The Reckless Bride (44 page)

He reached over and took one of her hands, drew it across to cradle between his. “So what will you do for Christmas?”

She met his gaze, softly smiled. “I’d thought to spend it with you. If you’d like me to.”

“I’d like you to.” He raised her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to her knuckles. “This Christmas, and the next, and all the Christmasses to follow, I’d like you to spend them with me, by my side.”

“Well, then.” She leaned her shoulder against his. “We have that to look forward to.”

They didn’t say more, but sat in companionable silence thinking—she hoped—of their shared future, planning,
imagining … rather than dwelling on what dangers and threats currently lay between them and all they desired.

They saw the beam of a lighthouse, felt the ocean swell lift the hull, and knew they’d left the Continent and had started across the Channel itself.

From their position in the prow, they saw various of the crew draw Ned’s attention to something some way off the starboard side.

Leaving the wheel to his first mate, Ned picked up a spyglass, looked, but then shrugged, spoke with his men, and returned to retake the wheel.

Sometime later, when the boat was steadily forging through the waves and dawn was a pale glimmer on the eastern horizon, Ned came walking to the prow. Spyglass in hand, he halted by their hiding place.

“Just as well you stayed out of sight.” He kept his gaze up as if scanning the waves, but tipped his head toward starboard. “There were Indians with black head scarves on a flotilla of boats keeping watch on all the vessels coming out of the river mouth, and those leaving from up the coast, too. Howsoever, they didn’t give us, or any of the other fishing boats, more than a cursory look. Scanned our decks, but didn’t bother coming closer. They concentrated on the passenger boats, the ferries, and the private launches. Saw them come right up alongside one, hanging over their rails and looking at all the passengers.”

Rafe exchanged a glance with Loretta, then looked back at Ned. “Are they keeping pace, or have they stayed by the coast?”

“They stayed—they’re still searching. They’re far behind us now, but some of those boats are fast, so it might be best if you stayed out of sight.”

“We will.” Rafe grimaced at the thought, but there was no alternative.

Ned all but imperceptibly nodded. “At least the winds are
better than I’d hoped for—we’re going at a good clip, faster than I expected. At this rate we should be in Felixstowe by late afternoon.”

“Excellent.” Rafe watched as Ned turned and made his way back to the wheel, then looked at Loretta, met her blue eyes. Arched his brows. “Looks like our luck’s still holding.”

Daylight was waning toward a slatey-gray dusk and the breeze had whipped up to a stiff cold wind carrying the promise of ice and sleet when Ned left the wheel and, spyglass in hand, came striding toward the prow. As he neared, Rafe saw the concern in his face, the worry in his eyes.

Sensed that their luck had run out.

Ned halted by the prow, head up, brought the spyglass to bear as if he were searching ahead.

“What is it?” Loretta asked.

Ned spoke without looking down. “There’s a line of ships—trawlers, yachts, even frigates—between us and the coast. Looks like some sort of blockade.” He paused, then went on, “There are men on board all the boats—not just crew. Some are English ruffians of one stripe or another, but others are foreigners, Indian-looking with turbans and black scarves like before. The sailors are manning the ships, but the other men are giving the orders. They’re stopping and searching all boats from the Continent looking to put in along this stretch.”

“They’re physically searching the boats?” Rafe asked.

“Yes. And we’re not fast enough to outrun them.”

Rafe swore. Stretching out his legs, he started massaging the cramped muscles. “How close are we to England?”

“Close,” Ned said. “Even without a glass you can see the line of the land, the spume of the breakers.”

“How far are we from the nearest enemy ship?”

“About a nautical mile.”

Rafe frowned. “Where exactly are we in relation to the coast? ”

“Wait there.” Ned turned away. “I’ll fetch a map.”

By the time he returned and, crouching, spread a map on the deck in front of their hiding place, Rafe was itching to stand.

“We’re here.” Ned glanced over the gunwale, then pointed again. “The nearest ship, the one waiting to intercept us, is here.”

To Loretta’s surprise, Rafe glanced only briefly at the map, then he looked up, studied the sky, then looked at Ned. “In these conditions, can you swing to the southeast?”

