The Black Rose Read online

  * * * * *

  At that same moment, on the opposite side of the marsh, Amos Hawkins stood with twenty of his excisemen arrayed in a ragged line before a dark cottage.

  "Open up in the name of the Crown!"

  There was no answer from within. Not that the tight-lipped customs inspector had anticipated one.

  "Send in a fusillade to tell the bastards we mean business!"

  A volley of angry shots splintered against the planked door and rough-hewn wooden walls.

  Was it their imagination, or did they hear a shrill cry from somewhere inside?

  Hawkins growled an order and the line of men lowered their guns, stirring nervously in the sudden silence after the volley.

  With a snarl Hawkins cocked his own two pistols and jerked his head toward the cottage. "Break down the door!"

  No one moved.

  "You, Boggs! And you, too, Lawson!" he bellowed at the men nearest the door. "Move yer arses!"

  Slowly the two men crossed the sharp shadows. Their fingers trembled as they reached for the rusted bolt at the door.

  Was it the wind that stirred then, whining a shrill complaint in the taut silence?

  "Get ready to fire, the rest of ye!" Hawkins ordered softly. "And don't let the bastard escape this time, else ye'll find yerselves fodder for the next press-gang."

  Forty hands rose as one, pistols gripped tensely as they faced that ominous rectangle of darkness. There was no sound in the quiet yard on the edge of the marsh. Even the wind seemed to shrink back in fear.

  With a faint click the bolt slid free. Nervously a young excise officer pushed open the door, revealing solid darkness beyond.

  And then the night exploded in sound. First came a muffled scratching, which soon rose to shrill yelps as a host of furious, twitching bodies erupted from the black mouth of the cottage.

  Tails bristling, whiskers flashing, paws racing, a dozen angry foxes plunged out into the night, their furious yelps splitting the air while the stunned excisemen looked on dumbly.

  "What the—!" Hawkins's curse broke off as he stumbled toward the cottage. Then the furious animals were upon him, nipping at his breeches, barking and straining as they fought their way to freedom. "Get those bloody things out of here!" the inspector roared in impotent fury.

  His men scrambled forward, fighting their way through the bristling pack, raising their hastily lit lanterns to peer into the silent cottage.

  An empty cottage.

  "Nothin' here, Mr. Hawkins."

  There was a faint snicker from somewhere at the end of the line of waiting men.

  With a murderous gleam in his eyes, Hawkins spun about to glare in the direction of the sound. "So the bastard thinks he's outsmarted me, does he? But I'll have him and have him soon, by God."

  The squat man swung around again, cursing. He raised his pistol toward the foxes racing over the flat, dark earth toward freedom. His gun barked once; the last animal, smaller than the rest, cried out in terror and pain, then fell to the damp earth, twitching wildly.

  "Aye, that's what ye'll have from me, ye bloody bastard. My bullet buried in your skull!"

  * * * * *

  Cold with sweat, Tess found her way to the ancient tunnel that snaked beneath the castle ruins. Thomas had first told her of this place, where he had played as a boy with his brother. But that brother was long dead, killed in an Indian raid in the upstart colonies.

  Now only Tess and her old servant knew of this place.

  Once she emerged from the tunnel, it was only a matter of feet to the edge of the narrow dike and the boat she'd left moored there.

  This was what she liked least, this masquerade at close quarters, where every second brought the threat of exposure. Still, the men seemed to hold no suspicions this night.

  All except for Tom Ransley, and he had a reputation for distrusting everyone.

  Tess permitted herself a thin smile. Yes, it was a good plan and none could deny it. The signals would go out this very night: three horses tethered at Snargate church, and lanterns lit at every third cottage along the Rye-Appledore road.

  By morning one hundred men would know a run was coming and wait for final instructions.

  These the Fox always denied until the last remaining hours. By hard experience Jack had learned that traitors, too, found refuge in the night and in the darkness which tells no tales.

  So Tess also reserved her final directions until several hours before a run. Then a fiddler would play at the inns, and certain village boys would begin to sing a simple nursery rhyme.

  Two hours later her hundred men would be waiting for her upon the marsh.

