Cherished Enemy (45 page)

He smiled wryly. “I have no choice. I had to see you safe, my love. Now I must finish what I came to do, and—”

In her heart she had known this when he suggested they go ashore, but the confirmation of her fears hit hard and she sat up with a cry of anguish. “No! Ah, Rob—no! They'll surely arrest—”

He put his fingers across her lips. “Hush, beloved little Rosa. You forget—I am an English captain, my identity firmly established, thanks to the bungling of some Whitehall idiot.”

“Yes, and how long shall it be, do you suppose, before that same idiot discovers his mistake?”

That possibility had occurred to him, but he took up her hand and kissed it gently. “Sweetheart, I must do what I can for my people. You know it.”

She did know it, but she loved with all her heart, and she was afraid. Clinging to his coat, she said, “Then I shall stay with you!”

He took her by both arms and held her a little away from him. “D'ye know what a Highland Scot does with his woman when she argues?”

Blinded by tears, she shook her head.

“This…” he said tenderly, and kissed her into silence. With his lips still against hers, he murmured then, “You'll not forget, Rosa? You wait one year. Not a day longer.”

Her voice quivered on a sob. “As I told you once before, sirrah—I dinna ken…”

He laughed brokenly, then hugged her against him in an agony of yearning. “You drive me to distraction when you say that—and you know it, you little varmint! By heaven—how I love you!”

“And I you. Forever. So—do not fail me…” But the awareness of his very probable arrest, and of the slow and savage death that would be meted out to this valiant young man if his true identity became known, was paralyzing, and her courage failed. She moaned, “Oh, Rob, my darling, my darling! How can I
bear
to leave you here—and in such peril?”

He said quietly, “Would you have me leave the task to someone else, Rosa? Would you have me break my vow?”

She looked up into his steadfast eyes and fought to say “Yes,” but could not. And so, with a muffled sob, she tightened her arms about him and clung to him, silently praying.

He pressed fervent kisses onto her silken hair, longing for her to be safely gone; dreading to send her away; wondering if ever they would meet again. Through his misery, he heard Jock shout. He stood, summoning a smile somehow, and pulled Rosamond to her feet. “The tide must be up. Come, dear one. Now, you'll not meet Charles with such a long face, surely? And him with his own heart heavy and hiding it so well.”

Rosamond battled gallantly to steady her trembling lip, and wiped at her tears. “No, my brave Scottish gentleman. I'll … I'll not shame you. Only—oh, Robbie, I love you so much! Why must Fate bring us together only to part us so soon? Why— Good heavens!”

Victor, his eyes devouring her lovely face, saw shock come into it and whirled around.

The yawl was putting out to sea.

“What the—” he gasped, furious.

A vicious crack. Another. And two little spurts of spray shot up in the water just short of the yawl.

“Oh—God!” groaned Victor. “Not this close! My Lord! Not
now!
”

He whipped out his pistol as running footsteps approached. “Behind me, lass!” he growled, scourged by grief for her precious sake, but determined to sell their lives dearly.

A liveried, red-faced footman ran, crouching, from the rough path that slanted down the bank. “Your man…” he wheezed, coming up with them, “says … stay tight … sir! Our coach … out of sight. They may—they may think … you're all … safe away…”

Victor swept his lady into his arm. “Good man!” He glanced about swiftly. Thank the Lord that Rosa wore a beige gown and his cloak was forest green. There were gorse bushes everywhere. “Here!” He pulled Rosamond towards a clump that grew close against the bank.

A flurry of deafening shots. And by one of those perverse chances that so often disrupt human plans, an intrepid horseman far in advance of the troop set his mount leaping over the edge directly above the fugitives. The big horse's thundering hooves dislodged a section of the bank, creating a small avalanche. Victor saw the mass hurtling down and shoved Rosamond clear, but the hail of clods and flying rock caught him squarely. Blinded, reeling, he clutched his temple and fell in a limp sprawl.

Frantic, Rosamond started for him, but the footman, fearful of his own life, dragged her behind the shrubs and clapped a hand over her mouth.

An distant, but enraged voice roared, “Shoot, you dolts, before they escape us!”

