Читать книгу The Uncompromising Lord Flint - Virginia Heath - Страница 13

With the beach now firmly in her sights, Jess began to relax. For a little while the turning tide and her own newly crushing guilt had almost beaten her and sent her careening towards the rocks, but she had fought it like she fought everything and escaped a foamy death by the skin of her gritted teeth and through sheer stubborn determination.

She’d lost sight of her floating prison long ago as that same tide had taken her briskly around the rocky headland and sheltered her from sight. Only then had she removed the makeshift turban she had fashioned out of a green-velvet cushion cover and that had undoubtedly helped her dark head to blend into the vast expanse of ocean. Close up, she was a ridiculous woman with a cushion on her head. From a distance she was merely one of the many kaleidoscope colours that made up the English Channel.

Later she would take a moment to selfishly congratulate herself, right now she had to drag her exhausted body to the beach and find a place to hide. The last few months, and Saint-Aubin’s cruelty, had taken a toll on her body and, despite religiously exercising every day in her cell to maintain her fitness should an opportunity present itself, the laboured swim had pushed her to the limits of her endurance.

Every stroke made the muscles in her arms and legs scream in rebellion. The partially healed welts on her back stung thanks to the salt water. Even her lungs hurt—but she was free. That heady feeling superseded all others and spurred her on. When her feet finally scraped shingle, she stood gratefully and, with the last of her severely depleted energy, dragged her aching body the last few yards, then collapsed exhausted on her knees to catch her breath before the next leg of her journey. She daren’t hang around too long. Lord Flint would be furious when he realised she had duped him and would have that ship sailing up and down the coastline searching for her.

Jess allowed herself a triumphant smile which slowly slid off her face when she took in her surroundings.

Incroyable!

The isolated and tiny beach she had washed up on was secluded. It had that in its favour. But little else. The ragged rock formations she had seen at a distance were enormous close up and ringed her tiny bay, effectively cutting it off from everything else. Walls of solid rock loomed menacingly. The crescent cliff jutted out to sea at both ends, meaning to leave she either had to take her chances with the crashing waves again and swim around them or forge on ahead and scale the craggy wall in front of her.

As it wasn’t a sheer cliff, more a haphazard collection of giant boulders on top of one another, climbing seemed the lesser of two evils. But with no rope to aid her and a life-long fear of falling to her death making her dizzy, it was only marginally less dangerous. Gelatinous, slimy seaweed coated every surface, waiting to send her careening to the ground. Aside from ignoring the fear, she would need a great deal of strength to achieve it. The muscles in her arms and legs were quivering from the exertion of her frantic swim and the dangerous, powerful waves which had done their level best to smash her against this very cliff. Jess had nothing left to climb a mountain—and these jagged rocks might as well be a mountain in her current state. They clearly displayed an obvious waterline, telling her in no uncertain terms that this narrow beach wouldn’t exist when the tide turned and she would be at the mercy of the sea again—probably very soon. The sudden urge to succumb to tears had her crumpling into a ball.

She was petrified of heights.

The thought of them left her paralysed and shaking.

Rationally she knew that fear stemmed from breaking her ribs after falling out of a tree at the tender age of twelve shortly after being displaced in France. She also knew that it wasn’t so much the fall that was responsible for this persistent phobia, but the dreadful way Saint-Aubin exploited that fear afterwards. In her youth, whenever she became too rebellious, he would drag her to the roof of the chateau and use his superior strength to lean her over the ledge precariously until she promised never to defy him again. Finding a twisted and perverted delight in hearing her beg for mercy and confessing how much she feared him. Later, in Cherbourg... Involuntarily she shuddered. The beatings... The window. Saint-Aubin’s mocking laughter at her fear, reminding her he would happily allow her to plunge to her death the moment she ceased to be useful or dared to defy his express instructions.

While she gave the guards the run around and defied them for as long as she was physically and mentally able, it didn’t take long for her to selfishly surrender to just the beating from Saint-Aubin, pathetically confessing that nothing in the world scared her more than him. In case he truly did send her tumbling to her death while in the grip of his all-consuming and bloodthirsty temper.

