Man of My Dreams Boxed Set

by Minger, Miriam

  So what had that French bastard meant, then? When she heard from him again? Obviously they wouldn’t dare to return to the village now, not after stealing a fishing boat if, indeed, they had been the ones to commit the crime. But who else would have done such a foul—

  Corisande gasped, her thoughts scattering, as a thunderous cannon shot shattered the peaceful stillness and a huge explosion of water burst high into the air only a hundred yards from the end of the quay. In shock she looked farther out to sea where a ship under full sail was making directly for the harbor while behind her another ship, much larger, bore down in hot pursuit.

  Oh, God, a revenue cruiser giving chase, she was certain of it, while in front…in front…

  As shouts went up throughout the village, people spilled from their homes and rushed down to the harbor. Corisande began to run along the quay as more cannon boomed, the shots clearly intended as a direct warning for the Fair Betty to heave to and allow herself to be boarded. For now Corisande was convinced the hapless cutter was Oliver’s; she watched in horror as another roaring blast sent up a great plume of water so near to starboard that she feared the cannon fire might have struck the ship.

  “Lord help us, oh, no, oh, no, ‘tes my Oliver! My Oliver!” Rebecca Trelawny’s hoarse cries rent the air, the woman at once grabbed by neighbors as she nearly toppled from the quay in her desperate frenzy.

  Corisande had never felt so helpless as she watched the Fair Betty, so close now to harbor, finally slacken her speed and give way to the king’s cruiser. A hue of such outrage—whistles and curses and catcalls, boos and hisses—arose from the village that she had no doubt Oliver and his crew would hear it and take heart that their neighbors and friends were with them in spirit.

  She added her own voice to the wild melee, shaking her fist, shaking the pistol as an eight-oared galley filled with armed excisemen was launched from the cruiser, and she gave no heed that she was squeezing upon the trigger. She was knocked to her knees when the weapon suddenly fired, her ears ringing so loudly from the deafening crack as she struggled to rise that she didn’t hear Donovan shouting until he was almost upon her.

  “Good God, Corie, put that damned thing down! Will you have them think someone’s firing out there and start a battle?”

  Flushing with chagrin, she dropped the pistol as if it were a live snake, and Donovan grabbed up the weapon and shoved it into his belt.

  “I—I’m sorry,” she began, only to stiffen when he hauled her to her feet, deep indignation filling her. “For heaven’s sake, why am I apologizing to you? You had a hand in this, didn’t you? Somehow you found out about Oliver returning tonight and you alerted the king’s men! I should have known you’d be here to watch—”

  “I’m here because once again, woman, I had to come looking for you!” Donovan pulled her along with him to where he’d left Samson. “And thank God I did too. Come, we’ve got to hurry.”

  “Hurry? Are you mad?” Corisande tried to wrest herself free, but Donovan’s grip upon her arm was like a steel vise. “I can’t go, I have to stay here! God knows what they’re going to do to Oliver—”

  “You can’t help him, Corie. His fate is in the Crown’s hands now. But your father needs you and Frances too!”

  She stopped struggling, noticing for the first time how grim Donovan looked, his face etched deeply with worry.

  “My father? What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  He didn’t readily answer, lifting her onto Samson’s back and then vaulting up behind her.

  “Donovan?”

  “Your sisters are gone, Corie. They were taken from their beds sometime during the night.”

  “Taken?”

  His grave nod left Corisande cold, so cold that she could only stare blindly ahead of them as Donovan guided Samson from the crowded quay and onto the road where he kicked the animal into a gallop. As villagers scattered out of their way, it seemed they had reached the parsonage in an instant, the place eerily dark and silent but for a light burning in the kitchen window.

  “After what you spouted earlier about wanting to go home, I came here first to look for you and found Frances and your father instead,” Donovan said, lifting her down. “Then I heard the cannon and— Hell, that doesn’t matter. Your father was tied to a chair when I found him, Corie. He’s been badly beaten, but he’ll—Corie?”

