Chapter Thirty-Two
“SHOULDN’T HE BE BACK BY now?” Muriel paced the road, craning her neck to look up the hill yet again. But it was growing so dark that she didn’t think she could spot him even if he were riding down to her. She cracked her knuckles and continued pacing. “Three quarters of an hour is far too long for anything good to have happened. Wouldn’t you agree, Brutus?” She held out another fistful of grass. The horse eyed her warily, chomping on the grass. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Dropping the reins, she patted the gelding’s neck, requesting he wait for her before she scampered up the hill to the cottage. She crouched behind the bushes and squinted in the moonlight. Through the illuminated window, she spotted three forms, one of whom was affixed to a chair before the fireplace with a gun pressed to his temple.
Erik.She fought the urge to scream. She whipped about, searching in vain hope of finding a weapon, her gaze landing on the shed. Deverell had once told her that’s where he stored his extra-special blends of tea, and she had believed him. But what if his extra-special tea was something else entirely? Bending as low as her skirts allowed, she bolted for the shed. The door was locked, but the window slid open. Muriel hiked her skirts to her thighs and hoisted herself through the opening, scrambling, her knees banging against the frame before she finally flopped hands-first inside, collapsing over a barrel. She groaned as she shoved herself to standing. It was one of dozens. Each barrel was carefully stenciled with the name of an exotic tea that Deverell had spent his life curating. Not for the first time, she wondered, Why would he ship bricks of tea in barrels? Wouldn’t a crate be better?
She glanced about for something to open the barrels and found a crowbar planted in the packed earth beneath the window. If she hadn’t landed on the barrel, it would have impaled her. What nincompoop stores a crowbar thus?
She grasped the crowbar, tugged it free from the earth, and wrenched open the nearest lid, finding blocks of tea. She dug through the first layer, grimacing as she dumped the precious bricks on the floor, until she reached the second layer, which was blocked by a cylinder of wood, black powder clinging to the edges. She attempted to pry it open with her fingertips, but it appeared to have been glued in place. Seeing no other recourse, she lifted the crowbar overhead like an axe and, closing her eyes, she smashed it onto the wood, splintering it. The scent of sulfur wafted to her, making her gag against the stench of rotten eggs. She flung aside the debris and gasped at the sight of gunpowder, which brought another round of gagging. Digging out her handkerchief, she covered her nose and surveyed the shed. If the rest of the barrels were full of gunpowder, there was enough in here to blow up a palace. What is Deverell up to? Here she’d thought all he was doing was passing messages back and forth in his bricks of tea, but this, this was something else entirely. Either he is supplying the enemy with gunpowder, or there is a plot to blow up something to aid Napoleon’s cause. She pried open a second barrel, smashing another cylinder layer to find more gunpowder.
As much as she wished to look through all the barrels, what she needed was a weapon to help rescue Erik. She squinted in the dark for something useful and spied what she needed lining the back wall, nearly concealed behind the barrels. Gathering her skirts, she carefully crawled over the barrels to find rows upon rows of what she instantly recognized as double-barreled flintlock pistols, along with stores of ammunition. She eased one from the rack on the wall and attempted to load it as Vivienne had taught her during her bout of hands-on research for a novel about an English lady and a Frenchman who secretly worked for England. But the pistol was already loaded and ready to shoot. A quick check proved the rest were loaded as well. The hair stood up on the back of her neck.
She was standing in a powder keg that was primed to go off if she so much as dropped a pistol. Why on earth would Deverell keep these loaded? Her hands shook as a plan formed in her mind. She was a terrible shot, but she only needed the traitors to think the house was under attack. She needn’t aim anywhere near Erik if they believed her and surrendered peacefully.
Taking the smallest barrel of gunpowder, she rolled it out of the shed a good distance and smashed a hole in the barrier layer. She sprawled on the ground, waiting to be found out. Nothing. Scrambling to her feet, she drew a line of gunpowder along the cliffs to the cottage’s woodpile, which, once ignited, would illuminate the coast and sound the alarm. With her arms loaded with guns, she painstakingly raced back and forth to the overgrown rose garden just outside the cottage until all thirty weapons were ready and piled in wait. This is madness! This is madness! her footsteps seemed to chant. “You are a baker, not a heroine,” she moaned to herself.
Knowing from experience her shooting was just as poor if her eyes were open or closed, she whispered another prayer that she wouldn’t shoot herself in her attempt to save the man she loved. “God help us all.” She aimed for the cottage roofline, closed her eyes, and pulled the trigger.
A bullet shattered the vase atop the mantel. Erik rocked his chair to the left and threw himself to the stone floor along with the rest of the occupants as a series of bullets pelleted the room.
After the tenth shot, a husky masculine voice shouted, “We have you surrounded. Release Captain Warrick or die with him.”
Lady Ingram’s eyes widened, her fear plain. “Surrounded?” Lady Ingram hissed to Deverell. “Where are the guns you are storing? We need to fight our way out of here.”
Five shots fired in rapid succession, smashing the china dishes in the open cupboard, the blue and white shards flying across the room. Erik winced as a shard dug into his lower back.
“In the shed. I was loading them before you arrived to ensure all were working properly before shipping them to the troops,” Deverell explained, ducking as another round of bullets planted themselves in the mantel.
