Chapter 8

Callie's feet cut around a jagged rock that would've been invisible beneath the cross-leaved heath even in the daylight. She could run this path blindfolded. Her shoulders relaxed and, at last, she experienced the release in her body that only a run beneath a late-night sky could grant her.

A thought, like a hungry barn cat, came round: she wasn't with child. She picked up her pace, but she couldn't outrun it. Her menses had arrived this morning, informing her that there would be no trace of her encounter with the Viking.

It was good news. Of course. The best news. Really.

The pang of loss spiked through her. But she took another step forward, then another, and another, and another. Her stride confident and swift, she left the feeling behind. Fourteen years ago, she'd become an expert at it, this leaving feelings behind in the dust of a run. And when the feeling came back, as feelings inevitably did, well, there was always another, even longer, run just on the other side of her doorstep.

Another barn cat thought slinked into view.

The Viking.

He would soon mend and be gone, no ties between them. It was only a matter of days before he found his way back to London and his ship. Of course, when he reached London, Lord St. Alban would inform him of his intent to sell him the estate. He would know that she'd withheld the information. She cast aside the pesky needle of guilt that tried to push its way in. It wouldn't matter a jot if all went to plan with tonight's meeting.

She rounded a large boulder and veered onto the sheep path, her step more delicate along the cliff's crumbling edge. At last, her feet slowed from run to jog to walk to stop, and, panting, she stared down at Hawkset Cove below.

Beyond the place where moonlight rippled across the shallows, she saw the ship, its three masts swaying almost imperceptibly on the gentle roll of dozy waves below. Closer to the water's edge, she caught another movement. A small dinghy, three men inside, rowing to shore. Who knew smugglers were punctual?

Twin slivers of anxiety and dread snaked through her. She couldn't help feeling wrong to have invited those men to shore. She might've bitten off a bigger bite than she could chew. Meeting with them tonight was such a big risk.

But what choice did she have? Was there a risk too big if it meant protecting the Grange from ruin? To protect the only work that had ever given her life meaning? And what was the alternative? To do nothing and lose the Grange to a man who knew nothing about it? A man who would, in all likelihood, grind her efforts of the last two years into dust?

That wasn't an option. Not for her. Not for the tenants and the village. They wouldn't have their livelihoods and domiciles run into the ground by yet another ignorant master.

Not while she had breath in her lungs.

She stepped onto an inches-wide path, dug into the cliffside by years of erosion and feet, both human and animal, and wended her way down to the rendezvous point on the beach below. She reached the bottom and located the highest ground. There, she waited, the dinghy and its occupants drawing ever closer, their oars a light slap and sloosh in the otherwise still night.

At last, they beached their small vessel and splashed onto dry land. Callie steeled her resolve and notched her chin higher. She took these last few moments to take the men's measure before they stood face to face with her. Two were short, slight, and had the bearing of men accustomed to serving the third man, the infamous Captain Jack Le Grand.

He stood half a head higher than her. Except he wasn't only tall, but broad, too. His was the body of one much younger, but his face instantly dispelled the notion. Weather-beaten and rough, a long scar cut down the left side of his face from hairline to jaw. It was easy to see how this man had come by his fearsome reputation.

His eye caught hers and rendered the other features of his face insignificant. Twinkling, bright, and alert were those eyes. Paradoxically, they made Callie feel the seriousness of this situation more keenly.

She was alone and outnumbered on a secluded beach with a band of pirates. Right. Mayhap she should have informed a servant of tonight's run. And its route.

The pirate stopped and gave her a frank up and down, arms akimbo, feet spread wide. "Thought ye were a man." He loosed a broad chuckle, his cohorts echoing a beat behind him.

Callie had grown so accustomed to wearing trousers, sometimes she forgot that not everyone considered the practice normal. Still, a measure of tension released from her body. The man had broached familiar conversational territory. "You wouldn't be the first man to speak those words to me."

The pirate flicked a dismissive wrist. On any other man, it would be effeminate. "Lah, I was havin' a bit o' fun. Truth is, ye should be associatin' with a better quality o' man, if that's what ye be hearin'."

Her mouth snapped shut, struck dumb by the pirate's words. The fact was it had been her late husband who had spoken those words to her. What better quality of man than an exalted peer of the realm?

The pirate cleared his throat, the rough sound echoing off the cliffs that surrounded them on three sides. "Well, luv, ye got me here, which tells me yer reconsiderin' me offer. Now, what kind o' deal ye be willin' to make?"

Callie swallowed and took a deep breath, her heart pumping blood through her veins so fast she could hear its slushy whoosh-whoosh in her ears. This was the moment. She dug a silver flask from a pocket, twisted off the cap, and extended it.

