Almost a Lady (20 page)

There was time aplenty for molding. No need to taint a reconciliation with premature disclosure. He kissed her, murmuring, “Well, there was one thing.”

Chapter   15

B
eggin’ yer pardon, sir, but I don’t think as how it’s a good idea, “the boatswain stated bluntly. “Not with the sea as foul as it is . . . and ye’ll have no one to watch your back.”

“I appreciate your concern, Bosun, but I’m going in alone,” Cosimo returned, his voice pleasant and even, but Meg, from her position behind the half-open door to the cabin, could hear the implacable note.

Obviously the boatswain did too. He said, “Right y’are, sir. I’ll have the dinghy made ready.” There was a pause, and then he said, “You won’t even take one of them youngsters? Rowing the dinghy single-handed in this sea won’t be easy.”

“No, it’s not necessary. We’ll take the ship in as close to the beach as possible, and I’ll go in from there. You’ll hold the ship for twenty-four hours, and if I don’t return by then, you’ll sail back to Folkestone with Miss Barratt.”

“Only twenty-four hours, sir?” The boatswain sounded aghast.

“Precisely twenty-four hours. And then you take Miss Barratt home.”

“Aye, sir.”

Meg ducked back into the cabin. She’d been about to leave it when she’d heard Cosimo and the boatswain talking at the base of the companionway and something had kept her listening from behind the half-open door. She knew Cosimo was going to make one more shore excursion on the way to Bordeaux, but he hadn’t said anything more about it. It seemed that now was the moment. But the boatswain was right, the sea was in a foul temper, and rain was sheeting down from a black moonless sky. Why did it have to be tonight? And surely the crew would resent her if they had to obey their captain’s orders and abandon him just to take an unorthodox passenger back to England.

Cosimo came in looking distracted and went immediately to the charts. “So you’re going ashore?” Meg said to his back.

“Mmm.”

“Tonight?”

“That’s right.”

“But the weather’s foul.”

“Can’t be helped.”

“Bosun doesn’t seem to think it’s a good idea.”

He straightened and turned around. “Now, how do you know that?”

“I was eavesdropping,” she confessed. “Just now. I heard you talking. And if the bosun doesn’t think it’s a good idea, I think you should listen to him.”

“Do you, indeed?” He quirked an eyebrow and looked amused.

“It’s not funny,” Meg said, refusing to be deterred. “Where are you going and why must it be tonight?”

Cosimo scratched his forehead, saying patiently, “I’m going ashore to check for messages. And it has to be tonight because we’re just off La Rochelle and that’s where I will find such messages.” He opened one of the cupboards and took out a black oilskin. “Stay snug and dry while I’m gone.”

“And what if you don’t come back?” She regarded him steadily.

“Then the boatswain has instructions to sail you home to Folkestone.”

“So I heard. And that means abandoning you without knowing what’s happened to you. I don’t want to be responsible for that.”

“My dear, I and only I am responsible for the decisions I make.” His tone was crisper now as he dressed in the black oilskin. “My men will follow my instructions without question.”

“Yes, I’m sure they will,” she said impatiently, “but that doesn’t mean I have to. I don’t want to sail back home without knowing what’s happened to you.”

His expression hardened. “Nevertheless, Meg, that’s what you will do.”

She had no idea why she said what she next said. It went against the firm decision she’d made after the debacle at Quiberon that the privateer’s murky business was his own and she wanted no further part of it. But the words spoke themselves. “Why don’t I come with you? I’m sure I could be useful. At the very least, I could get a message back to the ship if there was trouble.”

She paused, watching him closely for some reaction, and when he didn’t immediately answer her, said swiftly, “Ana would have accompanied you, wouldn’t she? You would have trusted her.”

“Ana was trained,” he said. “I could trust her because she knew what she was doing.”

“Then train me,” Meg said simply. “You tell me what to do and I’ll do it.” She came up to him, putting a persuasive hand on his arm. “I’m not afraid, Cosimo. And I would much rather be in trouble with you than waiting and worrying, twiddling my thumbs here.”

