The Sailor's Lass: Bladewood Legacy, #2

By Kelly Lyonns

Sometimes danger and adventure come knocking, no matter how well you've hidden yourself.

Deep in rural Regency Brittany, Lady Susanna Greyson had kept her psychic abilities from both her neighbours and the arcane secret society her parent's had warned her against, The Guild. And she has... until she finds the shattered body of a wounded British sailor. Against all reason, she takes a terrible risk. Driven by compassion and a strange compulsion.

The British Navy may rule the frigid English Channel, but Lieutenant Arthur Bladewood finds himself far from home. Landlocked, betrayed and shot. With Susanna facing the overhelpful and inquisitive local French garrison officer, it is imperative Arthur escape France. But he cannot leave his rescuer to the brutality threatening to spill over into her home.

Unknowingly, Arthur has tangled them both in the Guild's business and led their most dangerous enemy straight to Susanna. Hunted by smugglers, assassins and the French army – friend and foe alike – he, too, must now risk his life for hers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kelly Lyonns
• Release date: Oct 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9780645042221

Book preview

Chapter 1

1811, September 13th, Friday

Arthur William Bladewood rested his head against the stony ground and contemplated the darkening sky above him. He was, at the moment, not content to lie in this unusual and rather undignified position, but rather resigned to it.

A small racing cloud caught his eye. He shifted slightly to watch it break away from its heavy companions and scatter apart in the strengthening winds. The persistent ache from his leg was gradually making itself more than just unpleasant. He grimaced in discomfort. Here, up high on the hill, there was little to spare him from the Channel wind slicing through the tall field grasses.

Well, at least I can now argue which is more painful: sabre cut or musket shot.

As a silver lining to his current personal dark cloud, it was itself a pretty dark thought. But then there had been little about the last few days that hadn’t been dark, dangerous or just plain stupid, and his brain did not seem to be able to muster anything more positive. He closed his eyes briefly and sighed. His luck had been all bad. Unless you counted not being fatally shot as a blessing. A minute either way and he would have been clear. Clear, and not lying on this damned hillside waiting for rescue.

He took a deep breath.

No good letting go now, too much at stake. Shouldn’t have trusted the blasted fat-faced beggar. The minute the informant had heard the code word it was obvious something was off. Should have run the bastard through. But then what would he have done? Gone back to...

The thought slipped away. What was he just thinking about?

Suddenly, he had to snap his eyes shut as a spike of vertigo spun the sky. His fingers dug into the dirt and grasses as his brain tried to convince him he was falling off the hillside. In seconds the insane sensation passed. He took a steading breath and gratefully released his grip to rub a hand across his eyes.

He tried to sharpen himself up. How long ago had the agent left with his young Ensign? Hope they didn’t run into trouble.

Wouldn’t have to worry if you hadn’t gotten yourself shot.

Was he talking to himself?

He squinted up into the unsettled sky. The voice sounded very tired; it was hard to make out the words. Good thing he knew what he was saying. He gave a weak humourless huff at the thought.

You are going mad, old son.

Better off mad. Or dead. Either way, he could resist revealing names and places to his enemies. He didn’t dwell on the unpleasantries awaiting him if he was captured.

So tired.

A dull heaviness was growing on him by the minute. Turning his head a little to watch the distant sea heaving a dull grey, he willed his Ensign to make haste. He didn’t even have the strength to reproach himself for the selfishness of the thought.

He never heard the footsteps approach from the opposite direction.

image-placeholder

She cut across the field in hurry to beat the oncoming storm. The delivery of her herbal cough relief to the local dairy herder’s family had taken longer than she had expected. There had been gossip to listen to, a new calf to admire, the sick baby to attend to and a small glass of wine to be shared, before she could decently leave. In hindsight she should have taken her pony cart, but the rutted road meandered for miles and the weather looked settled when she’d left home. Her dress was cut to a practical walking length, but the cold wind was plastering the thick dark blue wool pelisse and sturdy brown cotton against her legs. She juggled her basket into the crook of her arm and bunched the skirts even higher above her boot tops and increased her pace. Head down against the wind, one hand anchoring her bonnet, the other managing her basket and skirts, she had almost trod upon the prone figure.

