Almost a Lady (23 page)

But did it really matter? She’d already spent a bleak quarter of an hour contemplating what awaited her when she got home. Was there any reason to hurry that future? She had never been averse to taking risks, quite the opposite. Although this was a risk of such magnitude it required at least a few minutes of thought.

Meg decided she’d devoted sufficient time to thinking. “When do we leave?” she asked.

Cosimo’s smile hid his relief. He was only just realizing how worried he’d been about her response. He didn’t doubt her courage, but he still didn’t know her well enough to be certain she would cast aside her own world as completely as he was asking her to. They would get back to England eventually, but he had no idea when. In agreeing to accompany him to Toulon, she was accepting the fact that her life would never be the same again. He was sure that she had come to terms with that in those long few minutes before she’d agreed, but nevertheless some inconvenient prick of conscience obliged him to be certain.

“Are you quite sure you know what this means?” he asked, taking her hands and drawing her close to him. “We will get back to England eventually, but I can’t promise when.”

“I understand that,” Meg said. “But at the moment I don’t have anything to go back for. I would like to write one more letter, though, just to prepare my family for a long time without any communication from me. I don’t want them to think I’m dead before I am.”

“That can be arranged.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “You are a delightfully unusual woman, Meg Barratt.”

“As unusual as Ana?” She raised a quizzical eyebrow to show that the question was not really serious.

“In different ways,” he replied. He frowned slightly. “Tell me, Meg, why do you keep bringing Ana up? Does something trouble you about her?”

“As I said before, she interests me,” Meg responded. “I’m assuming you were lovers as well as partners?”

He nodded. “Does that bother you?”

She looked astounded and Cosimo realized what a stupid and somewhat arrogant question it was. Meg’s nature was far above such petty emotions as jealousy.

“Not in the least,” she declared. “How could it?”

“Forgive me, I wasn’t thinking straight,” he said rather dryly. “But you haven’t answered my question.”

Meg pressed her finger into the cleft in her chin, trying to find the right words. “It’s just rather strange . . . it feels peculiar, to be living someone else’s life,” she said slowly. “I look sufficiently like her to be mistaken for her, I wear her clothes, sleep with her lover, go on her adventures . . . her presence is somehow everywhere, and I seem to feel the need to know all about her . . . to compare myself, my actions, my responses.”

Cosimo thought about this. It had never occurred to him that she should have such a complex attitude to a situation that struck him as purely serendipitous. It puzzled him a little, but then he reflected that women saw certain issues in a very different light from men. Even Ana had surprised him sometimes with the complexity of an emotional response. And Meg was much less hardened by life than Ana had been.

But Ana’s life, her secrets, were not his to tell. In fact, he found talking about her intensely painful, knowing what she had been through in the last weeks. “I don’t compare you,” he stated flatly. “Not in any way, shape, or form.”

That was hardly the point,
Meg reflected. But perhaps she couldn’t expect him to understand. He was certainly throwing up that wall again. Ana was off limits to any serious discussion.

A knock at the door broke the moment of rather awkward silence. “Y’are wanted on deck, Captain,” Biggins called.

“Right away.” Cosimo released Meg’s hands, putting his own on her shoulders and kissing her again quickly. “I can’t tell you how happy you’ve made me,” he said. “I don’t want to lose you, love.”

She smiled. “I’m not ready to leave you either, Cosimo.”

When he’d gone she went over to the chart table and picked up the little packet of paper. Why were these dispatches so vital? Such a tiny parcel, small enough to be secreted under his arm. And they had to be taken all that hazardous way to Toulon. Reasoning that he’d left them in full view so she was hardly prying, she unfolded the three sheets. They made no sense, just line after line of unconnected letters and numbers.

Encrypted, of course. Her gaze flicked up to the shelf of dictionaries. It might be an interesting exercise to see if she could crack the code. She smoothed out the papers on the table with the flat of her hand and concentrated on the sequence of letters and numbers, looking for connections, regular repetitions, anything that would make some kind of sense. After a few minutes she reached down Dr. Johnson’s dictionary. She turned the pages until she found one with notations in the margin. She read the various entries carefully, glancing at the coded sheets beside the book to see if anything jumped out at her.