Jack Le Grand's head cocked to the side. "What's this?"

Callie held her tongue as he accepted the flask and drew a measured sip of apple brandy. His eyes screwed up to the heavens and his lips pursed, he swirled the liquid around his mouth, entirely concentrated on the task of taste, like a connoisseur.

His eye met hers. "This here is the eau de vie the Second Viscount St. Alban was producin' before ye were a speck in yer father's eye. Still got Pete producin'? The man must be ninety if a day."

She must open her mouth and speak the words she'd come here to say. Or not speak them. That option was still available to her, for once she spoke them, there would be no returning to the time before. Jack Le Grand wouldn't take kindly to a deal broken.

"I…" she trailed. She began again. "This is from the first batch we casked two years ago."

The pirate tilted the flask philosophically. "It's right interestin' that yer here at the stroke o' midnight offerin' me up a taste. 'Specially considerin' ye told me where I could stick my mizzen mast only a few months back. Makes a man wonder."

He was going to make her say it. "I shall allow you to sell my brandy in Portugal, Spain, and the Colonies."

She'd spoken the words, and the world hadn't fallen about her ears… yet.

His eyebrows lifted, and he glanced around at his crew, a quick smile flashing across his face. "You'll allow me?" He set his shrewd blue gaze back on her, and his head cocked. "Now that's a bright gel."

An ominous note of portent shivered up her spine. She must speak up before she lost her nerve. "On two conditions."

A low chortle escaped the pirate, and his cohorts shared in it. "The gel has conditions, ye hear? Can't say I'm mightily surprised. What'll they be, luv?"

Callie wasn't amused at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. "First," she began with a bit too much force, "you must clear your ship out of these waters until the cider pressing and casking is completed. Your ship has been spotted, and people are talking."

A serious glint entered the pirate's eye. "Now, don't ye be tryin' to control the Free Reaver, luv, ye'll get nowhere with that. We know our game. Besides"—he jutted his chin toward the cliffs behind her—"there be caves in there that have ample storage."

Her heart slammed against her rib cage. "Storage?"

She had no interest in expanding the terms of their bargain. What had she been thinking by coming here and striking a deal with a pirate like he was an honorable business partner?

Wasn't that rather the point, though?That he wasn't honorable, and her profits would remain untouched by the excise man's hand?

"Aye, they're high up, like. But the less ye know 'bout it, the better."

Righteous umbrage fired through Callie. She must stand this bit of ground. "Now, wait a minute, these cliffs belong to the Viscount St. Alban, you can't just do what you please?—"

"Oh, that's exactly what we do, luv, make no mistake." His eyes glinted in the moonlight, hard as diamonds. "Now that we've reached an understandin' about yer first condition, what be yer second one?"

Callie drew on every ounce of courage left inside her and cloaked herself in it. "I'll expect twenty thousand pounds up front."

Incredulity spread across the pirate's face, as if she'd grown horns before his very eyes. "Ye'll have to explain that one. I don't know much about complex economics, like."

"I can't allow you to abscond with my brandy without surety."

"Lots of fancy words there, luv. Abscond. Surety. One more time fer the uneducated, if ye please."

Was he having a bit of fun with her? For her ear had caught a singular note in his voice. As if a natural refinement lay within it that he was trying to cover up. He knew the meanings of those words, she'd lay odds on it.

"You can't take my brandy without paying me first."

Theatrical understanding blossomed across his face. The man certainly had a knack for drama. He tapped a finger to his temple. "Yer a smart one, that's sure. But me? I can be slow on the uptake. Here's an example. I'm wonderin' what payment would that be?"

"Half of what you expect to receive in Portugal, Spain, and the Colonies for?—"

She hesitated, her heart in her throat. This was it. This was the only way to save the Grange.

"—For the next five years."

He whistled through his teeth. "Five years? Yer wantin' to be partnerin' with the likes o' me fer the next five years?" His gaze needled into her. "What ye be needin' all that coin fer?"

"That'll be my business," she stated, curt, final. "It'll be well worth your while."

"Oh, I ain't got no doubt 'bout that. Business dealin's always be worth my while, yer ladyship, have no doubt." He sucked his teeth. "Ten."

"Ten… what?"

"If you'll partner with me for five years, who's to say ye won't for ten? Twenty thousand pounds is more than a dozen men see in a lifetime."

Callie swallowed a roil of bile. She wouldn't be sick in front of this man. But…

Ten years?She could barely see her way to the end of October, much less five or ten years. Time had become an abstract concept.

"Ten years," she heard herself speak. She'd become mired in the quicksand of this deal, no way out. Struggle would only make it worse. "It's a bargain."