It seemed that Meg was writing her own part in this script, Cosimo thought, without any prodding from him. She was offering herself as a partner of her own accord. And maybe it was a good opportunity to observe her courage and resolve. He didn’t expect to run into any trouble on this mission, merely the discomfort and difficulty involved in getting to shore in a gale. If she was willing to put up with that, then why not?

“I’m sure Ana has one of those oilskins hidden around here somewhere,” Meg said, seizing on his clear hesitation.

“In that cupboard.” He gestured with a jerk of his head to the cupboard from which he’d taken his own foul-weather gear. “It’s going to be a very uncomfortable journey, I warn you.”

“I’m well aware of that,” she returned, shaking out the oilskin. “And I won’t melt in a little rain.” She struggled into the stiff garment and fumbled with the buttons. “Are we ready?”

Cosimo moved her hands aside and did up the buttons himself, then lifted the hood and secured it tightly beneath her chin with the drawstring. “Now you are.”

They emerged on deck into the driving rain. The men were all clad in foul-weather gear; Mike was wrestling with the helm as the
Mary Rose
pitched into the troughs between the heavy swells. “I don’t know how close I can put her in this sea, sir,” Mike shouted, the wind snatching his words.

Cosimo jumped up to the quarterdeck. “Let me have the helm.” He took the wheel and swung the ship onto a port tack, so that she was sailing broadside to the waves. It looked to Meg as if they were now heading straight for the cliff face that loomed out of the darkness. A bell boomed mournfully from somewhere to their right.

Rocks. Meg began to doubt her earlier confident assertion that she was not afraid. Images of shipwrecks crowded her mind, and when she looked down at the churning black sea beating against the sides of the ship, the prospect of being in a small dinghy bobbing on that heaving mass made her feel sick. It wasn’t too late to back out. Her pride could stand it.

The
Mary Rose
was within a few hundred yards of the cliff face when Cosimo turned her into the wind and gave order to lower sail and drop anchor. He came over to Meg and said, “Now’s the time to change your mind, Meg. It’s quite understandable.”

“But you’re still going?” She was watching them lower the dinghy into the water.

He nodded. “Of course.”

“Then so am I.”

He scrutinized her expression closely, a frown between his brows, and she met his gaze without flinching. Finally he nodded again. “Very well. I’ll go down the ladder first; follow me when I tell you.”

She swallowed hard, thinking of that swaying rope ladder that was now lashing in the wind against the sides of the ship. She must be out of her mind, she reflected. Adventures were all very well, but this one seemed to be getting out of hand. It bore no resemblance at all to her illicit adventure with the gondolier in Venice. There weren’t any waves on the Grand Canal, for a start. She stared down at the little boat as Cosimo went nimbly down the ladder. He jumped into the boat and steadied the ladder with his hand.

“Come on, Meg.”

She sucked in her lower lip, then accepted Miles’s help to climb over the rail. He was holding the ladder steady at the top, and Cosimo was doing the same below, so the descent was much less alarming than she’d expected. She sat down promptly, much more experienced now. The little dinghy rocked on the waves and she looked rather longingly up the towering sides of the
Mary Rose
to a deck that from this perspective seemed remarkably stable.

Cosimo had the oars and was pulling strongly towards the cliff face, fighting the wind and the sea, the sheer physical effort clear on his rain-drenched face. Meg wished she could help but knew she couldn’t.

“Why wouldn’t you let one of your men help you?” she yelled into the wind.

He didn’t reply and she realized that he probably didn’t have the breath to answer what was, after all, a thoroughly pointless question. The roar of the waves on the rocks at the cliff face drowned out all other sounds and her fingers curled around the edge of the thwart where she sat, her heart thudding with pure terror.

“Meg, grab the painter,” he shouted. “When I beach the boat, I need you to jump out with the rope and pull me farther into the shallows.”

