The Return of Lord Conistone (32 page)

Dear God. He was out of his mind. Forcing herself to breathe steadily, she lifted her eyes to him, wide, pleading. ‘Untie me, Martin. Please’. She made a huge endeavour to soften her voice. ‘Look—my wrists are bleeding. If you truly care for me, as you say, you cannot want me to suffer. And—if you are
kind
to me…’

She let the hint of a promise slip into her voice. She despised herself for it, but she had no other weapon. The two Frenchmen had gone wading into the sea to haul the boat nearer. Martin lurched towards her, the light of hope in his pale eyes.

‘Kind
to you? Are you saying that there’s a chance, Verena? That you could really feel something for me?’

He was mad, she realised in complete despair, to think she could feel anything but contempt for him. Though her heart was hammering, she managed to murmur softly, ‘Martin, we all make mistakes, don’t we? Please, free me from these ropes, if you have the regard for me that you claim’.

He was breathing hard. ‘I can’t let you go free. But I can loosen them a little’.

‘Then do that.
Please
. It’s hurting so much!’

‘I don’t want you in pain, Verena! Never that!’ He started working at the knot, loosening her bindings.

‘Thank you,’ she breathed. ‘Thank you, Martin…’

One of the Frenchmen hauling in the boat was calling to him. Martin hesitated, then hurried down to the water’s edge.

Instantly Verena fought furiously with her bonds. In relaxing the knot, he’d made it possible—just—for her to work her hands free, though the coarse rope tore into her skin.

Now Martin was coming back, his hand outstretched. ‘Verena, you’re to come on the boat now, they’re taking you to—’

She swung her freed fists up together, hammering them forcefully into his face and clawing at him with her fingernails. He staggered back, the marks of her fingers livid on his cheek. Then she ran. She heard Martin screaming her name, lurching after her, stumbling in the dark.
Aim for the rocks ahead of you. You must climb up through a narrow cleft, then left a foot or two, to the next ledge. Now up again, to the right.…

When she and Pippa were children they used to play games in this secluded cove, pretending they were smugglers. She prayed she could remember the way. The rain had stopped, but the rocks were still slippery.
A steep climb up to the next gap in the rock
. She was on the cliff face now, her skirts impeding her.
Handholds here to the left, and up, up towards the top…
. Not far to go. Not far. Her breath was coming in short, ragged gasps.

She could hear Martin clambering after her, roaring out her name. She was growing tired and was almost at the cliff top when she lost her footing. She recovered herself, just in time, but she jarred her left wrist badly, and felt the splinters of pain tearing up through her arm like a jagged knife.

Martin was after her still, cursing. Somehow she dragged herself on, up towards the cliff top, her lungs on fire. Pain and exhaustion muffled her senses. She must be going mad herself, because she could hear the sound of drums; at first she thought herself back at Busaco, listening to the faint but ominous approach of the mighty army of the French.

Then she realised.
The procession
. She’d forgotten. It was the start of the festivities, for St Luke’s fair! Her father had long ago given the villagers permission to walk through
Wycherley’s land, along the cliff path on the night before the October fair. And they were coming now, with drums and fiddlers, all the locals like Billy and old Tom, and Ned Sawrey and their wives and families. She could see the faint glow of their many lanterns, hear the laughter of excited children.

It was all so happy and normal that she wanted to weep. And all she had to do was get to them. But she could hear rocks tumbling close behind her. Her palms were torn and bleeding. As she heaved herself up the last few feet of the crumbling cliff face, she had to use both hands, and her senses reeled as new and agonising pain tore through her left wrist.

And Martin was getting closer, his voice harsh as he gasped out, ‘You deceived me, bitch! I’ll kill you! I’ve got a gun! ‘

L
ucas had found a ship to take him to Portsmouth, and Alec Stewart insisted on travelling with him. ‘I need to report to the Navy Board in Portsmouth,’ Alec declared, ‘and then I’ll be able to lend a hand. No arguing, Lucas’.

