he come to care so much for this beautiful young woman?
Time dragged on. With his knees drawn up, periodically Melvyrn shifted his position to ease the cramping in his legs. Then, just before the sunset, he saw four soldiers making their way down the beach. They stopped and searched behind the rocks and bushes, sometimes jabbing their bayonets into them. He looked over at Rosalind. Her eyes were still closed, but the moment he touched her, they flew open.
“Soldiers are coming,” he said. “Draw your legs up more. Make yourself as small as possible.” He waited as she pulled her knees closer to her chest and ducked her head. Putting an arm around her, he drew her to his side, then wrapped his body around hers with his head resting on hers. He felt her try to push him away and he tightened his hold. He could hear the soldiers talking, calling out to one another. “Be still,” he whispered. “They’ll hear you.”
“They are looking for us,” she whispered.
He heard the panic in her voice as she started to push away from him. “Be still, Rosalind,” he hissed.
“They will find us,” she said with her eyes as round as saucers.
One soldier, a dozen yards away from them, called out to his comrades, and Melvyrn felt Rosalind’s arms try to break his hold on her. He wrapped his legs around hers and closed his lips over hers before she could protest. He didn’t give her a chance to struggle but tightened his hold and, only half closing his eyes, deepened his kiss, thrusting his tongue through her parted lips. She pushed against him, but when the soldier came up to the bush and thrust his bayonet into the bushes, she froze, her eyes as large as saucers.
Melvyrn knew any movement might give them away. He held her tight, kissing her, even when he felt the bayonet graze the heel of his boot. After a half dozen jabs, the soldier moved on to the next bush, and Melvyrn loosened his hold but continued to kiss Rosalind, to taste her. Closing his eyes, he breathed in her clean lemony scent and slid his hands up and down her back, reveling in the feel of her tiny waist, her slender hips. When he felt her arms encircle his torso, he let his senses savor the feel of the female in his arms. One hand slowly untied and removed the muffler, unbuttoned her coat, then slid his hand into her muslin shirt. He felt cloth binding her breasts and, frustrated, began to tug on it. She began to struggle, but hungry as he was for her, he couldn’t stop himself and pulled more instantly to loosen the muslin strips. Her struggles increased, yet he didn’t stop, couldn’t stop--
Until her fist with a rock in it hit him soundly in the jaw!
“Are you crazy?” he hissed as he jerked back and saw her fear--but not the kind of fear she’d had for the soldiers--and anger in her huge slate blue eyes. Taking a ragged breath, he reluctantly unwinded his limbs from her body and rested his head against the rock. Watching her adjust her shirt and button her coat, he mentally admonished himself for acting like a callous youth, completely forgetting about all else but the need to possess this beautiful woman. He looked down at her and saw confusion in her countenance. Oddly, he was gratified that she’d been as affected as he had by their kiss. Still, he acknowledged that if he didn’t put some distance between them, he was sorely tempted to resume his lovemaking.
Pushing some branches aside, he saw that the soldiers were far down the beach, nearly out of sight. The sun was close to the horizon, and darkness would be upon them in minutes.
“I’d better find some food,” he said, trying for a note of normalcy.
“Could we buy some?” she said, sounding eager. “There is the cafe in the village.”
They had not eaten anything except a piece of bread each the farmer had given Melvyrn. He was hungry and knew she must be, too. “Too risky. The soldiers will question anyone who looks like a stranger.” He was quite for a moment. “I noticed some of the gardens have started to ripen. Once it’s dark, I’ll pick some vegetables.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No.”
“But . . . you may need me.”
He heard the note of panic in her voice and tried to explain. “The soldiers are looking for travelers. I’ll be less conspicuous by myself.” He took her hand. “You’re safer here where you’re well hidden. Besides, the soldiers won’t be back, and I won’t be long.”
