The Bengal Rubies

by Lisa Bingham

  The thought alone brought a wave of guilt, a rush of sadness. Not for the first time, Slater cursed the mistakes he’d made in his youth. Mistakes he feared he would never be able to atone for.

  The burly Russian at his side shifted, muttering, “I don’t like it, Cap’n. There ought to be someone here. It’s far too quiet. I’m sure Crawford is at an inn somewhere, safely abed, but with the ship so close, he should have a man about.”

  “As I’m sure he does. Somewhere.” Slater’s eyes swept the area again. No figures waited below. A hundred yards away, the vague outline of The Sea Sprite bobbed up and down against the leash of its anchor, waiting for dawn before releasing its passengers. Slater could only pray that one of them would be Aloise Crawford. Otherwise, all of their efforts would be in vain.

  The pummeling sound of hooves alerted the group to another rider’s presence and they whirled, pistols raised, swords drawn, to confront the noise. After ten years of service on a trading vessel, Slater had earned enough money to buy his own ship. He had then begun gathering a crew from a motley assortment of outcast aristocrats and rakes who had looked to Slater for leadership and adventure, forming a tight group of allies whom Slater knew would remain true to the death. They relaxed when they realized it was Will Curry who rode hell-bent up the crooked trail.

  “You’re late.”

  Will drew his animal to a halt. “I was delayed in town. I stopped in the local tavern to inquire about the conditions of the roads and became embroiled in a game of whist with one of the guests. I soon discovered I was talking to none other than Crawford’s valet. The man was quite in his cups and seemed determined to waylay someone for a little … conversation. I soon became privy to some rather titillating gossip concerning Aloise. However, I fear the news may astound you. Crawford’s audacity is beyond description.”

  “I would believe Crawford capable of anything.” Slater’s words rang with a quiet intensity that revealed far more than he had intended.

  “Even an auction?”

  Slater sighed and shifted in the saddle. “I thought we were speaking about his plans for his daughter.”

  “We are.”

  “Do you mean to tell me … ” Slater stared at his friend in disbelief.

  “Dear Papa Crawford intends to auction his daughter to the highest bidder.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Deadly serious. He’s invited a half dozen of the most eligible—and penniless—bachelors in all England to his country estates. Their ages range from seventeen to three-and-forty. Supposedly, the lucky gents are invited to Briarwood for a grand soiree— hunting, gaming, musicals, et cetera, et cetera … ” His blue eyes twinkled. “But the lack of feminine companionship on the guest list is noticeably evident.”

  “You must have heard wrong, Will. Why would Oliver Crawford go to such lengths? With his money, Crawford could see to it that his daughter’s dowry alone would far outweigh any wealth these men might bring.”

  “Not wealth. A title. I have it straight from the man’s man himself. According to him, Oliver Crawford is quite determined to claim a berth in the aristocracy. Unfortunately, His Majesty is unwilling to forget past offenses. Seventy-five years ago, Crawford’s grandsire absconded with one of the royal mistresses. The story still tends to crop up from time to time. Ergo, Crawford’s only hope for joining the ranks of the nobility is to form an alliance.”

  “For that, he will virtually sell his daughter?”

  “Precisely. Though why the fact should surprise either one of us, I haven’t a clue. Crawford has done far worse to obtain his means.”

  “She’s his own blood.”

  “She is a woman. Chattel. Property.”

  Slater frowned, stroking his cheekbone with his index finger, tracing the silver scar that formed a nearly invisible crease against the bronzed hue of his skin. The scar incurred on that night so long ago when Jeanne had grappled to save herself.

  The vow to avenge Jeanne’s death still churned in him like a bitter brew. He should have helped her. Damn, he should have helped her. But the thought proved useless now, just as it had for so many years. Mayhap he would never be able to banish his feelings of remorse.

  His hands tightened over the reins he held. Nevertheless, he could see to it that Crawford was exposed for the villain he was. To do that, he needed the only other surviving witness to the events that had taken place that night. Aloise.