She was so absorbed she didn’t hear the door open and was totally unaware of Cosimo’s presence as he stood in the open doorway watching her. Gus landed on the chart table next to Dr. Johnson and she turned with a start. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“So I see.” He closed the door and stepped farther into the cabin. “What are you doing?”

“I was trying to crack the code,” she responded, trying not to sound guilty or apologetic. “You left these dispatches here, so I assumed you wouldn’t mind.”

“Mmm,” he murmured, reaching over her shoulder to take up the pages. “Quite a big assumption, Meg.” He folded them carefully and slipped them into the pocket of his britches, thankful that he’d had the foresight to provide something that could pass as the mythical dispatches. “But it was careless of me to leave them . . . Did you have any luck?” He had to hope that she hadn’t, given that the sequences of letters and numbers were utterly meaningless.

“No,” she said. “I’m hoping you’ll teach me. Since I’m coming with you to deliver them, what harm can it do if I learn how to read them?”

He shook his head. “A great deal of harm if you think about it.” He was looking unusually grave.

Meg frowned. “You trust me to come with you. You trust me to know why you’re making the journey. And that’s as far as it goes? I don’t understand, Cosimo.”

“Then let me explain.” His expression was still grave. “I’d rather hoped not to have to spell this out, but if I must, I must. If anything happens on this mission . . . if you fall into enemy hands, then what you don’t know you can’t reveal. Do you understand now?”

Meg did and her scalp crawled. She looked down at her hands, knitting her fingers together. She felt his hand warm on the back of her neck.

“Changed your mind?” he asked softly.

She raised her head, pressing back against the firm, warm clasp, and his fingers tightened with a reassuring strength. “No,” she said. “Not for a minute.”

He dropped his hand, bent, and kissed her neck. “Now, let’s talk practicalities.”

“Yes, when do we leave?” Meg was aware of relief. She didn’t want to dwell on the dangers; she’d made up her mind and there was no virtue in looking for reasons to change it.

He held up a hand. “First things first. Do you ride?”

She stared at him incredulously. “Cosimo, I was born and bred in the country.”

“I’ll assume that’s an affirmative,” he said. “May I also assume that you ride well?”

“I was four years old when I first joined the hunt,” she told him with a touch of asperity.

“Sweetheart, it may come as a surprise to you, but not every horsewoman is comfortable with more than a gentle trot down the tan at Hyde Park.”

“Well, you’ll be pleased to know that I am.”

He offered a smile of appeasement and held up his hands in surrender. “Enough said. Next question, at the expense of getting my head bitten off. How well do you speak French?”

Meg pondered the question. “My accent’s not wonderful, at least nowhere near as authentic as yours, but I can hold my own in a conversation.”

He nodded. “Then we’ll have to find an identity that would explain a slightly foreign accent.”

“Swiss, perhaps?”

“Even better, Scots,” he said. “The French-Scots connection is still very strong and you could have spent time in France during your childhood with distant French relatives.”

“Wasn’t Mary, Queen of Scots, a redhead?” Meg inquired with a dry smile.

“I believe so, but her cousin Elizabeth certainly was,” he returned.

“Useful discipline, history,” Meg mused, a glimmer of laughter in her green eyes. “Particularly in the world of espionage.”

“Be serious,” he scolded. “We’re not playing games, Meg.”

She felt a prick of annoyance. “I know that. But we’re still safe and sound on the
Mary Rose
. What’s happened to your sense of humor?”

“It tends to go absent without leave when I’m planning a mission,” Cosimo stated without apology. “It does return, though.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Meg said, sitting on the window seat and folding her hands in her lap. “Very well, mine too has taken a holiday. So pray continue with the planning, sir.”

