Scandal's Daughter (34 page)

Wrapping her Greek cloak about her, Cordelia pillowed her head on her hands. “I do hope this will be our last night in the open,” she sighed.

“Come now, it’s better than a cowshed!”

“True, and it’s not snowing, not even raining. There’s absolutely nothing to complain about!” she said tartly.

She lay awake for a while, tense, wondering whether James would seize the opportunity to make another assault on her virtue. The atmosphere of the cowshed had not been conducive to desire. Here the air was full of the fragrance of the wild roses.

But he did not approach her and soon she heard his even breathing. She wasn’t sure whether she was glad or sorry. On the whole it just went to prove that he was only attracted to her when emerging half-asleep from a dream, that his offer of marriage was purely a matter of honour.

A tear leaked from one eye. Fiercely she wiped it away and turned onto her other side. She must concentrate on her favourite fantasy, which was not of James loving her but of her father overwhelmed with joy at her return. So soon now...

The next thing she knew was lanternlight on her face. As she blinked up at it, a hoarse voice demanded, “
Que diable faites-vous ici?”

For a moment she simply could not remember what the devil they were doing there. Then, before she could speak, the light glinted on a pair of pistols and another voice advised, “Shoot ‘em!”

Chapter 30

Blindfolded, gagged, their hands tied before them, James and Cordelia were hoisted aboard the
Alouette
in a net like a couple of barrels. At least, various inarticulate grunts and snorts made Cordelia assume James was suffering the same fate.

“They was with the goods,
mon capitaine.”
The hoarse voice. “Gaspard wanted to shoot ‘em.”

“You didn’t say nothing about passengers, mon capitaine.”

“Monsieur did not warn me to expect passengers.” A deep voice, slightly more refined. “Put them in my cabin. I’ll deal with them when we’re under way.”

Rough hands hustled Cordelia across the deck. Then she was lowered, hands under the armpits passing her down to hands around the waist. She gurgled a protest as she was clasped to a brawny sailor’s chest. He chuckled, but released her. A moment later she was shoved forward. She took two stumbling steps, then James—it must be James—blundered against her.

“
Baw!”
he said. Damn?

A door slammed, followed by the click of a key in a lock.

Uttering her own peculiar sounds through the gag, Cordelia felt for James’s sleeve and tugged downwards. If they sat on the floor, they would not keep bumping into each other. Despite her tied hands, she herself subsided to a cross-legged position with the graceful ease of much practice. How long ago and far away Istanbul seemed!

James sat on her foot. “
Oy.”
Sorry? He shifted. Then she felt his fingers on her face. He touched her nose, ran a fingertip down it, and tugged at her gag. “
Ur ow.”

Guessing, she turned around. He fumbled at the back of her head, and the gag loosened. Cordelia raised her bound hands and pulled it free.

“Oh, well done! Now I’ll untie yours.”

Either his gag was tied tighter or she was less efficient. She fiddled with the knot in the cloth for what seemed like an age. His hair was caught in it, and the several “
Ow
”s her groping elicited were probably not intended to express anything but pain.

At last the knot gave way. “Thank you,” he said. “I trust you have not left me quite bald. Dare I ask you to tackle the blindfold next or will the scanty remainder of my locks go with it?”

“No, keep it on. Not because of your hair, but because they must have covered our eyes so we cannot recognize them. If they come in and find we can see, they may decide just to drop us overboard for safety.”

“Good point,” James agreed. “They would not have taken the trouble to blindfold us if there was not a chance they might let us go free.”

Cordelia nodded into the darkness. “That is what I have been hoping. I daresay they might be nervous if they see our hands untied, too. Perhaps we should leave our bonds be, if you are not in pain.”

“It’s uncomfortable but not half so tight as the Greek brigands tied us. And even with our hands free, we could not possibly fight off captain and crew.”

“I am sure they will be reasonable when they hear our story.” She laughed, somewhat wildly. “Oh James, I believe I must be growing quite inured to danger! Here we are on a French smugglers’ ship, bound hand if not foot, sailing towards a part of the sea where we were recently shipwrecked, yet I—”

“Don’t remind me of the sea,” he groaned. “I’d almost managed to forget that beyond the mouth of the Gironde the rolling waves await us.”