  But Aloise had been kept hidden away for so long he’d feared he would never find her. Thank heaven that the diligence of his own men—and the kind eyes of Fate—had seen fit to allow him to become privy to Crawford’s plans.

  “Rumor has it that Crawford won’t part from his daughter without a hefty reward,” Will added when the silence grew overly long. “He intends such a reward to be in the form of favors which will land him a title of his own.”

  The rage Slater had stoked for two decades rose within him. He kept remembering Jeanne’s body, bloodied and broken at the bottom of the cliff. Little Aloise pale and hurt.

  “Title be damned. I’ll see Crawford in hell first.” As far as he was concerned, Crawford had lived far too long without paying for his sins. Slater McKendrick—alias Matthew Elias Waterton—was the only man with the power to bring them to justice. He had worked long and hard for this moment. Soon after leaving England, he’d taken a position as a seaman, then fabricated his own death, sending the body of a fellow sailor who had died of smallpox home to Cornwall to be buried in the family plot. He’d known that Crawford would have spies to relay such news to him, thus leaving “Slater McKendrick” free to make his own way in the world, build a fortune, important contacts, and a career that would ultimately be used against his nemesis.

  “What do you intend to do?”

  “Clayton, Rudy, take the far side of the clearing and wait in the copse of trees beneath the church. Keep to the shadows; we can’t chance having you seen. Crawford has guards about the area, I’m sure.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

  “Marco, Louis, take the lower area near the rocks where the road leads to the shore. I want to know the minute the old man makes his appearance. He’ll come by coach, so he should be easy to spot.”

  Marco glowered, adopting a savage frown. The Frenchman at his side poked him in the ribs with his crop to lighten the Spaniard’s mood. “Come, mon ami. Why so sour? We are about to embark on an adventure.”

  An adventure, indeed, Slater concurred silently. One that could result in a public execution if Crawford determined the true identities of these men and the crimes they had been unjustly accused of committing.

  “Hans is already at the point with a spyglass. He’ll let us know when activity resumes on the ship. Watch for his signal. Louis and Rudy are sure that Aloise is the only female passenger. As soon as you see any sign of the girl, I want you to follow her. Her father will most likely take her to Briarwood, but don’t let her out of your sight in any case.”

  The men saluted and settled into place, leaving only Slater and Will to their vigil.

  Slater touched the locket suspended by a heavy gold chain around his neck. An intricate design had been applied to the casing: a cross, a dove, and a griffin. The tracings were engraved as deeply in his mind as they were in the smooth metal. Slater never removed the piece. Inside, the miniature portrait of Jeanne Alexander Crawford continued to spur him on. Jeanne’s death would be avenged.

  “What do you intend to do, Slater?”

  “What else can I do? I have to find a way to get her away from her father. Take her.”

  Curry shook his head, his expression becoming more grave. “According to Crawford’s manservant, Aloise is heavily guarded. You will need a battalion to abduct her.”

  “Does Crawford know we’re here?”

  “Doubtful. More than likely, the precautions are due to Aloise herself. She’s developed a streak of independence while on the Continent. She’s tried to escape he
r father’s clutches several times, but to no avail. Some people believe she means to avoid Crawford’s attempts to marry her off to a title.” He tipped his head to one side. “And yet, she would have married you—a commoner—if all had gone as planned. How extraordinary that you would have been given such a marital opportunity.”

  “It was Jeanne who pressed for our betrothal, not Crawford. Jeanne and I met in Cornwall prior to the birth of her second child. In those long months, we became … friends.”

  He changed the subject when dangerous memories knocked at the door of his consciousness. “At that time, I doubt Crawford cared who married his daughter. He must have thought that he would eventually have a son to carry out his plans, so what did it matter what happened to a mere girl?” Slater’s mouth settled into a harsh line. “When I proved to be an inconvenient witness to Jeanne’s death, quickly Crawford had to repair the untidy loose ends my presence caused. He branded me a murderer and annulled the agreement. From what I’ve heard he burned the contracts. Months later, he must have breathed a sigh of relief, thinking that I’d died.”