There was something about the way she was sitting, the attentive cock of her head, the fixed attention of her gaze, that gave him pause. She was mocking him, still not aware of the seriousness of this. Ana would have been frowning in thought, putting forth objections, ideas, every ounce of her concentrating on the possibly life-saving minutiae of the mission. But Meg was approaching this as a lighthearted venture. Intellectually she knew the dangers, but she’d not yet really experienced them, so how could he expect her to second-guess them? He could lay them out for her in great detail, or he could ease her into them with a little practical experience. She would learn quickly, he was confident of that.

He let himself relax. “It’s near dawn but I’m famished,” he said. “Why don’t you go to bed and I’ll rummage in the galley.”

Meg jumped up, declaring, “I couldn’t possibly sleep. Besides, I’m ravenous too. And we need to discuss this some more. We know I can ride. We have a national identity that will explain my scratchy accent. But I have a host of questions and I need them answered tonight . . . or this morning, rather,” she amended, glancing towards the window, where the night’s darkness was giving way to a soft gray.

“Then let’s go to the galley and see what we can find.”

Meg went ahead of him down the corridor. Belowdecks the ship was asleep, but she was sailing under a full crew on deck. It occurred to Meg that she would miss this when they took to the land. The routines of shipboard life seemed to have seeped into her blood, which she thought now seemed to move with the rhythm of the sea. Her gait had certainly changed with the ever-moving decks beneath her feet. And her eyes had grown accustomed to distant horizons.

Cosimo lit the lantern in the galley and looked around the immaculate space. “Sausage,” he said, reaching up for the salami on its hook.

“Bread,” Meg said, opening the cupboard where Silas kept it. She took out a loaf of barley bread. “Knives . . . Oh, yes, they’re here.”

Cosimo watched her with mingled amusement and amazement. Meg seemed totally at home in Silas’s galley. Biggins was the only other person he knew to be welcome there. Silas as a rule guarded his empire with fierce scowls and monosyllabic mutterings.

“Cheese . . . could you reach it, Cosimo? I’m not tall enough.” She pointed upwards at the wheel of cheddar on a high shelf.

“With pleasure.” He lifted it down.

“You’ll find wine in that casket over by the washing tub.” Meg pointed an authoritative finger. “Glasses in that cupboard . . .”

“You seem remarkably familiar with Silas’s galley,” Cosimo observed, following instruction.

“I’ve been on this ship for close to two weeks,” she informed him. “I don’t expect to be waited on, so when I want something, I get it.”

He chuckled, opening the tap on the casket and filling two glasses with wine. “Now, that’s surprising. I would have expected Miss Barratt to be totally accustomed to being waited upon.”

She sliced into the loaf of bread with a decisive cut. “Not by sailors with far more important work to do. Besides, I enjoyed getting to know them. Biggins is almost a friend, so long as I keep a respectful distance, of course.” She smiled and sliced salami with the same brisk efficiency. “Will that do,
mon capitaine
?” She turned and curtsied deeply.

“You are an abominable woman,” Cosimo declared, seizing her under the arms and hauling her upwards. “You make mock of everything.”

“Not quite,” Meg said, tilting her head back, offering her mouth. “Not quite everything.”

He cupped her head against his linked hands. His eyes held hers. “Are you absolutely certain that this is what you want? Answer me straight, Meg. Think about what it means.
Really
think about it before you answer me, because I will not ask you again.”

Her eyes were as serious as his as she said, “I could begin to be insulted, Cosimo, by this reiteration. I have said this is what I want. I
have
considered it carefully. The fact that I can make light of it at this moment takes nothing away from my conviction or my commitment. I will partner you. Now let’s eat and discuss what else we have to do. I still don’t know who I’m supposed to be as I gallop along beside you and speak Scots-French, tossing my red head to good effect—”

His mouth stopped the rest of her peroration and Meg yielded without a murmur. The carving knife that she’d forgotten she still held fell to the deck with a dull clang.

