The Cornish Heiress (10 page)

She had not come. She had to, but she did not. Sobbing with
anxiety, John set the lantern down and wound the reins of the pony into the
bush beside which he stood. It was too long a time. She should have come by
now. He stared back into the dark—and something flickered against the sky, a
double darkness that moved. A sigh of relief moved John’s giant chest. She was
coming. But another moment passed and she did not arrive. John saw the fleeting
movement of shadows again, but it seemed to be in the same place. A furious
gobbling came from his throat and he began to run back, slipping and stumbling
in his haste.

Megaera was nearly done for. No matter how furiously fear
pushed blood through her body to provide energy to her muscles, she was a small
girl and her strength was nothing in comparison to her opponent’s. Despite her
flailing and kicking, Bart had gotten one arm firmly around her and was trying
to cock his pistol so that he could press it against her head and fire. She had
frustrated his attempts to do so twice—once by wrenching one arm free and
drawing her own gun. But there was no chance she could cock it, and Bart had
laughed as he knocked it out of her hand. The second time he did not laugh; in
fact he nearly lost his hold on her when she turned halfway round toward him
and kneed him in the groin. Unfortunately the angle was wrong and Megaera’s
strength was already failing, so that the blow was more startling than
disabling.

It was infuriating, too—so infuriating that Bart stopped
trying to cock his pistol and raised it to strike at Megaera again. It was a
mistake. Before he could hit her the sound of John’s blundering advance, as
heavy and inexorable as a charging bull’s, changed the situation. Bart knew his
opportunity was gone. Even if he let Meg go and cocked his gun, there would be
no time to get them both. If he shot John, Meg would shoot him—if the bullet
stopped John at all, which Bart doubted. And if he shot Meg, John would tear
him limb from limb. Certainly it would be impossible to steal the money she
must be carrying to pay Restoir.

He did the only thing remaining for him to do in the
circumstances, shoving Meg forcibly away from him so that she staggered
backward. She would have fallen painfully, but John was closer than Bart
thought. The big mute caught his mistress before she hit the ground, gobbling
his distress while Bart ran off into the darkness. He paused once, cocked his
gun, and turned, but Meg and her servant were still locked together and were so
dim that he knew he would miss. Bart dared not fire on a chance. That
red-haired bitch would know he couldn’t reload quickly in the dark and would
send the dummy after him. He turned to run again, but before he moved, Meg’s
voice came.

“Get out of the country,” she screamed. “It’s your only
hope. I know you killed Devoran, and I’m going to lay an information with Mrs.
Devoran. Maybe the beaks won’t listen to me, but they will to her. You show
your face again near Bolliet or Treen and you’re a dead man.”

It was the best she could do. Had Megaera been less
breathless and exhausted, she would have pursued Bart. Now that he had attacked
her, her conscience was clear. She would have shot him or had John break his
neck without a qualm. But there was no way to send John after him alone. Because
he could hardly see her gestures, it would be impossible to explain to him that
he must chase, catch, and kill a man. Besides, there was another consideration.
Bart had a gun and Megaera would not for a moment think of risking John’s life
to assure her own future safety.

After her first shock had passed, Megaera was a little
surprised that John had not pursued Bart on his own. She had had to order him
to hit the man who had made lewd suggestions to her—but of course he had not
heard them. He had attacked the man who had grabbed her without instructions,
as soon as he had seen her draw her gun, indicating the man’s act was offensive
to her. By now John had helped her back to the cave and run to the pony to get
the lantern. It was then that she realized that John had never known someone
had attacked her. He had never seen Black Bart in the dark and, she had been
catapulted into his arms well away from her attacker. With all his attention on
her and unable to hear the crashing brush as Bart ran, John would never have
noticed Black Bart’s escape.

That was unfortunate, since Megaera had no way to tell John
that a man he knew as part of the gang—and therefore as trustworthy—was no
longer a “friend”. Tears of fear and pain and loneliness rose in her eyes. Now
that she no longer needed to defend herself, she ached all over from the
beating she had taken. She was shaking with fear and fatigue, but she could not
even lie down and rest. She
had
to ride to The Mousehole and pay Pierre.

