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.
Then, after he’d dealt with the one last thread he had to break, he’d vanish. Once and for all.
Chapter 20
In the wee hours of the morning, Gervase, Madeline, Edmond and Charles trudged into the castle forecourt and slowly climbed the front steps. They’d followed the coast all the way from Kynance Cove, and as Gervase had prophesied, seen nothing.
Along the way they’d farewelled those of his workers who’d fought with them and who lived in villages they’d passed. On the top of the steps, Gervase turned to the small band remaining. Grooms and stablelads, they were wilting, feet dragging, but their faces stated they’d enjoyed being a part of the adventure, and catching the wreckers had been worth every rough moment.
He smiled. “Thank you for your help. We might not have caught our gentleman villain, but we’ve done well by the district in rounding up the wreckers. Off to your beds-I’ll tell Burnham you’re excused until midday.”
They grinned sleepily, bobbed their heads in salute, then shambled off, some to the stables, others around the castle.
With Madeline beside him, her hand in his, Gervase turned and followed Charles and Edmond into the front hall.
Sybil, Penny and Sitwell were waiting.
“Thank Heaven!” Sybil enfolded Edmond in a hug, then looked at Gervase and Madeline. “Just look at the pair of you-did you have to swim?”
He and Madeline glanced down at their clothes; once the storm had passed, the night had turned mild, but they were still damp and plastered with sand.
Tightening his grip on Madeline’s hand, he met her eyes. “We’d better go up and change out of these clothes.”
“Indeed,” Sybil said. “We don’t want any chills.” She looked at Edmond, still within her arms. “And as for you, young man, there’s a warm bed waiting upstairs-we’d best get you into it before you fall asleep on your feet.”
Edmond grinned at her; the fact he didn’t argue but allowed himself to be steered toward the stairs screamed louder than words that he was exhausted. He waved sleepily back at Madeline and the others. “Thank you for coming to rescue me. Good night.”
Madeline and Gervase smiled, waved and echoed his good night.
Penny, meanwhile, had been welcoming, then inspecting, her husband. Finding a cut on his hand, she hissed in disapproval. “Men and their swords.”
Charles chuckled and slung an arm around her shoulders. “Come on-if the dogs are in our room, we’d better get up there before they start barking. You can tend my injuries there.”
Penny frowned at him. “How many are there?” But she consented to be towed to the stairs. She nodded a good night to Gervase and Madeline as they passed. “We’ll see you at breakfast.”
“Late.” Charles didn’t look back.
Gervase and Madeline grinned. He caught her eye. “We’d better head upstairs, too.” He lowered his voice. “And get out of these clothes.”
They started toward the stairs. Behind them, Sitwell coughed. “I assume Mr. Dalziel and the marquess will be returning tonight, my lord?”
“They will.” Gervase didn’t halt. “They’re mounted-they shouldn’t be much longer.”
“Very good, my lord. I’ll lock up once they’re in. I’ll leave a message for Burnham that his boys should be allowed to sleep late. And we’ll hold breakfast back until nine.”
“Thank you, Sitwell.” His gaze locked on Madeline’s sea-green eyes, Gervase wound her arm with his. Slowly they climbed the stairs.
They reached the gallery to see the light from Charles and Penny’s candle fading down one corridor. One
