Chapter Twenty-four
Sweet siren’s song.
The stone walls shuddered as thunder bellowed its fury outside, and although the longcase clock had not a moment ago chimed five, light had dimmed to shadow inside Penrose Manor, a huffing warm wind endeavouring to penetrate the leaded windows.
Tamsyn made for the stairs, unable to concentrate on wardrobe frippery after such a fierce embrace. Lowdy had been in a similar dither and had departed for a nap, citing an overset of nerves from the sultry weather. Hmm.
All household hands were now hastily battening down the hatches for the coming ferocity whilst swapping passed-down tales of the century-old lightning storm which had struck and destroyed the medieval church in Helston.
Horses were gathered from the paddocks, chickens chased to their houses and haycocks frantically covered. The stable lads had taken mattocks to re-carve trenches against flooding, the estate upkeep having become lax in the late summer heat.
Tamsyn herself was headed for the kitchens to aid in storing the harvest as the maids scurried back and forth with aprons full of pears from the orchard.
Laden tension betwixt energy and lethargy held the house and lands in its thrall, and never again would she gainsay Mrs Mildern; she hoped Papa – sans blue breeches – hadn’t yet embarked upon his journey back from Helston and would now stay the night, safe with Mrs Castleton.
A flurry at the door and she glanced up.
“Miss Penrose!” Benjamin dashed through the hall, hair at angles and gangly limbs flying. “Captain Lynch…” He stooped, panting, hands on knees. “He’s been attacked.”
“What?” She darted down the remaining stairs. “Where? Is he hurt?”
“The east gate, Miss. I was getting the bullock in when I heard…” Breathless wheezing consumed him. “Some cur pulled him off his horse, knocked him flat. I hollered but he took the horse and scarpered. We’ll need a cart or somethin–”
A gust of wind shrieked through the open door carrying a pelt of rain that coated the floorboards, stopping as soon as it had started.
“No time, Ben,” she cried. A footpad? Or more sinister? “Could we put him over a saddle? Where’s Samuel?”
“Tying the boats, but I reckon us two can manage if it’s one o’ them smaller ponies.”
“Bring the horses around and fetch rope.”
“Yes, Miss.”
She hunted out the butler and found him at the west-facing library windows, battening them tight lest the glass blow in. “Wake Lowdy and prepare a room for the captain. I am for the east gate with Benjamin.”
Not waiting for his nod, she scurried back to the hall, grabbed her cloak from the peg and flew out the main door. Benjamin offered a foot up and, hiking her skirts with one hand, she threw herself into the saddle before tugging the reins and galloping east. Ben followed suit, a Goonhilly pony roped to his saddle.
Lightning severed the sky, and she counted aloud, the rhythmic thud of hooves aiding her. Sixteen…seventeen…eighte– Thunder rumbled close and angry, the storm little more than three miles from Penrose. Too near with the gusting wind.
Ahead, she spied a huddled mound beneath the iron gates, still and forlorn.
“Hugh!”
She flung herself from the horse, grabbed him, struggled with his leaden weight as the captain rolled to his back, crimson smeared across his forehead, face ashen.
Benjamin arrived in a burst of hooves, quickly dismounting, gasping at the captain’s bloodied features.
“Please, Hugh.” She thumped his chest, brushed his hair, and one eye sluggishly opened.
Thank God.
His bloodied hand reached out to stroke her cheek, and she smiled reassuringly.
“You came for me,” he rasped, raising her fingers to his wet lips.
“Of course, I…” She faltered, refusing to believe her eyes as Captain Lynch brought himself to sitting and dusted off his jacket.
“Hugh?” she ventured, eyes scuttling. “I-I don’t understand. Captain Lynch, this isn’t very funny; a storm is coming.”
Thunder rolled but a deeper ominous thud overlaid it, and she twisted, screaming as Benjamin slammed to the ground.
A jagged flash ripped the sky, igniting the deception and the scourge stood behind cloaked in black.
With long blond hair blowing in the fierce wind, pale marble features and piercing gaze, the figure appeared sent from heaven.
But Tamsyn knew him from hell.
“Ah, ma petite, I have missed you so,” murmured La Chauve-Souris.
“Hugh…” She scrambled to the captain’s side, fingers fumbling, couldn’t take her eyes from the shadow in front as Hugh’s firm hand gripped hers. “Help me… It’s–”
“The chit was upset for me, sir.” And she turned, shuddering as the captain stroked her cheek. “Not my blood, pretty one, don’t you fret. But we set the trap and you came like a fox for her cub. Thank you, darling.”
“Who are you?” she whispered, staring into Hugh’s face, refusing to contemplate the silent phantom behind.
“By now,” he drawled, gaze resting on her lips, “that fop Winterbourne will have read his London post and know Captain Lynch’s guts were spilled over Waterloo. Hence we’ve to move earlier than planned.”
Horror roiled within. This could not be.
Yet Hugh rose to his feet, wiped his face with a sleeve and winked.