  She’d fled inside, not waiting for Donovan as she careened through the parlor and down the hall.

  “Papa? Papa!”

  She burst into the kitchen, coming up short in front of the high-backed settle as her father lifted his head from his hands to look at her. One of his eyes was swollen shut, his face puffy and covered with ugly bruises, a line of dried blood trailing down the corner of his mouth. Splotches of dull brown blood stained his shirt.

  “Oh, Papa…” Tears blinding her, Corisande looked up at Donovan, whose arm had gone round her waist. “Frances?”

  “I carried her upstairs, put her to bed. I found her down here lying on the floor—she must have been baking.”

  “Yes, yes, she likes to bake bread late at night,” Corisande said numbly. “Is she all right?”

  “Groggy, can hardly open her eyes, but I think she’ll be fine. She doesn’t remember much more than that they forced her to drink brandy laced with laudanum.”

  “They?” Corisande whispered, ice-cold intuition clutching at her heart. Donovan didn’t answer, nodding to the piece of paper that had been skewered to the kitchen table with a knife. But Corisande went instead to her father; she sank down next to him and laid her hand on his arm, her throat so tight she could hardly speak. “Papa? What happened?”

  A tear running down his swollen cheek, Joseph Easton shook his head in despair. “I tried to find it, Corie. I tried so hard to find it but I couldn’t remember…”

  “Corie.”

  Starting, she looked up as Donovan handed her the letter he’d just removed from the table.

  “I know you don’t like knives.”

  His voice was so huskily soft, his eyes so full of concern, she couldn’t help but be touched. But her hands were shaking so badly she couldn’t focus upon the writing, and she handed it back to Donovan. “Please…”

  “They’ve taken the girls to France,” he said without looking at the letter, obviously having already read its grim contents. “To Brittany—Roscoff—where they’ll wait only until Monday morning, barely three days from now. If they don’t have what they want by then, Marguerite, Linette, and Estelle will be given over to Moroccan pirates who still trade with the French no matter the war—”

  “But what could they want?” Corisande cut him off hoarsely, desperate tears clouding her eyes. “We don’t have anything! My father is a vicar—we’ve no money!”

  “Corie, whoever wrote this letter says your family has a cache of jewelry that belongs to him.”

  “Jewelry?”

  “He says, too, that he’s the one who pushed over those barrels, who attacked you on the heath, who rode after you that one night—”

  “One night?” Momentarily confused, Corisande had only to glance at Donovan to know that he must have followed her back to the Robbertses’ that night of the landing. But she didn’t press it further as he went on, his voice becoming angry.

  “And he was the one who gave you a warning last night on the beach. Good God, woman, you never told me that he spoke to you!”

  “I did! I said he claimed he hadn’t brought me there to kill me and then I tried to tell you the rest, but you said we would speak of it tomorrow—” Corisande fell silent, her face burning as she looked down at her hands. “He told me that when I heard from him again, I wouldn’t doubt that he spoke the truth. I didn’t understand…it made no sense until now.”

  “But I knew. God forgive me, I knew all along…”

  Corisande glanced at her father, his voice despondent. “Knew what, Papa?”

  “That Louis had done those terrible things. He came here at night, sometim
es during the day at my window. He would tell me— Ah, but there was nothing I could do! He swore he would kill you if I said a word to anyone!”

  “The window,” Corisande murmured, recalling the day she had brought Donovan to meet her family, and a window in the study had been open for the first time in years. Her father had been in the garden, looking so distressed, and then at her wedding, after the barrels, she’d never seen him so upset—oh, God. Heartsick that she hadn’t recognized his torment, she prodded gently, “You said Louis, Papa. Who is he? Why would he be doing this to us? If you know, you must tell—”

  “He’s one of the devil’s own. A murderer!” Joseph turned from her to stare into the cold hearth, his face ashen beneath the bruises. “I knew nothing of him until he came here—two weeks ago, no more! He knew your mother when she was a girl—he knew your grandmother Véronique, too, and hated her. Hated her for the wealth his father, the Marquis de LaCroix, had squandered upon his mistress—”

  “His mistress, Papa?” Corisande blurted out, as stunned by what he had just said as that his hoarse words had spilled forth in a lucid flood she’d only heard before in his sermons. She glanced at Donovan, who stood listening silently, then back to her father when he gave a broken sigh.

