Brighton Road (18 page)

"What am I— What are you doing creeping up on
me in that fashion? It was enough to send me into a fit of
apoplexy."

"I could not sleep. I went into the taproom
to see if I could find a spot more of that brandy." His lips
compressed in a stern manner that by now Gwenda found all too
annoyingly familiar. "Now, madam You will please account for your
own presence."

All traces of Gwenda's recent fright faded
before a rush of anger. She said, "If it is any of your concern,
Lord Ravenel, I am looking for my dog."

"The dog be damned! I will not have you
chasing about this place in the dead of night garbed only in your
bed clothes. Go back to your room at once."

"I will do no such thing." Gwenda bristled at
his proprietary tone. The temerity of the man. He behaved as though
he were already her husband. In any case he was a fine one to talk
of being garbed only in night clothes. It was obvious that beneath
his robe his lordship wore nothing but his breeches. The opening in
the brocade revealed glimpses of a hair-roughened chest. Gwenda had
the grace to blush when she realized she was staring at the
contours of his muscular frame a little too intently.

"Are you not afraid of encountering any
cutthroats, or worse, down here in the dark?" Ravenel asked, a
wicked glint coming into his eye.

Gwenda could see clearly what he was about.
If he could not bully her into obeying his commands, he meant to
frighten her. She raised her chin defiantly. "I am not in the least
afraid. After all, I have ..." Her haughty words faded to silence
as she groped with one hand in the pocket of her wrapper and found
it empty. She had been so pleased with herself for remembering her
slippers, she had forgotten the pistol.

Not about to admit her absentmindedness or
her qualms to Ravenel, she declared stoutly, "Now if you will
excuse me, I am going to find Bert."

She spun on her heel, and marched down the
hall, but she immediately heard Ravenel coming after her.

"I will find the wretched animal," he
began.

"No, thank you. I want no more of your
chivalrous gestures." Gwenda paused outside the door that led to
the kitchens and reached for the handle.

"Of all the ridiculous notions. You'll never
find him in there," the baron said. "I tried that door earlier and
it is kept locked."

When the handle turned easily in Gwenda's
grasp and the door creaked open, she could not forbear shooting him
a look of triumph. She herself doubted that Bertie had come this
way, but she was not about to give Ravenel the satisfaction of
admitting that.

Tiptoeing into the kitchen, she sensed him
close behind her. As she softly called Bertie's name, the light
from her candle spilled over a grease-laden iron stove stacked high
with dirty pots that looked as if they had not been cleaned at any
time during this century. A plump rat stood sampling something from
an unwashed plate, but when the light fell upon it, it quickly
vanished behind the stove.

Gwenda shuddered. "And to think you actually
ate something prepared in here," she could not refrain from
reminding Ravenel.

He grimaced, but all he said was, "I hope you
are satisfied. You can see Bert is not here. The sensible thing for
you to do is—What the deuce!"

He broke off, staring past her with an
arrested expression on his face. Gwenda glanced nervously behind
her to see what had caught his attention.

It was the door that led into the kitchens
from the yard outside. It was flung wide open, the night breezes
and pale moonlight contriving to make sinister rustling shadows of
the trees beyond.

"There's something out there," Ravenel
muttered.

"If you think to frighten me with any
more---"

"Hush!" he commanded as he continued his
intent stare. Gwenda's breath caught as she perceived it too, an
elusive shape slipping through the darkness.

"Bertie?" Gwenda asked weakly.

"I don't think so. Give me the candle,
Gwenda."

She did as he asked but whispered anxiously,
"What for?"

"I am going to see what's out there."

This notion seemed so far removed from
Ravenel's usual good judgment that Gwenda started to protest, but
his lordship was already striding purposefully forward. He flung a
curt command to her to remain where she was, but she took no heed
of that and followed, clinging to his arm. She could feel the
tension cording his muscles, making them whip-taut.

"Gwenda, I told you— Damn!"

She heard Ravenel crack his knee against
something, then he staggered, nearly oversetting them both. When he
regained his balance, he bent to rub his leg, cursing softly. Then
he held the candle so as to illumine the object that had blocked
their path.

Gwenda stared in frowning surprise at a pile
of small wooden casks piled willy-nilly just inside the kitchen
door.

