Fire at Midnight (23 page)

The tiny boat awaiting them rocked as the churning sea tossed it about, and the fierce wind nearly lifted the cloak off her shoulders with a single forceful blast. Simon shoved her into the boat, and she glanced up toward the great golden halo of the lantern silhouetted against the moonless sky.

Did Sebastién stand at some darkened window, looking down upon them? She could never have conceived of such an elaborate plan to place her into her uncle’s hands. What would his payment be for betraying her? She felt the sting of the howling wind and turned her face fully into the gust, willing the cold, bitter wind to dry her tears.

Within the uppermost reaches of the Eddystone Lighthouse, the unattended lantern continued to cast its light. On a lower floor, a small storeroom was filled with the sound of shallow breathing As Sebastién lay still on the floor, blood oozing from a gash in his head.

He lay sprawled where he had fallen after the demented youngster with the strange eyes had hit him with an andiron. The boy had freed him from the chair, but only after he had freed him from consciousness.

V
ictor Brightmore paced the front hall of Sebastién Falconer’s cottage. The Frenchman would be dead by now, and Emerald and Simon would drag Rachael through the front door at any moment. As good fortune would have it, Emerald had been eavesdropping when Simon sat in a pub boasting about having ransacked a residence in Helston, and the tidbit had led them to Rachael.

The peculiar seventeen-year-old was one of Victor’s gang of wreckers. He had no knowledge of the boy’s background or even his real name; he had dubbed the boy “Emerald,” after his pale, changeling eyes.

The boy had exhibited an uncanny flair for the wrecking life. He killed without scruple, and now had proven his loyalty by convincing Simon to share his story with Victor.

Simon had freely shared information Victor would have been willing to buy. Simon resented Falconer’s treatment of him, and he was eager to take part in any scheme against Rachael. Victor’s conversion of Simon to a collaborator was necessary because Simon had participated in the theft of enough incriminating evidence against him to send him to the devil as a bondservant for the rest of eternity.

If Jacques Falconer had not spread word up and down the coast that the Frenchman had kidnapped James to force a meeting with Rachael, Victor might never have learned that James was also within his grasp. The infant and Falconer’s housekeeper were confined to an upstairs bedroom, and one of his men was posted outside the room to ensure they remained there. Having no desire to see his nephew or hear his mewling cries, he had not ventured upstairs.

The wind keened eerily. The frame of the cottage groaned, and the windows rattled under the onslaught of the battering gusts. The light from a candle on a nearby table flickered. As a sudden violent funnel of air shattered a window, he dodged splintering glass and cursed as all the candles in the room were simultaneously extinguished. Only the lantern resisted the savage blast. Victor grabbed it and sat with it perched upon his knee, waiting.

The winds slammed against the small craft, and the sea rose up in a churning swell around the boat. Tarry Morgan looked out toward the Eddystone Light, which still seemed far away, despite Winstanley’s claim that they would reach the landing area in less than a quarter hour. As they had sailed from the Barbican Steps and headed into Plymouth Sound, the rough strength of the sea had intensified.

It had not been easy to convince Winstanley to allow him to tag along with the repair crew. Tarry had searched for Rachael and the Frenchman by combing coast, moor, countryside, and now ocean in his hunt. This trip to the Eddystone Light was a last, desperate effort to find them. Tarry knew that Winstanley had given Rachael a key, and he could only hope she had lived to use it.

As they approached the tower, Tarry grasped the edges of the plank he sat upon when the sea pitched and rolled beneath the vessel. He shielded his eyes and looked up toward the bright beacon.

“The lady still stands!” Winstanley yelled over the howl of the wind. “No storm can defeat her.”

Tarry stared dully toward the brilliant light. He shuddered, blaming the wind for the chill that suddenly passed through him.

Sebastién heard the thunderous racket of boots pounding stairs. The gash in his head throbbed and bled as he crouched in the corner brandishing the only weapon he could find, a chair leg. As the footsteps grew closer, he crossed the room and hid in the blind spot behind the door, clutching the piece of wood.

He followed the sound as it progressed down the gallery toward the tiny space he occupied. So, they had come back to kill him. Well, he was ready for the bastards.

Sebastién was teetering on the brink of madness, at the very edge of rage. He had nothing to lose, and it made him dangerous. Rachael had been taken from him. She would be returned to him, unharmed, or a bloodbath would be visited upon those responsible.

The bolt was eased back and someone advanced into the storeroom with caution.

He did not allow the opportunity for a first strike against him and swung the length of wood with vicious purpose, grunting with the effort. The blow caught the intruder across his midsection with such power that the slightly built figure crumpled to the floor in a heap.

