Falcon and the Sparrow

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Not in this life.” She gave him a knowing look, but not one devoid of hope, nor devoid of the love they had once shared. “Now go to her.” She placed a gentle kiss upon his cheek. Closing his eyes, Chase relished her touch, her presence, fighting back the burning behind his eyes.

  He turned his face to meet her lips, but she was gone.

  “No!” He bolted up in bed. Sweat poured from him, saturating the shirt he had fallen asleep in. Cursing, he jumped from the bed, stripped the sodden garment from his back, and paced the cold room. He raked his fingers through his tousled hair and gripped the strands until they hurt. Why must you torment me so? He wasn’t sure if he was talking to God, Melody, or his own demented mind.

  “Go to her,” Melody’s voice echoed in his head—in his heart.

  “No. I will not. I cannot!” he shouted. “She will never replace you.” He glanced around the room, hoping Melody would appear to him again, speak to him. But he knew she would not—ever again. He smashed his fist atop his desk, toppling a bottle of ink. A pool of liquid black seeped over the wood, oozing beneath his quill pen, his pocket watch, and covering everything in its path in darkness, including his heart. A heart he had finally opened, allowing light to enter. But then the blasted Frenchwoman had lied to him, deceived him. How could he ever trust her again?

  Chase took up a frantic pace across his rug in step to the beating of his heart. He rubbed his knuckles, still sore from his attack on the wall earlier in the week. “God, if You are there and You are still listening to me, please tell me what to do. Please help me.”

  His thoughts sped over the past two months. Dominique’s sweet smile and bright amber eyes glittered before him. Her presence had consumed the house from the moment she had entered, sweeping away the cobwebs of bitterness, hatred, and sorrow. My word. He could not deny the change in Katharine, Larena, Percy, William—himself. Dominique had shown nothing but strong faith, tenderness, forgiveness, and she had filled this home with love and joy again. Was her intense love for her brother her only real crime?

  Would you not have done the same for your own sister? For Melody?

  The thought sliced him like a sword in the gut. Would he? Would he have betrayed his country to save Melody from death? If he could bring her back now, was there anything he would not be willing to do, to sacrifice?

  Chase searched his conscience, peering around every dark corner—places where secrets and truth resided—until his head ached from the strain. Even as an admiral of the fleet, he found he could not answer that question with a definite no. How much less could he expect from a lady torn between two countries?

  He glanced at his door. He had not turned Dominique over to the marines. Faced with making an immediate decision, Chase had handed over Sebastian instead.

  The man had been caught in the act, and Chase had no choice. Still baffled by the butler’s betrayal as well as hatred simmering in Sebastian’s normally placid eyes, Chase had to accept some of the blame for Sebastian’s actions. Since Melody’s death, he had been naught but a harsh taskmaster and had not taken the time to understand his butler’s past—his French mother’s untimely death, the scurvy that had stolen his father’s life while at sea. Why hadn’t Chase paid more attention to the traitor brewing beneath his very eyes? Huffing, he rubbed the back of his neck. Since no documents were actually turned over, Chase intended to speak on the man’s behalf and perhaps lighten his sentence.

  As for Dominique, Chase had no idea what to do. He knew he should turn her in. He knew she was a spy for France.

  But something in his gut had told him to wait, a voice that had been silent for many years, or maybe a voice he had turned a deaf ear to for far too long. Now a sudden urgency filled him. He must speak with her and hear the truth behind her betrayal from her own lips.

  Dashing into his dressing closet, he snatched a shirt and threw it over his head; then, grabbing keys and a candle from his desk, he blasted from his room, made the few short steps across the hall, and halted before Miss Dawson’s door. No light shone from beneath it. She was asleep, no doubt. He threw back his shoulders, drew in a deep breath, and unlocked the door before he could change his mind.

  “Miss Dawson,” he whispered as he approached the bed, not wanting to alarm her.

  No soft form lay curled on the bed. He held the candle high and surveyed the room.