Now that she knew for certain men had died because of that weakness, did that make her a traitor? Was she more like her self-centred mother than she realised.

Now there was a comparison she had never imagined possible—that like her mother Jess had eventually complied for an easier life.

She quashed the errant thought ruthlessly as she vowed to ignore the irrational way the fear of the cliff set her legs a-quiver and her stomach lurching.

She wasn’t a traitor. Not intentionally at least. And she would make amends for all her unwitting crimes, because they were unwitting and the alternative had been her own demise when her soul internally screamed she deserved to live. Just once she wished luck or God would favour her. Just once! Was that too much to ask after all the obstacles she’d had thrown in her path? All the ordeals and pain she had been subjected to. It wasn’t fair!

It wasn’t fair!

But whining and wailing about it was pointless.

She swiped the tears away angrily. Self-pity wouldn’t get her out of this mess. Neither would luck. Jess would simply have to do what she always did and endure. She hadn’t come this far to fall at the last obstacle. Going up was much easier than going down, because going up meant not having to look down. Down was her nemesis after all. It wasn’t that high and once the cliff had been climbed then she truly would be free and clear.

Which was all she had ever wanted.

Wearily, she stood and wrung the seawater out of her hair, then spent a few minutes squeezing it out of her clothes. By her best guess it was late afternoon, so there were many hours of daylight left, which in turn meant she could put a good few miles of road between her and the sea before nightfall as soon as she had conquered her irrational fears. Focusing on what came after might lessen the nerves.

With no idea where exactly she was and no destination in mind, common sense told her she would need to stick to the small lanes and paths rather than the main roads. From somewhere she would need to procure a hat to disguise her waist-length hair. A woman in breeches was probably still a scandalous sight in England and with her slight frame and distinct lack of height, there was a good chance she could pass for a boy. Lord Flint’s fine silk waistcoat now protected her modesty, so there was no chance of inadvertently flashing her bosoms to anyone else who happened upon her. Jess was still mortified that he had seen them—or most of them. The wet linen left little to the imagination.

Of course, he had been nonplussed, the horrid man. The brief flash of temper she had witnessed when he had caught her in the water was swiftly buried under his emotionless, aristocratic expression back on deck. Only his stormy green eyes gave any indication of his mood. He didn’t like her, hardly a surprise, and found her an inconvenience. But he had been kinder than anyone had in a long time and that alone made her predisposed to like him a little bit even though she hated him with a vengeance, too.

Jess turned a slow circle and considered the best route out. Neither end of the tiny bay looked better, so she went with instinct and took the one beyond the foaming rocks she had battled to swim around. The initial boulders were worn smooth by the sea, allowing her to climb tentatively up several feet before the ragged, smaller rocks above stalled her pace. Although considerably less slippery, they were sharp and chiselled nicks in her skin if she stepped on one incorrectly. She didn’t dare look down, or up, or even side to side, knowing that focusing on the solid wall in front of her was the sight least likely to send her head spinning and her stomach lurching. Using her small hands wedged between the crevices or the occasional tenacious clump of coarse foliage, Jess was able to take some of the weight of her body from her feet, but not much. The saltwater dripping from her sodden breeches infiltrated the cuts and added to the pain. She ignored it. Onwards and upwards towards better things.

Midway, well past the ominous waterline, she paused on a flattened ledge and risked a brief gaze out to sea, making sure her eyes never dipped down. Still no sign of the frigate or Lord Flint. Either he had yet to discover she was missing or they had taken the direct route to land and were miles shy of her position. Perhaps God had heard her prayers and had sent the powerful currents to save her? Both things made her smile and as a reward Jess allowed herself five minutes of rest which then gave her a burst of physical and mental strength to continue upwards.

She could do this!

The final stretch was steep but easier, thanks to a thick blanket of grass which covered the rock that now gently tapered to form a hill rather than a sheer cliff. The ground beneath her feet was now reassuringly solid again.

Another blessing in a life sadly devoid of them. Finally, her time had come to escape and it felt marvellous. The cuts on her feet would heal, the scars on her heart would fade and maybe one day she would know what it felt like to not be terrified all the time. A staggering possibility that was becoming reassuringly more real, despite the dreadful height, with every laboured step.