  Tess's hands were cold and her face itched beneath her heavy mask and cloak. The wind blew shrill about her shoulders as she pulled the little skiff from the reeds and bent to the oars, anxious to be back at Fairleigh and safety.

  Jack would soon be well enough to travel, she knew. Before that time, Tess had a great many things to discuss with him.

  But now, the moments of strain past, she felt weariness begin to set in. Her eyes glazed, she headed west by the narrow waterways crisscrossing Pett Level.

  No one would follow her here.

  The moon was rising and Tess's eyes flickered toward the hills to the north, where the proud turrets of Fairleigh Priory jutted dark in the moonlight. Dear Fairleigh, she thought. Home and yet never quite a home. Still, it was all the security she'd ever known and she meant to hold on to the ruined pile, no matter what.

  With a surge of relief she saw the narrow track that looped west and then back toward Fairleigh. Tess was always careful to arrange her business far from home, for she wanted nothing to connect the Leighton estate with the smuggling trade.

  After all, a fox never hunted near its own den, she thought, smiling grimly.

  Before her gleamed the last obstacle, a flat pool of silver stretching toward a pasture of calmly grazing sheep. If all went well, she'd be back snug in her bed within the hour.

  She was halfway across the freezing pool when she heard the sound of shouts carried down the wind from the east.

  One glance at the dancing black shadows was enough to tell Tess that Hawkins had found her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Pluto and perdition!

  Fat grazing sheep dotted the water meadow, their thick fleece silver in the moonlight. Tess's fingernails dug into her palms as she fought her gnawing fear.

  "Over there, sir!"

  Realizing that she made a clear figure in the skiff, she rowed into a thick bank of reeds and berthed the boat. Her lips tense with strain, she slipped over the edge and down into the murky, salt-tinged pool, shivering as cold water surged up to her shoulders. Ducking her head, she began to swim underwater.

  All was silent, mud and water plants swirling about her. But at long last her hand struck the bottom. Warily she surfaced and lifted her head, keeping close to the reeds at the water's edge.

  The preventive officers were moving slowly, inching along the canals, afraid of a misstep. Only Hawkins's bellowing forced them on. Yet with five hundred pounds reward on her head, Tess knew the men would never give up until they'd searched every ditch and canal.

  Shivering, she huddled near the bank at the meadow's edge, while above her a dozen sheep grazed peacefully in the moonlight.

  So beautiful. So deadly.

  Tess gritted her lips, resolutely refusing to consider what would happen if Hawkins discovered her. To be a man caught as a smuggler was bad enough, but if these men discovered their prey was a woman ...

  She tightened her icy fingers into fists, then thrust them deep into her pockets, fighting the terror that licked at the edges of her mind.

  Then her hands closed upon a hard, round object. A chunk of rock salt, snatched up from the Angel's kitchen, to reward Thomas's favorite heifer!

  With a prayer rising fervent on her lips, Tess crawled from the water and inched into the meadow.

  "Well, ye fools? Do I have to do everything myself
?" Behind her, the customs inspector's angry voice slashed through the night air.

  "Happen we lost 'em, Mr. Hawkins," an unfamiliar voice whined.

  "Lost them? Then by God, ye'll be keeping company with the deep blue sea if ye don't find them again!"

  On Tess crawled, across the meadow and toward the grazing herd, her hand outstretched before her.

  When she was still several feet away, the sheep began to stir, smelling salt. Soon they were huddled in a circle, sniffing and licking the precious white crystal that Tess held tight in her grasp.

  And there she stayed, curled into a tight ball, concealed beneath their thick, shaggy coats.

  Praying that the salt would not run out.

  "He was there a minute ago, damn it! Search the bloody canals, ye fools. And don't expect to come out until ye find the bastard!"

  From behind her came the slap of waves as several of the excise officers plunged into the water.

  Tess's heart began to hammer. If she had stayed where she was, they would have found her already! Shivering convulsively, she inched deeper into the fleecy circle.

  Hawkins's men were only yards away now, their flailing arms slapping the water. If only the salt held out ...

  One of the men sloshed closer, and Tess's heart beat an angry tattoo in her chest. It seemed as if she'd been on the marsh for a lifetime — a lifetime of fatigue and cold. Her face taut with strain and fear, she fought to hold in her ragged breath while her lungs burned with pain.

