The Secret of Love (Rakes & Rebels: The Raveneau Family Book 3) Page 7

  Time seemed to accelerate as Lowenna went running along the quay. When she reached the French sloop, the girl appeared to trip, crumpling upon the uneven stones. Izzie had made her practice groaning—just loud enough to bring someone from the boat, but not so loud as to alert Polperro’s own watchman.

  “Ohhh! I be hurt!” Lowenna exclaimed in a hoarse voice.

  The young seaman who had been on duty watched uncertainly for a moment, then called below decks in French for assistance. Moments later, two other crewmembers had jumped to the quay and were trying to help Lowenna, who was writhing with pain quite convincingly.

  Izzie knew that it was now or never. Her heart felt as if it would burst from her chest as she stole out of the shadows. When all three of the Frenchmen were bent over Lowenna, seemingly encouraging the frightened “boy” to get up, Izzie clutched her portmanteau under one arm and vaulted over the sloop’s larboard rail.

  No sooner did her right foot touch the deck than she realized she’d made a terrible mistake. Although her twisted ankle had seemingly been healed, this jump was all it took to reawaken the throbbing pain. Yet she couldn’t think of it. At any moment, the Frenchmen would return from assisting Lowenna and she would be caught.

  Quickly, Izzie ascertained that she was alone on the deck. Only a lantern flickered from the bulkhead that was visible through the hatch. Surely the rest of the crew—and St. Briac himself—must all be sleeping soundly in advance of their dawn departure for France.

  She couldn’t wait even an instant. Biting her lower lip against the searing pain, Izzie lowered herself through the hatch, descendng the ladder to the companionway belowdecks. She was grateful for the fitful lantern glow that helped her quickly locate the hold. Fortunately, Deux Frères was laid out much like her brother’s jaunty Raven, which Sebastian had acquired a decade ago from André Raveneau.

  Black as ink, the hold smelled sharply of pitch and stale moisture. Izzie stumbled in the darkness but reached ahead to blindly feel her way behind some barrels. A hiding place! She slid down the damp bulkhead until she was seated, knees folded to her breasts, and lay her cheek against the fine leather portmanteau.

  As her eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, Izzie began to recognize objects: wooden crates, chests, and oaken barrels. Then, just a few feet away, she made out a long, low shape that made her heart jump. Dear God, it was a coffin. It must be the one Gabriel had used to smuggle tea into Polperro!

  How long would it be before they reached France—and what would Izzie do when they arrived and she had to explain herself to Gabriel St. Briac? Tears burned her throat as the reality of what she had done, and the uncertainty of what lay ahead, joined to wrap her in their chilly embrace.

  Chapter 6

  When Deux Frères had crossed the English Channel from France to Cornwall, the voyage had been made in the dark of night, to minimize the risk of being seized by a King’s boat.

  The return trip to Brittany was so much pleasanter. Because they carried no contraband goods, they could avail themselves of a brisk, sunny breeze to speed across the Channel.

  Standing on deck and breathing in the fresh sea air, Gabriel would have felt euphoric if he’d been returning home with the King. Instead, he was plagued by the bitter taste of defeat.

  “We should dock in Roscoff in by mid-afternoon,” Martin was saying from a short distance away. It seemed that he was incapable of silence. “It’s one of the fastest crossings I can remember. Perhaps the second fastest, if we keep to this schedule. I must check the ship’s logs to verify that.”

  “Ah.” Gabriel ran a hand through his mist-dampened hair, trying to tune out Martin’s dull musings. Of course, he should be elated by their speed, eager to reach France in order to pursue the person who had stolen his priceless St. Briac heirloom. Instead, he couldn’t decide where or how to begin the chase.

  “One of the men just told me that he heard some noises in the hold,” Martin said. “Should I send someone down to have a look? Perhaps a barrel is rolling free…”

  Grateful for the opportunity to escape, Gabriel held up a hand. “No, no, I’ll go. I have some matters to attend to below before we make landfall.”

  * * *

  Every muscle in Izzie’s body ached as she sat hunched over in her hiding place, but she didn’t dare move again. She’d already sent a small cask tumbling across the hold when she dozed off and tried to stretch out in her sleep.

