Part 11 (2/2)
With so many bloodstains drenching hair and clothing, Grey looked more dead than alive. Ca.s.sie moved under his arm to help support him.
”We have saddlebags in the stables,” Ca.s.sie said to Pierre, not wanting to leave Grey.
As the captain sent a man to collect their possessions, Grey whispered, ”Regine. Don't forget Regine!”
”A third person is in your party?” Pierre asked.
”Regine is a dog he adopted,” Ca.s.sie explained.
Pierre said with amus.e.m.e.nt, ”I didn't know English spies collected mongrels.”
”Monsieur Sommers is not a spy,” Ca.s.sie said wearily. ”He was a young Englishman who bedded the wrong woman, and spent ten years in solitary confinement.”
The captain's brows arched. ”I hope she was worth it.”
”She wasn't,” Grey muttered.
Pierre gave a very French shrug. ”One never knows until it's too late. But now we need to make haste or we will miss the tide.”
Ca.s.sie could barely support Grey as they moved toward the door, so Pierre moved in to take her place. As soon as they stepped outside, Regine galloped up and began twisting around her master's legs, very nearly tripping Grey.
”Are you sure you can make it down to the pier?” Ca.s.sie asked worriedly. ”You can be carried if necessary.”
”Would ... walk ... on water ...” he panted, ”... to get back to England.”
Ca.s.sie drew Regine away from Grey so they could proceed down the rocky path to the cove. At least Grey now had one possession to bring home from France.
Full fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made ...
Shakespeare's words floated through Grey's misery. Drowning and suffering the ultimate sea change sounded rather good about now. He wasn't usually seasick, but he'd never crossed the channel in a small boat with two bullet holes in him, either. He wasn't sure which was worse: the pain, the nausea, or the fact that the boat was saturated with the stench of fish.
His stomach had been fairly empty to begin with, but that didn't stop the violent nausea and dry retching. He slid in and out of consciousness. Awareness was bad because he'd never felt so ghastly in his life.
Grey, Ca.s.sie, and Regine were huddled in the bow of the vessel under an oilcloth sheet, which helped keep off splashes of water, but wasn't much help against the biting cold. Sometime during the endless night, he rasped, ”Toss me overboard, Ca.s.sie. I think I'd rather be dead.”
”Nonsense.” Her voice was brisk but her touch gentle as she wiped his damp face with a cloth. ”You have to stay alive until I turn you over to Kirkland. After that, you may drown yourself if you like.”
It hurt to laugh, but he did anyhow. ”My ever practical vixen. No need to worry. I haven't the strength to cast myself into the sea without help, and once I'm on dry land, the impulse will surely fade.”
”Not long now,” Ca.s.sie said quietly. She pulled him closer so that the unwounded side of his head rested on her soft b.r.e.a.s.t.s. ”You're warm. Feverish, I think, but it makes you useful on a cold, wet night.”
”Don't worry about fever,” he mumbled. ”I heal very well, or I wouldn't have lasted this long.” His mind veering in another direction, he asked, ”What's your real name? Before you became Ca.s.sie the Fox?”
After a long silence, she replied, ”Once I was Catherine.”
Catherine. It suited her, but in a very different way from how Ca.s.sie suited her. Catherine was a gentle lady. Ca.s.sie the Fox was quick, clever, and dangerous. Perhaps Catherine was who Ca.s.sie would have been if war and catastrophe hadn't intervened.
He sought her hand and held it, thinking how lucky he was to have this extraordinary woman, even if only for a while.
But G.o.d in heaven, how would he ever be able to let her go?
It was not the most comfortable channel crossing Ca.s.sie had ever made, but it was one of the fastest, with a hard wind pus.h.i.+ng the fis.h.i.+ng boat north. Pierre and his crew would have a much slower journey home against the wind. They were inured to the sea and its vagaries, though. Grey and Ca.s.sie were creatures of the land, and the sooner they returned to solid ground, the better.
After endless miserable hours, she saw a faint white line gradually forming on the horizon. She waited until she was sure before saying softly, ”The white cliffs of Dover, Grey. Home.”
He jerked out of his doze and pushed himself up to stare over the gunwale. ”Home,” he said in a husky voice. ”I never thought I'd see England again.”
His eyes glinted with unshed tears. She blinked back some of her own. Even after all these years, the sight always moved her.
Together they watched the approaching sh.o.r.e, the white cliffs a beckoning ribbon of hope. Dawn was breaking when Pierre brought them into a sheltered cove with a weathered pier. The cove belonged to an English seafaring family named Nash, and there was a long and profitable relations.h.i.+p between them and Pierre's family. Ca.s.sie knew both families well.
Pierre sent a man to the nearby Nash house to gather help in unloading the illicit cargo. He personally helped Ca.s.sie get Grey out of the boat and onto land.
Grey was weaving but grimly determined. Once they were ash.o.r.e, he shook off his helpers, then alarmed Ca.s.sie by falling to the ground.
Her heart clenched until she saw what he was doing. Incredulous, she asked, ”Lord Wyndham, are you kissing the ground?”
”d.a.m.ned right I am.” Grey struggled to rise again. ”Both because it's solid land, and because it's England.”
The French captain asked with interest, ”What does English sand taste like?”
”Much like French sand, I suspect.” He turned to Ca.s.sie, his face ablaze with joy under his bloodstained bandage. ”I'm never leaving England again!”
”Won't you want to travel to Rome or Greece or some such place when the wars are over?” she asked.
”I reserve the right to be inconsistent.” Grey wrapped an arm around Ca.s.sie's shoulders, sagging against her. ”What next, milady vixen?”
Several Nashes were heading down to the cove to help with the contraband. Ca.s.sie said, ”We go to the house and ask Mrs. Nash if she has any broth to feed you. Then we hire one of their sons to drive us to Dover, where we'll find an inn and call a surgeon for you.”
”Please,” he said in a rough whisper. ”Take me home.” She frowned. ”Your family seat is in Dorsets.h.i.+re, isn't it? That's too far. You need treatment before then.”
”Not Summerhill,” he said with effort. ”The Westerfield Academy. It's not far, just off the London road.”
She hesitated, thinking it would still be several hours of travel, and the sooner she got him into a clean bed and called a surgeon, the better.
”Please!” he said, his voice raw.
The school had been his home for years, she realized. A place where he'd made lasting friends.h.i.+ps, and where Lady Agnes welcomed all her wandering boys, no matter what sort of trouble they'd been in.
”Very well,” she said. ”We'll go to Westerfield.”
The coach Ca.s.sie had hired in Dover rumbled to a wet stop in front of Westerfield Manor. Grey had been silent on the ride, suffering stoically. As the coach driver opened the door and let down the steps, Ca.s.sie said quietly, ”We're here. Are you awake?”
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