"Are they
all
smugglers?" Claire asked Hugh in a near whisper, looking out at what appeared to be an entire village of people crowding the beach. She, Hugh, and James were approaching where the walkway ended by abutting a hillock-sized dune that appeared to be composed of sand, tall grass, and shadows. So far, no one had seemed to pay them the least heed, but still Claire was growing increasingly uneasy. There was something in the air— a sense of urgency, a feeling that something could very easily go wrong.
"The locals, you mean? Yes, most of them. It's a way to make some money, and times are hard now. Practically everyone who lives along the coast here is involved in smuggling one way or another these days."
Hugh reached the end of the walkway and jumped down with a scrunch of boots upon sand. He then turned to catch Claire around the waist and swing her down beside him. For a moment, as her slippered feet hit the gritty mix of sand and rock and mud, they slid, and she kept her balance by grabbing his arm. The muscles of his upper arm bulged beneath her hand, big enough and hard enough to be felt even through the layers of coat and shirt, she registered as she glanced up at him. As her gaze met his she realized too that her head barely reached his chin, and the breadth of his shoulders was easily double the width of hers. She, who had never thought she liked big strong masculine men, suddenly discovered that she liked them very much. Or, at least, she liked this big strong masculine man very much. He made her feel— safe. And utterly feminine.
"Aye, they are, which makes it bloody hard to tell friend from foe," James chimed in, jumping down beside them. Claire, still holding on to Hugh's arm, glanced at James even as Hugh caught her hand again and turned away, pulling her after him, towing her toward the darkness at the edge of the beach. James, however, wasn't looking at her. He was eyeing the eddying crowd with a worried expression that made Claire's heart speed up. If these two danger-hardened men were uneasy, then she was afraid.
"Ah, Colonel! Are you taking your leave of us, then?"
The
Nadine
's captain materialized out of the crowd almost directly in front of them. His slight form was wrapped in a resplendent greatcoat with a great deal of silver lace and frogging, and the light from the flaming torch set into the ground nearby made his finery as well as his white wig appear almost orange in places. He stopped in front of them, having deliberately intercepted them, Claire suspected from his manner. Four burly sailors were at his back.
At almost precisely the same moment as she realized that the man had called Hugh "colonel," a military title if she had ever heard one, Claire felt the cold finger of fear glide down her back. A confrontation like this was what Hugh and James had been braced for, she knew with an uncanny sense of certainty. Hugh's hand squeezed hers once, in hard warning, before releasing it. Her hand, damp now with cold sweat, gripped the pistol harder. It would never do to drop it; she might need it. She might actually have to fire the thing after all— she might actually have to shoot one of these men.
Hugh's back was to her now, foursquare and solid, and she got the impression that he had deliberately placed himself between her and the sailors. Again she sensed the tension that radiated from him, and from James as well. They were on high alert, ready for anything. To her surprise, given his distrust of her, James stayed beside her, close on her right side. Following Hugh's lead, he seemed to have placed himself in a position to protect her.
Both men's pistols were at the ready, aimed at the newcomers. Unfortunately, Claire saw, the other men were also armed. Their pistols pointed back just as dangerously.
"Well met, Captain: You saved me the trouble of seeking you out to bid you farewell." Belying everything her senses told her about his state of mind— and those no-nonsense pistols— Hugh's manner was both easy and courteous. "You have been most hospitable, but we must needs be on our way."
"I think not." The captain's voice reflected mild regret, and he shook his head in a fashion that was almost commiserating. His pistol, however, never wavered in its aim, which was directly at Hugh's heart. Then he snapped his fingers. The men behind him fanned out so that the five of them formed a barrier as impenetrable as a wall. A wall armed with pistols. Claire, from her position behind Hugh's back, noticed that she did not seem to be the intended target of a single weapon, and could only thank fortune. However, she had little doubt that if shooting started she would find herself very much in harm's way. Hugh, as a primary target of all that gun power, would undoubtedly be brought down in a trice. He would die….
For a moment, for Claire, time seemed to stand still. Hugh would die— at the image that conjured up, she went suddenly weak at the knees. It shook her to realize just how important he had become to her in such a short period of time.