They both knew that Verena could well be in trouble. They both knew speed was essential. But off Ushant a heavy storm rolled up from the Bay of Biscay and their ship had to seek shelter. Lucas, burning with frustration, had no choice but to accept the delay.

He thought all the time of Verena. Why had she flown Coimbra so suddenly? What in God’s name had she heard? He was desperate with anxiety by the time the little ship at last reached Portsmouth, where Alec promised, ‘I’ll follow you, Lucas. I’ll be on my way to Wycherley just as soon as I’ve got my business here sorted’.

Lucas galloped the ten miles to Wycherley in the rain.

Verena was not in the house. Turley said, bewildered, as Lucas strode from room to room calling her name, ‘I don’t understand, my lord! She was with Captain Bryant in the parlour, taking tea less than half an hour ago…’

With Bryant
. God in heaven.

It was then that Lucas noticed the door to the garden was still ajar. He charged out into the darkness, roaring her name, with Turley close behind. Lucas turned to him and almost shook him. ‘She’s in danger, man. We need everyone we can get to search for her, do you understand?’

Turley’s brow was furrowed with worry. ‘Of course. But everyone’s at the procession, my lord’.

‘What procession?’

‘It’s the eve of St Luke’s fair. They were starting off down in Framlington, an hour or so ago. You ride and find them, they’ll help for sure! Oh, Miss Verena, if anything should happen to her…’

* * *

And so Lucas saddled up again in search of the torchlit procession of villagers, and found them closer than he’d dared hope, just above Ragg’s Cove. Billy and Ned were leading the way; the beating of the drums suddenly stopped as he sprang off his sweat-sheened horse to confront them. They gathered round and shook their heads in dismay at his question. ‘Miss Verena’s gone from the house and no one knows where? No, Lord Conistone! We’ve not seen ‘er! But we can get a search party together right now, if you want, my lord!’

It was then that he heard someone calling his name. So faintly, but it was a voice he would know anywhere. ‘Hush!’ he cried. Then he called louder,
‘Verena!
’

The procession had already ground to a halt. Now the music was stilled and the chatter, too.

‘
Lucas…
’. The voice again.

Lucas swung round, gazing towards the cliff. Then he threw his horse’s reins at someone, grabbed a lantern and was running, running for its edge. And he could see her, just a few feet from safety, clinging in the darkness to the
crumbling rock face as stones and dust rattled down the steep drop below.

‘Lucas!’ she called again.

‘Verena’.
Quickly he assessed the situation. ‘We’ll get you safely up.
Hold on…’

Then he saw Martin Bryant, about ten feet below her, pressed into a crevice on the cliff face, aiming his pistol.

Lucas was reaching for his own gun, but before he could shoot, something heavy went hurtling down past his shoulder. Bryant juddered with shock, let out a great cry and toppled backwards into the darkness.

‘Nothin’ like a good lump of rock, Lord Conistone,’ said Billy grimly. ‘And my aim is always spot on. Now, the main thing is to get Miss Verena up to safety’.

Ned was already running to them with a rope; Lucas tied one end swiftly round his own waist, and while Ned and Billy held the free end secure he lowered himself to where Verena still clung and grasped her tightly.

‘Oh, Lucas’. She felt fragile to him, and infinitely precious as she wrapped her arms round his waist and breathed his name.

‘My love,’ he whispered, pressing his cheek against hers. ‘Thank God you’re safe’. He called up to Billy, ‘Pull away!’

* * *

By the time he got her to the top of the cliff and rested her on the sea-turf there, her eyes were closed. He knelt and lifted her hands to examine the scratches that covered her palms; she let out a low cry at that and her eyes opened wide.

‘Damn,’ he swore softly. He saw that her wrist was badly swollen.

He turned. The villagers hovered close by, anxious, silent. Still cradling her, he called to Billy and Matt to
bring him his horse. ‘She’s hurt. I’m going to take her, now, to the doctor’s house’.

‘No, Lucas!’ she argued. She was trying to sit up. ‘You must get Martin Bryant!’

