Authors: Leigh Greenwood
Kate emerged from the inn with Michael right behind her. “I’m sorry I’m so slow, but I didn’t know Mrs. Franks was out here, and I couldn’t leave without thanking her.” She threw her arms around Mathilda and hugged her tightly.
Mathilda brushed large tears from her trembling cheeks. “You take care yourself, miss, and remember whenever you come back to England, that you can always find a home with us. It’d be a pleasure to have you.” She pushed Kate toward the coach where Brett was waiting, then ran to Michael and threw her arms around his neck. She kissed him soundly on both cheeks causing the poor man to blush fiery red.
“If you don’t hurry up, we’ll still be standing here when Martin gallops into the yard,” Brett said. Kate threw him a look of burning reproach but quickly climbed inside, spurning his help with an angry gesture. He ignored her pique and sprang up behind her.
As the coach pulled out of the yard and into the lane, Mathilda waved and smiled as merrily as her heavy heart would allow, but the moment it was out of sight, she buried her face in her husband’s thin chest. “I just know some terrible sadness is going to happen to that poor little thing,” she sobbed. “I just
know
it. And don’t you think having Mr. Westbrook around will make everything safe,” she said, lifting her tear-stained face and pointing an accusing finger at her husband. “That man is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
In later years, Kate could never remember much of their miserable race to the coast. They flew over the countryside and dashed through villages and towns, changing horses as often as needed and getting what little refreshment Brett allowed in those short intervals of relief from the constant rattle of the coach. Kate was too nervous to eat, but Brett twice had some of Mathilda’s bread and cheese. At dusk he insisted she must eat something also. She gave in and took an apple, but as it was last fall’s fruit and had begun to turn pithy, she was soon sorry she had agreed to eat anything at all.
“How much farther do we have to go?” Kate had asked that question so often Brett’s response was rather curt.
“We’re making good time and should be in Dover before nine o’clock, but we’re not hurrying just to avoid Martin. If we can catch the evening tide, we can be in France in the morning and everything will be solved quickly and easily. If not, I’ll be forced to find a place for you to stay tonight and another place to board tomorrow. As for Martin, I have no way of knowing where he is unless he should catch up with us.” Brett then refused to answer any more questions or even carry on a normal conversation. That angered Kate, but she was becoming accustomed to his high-handed manner and she settled back to wait.
They pulled into Dover ten minutes before the hour, stopped briefly to notify the captain that a crew was wanted immediately, and then continued on past several large and small sailing craft. The docks were soon left behind and still the coach didn’t slacken its pace. They were almost out of sight of the outlying cottages when, much to Kate’s relief, the coach turned off the road and came to a halt before a large yacht at anchor in a secluded cove.
To Kate’s apprehensive eyes, the yacht appeared far too small to carry anyone across so much water, but Brett obviously didn’t share her doubts, and he eagerly climbed down from the coach. Kate tried to use his enthusiasm to bolster her own confidence, but she had never been on a ship and the gentle rise and fall of the swell was already making her feel queasy. She had a sinking feeling she was going to be seasick before they even left the dock.
As she watched her luggage being carried on board, the finality of what she was about to do swept over her and she felt alone and frightened. She was going to a foreign country with a man she knew almost nothing about. She had no say in what they did and no idea what was going to happen to her next. Even now Brett had gone off and left her to manage for herself. How could she place any dependence in a man who showed little concern for her person, feelings, and opinions?
Brett stalked down the ramp, startled to find Kate still in the coach. “We break our necks racing halfway across England to get to this damned yacht and now you sit gawking like you’re afraid it’ll gobble you up. Get on board, for God’s sake. We didn’t come this far to have your nervous apprehensions ruin everything at the last minute.”
Brett had spoken to her in every tone of voice from kindness to fury, but she had never heard the harsh command of a leader who demanded instant obedience. She climbed down from the coach and hurried up the plank, all the while berating herself for obeying his orders so meekly. What he needed, she told herself under her breath, was someone who would refuse to be ordered about, who would stand up to him and give him back his own, but Kate knew she was not ready to be that person and hurried to get on board.