Cosimo stepped back, picked up the knife, and wiped it carefully on a rag before putting it back in the rack where it belonged. Meg was aware of the delicacy with which he handled it, the way his fingers held the hilt. It was a simple kitchen knife, although certainly sharp. She would have wiped it across the rag and thrust it into the rack without a second’s thought. But Cosimo treated it with an almost loving caution.

Chapter   17

L
et’s go through this again,” Cosimo said, pacing the cabin, hands clasped behind his back.

Meg rolled her eyes. “Must we?” she said wearily.

“Yes,” he said flatly. “You have to be word perfect in every detail. Now, your name?”

“Anatole Giverny,” she said with a sigh. “Or Nathalie Giverny, a widow, depending on what I’m wearing.”

“And who are you traveling with?”

“My French cousin, Cosimo Giverny, who is escorting me to my family in Venice. My mother has lived in Venice for five years, ever since the death of my father. She recently married a wealthy Venetian merchant, but fell ill several months ago and they sent for me. It seems that her life hangs by a thread.”

“Good,” he said with a brisk nod. “Now, how will you conduct yourself on this journey?”

Meg thought if she had to go through this drill one more time, she would scream. For the last two days Cosimo had made her recite the catechism until she heard it in her sleep. She said now, “Cosimo, I can do this in my sleep. The words go round and round in my head all night.”

“Good,” he said again. “That’s what I want to hear. Now, please . . .”

“I am very shy and retiring,” she said, giving up. “As befits a recently widowed woman. I will leave you to do all the talking unless I’m asked a direct question. I will go nowhere on my own and will keep to my chamber with the door locked whenever we are staying in an inn. If anyone asks intrusive questions, I will refer them to you.” She threw up her hands suddenly. “Dear God, I’m going to act like a half-wit, stay immured in a tavern bedchamber . . . I can’t imagine a more tedious journey.”

His mouth hardened and his eyes took on that arctic glint. “You agreed to abide by my rules, Meg. I intend us both to reach Toulon in one piece, and I know better than you how to make that happen. Do you accept that?”

She sighed again. “Yes, I accept it. But I had hoped we might find some amusement in the journey. Otherwise why am I coming?”

He shook his head. “I understand this is hard, but believe me it’s necessary.” His expression softened. “And believe me, love, I intend that we shall have plenty of opportunity for amusement.” He drew her towards him, tipping her chin with his forefinger. “Trust me.”

His eyes were warm again, his mouth curved in the sensuous smile that never failed to arouse her. She could certainly trust him to do that, Meg thought, as his mouth brushed hers in a light butterfly kiss. And she thought she could trust him to keep her safe. What more did she need?

The fact that he gave her nothing of himself but what she saw and felt on the surface was something she’d accepted. Indeed, she preferred not to dig beneath that surface. What she didn’t know, she needn’t worry about. Cowardly perhaps, but he’d promised her an adventure, a journey filled with excitement and passion, and that was what she’d signed on for. The tedious aspects were all in the preparation, and whatever he was, whatever he did in this war—and Meg was convinced that acting as a courier was an insignificant aspect of his business—Cosimo did well and he could keep the details to himself. She wanted one last passionate, dangerous fling before life closed in upon her again. She could certainly trust him to give her that. It was a partnership where each understood exactly what they were getting out of it.

And she would believe that with every ounce of will.

She parted her lips beneath the insistent pressure of his mouth and allowed her body to melt against him as his hands reached behind her, cupping her buttocks, pressing her against his loins. There were worse reasons than this for embarking upon something as insane as a journey across France in the middle of a war in the company of an English spy.

Two days later Meg stood on the deck of the
Mary Rose
and watched as a trunk was lowered into a sailboat, a craft she had not seen used before. It was quite a bit larger than the rowboat and had a small housing which would provide some shelter.

Cosimo was giving his final orders to his lieutenants, to Mike, and to the boatswain. The ship would continue to the Mediterranean and would anchor in the lee of the Îles d’Hyères just off Toulon. She would wait there until her captain and Meg rejoined her.

Meg wondered vaguely how she and Cosimo were to get to these
îles
to rendezvous with the
Mary Rose
. But she assumed the privateer had a plan. He would doubtless find a boat to ferry them across.