Lucas doubted Bryant would have survived his fall. As well for him if he didn’t. ‘I think Martin Bryant’s taken care of,’ he said softly.

‘But the others—’

‘What others?’

‘There were two Frenchmen, down at the shore, with a boat. Be careful—they’re armed…’

‘Not for much longer,’ Lucas answered grimly. ‘Alec will be here shortly, and he’ll get them in. Right now I’m concerned about
you
. You’ve hurt your wrist’.

‘Oh, that’. She tried to shrug and smile. ‘It’s just bruised…’

‘Bruised! My brave, foolish, beautiful girl, it looks to me very much as if it’s broken. The doctor must attend to it’.

‘Such a fuss,’ she said faintly. And then, half to herself, ‘Miss Bonamy would advise that a lady should never draw attention to her ailments’.

‘Miss Bonamy be damned,’ Lucas Conistone said with considerable force. ‘Billy! Ned! Pass Miss Sheldon up to me, will you?’

He mounted his big horse first, then the careful hands of Billy and the others lifted her up, so he could settle her sideways in front of him. He clasped her tightly with his left hand round her waist, the reins in his right. The warmth of her, the sweet scent of her skin and her clouds of tumbling hair, ravished his senses. The thought of the terrible danger she’d been in tore at him as if someone had stabbed his heart.

He wanted her. And not just physically—though, damn
it, even now the nearness of her, the sweet pressure of her body against his thighs and loins, was setting his lust surging again—but he wanted her at his side, as his life’s companion. She was brave, she was sweet, she was utterly endearing. Who else but Verena Sheldon would have chased him to Portsmouth, endured the company of a shipful of whores, then dragged Bentinck up to Busaco ridge to deliver that vital map?

She was more precious than anything to him. He had gambled all to gain her trust, her love. He’d thought she had come to terms so bravely with the dreadful news that her father was a traitor.

Yet something, in Coimbra, had made her run from him.

But she had called out his name, there on the cliff face. She had turned to him in her moment of need. And now, nestling into him with a little sigh, it was as if she
knew
she belonged in his arms. Damn it all, was there still hope?

* * *

When Verena opened her eyes she realised that Lucas was steadily guiding his horse along the road down to Framlington and she was cradled against his strong, warm body. Feeling his heart beating steadily was enough to make her pain seem as nothing. Above her the black sky wheeled and the stars shone brightly.

‘All right,
querida?’
he murmured.

‘Thank you, I am,’ she whispered. The endearment, from him, sounded so right. So true. She’d thought that Martin Bryant would end her life with his pistol. No one else but Lucas could have been here, at the very place, the very moment, to save her.

Yet he had killed her father.

She could not bear to know the details. Not yet. But her heart ached for what could never be.

She lifted her head to see him frowning, his austere profile silvered in the moonlight.

‘I’m a fool,’ he was saying bitterly as they drew closer to the village. ‘I should have guessed about Bryant much earlier. It must have been he who lit that fire on the cliff to guide in the French who attacked you…’

Of course
. ‘And it was Martin who shot at you through the window, wasn’t it, Lucas?’

He glanced at her sharply. ‘You knew about that? ‘

‘He told me. Tonight. He said, "Conistone escaped my pistol before, but he won’t this time." Oh, Lucas…’ she drew a ragged breath ‘.…you should have told me about
everything’.

He said tersely, ‘And you should have been honest with
me
, Verena. Why in God’s name did you leave Coimbra?’

She felt her throat tighten. He sounded angry. Anguished. How could she say to him now, when he had yet again risked his own life for hers,
‘Lucas, I know that you killed my father?’

She answered very quietly, ‘Maybe I felt I’d done what I needed to do. Paid my father’s debts’.

‘Oh, Verena’. He was cradling her strongly, tenderly, using just one hand on the reins. ‘You’ve paid in full and more. Why punish yourself so?’

She shook her head, speechless. Her wrist was starting to ache badly again. Yet his tender arm around her caused ten times more pain than any physical hurt.