Chapter Eight
Eileen faced the French smuggler with fire in her heart and vengeance in her eyes. With a proud tilt to her chin, and her head held high, she greeted him, “Thank you for meeting with me, Captain Ruan.”
“It is my pleasure, Mademoiselle Doonan. I understand that you seek more than my escort this evening.”
Unsure of just how much the man already knew, she waited a moment before agreeing. “I do.”
The smuggler inclined his head, seemingly pleased, though why that should be, Eileen had no idea. “My assistance meting out justice to a certain group, known for taking lives where unnecessary.”
“Yes. My father and his men, O’Malley and”—her voice broke—“Flaherty.” After clearing her throat, she continued, “Flaherty would have joined your men in the task.” It was so hard to speak of Flaherty in the past tense.
Though she had yet to see his body, she had heard the gruesome report of what happened.
“Bien, but before I agree,” Ruan said, “I must commend your resourcefulness and strength in pulling the duke’s man out of the sea, when it has become most evident that la mer wished to keep him.”
Heart in her throat at the thought of never seeing Flaherty walk into the Mermaid’s Glass again, or telling him that she loved him, gutted her.
She may have hesitated when he said he’d marry her.
May have sounded as if she were not interested in marrying Fenton Flaherty, but the truth was that she had been ignoring what her heart yearned for.
She was invisible to everyone else, wasn’t she?
Convinced that she was, she knew Flaherty would never see her…
the real her. The tall woman with the full-blown, overly generous curves.
He could not possibly want her. Even if her father had not insisted they marry after Flaherty had seen her with her clothes plastered to her body, from the downpour and dive into the sea, she had wanted to say yes.
She was not courageous enough to reach for the bright and shining star of what could be…
until he’d kissed her and turned her mind to mush.
She drew in a breath, set those thoughts aside, hoping to calm the queasy feeling deep in her belly. “I was on the beach with my father when I saw him run toward the edge of the cliff and leap off.”
“Shots were fired,” Ruan added.
“Yes,” she rasped. “I am not certain how he came to be unarmed, but have a feeling there is much I shall never know about that night.”
“Other than the overwhelming urge to dive into la mer and pull Flaherty free from her embrace.”
“I would do it again,” Eileen told him. “If only the outcome could be different,” she whispered.
The smuggler inclined his head, paused, then said, “You know that your father and I have an arrangement.”
“He has spoken of it, and, in fact, my father has mentioned your code of honor many times.” She lifted her gaze to meet his. “It is why he is asking for your assistance.”
“He shall have it, and so shall you. Now that that has been agreed upon, it would be my honor to escort you to the Irishman’s wake tonight.”
Not certain that would have been Flaherty’s wish, she started to refuse. “Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
Ruan sniffed and lifted his chin. “I disagree. Appearing together, we make it known that your father and O’Malley have my support. Judson and his vil, bas, mesquin—”
Eileen interrupted, “I understand vil and bas as vile and base, but not mesquin.”
“Ah, mesquin is, how you say, wretched. His crew, as I have described them, will be put on notice. They will have to not only deal with the duke’s man, but me!
” He thumped a fist to his chest to emphasize his vow.
“It will enable me to speak to your father and O’Malley in the open, while at the same time, I shall bid adieu to one of the duke’s honorable men. ”
Eileen felt the tears stinging the backs of her eyes and fought to hold them back. She did not want to appear weak to Ruan.
“We French are not as stingy with our emotions as the English. Do not hold back your tears, mademoiselle. Flaherty will be looking down from above and grateful that you weep for him. Honor him with your tears.”
Ruan’s words had the first tear falling. As if it were perfectly natural, the smuggler patted her on the shoulder and listed the handful of men he would be bringing with him to the wake. “Shall we meet at the top of the path leading down to the beach below Penwith Tower?”
“Yes, thank you. I shall be waiting for you.” The Frenchman reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a lace-edged handkerchief, handing it to her. She accepted it. “Thank you, captain.”
“Capitaine! The dragoon approaches.”
