by Lisa Bingham
Aloise had no intention of submitting to his plans. Lying stiff as a corpse on her narrow berth, she counted the passing minutes like beads on a rosary. One hour bled into two, then three, each moving with the inestimable laggardness of an inchworm measuring a stalk. To anyone who might have entered her cabin, she gave every appearance of sleeping. She kept her eyes closed and her features sweetly serene. But inside …
Inside, an unbearable tension coiled like a steel spring. Her mind centered on a single objective. She would manage to flee from her father. Today.
Her lashes opened and forest brown eyes probed the blackness, searching for any minute detail which might jeopardize her future freedom.
Aloise didn’t know the precise moment she’d begun to formulate her plans. Surely, not the first time Mr. Humphreys had come to fetch her from Sacre Coeur Academy—an exclusive French school for young ladies of breeding. She’d been sixteen then and a little wild. Her instructors had referred to her as a “challenging” student, kindly omitting that the term had been awarded due to Aloise’s lack of decorum and not to a lack of intelligence. However, until her father’s secretary had arrived, Aloise hadn’t realized how she’d grown so unaware of the realities of life.
Within moments, Mr. Humphreys had informed her that her father had begun to make arrangements for her to become a bride before the month’s end. In the meantime, she was to prepare herself for such an event by being fitted for a wedding gown—a rather garish red wedding gown, in her opinion—that had been ordered by her father to set off a collection of jewels he’d chosen to be her only dowry.
Aloise supposed the seeds of her imminent escape had been sown that night. Her father had paraded enough of his own wives in front of Aloise for her to determine she was too young to be consigned to such sugar-coated imprisonment. Each time he’d remarried, she’d been summoned from Sacre Coeur, taken to London, and introduced to his new mate. Then she’d been sent back to France with her determination to avoid a similar fate intensified threefold. There were things she needed to do, places to see, adventures to experience.
Three weeks later, Mr. Humphreys returned to tell her a mate had been selected and she was to dress for the nuptials and don her dowry. At that moment when Mr. Humphreys had opened a slender velvet envelope to reveal the necklace she was to wear, Aloise had been more than a little suspicious about the jubilant news. At last she understood her father’s motives for such a match. Apparently, Oliver Crawford had decided that she must marry into a title. And it wasn’t her wit, her charm—or even her body—that her father used as a bargaining tool. Instead, he attracted her prospective mates like drones to a honey pot by promising that her dowry would include the famous Bengal Rubies. The same stones he had ordered her to wear.
Where her father had managed to land such a prize, Aloise couldn’t even begin to imagine. All of England had become familiar with the intricate history of the gemstones as well as their supposed blessing—or curse, depending on how one viewed such matters. The huge collection of jewels was supposed to reward the pure in heart with riches beyond measure and damn all others. There had been rumors at one time that the stones had been given away by His Majesty to a commoner for faithful service, but Aloise knew her father could never be awarded such a prize.
Nevertheless, she hadn’t openly complained when her father had essentially bribed a man to wed her, bed her, and claim her as his spouse. She reluctantly accepted the impending marriage, hoping that—if all else failed—at least she would be liberated from Sacre Coeur and her father’s will. She’d journeyed to the outskirts of Dijon where Mr. Humphreys had rented several rooms at a local inn. By midafternoon she had been bathed, powdered, and perfumed in anticipation of her bridegroom’s arrival.
She discovered the necessity of the precautions as soon as her husband-to-be arrived. At eight-and-forty, Lord Greenby’s eyes were slightly crossed and horribly nearsighted. He couldn’t see her clearly, but—to an amazing degree—he certainly managed to smell her. Once they’d been left alone he began stalking her like a hind after a rabbit.
Poor, poor, Lord Greenby. That night he’d choked on a chicken bone during their betrothal dinner. Within days, Aloise had buried her suitor and had herself been immured behind the high stone walls of Sacre Coeur.
