Authors: Elizabeth Squire
‘I’m so sorry, Papa,’ she whispered under her breath.
She blinked back the tears burning behind her eyes and slid the watch back into its pouch. Her hand trembled as she looped the fob about her neck and returned the timepiece to the valley between her breasts; with any luck a good watchmaker would be able to restore it to working order.
The toll of a bell, closer now, punctuated the sound of large canvas sails moving with the force of the wind. Liliane stilled and held her breath, listening intently to the intermittent creak of ropes and pulleys straining to hold their weight. Underlying everything was the steady whoosh of water giving way to a ship’s wake.
Without warning, the rain eased to a fine mist and the clouds broke to allow the thin light of the setting sun to filter through. Afforded a better view of the rolling ocean Liliane sat up and looked towards the sound of the bell.
Oh good Lord!
The outlines of three large ships loomed before her. Menacing was the only word she could think to describe them.
A flare arched across the dismal skies to signal that the nearest vessel, a second-rate ship-of-the-line, was altering course to close in on them. A shout from its crow’s nest pierced the gloom. In response, dark shapes began rapidly bobbing backwards and forwards across the deck. Liliane’s jaw clenched tight, her teeth cutting into her bottom lip. British it may be, but the tiny fishing smack was not going to be permitted to proceed unchallenged.
She shivered as more water sprayed over the boat’s prow, loosening her grip on the handrail—but if she were to move now, she would surely be seen.
Apprehension rapidly turned to icy alarm and raced down her spine. The deck of the giant ship came alive as orders were bellowed and men raced to furl the giant sails. The man-o-war slowed while its companions, like sentinels prowling the darkened ocean, continued on their course.
After what seemed an eternity, the great ship drew abreast—an imposing menace that obscured the setting sun and cast a deep shadow upon them. Liliane looked up, and froze. A lion couchant graced the scroll bearing the Royal arms.
Heaven help her.
She had attended this ship’s commissioning not four years earlier and her uncle had taken her on board for a tour shortly afterwards. But worse still, it was this very ship’s captain who had been in attendance during last week’s dinner. He’d drawn her into an informative discussion on the Royal Navy’s forward projection of sea power before adjourning to the library with her uncle and Sir Avery.
So this is what he had meant
.
She bit hard on her bottom lip to calm her racing thoughts. She had listened politely at the time, but she’d imagined English warships prowling great open oceans, not menacing tiny fishing smacks in the middle of the Channel. Yet now, towering three decks above them, the ninety-eight gun ship-of-the-line was projecting its power upon them and threatened to destroy her carefully made plans. She’d just become the very subject of those same tactical manoeuvres Captain Rotheram had so carefully explained to her.
Liliane swiped her clammy hands through her hair, dragging it back from her face. The great ship was a mere twenty yards from them, and now Marines, silhouetted by the setting sun, were preparing to line the upper deck. Their blood red uniforms, a startling contrast to the backdrop of white sails, were nothing when compared with the fearsomeness of their bayoneted rifles. Shivers rippled through her body. Desperate not to be seen, she sunk lower to the deck.
A splash towards the ship’s stern alerted her to the unmistakable sound of a longboat hitting the water and the knot in her stomach grew tighter. She angled her head towards the movement and listened avidly to the harsh words and coarse language of the sailors as they pulled on the oars and propelled the launch towards them.
From across the distance a clipped voice hailed them in English. ‘I am Captain Edward Rotheram of His Majesty’s Ship
Dreadnought
. You are operating in contravention of Admiral Cornwallis’s blockade of these waters. State your business and prepare to be boarded.’ Switching to French he sought clarification. ‘
Parlez vous Anglais
?’
Captain Joe scrambled portside and hastily responded. ‘Hold up there, Guv. Yeah, I parlay On-glay. Captain Joe Ewer, skipper of the
Lady Boadicea
. We’re out o’ Folkestone, chasin’ the herring. There be a good run on tonight now this ‘ere storm’s about passed us over.’
Liliane crouched lower.
Lady Boadicea
. How providential, a warrior queen. Perhaps there was hope for her yet.