  “And yet, you live, mon ami,” Curry said with a grin. “He will learn to regret having tangled with you, I am quite sure.”

  Slater glared at the ship in the harbor, a searing hatred settling in his gut. He’d lived with that hatred for so long it had become a part of him. A black, gnawing hole. “Damn Crawford to the ravages of perdition,” he rasped. “He killed Jeanne as surely as if he’d knifed her himself. He murdered two men whose only crime was to witness her death. Then he proceeded to terrorize a host of women in pursuit of an heir. For that, he will pay dearly.” The promise emerged in a low fervent tone, thereby conveying more power than if it had been shouted.

  “What about the girl?”

  “What of her?”

  “I sense a buried thread of enmity on your part.”

  Slater’s jaw clenched. He knew he shouldn’t feel this way toward Jeanne’s daughter, but deep inside his soul he resented her for continuing the lie, for never bothering to explain what really happened that night. She should have gone to the authorities. She should have found someone who would have listened to her tale.

  “She’s a sort of pawn in this affair, don’t you think?”

  “She could have told the truth.”

  “The girl was only five when her mother died.”

  Slater speared his friend with a steely gaze. “But she is an adult now. An adult who has chosen to cling to a lie and protect her father in the process.”

  Will grew quiet as he studied the ship in the distance. “Have you seen her since that night?”

  “No.”

  “You never bothered to discover what she looked like after she’d grown?”

  “Nay, Will,” he responded impatiently. “I was a wanted man. I had other important things to consider—such as staying alive and keeping my identity hidden.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, nothing.” In the darkness, Will’s sudden smile was difficult to conceal.

  Slater found it irritating that Curry had found some amusement at his expense. “Perhaps you’d be kind enough to reveal what facet of my situation has you so amused.”

  “From all reports of those who have seen the girl, she is said to be quite pretty.”

  “A fact which means nothing to me.”

  “She may remember you.”

  “I find that very doubtful. My only contact with her were her weekly visits to the cottage. She spent most of her time thumbing through my father’s books while Jeanne and I talked.”

  “In that case, you may be forced to win her trust. Seduce her tender feelings, as it were.”

  “Damned if I will.”

  “I assure you, you can be quite charming when you put your mind to it.”

  “Frankly, I’d rather throw a bag over her head and be done with it.”

  The noise of an approaching horseman alerted them. Both men had drawn their swords and pistols when Hans skidded to a halt a few yards away.

  “Slater, there’s trouble on the ship. It appears someone has jumped overboard. A woman.” He laughed in evident triumph. “Since Aloise Crawford is the only female we’ve spotted, it must be your beloved bride.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Slater whipped the hood of his cape over his face to shield it from the betraying light of the moon. “The girl is about to deliver herself right into our hands.”

  “There’s more. Her precipitous escape alerted Crawford’s guards. As you suspected, three men were waiting at the point. We managed to take out two of them, but the third rode hell-bent for town— presumably to alert Crawford himself.”

  “Bloody hell!”

  When Slater would have urged his mount into action, Curry caught the bridle. “What do you intend to do?”

  “Find her.”

  “Then what?”

  “See that justice is finally served.” Pulling the reins from Curry’s grip, he nudged the beast with his heels. “Capture the girl!” he shouted. “Then bring her to me!”

  Dear God in heaven, she was going to drown.

  Aloise fought to hold her breath as the sea swallowed her whole and dragged her down, down, ever down. Hampered by the fullness of her skirts and the bundle she refused to release, she wondered if she would be imprisoned forever in the bottomless blue.

  Since dying would completely unsettle her plans, she began to fight in earnest. After much kicking and struggling, she freed herself of one heavy petticoat and the loss helped to reverse the direction of her dive. In seconds, she broke the surface of the waves.