  Chase felt as though every ounce of his blood rushed back to his heart and weighed it down like an anchor.

  Dominique was gone.

  CHAPTER 25

  Today Dominique would rendezvous with the Frenchman.

  She gripped the railing of the tiny sloop as it descended upon another wave. Feeling the familiar flip of her stomach, she leaned over the side—just in case. The bubbling foam atop the azure water slapped the hull of the ship and seemed to laugh at her. Why did the sea relish torturing her so?

  Coarse snickers of the crew pricked her ears, only adding to her torment. She dared not turn around. She had seen enough of these loathsome men the past few days to put an imprint of horror on her brain forever.

  Smugglers.

  She had heard they were not as bad as pirates, but the close association forced upon her by her present journey had all but discredited that commonly held opinion. Thanks be to God, they had left her alone thus far. Perhaps her constant heaving over the side of the ship had dissuaded them from any romantic notions. The thought sent a coil of shivers up her spine.

  Pressing a hand over her belly, she straightened her stance and shielded her eyes against the sun, now a handbreadth above the horizon in its descent, casting an array of sparkling diamonds over the royal blue water. Despite her queasy stomach, she could understand the admiral’s love of the sea, untamed in its beauty and power—in many ways just like him. She missed him. Her heart longed for him, and she knew the pain of losing him would never truly go away.

  After an arduous journey by coach to Plymouth, which had lasted the better part of a week and during which Dominique had not slept but for an hour here and there, she arrived filthy, smelly, and exhausted, only to discover that the only passage she could procure to Lihou was on a ship run by smugglers.

  How she managed to barter with these salt-encrusted miscreants for her passage and not pass out from fear, she could only attribute to God’s presence, His strength urging her onward. If anyone had told her just six months ago that she would be alone on board a smuggler’s ship heading toward the isle of Lihou to plead for her brother’s life from egotistical French maniacs, she would have laughed in his face. Now, for some reason, an unusual strength kept her from giving in to the quivers that periodically struck her, threatening to dissolve what little courage she had into a puddle at her feet.

  She had seen the man in black—her angel. A few brief glimpses on shore and one on this ship, but his appearances grew less frequent the farther she traveled from London. Did that mean God was not with her? Yet she knew that was not true, for she felt His presence more each day.

  “Land, land,” a man standing on a yard above her bellowed. “Lihou. Three points off the port bow.”

  The ship erupted into a flurry of activity as further orders were given, and men clambered up the ratlines to adjust the sails. The creak and groan of yards and halyards and the flap of sails—now familiar sounds to Dominique—drifted over her, telling her they were making a turn, or a tack as they called it. Clinging to the railing, she shielded her eyes from the sun and squinted toward the brown ribbon of land that grew larger on the horizon. So that was Lihou. Excitement rose within her. She had made it.

  Perhaps Marcel was already there.

  The captain came alongside her and tipped his floppy hat. His eyes were narrow slits of black that sat too far apart on his head and, combined with his long triangular nose, made him look like a vulture—a fitting look for a smuggler, she supposed.

  “We’ll row ye ashore, miss, but my men will not be waitin’ more’n an hour afore they return t’ the ship.”

>   Dominique turned her face away as the man’s foul breath, tainted with the evening’s meal of fish and hard biscuits, assailed her. She nodded and took a step back from him, trying to avoid his arm brushing against hers. An hour. That was all she had been able to negotiate with these miscreants.

  One hour to save her brother.

  He cocked his head. “What be yer business on Lihou, miss, if I may be askin’? Meetin’ a lover, perhaps?” He leered at her through yellowed teeth.

  “Of course not.” Dominique took another step back, disgusted by his vulgar perusal. “ ’Tis none of your business, Captain. And I’ll thank you to honor our bargain.” She clutched her valise to her chest, as she had done through the entire voyage, never allowing it to leave her sight. Which also meant she hadn’t slept very much and now found herself in a constant battle with the ache that weighed heavy upon her eyelids.

