A Gentleman By Any Other Name (13 page)

Would he please just
leave!

“We'll talk tomorrow.”

Julia nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

“I'm serious, Julia. We will talk.”

Then Chance snatched up his hose and shoes and headed for the door. Stopped.

“So much for a gracious exit. Julia, I'm still locked in.”

The most ridiculous thing happened. Julia smiled. Then she giggled. She laughed until tears came to her eyes and then she began to cry.

She was still crying when Chance, having retrieved the key from the pocket of her gown, and without another word, left her, closing the door quietly behind him.

C
HANCE WASHED HIMSELF
hastily in cold water, then pulled on the clothing Billy had laid out for him. Black. Black from throat to ankle, including a pair of black boots he'd left at Becket Hall when he'd gone to London, boots that went to the knee in the back, up and over the knee in front. Boots last worn on the deck of the Black Ghost.

He tied a length of black silk around his waist, another around his throat, then slid his favorite knife between the sash and his waistband.

A black knit toque would completely cover the hair he pushed up inside it as he opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

“My, my, my. You are having a busy night, aren't you, Chance?”

Morgan.
Chance turned to look at his sister, who stood with her back to the wall, her hands tucked behind her and rhythmically pushing against that wall, so that she seemed to gracefully move while standing in place. “What in bloody blazes are you doing here? And what in God's name are you wearing?”

The girl stepped away from the wall and spread her arms wide before turning in a full circle. She, too, was in black from head to toe. “You don't recognize your own clothes, brother mine? Anyone else would have noticed if I'd raided their wardrobes, but you weren't here to notice, were you? Yet here we are. I thought you'd never leave her room. Honestly how anyone would rather rut like a boar than ride the Marsh, I'll never know, but to each his own, I suppose. Come on, they'll be waiting for us out at the stables.”

Chance scrubbed at his face with his hands, then chuckled darkly. “You're seventeen, Morgan, if I'm remembering correctly. Too young to be so jaded but not too old to be spanked and sent back to the nursery.”

She pulled herself up straight, unaware that the action only served to accentuate the lush swell of her breasts beneath the black silk. When had she grown up? How had it happened without him ever noticing?

Her dark brown hair was tucked up inside a drooping knit toque, but one thick lock of hair was visible, hanging from her forehead and sweeping down the curve of her cheek, ending beneath her chin. Her stormy gray eyes seemed to dance in mischief. Beautiful. Wild. The girl was becoming a woman, even if she didn't know it.

“I've ridden out before, Chance. I
have.
What's one more, when there are already so many? I didn't have to come here. I just thought…I just thought you would…”

“You thought I'd be pleased? That I'd enjoy being in on the
joke?
Ainsley definitely has had his nose too long in his books, hasn't he? You've gone wild out here on the Marsh.”

“I've grown
up
out here on the Marsh. And I
help.
What do
you
do, big brother?”

“What do I do? I count to five, little sister, and if I don't hear the door to your bedchamber slamming shut by then, I'll find a rope and tie you to your bedpost. Wait. First, I'll relieve you of this, thank you,” he said, snatching the wicked-looking knife from the black sash she'd tied around her waist. “What a piece of work you are. And now, Morgan…one…two…three…”

Morgan stood and glared at him a moment longer, her full lower lip pushed forward in a defiant pout, then turned on her heels and ran down the hallway.

Chance shook his head and watched her go. “God save the man who tries to tame that one,” he muttered, placing the knife on a nearby table, then headed for the servant stairs and the door closest to the stables.

Morgan had been right. He was late, and they were waiting for him, already saddled, mounted, prepared to move. A good three dozen of them, at his quick count. All men from Becket Hall.

Jacmel also waited, tied to the fence rail, and Chance made short work of vaulting into the saddle. “My apologies for my tardiness,” he said as Billy handed up a pistol Chance pushed into his waistband. “You're not dressed for the occasion,” he said then, grinning down at the sailor-cum-coachie.

“The day I set sail on a horse is one you'll never see,” Billy said, shaking his head. “Bad enough to sit up behind them. They fart, you know. And stink worse'n a shark three days dead on the deck in the hot sun.” He hesitated, then added, “You be careful, you hear? Stay near Court, get each other's backs if it comes to a fight.”

Chance grinned. “Such concern. Will you give me a kiss goodbye, too?”

Billy's lined face went flat, his eyes cold as he laid a hand on Chance's thigh. “You've been living soft, boy. Living high. I'm just askin' you to follow, not lead on this one. You understand? Court. Follow Court.”

“Oh, yes, I can see the wisdom in that. He's led everyone so well while I've been gone, hasn't he? Led every man here within an inch of the hangman.”

Chance felt a leg against his as Courtland brought his own mount up close beside Jacmel. “Nobody asked you along. We've been muddling through without you for a lot of years, we can muddle through now.”

Chance looked at his younger “brother,” so much the man now, with his shaggy sandy hair, his too-solemn face, that close-cut beard he'd adopted.

Chance had been the only one, until Ainsley had dragged Courtland to the island and handed him over to Odette. Small, bloodied, whip marks on his bony back. Ainsley had named him because Courtland hadn't said a word, told anyone his name. He hadn't said a word for about four years after coming to the island, not until Ainsley had brought Isabella there, introducing her as his wife. His first words had been spoken to her: “Your laugh is so pretty.”

Courtland had become her pet, her adoring pet, and when Cassandra was born, it was Court who had assigned himself the role of her protector. He had been how old when Cassandra was born? Probably thirteen, as old as she was now.

Courtland had been holding Cassandra that day when the Black Ghost limped home to the island. Standing on the beach, up to his knees in the clear blue water. Not a tear in his eyes or a word passing his lips. Holding the infant…

Chance shook off the memory. Too many memories. He shouldn't have come back. “For a boy of few words, you make a nattering man. Are we going to talk or are we going to ride?” he asked, daring Courtland to take the next step.