“Ah, on time as expected.” He motioned to his men guarding the port side of the boat. “Step aside.” His men obeyed. He was the first to greet Tremayne as he climbed the rope ladder, reached the gunwale, and hoisted himself up and over the side of the ship. “Tremayne.”
Eileen stared at the former dragoon, wondering why he’d returned to St. Ives. Had word already reached London that Flaherty was missing and suspected to have been murdered, or had O’Malley sent for him earlier?
Tremayne’s gaze swept from the top of her head to the tips of her half boots before he met her eyes. With a nod of satisfaction, he addressed the smuggler. “Ruan, thank you for allowing me to board your ship.”
“Of course. I have been expecting you. It appears that we will be in one another’s pockets again.”
“Aye. May I convey the thanks of the Duke of Wyndmere and Captain Coventry.”
“Oui. It will be an honor to dispatch the wreckers who have operated too long without consequences.”
Eileen noted the two men were staring at one another, seeming to agree to something without speaking, much the same as her father and his men had done more times than she could count. “Why are you here, lieutenant?”
Tremayne turned toward her. His eyes nearly scorched her with his unchecked desire. Taken aback, she was momentarily at a loss for words, until his expression returned to one of neutrality. It enabled her untie her tongue enough to ask, “Did O’Malley or my father send for you?”
“I believe it is time we left, Miss Doonan.”
Irritated that he would ignore her question, she asked again, and this time he stared at her long enough for her to realize he had no intention of answering her.
Resolved to find out on their way back to shore, she turned her back on Tremayne and said to Ruan, “Thank you again, captain, for your assistance. As promised, I shall be waiting on the path.”
“In three hours’ time,” Ruan said.
“We shall both be there,” Tremayne replied.
“But I don’t need an escort to—”
Ruan interrupted her. “I shall expect to see the both of you there.” He bowed and waved a hand at one of his men.
“Etienne! Help mademoiselle over the side, and down the ladder, once Tremayne is in his boat. Take four men and follow in one of our dinghies. See to it that they return to shore unharmed. Take whatever action you deem necessary. I do not trust Judson or his men.”
“Oui, mon capitaine!”
Eileen watched Tremayne’s strong, steady strokes as he rowed toward shore.
The rhythmic movement was surprisingly soothing.
She let her gaze sweep the water surrounding the dinghy.
She loved being on the water and had in fact reveled in challenging the elements the night of the storm to rescue the handsome Irishman.
Eileen turned back to find the dragoon staring at her. The intensity in his gaze was unmatched, except for the way Flaherty had stared at her when he regained consciousness.
Schooling her features, she tamped down on the irritation surging through her. “Must you do that?”
His lips twitched as if he fought the need to smile.
“Stare at the beautiful woman placed in my care by not one, but two men that I have a healthy respect for? Aye.” His eyes darkened to the color of evergreens in a midnight forest, startling her with their intensity.
Shaking free of his gaze, she grabbed hold of the gunwale with both hands, inordinately pleased her arms were long enough to grab hold of the edges of the small boat, even though it was broad in the beam.
The thought that she’d been able to do the same to Flaherty—wrap her arms around him, though his chest was not only broad, but deep—had tears springing to her eyes.
Before she could retrieve Ruan’s handkerchief, the understanding in Tremayne’s green eyes steadied her.
She blinked and regained control of her emotions.
“It is always bright before a storm blows in.” He frowned over his shoulder at the boat following them, then added, “And darkest before it clears.”
With a heavy sigh, she studied the man opposite her.
He was easily as broad as Flaherty—and O’Malley, for that matter—though his black hair and green eyes did not affect her heart the way Flaherty’s auburn hair and blue eyes had.
The former dragoon and the duke’s blade were both scarred—Flaherty across his shoulders, as if he’d been whipped, and where he’d been stabbed and shot—before the newest of his scars, when he’d been shot and his face smashed into the rocky coastline.
The right side of Tremayne’s face had a slashing scar from forehead to chin.