After such a horrible experience, Aloise had known it was only a matter of time until her father found another groom for her. Therefore, she made every effort to take charge of her own life—attempting to escape so many times that her father was forced to hire bodyguards to reside at the school. She saw her own classmates graduate and leave, then the girls beneath her. Bored with courses she’d taken three times already, Aloise took to the library instead, filling her head with whatever information could be found. When that supply of reading material grew old, she befriended one of the elderly gardeners whose son-in-law was a bookseller and allowed her to preview his materials as long as she did not ruffle the pages.
On a mild April morning soon after her eighteenth birthday, Mr. Humphreys journeyed to Sacre Coeur again. Offering a shrug and a sigh, he repeated the same message he’d already given her once before. She was to be married. At dusk. Her father wasn’t taking any chances that her groom would not survive the day.
She hadn’t even been allowed to pack her belongings. Mr. Humphreys had bundled her into the carriage and driven her to a small church in the heart of Calais. Balking each step of the way, Aloise had tried reasoning with her father’s secretary, threatening, pleading, but to no avail. He had his instructions and would see them carried out to the letter.
Stepping into the chapel, she’d peered up the aisle. Filled with dread and fury, she’d searched the gloomy interior for a decrepit old man who’d lost his hair, his teeth, his health, or all three.
To her amazement, a young gentleman eagerly awaited her arrival. An angel. A god! Cecil, Lord Kuthright was every bride’s dream. Shining golden hair had been drawn against his nape and tied with a velvet ribbon. His blue eyes sparkled and his brilliant smile dimmed the gilded light spilling from the stained-glass windows over his head.
Aloise sighed, the sound melting into the night with untold regret. Cecil, dear unfortunate Cecil …
He’d only managed to take three steps when the doors at the rear of the chapel had burst open and a strange man had begun shouting in French about wives and cuckolds. Shoving Aloise onto one of the pews, he lifted his arm, brandished a pistol, and took incredibly accurate aim.
She buried Cecil too—in the same churchyard where the two of them were to have toasted their marriage with champagne and a picnic luncheon Lord Kuthright had so thoughtfully provided.
This time, Aloise had not been sent back to Sacre Coeur. She shuddered at the memory. Her father had decided her behavior had not improved at the ladies’ academy. He’d thought she’d needed a reminder that her will was too strong. So he’d exiled her. Imprisoned her in a rotting farmhouse in the depths of the Loire Valley, isolating her from her scattered friends and— most tragically of all—separating her from her source of new books. Allowed to take only a few of her own she’d been kept in Loire for nearly two years. Until her father had decided to retrieve her again.
Aloise’s tongue nervously swiped her lips. How many nights had she lain awake, plotting, planning, scheming to circumvent her father’s strangling control? She’d tried to escape him—oh, how she’d tried. She’d become a master at picking locks, at scaling walls, at manipulating even the most hard-hearted guard into coming to her aid. But each time, Oliver Crawford had tracked her unmercifully, then had punished her for her disobedience.
By now, she would have thought he would pray to have her vanish into thin air. But after so many failed attempts at freedom, Aloise had learned one important lesson. Her father would never, never, release what was his. Not until he was good and ready. Therefore, Aloise was prepared to take destiny into her own hands.
&n
bsp; Sweeping aside the covers, she slipped from the bunk and opened the sea chest bolted to the floor. Inside was the bundle of belongings she’d carefully gathered for her journey. Digging to the very bottom, she retrieved a small golden locket. Opening the clasp, she peered at the familiar miniature painting, experiencing the same confusing swirl of emotions that swamped her each time she looked at the portrait. Loneliness, betrayal, anger. Fear.
“Why, Mama, why? Why can’t I remember?” Aloise’s brow pinched in a frown of concentration and she fought to pierce the fog of confusion that had shrouded her mind for as long as she could remember. But try as she might, she had no memories, no memories at all, beyond the first morning she’d awakened at Sacre Coeur. She’d been five then. Even now, fifteen years later, those early years of her childhood were lost in a murky maelstrom of confusion. And pain. If she tried too hard to remember, a blinding pain settled into the base of her skull, so much so that she had given up all hope of piercing the blackness.