“The rocking shouldn’t bother you too much if you don’t think about it,” Brett said, helping her up the ramp. “If it does, just think about what Martin would do if he finds you, and you’re bound to feel better.” He led her to a steep, cramped stair that descended to a dark and narrow hall off which several rooms were situated. “This is your cabin,” he said, opening the second door. “It’s small, but it has everything you need. You might prefer to come up on deck until we cast off. The moon is full and the sea is as calm as you’ll ever see. But wrap up if you do. It’s cold.”
Kate didn’t know what to make of a romantic invitation delivered in such a thoroughly unromantic manner, but she was too preoccupied by the rocking of the boat to bother with it. Her stomach was growing more uneasy all the time.
“What if I’m sick?” she asked.
“Sick?” Brett questioned. “Why should you be sick?”
“Seasick,” she clarified. “This bobbing up and down is making me feel unwell.”
Brett had never been seasick and had no understanding of anyone less hardy than himself. “If you’re on deck, you can hang your head over the rail, but down here you’d better keep a basin handy. The crew won’t have time to clean up after you.” He turned on his heel and left.
By now Kate was too used to his unsympathetic responses to waste time being angry even if she hadn’t been so consumed with the feeling of nausea. She didn’t even look to see that all her luggage was on board. If it was left behind, she would just have to do without it. She placed the basin on the floor by the bed and lay down. Maybe she’d feel better if she were still for a while.
The bed was narrow and short, but it was quite comfortable, and she found she did feel a little better when she didn’t have to hold her head up. She was glad she had not eaten much; she hoped it would be harder to be sick on an empty stomach.
After several minutes, Kate felt well enough to try to go up on deck, but as soon as she sat up, her head began to swim. She lay back down until it stopped, then sat up more slowly. She still felt unsteady, but it wasn’t as bad as before. She was determined to be on deck when they cast off if she had to hang over the rail from Dover to Calais. She’d show that heartless aristocrat she could handle the crossing as well as any man.
The cold sea air Struck her an exhilarating blast full in the face and she staggered slightly. Brett immediately offered his assistance, and she gratefully relaxed against him as he steered her to a position on the rail near the bow. The sight of the open sea made her stomach Start to heave again, and she grasped the rail with both hands. She decided if she had to be sick, she was going to be so all over Brett. It would serve him right for his lack of sympathy. Imagining his look of shock caused her to smile in spite of the feeling her insides were traveling in several different directions at once. However, on second thought she decided it might be wiser
not
to be sick over him. She wasn’t at all sure he wouldn’t throw her overboard.
When Martin learned Feathers had left Ryehill before dawn, he swore mightily and long. By the time Boyngton arrived, he had worked himself into such a towering rage that he was unable to exchange a civil greeting.
“That fool Feathers is off to warn them,” he swore. “If you don’t move your ass, we’ll never catch the bastard before they reach France.”
“I’ve known the boy since he was breeched,” Frank said, dissatisfied with Martin’s interpretation of Feathers’s conduct. “He’s a young waster, but it’s not in his nature to aid in an abduction.” Martin didn’t bother to answer but drove his spurs into the flanks of his sidling mount and sped down the drive at a furious gallop.
They rode hard all day, never pausing to argue over which road to take. Martin insisted the couple was headed for the coast, and there was very little choice about which routes a coach could take to Dover. In spite of Martin’s ill-tempered impatience, Boyngton stopped several times to inquire after Brett’s coach. It was reported often enough to convince him Martin’s guess had been correct.
They reached Dover, exhausted and dust-covered, soon after nine o’clock. Martin wanted to begin searching for the pair immediately, but Frank refused.
“I have no authority in this district,” he told Martin. “I can’t do anything until I contact the local officials.”
“You’re only trying to give that black-hearted devil time to make his escape,” Martin exploded.