She shuddered inwardly, but not at the sight of it—it did not detract from the handsome man’s face.
It was the knowledge of the pain he must have suffered.
There was no doubt in her mind that it was the last wound received before he had been forced to retire.
Other soldiers serving their king had suffered similar wounds and bled to death.
The Lord must have other plans for Tremayne.
No, the scar did not detract from the Welshman’s visage—it added to it.
If it made him uncomfortable that she was studying his scar, he gave no indication, easing her worry that it would somehow insult him.
“Is it true?” she asked.
“Is what true?”
Eileen looked away, out over the port side of the dinghy. She had to ask before emotions tightened her throat to the point where she could not speak. “Flaherty was shot in the head before he fell off his horse, and—” She shook her head, unable to say the rest.
“Aye, lass.” The tone of the dragoon’s voice added to the pain slashing through her heart.
“How will they hold a proper Irish wake with such severe injuries?”
They were close to shore, and yards ahead of the other boat.
Tremayne slowed his pace and met her gaze.
“Flaherty was intent on warning O’Malley.
The only thing that stopped him from relaying the message was the final shot that creased his temple…
and falling off his horse, landing on his head.
” He paused, then asked, “Do you want to know the rest of the details from when they found him?”
Her stomach flipped and she clapped a hand over her mouth. Breathing in and out through her nose, she shook her head.
As if he took pity on her, Tremayne leaned toward her and angled her so she was leaning over the gunwale. “Don’t hold it in, lass. Get rid of the bile. You’ll feel stronger for it.”
Unable to do otherwise, Eileen uncovered her mouth, grabbed hold of the edge of the boat, and ejected the noxious fluid.
The shout from behind them surprised her. “Is mademoiselle ill?”
“Nay,” Tremayne shouted back. The silence that followed told her without asking that Ruan’s men had surmised what had happened, that Tremayne had shared details of the last moments of Flaherty’s life.
The large hand in front of her face held a large, folded linen square.
It was the second large handkerchief presented to her within the span of an hour, and each time had surprised her.
Eileen had not suspected either man would be so gallant, or so willingly show empathy toward her.
It gave her something other than the horrible image of Flaherty’s death to ponder.
She waited until Tremayne had rowed a short distance farther before she dipped the linen in the sea. She wiped her mouth first, rinsed out the cloth, and dabbed the handkerchief on her face and throat. “Thank you, lieutenant.”
“Gryffyn,” he mumbled.
Her eyes rounded. “I would not want anyone to come to the wrong conclusion if I called you by your first name, lieutenant.”
He grunted and put his back into rowing the final distance to shore. Stepping out, he pulled the dinghy onto the shore and grumbled, “Tremayne, then.”
Pleased that he understood, she murmured, “Thank you, Tremayne.”
He held out a hand to her, but her hem caught on one of the oarlocks.
Before she could stumble, he swept her into his arms and onto her feet on the sand.
Tremayne kept his hands at her waist until she nodded that she was steady on her feet.
“No need to add to talk circulating through the village,” she said.
It amazed Eileen that she no longer worried about what anyone said. How could mere words touch her heart, or wound her soul, when both had been slashed to bloody bits when her father told her Flaherty was no long missing—but dead?
“Tremayne!” Etienne called out.
“Aye?”
“Three hours,” Ruan’s man replied.
“You have my word.” Tremayne glanced at Eileen before meeting the French smuggler’s steady gaze. “O’Malley and I will be on the path beneath Penwith Tower, guarding Miss Doonan, as we await your arrival.”
“Bien,” Etienne said.
Tremayne nodded, turned, and escorted her up the path that wound to the top of the cliff.
Neither spoke. Words were no longer necessary.
The man whose offer of marriage—that she’d boldly told him she would consider, while secretly delighting in it—was dead.
She had lost the opportunity to tell him how thrilled she had been, and would never get it back.
The ache in her shattered heart was bone deep.
She knew in that instant that she would never trust again, never be able to love or give her heart to another man.
They would bury her heart with Flaherty.