"What is it?" she breathed. "Gunpowder?"

The baron made a closer inspection of one of
the kegs, then a slow smile spread across his face.

"No, not gunpowder, my dear. Brandy. I don't
wish to alarm you, Gwenda, but I believe we have stumbled upon a
bit of smuggling."

Far from being alarmed, Gwenda was flooded
with a sense of relief and disappointment. "Smuggling? Is that
all?"

"I am afraid so, my dear."

"And after all my lovely conjectures about
murders and family curses and ghosts!"

Although Ravenel regarded her solemnly
enough, Gwenda had the curious impression that he was being
hard-pressed to maintain a straight face. "Perhaps we had
better—"

But Gwenda never knew what Ravenel was about
to suggest. A tall shadow suddenly loomed in the kitchen's open
doorway. Gwenda gave a terrified gasp and dove into Ravenel's arms.
She could feel his own heart give a lurch as he tensed to confront
the intruder.

But the moon-silhouetted figure on the
threshold appeared as alarmed as Gwenda.

"Oh, lordy," Rob yelped, nearly dropping the
cask he was carrying as Ravenel directed the light from the candle
full in his face.

For several seconds, none of them moved. As
Gwenda caught her breath, she watched Rob's Adam's apple bob up and
down.

"Miss. Y-your lordship," he stammered. "You
shouldn't be down here." He set the cask down with a dull thud.

"Neither should you," the baron said
pleasantly enough, although Gwenda felt him tighten one arm
protectively about her waist.

"I—I—was just doing a bit of work for Mr.
Mordred," the lad said, twisting his hands. "Moving some molasses
down into the storeroom."

"Molasses, indeed. More like smuggling a bit
of brandy."

They might well have been the king's
soldiers, Gwenda thought, about to clap irons upon the unfortunate
young man from the way Rob's teeth began to chatter.

"Oh, no, mlord! 'Twasn't me. Me and Mr.
Mordred don't do no smuggling. It is old Tom Quince that does that
and he brings the stuff up from the coast for us just to pass
'round the neighborhood."

Gwenda squirmed away from Ravenel to lay one
hand reassuringly on the boy's arm. "Goodness. Don't put yourself
into such a taking. We weren't spying on you—only looking for my
dog."

"Oh!" Rob's expression of relief was quickly
replaced by a furtive one of guilt.

"Have you seen the dog, lad?" Ravenel
asked.

Instead of answering, the boy hung his head.
Gwenda felt a sudden squeezing of fear inside her.

"Rob, what has happened to my dog?"

"Nothing so terrible," Rob mumbled. "But Mr.
Mordred—he made me do it."

"Do what?" Gwenda cried.

"Well, you see, miss, your dog came sniffling
around outside and when he saw Mr. Mordred¬he went for him. Dogs
don't seem to like Mr. Mordred noways. Your Bert took quite a chunk
out of Mr. Mordred's leg."

"Astonishing," Ravenel said. "It would seem
that Bert does possess some sense of discrimination."

Gwenda gave him a reproachful look before
prodding Rob. "And then?"

"I had to do something, miss, or Mr. Mordred
would have shot the dog sure. I tied him up in the stable, and to
keep him quiet, I---."

"You tied him up!" Gwenda exclaimed, allowing
Rob to explain no further. Why, Bertie had never been so abused in
his life. Never had he been thus confined. She could well imagine
what poor Bert must be feeling: confused, terrified at being penned
up in those dark stables.

"We've got to let him out at once," she said
indignantly. She shoved past Rob and was halfway out the door when
Ravenel caught her roughly by the arm.

"Are you mad?" he asked. "You can't go
charging out there. There's a band of smugglers creeping
about."

"Only two," Rob interposed. "Mr. Mordred and
old Tom Quince. But truly, miss, it would be better to wait until
morning."

Gwenda might well have been persuaded, but at
that moment a low, piteous howl carried from the direction of the
stables.

“Bertie!" she cried. "Don't be afraid. I'm
coming.”

Wrenching free of Ravenel, she tore off,
running around the side of the inn and heading for the stableyard.
Mud splashed against her legs from the puddle-soaked yard, but she
had no thought for anything but rescuing her dog. Gwenda heard
Ravenel charging after her, but she, far lighter on her feet,
managed to outdistance him.