  Now, exhausted and grimy after hours tucked away in the malodorous hold, Izzie feared that every sound meant someone was about to discover her. They might well still be near enough to England that St. Briac would simply sail back and return her to her brother.

  Just then there were footsteps in the passageway followed by a familiar voice calling down from the hatch.

  “Helivet! What’s keeping you?” said Gabriel St. Briac. “Come above to chart the course while I wash and eat. I am ravenous.”

  “Oui, as you say, Captain! I was just about to see what caused the noise in the hold a few moments ago…”

  “Never mind. I shall see to it as I pass by.”

  There was more commotion as the man called Helivet ascended the ladder. Izzie’s heart flew into her throat. In a few minutes, she would be caught! She could hear the sound of footsteps on the deck above; St. Briac wasn’t coming yet.

  In the gloom, Izzie’s eyes fell on the coffin. Dear God, it was the only way she could conceal herself, and there was no time to hesitate or be ruled by fear.

  She quickly crawled over to the pine coffin, reminding herself that St. Briac had said they’d used it to smuggle tea. It wasn’t as if someone’s body had been in it, after all.

  At least, she hoped, not recently!

  Lifting the lid, Izzie climbed in and quickly pulled it down on top of her. Absolute blackness closed in. There was no space to move, and the air she breathed smelled of damp mold.

  Scarcely a moment later, St. Briac dropped down through the hatch. As his footsteps grew closer, Izzie felt her heart beating in every corner of her body. Blood rushed in her ears.

  “Hmm,” he muttered softly.

  She heard him walk right up to the coffin, but she couldn’t tell which direction he faced. There was a bit of rustling, perhaps within the cluster of barrels where she had hidden earlier. Next, she discerned the sound of a rolling barrel. He must be retrieving the cask of wine she had dislodged earlier.

  Izzie thought, he is here to put the barrel back with the other cargo, to stop it from rolling about. In a few moments, he would go away to have his breakfast and she would be released from this ghastly prison.

  Just then, St. Briac came closer and set the heavy cask directly on top of the coffin. Thud.

  Izzie was consumed by waves of horror as the Frenchman’s footsteps retreated into the distance. It came to her that, not only was she virtually imprisoned in a coffin, but her portmanteau was still out there, wedged between the barrels.

  She might as well have left him a calling card.

  * * *

  Gabriel washed, ate bread with soft Camembert cheese and a slice of ham, drank bitter hot coffee swirled with creamy milk, and listened to Martin’s unremarkable report. When the first mate had gone, he eyed his bunk longingly.

  How long had it been since he’d had a good night’s sleep? Not since arriving in Cornwall, it seemed. He thought wistfully of the night before they’d all gone to Lanwyllow to retrieve the painting. That night he’d lain awake, anticipating his reunion with the portrait of King François. He had been anxious to look once again into the eyes of the charming French king who had been the boyhood friend of his own ancestor, Thomas Mardouet, seigneur de St. Briac.

  It was true; whoever looked at the portrait felt that the king’s eyes were looking back, as if he were still alive. No matter what doubts Madame Le Brun might have, Gabriel felt that only the magnificent da Vinci could have created such an image.

  And now…gone! It was sickening.

  No, he might be exhausted, but
sleep was impossible. Better to go on deck and pace. At least the morning was bright and fresh.

  As Gabriel pulled on his boots and shrugged into his coat, his gaze fell on the surprisingly heavy portmanteau he’d come upon in the hold. It was the least of the puzzles he had to contend with right now, but rather a welcome diversion all the same.

  Had one of the crew put it there?

  Gabriel opened the bag and stared. As he drew out a pair of boy’s breeches, his right eyebrow flew up. Was there a stowaway on board?

  * * *

  Was this what it would feel like to die? Izzie wondered as the minutes ticked by. No, of course not. When one died and was put in a coffin, there would be no further awareness of the dark nor this choking feeling that the air was being used up.

  Thank God her poor mother didn’t have to endure this horrible, unrelenting confinement. The marchioness had lingered for some time after the accident before she died, but everyone said she hadn’t suffered.

