PROLOGUE
Gravelines, France, December 1812
Blood left a trail for enemies to follow as Lieutenant Daniel Barrett accompanied Captain Sir Christmas Astley-Milne through the alleys of the French citadel at Gravelines.
Torn between a desire for freedom and serving the helpless men they’d left behind, already hobbled by guilt, he navigated the uneven cobblestones on bruised feet.
Their weak legs were unreliable and unsteady.
For five years, Fate had deprived them the barest of necessities because of Sir Christmas’s penchant for trying to escape at every opportunity.
Never mind that Daniel wanted to escape, too.
He’d willingly participated in the man’s life-threatening schemes.
Their relentless aim made it imperative they cover ground quickly. Duplicity kept them alive at a time when survival was essential. Therefore, it was Daniel’s duty to get the man back to Kent, given he himself had left no one behind to mourn his passing.
Escape hadn’t come without substantial cost, however.
The French followed the tactical genius of Napoleon, losing a long and bitter war, and prisoners on both sides needed surgeons more than the enemy cared to admit.
His very presence, as a co-collaborator, offered assurances that—if apprehended—Sir Christmas would most likely not be killed on the spot.
Daniel wasn’t an exceptionally skilled gambling man, but that was one bet he was willing to risk in this game of chance.
Alarm charged his overwrought nerves. The air around them noiseless, so quiet, even he could hear a mother singing to her baby in the night, the sound ethereal, poignant, a piece of humanity that he longed would become part of his new normality.
Dehydration limited his vision. His hearing had worsened since a heavy-handed guard had hit on the head one too many times.
Still, every inch of him understood the danger that surrounded them as Sir Christmas led him further and further afield from the prison to the safety of a docked ship, its master plotting and lying in wait to rescue them from the clutches of the French.
Freedom. It was there, just beyond those trees.
Close, but so far.
There was no going back. Not this time. If caught, his surgical profession wouldn’t save them. Not after the unfortunate death of the guard who’d generously helped them escape, though his demise had occurred through no fault of their own.
“There.” Sir Christmas signaled as he advanced on peeling boots to a small cottage, a faint light aglow in the window.
Daniel trailed behind, coming to a stop beside him, flattening his back against the cold stone exterior.
Here, the mother’s lullaby cast a surreal mask on the present, lovely and human, melodic in the night, juxtaposing their nightmarish lives with the bone crushing presence of serenity.
“Do you hear anything else?” he asked, acknowledging the woman’s hypnotic voice.
Daniel listened to the best of his ability, having never admitted his infirmity to Sir Christmas out of pure stubbornness. “No,” he said.
Sir Christmas’s frown was telling. His friend knew, without ever saying so, that Daniel’s hearing was impaired.
“Do you think they’ve discovered Barbaroux by now?” he asked to circumvent the captain’s distress.
“That no longer matters. This is our only chance after—”
“We had no choice, Captain.” Sir Christmas took every death hard, no matter on which side of the English Channel he stood.
Their existence, however paltry for the past five years, confined to a cell, a marsh, or a patch of dry ground, had improved only when a surgeon was required. “It was the guard . . . or us.”
Candlelight from within the cottage illuminated Sir Christmas’s face.
Frown lines etched around his mouth, pulling the scar he’d earned in Madrid, making it clear that he thought their escape had been too easily obtained.
After all, Barbaroux had opened the cell doors for them before another guard had attacked.
Who had given that guard information about their plan? What had made him suspicious?
The deemed truth was they were indebted to a dead Frenchman.
“No matter what we do,” Sir Christmas said, looking him straight in the eyes to ensure he understood, “we must push forward. The ship will not wait until dawn. Our orders are explicit. If we’re not aboard the galley by then . . . we’re as good as dead.”
Daniel glanced down at Sir Christmas’s bleeding side, a jolt of apprehension racing through him. Was his friend already mortally wounded? If he didn’t stop the bleeding— “You’ll be dead sooner than that if you don’t allow me to tend your wound.”
Sir Christmas stiffened, glanced down at his torso, pulled his hand away from the wound, and then released a disgusted grunt.
“I beg you, Captain. Let me dress your wound.”
“There isn’t time. I refuse to be the reason you do not make it back to England alive, Lieutenant.” He placed his hand back over the lesion, wincing. “You’ve suffered my schemes long enough. Time for a life of ease will come. If we survive this . . . I promise you’ll be home for Christmas.”
The captain set off at a wobbly run, blood loss finally affecting his balance and mobility. Mystified by the man’s stupidity, stamina and spirit, Daniel ran after him, catching up just as Sir Christmas dropped to his knees.
“Barrett.” He reached out a hand to steady himself. “I cannot . . . go any further.”
“Aye,” Daniel said as if he was assuring a dead man the end wasn’t near. “You can.”
Devil be damned if he was going to allow Sir Christmas to abandon him in a foreign country. The man was an escapologist, a talent Daniel sadly lacked.
“Very well.” Sir Christmas nodded willfully. “Scout ahead. I will catch up to you after I rest.”