God knew what Pierre would think if she did not come, and
there was no one she could send. Even if John knew the way—and that was most
doubtful—she had no way to explain to him that he must give Pierre the money
and a note. No, she must go herself. As she made the decision, her tears
spilling over because she hurt so and the thought of riding the four miles to
The Mousehole was so frightening and depressing, John came back with the light.
He began to tremble when he saw her tears, fearing he had done something wrong,
and Megaera had to wipe her face and force a smile and assure him all was
well—which made her feel even more hopeless and lonely.

In her attention to detail, Megaera had furnished the cave
with a broken comb, a small mirror, and other articles of a female toilette.
Aside from the fact that her hair had come down, she was surprised to see how
little her violent struggle showed. Probably she would be black and blue all
over the next day, but for now, once her hair was done again, she thought she
looked much as usual.

To John’s dull perceptions or to a person who did not care
about her that might have been true; but Pierre Restoir liked and admired his
partner and his mind was not in the least dull. Even in the dim light of the
old inn where smoking oil lamps hung from age-old rafters provided all the
illumination, Pierre could see Meg’s unusual pallor and the fear in her huge,
violet eyes. He jumped to his feet and led her to the corner table near the
back door that was his customary place.

“What ‘as happen’, Mees Meg?” he asked anxiously, speaking
to her, as he always did, in English.

Because she did not need to control her emotions for fear of
frightening John, having left him in the stable with the pony, Pierre’s
question brought tears to Megaera’s eyes again. “Bart jumped me as I came out
of the cave,” she confessed, her voice trembling. “John was ahead and didn’t
notice anything was wrong for quite a while. I had a devil of a time fighting
Bart off.”

Pierre growled deep in his throat. “I warn’ you,” he said
severely. “Did I not say to you to be rid of ‘im, that ‘e was dishonest?”

“Yes.” Meg sniffed back tears. “But how could I? I made a
bargain with him, and he hadn’t done anything until tonight.”

“That ees true,” Pierre admitted, frowning. Then he shook
his head. “The poor John, ‘e ees not clever. Also, because of ‘is deafness, ‘e
cannot protect you when ‘e cannot see you. Eet ees not safe, Mees Meg.”

Megaera shuddered. “I will be more careful,” she sighed.

“That ees not enough,” Pierre protested. “You need someone
to assist you. I see you shake, mees. You should not ‘ave come.”

“But if I hadn’t, you would have thought I—”

“That you intend’ to cheat me? No! I am not so much the
fool. But I would ‘ave worry much what had ‘appen’. Ees there no one you can
trust, Mees Meg? You are young—beautiful—ees there no man…”

“No!” Megaera exclaimed forcibly.

“You do not trust any of us except poor John, eh?” Pierre
said, restraining a smile out of sympathy for Megaera’s shaken condition and
her youth. “One man as betray’ you, I suppose, so all are under suspicion.”

“Now you are saying
I
am a fool,” Megaera
interrupted. “You are right that I have reason not to trust men, but I am not
so silly as to think all are the same.” She smiled. “I trust you, Pierre.”

“Much good that ees, he grumbled. “When you need me, I
cannot be ‘ere. Eet ees not safe for you that my French and Breton crew come
ashore. I wish… Perhaps I will think of something. In the meantime, you will be
careful, yes?”

“Yes. Don’t worry about Black Bart. I happen to know that he
killed a—a gentleman in a nearby town. I have a way to tell that man’s wife.
She’s clever. She’ll think of a way to set the law on him if he shows his face
in this district again. I don’t think he’ll trouble me anymore.”

“Perhaps not,” Pierre said, but somewhat doubtfully. “That
idea ees a good one, but ‘e ees sly, treacherous, that creature. Do not trust
too much to the law. For money they can be blind, and they are not too clever
also.”

“I know. I’ll be careful.”