She hastily changed the subject. “I wonder what Captain Hamid is doing now?”

“Patrolling the Turkish Empire in search of some other fugitives, I suppose, and keeping the roads safe for honest travellers. A few troops of Janissaries on the roads in England would soon do away with highwaymen, but the English continue to hold out against even an organized police force.”

James continued to hold forth on the contrast between English and Continental notions of civil liberty. Cordelia scarcely heard a word. She rarely recalled that when she met James he had been a fugitive from justice. She had taken him for a criminal, but perhaps his crime had been something only the Turks regarded as such, something quite permissible in England.

Lord Godwin and Lady Millicent Halsey had accepted him as perfectly respectable. It was Cordelia whose respectability had been doubted.

How she longed to be safe in the bosom of her family, Miss Courtenay, daughter of Sir Hamilton Courtenay, Baronet, a young lady of impeccable, unquestionable reputation! Then, if James should come a-courting...

Impossible dream. “Who are the Bow Street Runners?” she asked, catching a phrase at random. She did her best to be interested in the answer, and soon found she really was.

She asked a question about Sir John Fielding, the Bow Street magistrate, and suddenly James started laughing helplessly.

“What is so funny? Did I say something gooseish?”

“No, no,” he gasped. “A very sensible question. It’s just that here we sit blindfolded with our hands tied, discussing the administration of the law in Britain while awaiting the judgement of a French smuggler! As you said, we have become perfectly accustomed to danger.”

“Not quite perfectly.” Cordelia’s voice quavered just a trifle. “I wish you had not reminded me. I hate to feel so helpless.”

“My dear girl, I’m sorry. Perhaps we should try to untie our hands after all, so that I can at least put an arm around you for comfort. Or, who knows, we might find something—”

A heavy tread outside the door told them it was too late. The key clicked in the lock.

“
Eh bien
, Gaspard, bring your pistols if you will, but remember the sound of a shot carries far over water. There are quieter ways to silence police spies.”

A faint light leaked past Cordelia’s blindfold. Her wrists ached as clenching her fists tightened the bonds about them. She forced herself to relax her hands.

“
Bon soir, monsieur le capitaine.”
James sounded as insouciant as if he had just been introduced by a mutual acquaintance.

“
Bon soir, mon brave,”
said the deep-voiced smuggler dryly. “Bon soir, madame. I see you have disembarrassed yourselves of the gags. You will forgive these little inconveniences, I hope. My men were perhaps overeager, but monsieur did not give me notice of your coming.”

“Monsieur?”

“Ah, so you were not sent by a certain monsieur?” Now the captain’s tone was distinctly threatening. Cordelia wished she could see his face.

Incredibly, James laughed. “I doubt you would grant the title of ‘monsieur’ to any of those who sent us.
Citoyen
is the best a peasant can expect.”

“Peasant! Much as I dislike Monsieur Grignol, I should hesitate to describe him as a peasant.”

“Grignol? Who is Grignol? Not the gentleman you thought might have sent us, I take it.”

“What does it matter who Grignol is!” Cordelia burst out. “Monsieur le capitaine, we are English. We were shipwrecked on the coast.” Telling the story of the helpful, hospitable turpentine gatherers, she finished, “So, you see, we assumed they had arranged with you to pick us up.” How she wished she could see his face!

“An extraordinary tale, madame, too extraordinary to have been invented by that pig Grignol. You can pay for your passage, I hope?”

“
Oui, monsieur.”
All their money had been left on the
Badger
, but Cordelia still had a few diamonds left.

“
Très bien
. Gaspard, remove the blindfolds and untie their hands.”

The captain turned out to be a black-bearded man the shape of one of the barrels in his illegal cargo. As Cordelia, her hands released, stood up, he bowed to her and invited her to take one of the velvet-covered chairs. The cabin’s luxurious furnishings suggested that smuggling was a most profitable business.

Freed, James took another chair. “Who—excuse me, Cordelia, but I should really like to know!—who is Grignol?”