  Think of something else! Izzie told herself, squeezing her eyes shut.

  She imagined she was free, standing on one of the dramatic cliffs near Polperro, overlooking the English Channel. A warm breeze tossed her long curls, causing her skirt to flutter, and she inhaled deeply, gratefully. Her traveling box of artist’s supplies was open amid a profusion of ox-eye daisies, and Izzie held her flat ceramic palette in her left hand and her quill brush in her right. There were so many colors to choose from, so many ways she could mix them to create all the shades of blue in the sky.

  Abruptly, Izzie came back to the coffin as she remembered that her artist’s box was in the portmanteau. Lowenna had advised her to leave it behind, insisting that she should use the space for more clothing, but Izzie had replied that she would rather go without shoes than her beloved art tools.

  Had he found it and taken it away? Perhaps it was at the bottom of the English Channel by now!

  The oppressive sense of dark confinement returned to hold her in its grip. She couldn’t push the coffin open and it seemed that she was using more of the available air by the minute. The more fearful she became, the faster her heartbeat.

  What had she been thinking, engaging in this rash masquerade simply because of George? He didn’t seem to care about anyone but himself. She was completely alone again, just as she’d been when her mother and father had sent her away to that dreadful school in Devon. Sebastian had been in America with the Royal Navy and she’d felt completely abandoned.

  As Izzie lay inside the dark coffin, long-suppressed emotions began to boldly emerge from their hiding places.

  Many years ago, she had taught—no forced—herself to deny her desperate yearning for love. Lying in her bed at school, aching for a visit and her mother’s embrace, she had imagined packing her pain away in a trunk and locking it in a closet.

  Then they’d been killed and George had come, and his embrace had felt like a life preserver.

  In the end, the Raveneau family had been her real rescuers, but the memory of her brother George patting her hair and assuring her that she was not alone, that she still had a family, had been a treasure she’d clung to. Even when her tears had soaked his shirtfront, he hadn’t admonished her to dry her eyes. Over the years, especially while she was still at school and felt the greatest sense of loneliness and loss, Izzie could close her eyes and relive that memory. It might have seemed very simple to someone else, but for Izzie it held tremendous power.

  Later, of course, after the night in Roscoff when she’d sat beside the dazzling Gabriel St. Briac, his kind, handsome face had begun to appear in her dreams in place of George’s. And now they were tangled up together: her eldest brother, St. Briac—and the lost Leonardo da Vinci masterpiece.

  * * *

  Gabriel stared at the portmanteau, pondering. Before long, he grimaced as if he’d just noticed a bad smell.

  The conclusion was obvious, unfortunately. Martin had reported a noise in the hold before St. Briac discovered the portmanteau…so there was probably a stowaway to be found. Sangdieu! Although he longed to turn the entire matter over to one of the crew, some instinct told him to get to the bottom of it himself. Soon enough, they would make landfall in France and the stowaway must be safely in irons by then.

  He stood up and stretched, easily touching the beams overhead. A weapon would be necessary. His brother, Justin, kept an array of wicked smuggler’s weapons packed away in the captain’s cabin. Gabriel chose a particularly evil-looking sword and set off for the hold.

  * * *

  Izzie dozed a bit, dreaming that she was painting a real portrait. Madame Le Brun was looking on, delighted. Each brush stroke brought her subject more vividly to life. She was pondering the best shades to layer to make a blush-pink when a loud noise brought her abruptly tumbling back to reality.

  Opening her eyes, she was met with blackness, musty airlessness, and a sense of confinement beyond anything she had ever imagined. The top of the coffin was mere inches above her face.

  “Where are you, coward? I challenge you to show yourself!” a deep French-accented voice was thundering. “Come out and face me like a man!” Of course, she realized, it was Gabriel St. Briac.

  A barrier gave way inside Izzie. Shamelessly, swallowing tears, she tried to knock her trembling fist against the coffin-lid.