Tamsyn covered her eyes. “A traitor hidden in plain sight,” she whispered. Like her Marbled Green moth against lichen.
Hands yanked her to standing and the captain grinned as thunder pitched across the malevolent sky. “I was sent to look after the goods, and mighty fine goods you are. Never had a better job.”
“Enough,” hissed La Chauve-Souris. “You English talk too much.” Cold fingers curled around her arms, wrenching her from the captain to spin her tight against his lean frame. Frankincense churned her senses; knuckles stroked her neck. “I see you on the beach with that fop; how could you, ma amour? You have forgotten our tête-à-tête in the cave. But never fear,” he purred, breath moist in her ear, “I can remind you.”
“Their horses have fled,” Lynch grumbled. “We’ll have to mount on one.”
She heard a low chuckle from behind and watched the traitorous Lynch’s eyes widen to white as a pistol lifted from beneath the black cloak of La Chauve-Souris.
“I have realised, mon ami, my recent problems stem from loose ends. I never used to be so careless.”
A brutal crack, louder than any burst of thunder, rendered her deaf, smoke watering her eyes. The sham captain lay still on the ground, crimson spreading upon his chest.
“No,” she screamed, revulsion heaving as she struggled to break his hold.
“Zut alors, I think you liked him. But have no worry,” the demon proclaimed, throwing down his spent pistol, “we reacquaint ourselves, non? This way, if you would? To our cove, ma amour.”
“C-cove?” she spluttered. “Surely you don’t mean to sail in this? The storm. You’d have to be…mad.”
His face neared, a wicked blade now held to her cheek. “Am I?” A brush of lips against hers and she quaked. “Yes, a little, I think…or we could visit our cave, ma petite.” He grazed a knuckle over her skin before shoving her hard. “The horse. Now.”
Shivering, she obeyed, there being no point in struggling when a knife dug at your side, and surely the men of Penrose would soon come searching.
The animal stamped as he mounted behind, clutching her close, and she felt the hilt of a sword dig at her back, knew the danger he posed.
His hands tugged the reins and they sped through the east gate, past stubbled fields and swaying trees. She thrashed in his arms but the rushing ground held death as he whipped the horse to a frenzied pace, salt-laced air lashing her skin, thunder splitting the heavens as they made for the headland.
“I relished your silence whilst not with you,” he shouted over the restless wind, “but now we are together once more, I want you as in the cave. Screaming, struggling in rage. I have waited so long for you, ma belle.”
The saddle’s pommel stabbed her thigh as they cantered, and dread struck anew when they passed by the Devil’s Claw. The place where so much terror had begun.
Their horse stumbled as the Frenchman swerved onto the narrower cove trail and Tamsyn now fought to knock him to the dense gorse.
The devil merely laughed and jerked her tight.
“You English have taken much from me,” he hurled in hatred, “but I will keep you.”
Fury surged through Tamsyn’s bones and blood. For Jonathan, Benjamin, even the turncoat Lynch, and for all the lives crushed in this chameleon’s wake.
Both fury and fear.
To sail would mean death. If not at the hands of the brewing storm, then by the hand of La Chauve-Souris.
Hooves slipped on the slender trail, pitching them forward, but all too soon it widened onto the secluded cove. Waves splintered against the rocks, pitiless and violent as lightning cleaved the air.
Never had she seen the sea in such turmoil and yet no more than a wooden rowing boat lay beached on the sand.
“We’ll drown,” she screamed.
“No choice, ma petite, your fop has rushed my plans, but I have something plus confortable in the next bay,” he assured in her ear. “We wait out the storm upon her and then…” His grip tightened.
Their mare refused to take to the shingle, sensing the sea’s bitterness and power, so La Chauve-Souris leaped down, hauling her into his arms and dragging her toward the boat.
“No!” Tamsyn yelled, ramming her head beneath his chin, squirming free to stagger up the cove, skirts tangling in the wind.
A hand caught her hair, snatched her back. “Mais oui, my wild one.” His laughter as manic as the air that swirled. “I could have killed you in that cave, non?”
She slapped at his face, raked her nails. “Get off me, you whoreson!”
Grinning, he caught her cheeks, tight and pinching. “Tonight, you will call me Francois and beg for my touch. My name is upon you, ma chérie. I own you.”
“Jack will come and–”
His shake clattered her teeth. “I will tear that English fop apart. Get in the boat.”
The churlish clouds burst, rain beating a path through the wind’s bluster. They stung, soaked, and the fiend cursed, shunting her forward, until she tripped over her damn skirts, falling headlong into the pitiful boat. Before she could rise, La Chauve-Souris snatched her wrists behind her back and coarse rope snarled around them, taut and unyielding.
“I’ll drown,” she screamed but he grabbed the bow, grunting, shoving the boat into the furious waves.
It took no time for the sea to claim them and he leaped the side, dragged her to sitting, twisted her hair and stole a violent kiss. “If I die tonight,” he roared, “then you, ma amour, shall accompany me to hell.”