Ned nodded, frowned. “But they’ll follow, and there’s nowhere we can put you ashore until Walton-on-the-Naze, and they’ll come up with us long before then.”

“We’re not going that far.” Rafe stretched up, peeked over the gunwale at the ship ahead of them, then sat back and focused on the map. “You need to take this course.” He traced a path on the map. “Let them think you’re running south to Walton, but as you pass the mouth of Hamford Water, if you slip us over the side in the clinker, I’ll row in. Once we’re closer to shore, the breakers will catch us—with the tide running our way, we’ll get in easily enough. Meanwhile, you and your crew sail on and away. The boat following will follow us, not you—either go on to Walton or back out to sea, whichever you think is safest.” Rafe handed over a purse, the rest of the agreed fee and a sizeable tip, then glanced again at the vessel lying in wait ahead. “If they try to follow the clinker in, they’ll run aground, so the best they’ll be able to do will be to send a rowboat after us.”

“But …” Ned’s concern was back in full measure. He glanced at Loretta, then back at Rafe. “Hamford Water’s all marshes. Once you get through the mouth and behind the Naze, it’s hard to find your way.”

“Unless you had a bird-watching uncle who used to haul you all around Hamford Water every summer for years.” Rafe glanced at Loretta; the look on his face, in his eyes, reminded her that his nickname was Reckless. He grinned.
“I never thought I’d be so grateful to Uncle Waldo, but"— he looked back at Ned—"night or day, I can find my way through there.”

Ned hesitated, but then agreed to the plan.

Loretta didn’t argue. One glance over the gunwale at the vessel drawing ever nearer—at the black-scarf-bedecked figures on its deck—and she was ready to quit Ned’s boat whenever Rafe gave the word.

The next minutes went in brisk preparations as the clinker, suspended over the water at the ship’s stern, was brought aboard and readied for launch over the ship’s starboard side.

Loretta was touched by the sincerity of the crew, who paused by their hidey hole to bob their farewells and wish them luck.

Then Ned, who had retreated to the wheel and was watching the nearing vessel closely, called out a warning, and swung the wheel to the left.

The
Molly Ann’s
prow swung across the waves. The sail swung, was adjusted by ready hands, then swelled, puffed taut, and they started to run.

“Come on.” Rafe took Loretta’s hand and eased out of their cramped quarters. “We need to get ready to go over the side.”

Dusk was deepening toward night when Rafe dropped from the boat’s rail into the clinker, bouncing, suspended over the rushing waves.

Gripping the side of the smaller boat, he steadied, then, planting his feet wide, rose and reached up as the crew passed his satchel and Loretta’s embroidery bag down. He stowed both beneath the crossbench, then, bracing his booted calves against the edge of the bench, reached for Loretta.

It was dangerous to attempt such a maneuver while the boat was running under full sail, bouncing every time it hit a wave crest, but they had no choice. Far better face this danger than the cultists in the boat swiftly following in their wake.

Rafe held his arms up, out, watched Loretta being lifted over the boat rail by one of the crew. The man held her until she got her feet on the deck’s outer lip, held her until she gripped the rail … then he let her go. She held there for a moment, then lifted her eyes to Rafe’s.

“Come on, sweetheart. I’ll catch you.”

She leaned forward, and let herself drop. Rafe caught her, wobbled, but managed to slowly ease her down. He heard her exhalation of relief when, her feet finally on the boards, she slid from his grasp and dropped onto the rear bench.

He quickly sat facing her, checking the oars, then looking around. Ahead. Through the deepening gloom, he could see the spray where the waves were breaking against the shore, but then came a relatively sprayless section—the opening of Hamford Water—then the spray gushed up once more from the waves breaking on the southern promontory’s shore.

He looked up. The first mate was standing by the rail, squinting in the same direction. Then the man called to Ned. Immediately, the boat’s speed slackened, then rapidly fell away as the main sail was loosened off.

Rafe glanced back at the pursuing boat. Earlier he’d used the spyglass to check, and almost wished he hadn’t. The boat didn’t carry just cultists, but assassins as well. They would definitely give chase.

At the moment, however, Ned and his crew had run hard enough to give him and Loretta a reasonable chance to make it into the marshes. After that, Rafe would have to rely on his wits to elude their deadly pursuers.

