‘So whose job is it to stay on the gig?’ That would make them two fighting men down.
‘Mine, miss.’ He sighed. ‘I’m the smallest and the fastest. Pity. I’d like to ‘ave a go at them treacherous bastards. I gets to fight when we board the French brig, though. We’ll come alongside, tie on and then jump ‘em.’ He held the knife up to catch the light and grinned with blood-curdling anticipation.
‘Ferris, can you get me on board the pilot gig without the captain seeing?’ His mouth dropped open, revealing a snaggle of stained teeth. ‘I can stay in the gig and then you can go up and fight—you’d prefer that, wouldn’t you? I’ve got a pistol and I can fire it if someone tries to climb down.’
Ferris looked thoughtful, and very much like his nickname. She could almost see his pointed little nose twitching as he scrubbed a hand over his whiskery chin. One benefit of dealing with a cunning, unscrupulous, wicked man like this was that he had no concerns about doing something against orders, if it suited him. And, apparently, the opportunity to kill and be killed tempted him more than any fear of the consequences deterred him.
‘Aye, I’ll do it. You’ll need something dark and warm on your top, and a hat.’ He squinted down the beach at the gig. ‘I’ll be in the prow so I can catch hold and tie us off. Cap’n will be in the stern on the tiller. This is what we’ll do …’
‘You will be all right.’ Luc said it firmly, as though giving an order. He had come back to the hut after all. It was a good thing she had not changed into the dark clothing Ferris had given her yet.
‘Of course I will. I know exactly what to do.’ Averil smiled up at him with cheerful reassurance, then made her face more serious. It would not do to let the relief that she felt because she was going with him make him suspicious. And it was foolish to think that her presence could keep him safe. But it would give him one more fighting man in Ferris, and one more pistol.
They stood in the hut in front of the fire, suddenly as stiff and awkward with each other as two strangers at a social function. Kiss me, she urged him silently, as he stood, bare-headed, his hair disordered from the breeze that was getting up, his body indistinct in the dark clothing he wore, with no trace of white at cuff or throat. Luc showed no sign of wanting to even touch her hand in farewell.
‘Will you kiss me goodbye?’ She blushed to ask it and he looked, as far as she could see in the flickering light, less than enthusiastic. How very flattening. I thought men about to embark upon danger welcomed kisses.
‘There is no excuse for a kiss now. We are beyond the need to deceive the men. I wish you well, Averil, and I am sorry if my actions have sullied the innocence you had every right to take to your husband.’ He sounded deadly serious and his voice held, for the first time, the faint trace of an accent as he made the stilted speech. He was probably translating from the French in his head, she thought. Was that a sign that his emotions were engaged?
‘I have to admit that I enjoyed what we did together,’ she confessed. It was hard to resist the temptation to touch his face, caress his cheek, dark with evening stubble. ‘I would like you to kiss me again.’ Must I beg? She was beginning to feel angry with him, and she did not want to feel that, not now.
‘I will kiss you when I get back,’ he said and smiled suddenly and her heart thumped with an emotion she did not understand, although fear was a large part of it. Her stomach felt hollow with apprehension. Was it fear for his life, or her own? Or for what would happen when they left this tiny island behind them?
‘Very well.’ She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, the stubble prickling her lips. ‘Good luck and fair winds.’
He nodded, abrupt and withdrawn again, and she knew his focus was back with the mission, not this inconvenient female who had complicated his life for five days. ‘Goodbye, Averil.’ And then he was gone. She waited for ten heartbeats, then dragged the heavy navy wool Guernsey Ferris had given her over her head, making sure her collar and cuffs were tucked well inside. She stuffed her braid down inside it, then wrapped her head in the brown bandana he had found and blew out the lamp.
She knew the way over the slope of the hill now and she ran, higher than the route Luc would have taken moments before. There was jarring pain in her foot when she stubbed her toe on a rock and she swallowed a yelp, hopped a few steps, then fell into a gorse bush, its thick prickly arms enveloping her in a wicked embrace. She hissed curses between her teeth until she was free and then stumbled along, picking tiny spears out of her hands and arms, until she found herself above the small group on the beach.