As she left the sea behind, it appeared she had found the most deserted bit of England to land on. A narrow spit that jutted out to sea, completely devoid of buildings or even a path to suggest somebody occasionally visited. Another of today’s fine blessings that she didn’t have time to enjoy, but one day in the future she would venture back here with a picnic and simply sit and take in all the spartan beauty properly. The only signs of life not plant based were the many sea birds that swooped along the shore line and nested in the cliff.

Jess was all alone and free.

For the first time in years!

That giddy realisation caused a tiny bubble of laughter to escape her throat. She’d done it! Against all the odds and solely using her own wits and sheer damned stubbornness, she had escaped both Saint-Aubin and the British Navy. The laughter wouldn’t stop, so she took herself well away from the terrifying edge and threw her head back, allowing it free rein. A minute of indulgence. Surely she had earned that?

‘There she is!’

The shout from above caused her heart to stop. Ce n’est pas possible! But it was.

Lord Flint crested the top of the hill and was closely followed by most of the crew from the ship. The tears came then as her throat closed with the pain of defeat, like the hangman’s noose choking the last vestiges of hope and all of her foolish dreams. What did God have against her? Could he not see this was all so unfair? Or did he not care? Was her soul indelibly stained with the sins of her mother and her own weaknesses despite her best efforts to make amends? Just once, she wished that God would help her. But, of course, he didn’t. Because she was on her own.

Always had been.

Her wits returned in a whoosh to counter the blind panic, her head whipping from side to side to find the best escape route. She had got this far without help and she was not dead yet! Jess wouldn’t allow it. The sea of grass and gorse and sailors was the only way out, unless she threw herself over the rocks behind her.

‘Fan out, men! We have her cornered!’

Sadly true, but Jess had come too far to give up all hope now. Like a banshee she launched herself forward. If she could just get past them...

She used her shoulder, hunched low, to barrel into the first man, then simply kept on running, darting sideways to avoid the grasping hands of another. Like sheep, they began to herd together and follow her, closing the distance with each stride of their legs, yet still Jess ran. Her lungs burned and she could hear nothing over the sounds of her rapid heartbeat.

Someone grabbed her collar and tugged, pulling her backwards on to the ground. The strong smell of cabbage announced her assailant better than words. For him, her capture would be intensely personal. Jess twisted in an attempt to loosen his firm grip a split second before the back of his meaty hand cracked across her jaw and stars exploded behind her eyes. After that, despite all her best efforts, she could barely keep them open.

There were shouts.

Just one man shouting.

He was angry.

Livid.

‘You bastard!’

Jess heard another crack, then a dull thud. Through a fog she saw the toothless sailor lying flat on his back next to her, groaning.

Faces.

Many faces. From the past and from the grave. Her mother. Her long-forgotten father. The innocent men she had unintentionally sent to their slaughter...but only one pair of eyes. Green like the grass she lay on. Very green.

Gentle hands brushed over her forehead.

‘Jessamine? Can you hear me? Can you...?’ Jess felt another tear leak out of her eye and drizzle down her cheek. She didn’t have any fight left to stop it.

It was all so tragically unfair, but maybe fully deserved.

Her dark eyes had fluttered open and she stared into his briefly before she passed out. A bruise already marred her perfect cheek and a tiny trickle of blood oozed from the cut on her lip. Both piqued his rage and made Flint want to pummel the toothless sailor for daring to take his hand to a woman. Then he had momentarily lost control, something he rarely did, and sent the fellow flying before rushing to her aid.

Now, with her dark hair fanned out on the snowy white pillowcase and her face pale, those fresh bruises stood out in stark relief alongside the dark shadows he now saw beneath her closed eyes. In slumber, Lady Jessamine looked nothing like the calculating traitor or the confrontational termagant who had showered him in stale bread. She looked vulnerable and alone and painfully delicate.

Except she wasn’t delicate. Far from it.

It took physical and mental strength to swim close to two miles of the English Channel, fight the current and crashing waves and then scale a small cliff barefoot and, God help him, a large part of him admired her for that. She was desperate to live and who could blame her? Were he facing a date with the hangman, Flint would doubtless react in a similar manner and would fight for his life till his dying breath. Hell, he’d even swim the channel to get back to safety if push came to shove.

