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“Captain Holstatter has left Brest.”
“What?” she cried, aghast. “You must be mistaken. It is August the fifth. We are on time. It is almost dawn. In another hour, he is taking us to Falmouth—he has been paid half of his fee in advance!”
Laurent was starkly white. “He happened upon a very valuable cargo, and he left.”
She was in shock. They had no means of crossing the Channel! And they could not linger in Brest—it was too dangerous!
“There are three British smugglers in the harbor,” Laurent said, interrupting her thoughts.
There was a reason they had chosen a Belgian to take them to England. “British smugglers are usually French spies,” she cried.
“If we are going to leave immediately, the only choice is to seek out one of them, or wait here, until we can make other arrangements.”
Her head ached again. How was it that she was making the most important decision of their lives? Henri always made all of the decisions! And the way Laurent was looking at her, she knew he was thinking the same thing she was—that remaining in town was not safe. She turned and glanced at Aimee. Her heart lurched. “We will leave at dawn, as planned,” she decided abruptly, her heart slamming. “I will make certain of it!”
Trembling, she turned and went to a valise that was beside the bed. They had fled the city with a great number of valuables. She took a pile of assignats from it, the currency of the revolution, and then, instinctively, took out a magnificent ruby-and-diamond necklace. It had been in her husband’s family for years. She tucked both within the bodice of her corset.
Laurent said, “If you will use one of the Englishmen, Monsieur Gigot, the innkeeper, said to look for a ship named the Sea Wolf.”
She choked on hysterical laughter, turning. Was she
really going alone to meet a dangerous smuggler—at dawn and in the dark, in a strange city, with her husband near death—to beg for his help?
“His ship is the swiftest, and they say he can outrun both navies at once. It is fifty tons, black sails—the largest of the smuggling vessels in the harbor.”
She shuddered, nodding grimly. The Sea Wolf…black sails… “How do I get to the docks?”
“They are three blocks from the inn,” Laurent told her. “I think I should come with you.”
She was tempted to agree. But what if someone discovered them while she was gone—what if someone realized who Henri was? “I want you to stay here and guard le comte and Aimee with your life. Please,” she added, consumed with another intense wave of desperation.
Laurent nodded and walked her to the door. “The smuggler’s name is Jack Greystone.”
She wanted to cry. Of course, she would do no such thing. She pulled up her hood and gave her sleeping daughter one last look.
Evelyn knew she would find Greystone, and convince him to transport them across the Channel, because Aimee’s future depended on it.
She hurried from the room, and waited to hear Laurent slide the bolt on the door’s other side, before she rushed down the narrow, dark corridor. One taper burned from a wall sconce at the far end of the hall, above the stairs. She stumbled down the single flight, thinking of Aimee, of Henri and a smuggler with a ship named the Sea Wolf.
The landing below let onto the inn’s foyer, and just to her right was the public room. A dozen men were within, drinking spirits, the conversation boisterous. She rushed outside, hoping no one had noticed her.
Clouds raced across the moon, allowing some illumination. One torch lamp was lit on the street. Evelyn ran down the block, but saw no one ahead and no one lurking in the shadows. Relieved, she glanced back over her shoulder. Her heart seemed to stop.
Two dark figures were behind her now.
She began to run, seeing several masts in the sky ahead, pale canvas furled tightly against them. Another glance over her shoulder showed her that the men were also running—they were most definitely following her.
“Arrêtez-vous!” one of the men called, laughing. “Are we frightening you? We only wish to speak with you!”
Fear slammed through her. Evelyn lifted her skirts and ran toward the docks, which were now in front of her. And she instantly saw that cargo was being loaded onto one of the vessels—a cask the size of several men had been winched up and was being directed toward the deck of a large cutter with a black hull and black sails. Five men stood on the deck, reaching for the cask as it was lowered toward them.
She had found the Sea Wolf.