He crawled out from the bushes and, using the rock to help him stand, stomped his feet to get the feeling back in them. Looking up and down the beach, he could see no one in the fading light. Turning, he climbed up over the dune and hurried toward the village.
On the outskirts of Wissant, Melvyrn saw a woman come out of a cottage and pull a shawl around her head and shoulders before she set out on the road for the village. He looked about and then made for the cottage.
Inside, the place was small, one main room dominated by a large stone fireplace with an oven on the side. There were two other doors which probably led to two tiny bedrooms. The table was set for three and he guessed the woman would be back momentarily with others, perhaps her husband and a son. Quickly he grabbed two of the six rolls in a wooden bowl and stuffed them in his pockets, then the small block of cheese on an earthenware plate. He left the bowl of steaming vegetables but took the open carafe of wine and let himself out the front door.
*** Chapter 15 ***
Sitting behind the bush, Rosalind listened to the night sounds of the occasional screeching seagull over the never changing rhythm of the waves pounding the beach. She shivered, not from the cold but from the memory of the soldiers coming down the beach. Never before had she feared discovery, for few French soldiers came to Wissant. And then hearing the sounds of poor Jacques being beaten, worrying that he may yet suffer far worse punishment for helping British soldiers caused Rosalind to comprehend what she herself might face if captured.
She also realized that the Earl had saved her from discovery by kissing her to keep her silent. She’d been momentarily caught off guard, but he’d kept her from crying out and revealing herself to the soldiers. Closing her eyes, she remembered how his strong arms tightening around her tamped down her panic of discovery. The feel of his warm breath caressing her face, tickling her ear, gave her a sense of security. His kisses had worked a kind of magic, at first smoothing her, then arousing a desire, a need, a hunger in her that only he could fulfill. And heaven help her, she’d pressed her body against his chest, wanting . . . more!
She wondered if he’d shared similar feelings for her. Or was this something he’d felt many times with other women?
Her stomach growled loudly, bringing her back to reality, and she hugged her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them. She wished he’d return, for not only was she hungry but she needed the solace, the soothing of her rattled nerves his presence brought.
Suddenly the bush pulled aside, making her jump.
“Did a
nyone come by?” Melvyrn asked. He squirmed his way behind the bush with his back to the rock before settling down beside her.
She accepted the rolls and cheese he pulled from his pockets and smiled, deciding definitely the food was as much a welcomed sight as he was.
Quietly, they shared their meager fare, sipping wine from the carafe. Afterwards, feeling sated, Rosalind allowed him to put his arm around her and pull her under his shoulder, close to his chest. “Try to sleep,” he said, and she nodded, knowing that he would keep her safe. She doubted that she would sleep, however, for she was far too aware of his closeness, his male scent, as she squirmed to get even closer to him.
Rosalind felt herself being gently shaken and opened her eyes. She was cradled in Melvyrn’s arms with her head resting on his chest.
“They’re here,” he said, releasing his hold on her.
She sat up and then followed him, crawling out from behind the bushes. Accepting his hand to stand, she saw the waning half moon had risen high in the sky. She looked down toward the surf and made out the dark shape of the Arrow at the water’s edge.
Melvyrn took her hand. “Come on.”
As they raced down the beach toward the lugger, Tolly’s massive figure jump into the surf, then make for the beach. “Thank the heavens!” Tolly said with more emotion than she’d ever seen the burly fisherman show before when they drew nearer. He came on the other side of Rosalind and picked her up. “I feared them Frenchies might’ve gotten you.”
“It wasn’t for lack of trying,” Melvyrn said. “What happened?”
Tolly put Rosalind in the boat. Then following Melvyrn, he climbed in. “Sergeant-major Andrews, ‘shamed to say, he got the drop on me and commandeered the Arrow for his two men. Both of them in pretty bad shape.” He barked out some orders, and Rosalind felt the lugger’s sails catch the wind. “Ain’t the only problem,” Tolly said, looking at her. “Lady Stainthrope’s at the Hall.”
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