The utter devastation on her face when they found her again was not something that he could easily forget either. Guilt had been his first reaction before he’d ruthlessly corrected his emotions, but the weight of that guilt still lingered and plagued him. Obviously misplaced. After all, Flint had a weakness for a pretty face and a sultry pair of eyes. Lady Jessamine had both and used them mercilessly to get her own way.

Those emotive eyes had tricked him once already. The more he thought about it, the more her initial escape from the boat seemed gallingly like a preamble. During questioning, she must have spotted the only unguarded route of escape in his cabin and then what followed had been a contrived way to get back in that cabin and be left all alone.

‘I am not to be afforded the basic dignities of a human being after all.’ Those manipulative and mournful eyes had brought shame on him when he should have planted his feet firmly, shrugged and informed her that prisoners did not have the right to privacy, so she could change in his presence or remain dripping wet.

Lady Jessamine had used his chivalrous nature against him and then left him to look like the biggest of fools in front of the entire crew. Once bitten, twice shy...yet his whole being was at odds with his level head and wanted those traitorous eyes to be telling the truth.

When they had tracked her down on top of the cliff, the disbelief and the horror which had skittered across her features before she appeared to glance heavenwards in exasperation had bothered him. Still bothered him nearly three hours later, truth be told, because just one solitary tear had rolled heavily down her cheek. Flint had watched her swipe it away defiantly as she refused to surrender, almost as if she was embarrassed to be vulnerable, despite the fact it was obvious escape was futile and she was clearly exhausted.

The second fat tear had unmanned him and he had felt compelled to brush it gently away with his thumb before he began issuing orders to have her battered and prone body moved. Flint had carried her the first mile himself before men arrived with the stretcher, her slight body unhealthily slim in places beneath his hands, yet her heartbeat against his own was strong and steady and determined.

It called to him and the proud memory of it held him still. Flint hadn’t left her bedside, claiming that he was responsible for the prisoner, when in truth he had needed to stand guard over her to ensure that no more harm came to her. What the hell was that about?

Although it didn’t take a genius to work out she had come to harm before and not just from the heavy-handed sailors on the ship. After the innkeeper’s wife had undressed her and swaddled her in a clean nightrail, Flint returned with the doctor. He had asked the physician about the red scars on her wrists, although he knew, deep down, what had made them. Manacles. There had been another similar, yet considerably faded band on one of her ankles, too. At some point in the not so distant past, Lady Jessamine had been chained to something. By whom or why he had no idea. A rival gang of smugglers? Ruthless gangs wouldn’t care if she was a man or a woman. All they would care about was stealing the bounty, something she was undoubtedly guilty of. Except...

He shook his head, annoyed at the overwhelming need to be chivalrous and magnanimous over the more pressing constraints of his mission, and paced to the window rather than continuing to stare at her in concern. After years of chasing the worst sort of criminals, after he had nearly lost his father to a villainess’s bullet, he should be able to differentiate between a traitor and a woman. A traitor was a traitor no matter what body they happened to occupy. All his training, experience and deep-set beliefs were screaming at him. Remember the mission. Always remember the mission. A mantra which he fundamentally adhered to and believed in with every fibre of his being. Unfortunately, mission aside and as the only brother to five women, he couldn’t overrule the instinct to protect one. Even though she probably didn’t deserve it. Something he would do well to remember if he was going to complete this particular mission.

A mission that was now delayed, the well-laid plans hastily adapted to accommodate this unforeseen change in circumstances. That couldn’t be helped. The life of a spy was unpredictable at the best of times and Flint prided himself on his adaptability and his meticulous ability to plan. Their route to Plymouth would be a little more convoluted and they would arrive a few hours late, but they would arrive and would still take the main road to London as planned. If anything, the short delay would give the Boss’s men time to stew and become restless, which would play in Flint’s favour. Every bloodthirsty cutthroat he had ever dallied with had been impatient and unpredictable. Much like the vixen in the bed.

Behind him she murmured, obviously distressed, and Flint hurried to her, his lofty mission and deep-set beliefs instantly forgotten once again.