A dim corner of Victor's stunned mind thought, ‘Holt!' He knew vaguely that he lay in full view, but to move was beyond his power. In a misty sequence of very brief impressions, he saw the yawl, sails billowing, putting out to sea; heard a furious volley of shots, and a sob of horror, swiftly muffled. He knew a numb gratitude for the footman, and with a mighty effort fought his way to his hands and knees, but his head hurt brutally, his knees would not hold him and he was down again.

The tall chestnut stallion had plunged into the waves. The yawl was too far out, however, and Roland Fairleigh, cursing blisteringly, reined him back, and turned towards the bank and the oncoming troop. He saw Victor then, lying under the jut of the bank, his head bloodied, striving feebly, vainly, to reach the pistol that lay within inches of his hand. Amusement replaced the wrath in Fairleigh's black eyes. He urged Rumpelstiltskin forward and the big horse danced to within a few paces of the helpless Scot.

“Fortunes of war,” grinned Fairleigh. He backed the stallion, looked up, and waved his tricorne. “Hey! Jacob!”

“Damn … you…!” gasped Victor.

Cantering hooves, and the shadow of Holt's head and shoulders appeared on the sand.
“Well?”
he roared.

“How'd you like—” cried Fairleigh.

A faint yelp from the footman, and then Rosamond's scratched and tear-stained face peeped through the thorny branches. “Roland…” she whispered desperately. “Please … Your
word,
remember? Your word of
honour!
”

Fairleigh stared at her, a frown drawing his dark brows together.

“Like—
what,
blast your ears?” snarled Holt, glaring down at his kinsman.

Fairleigh grinned up at him. “To … catch some fish,” he said, turning the stallion to the path. “Might as well, since we're here, eh?”

“You think 'tis
funny,
do you?” his cousin raged. “Look at that curst yawl! And the whole lot of 'em in plain sight! Safe away! Laughing at us! We were only minutes late, you stupid block! You were
minutes
from claiming a fat reward! Mull on
that,
damn your eyes!” He reined around, his voice diminishing. “One of you men, bring Albritton's coach. Sergeant! Ride like hell to Portsmouth. There's small chance, but a fast frigate might come up with those traitors … The rest of you …

The shouts and the hoofbeats faded.

Rosamond scrambled from her hiding place and flew to gather Victor into cherishing arms.

The footman mumbled, “Cor! That was close, that was!” and mopped his sweating brow, then crept in search of Lord Boudreaux's carriage and the coachman.

“We're alive … my Rosa…” Victor gasped, lifting an unsteady hand to touch her face.

“Yes, beloved.” Overwhelmed with relief, she said tremulously, “Thanks to Roland Fairleigh … You see, he is not such a villain, after all!”

“He kept his word,” agreed Victor, keeping a few mental reservations to himself.

“And we're together. You cannot send me off now, my love.”

His head was beginning to clear. “By Jupiter,” he gasped. “I can't, can I? And you cannot go home! What the deuce am I to do with you, little Sassenach?”

She smiled, and kissed him.

*   *   *

Captain Jacob Holt tilted back the chair, placed one foot against the locker in his tiny barracks bedroom, and fingered his swollen and discoloured jaw. “I was properly ripped up,” he muttered broodingly, “and as good as told my chance for promotion had sailed off with that damned smuggler's yawl!”

His shoulders propped against the worn bookcase, Roland Fairleigh Mathieson clicked his tongue sympathetically, inspected a cuticle and murmured, “I'll own I was surprised that Victor sailed with them. I hope he'll find it was worth what he's given up. You're quite sure you saw him…?”

“You saw him as well as I! He was standing there in plain sight beside young Albritton.”

“Mmmn. Looked different, somehow.”

“Try not to be such a block, Roly. The fellow tried to disguise himself, of course. But 'twould take more than a tie-wig to fool me! Besides, if it was someone else, Victor would have reported to me, or to the Horse Guards, and proved his innocence.” Holt's lip curled. “Poor dupe. The chit made a pretty fool of him.”

“You think he's the one helped her earlier, with the wounded lad?”

“You may be sure I do! And you may be sure I'm not going to report it! With my luck, I'd likely be blamed for not arresting him on the spot!” Holt grunted a curse, stood restlessly and stamped to stand at the window and scowl down at the parade ground bathed in warm afternoon sunlight. “I did my damnedest to circumvent those accursed traitors! I worked day and night, came near to breaking my neck,
did
break the tops off three teeth, and all I get in return is to be bathed in the acid of my charming colonel's vocabulary! Well, let him succeed where I've failed an he thinks himself so damned omnipotent! He's panting to become full colonel.” He chuckled suddenly. “Much good it may do him.”