  Moments later as the sun sank below the horizon, the ship eased in beside the island, and the anchor was tossed into the water with a resounding splash. The captain ordered one of the boats to be lowered, and two of the men assisted Dominique over the side and down a wobbly rope ladder. Traversing the teetering boat nearly ended with her headfirst betwixt the thwarts, but she finally settled into a spot at the stern. After several minutes of rowing, during which her stomach still protested vehemently, the keel of the boat struck shore. Two of the men jumped out and hauled the bow of the boat onto the sand.

  “I’ll carry ye ashore, miss.” One of the smugglers plunged into the shallow water and held out his hands. He smacked his lips, a fiendish twinkle in his eyes.

  She gave him an icy glare. “I would rather swim with sharks.”

  Chuckles erupted from the man’s companions, and he narrowed his eyes upon her and took a step back.

  Gathering her skirts, Dominique swept both legs over the side. Freezing water bit her skin as she sloshed ashore and trudged onto the sand, her boots squishing. When she turned to remind the men to wait for her, they were already piling back into the boat. The man who had asked to carry her to shore pushed the craft from the beach and jumped in. Turning, he doffed his floppy hat and gave her a mock bow. “Then swim with the sharks you will, miss.”

  “You cannot leave me!” Dominique screamed, blood rushing to her clenched fists. “Our bargain.”

  Heinous laughter was her only reply, and within moments, the tiny vessel was only a bobbing mirage upon the water.

  Fear and loneliness gripped Dominique, replacing her anger. How naive she had been to expect to find honor among thieves. How was she to get Marcel and herself off this island?

  Oh Lord, please give me the strength. Her stomach twisted into a knot as she gazed out over the sea, the final arc of the setting sun flinging orange, yellow, and violet across the span of the sky and over the darkening waters. Wavelets crashed at her feet, leaving behind crescents of foam glittering in a rainbow of colors. The vastness and beauty of the ocean before her made her feel tiny and insignificant.

  Gripping the valise, Dominique squeezed it until she heard the crackle of the documents. She had everything these Frenchmen wanted. Surely they would release Marcel into her hands and allow her and her brother to go free. Where that was or how they would get there did not matter right now. All that mattered was saving Marcel.

  Dominique couldn’t help but smile as she thought of her new friend, Mrs. Barton—Katharine—and how she had helped Dominique escape. Lord, You do choose the most unlikely people to do Your work.

  “As I have chosen you.”

  Dominique chuckled. Indeed, Lord. Indeed.

  Her smile quickly faded, however, as her thoughts drifted to the admiral. No doubt he would be as angry at his sister for her betrayal as he was with Dominique. She prayed he would come to understand Katharine’s reasons, and someday Dominique’s, as well. Please help him to forgive me, Lord.

  Swerving around, Dominique faced the island—where she would either save Marcel or lose her own life. The white sand of the beach splayed out from the water like a smooth fan ending in a bed of pebbles that eventually led to larger rocks, finally leading to a cliff that loomed above her. Dark green ivy hung over the top of the precipice where Dominique could make out trees above. A light breeze brought the smell of salt and moist foliage to her nose. Peering through the deepening shadows, she took a step. The white sand crunched beneath her shoes as she searched for the easiest route up the embankment, knowing it would be best to make her climb before darkness overtook her. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a lantern? Tiny crabs skittered over the sand with each step she took. She wished more than anything she could run and hide under a rock right alongside them. But no. She was tired of being afraid. God was on her side.

  As she carefully traversed the pebbles and rocks, she glanced up to see the man in black standing at the foot of the cliff. He leaned against the craggy rocks and watched her from beneath the shadows of his hat. She was no longer surprised to see him, and his silent presence reminded her of something Rev. Newton had said. She might always feel afraid, but God’s promise of His strength and presence remained. A recent verse she had read in Joshua came to her mind: “Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.”