The girls at school—and the teachers as well—had been a little wary of Aloise because of her “malady.” She supposed they feared she was a bit mad. Only Mr. Humphreys had dared to try and help her, relating a few scattered stories about Jeanne Alexander Crawford, including the fact that her mother had originally arranged a marriage between Aloise and a schoolmaster in Cornwall, Matthew Elias Waterton. Her father had reluctantly agreed to such a match, but had nullified the agreement upon Jeanne’s death, offering Aloise no other explanation than the marriage was not suitable to her station.
As the succeeding months passed, Aloise’s desire to wriggle far beyond her father’s reach only intensified. She waited for the perfect moment—the next time Mr. Humphreys had come to collect her for another marriage attempt. Unfortunately, after the debacle with Cecil, Lord Kuthright, her wait had been a long one. As she cooled her heels in Loire, it became quite clear to her that most of the titled aristocracy considered her to be a bit of a risk as far as matrimony was concerned. After all, having a childhood betrothal severed was regrettable. Having a second prospective husband die on the eve of marriage could be counted as a misfortune … But a third such occurrence? She might bring with her a dowry rich enough to fill the coffers of even the most penniless duke or earl, but if one didn’t live long enough to spend it…
Aloise closed the chest and lay her bundle of belongings on top. Over the past few days, she had taken careful stock of the guards Mr. Humphreys had chosen for the trip, and she had to give him credit for his selection. She had discovered that none of them could be bribed, threatened, or seduced. However, she had also determined that the gentleman who took his turn in the evening—a portly, balding man—tended to nod at his post. Because of this, he had taken to walking the length of the corridor. Twelve steps fore, thirty-two steps aft.
Pressing her ear to the door, she strained to hear more than the sound of the slapping waves and her own hammering heart. Within minutes her prayers were answered. She caught the creak of the chair, a grunt, a sigh.
One… two… The floorboards squeaked as he began his stroll.
Aloise’s fingers trembled as she gathered her hair over one shoulder and wound it into a thick braid. Luckily, its dark chestnut color would blend easily into the shadows.
The guard began to pace toward the rear of the ship. One…two …
Flipping the plait out of her way, Aloise tugged at the buttons of her night shift. Only half of the ivory discs had been unfastened when she whipped the garment over her head, exposing the severe ebony gown she’d worn beneath.
Dragging the blanket from the top of the berth, she rolled it into a long coil, then stuffed it beneath the sheets in a way she hoped would pass for a body should anyone check on her. Moving quickly, she retrieved the items she’d managed to pack for her trip: a change of clothing, the locket, two precious travelogues, a novel, and several pouches of gold coins that she had “liberated” years ago from the school safe at Sacre Coeur.
She took a step, two, then stopped. Turning, she stared at the too-familiar trunk wedged in the corner beneath her own meager collection of baggage. Mr. Humphreys had brought her that container, one made of gold and mahogany inlay. He had told her that come morning, she was to don her best gown and adorn it with the Bengal Rubies. Rubies that were worth a fortune …
Did she dare?
No. Her father would surely kill her if she touched the collection. Mr. Humphreys only kept the stones in this cabin because of the security to be found with a guard constantly a step away.
And yet … even one small piece would provide her with the funds she would need to start a new life. Her father wouldn’t discover the missing items for days. Days and days.
The temptation proved too strong. Kneeling, she tugged the case free and opened it.
This was her dowry. Her father’s bribe. Nestled within the padded velvet lining lay a huge gold tiger, its mouth opened in a perpetual snarl. The glistening blood-red stones used in its eyes called to her, beckoned, as if they held a will of their own.
Aloise’s fingers trembled as she reached to lift the tiger free of its protective container. She was surprised by the weight of it. The warmth. Her father had never let her see the entire collection. Setting it on the floor beside her, she released a catch on its side, opening the lid.
Dark black velvet cradled the exotic assortment of jewels, jewels so stunning that Aloise suddenly understood why so many men had been obsessed to obtain them. Why they were willing to marry a stranger of the middle class and trade their aristocratic titles with her father to own them. The jewels were alive. Glowing.
