Kiss From a Rogue (23 page)

Sylvia had worked her way over to them, handing out bandages and splints, and now knelt on the other side of Baxter.

He lifted his hands, rubbing at his bloody knuckles. Proof they hadn’t given up the tubs easily. “Big fellow said to give a message to my lady.”

“What message is that?”

Baxter coughed, and spat blood. “He said to tell you not to interfere no more, or next time a lot more people than just your husband will die.”

By noon, they had the wounded men cleaned and bandaged, their broken bones set, and carted them home. Rain began to fall just as they loaded the last injured man onto a door and hauled him up the path. A few would be weeks or months in recovering, and might never be the same, but no one had died. Those with no one else to care for them were taken upstairs at the inn, watched over by Mrs. Spencer and her daughter.

Tony sat in the taproom apart from Sylvia, trying to clean the blood off his hands. He’d washed at the pump, but it was still there, under his nails. The blood of Sylvia’s gang, spilled because of him.

“We’re going to starve,” Mrs. Hayden wailed, and buried her face against her husband’s uninjured shoulder. He patted her knee.

With Hayden’s arm broken, he wouldn’t be doing any fishing anytime soon, even if his boat hadn’t been reduced to a pile of ashes.

“They didn’t kill the dairy cattle, so we still have the cheese,” Sawyer said. “Don’t we?”

Jimmy quietly groaned. Sylvia buried her face in her hands.

“I s’pose I’ll be heading to Swanage, then,” Corwin said. “Bound to be work at the docks somewhere. Maybe I’ll sign up as crew again, see some of the world.”

“Well, I guess I’m off to my nevvy’s.” Mrs. Pitsnoggle drained her tankard of ale and set it down with a thump. Monroe beside her didn’t even jump, so engrossed was he in watching rain slide down the windowpane. She filched his tankard and drained it, too.

“We ain’t got the brandy,” Trent said. “We ain’t got the coin to buy another load. Which really don’t matter none, since we don’t got a captain to sell us a load, or a ship to go get it our ownselves.” He signaled Mrs. Spencer to refill his tankard. “We might can catch a few fish off the beach, and until the next batch is ready, if we get really hungry, there’s the briny cheese these lackwits ruined.”

Sylvia raised her head from her hands. She had hoped they would only have to do smuggling runs this summer, and then be able to quit. That would have enabled them to make enough money to rebuild their homes, stock their pantries and cellars, and have enough in reserve to comfortably get everyone through the winter. She’d hoped to come up with a viable alternative to smuggling by spring, a legal source of income.

Well, that plan was out the window.

The night Tony had arrived, she’d been thinking she needed to act more like a smuggler. Now she had no other option. “There isn’t enough time to find another captain, or another ship. We’ll have to make do with the one we’ve got.”

“My lady?” Several men spoke at once.

“Syl, what do you mean, the one we’ve got?” Jimmy ran his fingers through his hair. “We don’t have so much as a skiff anymore.”

“Ruford does.” The more Sylvia thought about it, the more outrageous, the more desperate it seemed. But didn’t desperate times call for desperate measures?

Murmurs rippled through the room.

“Are you suggesting what I think you are?” Tony stared at her in shock. “You want to steal Ruford’s ship?”

“Of course!” Corwin jumped up. “We have pistols and swords. We’ll just take what we need. He’d do the same, in our position.”

“I don’t
want
to steal his ship,” Sylvia said. “But he’s left us no choice.”

More murmurs went up through the crowd. Sawyer rapped his tankard on the table, and they quieted down again. “It’s Ruford’s fault we’re in this predicament. Least he can do is help us out of it.”

“You can’t just steal his ship.” Tony leaned toward Sylvia. “There must be some other way, some other solution.”

“Why?” Jimmy demanded. “You said it yourself. The local authorities are as crooked as corkscrews, paid off by Teague. Why should they all profit, while we starve?”

“We won’t let Ruford starve,” Sylvia said. “We’ll keep him and any of his crew who are willing to sail with us, pay them fair wages for their work. He simply won’t be making the decisions about who he sells his cargo to anymore.” She turned back to Tony. “Don’t you think I’ve been searching for some other way, some other solution? There is nothing else that will feed the people of this village, no other source of income. We have to have a ship.”

