spies could be valuable.
He spent the next three hours making and discarding plans. He knew he wasn’t returning to Gravelines; that had never been part of his plan. But now, on top of successfully stealing away from the shore on his own, he would have to lug an unwilling companion along with him.
There was no other possible conclusion: he had to enlist Anton’s help once they reached their destination.
He reminded himself yet again that he trusted Boucher. As much as he trusted any man. Or woman.
Which, Max acknowledged silently, wasn’t much. For instance, he still didn’t quite understand why Anton, such a sorry sailor, would insist upon escorting him to England in this storm when he could have vouched for him to get him on board, and then waved his farewell from the dock. That didn’t quite make sense.
The Frenchman hadn’t led him astray yet; his information had all been spot-on. But loyalties could change, especially if money was involved, just as easily as the direction of the wind now blowing toward England, at last leaving the storm behind them. Trust was at a premium in these tumultuous times. It was all too easy to end up betrayed and dead. Both Anton and Max knew that. But we don’t speak of such things. The past is the past, and the guilty one punished does not bring back the dead....
“Open the shutter, boy,” the captain suddenly commanded. “Once, then again, and watch for the all clear from shore. Ah, there it is! Lower the longboats, and be quick about it.”
It was time. His decision made, Max scrambled to his feet with the others, and headed for Anton, who was still standing at the rail.
“We part ways now, yes?” Anton whispered close beside Max’s ear, his breath foul, so that Max covered his own mouth and nose. “Me to follow our return cargo once it lands, and you to chase after those who remain on the shore. Don’t attempt to sneak away empty-handed. I think it best you heft a brace of kegs, like the others. The longboats are down. Here, let me help hoist a yoke onto your shoulders.”
Max nodded, remaining where he was, his forearms on the rail, leaning forward, straining to see the shore as Anton went to retrieve the yoke and kegs. Then Max would tell him about the possible spy.
He never got the chance.
“Anton! Another smuggler’s lantern, signaling onshore. Could be unwelcome company portside,” he said, turning toward the man, so that the belaying pin that came down on his head only grazed his skull rather than rendering him totally unconscious.
All he would ever remember after that was a hard body barreling into him with force sufficient to knock his breath from him, and helplessly falling through the air, heading for the dark water that was suddenly lit by the flash of a cannon broadside that seemed to have come out of nowhere to crash through the rigging of the sloop.
* * *
“RELEASE ME, YOU FOOL, I’m all right. Let me go!”
Zoé Charbonneau’s words were closely followed by a kick that landed in the most tender spot of her unnecessary rescuer’s pudgy anatomy. He seemed to go unconscious with the pain. Her arm was freed at once and she was up and running, stumbling, only to fall to her knees on the sharp shingle beside Maximillien Redgrave.
Max. Her Max. But not any longer.
She spared only a moment to look into his well-remembered face, still misbelieving what she was seeing even after staring at him for hours, before she pushed him over onto his belly with all her might, and then straddled him.
“Breathe, damn you,” she commanded, bracing her arms against him, slamming the sides of her fists into his back over and over again. “Don’t you dare die again!”
“Like this, mademoiselle,” came an unfamiliar voice from behind her.
Zoé felt herself being picked up and tossed aside like so much flotsam and looked up to see the towering Arabic man from the smuggler’s sloop. “No, don’t, I have to—”
“Many apologies. I am called Tariq, and promise you I am harmless. If you would please to turn his head to one side? His nose in the sand aids nothing.”
She did as instructed, and saw Tariq pushing on Max’s back with twice the strength she had been able to muster.
“Is he past saving?” she asked, her voice maddeningly tremulous, her hands clasped tightly together at her chest so that she wouldn’t give in to the urge to push his sodden hair back from his face.
“Only a fool would leave a young lady so eager to keep him here,” the man said, grinning, showing off a splendid set of strong white teeth. “Is your man a fool?”
Zoé shook her head, ordering herself to be calm. Hysteria aided nothing; she’d learned that long ago. Even if she were dying inside, she had trained herself to remain outwardly calm, even detached. Perhaps she’d succeeded too well, especially in these last months, and was no longer capable of feeling even what she should. But, then, how else to survive in this treacherous world she’d chosen to live in? “No, just stubborn.”
“Then he’ll live. Stubborn is good.”
As if to prove the man’s point, Max began to cough and choke, and then rise on his elbows and knees to begin vomiting up half the Channel.
Zoé immediately scrambled backward, away from him, then stood up to assess her surroundings. It would be disastrous for Max to see her, even as it would kill her to walk away.
“Take care of him please, Tariq, and then trust him to take care of you. But you never saw me, did you?”
Max’s savior winked at her. “The pale-haired angel in the devil’s clothes? Who would believe me?”
“Shukran, Tariq. Thank you,” she responded, dredging up some of her limited Arabic.
“Alla ysallmak, miss, may God keep you safe.”
“Until I get my bearings, He’ll have to, won’t He?”
There was light enough to see where she was, thanks to the bright flames shooting up from the sails of the smuggling craft, its hull slowly listing to port as a dozen or more grappling hooks thrown from a nearby ship attempted to heave it to starboard, intent on keeping it afloat until it could be dragged closer to shore.
There was yelling somewhere in the distance, pistol fire and the sound of clashing swords, but no one else was visible besides Max, Tariq and the still-unconscious stranger. Just the beach, some abandoned-looking cottages with a steep hill and darkness behind them. An impressively high, clearly impassable rock jetty jutted out into the water to her left; another grassy hill rose to her right, beyond which she could see a distant outcropping of land, dim lights telling her it was clearly home to some sort of town. Anyone attempting escape from the beach would surely head toward the lights, and most certainly be easily captured.
Which was why she knew she had one way to go: up.
Climbing. Like all trapped, desperate animals.
No, she wouldn’t think about that.
With one more assessing look toward Max, barely resisting the urge to touch him just one last time, she headed for what was possibly a path that would lead her up the faintly visible hillside behind the cottages. He could take care of himself, the man who called himself Tariq could assist him, and if Boucher still breathed, he also would have no other choice but to navigate the steep hillside in order to escape in the current chaos.
Unless he was responsible for it. No, no, that was impossible. Anton would never willingly put himself in a position of danger by ordering someone to fire on a ship while he was still aboard.
For her own safety and now Max’s, as well, she had to presume Anton’d survived the attack. More, she had to know.
It had taken her many weeks to ferret the Frenchman out, only to almost lose him earlier on the docks. If she lost track of him now, it might be years before she could locate him again, now that he was in England. Even worse