Lady Susanna Greyson’s manner had been described once, rather unflatteringly, as factual. But certainly, she was subject to neither frivolous fancies nor gothic imaginings. She righted herself from the startled clumsy sidestep and with a few deep breaths, quelled her heart-thumping alarm. As she absorbed the discovery, she scanned the cliff-sided hillsides. The remote Britany coastline was no stranger to smugglers or the fierce Customs men who chased and often fought them. He appeared to be alone, but she studied him for almost a full minute before approaching more closely. In these uncertain times it paid to be cautious.

She did not recognise him.

A stranger, then.

His rough linen trousers and heavy wool longcoat showed the result of an obvious tumble, or several, but despite the mud and dirt he failed to look disreputable. Finally, she lowered her basket and slowly knelt beside him to tentatively touch his shoulder, but apart from the locks of fair hair teased loose from their queue, there was no movement. Now anxious for different reasons, she pressed her fingertips lightly under the strong jawline. The faint beat of a pulse under the scratch of his bristles eased the tension across her stomach. He was still alive at least. She rocked back to sit on her heels.

So, fact one, he was a sailor; English, if the jacket under the coat was his own. Fact two, he was seriously injured, evidenced by the blood-sodden rough cloth wound around his thigh. Fact three, although she was not shy of physical labour, he looked well-muscled and would be much too heavy to manage on her own. A cold drop of rain fell on her face as a rumble rolled over the hillside around them. She glanced up into the dark clouds roiling overhead. Fact four, he is going to get wet.

The possibility of abandoning him to lie on this hillside never even entered her mind.

Well sir, regardless of who you are, you cannot stay here. With a quick squeeze to his shoulder she silently willed him to safety. I shall return as swiftly as I can.

She stood up briskly and, without a backward glance, hurried off down the hillside, skirts held high as if the devil’s own hounds were in chase.

Chapter 2

The agent of the Crown who gave his name only as a Mister Smith, stood a little apart from the others as the Captain of the HMS Valiant leaned back in his chair. The fresh-faced lieutenant’s concern and scrappy young Ensign’s anxiety were somewhat abated by the solid calm of the Boson and Captain. However, the Ensign’s cap continued to suffer its crushing in the lad’s hands as his Captain’s gaze travelled to the stranger in their midst.

Captain Johnston wore his linen crisp, his eyebrows bristled and his authority with surety. Smith suffered the inquisition of the dark grey eyes impassively, absently noting the well-hidden signs of distress his news had brought the gentleman. Judging by the silent stares the crew on deck had given them and the current atmosphere in the cramped cabin, their missing Lieutenant Bladewood had been well liked. Hell, he had taken a liking to the fellow himself and not just because he’d taken that damn musket ball.

If only the lieutenant had brought a larger shore party, they could have fought their way back to the cove instead of retreating and circling back across all those fields. If only the storm hadn’t blown in, the ship might have seen their distress signal sooner, perhaps even from the shore. If only the brave fool hadn’t pushed him out of the way. Then he wouldn’t he standing here unharmed and whole, doing his duty; earning the ire of honest men while, hopefully, saving many more like them. He suppressed a deep sigh and kept himself to careful stillness.

As Johnston’s weathered face turned to his lieutenant, Smith read the Captain’s decision before he spoke. He really couldn’t fault the man, it was a damnable choice. Smith had full authority to overturn the Captain’s orders, and the Captain knew it. But this time, Smith found himself wanting to take the risk and deny this bloody war one more victim. He viewed the impulse with grim internal humour; perhaps he was just getting too old for this game.

Captain Johnston’s strong deep voice filled the little room, Lieutenant Simmons, make ready a shore party.

Aye, Sir.

The sailors snapped salutes and were gone before the Captain got to his feet.

Mister Smith.

The tone in the man’s voice made no secret of the fact that the owner had little respect for the sort of activities being engaged in the name of the Crown this night. They both knew it and the only unknown quantity now was how much of his authority the Captain was willing to surrender in the name of that self-same Crown.

Captain?

I know full well the extent of your authority. I also know that this crew will not follow any orders but mine and those of my officers. And my officers, Sir, will follow only mine. So I will ask just one thing of you.

Smith nodded his head once. Ask Sir, if it is in my power I shall do it. This much I already owe your crew.

Captain Johnston’s eyes softened the barest amount at the reply.