The boat slowed, and slowed.

Finally, the first mate gave the order and the crew waiting on the winches bent to their task. “Hold on!” Rafe warned Loretta. She grabbed the clinker’s sides with a white-knuckled grip as it jerkily fell, bit by bit, until with a splash they were in the water.

With quick flicks, the sailors released the ropes.

With one oar, Rafe pushed away from the boat’s side, then raised a hand in salute. “Thank you! Now go!”

Grabbing the oars, he bent and put his back into forcing the rowboat through the rolling swell. Once the clinker gained a little momentum and slid out of the boat’s wave-shadow, the waves caught it and pushed it on.

They heard a “Good luck!” come over the water. Loretta twisted around and raised her hand in farewell.

Then the main sail on the boat filled again, and it drew away, steadily gaining speed.

Loretta turned the other way and peered back through the deepening twilight. “The other boat is coming on, but I think it’s slowing.”

Rafe glanced up from his task, confirmed it. “I need you to watch the shore and guide me, so I can row without looking around.”

Loretta instantly faced forward, peering past him at the shore.

“Can you see the tower to your left?”

“Yes. A tall round tower?”

“That’s the Naze Tower. We need to keep it on our left, and aim for the space further to its right where the water runs differently—flatter because it’s rolling in and there’s no shore for it to break against. Can you make that out?”

“Yes.” Her voice grew stronger. “I can see it. At the moment, it’s almost directly behind you.”

“Good. The waves are going to push me off course a little—tell me which way to correct to keep heading for that spot.”

He put his back into rowing while she kept her gaze trained on the shore, every now and then directing him a little to the right to keep on course.

Because she was facing the shore and was so absorbed, she didn’t see the boat that had been pursuing them—a small frigate—draw nearer and nearer, but then veer to the south, slow, and come to a halt, bobbing on the waves. Clearly a local captain who knew of the shoals and tricky shallows at the mouth of the marsh.

As he rowed, Rafe prayed that the captain, knowing of
the marsh, would convince the cultists that there was no point pursuing them … but that was one prayer that went unanswered. Through the increasing spume as they neared the shore, he saw two rowboats lowered over the frigate’s side—with two cultists as oarsmen in each, and an assassin in each prow.

Mentally cursing, he redoubled his efforts.

Loretta signaled for another correction, and he leaned back, hauling the oars through the waves—felt the give, the sudden easing of resistance as they slipped past the line where the surf met the calmer waters of the marsh.

The crest of a last wave caught the hull, lifted it and sent it sliding between the low headlands.

Rafe looked around, desperately locating landmarks, even more desperately making his next plans.

The deeper they went into the marsh, the darker the night became. The dense blackness as yet unbroken by any moonlight or even a glimmer of phosphorescence worked to their advantage. To Rafe’s relief, memories washed through him with the ease of old friends, and guided him. All he needed was the lay of the surrounding land to have a reasonable notion of where he was; silhouetted against the stars, shapes triggered recollections, even in the otherwise pervasive dark.

His senses remembered the different sounds of the water as it slid, softly sibilant, beneath the hull, told him whether he was in a deeper channel, or had strayed too close to a marshy hillock. He used the oars to check depth, then push them on.

Although in this area the advantage of terrain was his, the instant he’d seen the assassins in the rowboats, he’d jettisoned any thought of trying to eliminate their pursuers. Four cultists, and he would probably have made the attempt, but six in all, with two being assassins … it would have been too risky even if he hadn’t had Loretta with him.

So stealth and guile had to be his weapons. He had to
use both to gain as much of a lead over their pursuers as he could, enough to allow them to escape.

God only knew what waited for them ahead, but he’d deal with one problem at a time. Luckily, after deserting them for several hours, luck had again swung their way. The wind had picked up, whistling through the reedy grasses, the eerie sound masking the dip and drip of his oars.

Since slipping into the marsh, neither Loretta nor he had spoken. When she’d glanced his way, he’d caught her eye and signaled her to silence. Sounds carried all too well over water, wind or not. She’d swung around on the stern bench and kept watch, peering back over the marsh behind them.