Behind her, Captain Joe was speculating upon the warship’s mission as he urged his crew to prepare to embark the
Dreadnought’s
boarding party. ‘That ship be off to somewheres, mark my words. I bets she’s makin’ ‘er way to hunt down old Boney his self.’
Liliane twisted around as her cramped muscles began to tremble in protest to her crouched position. Helpless, she watched as Captain Joe dropped the boat’s mainsail. The deck of the ketch was suddenly left open and exposed.
Her thoughts flew in every direction, only the wheelhouse stood between her and detection. Wildly eyeing her surrounds, she remembered the pile of nets in the forward hold just a few feet to her right.
Of course!
A quick look towards the marines confirmed that they had not yet assumed their positions along the ship’s railing. Before she could consider the matter any further she scrambled across the short distance to the stowage hold. Her hip screamed in protest, sending shards of pain splintering down her side. She narrowed her vision to the pile of nets before her and shut all else from her mind until, reaching the hold, she quickly clambered over the side and lowered herself into it.
Gingerly she eased herself under the nets, determinedly trying to ignore the ribbons of dried seaweed and fish scales, and the way the pungent scent assaulted her nose. The hold was only waist deep, but with the nets to conceal her it would be enough to protect her from prying eyes.
She fought the need to stand and see what was happening, when mere yards from where she crouched, the longboat drew alongside and crashed violently against the ketch. The fishing boat shuddered at the impact and then a flurry of footsteps could be heard scampering across the deck as sailors hastened to secure the lines in preparation for receiving the boarding party.
Confident that she wouldn’t be seen, Liliane peeked out over the rim of the hold. The longboat had been secured aft of the ketch. She half expected to see the deck of the fishing boat swarmed with marines. Instead, after several ungainly attempts, two Midshipmen, incongruous in their cocked hats, white pantaloons and gilt edged Hessians, succeeded in boarding the
Lady Boadicea
. The youngest couldn’t have been more than a boy of fifteen.
Once they had suffered an effusive greeting from Captain Joe, one of the boys began to idly wander about the stern of the fishing smack, giving a cursory glance to the activities of the fishermen. Liliane watched him intently. Her breath hitched tighter with each step he took. She was safe in the hold, but the minute he stepped past the wheelhouse, she would surely be discovered.
The Midshipman drew level with the main mast when Captain Joe, seeing his direction, beckoned him over. After a moment’s hesitation and another cursory glance towards the ketch’s prow, the young officer shrugged his shoulders and hastened back to the skipper’s side. With a look of ennui worthy of any Ton ballroom, the boy joined his shipmate in examining
Lady Boadicea’s
log books.
They probably board fishing boats all the time, Liliane realised. To them, the
Lady Boadicea
would be unexceptional. She sunk down and pulled the nets over her head and exhaled a bottomless sigh. That had been close. She would thank Captain Joe later for his timely intervention.
Liliane fidgeted impatiently in the cramped hold, anxious for the boarding party to leave, when the sound of heavy boots drew her eyes upward. Damn, one of the Midshipmen must have decided to inspect the hold after all. She peered up through the heavy nets searching for the source of the noise and her senses collided.
Oh, my.
Standing above her, arms folded across his body, he stood silhouetted against the bleakness of the twilight while wind whipped dark hair about the shadowed planes of his face. His body was swathed in a multi-caped greatcoat, unbuttoned and billowing about him. He must have come over on the longboat, yet she hadn’t seen him come aboard. He was obviously not one of the ship’s company, yet his very stance embodied the power of the ship and the dark ocean around him.
Fearing she would be seen, Liliane sat motionless. The man’s features were indiscernible; still, she felt his strength radiating towards her, drawing her in, enveloping her. But it was the low timbre of his voice that held her attention, sent frissons of awareness sparking through her.
Snippets of his conversation washed across the short distance that separated them. He spoke in the short clipped vowels distinctive to the men of her class, his speech carrying with it a depth of unquestionable authority. But his words, carried to her on the wind, drowned her in a deluge of dread. Whoever he was, this man could destroy her.