“You’re calmly discussing something that is much more dangerous than moving a few casks in the dark of night past underpaid Revenue agents. Ruford’s men are not going to give up without a struggle. Some of you may be hurt, or even killed.”

“We can take ’em,” Sawyer said, puffing out his chest.

Tony looked at everyone in disbelief. “Doesn’t anyone else think this is madness?”

Trent broke the silence. “My lady’s right. It’s what needs to be done.”

Tony rubbed his temples. “I’m not going to let you get hurt. Smuggling is one thing, but I won’t help you get yourself killed. I can’t let you do this.”

Sylvia’s heart squeezed in anguish. This was it. She’d known this day was coming—she just didn’t expect it to hurt this much. Tony was abandoning her, even though he still sat on the bench beside her. Just when she needed him most, needed his strength, his intelligence, he was deserting them all. Good thing she had not come to rely on him.

“When shall we do it?” Doyle said. “When shall we take the ship?”

“Next time he delivers a load to Worbarrow Bay,” Jimmy said. “While his men are busy unloading the longboats on the beach, we can row out, and take over the ship before he gets back.”

“Row out in what, laddie?” Trent said. “Teague’s men burned every last one of our boats.”

“We’ll swim, then.”

“We should have at least a week before he’s due back with another load for Teague,” Sylvia said. “Perhaps we can borrow, buy, or build something by then. Not all of us can swim.”

Mrs. Spencer made another round with her pitcher, refilling tankards. “My sister works near the docks in Swanage,” she said. “I can send word, if you like, have her let us know when Ruford comes and goes.”

“Please do.” Sylvia took a deep breath, steeling her nerves. “Before we work out more details, I need to know that everyone present is committed to the success of this undertaking. Tony’s right—this is much more dangerous than what we’ve been doing. We likely will suffer casualties. Anyone who does not want to take part should leave now.”

All eyes in the taproom swiveled to Tony.

Corwin pointed at Tony. “That means you, chum.”

“But—”

Sylvia clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palm. “We appreciate the help you’ve given while you’ve been here. But it’s time for you to go back to your own world, where you belong.”

Tony’s jaw worked, but no sound came out.

“Good-bye.” Sylvia’s eyes and throat burned with unshed tears.

Doyle and Sawyer stood up, as did several others, ready to help Tony depart.

Without another word, Tony spun on his heel, and slammed the door behind him.

Jimmy took the paper and pencil Spencer offered. “Now, where were we?”

Tony stormed across the inn’s yard, his blood boiling. Go back to where he belonged, she’d said. He had begun to think he could belong here, in Lulworth Cove. With Sylvia.

Obviously that bullet to the temple yesterday had rattled his brains more than he’d thought.

He marched up the High Street toward the manor house, passing the neat little cottages he’d helped repair after the storm. At Doyle’s cottage, sunlight glinted off the new windows that Tony had set in place and glazed with care so that no rain could sneak inside. The roof was snug, the stairs did not creak, the doors closed tight to keep out the chill winter winds.

Just before the road curved and the rhododendrons blocked the village from sight, Tony turned for one last look at Lulworth Cove. The stiff breeze blowing in off the Channel whipped his hair, tugged at his clothes. Even the wind was pushing him away.

Once again, he’d stepped in during a difficult time, willing to help, only to discover his help was wanted on just a temporary basis. Once again, he was extraneous. Not needed.

The sole sign of his having passed through this place would apparently be his workmanship on Doyle’s cottage, and the roof of Sylvia’s house. He’d made no impression on the villagers themselves, heading off as they were on an insane course, intent on their plan to steal Ruford’s ship. He thought he’d made a connection, personal ties with the people—Jimmy, Baxter, Marge—but those ties were apparently as ephemeral as footprints on the cove’s beach.

And he’d obviously made no impression on Sylvia, the way she had on him. His plans to stay here with her, plans he had for their future, meant nothing to her.

Well, fine.

He clenched his fists. If she wanted to get herself killed, he was washing his hands of her.

