He’d hesitated, then he’d left the door, crossed the room, swung her into his arms and kissed her-swift, urgent. Sweet.
Raising his head, he’d looked into her eyes, amazed all over again at how dazed she-his Valkyrie-became, then he’d felt his face harden; setting her on her feet, he’d nodded and turned away. “I’ll meet you at the back of the front hall.”
He had, later, and escorted her here, to wait for the boat that would carry them-her, him and Dalziel-to the beach. The smugglers brought the boat cruising in alongside the steps; Gervase caught the rope one threw him, pulled the boat in tight, expertly steadied the prow. Dalziel stepped down into the boat. He turned to assist Madeline; with his free hand Gervase steadied her as she followed, clad in her trousers and a shirt and drab jacket borrowed from a groom. The instant she was safe aboard, Dalziel moved back and sat on the rear crossbench; Madeline stepped over the fore bench and sat in the middle of the boat.
As soon as she was seated, Gervase let the rope play through his hands. He made a quick half leap into the boat as the oarsmen, with perfect timing, pushed away from the steps.
He sat and they were away, the four oarsmen pulling strongly, smoothly, through the night, through the increasingly choppy waves.
The journey around Lizard Point in the dark, with a storm blowing up and the seas rising, wasn’t one for faint hearts.
The boats pitched and dipped on the waves, but all those at helms and oars were seasoned sailors who knew these waters, knew where the currents ran, how best to use them. Spray washed over the prows, half drenching those crouched between the oarsmen. The wind strafed, knife-keen; no one had worn hats.
Had it been winter, the trip would have been impossible. As it was the summer seas, although cold, weren’t freezing, and the wind, although biting, wasn’t iced; as long as the boats steered clear of rocks, the long minutes were bearable.
They eased around Lizard Point, yard by yard making way through the surging waves.
How long the journey took, no one could guess; no one had risked carrying a timepiece. It was full dark, the sky above a roiling mass of charcoal and midnight blues, when through the spume and spray they glimpsed flares in Kynance Cove, the first cove north of Lizard Point.
“He’s there.” Dalziel leaned forward, staring across the tops of the waves; they were so big, those in the boats, bobbing up and down on the deep swell, only occasionally caught a clear view of the beach.
“No beacon.” Gervase scanned the dark where he knew the clifftops were. He glanced at Dalziel. “The wreckers must be working with him, or they’d have their beacons lit by now.”
Between them, Madeline shifted. “I’ve counted twenty-three men on the beach.”
More than they’d expected, but not so many as to jeopardize their plan. “We’ll deal with them.” Gervase swayed with the roll of the boat. Gripping her shoulder, he lightly squeezed, then caught the helmsman’s eye; with his head he indicated the rocks at the southernmost tip of the cove.
The helmsman nodded, and leaned on the rudder. As the boat swung, the oarsmen waited…then grasped their oars and bent to. Silently their boat cleaved through the waves, leaving the others in their small flotilla drifting, dipping their oars only to hold their position strung out in a line parallel to the beach.
In one, Madeline glimpsed Charles saluting them.
Gradually the rocky point drew near. On the beach proper, the retreating tide had left a ten-yard strip of reasonably dry sand at the base of the towering cliffs. Her lungs tight, nerves taut, Madeline searched the cove, scanning furiously every time the swell raised them high enough for a clear view; finding the figure she sought, she groped blindly for Gervase, found his arm and gripped, pointing. “There. Edmond.”
Her brother was a small figure made even smaller because he was sitting cross-legged close to the cliffs, between the point they were heading for and the center of the cove where, as Harry and Ben had predicted, the attention of all others on the beach was concentrated.
Flares-tall poles wrapped with oil-soaked rags-were planted in the sand in a large ring, creating a circle of light that made the shadows immediately beyond even darker. Edmond sat at the edge of the flickering glow. The awkward angle of his arms suggested his hands were tied behind him.
In the heavily lighted area ringed by the flares, many men were digging, sifting through the heavy sand. Other than one man guarding Edmond, no lookouts had been posted on the beach. All activity, all attention, was focused on the excavation; they didn’t expect to be interrupted, certainly not via the sea.
Madeline recognized some of the men digging, and her heart sank. Leaning into Gervase, she whispered, “The Miller boys.” John Miller’s two sons.
Gervase followed her gaze, grimly nodded. “And the Kidsons from Predannack.”
The night would have repercussions beyond those they’d anticipated. Earlier Madeline had glimpsed a man in a greatcoat, but now they were closer, the bodies were harder to distinguish, shifting and merging in the flickering light of the flares.
She leaned toward Dalziel. “Can you see your man?” Her whisper was little more than a breath; they were sliding slowly in to the rocky point.
His gaze locked on the beach, Dalziel shook his head. “But he’s there somewhere-they wouldn’t be digging so assiduously otherwise.”
Gervase tapped her arm, signaled to her and Dalziel to stop talking. Then he shifted forward to where an oarsman in the prow was checking the depth.
They were relying on the experience of the helmsman and oarsmen to bring the boat in smoothly and silently to the rocky point, close enough that they could slip over the side and wade to the beach. The sound of the waves breaking on the rocks and the froth and spume would give them cover, both for sound and sight.
Madeline looked again at Edmond. The man guarding him was relatively short, scrawny, not a local. The man’s attention wasn’t on Edmond, or on the stretch of beach beyond him, or the deeper shadows hugging the base of the cliffs at Edmond’s back; like everyone else, the guard was watching the activity in the center of the beach.
Gervase tapped her arm again, then, like a seal, he slipped over the side and was gone. The boat bobbed, and there he was, standing, the water across his chest, below his shoulders.
Madeline gripped the edge of the boat, swung one leg over, then let herself fall. Gervase caught her, righted her before a wave could swamp her. He took a firm grip on her arm. Then Dalziel was in the water on her other side; he grasped her other arm. Each of them took the weapons the smugglers passed them, blades unsheathed, then they were moving, steadily wading to the beach.
Even in the water, both men moved with their customary animalistic, predatory grace; between them, Madeline was swept effortlessly along. She barely had time to register the water’s coldness.
They came onto the beach among the rocks; crouching, they slipped undetected into the dense shadows at the base of the cliffs. They waited, watched, but the men on the beach had no inkling they, or the boats, were there. The group’s attention remained fixed on their excavations; Edmond must have been entirely convincing.
Her lungs tight, every nerve stretched taut, Madeline glanced back; even though she knew the boat had been there, she could no longer see it. The five smugglers had slipped out beyond the first breakers as silently as they’d slipped in.
The oncoming storm and its elemental effects-the crash of the waves, the rising shriek of the wind-was now an advantage; it would mask their approach, the sound of their footsteps in the sand submerged beneath the unrelenting rumble and roar.
Gervase, ahead of her, glanced back and signaled. They straightened; in single file, hugging the cliff face, they moved stealthily, steadily, closer to Edmond.