Part 14 (1/2)
The stucco walls curved into a crude arch overhead, so low that Edward had to bend his shoulders to keep from striking his head, and so narrow that Francesca had to pull her skirts close to keep the fabric from snagging on the rough, dirty plaster. Although they pa.s.sed several padlocked doors, there was nothing else to light their way beyond the lantern that the footman carried, the bouncing, uneven light making every cobweb and crack in the wall seem full of potential menace.
”I don't like this, Edward,” she whispered uneasily, clinging to his arm. ”Why are we here, anyway? I thought we were going to your s.h.i.+p.”
”We are,” he said evenly, giving her hand a slight, awkward pat. ”We're simply bound on another course, that's all.”
She looked up at him in the flickering light, understanding more from what he wasn't saying than what he was. ”You won't tell me anything beyond that?”
He shrugged, clearly hedging, and quickened his steps. ”You'll see for yourself soon enough.”
”Because I am Neapolitan,” she said moodily, as much to herself as to him. ”You'll marry me, but you won't trust me enough to tell me where we are going.”
He stopped abruptly, blocking the tunnel as he turned to face her, the lantern's light's fanning reducing him to a tall, black silhouette looming before her.
”What devil makes you say such things, Francesca?” he demanded, his anger as palpable as it was unexpected. ”That's not true, not a word of it, and I won't listen to you say it. I don't care if your mother was born in Naples or on the blasted moon.”
”Because you were born the son of an English duke!”
”Oh, aye, and a fat lot of good that's done me, hasn't it?” he said bitterly. ”Listen to me, Francesca. What or where I was born doesn't signify, not to me and not to you, any more than who or what your parents were does to me. None of it's worth a tinker's dam, mind? What matters is what we are, what we've made of ourselves and our lives.”
”Then why won't you tell me where exactly we're going?” she demanded unhappily. ”Aren't you afraid I'll run off and tell someone?”
”Not willingly, no,” he said sharply, pulling her along after him. ”But if by some h.e.l.l-bent misfortune we're captured or separated before we reach the Centaur, the less you know, the less value you'll have to our enemies, and the better the chance will be that they'll let you go without killing you. Now come.”
He didn't give her time to apologize, and Francesca didn't try. She felt like a great enough fool already without giving him the satisfaction of having her admit it. He'd promised to look after her, and he was doing exactly that, after a fas.h.i.+on, though she still didn't understand why he stubbornly hadn't explained his reasons for secrecy from the beginning.
But it could hardly be her fault for a.s.suming what she had. Every other English man and woman seemed to believe that being English was next to being immortal, or at least a good deal better than being a lowly, insignificant Neapolitan, and being an English aristocrat was like an extra layer of gold leaf. How was she to know that Edward so obviously prided himself on believing otherwise?
The footman set the lantern down on the dirt floor, unlocked the last door, and shoved it open with his shoulder. A rush of chilly, damp air swept in, smelling heavily of the sea.
”Take care, signor,” he warned as he held back a curtain of overhanging vines for them. ”The harbor is home to many vagrants and footpads.”
”And at least half of them are English, eh?” said Edward dryly, pressing a coin into the man's waiting palm. ”Well, no matter. Here, a happy Christmas to you and your family, and promise me you'll drink a dram for old King Ferdinando instead of Napoleon. There's the Centaur's boat, Francesca, in the middle of the others, exactly where it should be.”
Francesca stepped forward, her shoes sinking slightly into the sand. Happy Christmas, indeed: With everything else, she'd completely forgotten that tomorrow would be Christmas Eve. The wind was sharp, colder on the water than in town, stinging at her cheeks and tugging at her cloak. Because of the clouds, there was no moon, but when she looked to where Edward was pointing, she could just make out the dark outline of four waiting longboats pulled up onto the sand beside a jetty of large stones. The boats had no lanterns, but she still could see the heads and shoulders of the men crouched low over their oars.
”You said you hadn't planned this,” she said slowly, ”and Admiral Nelson has only just excused you from going to the emba.s.sy with the others. So why are they here waiting for us now?”
”Because we're not the only ones they'll meet tonight,” he said evenly, and this time Francesca didn't question his vagueness. ”Here now, draw up your hood so your face is hidden if anyone's spying from above.”
She did as he'd asked, then automatically turned to look back over her shoulder, up the steep hillside overlooking the bay. The amba.s.sador's villa was as brilliantly lit as if he, too, were hosting another grand reception of his own, candlelight streaming from the tall windows into the gloomy evening. No one would guess that soon Sir William, Lady Hamilton, and G.o.d knew how many others would be hurrying through the same tunnel that she and Edward had just traveled, and just as eager to flee Naples.
”Ahoy, Centaur!” called Edward softly.
”Ahoy, Cap'n Ramsden,” came the muted reply. The men in the middle boat s.h.i.+fted with eagerness, and two clambered over the side to run across the beach toward them.
”This should be Lieutenant Pye,” said Edward. ”You'll recall him from-”
”You have a gun,” she said, suddenly noticing the pistol that had appeared in his hand. Gentlemen wore swords, both for defense and for show, and she was accustomed to that. But pistols were only for highwaymen, duelists, and soldiers, and the sight of this one now resting so familiarly in his hand, the long barrel gleaming dully, chilled her blood more than the wind. Belatedly she realized he must have been carrying it with him all evening, hidden beneath the long tails of his coat.
”Of course I have a gun, Francesca,” he said with unexpected patience, holding it out for her to see. ”In fact I have two of them. The other's still hooked on my belt. This is Naples, la.s.s, and as even Sir William's footman noted, the town is filled with vagrants and thieves. Wise to be careful.”