“The tiny insect with the deadly sting,” Sebastién snarled as he bent down to the boy who had tormented him. The chair leg had splintered from the force of the blow, and Sebastién held only a fractured stalk of lumber in his hand.

“Christ, Falconer!” Tarry groaned. “Is this how you deal with your rivals?”

He froze, staring into the darkness as he tried to put a name or face to the vaguely familiar voice. A lantern extended by a disembodied hand forced light into the darkened chamber, and Sebastién saw a man holding a pistol pointed at him. Then there were other voices, and a crowd of curious faces pressed into view around the door frame.

He backed away from them and crouched in a fighting stance, teeth bared, arms outstretched, fingers flexing in spasms, as if daring them to approach.

Henry Winstanley and his repair crew gave Sebastién all the distance he required.

“I ain’t goin’ near ‘im,” one man whispered to the other.

“Aye, I don’t want whatever it is ‘e’s got,” the second man replied. A third nodded vigorously, his eyes huge ovals in his face.

“Morgan, are you hurt?” Winstanley asked. He kept his eyes and his pistol trained on Sebastién.

Tarry rose slowly, dusting off his breeches, and probed his ribs with a grimace. “I’m all right,” he said. “He just knocked the wind out of me.”

“You, sir, are a trespasser in this tower,” Winstanley informed Sebastién. “The Crown will not object if I shoot you.”

“Wait! I know this man,” Tarry said. “I will vouch for him.”

Sebastién directed a surprised, distrustful look at Tarry.

“You know him?”

“Yes,” Tarry said. “We know some of the same people,” he said, with a double meaning that was not lost on Sebastién.

He gave a shallow nod of understanding and opened his mouth to speak, but Tarry broke in, leveling a look of caution at him when he spoke.

“His name is Duncan. He is a mute.”

Although one word from a thickly accented Frenchman might provoke dire action from the French-hating Winstanley, Sebastién still resented being silenced.

“What is he doing here?” Winstanley asked.

“Oh, Duncan is apt to turn up anywhere,” Tarry said. “Usually where one least expects him,” he added as he locked eyes with Sebastién.

“He looks deranged,” one of the men said.

“He’s a bit of a simpleton; makes his home out to Polruan. He’s harmless,” Tarry added, avoiding Sebastién’s incensed regard.

“Unless you happen upon him in the dark,” Winstanley commented dryly.

Tarry laughed, a loud, nervous giggle. “I’m certain I gave him quite a fright.”

“From the look of him, I’d say we weren’t the first to frighten him tonight,” Winstanley observed. He took a step toward Sebastién, his speech measured, as if he spoke to a dim-witted beast. “There, son, don’t be afraid. We only want to help you. That’s a nasty cut you’ve got—”

Sebastién emitted a threatening, guttural sound, and Winstanley hastily stepped back.

“Maybe you’d best tend to him while I see if I can find Paxton. If he’s gone off on another drunk—”

“Perhaps he got Duncan to watch the light for him. The boat is gone. Paxton must intend to return later.” Tarry failed to mention that the room in which he had discovered “Duncan” had been bolted from the outside.

“Take your friend down to the first floor chamber,” Winstanley said. “There is a small metal box beneath the bed that contains clean linen and a salve Paxton swears will cure everything from pimples to the plague.” Winstanley motioned his men out of the room ahead of him and drew Tarry aside. “See if you can find out what happened to him.”

Tarry nodded. “I intend to do just that.”

Tarry was miffed to discover that his charge had gone off in the opposite direction and went in pursuit of Sebastién, closing the distance two and three stairs at a time. They collided on the upper landing, Tarry noting at once that the Frenchman had managed to recover his weapon.

“I see you found your sword. Where is Rachael?”

“Taken by two of Brightmore’s men. I’m going after them.”

Tarry’s face contorted as his worst fear was confirmed. “Then you’ll need my help,” he asserted.

“
Non
,” Sebastién said. “I want no distractions.” He paused. “I intend to kill the men who took her.”

“I am not asking if I may go along. I’m telling you I’m going.”

“Ah,
oui,”
Sebastién said furiously. “You will impale yourself upon some wrecker’s sword so that Rachael may blame me for it!”

“You won’t get off this rock without me,” Tarry warned. “I may just lock you back up in the storeroom and go after her myself!”

Lantern light flickered with the sound of tread upon the stairs. “If you value your life,” Tarry advised, “you’ll continue to play the part of a mute.”

“What’s this?” Winstanley said when he saw them. “I thought you’d have Duncan bandaged up by now.” He noted the sword that hung at Sebastién’s side. “Is he giving you trouble?” Winstanley indicated the brawny men who flanked him. “Do you need help?”