“He is the
préfet de police
at Bordeaux. Monsieur the owner of the
Alouette
is also a high official, and they are at drawn knives.”

“So that’s it!” said James.

“Monsieur, you understand, is a wine merchant since generations. In centuries the trade with England has never been stopped by a foolish matter like war.”

“I was sure those barrels must be full of brandy.”

“Cognac and the best wines of Médoc, besides a few bales of silks and some lace. Anyone might guess this, Grignol certainly, but it is of all things the most unlikely that he should find out that monsieur sends also térébenthine, to a good customer who has some use for it. This is why your story is credible, madame.”

“Besides,” muttered Gaspard, “it is now too late to contact
ces salauds de la police.”

The captain’s laugh boomed out. “It is true. However, as a precaution you will stay below until we are past the Cordouan lighthouse and well out at sea.”

James groaned.

“My brother suffers from mal de mer,” Cordelia explained.

“I’m surprised I’m not already suffering.”

“There is little wind, the Gironde is smooth. We go with the tide and the current.”

“
Peu de vent, voyage lent,”
said Gaspard, with a broken-toothed grin at James’s grimace.

“If the winds are light,” Cordelia consoled him in English, “perhaps you will not be sick. And a slow voyage makes no difference since you adjust after a few days anyway.”

“I know. It’s just that being so close to home I’m in a hurry to get there.”

“What are they saying?” Gaspard asked suspiciously, fingering the butt of his pistol.

“Nothing of importance,” the captain assured him.

“You understand English, Captain?” said James. “I suppose it is to be expected since you do business with English smugglers.”

“Free-traders,” said the captain in English, then switched back to French. “But I learned to speak from them and they tell me I have such an
accent de Cornouaille
that others cannot understand me.”

“I shall understand you,” James assured him with a smile. “I grew up in Cornwall.”

They chatted together. Cordelia gathered that they were talking of the dangers of the Cornish coast, the rocks and cliffs and currents, and the hundreds of ships wrecked there. She was quite glad she could not follow much of what they said. Her head began to nod.

“Eh bien,” said the captain at last with a satisfied nod, “now I am sure you are truly English. Welcome aboard the
Alouette
. You are free to go where you will. Mademoiselle, if you will graciously accept the humble hospitality of my cabin, monsieur shall have a hammock ‘tween decks.”

The hammock turned out to suit James. As long as he stayed in it, out of sight of the ocean swells, he felt quite well. Of course, he had to leave it for certain necessary occasions, but he always hurried back.

As a result, he never did adjust to the ship’s roll. Cordelia saw little of him, for there were always several off-watch sailors nearby, snoring in their hammocks or drinking and dicing, and she did not like to intrude. She spent a good deal of time sitting cross-legged on deck, watching flying fish soar over the sparkling waves, feeding scraps to squabbling seagulls, sometimes talking—in French—with the captain. She learned all there was to know about his family at home in Bordeaux, but still she had a lot of time with nothing to do but think.

Her thoughts ranged back over the past months, the dangers she and James had faced together, the triumph of obstacles overcome, the sweet moments of peace. She remembered arguments, laughter, desire. And the desire had not all been on his side, she acknowledged. In that she was her mother’s daughter.

Yet she had not succumbed, not quite. What if she did, what if she let passion play, let James have his way with her? If she were no longer virtuous, would he feel himself released from his obligation to marry her to save her reputation?

Should she stop fighting his notion of honour and become his wife though he did not love her? Perhaps her love would suffice for both—but she could never take the marriage vows as lightly as had Mama. If James found no happiness as her husband, she did not think she could bear to see him stray.

Mama,
she cried silently,
what shall I do?

Mama had considered her “darling Dee” wiser than herself, yet now Cordelia would have given anything for a few words of advice. And still more for the comfort of her mother’s arms about her. Tears trickled down her cheeks and burying her face in her hands, she wept. Whatever her faults, Mama had loved her.

Fortunately, Cordelia was not given too many days to brood. A brisk breeze took the
Alouette
’s sails. She skimmed around the Breton peninsula and into the English Channel. Soon the Cornish coast was a low, grey mass on the horizon.