“Never say the mighty Mariner Fotheringay has erred?” drawled his cousin idly.

“'Tis said he had in his hand the list of traitors who contributed to Prince Charlie's treasure, and let it get away from him.”

They both laughed. Fairleigh said, “Small wonder he's cheerful as any viper! I'd not be in his shoes.”

“Serve the arrogant bastard right!”

“Rumour has it there's another copy of the list been sent out—as I've no doubt you are aware.”

“I am aware,” said Holt. “Lord help the poor devil who carries it.”

“Now, Jacob! Never say you are in sympathy with these rebel vermin?”

“No—I'll not say that! But—is an ugly business at best, Roly. I hope to God I've seen the end of it! I'm a soldier! I joined to fight, but 'gainst fighting men—not to hunt down half-dead fugitives and terrified … women.” His cold blue eyes became distant and brooding.

Hiding a grin, Fairleigh murmured, “I think you harboured a
tendre
for the lovely Rosamond yourself, poor fellow.”

Holt's gaze slanted to him savagely. “Do you. Well do you know what
I
think? I think you know a damn sight more about what transpired at Lennox Court last week than I do!” His cousin merely regarding him with bland innocence, he sneered, “But for all your lies and sly manoeuvrings, you are empty-handed as ever—eh?”

“For the nonce, alas, I cannot deny it. How does old Albritton go on? Have you seen him since the—er, fiasco?”

“Once.” Holt looked grave, and added slowly, “He seems fierce as ever. I cannot help but feel sorry for him. To have lost
all
his children—poor old boy … Now, what the hell are
you
staring at?”

Fairleigh pushed himself away from the wall and took up his tricorne. “It unnerves me to hear a heartless cold fish such as yourself express sympathy for another human being! Zounds, but the Day of Judgement must be imminent!”

Cursing, Holt snatched up his pillow and hurled it at his tormentor.

Fairleigh laughed, flung open the door, and used it to field the missile. “Fare ye well, dear Jacob. ‘Pray love me little, so you love me long.'”

“Love
you?
” shouted Holt, but with amusement glinting in his eyes. “You mercenary damned lying cheat! Who could
like
you—much less love you?”

Fairleigh moaned, and with a hand over his heart ran blithely down the stairs.

He had mounted up and leaned forward to pat Rumpelstiltskin's glossy neck when his cousin thrust his head out of the window and called, “Where are you off to, rogue?”

“To the ends of the earth,” answered Fairleigh with an extravagant gesture. “To seek the maid who will love me for my noble nature, my strength in defence of the weak, my generosity and charity, my manly beauty, my pure and stainless—” With a whoop, he kicked home his heels and the tall chestnut sprang forward, barely eluding the deluge as Holt emptied the water pitcher at them.

His laughter echoing after him, Fairleigh cantered off.

Holt leaned from the window and shouted, “Save some of the treasure for me, Roly!”

Roland Fairleigh Mathieson, sometimes known as Otton, waved and disappeared through the gate.

*   *   *

The morning was brisk, a tang of autumn threading the breeze that sent gold and russet leaves scampering across the cobble-stones as Colonel Albritton rode into the stable-yard. Jock Addington came hurrying to take the big Roman-nosed roan.

His thoughts on a glass of Madeira and his favourite chair in the library, Albritton glanced back and muttered “Where's that stupid—” He broke off and swore as Trifle bounded into the yard, gave him an amiable bark in passing and raced off.

“Caught up wi' ye, sir,” said Jock redundantly, and added with a grin, “Yon wee beastie looks tae be heading in the direction o'—”

“I know. Damn and blast the worthless—” The colonel, who had taken a liking to the leathery Scot, cut off that remark and let his whiskers say the rest. “Why I don't keep him chained—or better yet, take the confounded brute out and lose him…” He grumbled his way towards the rose garden. But he was very aware that Trifle's mad venture into house-moving had saved them all. Had he not darted through the railing leading up the pavilion steps, and had his new home not become lodged against that railing, Holt would not have been knocked out of time, and Charles and Rosamond— The colonel shuddered and stamped into the rose garden, resolved not to murder the dog, whatever fresh havoc he'd created.