Megaera reached inside her long jacket and undid the money
belt she had strapped around her slender waist. She touched Pierre’s foot in
warning and then handed over the belt cautiously under the table while she went
on talking about the precautions she would take. There were one or two soft
clinks as Pierre transferred the golden guineas to some small sacks, but
Megaera knew the sound of their voices would cover them. After he had cleared
the belt, it came back by the same route. Without looking at what she was
doing, Megaera folded the cloth into a soft roll and stuffed it into the pocket
of her jacket that was hidden by the wall near which she sat. Only when that
was done did Pierre return to real business.

“I will come again two weeks from Tuesday,” he said, “unless
the weather ees too bad. What code this time?”

“Three short, one long, one short for the house on the cliff
to warn me to come down. I’ll give you two long. You give me one long, one
short, a blank long, and one more short to confirm at the cove.”

Pierre grunted as he wrote the signals down, using a tiny
piece of charcoal on a dirty scrap of paper which he stuffed back into his
tobacco pouch when he was finished. Some smugglers might have objected to the
involved code, which changed for each delivery but Pierre liked the idea. It
was a sign of Red Meg’s caution, and daring though he might be, Pierre also
believed in taking every precaution possible in business matters. No one except
himself and Meg knew the code; no one could learn it by watching. Thus no one
could lure either of them into a trap. Pierre liked the idea so much that he
had begun to use it for his pickups in France, when those were made secretly.

Now, of course, Pierre mostly took on his cargo publicly.
Since Bonaparte had taken over the government of France, things had changed a
great deal. In a sense they were better. Bonaparte had no objection at all to
smuggling wine and brandy and tobacco into England. He needed money to continue
his wars. He needed good English woolen cloth for overcoats and uniforms and
blankets for his army and good English leather boots to put on his soldiers’
feet.

Pierre was delighted with the new system—but that did not
mean he approved of Bonaparte. Other things were not as satisfactory. All
controls on everything had been tightened. There was not a port a ship could
sail into, not even a simple
chasse-marée
, that it was not boarded and
examined. This annoyed Pierre on principle, although it did him no harm. He had
far more tricks for hiding his ill gotten profits than all the Customs men in
France could uncover. Sometimes a layer of fish was stuffed with gold pieces,
sometimes the guineas were nailed to the hull of the
Bonne Lucie
well
below the waterline.

Often Pierre did not sail into a port directly. There were
as many lonely coves on the rocky Breton coast as in Cornwall. A brief trip in
the ship’s tiny boat and the loot was hidden safely to be picked up when
convenient. Of course, the gold Pierre carried home was only a small part of
his total profit. Most of it went in purchase of those British manufactures
Bonaparte desired.

These Pierre brought openly into port, showing bills for
about one third higher than he had actually paid. Since the value of his outgoing
cargo was often known, at least approximately, and Pierre willingly opened his
strongbox to show what remained between what he had been paid and the cost of
his cargo (there were never more than five or ten English guineas there), the
bills looked legitimate enough. He got his money plus the legal profit allowed,
which gave him a most respectable earning ratio and, equally important, the
pleasure of cheating the government that was trying to control him.

The only real problem Pierre had was the purchase of the
English goods he needed. During the spring and summer immediately after the
declaration of war, the English factors who had been dealing with him had been
willing to continue selling to him direct. As feeling against Bonaparte rose
with the threat of invasion and news of French victories, however, the
merchants in Falmouth had become afraid someone would report them for dealing
with the French and accuse them of treason.

Pierre had been wondering whether he could ask Meg to do the
buying for him. She was English and might be able to purchase the relatively
small quantities of material Pierre carried without question. This was no time
to add any problems to those she already had, Pierre decided. Perhaps she would
have thought over his advice and found a more normal assistant than John to
help her by the time he returned. If she had, he would see what could be worked
out. If not… Wait and see, Pierre told himself as he escorted Megaera to the
stable and offered to ride home with her if she felt she needed more protection
than John could afford.

Impulsively Meg raised herself on tiptoe and kissed Pierre’s
cheek. You’re a dear. No, I’ll be all right. No one followed us—I’m sure of
that. I was nervous as a cat and watching carefully. So I’m sure I’ll be all right.”