They were intent on loading the pilot gig and Ferris was where he had said he would be, in the water, holding the nose of the boat steady. Averil walked into the surf beyond the circle of light and crept back to him until he was between her and the beach.
‘In you get,’ he hissed as the group turned to pick up the weapons that had not yet been loaded. He boosted her up, over the side, and she fell on to the bottom boards. Her ribs found the rowing benches on the way and she clenched her teeth to stop herself crying out. She was going to have a fine set of bruises in the morning.
‘Hold it still, Ferret, for Gawd’s sake,’ someone called as the gig rocked. Averil caught her breath and curled into as small a ball as she could, right up in the prow.
‘Crab got me toe,’ the man called back. ‘Come on then, mates, I’ve got it and I’m ruddy freezing me wedding tackle off, standing ‘ere.’
The boat swayed and rocked as the crew climbed in, muttering and pushing as they got themselves into their rowing positions, the men not at the oars wedged down at the rowers’ feet. Ferris heaved himself on board and sat down, his dripping wet legs draped over Averil’s back. With the rest of the crew facing away from them no one could see her; unless she moved or spoke, she was safe.
What she was not, was comfortable. It was necessary to remind herself whose idea this was, because she found it was all too easy to blame Luc for the discomforts of his pilot gig. The trip seemed interminable; her position was cramped, her feet were stuck in the cold water that washed over splintery boards and the little boat seemed dangerously low in the water as it powered through the waves. Every now and again water slapped over the side, drenching her.
What was worse was the waiting once they had got into position. She wriggled so hard that Ferris let her sit up and peer around, but his horny hand pushed down on her head the momen
t the men began to settle themselves for the wait, turning on the rowing benches to get more comfortable.
They seemed to be in the shelter of some rocks that rose like a jagged crest from the sea, but despite the natural breakwater the pilot gig rocked with the swell, and Averil told herself, over and over, that she did not suffer from seasickness. Not one little bit.
The men were quiet, for sound travelled great distances over water. But Luc was talking, his voice a murmur, barely discernible over the noise of the waves hitting the rocks. Averil could not hear what he was saying, but she felt soothed by it, encouraged. He was calm, so she was, too. A little touch of Harry in the night, she thought, recalling her Shakespeare—King Henry walking amongst the camp fires as his troops waited for dawn and the great battle against the French.
She must have dozed as she huddled at Ferris’s feet because the whisper from the men took her by surprise. ‘The light! He’s signalling.’ She wriggled round and peered over the edge of the gig and there to the northeast a pinprick of light flashed on and off, on and off, then swung back and forth. Then it was gone for the space of perhaps ten seconds before the pattern was repeated. The men shuffled and bent down, she saw the flash of starlight on metal as weapons were handed around and heard the click as pistols were primed.
Then all there was to do was wait, and now the anticipation in the pilot gig was tangible and her mouth was dry and her heart pounded so much that she did not hear when the order was given. The men fitted the oars back into the rowlocks and began to propel the boat out from the shelter of the rocks.
As they slid into open water she saw the brig, sails dark against the slightly lighter sky, the bow wave a froth of white showing its speed. ‘Go!’ Luc said and the gig shot forwards, turned and angled in on the other vessel. She thought they would be rammed, then that they would plough into the side of the ship, but Luc brought her round so they slid alongside with scarcely a thump. Ferris flung himself up, his feet trampling on her as he lashed the ropes to the brig. All along the side other arms were working, heaving ropes, making fast. The pilot gig was tethered, riding alongside as the brig forged onwards. And no voice shouted from on deck. They had achieved surprise, Averil realised and started breathing again.
Luc stood up and she saw him clearly for the first time: a silhouette reaching for the ropes. Leading from the front, she thought with a surge of pride that killed the fear for a moment. The men scrambled after him in ferocious silence and then she and Ferris were alone on the tossing gig.
‘Check all the ropes,’ he whispered. ‘And keep checking. Get everything together and bundle it into that net, ready to swing up. You got the pistol?’