  "He's over there!"

  Someone sloshed past her, moving fast. She heard a shuffling noise, and then the slap of water.

  " 'Tis only a swan, you damned fools!" Hawkins bellowed. "Move on toward the seawall. We'll split up and catch the bastard between us."

  They began to move east. A moment later, Tess heard one of the men curse quietly.

  "Never find the Fox," the fellow said glumly. "Part devil and part man, he is. Aye, a bloody phantom what knows every twist of these canals. Cursed shame, too, for it's a lot of grog I could buy with five hundred pounds. Aye, and a lot of warm woman too."

  Then, to Tess's infinite relief, they moved out of earshot.

  For long minutes she waited, unmoving, until silence settled over the silver pools and only the wind came whispering down from the hills to the north. Even then she did not move, ruthlessly forcing herself to finish a mental count to five hundred.

  Only then did she push warily through the screening circle of contented sheep.

  Around her all was quiet, with no sign of either Hawkins or his men.

  In an instant she was on her feet and running, her hands and feet strangely numb, her body hot and cold by turns. As she darted over the damp meadow, Tess prayed that the fleet roan stallion was waiting for her by the old windmill, where Hobhouse had tethered him at dusk.

  * * * * *

  The Merry Maids was full this night, drunken laughter spilling out into the dark yard as men with rough hands and rougher faces pushed their way inside. The air was acrid with smoke, spirits, and sweaty bodies, but the gin was cheap and the women cost little more.

  George Jewkes smiled contentedly, surveying his noisy, smoky establishment with one eye awry in the fashion that was peculiar to him. Even the upstairs rooms were filled this night, he saw, nodding faintly at Bess, his new serving wench, who was just coming downstairs, smoothing her skirts around her ample, swaying hips.

  Aye, a comely wench she was, Jewkes thought, and not for the first time. She'd drawn not a few men to the Merry Maids, the bald publican knew.

  Just then the outer door burst open. A cold gust of wind lashed the crowded room. In the wind's wake trod a tall figure, broad of shoulder and narrow of waist, draped all in a black greatcoat. Lazily the stranger stood on the threshold, surveying the room's occupants before sauntering to a lone chair angled against the far wall.

  The raucous din of laughter and good-natured argument dropped a level lower. Oblivious to the effect of his presence, the newcomer coolly drew off his gloves and threw them down on the table before him.

  All noise in the room abruptly stilled.

  George Jewkes frowned, wiping beats of sweat from his gleaming, bald head. What the devil was that cursed naval man doing here at the Merry Maids? Didn't he have enough to occupy him in Rye? The Angel's genteel taproom was the place for his likes, not this smoky retreat on the edge of the marsh, where men liked to drink freely and share secrets without fear of being overheard.

  Even as he spoke, Jewkes saw Tom Ransley turn and slant a scowl in the man's direction. The publican's face paled. He wanted no trouble, especially not tonight, when he had fifty kegs of uncustomed brandy and gin hidden in an alcove under the rear stairway. And if he didn't think fast, there would certainly be trouble between Ransley and this hard-faced London lord.

  Wiping his hands on his greasy apron, Jewkes quickly beckoned to Bess. "Fetch a bottle of rum and a tankard to the man in the corner," he whispered urgently. "And make sure it's a clean tankard, girl."

  Bess, too, was aware of the brittle tension in the room as she elbowed her way through the crush of bodies to place a bottle and vessel on the dirty table where the dark-haired stranger sat alone. Her eyes wide and appraising, she took in the man's broad shoulders and lean, shuttered face, the hard set of his jaw in such sharp contrast to his full lower lip.

  God's blood, but this is a man! she thought, feeling a warm rush of desire skitter through her. But what was the fine lord doing here at the Merry Maids, and on such a night?

  Either he was a very brave man or a very stupid one.

  Her expression, as she bent over to fill his tankard, was studiedly casual. "Rum, sir. Compliments o' Mr. Jewkes."

  Ravenhurst's dark eyes narrowed; he saw the woman's smile did not extend to her eyes. Nor did he miss the fact that her fingers were trembling. "Now, there's an unexpected courtesy. Pray convey my thanks to Mr. Jewkes."