Out in the bay, the wind blew long ruffled lines of whitecaps toward the shore. The sound of them breaking and receding on the muddy beach formed a murmuring backdrop for the low-voiced, mingled French and English conversations of the smugglers, who were still hard at labor around them and appeared largely oblivious to the scene being played out amid them. About a dozen feet to Claire's left, a wagon groaning under a heavy load of barrels got stuck in the sand. Locals converged on it, trying to push it out. The driver got down and, amid a torrent of Gallic curses, jerked the reins over his horses' heads and tried to help them pull, with no success that Claire could see. Wheels squeaked as other, apparently less heavily loaded wagons rolled past, away from the dock. From the look of things, the night's labor was almost done.
"Forgive me, Colonel, but we do much business here. Sometimes, in the name of business, we have to throw the French a bone. Tonight, you are that bone, you two and the lady here." The captain never even glanced at his henchmen as he added brusquely, "Search them. Get their weapons."
With five pistols trained on them, opening fire was clearly suicidal. Breathing fast, her knees suddenly rubbery again, Claire prayed that Hugh and James would make no move, and they did not. She stood mute, taking care to remain behind Hugh and as much out of sight as possible, as they were relieved of their pistols and subjected to a hand search for additional weapons. Hugh's knife was taken from a sheath hidden beneath the waist-band of his breeches. Then the sailors stepped back, nodding at their captain as they pocketed the weapons they had taken.
Claire's blood began to drum in her ears as she realized that no one had given a thought to her. The pistol Hugh had given her suddenly seemed big as a cannon in her hand. Her fingers trembled, and she took care to press the gun close against her thigh, praying that no one would see it amid the folds of her cloak. She, alone of the three of them, was still armed. What should she do? Her mouth went dry as she considered the possibilities. She could not possibly pull a pistol on five armed men— but she could not just meekly let Hugh and James and herself be taken, either.
They would be killed, all three of them. Possibly tortured, probably, in her case, raped, but certainly killed. She was as certain of that as she was that the tide was coming in.
"No longer the loyal Englishman, Captain?" If Hugh was as frightened as she was, his voice didn't reveal it. In fact, he sounded as calm as if he and the captain were having a pleasant conversation after a chance meeting on a London street.
The other man shrugged. "When it suits me. But too many people know that you crossed to England on my vessel. If I protect you, I suffer, my men suffer, and my business suffers, and that I am not prepared to tolerate. Better to turn you over to my friend Brigadier de la Falais, and let him have the credit for capturing an English spy."
He nodded toward the far end of the quay.
Claire glanced in the direction he indicated and discovered, to her horror, a small band of French soldiers, chasseurs she believed they were called, unmistakable in their uniforms and tall hats with cockades, picking their way through the crowd on horseback. To be captured by the French— at the thought, sweat broke out on her upper lip and she had to clamp her lips together to keep her breathing under control. Would they be hanged, or shot, or imprisoned in some horrible dungeon until they died of old age? Gabby and Beth would never know what had happened to her. She would simply disappear.
But she still had the pistol. One shot. What should she do?
"Ye would turn your own countrymen over to the Frogs?" James demanded in a hoarse voice. He was betraying all the agitation that Hugh was not. His fists were balled and his beard quivered with fury. His belly seemed to swell with indignation.
Be careful, James, Claire whispered inwardly, and her hand tightened on the pistol. Should she just pull it out and try to hold five men at bay? Once the thing was fired, its value as a deterrent was spent.
"With regret," the captain said, and smiled. "Believe me, with much regret."
His gaze traveled past Hugh to find Claire, barely visible as she peeked around Hugh's shoulder. To her horror their gazes met, and she froze, terrified. The pistol seemed as obvious as a signal fire in her hand. How, she wondered, dry-mouthed, could anyone possibly miss it?
"Miss Towbridge, it would perhaps be in your best interest to walk over here to my side. You need have no fear, you know. The French will doubtless welcome you with open arms— unless, of course, you choose to cast in your lot with your unfortunate countrymen here."