Unlike time, money wasn't an abstract concept in the least.

"Yer a bold one. Anyone ever told ye that?"

Just two days ago, she didn't say. It wouldn't do to think about the Viking just now. This had nothing to do with him. Well, it did, but not directly.

"Ye expectin' this'll be worth me while?"

"Our harvests are bigger every year."

"Nah, I ain't talkin' 'bout this year. We got that all sewn up. How about the next five, ten years? Ye think I'm an upright businessman or sumpin'?"

"I wouldn't go so far as to say upright."

He barked a jolly laugh.

"But you are a businessman."

He nodded, contemplative. "I have a question fer ye now. Ye think ye can keep word o' what we be discussin' quiet?"

"I won't be advertising it in the papers."

"I ken ye won't, but here's the thing: ye ain't been sellin' it."

She swallowed. "The estate runs in the black with the cider and our other interests. No one pays attention to the brandy."

"The excise men haven't caught wind of yer little venture?"

"Again, it's not publicly known."

"And yer men won't notice a little freebootin' on the side?"

"I'll handle my men."

He glanced at his crew. "Lah, I like her spirit, that I do. All right, luv"—he spit on his hand and held it out—"ye got yerself a bargain."

"In gold," she inserted. "I'll accept your payment in gold."

"Is there any other form of payment?"

"All will be ready after the Baptism of the Duke of Muck."

"Eh?"

"Our harvest festival in a few weeks. You can't take it before then. There are too many workers on the estate right now. After the festival, the seasonal workers will be gone, and the Grange will be quiet. You can take it then."

She glanced down at Jack Le Grand's extended hand. He expected her to respond in kind. There was no help for it. She inhaled a deep, salty breath and spit in her hand. All three men chuckled when she and the pirate sealed their deal. After it was over, it was all she could do not to wipe her hand clean on the wool of her trousers.

The men began wading to their boat, and Callie called out, "How will I contact you when it's ready?"

The pirate met her eye over his shoulder. "Ye needn't worry yerself about that. We'll know when the time is right."

Without another word, the men sloshed into the dinghy and began rowing. Except for the soft splash of the oars, the night was quiet. Callie remained rooted to the ground as she watched them grow smaller with each stroke.

She'd just made the biggest mistake of her life, the knowledge sunk deep into her gut.

And it was too late to take any of it back.

Sudden sweat slicked her skin. She clawed at the buttons at her throat. Once open, she closed her eyes and let crisp night air caress and cool her.

Her heart settled, and she saw her reaction for what it was: fear. That was all. The pirates wouldn't receive the brandy if they didn't pay. And neither of them would win in that case.

She'd made a good deal. The best deal possible for her tenants and the village. It would come out all right.

It had to.

There was no other option, really.

Then why didn't it feel that way?

Her Highnessthe Dowager Viscountess of St. Alban, the Wyld Hare, started up the cliff's path, and Nylander slid back from the edge, his stomach scraping against underbrush even as he was careful to avoid its telling crackle.

His mind raced to fit pieces together that had no business being joined. What, precisely, had he just witnessed?

A bargain struck, that was what.

He hadn't been able to make out a single word spoken, but words weren't necessary. That handshake spoke all the volumes he needed to hear. A deal had been sealed between Her Highness and Jack Le Grand, the most notorious pirate this side of the equator, the one who had outlasted all the others, the heyday of pirating having passed years ago.

He tucked his face into the earth, moor grass tickling his nose, and decided against confronting her. The pungent scent of heath and soil hit his nose, the churr of a nightjar sounded in the distance, and the crunch of her ascending footsteps grew closer. He needed to puzzle this out before he relayed the information to Jake.

No good could come of Her Highness striking a deal with Le Grand, of that he was dead certain. Did she know nothing of the man's reputation?

If not yet, she would soon. No one came out of a deal with the pirate unscathed. She was an intelligent woman, but an inexperienced one.

Her head poked up above the low hedge of heath lining the cliff's edge, and her body followed a few beats behind as she struck out east along the coastal path. It was a stroke of good luck that a dense mist was rolling in from the Bristol Channel, blanketing the cove in a wet cloak of gray night.

He kept his head down and counted out ten slow beats. He glanced up just as her feet kicked into a trot. She was on the run again. He waited a good thirty seconds before pushing to a stand, dusting dried flecks of shrubbery off his clothes, and trailing in her wake at a generous distance.

In the space of ten minutes, his plans had changed, and it seemed he would need more time to recover from his fever. While here, why not learn every minute detail about Wyldcombe Grange? Who better to teach him than its mistress?

And if he served as an embarrassing reminder of one night's shame, well, he wouldn't lose any sleep over it.