Drenched and shivering, the man they all sought clung to his refuge, wedged into a crevice in a clump of rocks out in the cove. He’d noticed the jumbled cluster some thirty yards from shore when he’d viewed the cove from the clifftop that afternoon. He hadn’t given it a thought—not until, down on the beach overseeing the search, alerted by some sixth sense, he’d glanced across the ring of flickering light, and in the shadows at the base of the cliffs had seen the one man of all men he never wanted to meet while in his traitor’s guise.

Shocked, mentally reeling, he’d known one instant of pure terror.

Then a second when he’d realized the three crouching figures were waiting for something—something that would come from the sea.

He’d turned, looked—caught one fleeting glimpse of a white face over the waves.

Desperate, mindless self-preservatory instinct had taken over. His only possible escape had lain in instant action. Attracting no attention from the laboring men, he’d walked unhurriedly the few paces to the sea, and kept walking, pulling off his muffler and hat, ducking beneath the waves as soon as he could, slipping out of his greatcoat, then swimming—battling, struggling, desperately fighting—against the swell and the treacherous currents to reach the rocks he’d known were there, but in the dead of night couldn’t see.

If he couldn’t see them, others couldn’t either.

He’d thought he’d never reach them; he’d been flagging, wondering if, after all, his life would end like this—thinking that even if it did it was still a form of triumph, for Dalziel would never know, would be left forever wondering—when his hand struck rock.

He’d gripped, latched on; gasping, shaking—praying—he’d hauled himself into the lee of the rocks, then found the crevice into which he’d wedged himself. Submerged from the neck down, partially protected from the constant sucking surge of the waves, he’d clung, panting. Slowly panic had receded, and he’d regained his ability to think.

The battle on the beach ended. To his disgust but not his surprise, Dalziel’s forces won.

For the immediate moment he was safe, but he had to get away—out of the area—cleanly. Leaving no trace. None at all.

This time, Dalziel had got far too close.

He didn’t waste much time cursing, wondering how his nemesis had so unexpectedly and frighteningly appeared, all but nipping at his heels; the answer was played out on the beach before him. He hadn’t recognized Crowhurst as one of Dalziel’s men, but St. Austell he knew by sight. The way the three consulted made it clear Crowhurst was one of them—and the damn woman—Madeline Gascoigne—was equally clearly Crowhurst’s. Which made her brothers far too dangerous to pursue. If he’d known the connection, he’d never have drawn so close.

He’d survived this long by avoiding Dalziel and his crew—always.

Now…now he had to cover his tracks and get out of the district quickly. If Dalziel so much as set eyes on him down there, he’d guess, and know it all in a blink. If that happened, he wouldn’t see another dawn. Dalziel would act, and in the circumstances he’d be entirely without mercy.

If Dalziel saw him in the area, or in any way linked him with the traitor’s enterprise, his life would be measured by the time it took for his nemesis to reach him. He’d known that from the first; it was now part of the thrill, the lingering satisfaction. Dicing with death and winning was exhilarating.

Reminding himself of that, that he’d thus far triumphed through every twist and turn, he watched Dalziel leave the beach, striding up the path to the clifftop.

Relief slid through him; he hated feeling it, yet he did.

Jaw setting, he determinedly turned his mind to his plans. He knew better than to leave anything to chance, to leave any thread leading back to him, however tenuous, unbroken.

Although chilled to the bone, he remained where he was, watched and plotted—striving to keep the fear that had earlier chilled his marrow from resurfacing and paralyzing his mind.

He saw them round up his improvised army, but none among it knew his name. No threat there. They were marshaled and led away under guard, toiling up the cliff path, some supporting the injured up the steep slope. Other men returned to the boats; he wondered if they might leave one until the morning, but all were pushed back beyond the breakers. Two went south; the others headed north, passing a mere ten yards away. He clung to his rock and made no sound, no movement; in the dark, they didn’t see him, a dense shadow against the black rock.

He waited long after the beach was deserted—then waited still longer. He gazed across the waves at where he’d believed his lost cargo had been buried. Given the complete disinterest shown by Dalziel and his crew to the area lit by the now-guttering flares, and the caves lining the beach, he knew beyond doubt that the boys—both of them—had lied.

Ironic that he, who could lie so well himself, had so easily swallowed their tale. But they’d both looked so innocent, so incapable of guile. So young.

He’d like to get his hands on them and beat the truth from them, but he knew when to cut his losses and run. Even though some part of him presently submerged beneath the necessity of escaping, of staying unidentified and thus alive, howled and cursed and screamed at the loss of his precious cargo, his saner self knew that no amount of gold and jewels, of priceless ornaments and miniatures, would warm him if he were dead.

Would count for anything if Dalziel ever caught him.

He’d always viewed his collected prizes as tangible evidence of his victory over Dalziel, but the true if intangible measure of that victory was his continued existence.

He would, he told himself, make do with that.

After the beach had been deserted for hours and the flares had long died, letting Stygian darkness reclaim the scene, he hauled in a huge breath, eased out of the crevice, and pushed away from the rock. He struck out for the shore. The currents were no longer so strong; he reached the beach, managed to get his legs under him, and staggered up and across to the cliff.

In the dark, it took him a while to find the narrow path leading upward; he climbed it slowly, his boots squelching with every step. He shivered, but now the storm had blown over, the wind had changed; his clothes would dry soon enough.

Reaching the clifftop, he looked north, along the line of the cliffs, the edge of a dense shadow visible against the shifting gray of the sea. Far ahead, he saw a pinpoint of light bobbing, then it disappeared. They’d be searching the cliffs and the coves below, hunting him. He couldn’t risk taking the cliff path, but as it happened, that wasn’t the way he needed to go.

Head down, he struck out across the fields. After scouring the peninsula’s beaches for weeks, he had a decent map of the area in his mind. He plotted a direct course that would take him inland, past several tiny hamlets and isolated farmhouses where he might find a horse. Even if he didn’t, he could easily walk the distance and reach his necessary goal before dawn.

Tags: Stephanie Laurens Bastion Club Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net