She reached out to touch the earrings first. Fashioned of a heavy antique gold, they were modeled after two tigers snarling and grappling together. Delicately cut stones dripped from the ends like a scarlet waterfall.
Next, she examined the necklace, nearly gasping at its beauty. The heavy band had been molded into the gamboling shapes of antelope and lions, exotic birds, graceful ostriches, playful hippopotamuses, and in the center, another signature Bengal tiger. The entire creation shimmered with the most stunning rubies she had ever seen.
The squeak of a floorboard outside reminded her that she didn’t have the time to stare at the rest of the contents of the case. She had to go. Now!
Ignoring the other pieces, the brooch, a bracelet, a half-dozen rings, and a circlet, she snatched the huge necklace cascading with jewels. In her haste, a stone from the clasp dropped to the floor. Swearing under her breath, she tucked the gem under the binding of her stomacher, then hid the necklace in her haversack beneath the folds of an extra petticoat. Moving as quickly as she could, she returned the tiger to its trunk and shoved it back into place.
Tiptoeing to the door, she wondered if someone had heard the scuffling noises she’d made, but the pacing in the passageway hadn’t altered. Soon she was able to determine the direction of the guard’s steps. Fore, aft, fore, aft. Taking a deep breath, she waited until the footsteps passed her on their way to the rear of the ship.
The carefully oiled hinges made no sound as she crept out. Not bothering to look behind her, she ran toward the hatchway. Before the guard had finished his final turn, she dodged into the cool misty air.
The next few minutes would prove critical. The skiffs were anchored aft. Aloise had managed to disable all but one of the boats earlier this afternoon. She would have to climb into the remaining vessel and employ the well-oiled pulley system to lower it into the water, and pray that no one would see her. Under cover of darkness, she would row ashore and hide midst the trees on the upper bluff. She had studied enough maps of the area to know that, come dawn, she should take the back roads north to Dalton, and from there, a public coach to London. Once in that city, she was sure she could find employment with the groups of missionaries who were constantly looking for volunteers to travel to heathen lands.
Aloise offered a si
lent prayer of deliverance and darted away from the threshold. She had only taken a few steps when a huge sailor loomed out of the night. Gasping, she flattened against the bulkhead, hoping to make herself invisible.
“Guards! Guards, she’s loose!”
All of Aloise’s well-laid plans scattered beneath the need to escape. She would have to jump and hope she could swim ashore. Now. Before it was too late.
Hiking her skirts well above her knees, she threw one foot over the railing. The hollow thump of running boots behind her warned Aloise that she hadn’t much time, but she still hesitated, peering down into the frothy sea below. In daylight, the drop into the ocean hadn’t seemed so far, the waves hadn’t seemed so high … and her courage hadn’t seemed so false.
“Miss Crawford. Miss Crawford!” Mr. Humphreys ran toward her, his wig askew, a pair of breeches tugged hastily over his nightshirt, his shins bare and skinny in the moonlight. “Miss Crawford, please don’t. You’re to be a bride soon. Your father has chosen some wonderful prospects. I promise!”
Prospects? Prospects!
“Not bloody likely,” she muttered under her breath.
“Miss Crawford, your father will—”
Her father be damned.
Climbing the rest of the way over the beam, Aloise clung to the support for a fraction of a second. Then she jumped.
Chapter 2
Slater McKendrick urged his stallion to the top of the bluff bordering the beach at Tippington, joining the group of men who waited for him there. The gutted shape of an abandoned church loomed behind them, cloaking their ebony-clad forms in the anonymity of its shadow. A full moon bathed the area in a dull pewter gleam. The sea remained fairly calm, rolling into shore with a mesmerizing lunge and burble while the land curled around the inky water like a velvet horseshoe.
Slater ignored the chill that feathered through his extremities. Tippington might be nearly thirty miles from his birthplace, but the bluff he waited on held an uncanny resemblance to the spot where Jeanne had been murdered.