Frank controlled his temper and tried to explain to Martin why it was necessary for him to act in conjunction with the local constabulary, but Martin damned both Frank and the Dover police and galloped off into the night. He drove his exhausted horse from one end of the docks to the other, stopping everyone he met with a demand to be told where Brett’s yacht was located. When they were unable to tell him, he Struck one down with the butt of his pistol and tried to ride his horse over another. Finally, he found a sailor who told him of a big yacht at a cove on the outskirts of town. Martin nearly threw his horse to the ground as he jerked its head around and drove his spurs once more into its bloody sides. He knew the tide was already turning. Within minutes the yacht could be moving out to sea, and he was determined to find Brett before he could escape.
Kate and Brett were watching the night sky in companionable silence when Martin drove his staggering mount out of the clinging shadows. The ropes had been cast off and the sailors were pulling the landing steps aboard when Martin dismounted. With a superhuman effort, he made a frantic leap over the open water that separated the shore and the departing yacht and managed to get a grip on the rail. The crew was too shocked to do more than stare dumbly as Martin pulled himself aboard with a shout of triumph.
Brett’s keen ears had caught the sound of an approaching horse, and he had leapt away from the rail before Martin exploded out of the night. Thrusting Kate into a doorway behind him, he moved to face Martin alone.
“You thought you’d get away from me when that worm Feathers came to warn you,” Martin roared, “but I was too smart for you this time. I rode like the hounds of hell, and by damn I
got
you.”
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Brett snapped. “Or am I to believe you’re overcome with remorse and come to beg your sister’s forgiveness?”
“I don’t beg from anybody,” Martin raged. “I’ve sworn out a Warrant for your arrest on charges of abduction and kidnapping. Now that you’ve spent the night with the harlot, I can throw in rape as well. I’ll see you in irons before dawn. You’ll never be able to show your face in London again.”
“No!” Kate croaked.
“Don’t be such a fool,” Brett ordered. “After abusing your sister in front of so many witnesses, you couldn’t get a conviction with a jury of your own choosing.”
“She’s my ward, and as long as she’s underage, anyone who takes her from my protection is a seducer and a thief.” The force of Martin’s emotion was so heavy that his voice cracked under the strain.
“That may be the law in England, but we’ve been drifting out to sea ever since you boarded,” Brett drawled. “In a few minutes well be in open water and beyond the reach of your sheriff.”
Tearing his gaze from Brett’s contemptuous countenance, Martin’s eyes searched the gathering night for the dock, his link with England and the force he was sure would destroy Brett Westbrook for him. He was stunned to see the shoreline had fallen well away from the sides of the yacht; they had reached the mouth of the cove where the placid water of the inlet gave way to the restless swells of the Channel. Brett had slipped out of his grasp yet again.
The last tenuous thread of Martin’s reason snapped and he could understand nothing beyond his consuming hatred for the laughing man before him. He drew his pistol and fired.
When she saw him reach for his pistol Kate launched herself at Martin’s arm with an ear-splitting scream, but she was too late. Her terrified eyes sought Brett, and she watched in helpless dismay as he sank to his knees, a dark patch of blood spreading over the front of his shirt.
Martin gave a shout and lurched forward, only to be brought to a wrenching halt at the sight of the small pistol in Brett’s right hand. He heard the explosion and felt the bullet tear into his flesh as Brett slumped to the deck; Martin staggered and fell against the rail. He made a feeble attempt to stand, grabbing at the rail in his frantic efforts to keep his feet, but he stumbled and rolled over the low barrier. For a few heartbeats he hung suspended over the sea, his loosening grip that of a dying man.
Kate was too stunned to move. One sailor, transfixed by the violence of the scene which had unfolded so rapidly before his gaze, recovered his wits and rushed forward, but he was too late. A choking sound shook Martin’s body, and losing his hold on the polished wood, he tumbled overboard. The dark waters engulfed his body and the sea gathered yet another soul to her watery bosom.