  “Adele told me about her mother before we were wed—how she escaped from Paris at the height of the Revolution, de LaCroix already imprisoned and facing execution, and fled to Brittany to the country house that he had provided for Adele no matter she was not his child. Ah, God, she wept so when she told me how a wild mob set upon the house, screaming that they were going to kill the monarchist’s whore. Véronique made Adele change into a servant’s clothes and entrusted her care to their beloved maid Laurette, then she secreted them both from the house just as the mob shattered the front door. That was the last time Adele saw her mother; the house was in flames by the time she and Laurette reached the hills.”

  A heavy silence fell in the kitchen, but it did not last long as Joseph went on, rocking himself forward and back as tears began to stream down his battered face.

  “She didn’t tell me about the jewelry until a week after you were born, Corisande. I think she’d known it might cause an impasse between us, and said nothing until Laurette decided she wished to return home out of concern for her parents. The woman would take no payment for all her pains, but Adele insisted she have one of her mother’s rings, a ring such as I’d never seen before, gold with a heart-shaped blue sapphire surrounded by diamonds. And there was more, too, rings and necklaces and brooches and pearls and…and I demanded it all be thrown into the sea.”

  “The sea, Papa? But why?”

  “Because I was a fool and didn’t understand how much it meant to your mother! A leather packet filled with those things had been pressed into her hands just before she and Laurette had fled. Because Véronique had been a man’s mistress, not his wife! It was the only time we ever raised our voices to each other, your mother crying that the jewelry should one day belong to our children while I wanted nothing more than to be rid of it. But when she swore she would leave me, I said no more. We never spoke about it again until she fell sick—”

  Joseph’s voice broke, and Corisande jumped up to sit beside him. But he seemed determined to continue, turning his ravaged face to hers.

  “She was dying, she knew it, and she made me promise that I keep the jewelry safe for you and your sisters. I found a small chest, and the night she…she left us, I remember walking outside and digging a hole, but nothing after that—nothing! God help me, I tried to find it—while Louis came here almost every day telling me what he would do to you and your sisters if I didn’t. He murdered Laurette! He showed me the ring! He’s been an émigré in Germany all these years until he finally went back to France to see if there was anything left of his father’s estate. That’s how he found us! He came upon poor Laurette in the village where Véronique’s country house…”

  His voice had grown so choked that he clearly couldn’t go on while Corisande sat there stunned, feeling as if the blood had drained from her face.

  “Corie?”

  She met Donovan’s gaze, her voice no more than a whisper. “I know. I think I know where my father buried that chest.”

  Chapter 34

  Incredulous, Donovan had already been planning what they might be able to do to help Corisande’s sisters—had been since he’d seen the letter—but now he stared at her while her father appeared dumbstruck as well.

  “That night…that night my mother died, I followed Papa onto the heath. It was raining, a terrible storm like last night’s, and he was weeping so hard, I feared he might become lost. So I followed him and watched as he buried a small wooden box, but I never thought to ask him what had been inside. It seemed a private thing—”

  “Good God, woman, then let’s not sit here!” Donovan shouted vehemently. “We’ve got to find that chest and get ourselves a ship, though with that revenue cruiser in the bay it might be difficult…hell, we’ll think of that later. Do you have shovels?”

  “Yes, in the stable.” Corisande was astonished at how quickly Donovan had taken charge. Yet she was nearly knocked to the floor as her father lunged to his feet so suddenly that the wooden settle tipped forward. Donovan reached out to catch it just in time. Breathing her thanks, she rushed after her father, grabbing his arm as he headed down the hall.

  “Papa, Donovan and I can do this! You’re hurt—you should lie down—”

  “No, I will help!”

