She smiled. Openly smug. “I have three brothers. I don’t fight fair.”
He didn’t blink. “You’ve been trained.”
She raised her brows. “Well, of course. Did you think only men could wield swords?”
He was clever enough to make no reply. She let her smile soften, lifted the sword’s tip from his throat. “My father taught me, then had me taught, so I could later teach my brothers, then have them taught.”
Raising the sword, she studied it, then looked at Gervase. He’d said nothing throughout-hadn’t moved an inch- yet she’d been conscious of the explosive tension that had gripped him the instant Dalziel had “threatened” her.
She met his gaze, then tossed the sword to him. “I have my own weapons-I had them brought from the Park.” She looked at Dalziel, but it was to Gervase she spoke. “You needn’t worry about me on the beach-any locals there will recognize me, the others at the very least will know me for a woman, and just as you did, they’ll underestimate me. They won’t strike hard-they’ll imagine I’ll be easy to disarm. But underestimating women is never wise.”
Stepping around Dalziel, she headed for the door.
Behind her Gervase shifted. “We’ll have to wade through surf waist-high or deeper-”
“You needn’t worry.” At the door, she turned and met his eyes. “I won’t be wearing skirts.”
With that final decisive declaration, she opened the door and went out.
Gervase stared at the partly open door, remembered the early dinner waiting for them. He looked down at Dalziel. His erstwhile commander slowly sat up; draping his arms over his bent knees, he looked disgustedly at the footstool.
Despite all-the seriousness of the situation, the sheer horror he felt over Madeline having inserted herself into the thick of their planned action and in a way that left him with no viable arguments-he felt his lips twitch.
He rapidly straightened them as Dalziel lifted his gaze, eyes narrowed, to his face.
“If you ever breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll deny it.”
Gervase couldn’t help it; he grinned. “The memory will be its own reward.”
Chapter 19
The sun went down and night closed in. It was dark and stormy, but at least it wasn’t raining. On the castle watersteps, Gervase stood by Madeline’s side, his fingers about her elbow, waiting for the larger of the castle’s rowboats, manned by a select crew of Abel’s “boys,” to draw alongside.
He’d made one-only one-attempt to dissuade Madeline. He’d followed her upstairs to change into garments more conducive to slogging through waves and then fighting on a beach; entering the bedchamber Sybil had assigned Madeline on her heels, he’d shut the door and faced her.
She’d glanced at him, then raised a brow.
He’d looked into her eyes. He understood all too well her motives in going. Admired them, and her, even though he, all he was, was in violent opposition. “I don’t want you to go.”
“I know. But I have to. I can’t not go.” She hesitated, then added, “It’s not that I don’t trust you to protect Edmond-it’s because I know Edmond, and I trust him all too well to behave exactly as I said.”
He’d paused; he hadn’t thought she didn’t trust him-that hadn’t entered his mind. He’d wondered for one second if there was any leverage there…then he’d leaned his shoulders back against the door.
Sinking his hands in his pockets, he’d watched her unbutton her jacket. “I honestly don’t know how I’ll react if you’re there-if you’re beside me in what might very well be close and dangerous fighting.”
He hadn’t meant to tell her that, but it was the simple truth.
She’d looked at him; head tilting, she’d studied him for a long moment, then she’d smiled-wry, in some indefinable way tender. “It looks like we’re going to find out.” She’d looked down, unlacing her riding skirt. “You know I have to go.”
He had known; despite the railings of his more primitive masculine self, somewhere deep inside he understood and accepted that. She’d been her “brothers’ keeper” for more than a decade; impossible to ask her to step aside-to change and become a different person, a different woman, a different lady-now, just because he couldn’t bear even the idea of her being exposed to danger. And deep inside, he valued her as she was; he couldn’t with any sincerity argue for a change.
He’d sighed, briefly closed his eyes. “Very well.”
He’d turned to go; grasping the knob, he’d heard a similar sigh from her.
“It isn’t only for Edmond that I’m going-he’s not the only one I…feel compelled to protect. If not actively defend, then at least watch over.”
He’d glanced back, but she hadn’t raised her head, hadn’t looked his way.
“I know you understand because you’re like that, too. What you might not appreciate is that some women, some ladies, feel the same. We protect, we defend-it’s what we do, who we are.” Then she glanced at him. “It’s what I am-and I can’t change that, not even for you.” She’d smiled, a swift, rather misty gesture, and looked down at her laces. “Especially not for you.”
He’d hesitated, then he’d left the door, crossed the room, swung her into his arms and kissed her-swift, urgent. Sweet.
Raising his head, he’d looked into her eyes, amazed all over again at how dazed she-his Valkyrie-became, then he’d felt his face harden; setting her on her feet, he’d nodded and turned away. “I’ll meet you at the back of the front hall.”
He had, later, and escorted her here, to wait for the boat that would carry them-her, him and Dalziel-to the beach. The smugglers brought the boat cruising in alongside the steps; Gervase caught the rope one threw him, pulled the boat in tight, expertly steadied the prow. Dalziel stepped down into the boat. He turned to assist Madeline; with his free hand Gervase steadied her as she followed, clad in her trousers and a shirt and drab jacket borrowed from a groom. The instant she was safe aboard, Dalziel moved back and sat on the rear crossbench; Madeline stepped over the fore bench and sat in the middle of the boat.
As soon as she was seated, Gervase let the rope play through his hands. He made a quick half leap into the boat as the oarsmen, with perfect timing, pushed away from the steps.
He sat and they were away, the four oarsmen pulling strongly, smoothly, through the night, through the increasingly choppy waves.
The journey around Lizard Point in the dark, with a storm blowing up and the seas rising, wasn’t one for faint hearts.
The boats pitched and dipped on the waves, but all those at helms and oars were seasoned sailors who knew these waters, knew where the currents ran, how best to use them. Spray washed over the prows, half drenching those crouched between the oarsmen. The wind strafed, knife-keen; no one had worn hats.
Had it been winter, the trip would have been impossible. As it was the summer seas, although cold, weren’t freezing, and the wind, although biting, wasn’t iced; as long as the boats steered clear of rocks, the long minutes were bearable.
They eased around Lizard Point, yard by yard making way through the surging waves.
How long the journey took, no one could guess; no one had risked carrying a timepiece. It was full dark, the sky above a roiling mass of charcoal and midnight blues, when through the spume and spray they glimpsed flares in Kynance Cove, the first cove north of Lizard Point.
“He’s there.” Dalziel leaned forward, staring across the tops of the waves; they were so big, those in the boats, bobbing up and down on the deep swell, only occasionally caught a clear view of the beach.
“No beacon.” Gervase scanned the dark where he knew the clifftops were. He glanced at Dalziel. “The wreckers must be working with him, or they’d have their beacons lit by now.”
Between them, Madeline shifted. “I’ve counted twenty-three men on the beach.”
More than they’d expected, but not so many as to jeopardize their plan. “We’ll deal with them.” Gervase swayed with the roll of the boat. Gripping her shoulder, he lightly squeezed, then caught the helmsman’s eye; with his head he indicated the rocks at the southernmost tip of the cove.
The helmsman nodded, and leaned on the rudder. As the boat swung, the oarsmen waited…then grasped their