“Listen up,” Court said, turning his mount, a coal-black stallion with only a small white blaze on its face. He stood in the stirrups as he addressed the company, and Chance noticed that his brother was wearing a black silken cape tied at the neck. A flair for the dramatic, his brother. “They may have shifted most of the haul by now, but we don't know that. What they haven't carried inland, they'll be guarding. Our land party awaits word at the usual place but won't move until we've had ourselves a look. And maybe a fight. Are you ready for a fight, boys? Are you ready to take back what's ours and maybe send a few thieving bastards to hell?”

Dozens of fists and as many shouts shot into the air and Chance cursed under his breath, his heart sinking.
Boys,
Court had called them. He knew these men. He'd sailed with these men. But that was thirteen long years ago, and some of them hadn't been young then.
A ghastly crew.

He wished Ainsley would be riding with them but hadn't expected him to. Did Ainsley know that Spence was riding with them? That Rian was riding with them? That all of his “sons” were riding out while he sat in his study, so turned away from life even the thought of a fine fight couldn't rouse him?

They had all lost so much when Isabella died.

Chance used his heels to turn Jacmel and ride out of the stable yard with the others, bringing his mount beside Court's as they rode along shoulder to shoulder in the moonlight and ground mist.

“The silk cape is possibly overdone, if you want my opinion,” he said.

“Everyone needs to know who leads, Chance. And the cape adds to the mystery. Dramatic, yes, I agree. But it serves its purpose. If something were to happen to me, Spence could take over, with no one outside of Becket Hall the wiser.”

Chance moved on to another subject. “How long have you been putting Spence and Rian in danger, Court? I asked last night, but you didn't answer.”

Court kept his eyes looking straight ahead. “They're grown now. They make their own choices.”

“Really. And Morgan? What about her? She told me she's ridden with you. Not, she says, that you noticed.”

“That's a lie. Morgan has never—hell's teeth, Chance, she hasn't! Damn her!”

“Damn somebody. Ainsley had better think about marrying her off before she does something even more reckless,” Chance said tightly as they came to a worn track and turned to follow it, two abreast. More horsemen were joining them, appearing one by one out of the mist from the direction of the village, falling into line. There had to be sixty of them now. It would have been easy for Morgan to slip unnoticed into such a group. “We were too busy figuring logistics last night to go into it, but tell me, how did this all start? Better yet—why?”

They rode on in silence for a while, until Courtland said, “You remember Pike, don't you?”

“Pike? Of course I do. Ship's carpenter. He worked for months making Cassandra's cradle. What of him?”

“He's dead, that's what of him. Not quite a year ago. It turned out his wife's brothers were part of a small gang of smugglers from Lydd, and Pike went on a run with them, thinking it would be a lark, I suppose.”

“That sounds like Pike. Go on.”

“There's not much to say that you haven't already guessed. They crossed the Channel—rowed the whole way—but when they landed with their haul someone was waiting for them. Four of the crew and one of the brothers were sent back to Lydd with two messages.”

“What were the messages?”

“The first was that no goods would be moved unless both the men and the goods were under the protection of the Red Men—they move about the villages quite openly, too, with their red sashes for all to see. Bloody arrogant, but not so arrogant that they travel in groups of less than a score or so.”

Chance patted Jacmel's sleek neck, as the horse clearly wanted to run. “Not yet, Jacmel. Not yet.” He turned to Court. “And the second message?”

“Heads. Heads in a box. Two of the brothers. And Pike's. You take any message from that you want to take.”

Chance said nothing. There was nothing to say. Courtland and the rest of them had dug up the Black Ghost and set him riding, uniting together to protect the many small independent groups of smugglers in the area. And all the time hoping to hell for a fight—and some revenge.

At last, as the horses moved carefully through chill standing water, he said, “Why the Black Ghost?”

And at last Courtland smiled, ruefully, obviously at his own expense. “Idiocy. A touch of madness. It was stupid of me, Chance, I know that. But there's nobody to make the connection, trace it back to Ainsley. We've been safe here for thirteen long years. Safe and bored.”

Chance looked toward the horizon, which was a good distance away on this flat, treeless land. “We'll soon remedy that, brother,” he said, pointing toward the long, winding trail of lit torches moving inland. He pulled the thin black scarf Billy had left on the bed for him up and over his nose, just as Court did, just as they all did.

“Yes. Everyone's seen them and knows what to do. The majority are land movers and will drop their loads and run when they see us, but their guards will fight. We'll get some revenge on the Red Men Gang tonight,” Courtland told him. “And with any luck, we'll get back most of the haul, too.”

Chance turned in his saddle to see that the riders were fanning out now, making the party into one long line of darker shadows in the mist. Saddle horses, dray horses, horses more used to pulling a plow. Old men, young men. Boys. All fighting for their own. He felt his own heartbeat increase as the itch to be moving, riding headfirst into the danger, came up to greet him like an old friend, long forgotten but definitely welcome.

There was always the planning, the hunt. But land or sea, nothing surpassed a good fight.

Romney Marsh might physically be a part of England, but those who lived there believed mostly in Romney Marsh, just as the family and crews had believed in the island. Their land, their lives, their fight, and the devil with anyone who got in their way.

Tales of this night's work would reach London and not be well received. England was already at war with France and soon to be at war with America, if the rumors could be believed. No one wanted a third war on their own English shores, between their own English citizens.

Chance pulled down his mask to grin at Courtland. God, but he felt alive. Alive in a way he hadn't felt in a long, long time. “Well, shall we, brother? It's been a while since I've broken the king's law.”