An hour later, Sylvia left the chattering crowd in the inn and stepped outside. The more they’d talked about the plans for stealing the ship, the more excited they became, and the more wretched she felt.

She walked to the edge of the cliff and stared down at the ruins on the beach. Wind blew the cold rain against her cheeks. Seagulls soared overhead and dipped down over the piles of ash on the pebbles—dirty heaps sullying the clean beach, embodiment of all their losses.

She’d known all along that Tony would leave someday, and someday had come. It shouldn’t hurt. But misery weighed her down, crushing, nearly suffocating her. The fact she’d been the one to point out it was time for him to go just twisted the knife in her gut.

She walked back to the manor house on leaden feet. Galen and Gerald sat at the kitchen table, staring silently, morosely, into the bottom of their teacups.

Sylvia couldn’t bear their company. Where was Macbeth? Stroking his warm fluffy body would calm her. She needed his unconditional affection, his soothing purr. Her cat would never question her actions, never abandon her.

She searched the ground floor, then climbed the stairs. Holding her hand against her chest to calm her pounding heart, she opened the door to Tony’s bedchamber and stepped inside.

Assailed by memories of last night and this morning, she gazed around the room. The bed where they’d made love together with such abandon just hours ago was now neatly made. The dressing table where she had shaved him was bare of his brushes and razor. His haversack, which had been slung over the chair back, was also gone.

She slumped against the doorframe and covered her eyes with her hands. She would
not
cry. Since he would not help them anymore, he had to leave. He’d done as she asked, had only done what she’d expected him to do since the day he’d arrived.

Sylvia shut the door and sat on the edge of the bed, where she imagined she could still smell a hint of his sandalwood soap. Through the sparkle of her tears, something bright and shiny on the pillow caught her eye.

A gold ring.

The ring Tony had worn, symbolizing their temporary, make-believe marriage.

It was not his fault she had started to imagine what it would be like to be married to him for real. Wondered what it would be like to wake up in his arms every morning, and go to sleep tucked in his embrace every night. Make love with him—loud, vocal, lively lovemaking that sent her senses soaring—whenever they wanted.

Not his fault that she had grown accustomed to having him at her side, facing problems together, making the insurmountable seem surmountable, the impossible merely difficult, the difficult easy.

She clutched the ring in her fist and held it to her chest.

Not his fault she couldn’t stop crying.

That evening, a cart loaded with hay rumbled to a halt just outside Weymouth. Tony jumped down from the back, wincing in pain as soon as he put weight on his feet, and called his thanks to the driver.

The farmer waved, then slapped the reins on the cart and moved on, leaving Tony beside the muddy road. He hefted his haversack on his shoulder and started trudging toward the docks. He was two days past the date they’d agreed to meet. If Alistair or Nick were still in town, they’d be staying at the Duck and Drake Inn.

Tony limped through the front door of the inn. Smoke and noise assailed him, along with the scents of unwashed bodies and the evening meal. His stomach grumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since early that morning, and it was now past sunset. Hoping to spot Alistair, he wandered through the large crowded taproom, wincing with every step.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” called a familiar voice.

Tony squinted through the smoke, peering at every face until he recognized one. “Didn’t really expect you to still be in town, Nick.” Tony pulled out a chair and sat at the table across from his friend. His feet still throbbed, but not as fiercely as before.

“Obviously.”

Remembering how short of funds he was at the moment, Tony helped himself to his friend’s tankard and drank the contents down in one gulp.

“Had a rough day, did you?”

“That’s not the half of it.” His stomach rumbled again. Would it be beyond crass to ask if his friend planned to finish his meal?

Nick waved at the serving wench, and ordered a meal for Tony and drinks for them both. “My treat. All you have to do is regale me with the details of your conquest.” Nick leaned forward, his elbows on the table, a leering grin on his face. “I want to hear all about your pretty young widow.”

Tony leaned back. “What did Alistair tell you?”

“Only that you abandoned his company in favor of a pretty blonde who appeared in need of a dashing hero and a male body to warm her bed.”

Tony snorted. Hero, indeed.

Alistair joined them at the table and patted Tony on the shoulder. “You give up on her so soon?”

Tony shrugged.