  The woman's fingers slipped as she set the pewter tankard before him, and rum splashed over the table. "Drink it fast," she whispered, bending down before him to mop up the spill with her dirty apron. "Then go. There's them as won't take kindly to your presence here tonight."

  Dane's smile widened and he negligently tossed a guinea down on the table. "Thank you, love. I appreciate your kind consideration, but a little boisterousness won't inconvenience me. Just keep the rum coming. No matter what," he added grimly.

  Shaking her head, Bess turned and elbowed her way back toward the bar, the gold guinea buried deep in her pocket. Sweet angels above, with the coin she could buy herself a new pair of shoes, and a length of muslin besides. She only wished the handsome stranger had heeded her warning. Then she shrugged, putting him from her mind. He looked, after all, to be a man who could take care of himself — even in rough company such as this.

  A dark scowl on his face, Tom Ransley swung around to stare fixedly at the room's newest arrival.

  Mr. Jewkes was before him, however. Smiling nervously, he stepped to Dane's table. "Aye, courtesy of the house, it is, yer lordship. In memory of Trafalgar." The bald publican's voice dropped then. "But if ye've no particular business to look after, perhaps ye'll not take it amiss if I see ye to the door. We're a deal too crowded here tonight, as ye kin see, and some of the lads turn a bit rowdy when they've had a glass or two." His eyes darted nervously to right and left. "If ye know what I mean, m' lord ..."

  Dane sat back lazily in his chair, his face unreadable. "I understand you exactly — Mr. Jewkes, isn't it? But as it happens, I do have business here. And I mean to enjoy a drink or two before I return to the marsh. You wouldn't wish to turn a traveler away, would you?" His dark eyes were disarming, faintly chiding.

  "No, but —"

  "There's a good man." Suddenly there was a hard edge of steel to the viscount's voice.

  Shaking his head nervously, the proprietor skittered back to his place by the bar. Why didn't the bloody Quality just stay where they was meant to be? No good would come of it, he thoug
ht. No good at all.

  A moment later Tom Ransley pushed away from his companions and strode across the quiet room. He stopped before Ravenhurst's table, thick thumbs hooked in his wide leather belt. "Don't like outsiders here, Cap'n," he snarled. "Heroes or no. So I reck'n ye best be pikin' off."

  Dane's expression did not change in the slightest. Very slowly, he raised his battered pewter tankard to the man before him, never taking his eyes from that angry face as he drained the potent spirits. "Your health, sir," he said softly.

  "Don't ye understand the King's English, then? Ye're not wanted here!" His harsh curse split the air.

  Ravenhurst sat slightly forward in his chair, dropping his empty tankard to the table. "Mr. Ransley, isn't it?" His voice was low and deceptively quiet, but it was a tone his crew on the Bellerophon knew well. Any one of them could have told Tom Ransley it would be most unwise to cross the captain when he was in such a mood. "Not wanted by whom, Mr. Ransley?"

  But Tom Ransley was not so observant, nor was he a man for subtlety. He could not know that the man sitting in the chair before him was at his most dangerous precisely when he spoke in such soft tones. "By me, for one. And by the rest of us here, to a man!" he thundered. "Is that clear enough for ye?"

  "Extremely clear. Also most ill considered."

  "Just what d' ye mean by that?"

  "What do you choose to make of it?"

  "I won't go sparrin' words with yer bloody sort. Clear out, I said!"

  "I rather think I've a notion to rest awhile, Mr. Ransley. You, of course, are entirely welcome to take yourself off anytime you choose, however," Dane replied silkily.

  "The devil I do!" Ransley's face twisted in a snarl. "I've seen yer kind before. Come pokin' about the marsh, askin' all sorts of questions and mindin' everyone's bloody business but yer own. We don't fancy it, I warn ye. Or yer bleedin' charity. We've got our own ways of gettin' by here, and they don't include handouts neither. So tell yer lady friend at the Angel we don't want her leftover food and mended linens. Take care of our own, we do. Aye, tell that to yer Miss Leighton when ye go back. Which, if ye have any wits about ye, will be this very minute." Ransley's fingers slipped lower in his pocket, searching for the handle of his pistol.