It was a moonless night, a night Cosimo had been waiting for. He had held the
Mary Rose
just at the mouth of the Gironde, which flowed to Bordeaux and then became the Garonne, which wound its way across France. He and Meg would follow its course as far as possible by this little sailing boat, hoping to get as far as Toulouse by water. From there they would strike out by land across the mountainous region of Tarn towards Vaucluse. There they would drop down through the mountains to Toulon. At least, that was the planned route Cosimo had outlined for her. She assumed it would be subject to change as and when necessary.

“Ready?”

She wheeled round at his voice behind her. “Yes . . . yes, of course.” She managed to control the quaver in her voice, but not the fluttering in her belly, as if an entire nest of baby snakes had taken up residence there.

Cosimo wondered, now that the moment had arrived, if she would stay on board the
Mary Rose
if he gave her the option. But he’d told her the last time he’d given her that option it would indeed be the last time. He wasn’t going to go back on that now unless she asked him point-blank. And he was fairly certain she would not.

“Everything’s on board,” he said, sounding cheerfully matter-of-fact as always. “We’ll get as close to Bordeaux as we can tonight, and lie up somewhere quiet during the day. We’ll need to slip past Bordeaux under cover of darkness tomorrow night. I’m hoping for another moonless night.” He stepped back a little. “Let me look at you.”

Meg pulled her cap down over her eyebrows and struck a stance, hands on hips, chin lifted, head at a jaunty angle.

Cosimo gave an appreciative grin. “A fine young man you do make, if I say so myself.”

Meg grimaced a little. Part of the rigorous training of the last couple of days had involved learning a masculine way to do everything, from sitting in a chair to cutting meat. It had never occurred to her that there were differences between the sexes in such elementary acts. But now she noticed them all the time. Much as she’d disliked the intensity of the education, she couldn’t help but recognize and appreciate Cosimo’s thoroughness. It gave her much-needed confidence.

She subjected him to a similar scrutiny and couldn’t help her own appreciative smile. He was dressed like a fisherman in worsted britches, a loose-fitting shirt, a bandanna tied carelessly at his throat, sabots on his feet, and a cap set at a rakish angle over one eyebrow. Everything was slightly grubby, just as her own britches and shirt were. A little seedy, a little run-down, the clothes of a working man. And nothing about his appearance lessened his magnetic attraction one iota.

She glanced down at the sailboat, where the trunk was being stowed in the stern and covered with a tarpaulin. It contained another wardrobe, her gowns, shawl, petticoats, slippers, and several rather elegant suits of clothes for Cosimo that had appeared from somewhere. She was certain they hadn’t been kept in the cabin. It would be interesting to see him dressed formally, she thought. On board ship he was always tidy, but his dress was invariably plain britches, shirt, and jerkin.

“I’m going down now,” Cosimo said. “Follow me as soon as I’m in the boat.” He gave her one long searching look, waiting for an instant, then when she said nothing he gave an infinitesimal nod and swung over the rail and onto the ladder.

Meg wondered if he’d been silently giving her the opportunity to change her mind. He’d said he wouldn’t ask her again, and she hadn’t expected him to. But for as long as her feet remained firmly on the deck of the
Mary Rose
, she could still back out. Without further reflection she climbed over the rail and onto the ladder.

“Good luck, Miss Barratt.” The cousins hung over the railing and she could see the envy in their eyes as they gazed down at her.

“You too,” she said, taking one hand off the ladder to wave. “Look after Gus.” Then she climbed down into the sailboat.

Cosimo was hauling up the mainsail, whistling softly between his teeth. It was dark down there on the water, the night air soft. Meg looked up at the deck of the
Mary Rose
and saw men lined up in silence, staring down at the little bobbing craft. Hands were lifted in a farewell that was part salute, part wave, and she smiled, although they probably couldn’t see her expression in the dark from such a height.

