The wind howled, the trees swayed, the rain beat down. No one would have noticed the banging of the door amid nature’s own racket.
Olivia let herself out through the small gate at the rear of the kitchen garden, skirted the orchard, and emerged into the lane some distance from the locked and bolted main gates.
The wind tore at her cloak and she was drenched within minutes. It was cold and her thin shirt was plastered to her skin, but she kept on up the lane until she reached the narrow path that led to the clifftop. And here on the exposed cliff she could barely keep her feet. She could hear the waves crashing against the cliffs below her, and the wind screamed in her ears. She battled against the wind, keeping her head down, barely noticing how far she had gone. Now there was something exhilarating about being out in this elemental force, pitting her puny strength against the battering of the storm.
In a momentary lull she raised her head and looked towards the point of cliff ahead of her. A lone figure stood outlined against the black sky. His black cloak swirled around him like Lucifer’s wings. As she watched she saw a spark of flint on tinder, and then the bright flare of the beacon.
She began to run, gasping for each breath that was snatched from her on the wind. And then suddenly men came out of nowhere, shapes elongated in the beacon’s light. The man at the beacon was engulfed as they surged on him. For a few seconds the beacon flared strongly into the night, and then it was doused.
A sheet of lightning lit up the sea, showing Olivia the boiling rocks, then thunder cracked and it was as if the heavens themselves had been split open.
Faintly from far below came shouts, the sound of steel on steel. Fighting.
She fell to the grass, inching forward on her belly until she could look down over the cliff edge.
Men were swaying in strange embraces; some were lying still on the ground. It was dark as pitch now under the relentless rain, and she couldn’t distinguish a familiar figure anywhere in the melee. But they had to be Anthony’s men. Who were they fighting? Had they been caught by the watch? Was Anthony even now on his way to the dungeons of Yarmouth Castle, and the gibbet? She needed to know, to see for herself what was happening.
She could just make out a snaky path that seemed to drop sheer to the beach below. Behind her a curious silence seemed to have fallen. She stood up carefully, glancing over her shoulder. The men at the doused beacon were standing in a circle, their backs to her. She scrambled over the edge of the cliff and onto the path. It was steep and she slipped and slithered on the wet sand, but she managed to keep her feet. Now she could hear the waves on the rocks ever more clearly and the sounds of the fighting on the beach, barely audible over the noise of the storm.
She reached the beach and stood with her back to the cliff. As she watched the battle she recognized some of the men from her days on Wind Dancer. A curious cold detachment came over her. There were a few shapes lying still on the sand, but she couldn’t seem to see them as human bodies. It was as if she were divorced from reality. When men began to run past her towards the path she’d just descended, fleeing muskets fired in the air behind them, she made no attempt to conceal herself. They ran shouting and screaming into the wind, leaving the pirate’s men in possession of the beach. Of Anthony there was no sign.
Vaguely she realized she was shivering, her teeth chattering, yet she didn’t really feel cold. She felt nothing. She gazed out at the black water. There were two boats, just this side of the rocks, and their oarsmen seemed to be racing against each other. Then there was a crash as they met and a confused crescendo of shouts. Men rose, flourishing oars as weapons while the sea boiled around them, then as she watched one of the boats seemed to topple sideways. Its crew just slid into the sea, vanishing below the white-topped surf.
And then she heard the loud melancholy sound of the bell buoy carried on the wind. And the victorious rowboat struggled back to the beach.
The man who jumped ashore first was Anthony.
Olivia gazed at the tall, slender figure; his hair, torn from its ribbon, whipped in the wind around his face; his shirt and britches were plastered to his body. He was barefoot.
And he was the most beautiful sight.
She came to herself as if waking from a deep sleep. She ran across the beach towards him, calling his name.
Anthony spun around. He stared in disbelief as she hurtled against him, her arms flying around his neck, her soaked body pressed to his. “Olivia?” He spoke her name as if it were a question, even as he held her against him. “Olivia? What are you doing here?”
He held her against him, his bare feet braced in the sand, his hands splayed across her back as he looked down into her face. His sodden hair clung to his cheek and forehead, and his eyes glittered with the lingering ferocity of the battle he had just fought.
The wonderful sound of the bell clanged its warning across the waves. “I love you,” Olivia said. “I came to tell you I love you.”
“Dear God!” He continued to look at her in utter disbelief. Would he ever understand this mercurial woman? “Why now? Why here?”
“I’m so happy. I c-can’t tell you how happy I am.” Olivia smiled up at him, her eyes radiant through the sheeting rain.
Anthony shook his hair away from his face. “This is all very sudden, my flower, gratifying I grant you, but very sudden. I am totally confused as to-”
He broke off as Mike and Jethro came down the path from the clifftop, driving in front of them the man Olivia had seen light the beacon.
It was Godfrey Channing, and Mike held a pistol against his back.
Anthony glanced down once at Olivia. “You shall explain later,” he said. He stepped away from her and took a small dagger from the sheath at his hip. He walked over to where Channing stood on the sand.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Lord Channing at his merry work again,” Anthony said.
Godfrey stared at him, hatred in his eyes. He saw Olivia as she approached across the sand, and with a vile oath he lunged at Anthony, a knife in his hand.
Anthony’s dagger slashed across Godfrey’s wrist, and the knife fell to the sand. “You might have disarmed him, Mike,” the pirate murmured, kicking the knife away.
Abashed, Mike apologized. “I thought I had, master.”
“I expect he had it up his sleeve,” Anthony observed.
Godfrey held his bleeding wrist and a stream of obscenities poured from his lips.
“Olivia, you’d better block your ears,” Anthony said over his shoulder. “Our friend has no respect for a lady’s finer sensibilities.”
“Whore!” Godfrey spat at Olivia as she drew closer. “Trollop!”
Anthony hit him in the mouth with his closed fist. “You will speak only when spoken to, my friend,” he said almost pleasantly.
“He was at the beacon,” Olivia said in bewilderment. “He lit the beacon.”
“Precisely so.”
“He’s a wrecker?”
“Precisely so.” Anthony smiled and it was a most unpleasant smile. “Olivia, why don’t you make yourself useful, since you’re here.”
“Doing what?” Olivia couldn’t tear her fascinated, horrified gaze from Channing. He had no power to frighten her now, but he horrified her. His eyes were as cold and hateful as ever, even though she could tell that he was himself frightened. He reminded her of a cornered snake, scared but dangerous.
“Help my men tidy up the beach. There are some wounded; they need to be disarmed. You are, as I recall, rather adept at disarming villains.” A very different smile flickered across his mouth, and his eyes were suddenly warm as they rested on her face.
“What are you going to do?”
“Have a little talk with Lord Channing. There’s something he needs to tell me. I would prefer you were not here. Besides, a little work will warm you up.”