Should we fail in this mission because of this delay, I ask that you witness the officers and crew acted upon my authority alone and that you use any influence you may have to ensure there be no disciplinary action taken against any of my men. I alone shall stand for what happens on this ship this night.

With these words, the Captain had as much admitted his intention to lead mutiny against his standing orders from the Admiralty. Smith held the man’s eye as he extended his hand.

Consider it done, Captain. Upon my word of honour.

His hand was clasped firmly in a brief handshake, the bond of honour sealed.

The race now was against the turn of the tide and time itself. Both men turned to leave the cramped cabin, ducking their heads under the low beams. Allowing the Captain to don his hat, the Crown’s agent followed him above deck to watch the crew swiftly launch a longboat into the water. Lieutenant Simmons turned to snap a salute to his Captain.

All ready, Captain.

Good. Remember, we sail with the tide.

Aye, Sir.

Smith had made no move to join the party, knowing he would be neither welcome nor could he, in all conscience, put himself and thus the mission to any further risk. Four strapping Marines stepped to the rail, their muskets slung across their backs, the rest of the party close on their heels. Good. This time they would be ready for surprises, although he hoped it did not come to a fight. Stealth generally left fewer corpses behind.

The lanterns swayed on their hooks, yellow pools of light barely lighting the pitching deck and making no mark at all upon the black of the sea below. He heard the splash of the launched boat and immediately a clatter of deploying oars. The lanterns were shuttered again almost as soon as the oarsmen started to pull away. The efficiency and dispatch of the crew gave him fresh hope they would work a miracle and bring their errant officer home.

Chapter 3

Her precipitous arrival had at first alarmed her manservant, Munro; the tell-tale brogue of his native tongue widening as he asked if she was harmed. He had raised a bristled eyebrow at her hasty orders, but he did at least waste no time harnessing their sturdy shaggy horse to the cart. She suffered his silent disapproval the entire distance as she led him back to the hillside. When they reached the man, she thought, for a moment, he was going to refuse to help. But with a brief murmured oath and shake of his head, Munro bent to the task.

The chateau’s kitchen had already been scrubbed clean by its cook and left in expectant order for the customary business of morning. However, the woman herself was absent this night, visiting her sister who lived at the nearby convent. Other than Cook and Munro, Susanna had no servants living at the chateau, but despite the lack of help, she made ready quickly. She shucked her sodden cloak onto a wall peg, pulled aside the few sturdy chairs and whisked to safety the little pot of flowers Cook habitually kept on the table.

She prodded the banked embers in the hearth into reluctant life, feeding them some fresh kindling and dry wood. Behind her she heard Munro’s normally quiet step thud across the threshold of the open doorway. Hurriedly, she lit the lamps with a spill from the fire as he backed carefully into the room. Rivulets ran down the broad back of his oilskin to join the muddy mayhem on Cook’s clean floor. He shuffled the few steps to the kitchen table, his head bowed to both duck the low lintel and better manoeuvre the unresisting weight of the man he carried.

Munro grunted softly as he juggled his burden onto the table. Susanna helped pull the heavy limbs onto the hard oaken planks. The heels of the black leather boots overhung the table but it would do for what was to come.

She held a lamp high over their guest. The pale blue tinge to his skin and lips was not a good sign. She unbuttoned his longcoat and then his uniform jacket, slipping a hand to the damp shirt over his chest. He breathed, but even against her own chilled hand his body felt colder still.

There was no more time to waste.

Munro, come help me with his coats and boots.

Between them they quickly stripped her patient of the drenched garments and footwear. She wondered briefly if his hat was somewhere blowing about in the field. In all likelihood by morning it would be trampled in a hedgerow by cows or be some small boy’s play thing.

Munro, fetch me clean water and build up the fire.

She took Cook’s big apron from the peg on the wall, and tying the strings securely, she hunted up the sharpest knife in the kitchen.

Munro was back and filled the kettle on the hearth without direction.

How’s ‘e doin', Milady?

We shall know when I have these rags off. She eyed the ruddy stained cloth around the man’s thigh.

Munro nodded, I can be doin’ that for ye if ye want to fetch yer’ cures.

She hesitated for only a second before handing him the knife.

Make the fire as hot as you can, I’ll fetch the bricks. He’s chilled to the bone.

Aye.

The big steady hands were already wielding the knife cautiously through the matted twists of the makeshift bandages.