France, February 1805
Liliane sat opposite her cousin Solange, gingerly sipping a mug of honey mead. Around them the air was thick with smoke, layered with the pungent smell of onions, hops and sweat. The local village inn was loud with the lunchtime patronage of local farmers and fishermen whose conversations were punctuated with raucous laughter and ribald jokes. One of the men nudged his companion and gestured towards her. She fidgeted self-consciously and tucked her blue woollen shawl more securely across her shoulders. Goodness, they behaved like they’d never seen a woman in here before.
A hush momentarily descended upon the room. Solange leaned towards her and whispered. ‘Be ready,
ma petite
. He’s here.’
Liliane glanced over her shoulder. As her gaze swept the room she was arrested by the sight of a figure silhouetted in the doorway.
Heavens above
. She momentarily closed her eyes, his image imprinting upon her brain. Now this man was definitely no fisherman. Even in the crowded noisy tavern his presence was imposing. Mesmerised, she studied him further. His body was encased in a white linen shirt and buff breeches, while ink black hair fell across his brow, drawing her attention to hooded eyes and a firmly set jaw. He stepped into the room and casually looked around the tavern, running his hand through his hair to push it back from his face. Her fingers tingled, and she lifted her own hand to her hair, twisting the sable strands between her fingers, wondering if his hair would feel as soft and silken.
Liliane froze.
Oh Lord, he was watching her.
The loose tendrils that tangled about her fingers singed as though she had been caught running her hands through his hair. The air around her seemed to ripple and she felt, rather than saw, the moment he decided to move. Holding her gaze, he moved from the doorway and light flooded back into the room. Her breath caught in her throat. It was incongruous that a man of his height could move with such surety and grace, almost a menacing prowl. Although one thing was certain, there was absolutely nothing dandified about him. As he made his way through the tavern his commanding posture induced the inn’s patrons to step aside in deference.
He drew closer and she jerked back around to face Solange. How mortifying to have been caught staring at him. She flicked a look of uncertainty towards her cousin. Surely he wasn’t the man they were here to meet? This man didn’t accord with the image she’d painted in her mind. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting—perhaps someone older, less imposing. Someone safe. Not someone whose very presence drew the attention of every person in the room. And certainly not someone who, with a single glance, could induce her to forget precisely why she was on the wrong side of the Channel, drinking mead and speaking in French, instead of shopping on Bond Street.
Solange reached across the oak table and enfolded Liliane’s hand between her own. ‘Remember, this is simply the initial meeting. You just need to let him believe you are Liliane Beaumont, and that you’re my younger cousin – well, that last is true enough,’ she smiled wryly. ‘Leave the rest to me. I’ll convince him that you’re suitably qualified to accompany him on this mission.’
Liliane nodded. ‘And no one has heard of me because I’ve been living with relatives until recently.’ With her uncle and guardian, Nathaniel Manning, the Duke of Martinbury, if one was to be precise. But if that information were to come to light she would be arrested as a British spy.
Solange nodded her head. ‘Precisely. Your actions will restore the honour of our family. Our
grandpère
would be proud of you.’
Liliane pushed a stray curl back from her eyes and swallowed the lump in her throat. Solange’s confidence in her was warming. To think, until a week ago they’d only ever communicated by way of letter.
A shadow fell over the table and she looked up. And blinked. This was the man she was about to entrust her very life to. Except he didn’t look particularly happy to see her sitting here. Perhaps she had been too precipitous in agreeing to Solange’s plan.
Her mouth dried and she was seized by a sudden urge to flee: the man intended to sit next to her. Liliane hastily shuffled over but he took up most of the space, crowding her into the corner, his shoulder and thigh pressing intimately against her.
The unfamiliar contact was startling. And yet she wasn’t afraid; the strength he exuded was compelling, and very distracting. She didn’t dare move. His leg, against the softness of her hip, was an unrelenting band of iron; one that pulsated with vitality and warmth and made her very aware of the differences in their bodies. She pulled her woollen shawl tighter about her and picked up her glass of mead to relieve the sudden dryness in her mouth. Not that it did anything to assuage the searing heat that had raced through her and scalded every sense she possessed.