“By crock, Captain,” he said through clenched teeth, seeing through Sir Christmas’s ploy. “There isn’t time to rest. You never left me—once. I swore an oath to do no harm, and I will not. You’re like a brother to me.”
“Go.” Sir Christmas hissed. “Save yourself.” Dogs barked in the distance; a menacing indicator they were being hunted down, and the pack was nearly upon them. “They’re getting closer.”
“And so are we,” Daniel said, pointing to the north-west. “Look.”
A light flashed multiple times through the trees.
The code for hurry.
With no other recourse but to plod on ahead or end up dead and drowned, their bodies washed ashore, Daniel hauled Sir Christmas to his feet and guided him across the meadow and into the tree line.
Branches nipped at their flesh and briars at their shredded trousers.
Underbrush took advantage of every vulnerability, assisting the dogs who smelled fresh blood; they were easier to hunt.
Daniel half-dragged his charge as they edged their way closer to the smuggler’s ship and sanctuary.
According to the guard, bribed by a sea captain who’d had tremendous success delivering refugees and prisoners from Gravelines to Ramsgate and Sandwich on England’s south-eastern shores, all they had to do was get to the wharf by dawn.
Their passage earned by the delivery of one of the guard’s brother-in-law, smuggled out of England back to Gravelines.
Sir Christmas’s legs weakened terribly as they broke through the trees. Before them, the quay appeared—decidedly too distant—and yet an encouragement to their defeated souls as they spied a galley moored nearby.
The tide was going out.
Salty air moistened Daniel’s lungs, reviving his spirits.
Snow flurries trailed down from the sky as smugglers, sailors, and seafaring men hastened to their duties.
One on the gangway signaled for them to hurry, his expression grave as he waved them on.
Others worked the moor lines, trussing the ship to the dock.
Sails flapped in the breeze. The air sizzled with tension. Sir Christmas checked behind them one more time before collapsing to the ground, unconscious.
Daniel motioned to several men. “He’s wounded. Help us.”
The crew responded rapidly, and within a matter of minutes, he and Sir Christmas were safely aboard the pirate’s galley and guided belowdecks into a hidden compartment.
They weighed the anchor, the sails set, and just before they placed a deck beam over their heads, Daniel spied the dogs breaking through the trees.
His heart leapt, fear and paranoia fighting for control, as the ship sailed on and the English Channel broadened before them, the first dawn of freedom illuminating the horizon.
Home.
England.
He was an orphan who was raised in a workhouse. No one had cared about his predicament. Still, the shores of the United Kingdom were part of him and dearly missed.
Putting pressure on Sir Christmas’s wound and waiting for the ‘all clear’, his life flashed before his eyes, albeit briefly. He’d been abandoned, forced to cleave out a living in the workhouse. He apprenticed with a physician, then joined the navy to be a surgeon. No one anticipated his return.
The ship swayed, vaulting over swells and troughs. The oars worked a steady rhythm, creating the swiftest passage he’d ever seen across the twenty-odd-mile distance between England and France.
Boots hammered on the quarterdeck. Someone navigated the thwarts, stopping above them. The deck beams lifted, and Captain Ransome sank to his knees. “How is the captain? Will he make it?”
Even if I have to kill him myself. Daniel shook off the thought as he elevated himself to his knees, then examined Sir Christmas’s injury.
Sunlight illuminated the wound. It was deep, the captain’s breathing ragged.
How long he could keep his friend alive was anyone’s guess.
Much depended on the weather, the severity of the wound, and whether they dodged the French.
“Do you have any fishing line?” he asked. “An awl?”
Captain Ransome cocked his brow, grinning. “We haven’t made the journey back and forth to France in total secrecy. The best way to trick your enemy is to appear his friend.”
“I’m afraid I do not understand,” Daniel said.
“Of course,” Ransome said jovially. “We have fishing equipment that will suit your needs, though ye’ll find better care and supplies at Hillsborough.”
“If we reach England’s shores.” He accepted the tools he would need to staunch the flow of Sir Christmas’s blood. “Did you say Hillsborough?”
“Aye.” Captain Ransome scanned the horizon, then glanced back at the enemy. “’Tis where we’re headed if we can evade that French galley leaving port and heading straight for us.”
“Captain, do I have time to operate?”
“Blood and gall! Fifteen minutes be all ye have to stop the bleedin’.
After that” —he paused to spit out an order— “Slade, ensure the good doctor gets his patient back into the cargo bay when he’s done.
We are anglers until I say we aren’t.” Ransome’s shrewd examination of the situation ended with a curse.
“I’ll never hear the end of it if my cousin doesn’t get her fiancé back alive. ”
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Addicted to history and romance, Katherine spent the better part of her childhood roaming the globe as an Army brat.
Then while attending college, she was swept off her feet by a military officer.
Yes, reader, she married him, and they continued traveling the world.
Four children, two Labradors, and three cats later, Katherine put down roots in the south.
And there she pursued her lifelong passion of creating vivid stories that came calling with abandon.
Adventure. Mayhem. Swashbuckling heroes. Her books are pure escapism at heart.