  Yes, God was with her. He would protect her and help her. Had He not done just that all along? Dominique allowed her mind to traverse the past few years: enduring her parents’ untimely deaths, begging for food on the streets of Paris with Marcel, stealing the Admiralty documents, holding harrowing meetings with the Frenchman. Though she had never ceased to be afraid, God had given her the ability to do all these frightening things—things that she never would have thought possible before. She swallowed and glanced up at the darkening sky where the first stars peeked through the curtain of night and began to twinkle down upon her.

  He would be with her now. She knew it.

  The man in black nodded, and she thought she saw the briefest shadow of a smile alight upon his lips before he turned, stepped toward the rock wall …

  And disappeared.

  Somehow, deep inside, she knew she would never see him again. It was as if God had allowed her to see the angel for a short while to reassure her of His presence.

  Following him, Dominique stubbed her toe upon a jagged rock and stifled the scream that rose to her lips. Burning pain seared up her foot and leg, but she pressed onward until she came to the place where the man in black had disappeared. A narrow pathway etched out of the massive rocks led upward. At the base of it, right where the angel had stood, a flower grew, thrusting its bright yellow petals out from a tiny crack. Dominique halted and eyed it curiously. How could such a delicate flower thrive surrounded by nothing but cold, hard rock? Then she realized with a smile that the Lord was showing her a vision of herself, and if He could take care of this flower and make it flourish despite its frightening surroundings, then He would do the same for her.

  Clambering upward, she braced herself against the boulders on each side, more than once scratching her fingers and arms against the craggy, damp rocks. The crash of the waves echoed between the walls like peals of thunder, drowning out all other sounds, especially the pounding of her heart that seemed to increase with each step upward. The fear would not subside. It was increasing, but she knew now that it was of little importance how she felt on this harrowing journey. God was with her.

  Finally, as she reached the cliff top, a blast of wind swept over her, loosening her hair from its chignon and carrying with it the scent of salt and flowers. Lights flickered through the trees ahead, and, taking in a deep breath, she headed toward them.

  She had not gone three steps when she heard a rustling behind her, and a rough hand grabbed her by the throat. “Nous vous attendions, Mademoiselle Dawson,” a man growled.

  Unable to speak, all Dominique could do was allow the man to drag her forward into the trees and down a pathway and then shove her into a clearing filled with men. Flickering
light from lanterns perched upon boulders scattered at the edge of the forest cast an evil glow over the faces of the mob. All eyes shot to her. Gasping, she scanned the crowd, looking for Marcel. Two men dressed in the ostentatious, jewel-studded silks of the old regime stood in the center of the pack. One she recognized as her French contact. At least ten more men wearing the blue and white tailcoats and tall blue hats of the French Infantry stood at attention, bayonets by their sides.

  Panic gripped Dominique. Where was Marcel? What were these beasts up to?

  “Ah, Mademoiselle Dawson. So good to see you again.” The Frenchman took a step forward, exposing his crooked teeth in a grin, and doffed his colorful bicorn. “Me, I had wagered you would not come.”

  “Then I hope you did not lose too much money, monsieur,” she replied with a confidence she in no way felt.

  “Dominique.” A voice that ignited a spark of hope within her shot through the crowd, and Marcel appeared beside the Frenchman, a beaming smile on his face. Dressed in a black waistcoat and tan breeches, his hair tied neatly behind him, he did not appear harmed in any way.

  Quite the opposite. Unease churned in her empty stomach.

  “Marcel,” Dominique sobbed, resisting the urge to run to him.

  He started toward her, but the Frenchman held out his arm, blocking his way.

  “First, have you brought tous les documents?“He flung his purple cape over his shoulder and held out his hand.

  “Oui. They are in here.” Dominique clutched her bag tighter to her chest and willed her legs to stop shaking before these men noticed.

  “No ruse—how do you say?—trick, this time.” He grinned, and venom seemed to drip from his lips.

  Dominique shook her head, her gaze darting over the men, landing upon a taller man hiding in the shadows of a tree behind the crowd.

  The Frenchman gestured for her to approach. “Let me see them.”

  “First, allow Marcel to come to me.” He blinked. “Absolument non.”