Date with a Regency Rake. Marguerite KayeЧитать онлайн книгу.
a feeling of deep frustration at the unconsummated act. Clarrie could fool herself no longer. When Kit decided to take her, there would be no question but that she would submit. No matter what the consequences.
Chapter Six
The tossing of the ship had become less violent, or perhaps she had simply accustomed herself to it. In any case, to stay below and nurse her feelings of frustration would, Clarrie decided, be as fruitless as it was a waste of the precious time she had on board the Sea Wolf. She prepared to brave the upper decks and to pretend that nothing of note had happened below.
The yacht was holding a steady course in the face of the wind. Kit had the wheel, idly maintaining conversation with John, whose talk was of the future, his plans for life once this last mission was completed.
‘I’ll not be sorry, Master Kit, I tell thee true. It’s old bones I’ve got now, too old to be chasing after them Frenchies and running away from the excise men. I’ve enough set aside to buy my own smack and do a bit of legal fishing for a change. Won’t net me a fortune, but it’ll keep us well enough, I reckon. I’ve my eye on a little beauty I spotted for sale down Romney Marsh way, fore-and-aft rigged like the Sea Wolf, but smaller, just big enough for me and a lad to handle. And Sal, she’ll be glad to have me home at night regular again.’
‘How is the lovely Sal, your good lady wife? The last time we met, she threatened me with a rolling pin for getting you into mischief.’
A gruff laugh greeted this remark. ‘Aye, you know her ways, Master Kit, she means no harm, just frets for my safety is all. She’s never liked me going off on jaunts like this, but she’s not one as would ever complain neither. A good woman, Sal, she knows her place. And she deserves some peace of mind, after all these years. She’s earned it.’
‘You both have, John. I really envy you, the way you’ve got your life all mapped out. I have no idea what I’ll do without these trips. My sister wants me to marry, but lord, what a dreadful husband I’d make. I’m afraid I’m destined to be the devil’s own, one way or another. I’ll miss these trips more than I can say.’
‘Aye, well, Master Kit, like as not summat’ll turn up, you’ll see. I’m a great believer in fate, myself.’ With this laconic reply, John turned his attention seawards, scanning the horizon for signs of sail, leaving Kit free to pursue his thoughts.
As if summoned by them, Clarissa appeared head first, ascending the cabin steps gingerly, struggling to contain the cloak that whistled around her in the wind. She had abandoned her hat, and her bright auburn tresses whipped around her face, temporarily obstructing her view. Tottering, she grabbed the rail and righted herself before smiling and offering a tentative greeting. ‘I thought I’d take you up on the offer of a tour. That is, if you are not otherwise occupied.’
A terse nod from John, who took over the wheel, gave Kit no option but to accede to her request. ‘We’re about an hour away from landfall, we’ve made excellent time. I’ll be happy to show you round—she’s small but beautiful, my Sea Wolf—and then you can stay on deck as we berth.’
The technicalities were lost on her, but she listened with intelligent interest as Kit explained everything from the rigging to the sleek lines of the yacht, comparing it favourably, and with obvious pride, to the slower, clinker-built cutters still used by the Revenue. Pointing out the key navigational stars high above them, he talked a little of his early sailing days, his fishing trips with John when he was no more than a child, sailing his first skiff and learning the hard way about the tides and vagaries of the coast line. That Kit loved the Sea Wolf and was an expert sailor, Clarrie had no doubt. That she too could learn to love sailing, she had no doubt either. At his side, with his tuition, she was sure she would quickly become adept.
Standing at the guard rail, watching the yacht cut cleanly through the waves and the coast of Normandy looming into view in the distance, Clarissa felt a rush of freedom like champagne fizzing through her blood. At home, so far away as it now seemed, freedom had meant her sister married, her mother comfortably settled and herself earning a living as a governess. Such a vision seemed merely a new set of fetters compared to this. How had she ever imagined that life at the beck and call of an employer would be any different to life at the beck and call of her family?
No point in thinking about such things now though, no point in spoiling this moment. Turning to Kit, standing so close she could feel the heat of his body even through the thickness of their clothing, Clarissa asked about the people waiting for them on the French shore.
‘We can never be certain that they’ll be there when we arrive,’ he explained. ‘There are so many things that can go wrong. On occasion we’ve had to wait—usually a few hours, but once it was a whole day and night. We went ashore, but John did not take to the French cooking!’ Kit laughed at the memory of John’s face when presented with a huge piece of beef, the blood pooling beside it on the plate. ‘Tonight, we’re to pick up a man and his daughter. Their name is Renaud. Madame Renaud is dead by the guillotine, and Monsieur Renaud and his daughter have been in hiding on a country estate in Burgundy. He is a classical scholar; of her I know naught more than that she is young and unwed. Needless to say, they are rich no more. They are alive, that is the main thing. Or they were when last I heard a few days ago,’ he added bitterly. ‘To come out of hiding and journey north to the ports is hazardous even after all these years. There are informants everywhere.’
‘They cannot have been in hiding all this time, surely? It is almost ten years since the revolution.’
‘Aye, ten bloody years. But remember, the Terror grew slowly at first. The wholesale slaughter only really started when Louis was beheaded, four years after they revolted. For many, especially those of the lesser nobility such as this family, it seemed possible to keep their heads down—if you’ll forgive the gallows humour—and survive the killing. Monsieur Renaud, whom you will meet tonight, God willing, is not himself of high rank, but his wife was the younger daughter of a duke. The blue blood was hers. And so, in the end, it was she who sealed the fate of the whole family. ‘Tis certain they would not have been spared had they been found.’
‘But is it not safe enough now in France under the Directorate? Are they not more tolerant? Surely it’s becoming possible to start again in their own country, rather than to take such a drastic step as these people make tonight?’
‘For some, yes, perhaps you’re right. But for others, those who have lived the life of privilege, to accustom themselves to the new regime seems unnecessary, when in England they can bear their titles proudly once more.’
‘With no money, how can that mean so much? Money is by far more important than a title, as I should know, Lord Rasenby.’
‘And what, Clarissa, do you know of such things?’
She shrugged. ‘My own father was titled, my widowed mother still bears his name. It means naught, for he was cast off and poverty-stricken just the same. At times, I would happily swap my birth right for the wealth of a merchant family—at least that way I wouldn’t have to worry about avoiding the coal seller at quarter time.’ An embarrassed laugh concluded this admission. She had not meant to say anything so revealing, being merely caught up in the need to understand more of the situation in France. But looking into those piercing eyes above her, Clarissa realised Kit had missed none of what she had said.
‘So you claim to be of noble birth? And may I be allowed to ask what this family name is, for I know—have known all along, of course—that the name you gave me is false.’
‘No, there’s nothing to be gained for either of us in that. Rest assured, my real name is Clarissa. That should suffice, for the duration of our brief acquaintance.’ Smiling nervously, for she had no wish to continue this turn in the conversation, Clarissa resolutely faced away from that all too penetrating look, back towards the approaching land. ‘You were telling me about Monsieur Renaud.
If he has no title and his poor wife is dead, I still don’t understand the need for him to leave France.’
Thrusting