  Her father’s tone as determined as she’d ever heard it, she said no more, but instead ran back to the kitchen to grab one of the oil lamps while Donovan went after her father.

  “I’ll meet you in the garden!” Corisande started to the kitchen door, but then decided she should check on Frances. She took the steps two at a time, holding the lamp high as she went into the housekeeper’s room.

  “Corie?”

  Scarcely recognizing the weak-sounding voice, Corisande sank down onto the bed. “Yes, it’s me.”

  “My girls, Corie, my poor girls. I heard them weepen, so scared—”

  “They’ll be fine, Frances, I promise. Donovan and I will find them. He knows what to do. We’ll find them.”

  The words were out before she realized she’d said them, but Corisande didn’t linger to dwell upon how much she was depending on Donovan. She pressed a kiss to the housekeeper’s forehead and then left the room, almost ready to head down the stairs when a faint whimpering made her move to the room shared by Estelle and Linette.

  Tears burned her eyes at the signs of struggle, bedclothes twisted and lying upon the floor, a lost slipper, Linette’s collection of seashells that she kept beside her bed crushed into fragments beneath a heavy foot. And lying forlornly across Estelle’s pillow was Luther, his scruffy head tucked between his tiny paws, his tail wagging halfheartedly for an instant before it fell still altogether as he began again to whimper.

  “I know, Luther, I know,” Corisande murmured, swiping at her eyes. “I want Estelle home too.”

  She couldn’t stand it, fleeing down the stairs and rushing outside to find her father and Donovan waiting for her by the garden wall.

  “I’m sorry. I had to check on Frances.” She lifted her lamp and led the way through the metal gate and out onto the heath. “Careful, there are holes dug everywhere.”

  “So I discovered,” came Donovan’s wry reply, making her smile in spite of herself.

  But she sobered as she searched around her for landmarks, not wanting to remember that terrible night eight years ago but forcing herself to remember, forcing herself to retrace painful steps taken when she was only twelve years old. When her father had wept so wretchedly she thought he might become ill. She had feared for him then, and followed him into the pouring rain.

  She had almost gone to him when he stumbled, her own silent sobs tearing at her as she watched him pull himself to his feet though he was nearly doubled over with grief. Finally he had stopped only a few yard
s from an old stunted tree she’d used to climb and begun to shovel…

  “Over here! By the tree, but not too close.”

  Donovan was there first and immediately threw off his coat to begin digging at the spot where Corisande had shoved the toe of her shoe into the damp earth. The hole was soon several feet deep before she realized from studying the positioning of the tree that she’d misguided them.

  “Donovan? Papa? I’m sorry, but I think it was closer over this way.” She was grateful that neither complained. Donovan’s strong steady strokes with the shovel more than overshadowed her father’s efforts, who did his best to keep up.

  And even when her father had to pause to catch his breath, Donovan continued on, sweat soaking him, his white shirt becoming almost transparent and clinging to his powerful body. She swallowed and looked down instead at the deepening hole, gasping aloud when Donovan’s shovel suddenly scraped against something hard.

  She went down on her knees beside him, all of them digging with their hands to clear away the dirt from what she could see as her breath caught was a sturdy wooden chest. She nearly fell forward face first in her haste to retrieve it from the hole, but Donovan caught her shoulder and threw her a glance that clearly said he was the one to try.

  While she and her father looked on, he leaned into the crater and hauled out the chest. Corisande thought that it appeared much smaller than she remembered, no bigger than Donovan could clutch easily under his arm. But she had been a child when last she’d seen it. She held up the lamp when he set the dirt-caked chest in front of her father, whose hands shook as he slowly opened the lid.

  For a moment Corisande felt as if she could hardly focus her eyes for the sparkle and glitter that seemed to burst forth from the chest. Her breath snagged again as she gazed down upon a dazzling tumble of pearls and brilliant jewels, silver, and gold. But what caught her attention lay half buried in one corner, and she glanced up at her father.