She halted, panting and out of breath. Two men were operating the winch. A third stood a bit apart, watching the activity. Moonlight played over his pale hair.
And she was seized from behind.
“Nous voulons seulement vous parler.” We only want to speak to you.
Evelyn whirled to face the two men who had been following her. They were her own age, dirty, unkempt and poorly clothed—they were probably farmworkers and thugs. “Libérez-moi,” she responded in perfect French.
“A lady! A lady dressed as a maid!” the first man said, but he did not speak with relish now. He spoke with suspicion.
Too late, she knew she was in more danger than the threat of being accosted—she was about to be unmasked as a noblewoman and, perhaps, as the Countess D’Orsay. But before she could respond, a stranger said, very quietly, in English, “Do as the lady has asked.”
The farmers turned, as did Evelyn. The clouds chose that moment to pass completely by the moon, and the night became momentarily brighter. Evelyn looked into a pair of ice-cold gray eyes and she froze.
This man was dangerous.
His stare was cold and hard. He was tall, his hair golden. He wore both a dagger and a pistol. Clearly, he was not a man to be crossed.
His cool glance left her and focused on the two men. He repeated his edict, this time in French. “Faites comme la dame a demandé.”
She was instantly released, and both men whirled and hurried off. Evelyn inhaled, stunned, and turned to the tall Englishman again. He might be dangerous, but he had just rescued her—and he might be Jack Greystone. “Thank you.”
His direct gaze did not waver. It was a moment before he said, “It was my pleasure. You’re English.”
She wet her lips, aware that their gazes were locked. “Yes. I am looking for Jack Greystone.”
His eyes never changed. “If he is in port, I am not aware of it. What do you want of him?”
Her heart sank with dismay—for surely, this imposing man, with his air of authority and casual power, was the smuggler. Who else would be watching the black ship as it was being loaded? “He has come recommended to me. I am desperate, sir.”
His mouth curled, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Are you attempting to return home?”
She nodded, still staring at him. “We had arrangements to leave at dawn. But those plans have fallen by the wayside. I was told Greystone is here. I was told to seek him out. I cannot linger in town, sir.”
“We?”
She hugged herself now, still helplessly gazing into his stare. “My husband and my daughter, sir, and three friends.”
“And who gave you such information?”
“Monsieur Gigot—of the Abelard Inn.”
“Come with me,” he said abruptly, turning.
Evelyn hesitated as he started toward the ship. Her mind raced wildly. She did not know if the stranger was Greystone, and she wasn’t certain it was safe to go with him now. But he was heading for the ship with black sails.
He glanced back at her, without pausing. And he shrugged, clearly indifferent as to whether she came or not.
There was no choice. Either he was Greystone, or he was taking her to him. Evelyn ran after him, following him up the gangplank. He didn’t look at her, crossing the deck rapidly, and Evelyn rushed to fall into step behind him. The five men who were loading the cask all turned to stare openly at her.
Her hood had slipped. She pulled it up more tightly as he went to a cabin door. He opened it and vanished inside. She faltered. She had just noticed the guns lining the sides of the ship. She had seen smuggling ships as a child; this ship seemed ready to do battle.
She was even more dismayed and full of dread, but she had made her decision. Evelyn followed him inside.
He was lighting lanterns. Not looking up, he said, “Close the door.”
It crossed her mind that she was very much alone with a complete stranger now. Shoving her trepidation aside, she did as he asked. Very breathless now, she slowly faced him.
He was standing at a large desk covered with charts. For one moment, all she saw was a tall, broad-shouldered man with golden hair tied carelessly in a queue, a pistol clipped to his shoulder belt, a dagger sheathed on his belt.
Then she realized that he was also staring at her.
She inhaled, trembling. He was shockingly attractive, she now realized, in both a masculine and a beautiful way. His eyes were gray, his features even, his cheekbones high and cutting. A gold cross winked from the widely open neck of his white lawn shirt. He was wearing doeskin breeches and high boots, and now she realized how powerful and lean his tall, muscular build was. His shirt clung to his broad chest and flat torso, and his breeches fit like a second skin. He did not have an ounce of fat on his hard frame.