  Her head tipped to gulp huge drafts of briny air into her lungs. The rush of oxygen filled her body, easing the pounding of her head.

  “There she is! Get her!”

  Spinning in the water, Aloise managed to look up in time to see the entire crew of The Sea Sprite crowded around the railing. Spurred into action, she struck out toward shore. She knew most of the sailors had a distinct aversion to water—if the stench of their bodies was any indication—but it would only be a matter of time until one of them grew brave enough to follow her.

  The pack she carried hindered her progress, so she rolled to her back and kicked while she clumsily fought to loosen her gown at the waist. Stuffing the bundle firmly into the folds of her skirts, she twined the laces around the knotted cloth and fastened her bodice again. With both hands free, she began to move toward shore with greater speed.

  She could hear Mr. Humphreys’s voice echoing through the night. “Stop her! She’s getting away!”

  Something popped behind her. A splash resulted at her right shoulder. Another pop. Another splash. A stinging sensation tore through her upper arm and her pace faltered when she realized they were shooting at her. At her!

  “Damn it, man!” She heard Mr. Humphreys shout. “That’s Crawford’s daughter, not an escaped galley slave! What a fool thing to do! Lower the skiff. We’ll go after her that way.”

  Aloise wasted no time to see if Mr. Humphreys’ orders had been obeyed. Even if the sailors hadn’t managed to stop her, the pistol fire would have alerted people on shore—and she had no doubts her father was staying somewhere nearby to ensure she did what she was told. Mr. Humphreys had said her father intended to oversee all of the arrangements himself.

  Moonlight bathed the area, illuminating several avenues of escape. Using the spire of a distant church steeple as her guide, she swam toward land. The tide was working to her advantage, pushing her closer. The breakers crashed over her head, their rhythm coming more quickly, more forcefully. Rolling in the surf, she tumbled end over end and came to a skidding stop facedown upon the beach. Having put more than a hundred yards between her and the ship, she could only pray the night kept her hidden from her pursuers.

  Her fingertips curled into the wet sand as the retreating ebb tried to tug her along. Coughing and gasping for air, she blinked
against the sting of the seawater. Her limbs trembled in exhaustion, demanding a few minutes of rest, but Aloise knew her flight had only begun. She couldn’t afford to hesitate. It would take the sailors at least a quarter hour to determine that she’d jammed the rigging to all but one of the skiffs. She needed that time to get away.

  Preparing to rise, she braced herself against the ground, but it was not the grainy texture of sand that she encountered. Ignoring the runnels of water still streaming down her face, she saw that she had touched a boot. A man’s boot.

  No. No! Her eyes squeezed shut in denial. Please, she prayed, don’t let it be my father. Please.

  Slowly, ever so slowly, she followed the gleam of black leather as it stretched over firm calves and strong knees. In seconds, she knew it wasn’t Oliver Crawford who watched her, but a stranger who had been attracted by the commotion on the ship.

  Drat it all! How could her plans have gone so miserably awry? She’d meant to make a quick, quiet getaway, and instead had managed to rouse the entire ship and probably most of the seaside community of Tippington.

  Making a small sound of distress, she gazed up at the man who’d caught her inauspicious arrival to England. An errant wind tugged at the bottom of the all-encompassing cape he wore. The hem flapped in the breeze, allowing her toying glimpses of the masculine form hidden underneath. Woolen breeches molded a set of muscular thighs and narrow hips. A white shirt billowed from his waist and had been left unfastened nearly to his navel, exposing a broad chest covered in black, black hair. In the center of his sternum, moonlight glinted against a round medallion adorned by an intricate gold and silver crucifix.

  Her eyes skipped from the medallion to the church on the hill and she nearly wilted in relief. A friar. The furor of her escape had disturbed the holy man and drawn him from his sanctuary.

  “Forgive me, Father, for stumbling into your good graces.”