She nodded and took up the painter, turning to face the bow. Having something to do calmed her somewhat. The sea was a little quieter now, the roaring somewhat abated, and she could just make out a faint white band in the darkness. Presumably the beach. The dinghy scraped bottom and at Cosimo’s shouted “Now,” she jumped into the water, shocked at how the cold struck even through her boots. She hauled on the boat and dragged it a few yards until it ground to a complete halt on the sand.

Cosimo jumped out, took the painter from her, and secured it around a rock. “The one advantage with a night like this is that no one will be out and about, and certainly not expecting visitors,” he observed, sounding remarkably satisfied. “Do you want to wait by the boat?”

“Hell, no,” Meg said vigorously. “Where you go, Captain Cosimo, I go. I’m not standing here soaking wet waiting for you.”

“It’s a tough climb,” he said, gesturing to the cliff ahead of them. “The path’s a mere goat track and it’ll be slippery.”

“I’m not waiting here,” she reiterated.

“All right. Get climbing.” He propelled her ahead of him across the tiny expanse of beach. She could just make out a thin ribbon of a path that wound between jutting rocks.

“I’ll be behind you,” he said, giving her bottom an encouraging slap. “If you slip, I’ll try to catch you.”

“Well, thank you, how reassuring,” she said sardonically, and set off up the trail.

Cosimo smiled. She was doing well. He had sensed her earlier fear and had guessed what it had cost her to overcome it. If he could rely on her courage, all he had to worry about was overcoming her scruples. And that would be no easy task, judging by her reaction when she thought he’d killed the men at Quiberon. But that was a problem that would come up in its own good time; for the moment, he would concentrate on honing the skills she would need to survive an overland journey across enemy territory.

Meg climbed steadily, recovering her balance easily when her foot slipped. The knowledge of Cosimo behind her made her feel safer, and when she reached a particularly tricky bend in the path she was happy to have his guiding hand on her foot, directing her next step up. Finally they reached the cliff head and she hauled herself over onto wet grass and lay gasping for breath as the rain beat down into her face.

Cosimo came up after her. “Catch your breath,” he whispered. “There’s no hurry.”

“If I’d known I had to turn mountain goat, I might have rethought this,” she whispered back, but not seriously. She rolled onto her belly and looked down the path. It was hard to imagine she’d just climbed all that way, and even harder to imagine going back down it.

Cosimo squatted on his haunches beside her until she pulled herself up and stood up. “Where to now?” she asked.

“A cottage, about two miles away,” he said. “Keep close behind me and do everything I do. Is that clear?”

“As a bell.” She was cold but suppressed a shiver and started off after him across the cliff top. Meg didn’t know how long they walked in silence in the teeth of the howling wind. She was fairly certain she had never been so physically miserable before, but took the phlegmatic view that since she’d brought it all upon herself she had no grounds for complaint.

The cottage appeared suddenly in the darkness. A low stone building, a trickle of smoke coming from the chimney, but no lights in the windows. Cosimo stopped in the shelter of the hedge. “Stay here. Don’t move a muscle until I come back. Do you understand?”

“What if you don’t . . . come back, I mean?”

“Go back to the beach. There’s a whistle in the boat. Use it and someone will come from the
Mary Rose
to fetch you.” He spoke in a terse whisper. “From now on I’m not going to think about you. I have my own work to do and I can’t afford any distractions. You’re on your own. Is that clear?”

“I don’t expect any consideration,” she snapped, stung by his tone. There was nothing remotely loverlike about this Cosimo. She wondered where his knives were concealed. She had no doubt that he had them somewhere about his person.

He slipped away along the hedge, just another black shadow among many, and within minutes was no longer visible to Meg. She shivered, too cold now for alarm, and despite his instructions started off after him. He wasn’t going to think about her, that was fine by her. It freed her to follow her instincts.

The hedge encircled a small garden at the rear of the cottage and Meg heard the soft cooing of pigeons as she crept closer. It reassured her. Cosimo dealt in courier pigeon and dispatches; he was here to pick up messages. Of course there would be pigeons. Also they were alive, unlike the ones at Quiberon, which ought to mean that there would be no nasty surprises.