Not stopping to draw breath, even when she
reached the stables, she drew aside the bar and flung wide the
heavy door. Bursting inside, she found Bert cowering in the first
empty stall His moist eyes gleamed up at her through the dark. He
whined, attempted to stand, and then flopped back on his
haunches.

"Bertie! What have they done to you!" Gwenda
dropped to her knees in the straw and flung her arms about him.
Bert's head sagged against her chest.

Ravenel burst through the stable door. He
paused a moment, gasping, before starting to scold, "Gwenda, you
little fool—"

"Bertie is hurt." She cut him off, choking on
a half-sob. "He cannot even stand."

The baron frowned and knelt down beside her.
Bertie squirmed with his usual delight to see his lordship. But
when he attempted to greet him, the dog's head lolled to one side.
Bertie's tongue shot out to lick Ravenel's cheek and missed.

The baron sniffed the air. "That boy must
have given Bert some of the brandy to quiet him. The dog's not
hurt. He's as drunk as your coachman."

"Don't be ridiculous. Bertie couldn't
possibly—" Gwenda recoiled as the dog panted in her face and she
smelled it, too: the reek of strong spirits.

"Oh, Bertie," Gwenda groaned. The dog
regarded her muzzily through half-closed eyes. "Whatever am I going
to do with him, Ravenel?"

Ravenel got to his feet, dusting wisps of
straw from the knees of his breeches. "You will simply have to let
him sleep it off."

"I'm not leaving him here in the stables! Not
with that dreadful Mordred likely to come back." Gwenda began
struggling with the knot of the rope looped around Bertie's neck, a
difficult task in the semidarkness.

The baron caught her by the elbow and tried
to haul her to her feet. "I will take care of Bert, Gwenda. But I
want you to slip back to your room before someone catches
us..."

He allowed the sentence to trail off at the
sound of a heavy footfall just outside the stable door. The next
instant light flashed into Gwenda's eyes, momentarily blinding her.
She heard the sharp intake of Ravenel's breath. Stifling her own
shocked outcry, she saw that it was Mordred. He walked with a
pronounced limp, his breeches torn presumably by Bertie's teeth. In
one hand he held a horn lantern, in the other an upraised
pistol.

Ravenel stepped in front of Gwenda so that
the muzzle was aimed directly at his chest. He mentally cursed
himself. At the first hint of anything amiss, he should have forced
Gwenda back to her room.

"You two!" Mordred flinched with dismay, then
spat in disgust. "I might have known. I should have chased the pair
of you and that damned dog back into the storm. But my generous
nature is always getting the better o' me, I had a bad premonition
about letting you stay."

Despite how frightened she looked, Gwenda
inquired, "Oh, do you have those, too?"

Ravenel spoke up in his best voice of
authority. "See here, Mordred. Don't be a fool. Smuggling is one
thing, but—"

"Quiet!" Mordred snarled, his thumb clumsily
struggling with the hammer as he attempted to cock the pistol.

Ravenel prudently held his tongue. He could
tell from Mordred's awkward handling of the weapon that he was a
rank amateur, far more dangerous than a man who possessed any
skill. If Ravenel could only contrive to knock the pistol aside,
his and Gwenda's situation would not be entirely hopeless. He was
confident he could handle Mordred and then there would only be the
boy, Rob, and the one referred to as old Tom Quince.

While Ravenel assessed their chances, a rough
voice called out, "Eh, what's happening here, Mordred?"

A hulking figure lumbered out of the shadows
to stand beside the innkeeper. Ravenel's hopes plummeted at his
first view of "old" Tom. Quince was a giant of man with coarse
skin, a broad crooked nose, and a thatch of salt-and-pepper
hair.

"Nothing's. amiss. I can handle it," Mordred
said, although fine beads of sweat had broken out on his brow.
"Just finish unloading those casks and get out of here before
anyone else sees you."

Tom Quince did not appear in the least
perturbed by this surly command. His eyes traveled contemptuously
over Ravenel, taking in his brocade dressing gown.

"Flash cove." He sniffed. Then his gaze moved
to where Gwenda knelt on the stable floor, her arms clutched around
Bert's neck. The dog's tongue hung out, his bark issuing in a
foolish-sounding gruff.