Esmée shook her head. “I cannot share what is not mine to give.”
He all but lunged at her, grabbing her arm and pressing the pistol’s cold steel against her temple. “Make no attempt to gain help at the Flask and Sword. We’ve timed our coming with care. Meet me at daybreak on the path that leads to the south beach. Come alone. If ye play me false ye’ll not return to the light.”
“Are ye all right, Miss Shaw?” Alice’s voice penetrated Esmée’s panic as she removed her cape at the door of the cottage.
A baby’s cry spared her an answer. Alice moved toward Ruenna in her cradle near the hearth, giving Esmée a moment to gather her wits.
“All well here?” Esmée asked, crossing to the window to take another look at the light.
Jago Wherry had vanished as quickly as he’d come, making her wish their meeting was a bad dream. Her every nerve stretched taut, her stomach roiling. But for the moment Alice was holding Ruenna out to her with a slightly exasperated smile.
“The babe is fat as butter,” she said as Esmée took Ruenna in her arms. “And she’s been fed, so I don’t know why she’s cross.”
Did the baby have a bit of Eliza’s temper? Ruenna’s blue eyes were awash with tears, her tiny fists bunched. She wailed as if she’d been pricked with a pin. Esmée made certain that wasn’t the case, then cradled her closer, wanting to protect her at all costs.
Alice took Alden from his new cradle, his crying giving way to hiccups. “Just when we got the babes quieted for you, up they pop!”
Esmée took a steadying breath. “Have you seen my sister?”
Alice shook her head. “Lucy served her supper in the captain’s cottage a half hour ago.”
Taking a chair, Esmée studied the babe’s delicate but flushed features, wishing Eliza would come in and console her. As it was, she was so distracted she could give little comfort.
“Would ye like a cup of chocolate, Miss Shaw?” Lucy came from the kitchen, all concern, as Alice excused herself to change Alden. “’Tis so chill in the lighthouse. Your cheeks are red as roses.”
“Please,” Esmée replied absently, though her supper sat uneasily, her head a-hammer. How would she manage the rich drink?
She studied Lucy’s comely form as she went to the kitchen. Wherry had threatened harm to not only her but the women with her. How many of his fellows were with him? Were they even now watching the cottage?
Lucy returned, cocoa in hand. “Has any crew come from the Flask and Sword?”
“I haven’t any idea.” Esmée looked at her, startled. “Why do you ask?”
Lucy darted a look at the kitchen. “I spied a man coming out of the light. He had a familiar look about him.”
An odd relief overrode Esmée’s panic. “I’ll not dissemble.” She lowered her voice as Ruenna squirmed in her arms. “We are in a predicament. Jago Wherry has come seeking prizes.”
“Wherry?” Lucy’s alarmed words raised the gooseflesh on Esmée’s arms. “Surely the old sot’s bluffing?”
They stared at each other. Esmée couldn’t risk their safety and oppose him. But neither could she betray Henri’s trust and forgo the cache, though she was certain he would say it mattered little compared to their lives.
“I suppose Wherry’s brought his cronies?” Lucy’s eyes narrowed. “From the back alleys of York and the track, most likely. ’Tis spirits that embolden them to act so rashly and defy the captain, likely.”
“Please, say nothing to Alice.” Esmée heard her singing to Alden. “Pray for our protection and deliverance.”
“God help us . . .” Lucy’s usual paleness leached whiter. “There’s the babes to think of—and her ladyship, who seems half-barmy, if ye pardon my saying so.”
This was another of Esmée’s fears, that her sister’s disordered mind would refuse to right itself. No doubt the Eliza of old would rise to the challenge of outwitting Wherry if she got wind of his schemes. Or if she knew Henri’s treasure was pinpointed on a map beneath the very floorboards of the cottage she now occupied.
Esmée’s reply died in her throat when Alice reappeared with a smile, obviously none the wiser.
As cups were filled and the fire crackled and Ruenna finally began to settle, Esmée’s mind spun. Might she lead Wherry to a false location and let him dig? Say the treasure had been taken when he turned up emptyhanded? But then what? If he became angry . . . if he knew she’d misled him . . .
Lord, a way of escape, please.
CHAPTER
sixty-one
The cold dawn added to Esmée’s angst. Rain threatened, the sea churlish. Sleepless and sharp-tempered, she walked the path to Wherry’s appointed meeting place with leaden feet. Though she’d considered avoiding him, she sensed he would appear at the cottage and thereby place the other women in more danger. So she slipped out, telling Lucy to lock the door after her and not unlock it till she returned.
Her silent prayers seemed to rise no farther than the clouds hanging above her head. When she spied Wherry waiting among the cover of pines, her chest tightened till she couldn’t breathe. Yet she held to the Scripture that had come to her in the night, just as she clutched the captain’s pistol hidden in her pocket.
The wicked plotteth against the just, and gnasheth upon him with his teeth. The Lord shall laugh at him: for he seeth that his day is coming.
She certainly felt gnashed upon. Then Wherry was at her back with what she assumed was a primed, loaded weapon and a shovel. He spoke little, his bloodshot gaze and shambling gait unnerving her further. When they passed the copse of trees where Henri had carefully stored his cache, she felt a momentary qualm. Should she just give Wherry what he wanted? Nay, came a bone-deep conviction. She led him on down the path as far from the women and infants as possible.
“Hasten your steps, Miss Shaw.” The gravelly voice was thick with drink. “I’ve no time to waste.”
A sharp jab to the small of her back stole the last of her composure. She whirled on him, legs atremble beneath her quilted petticoats. His surprise flared as she thrust her own pistol in his leering face.
“Shall we have it out betwixt us first?” Her voice shook with heat. “I’m done with your threatening and demands.”
“A foolish move.” Their pistols were pointed at each other, only his hand was steadier. “My men are trailing us. If I say the word, ye’ll have more than me to reckon with.”
Could she believe him? She’d neither seen nor sensed anyone else. In the trice of her ruminating, he wrested the gun from her grasp, twisting her wrist and fueling her ire.
“Thou art unfit for any place but hell.” She spat out the Shakespearean slur even as she prayed for deliverance.
On they went, two weapons now trained upon her. She stopped atop a dune. The storm surge had swept this side of the island, doing far more damage than to their own rocky point. When she gestured to a patch of sandy ground, he tossed aside the weapons and began digging, a mistrustful eye upon her.
Wrist aching, she watched him, standing well apart from his feverish work. At a gull’s hollow cry, she scanned the surrounding brush and trees, searching, sifting. Wherry would soon tire of his fruitless search and turn on her.