Surrender. Brenda Joyce
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beautiful woman. She hardly thought that, but she knew her looks were striking and hard to miss.
Henri had been made comfortable in one bed, and Aimee in another. Laurent and the innkeeper had stepped aside, and were speaking in hushed tones. Evelyn thought that they were both grim, but there was urgency in the situation. She smiled at Bette, who was tearful and so clearly frightened. Bette had been given the choice of going home to her family in Le Loire. She had chosen instead to come with them, fearing being hunted down and interrogated if she did not.
“It will be all right,” Evelyn said softly, hoping to reassure her. They were the same age, but suddenly Evelyn felt years older. “In a matter of moments, we will be on a ship, bound for England.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Bette whispered, sitting down beside Aimee.
Evelyn smiled again, then walked over to Henri. She took his hand and kissed his temple. He remained terrifyingly pale. She would not be able to bear it if he died. She could not imagine losing such a dear friend. And she knew just how dependent she was on him.
She was not certain that her aunt and uncle would welcome her back into their home, if need be. But that would be a last recourse, anyway.
The innkeeper left and Evelyn quickly hurried over to Laurent, who seemed stricken. “What has happened?” she asked, with another curdling sensation.
“Captain Holstatter has left Brest.”
“What?” she cried, aghast. “You must be mistaken. It is August the fifth. We are on time. It is almost dawn. In another hour, he is taking us to Falmouth—he has been paid half of his fee in advance!”
Laurent was starkly white. “He happened upon a very valuable cargo, and he left.”
She was in shock. They had no means of crossing the Channel! And they could not linger in Brest—it was too dangerous!
“There are three British smugglers in the harbor,” Laurent said, interrupting her thoughts.
There was a reason they had chosen a Belgian to take them to England. “British smugglers are usually French spies,” she cried.
“If we are going to leave immediately, the only choice is to seek out one of them, or wait here, until we can make other arrangements.”
Her head ached again. How was it that she was making the most important decision of their lives? Henri always made all of the decisions! And the way Laurent was looking at her, she knew he was thinking the same thing she was—that remaining in town was not safe. She turned and glanced at Aimee. Her heart lurched. “We will leave at dawn, as planned,” she decided abruptly, her heart slamming. “I will make certain of it!”
Trembling, she turned and went to a valise that was beside the bed. They had fled the city with a great number of valuables. She took a pile of assignats from it, the currency of the revolution, and then, instinctively, took out a magnificent ruby-and-diamond necklace. It had been in her husband’s family for years. She tucked both within the bodice of her corset.
Laurent said, “If you will use one of the Englishmen, Monsieur Gigot, the innkeeper, said to look for a ship named the Sea Wolf.”
She choked on hysterical laughter, turning. Was she
really going alone to meet a dangerous smuggler—at dawn and in the dark, in a strange city, with her husband near death—to beg for his help?
“His ship is the swiftest, and they say he can outrun both navies at once. It is fifty tons, black sails—the largest of the smuggling vessels in the harbor.”
She shuddered, nodding grimly. The Sea Wolf…black sails… “How do I get to the docks?”
“They are three blocks from the inn,” Laurent told her. “I think I should come with you.”
She was tempted to agree. But what if someone discovered them while she was gone—what if someone realized who Henri was? “I want you to stay here and guard le comte and Aimee with your life. Please,” she added, consumed with another intense wave of desperation.
Laurent nodded and walked her to the door. “The smuggler’s name is Jack Greystone.”
She wanted to cry. Of course, she would do no such thing. She pulled up her hood and gave her sleeping daughter one last look.
Evelyn knew she would find Greystone, and convince him to transport them across the Channel, because Aimee’s future depended on it.
She hurried from the room, and waited to hear Laurent slide the bolt on the door’s other side, before she rushed down the narrow, dark corridor. One taper burned from a wall sconce at the far end of the hall, above the stairs. She stumbled down the single flight, thinking of Aimee, of Henri and a smuggler with a ship named the Sea Wolf.
The landing below let onto the inn’s foyer, and just to her right was the public room. A dozen men were within, drinking spirits, the conversation boisterous. She rushed outside, hoping no one had noticed her.
Clouds raced across the moon, allowing some illumination. One torch lamp was lit on the street. Evelyn ran down the block, but saw no one ahead and no one lurking in the shadows. Relieved, she glanced back over her shoulder. Her heart seemed to stop.
Two dark figures were behind her now.
She began to run, seeing several masts in the sky ahead, pale canvas furled tightly against them. Another glance over her shoulder showed her that the men were also running—they were most definitely following her.
“Arrêtez-vous!” one of the men called, laughing. “Are we frightening you? We only wish to speak with you!”
Fear slammed through her. Evelyn lifted her skirts and ran toward the docks, which were now in front of her. And she instantly saw that cargo was being loaded onto one of the vessels—a cask the size of several men had been winched up and was being directed toward the deck of a large cutter with a black hull and black sails. Five men stood on the deck, reaching for the cask as it was lowered toward them.
She had found the Sea Wolf.
She halted, panting and out of breath. Two men were operating the winch. A third stood a bit apart, watching the activity. Moonlight played over his pale hair.
And she was seized from behind.
“Nous voulons seulement vous parler.” We only want to speak to you.
Evelyn whirled to face the two men who had been following her. They were her own age, dirty, unkempt and poorly clothed—they were probably farmworkers and thugs. “Libérez-moi,” she responded in perfect French.
“A lady! A lady dressed as a maid!” the first man said, but he did not speak with relish now. He spoke with suspicion.
Too late, she knew she was in more danger than the threat of being accosted—she was about to be unmasked as a noblewoman and, perhaps, as the Countess D’Orsay. But before she could respond, a stranger said, very quietly, in English, “Do as the lady has asked.”
The farmers turned, as did Evelyn. The clouds chose that moment to pass completely by the moon, and the night became momentarily brighter. Evelyn looked into a pair of ice-cold gray eyes and she froze.
This man was dangerous.
His stare was cold and hard. He was tall, his hair golden. He wore both a dagger and a pistol. Clearly, he was not a man to be crossed.
His cool glance left her and focused on the two men. He repeated his edict, this time in French. “Faites comme la dame a demandé.”
She was instantly released, and both men whirled and hurried off. Evelyn inhaled, stunned, and turned to the tall Englishman again. He might be dangerous, but he had just rescued her—and he might be Jack Greystone. “Thank you.”
His direct gaze did not waver. It was a moment before he said, “It was my pleasure. You’re English.”
She wet her lips, aware that their