  Moments later, the heavy cask that had held the lid so firmly in place was plucked away. When St. Briac opened the coffin itself and air rushed in, Izzie blinked against the dim light. The first thing she made out was his loose, white shirt looming above her, but before she could speak, the sharpened tip of a cold blade prodded her throat.

  “Stand up, dog, and throw down your weapons,” he ordered.

  It came back to her then that she wore boy’s clothing, her long hair was pinned up under a seaman’s knitted cap, and she had enhanced her disguise by smudging fireplace ashes on her face.

  Trembling, Izzie managed to clamber to her feet. Her heart was pounding as she looked up into his sinfully handsome, clearly exasperated visage.

  “Sir…” she managed to croak. “I have no weapon.”

  “Look at you! You’re more a boy than a man. Does your maman know that you’ve run away from home?” His eyes raked her scornfully. “I should take you home, child, but I can’t turn back. There is a storm coming, and I have matters of real importance to attend to in France. What the devil were you up to?”

  Izzie almost wished she could crawl back into the coffin and close the lid again. She’d never seen St. Briac angry like this. Still, there was nothing for it but to face him squarely. Surely, once she explained why she had come, he would understand and perhaps even welcome her assistance.

  “M’sieur,” she quavered, lifting her chin, and watched the blood drain from his tanned face.

  “Sangdieu,” he whispered in tones of dread. His sparkling eyes blinked once, twice, and almost reflexively he lowered the sword-point from her throat. “Tell me that this is un cauchemar. A bad dream…”

  Izzie winced as his left hand reached out to pull the cap from her head, freeing a cascade of long curls. “Please, m’sieur, you must listen. I will explain myself!”

  St. Briac put down his sword, gripped her soft upper arms, and easily lifted her feet clear of the coffin. When she was standing inches from his broad chest, he commanded, “You will come with me, my lady, and I will ask the questions.”

  Chapter 7

  After thrusting Lady Isabella Trevarre into his cabin, Gabriel followed her and locked the door. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt so frustrated.

  “Sit down!” He gestured to the chair at his desk that was bolted to the floor.

  She obeyed, still looking shaky, but he saw a spark flare in her eyes. “I am your prisoner, m’sieur.”

  “Nonsense. You speak as if I entrapped you, when nothing could be further from the truth.” He had been pacing across the rocking cabin, but stopped at the sight of her face going white. “What is it? Are you hungry?”

/>   “Perhaps I do need a bit of food…and a moment to see to my, ah, comfort.” Twin spots of color stained her cheeks.

  Comfort? What the devil was she talking about? It came to him then. “Oh, I see.” He crossed to open a tiny door, revealing a narrow compartment. Inside was a fancy carved chair containing a chamber pot. “My brother’s idea. Justin’s usually the one occupying this cabin, and he’s a great one for extravagance.”

  Moments later, St. Briac found himself standing outside his own cabin, waiting. Fuming. Just as he lifted his fist to knock and inquire if Isabella was now comfortable, Martin appeared in the gangway.

  “Capitaine?” the boy said, cocking his head. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Nothing that I would discuss with you. Why have you come?”

  “We are perhaps an hour from Roscoff. I assumed, naturally, that you would want to be on deck.”

  “No. Not yet.” He tried to control his irritation. “I would like some food.”

  “But, didn’t Louis bring you breakfast an hour ago?”

  St. Briac clenched his teeth. “Can you not simply obey me without question? I am hungry. Send food!”

  “As you say,” the first mate muttered, looking at his captain as if suspecting an imposter had taken his place. “You are not ill, I hope?”

  “No! Go then!” He gave him a look so threatening that Martin scurried away without another word. When the boy had disappeared into the small galley, Gabriel opened the door a few inches and inquired laconically, “May I enter, my lady?”

  “You may,” came her prim reply. As he approached, she continued, “I cannot help observing, m’sieur, that you are behaving in a way that is quite out of character. Are you ill?”

  “Do you imagine that you know my character?”

  “I have always found you to be a dashing, even merry, sort of gentleman,” Isabella replied as her expression became radiant. “Kind, witty, quite at ease in company—”

  He cut her off. “And did you expect me to laugh and jest when I discovered you had stowed away on my ship?”