She wasn’t certain she had ever come into contact with such an inherently masculine man—and it was unnerving somehow.
She was also the object of intense scrutiny. He was leaning his hip against the desk and staring back at her, as openly as she was regarding him. Evelyn felt herself flush. He was, she thought, trying to see her features, which were partially concealed by her hood.
She now saw the small, narrow bed on the opposite wall. She realized that this was where he slept. There was a handsome rug on the planked floor, a handful of books on a small table. Otherwise, the cabin was sparsely appointed and completely utilitarian.
“Do you have a name?”
She jerked, realizing that her heart was racing. How should she answer? For she knew she must never reveal who she was. “Will you help me?”
“I haven’t decided. My services are expensive, and you are a large group.”
“I am desperate to return home. And my husband is in desperate need of a physician.”
“So the plot thickens. How ill is he?”
“Does it matter?”
“Can he reach my ship?”
She hesitated. “Not without help.”
“I see.”
He did not seem moved by her plight. How could she convince him to help them? “Please,” she whispered, stepping away from the door. “I have a four-year-old daughter. I must get her to Britain.”
He suddenly launched himself off the desk and strode slowly—indolently—toward her. “Just how desperate are you?” His tone was flat.
He had paused before her, inches separating them. She froze, but her heart thundered. What was he suggesting? Because while his tone was brisk, there was a speculative gleam in his eyes. Or was she imagining it?
She realized that she was mesmerized, and unbalanced. “I could not be more desperate,” she managed, with a stutter.
He suddenly reached for her hood and tugged it down before she knew what he meant to do. His eyes immediately widened.
Her tension knew no bounds. She meant to protest. If she had wanted to reveal her face, she would have done so! As his gaze moved over her features, very slowly, one by one, her resistance died.
“Now I understand,” he said softly, “why you would hide your features.”
Her heart slammed. Was he complimenting her? Did he think her attractive—or even beautiful? “Obviously we are in some jeopardy,” she whispered. “I’m afraid of being recognized.”
“Obviously. Is your husband French?”
“Yes,” she said, “and I have never been as afraid.”
He studied her. “I take it you were followed?”
“I don’t know—perhaps.”
Suddenly he reached toward her. Evelyn lost her ability to breathe as he tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear. Her heart went wild. His fingers had grazed her cheek—and she almost wanted to leap into his arms. How could he do such a thing? They were strangers.
“Was your husband accused of crimes against the state?”
She flinched. “No…but we were told not to leave Paris.”
He stared.
She wet her lips, wishing she could decipher his thoughts, but his expression was bland. “Sir—will you help us—please?”
She could not believe how plaintive she sounded. But he was still crowding her. Worse, she now realized she could feel his body’s warmth and heat. And while she was a woman of medium height, he made her feel small and fragile.
“I am considering it.” He finally paced slowly away. Evelyn gulped air, ignoring the wild urge she had to fan herself with the closest object at hand. Was he going to reject her plea?
“Sir! We must leave the country—immediately. I am afraid for my daughter!” she cried.
He glanced at her, apparently unmoved. Evelyn had no idea what he was thinking, as an odd silence ensued. He finally said, “I will need to know who I am transporting.”
She bit her lip. She hated deception, but she had no choice. “The Vicomte LeClerc,” she lied.
His gaze moved over her face another time. “I will take payment in advance. My fee is a thousand pounds for each passenger.”
Evelyn cried out. “Sir! I hardly have six thousand pounds!”
He studied her. “If you have been followed, there will be trouble.”
“And if we haven’t been followed?”
“My fee is six thousand pounds, madam.”
She closed her eyes briefly, then reached into her bodice and handed him the assignats.
He made a disparaging sound. “That is worthless to me.” But he laid them on his desk.