The sail flapped idly until Cosimo sat down, took the tiller and the mainsail sheet in his hand. He raised his free hand in farewell to his ship and Meg followed suit. The boat scudded towards the mouth of the Gironde.

Meg stepped carefully to the stern and sat on the bench that ran along the side, well away from Cosimo at the tiller. It was a very different matter to be under sail in this little boat than on the
Mary Rose
, but Cosimo was clearly enjoying himself. He had his head thrown back, watching the movement of the sail much as he did on the ship, but here the smallest movement of the tiller seemed all that was necessary to correct a setting.

“I don’t know anything about sailing,” she said softly, aware of the silence around them.

“You don’t need to,” he returned, shooting her a quick smile. “All you need to know is how to keep the
Rosa
’s captain happy in his work.”

Meg grinned. “I think I can do that. So she’s called the
Rosa
?”

“Appropriate enough for a tender to the
Mary Rose
. Why don’t you go into the cabin and familiarize yourself with the stores? I’m afraid you are going to be responsible for dealing with food and suchlike. At least while I have the tiller.”

Meg did as he asked, taking the two steps down to the low entrance to the housing. She had to crouch as she went in and could barely stand upright once inside. Cosimo would be bent double. She looked around. It was hard to see in the darkness. She poked her head out. “Can I light a lamp?” she whispered.

“There’s a lantern on the table. It’s ready to be lit. Flint and tinder in a drawer beneath. But keep the light low.”

Meg found the table by bruising her hip on a sharp corner. She felt for the drawer, found what she was looking for, and fumbled for the lantern. The soft glow of lamplight showed her a cramped space with a narrow bunk set into the bulkhead. Narrower than the one in the captain’s cabin on the
Mary Rose
, so obviously sleeping would be in shifts. But then, sleeping was not the object of this exercise.

Neatly stacked packages filled the bow space. She examined them and found coffee, tea, cheese, half a ham, and a loaf of bread. They could hardly survive on that all the way to Toulouse. So presumably they’d stop to take on supplies. Further exploration revealed a keg of water, a kettle, a pan, and a skillet.

She ducked back into the open air. “How do we heat water?”

“There should be a sack of charcoal and a brazier,” Cosimo said. “But we’ll do no cooking tonight. You should find cognac and wine in one of the cupboards beneath the bunk. Bring me wine and some bread and cheese.”

“Right away, Captain,” she said with a smart salute. “May I bring some for myself? Or must the cabin boy eat after his captain?” She raised a provocative eyebrow.

“Don’t tempt me, Meg,” he said. “I can’t leave the tiller if we’re to make Bordeaux by morning.”

Meg clambered down into the cabin and put together a plate of bread, cheese, and ham. She found the flask of wine and brought the results of her foraging back on deck. “Not very elegant, I’m afraid.”

“It’ll do fine. You go and get some sleep now.”

“I’m not in the least sleepy and I would like to share your picnic,” Meg stated. “I can’t sleep to order, Cosimo.”

“You’ll learn,” he said carelessly. “You’ll learn to take every opportunity you’re given. But you’ll be your own teacher.” He reached for the flask and tipped it to his lips.

Meg frowned into the darkness. He had changed a little, but she couldn’t put her finger on quite how. There was something different about his posture, something contained about his manner, as if he was operating in a private world. Perhaps that was necessary when a spy started work in enemy territory. It interested her and she wasn’t foolish enough to take exception.

She accepted the flask as he offered it to her, and broke bread, layered it with ham and cheese, and passed it to him. He accepted it with a nod of thanks and the boat sailed on through the night under a gentle breeze. The water on the river was much quieter than the open sea, although at this point it was wide enough that the banks were hard to distinguish. Meg had studied the charts and knew that that would change as they drew closer to Bordeaux.

There was something hypnotic about the smooth slide across the dark water, the silence broken only by the scream of a gull, the cry of a curlew. Meg realized that a big ship on the sea was a very noisy place even at dead of night. She hadn’t noticed before. She ate bread and cheese and absorbed the peace until she felt her eyelids drooping.