Miss Towbridge. Dear Lord in heaven, he was laboring under the same misapprehension as Hugh had been at first and James still was: He thought she was a traitor to England— a spy for the French. No wonder they had not searched her for a weapon. Under the circumstances such a mistake was no very bad thing, she calculated swiftly. In fact, it might prove a godsend. A quick, frightened glance to her left, past the stuck wagon, told her that the soldiers were drawing near. There was not much time….
All at once she became aware of Hugh's hand behind his back, his fingers wiggling madly. After a single startled glance, she jerked her gaze away. She knew what he wanted.
"La, no," Claire said airily, doing her best to assume the identity of Sophy Towbridge as she pressed the pistol into Hugh's hand and stepped out from behind him. Thank goodness for the torches with their flickering shadows, for the wind that sent coattails and cloaks flapping, even for the stuck wagon and the driver cursing in voluble French and those of his neighbors who were trying to help him push his load free. So many distractions could only work in their favor. She did her best to provide another one as she walked slowly toward the captain and his men, pushing her hood back from her head and smiling at them. The effect was all she could have wished for. Five pair of eyes fastened on her.
And might God help her if she should end up in their hands, she thought grimly.
"I am most grateful to you, sir, for rescuing me. I have much that they will find interesting to tell my friends in Paris. While as for these fellows— I cannot call them gentlemen— they would have seen me dead, I think."
"Perhaps we can make a deal, Captain," Hugh said abruptly.
"A deal?" The captain lifted his brows, shifting his attention to Hugh. Claire, glad of any excuse not to join the enemy, stopped where she was and turned to look at Hugh. She was only a foot or so in front of him, but his gaze just brushed her before fixing on the captain. In the torch-lit darkness, his eyes looked almost as black as his hair, and his height coupled with the breadth of his shoulders made him appear formidable indeed. The wind was blowing the tails of his coat; his hands were by his sides, the pistol lost in the shadows. To Hugh's right, James was glaring at her. Claire realized that her actions had confirmed everything he had suspected about her: He was now absolutely convinced that she was, indeed, Sophy Towbridge.
Of course, he did not know about the pistol even now in Hugh's hand.
Despite the brisk wind, she felt sweat trickling down her spine as she realized that Hugh must soon make his move. The little troop of oncoming soldiers was now almost even with the stuck wagon. It was a matter of minutes until they were upon them. Once they were in the custody of the French military, she feared, all would be lost. But Hugh faced the same problem that had plagued her: one pistol, one shot, against five armed men— and a contingent of well-armed soldiers now drawing perilously close.
"Miss Towbridge was carrying with her a letter that the French want quite desperately. I'll tell you where it is— if you let my man and me go."
The captain laughed. "What, did you take it from her? Miss Towbridge, is what he says true?"
"He is a pig," Claire sniffed, inspired by the real-life porkers, several of which were at that moment snuffling in the mud nearby. What was Hugh up to? There was no letter, nothing of the kind, as he had already discovered for himself, simply because she was not Sophy Towbridge. But she certainly hoped she was up to snuff enough to play along. "But he is telling the truth: He took the letter. I am glad he reminded me, because I would have it back."
"Well, Captain? Do we have a deal?" Hugh sounded almost bored. Claire met his gaze— her head was turned so that only he and James could see her face— and his eyes told her that, indeed, the time was at hand. She could see nothing of the pistol, but she knew it must be cocked and ready. Her muscles tensed, and she could feel the little hairs prickling to life on the back of her neck.
"Certainly, my friend. You have only to tell me where the letter is, and we will work a deal. Not for you, perhaps— I must give the French their bone after all. But for your man— freedom."
"Master Hugh…" James began in a hoarse voice, his gaze swinging wildly around to Hugh.
"There is no need for us both to die," Hugh said, silencing him. Then, to the captain: "The letter is in my pocket. I rely on you as one officer to another to keep your promise."
"As you may."
"Is that where you put it?" Claire, doing her best to play her part, was proud of how cool she sounded. The letter in his pocket, as she knew very well, was the one he himself had written in the cabin. Why did he draw attention to it? Was it simply a stalling tactic, or was there a reason she didn't yet comprehend? Her heart was pounding so hard now that she was surprised the sound didn't reverberate through the air. She met Hugh's gaze again, but she could read nothing in that impassive countenance.