“What? That is madness.”
“It is my first time smuggling guns. Besides, seagulls have always annoyed me and make wonderful targets.”
Lady Ingram growled. “Loaded guns in the same place where you store the gunpowder? What were you thinking?”
“We are running out of patience,” the man outside shouted again. Erik still did not recognize the voice.
“Obviously, the loaded guns were not supposed to stay there! I didn’t know it was you approaching in the carriage, and I did not want to be discovered with an arsenal. I panicked.” Deverell grunted and rose to his knees, shouting through the jagged gap in the window, “Cease your firing. Would you kill your own in your pursuit of Requin?”
“Our captain knew the risks. The privateer is a hero and is ready to die for his country. Are you ready to die for Napoleon? I doubt he will even hear of your passing, much less mourn it.”
Five more shots fired, Lady Ingram screaming as one found its mark in her calf. “Deverell!”
Deverell scowled, drawing his pistol as he crawled to her and pressed his handkerchief to her wound. “What say you? Are we so weak as to surrender it all now, Lady Requin? When we are so close to ending this war?”
“My man outside is right. You would die for Napoleon?” Erik panted, shaking the shards of glass from his coat, save the one embedded. “We can work out a story. Say you were forced via blackmail. If you report your mother was the famous French spy—”
“You would have me turn on my own blood? A woman who should be lauded a heroine? No. I would rather die than turn on my Requin. She recognized my talent. She made me who I am today.” She pressed the cloth to her leg, panting. “We will call their bluff and use Draycott for leverage. Use him as our shield and get us out of here, Deverell. I guarantee you they will not shoot their own.”
Deverell looked between Erik and Lady Ingram, hesitating. “I say blackmail is best.”
She narrowed her gaze at him. “I may be injured, but I am still Requin. I say we use him.”
Five more shots. “Last chance. Surrender now, or you all die.”
Lady Ingram nodded to Erik. “Answer your sailor.”
Whoever it was, it wasn’t his sailor. He nodded and Deverell untied him. “This is Captain Warrick. They agree!” he shouted. “Hold your fire. I’m coming out now.”
Lady Ingram gripped a pistol, thrusting it in his back. “Do not test me, Erik. As much as I loved you, one wrong move, and I’ll put a bullet in your pretty head myself.”
Muriel pried open her eyes, keeping her place behind the rose bushes as her finger trembled on the trigger. She had only five shots left. She cleared her voice and reached inside for the voice she used to tell her brothers stories of such absurdity that they wouldn’t sleep for nights on end. “Captain Warrick, tie them up and come forward.”
“I don’t think so,” Lady Ingram returned, backing to the cliff where Muriel knew there was a path that led down to the sea, where they no doubt had a boat docked.
It was all lost unless she proved she had the upper hand. Where are those blasted privateers? The traitors are getting too far away! Three paces more and they would be on the cliff path and away with her love. They might even shove him to his death. With shaking hands, she aimed her gun at the line of powder. Lord, please, please, please don’t let me wound anyone. She blasted the gun to the line, igniting it and exploding the barrel and the firewood into an inferno.
Lady Ingram shrieked, falling to her knees and releasing her hold on Erik, who bolted toward Muriel’s hiding place. Deverell recovered quickly and pursued on Erik’s heels, rapier drawn. With a shriek, Muriel aimed and sent dirt flying at Deverell’s feet. Aiming a second time, she shot, the bullet striking Deverell’s foot. Screaming, the baron collapsed as Erik secured the traitor’s rapier and pistol. Muriel drew a deep breath, preparing to stand, when a carriage sounded on the road below her. The crew leapt out of the carriage, surrounding Lady Ingram and Deverell.
Shoulders sagging in relief, she grabbed a fresh pistol and emerged from the bushes.
“Muriel?” Deverell gasped, spitting the dirt from his mouth as he was jerked to standing on his good foot by Warrick’s men. “How could you do this to me? You loved me once. I was going to marry you.”
Erik strode to her side and wrapped her in his arms and, ignoring the sharp pain radiating from his lower back, kissed her until she bent backward. When he broke away at last, he turned to Deverell. “And because you let her live, I will return the favor.” He nodded to his guards. “Toss him in the brig.”
“Horatio! My sweet nephew, save me!” Lady Ingram cried, reaching out to Adams with bloodied fingers as crewmen seized her.
Erik tensed, reaching for the pistol in Muriel’s grip. Adams did not notice as he strode to Lady Ingram’s side.
Adams halted a pace away and just stared at the woman. “Aunt Rebecca? I hardly believed it when I read that you were the lady spy. I prayed it was a mistake.”
“Command your men to release me.”
His shoulders slumped. “Even if I could, I would not. You are a traitor.”
Anger flooded her features. “Horatio Adams, would you allow your own aunt to hang? After all I’ve done for you. You were nothing before I found you—before I gave you the position of second-in-command.”
“You are beyond my help, madam.” Adams swiped his sleeve over his eyes. “You are no aunt of mine. Lock her in the brig with Deverell.” He strode to Erik and grimaced at the shard sticking out from his back. “Captain, let’s get you to the ship’s doctor.”