His leg was on fire. No, he was on fire. He tried to roll away from the flames.

Hold the leg still, Munro.

His brain flitted a brief coherent thought as he fought to open his eyes. That wasn’t the ship’s surgeon. He struggled to regain the upper hand over the lapping darkness, instinctively knowing he was neither aboard his ship nor with his shipmates. But a searing flood of pain joined a swell of despair, sinking him like an anchor into the dreamless depths of unconsciousness.

image-placeholder

The bell of HMS Valiant did not sound as the ship’s company kept a silent watch for their returning crew, but Smith was acutely aware, as was every man aboard, of the lateness of the hour. Across the entire ship there was barely a noise, apart from the occasional cough or murmur of a low voice. The Captain prowled the deck, keeping company with the ship’s Master while the sailors either kept to themselves or fussed over jobs already done. As far as he could tell the ship was ready to sail, all that was missing was the shore party.

Mister Smith.

The low voice of the Captain carried clearly to him as did the soft exclaim of the lookout. In a moment the entire ship seemed to come alert. He obediently climbed the steps to join the man, curbing his desire to join the seamen at the rail. It was something he would not have admitted to, but he was holding his breath.

He stood at the Captain’s back, as attentive as one of the crew, eyes riveted on the sailors reaching down to help their crewmates. As soon as the first marine clambered aboard, he knew. The barest shake of the man’s head to his company officer was simply confirmation of what the weary stoop of the red-jacketed shoulders had already broadcast. The sailors loitered nearby giving a hand to the boat crew. He heard a soft grunt from beside him, whether of disappointment or frustration he was not to discover, as Captain Johnston had already turned away to address the ship’s Master.

The ship is yours, Sir. Make sail.

In moments, the squeal and rumble of pulleys and ropes filled the night as men hopped to obey orders. The capstan groaned as the chain lifted the anchor to release the ship from her short leash. Young Lieutenant Simmons crossed the lower deck and climbed the few steps promptly but without energy, to stand to attention before his Captain, misery stamped on the choir-boy face. Now here was someone who should never wager at cards. The frivolous observation caused Smith no humour as his eye spied the Ensign on the lower deck slipping into the shadows to hide his embarrassment of tears. The boy swiped a sleeve across his face as an older seaman paused to put a hand on the lad’s shoulder. Whatever words of comfort offered made their effect, as a moment later the pair joined the rest of the crew preparing to sail. Smith gave his full attention back to the report the young officer was giving to the Captain.

Sir, Edwards found the spot right away. We used the lantern and there was still blood on the ground even after the rain. We searched that whole field where they left him.

Although the officer still spoke to his commander, Smith knew the last remark was directed at him.

So no clues as to his fate then?

The young man swallowed, Sir we found cart tracks on the hillside and followed them to the road. One of the marines found this, Sir. The officer unbuttoned the leather satchel he still wore strapped across his tunic to pull out a battered sodden hat. The Captain took the abused article of clothing and handed it to Smith. It was not proof in itself: such hats were commonly worn hereabouts. The very reason he wore a similar one. After all, the purpose of a disguise was to allow the wearer to remain unremarkable. He turned the brown hat over in his hands running a thumb over the little tear on one side of the brim, it could belong to an unlucky farmer for all they knew. It could, but he knew this one’s owner was no farmer. There was a silent pause which awaited his verdict.

It was his.

The captain gave a quiet gruff of acknowledgement.

Do you think Lieutenant Bladewood could have recovered enough to have made his way to shelter of some sort? The tone did not suggest the Captain held out any real hope, but the question had to be asked.

Smith shook his head, If he could have travelled any further he would have in our company. He didn’t add that he and the lad had practically carried him half the way back from the rendezvous as it was, nor that Bladewood had swooned twice. The second time was in that field, where he roused to fight them off and charged his Ensign with the safety of the Crown’s agent. Smith had asked the distance to the cove where the jolly boat was hidden and had judged the odds. Even now he did not believe he had made a miscalculation. It had been a desperate situation and Bladewood had made the right choice. He doubted his shipmates would agree though.

The lieutenant swallowed, high spots of colour on his cheeks betraying the emotions he kept checked.

Sir, we passed nothing but a few crofters along the way. There was no light or commotion in any of them, nor any sign of a cart. We searched all of the hedgerows, but Sir, it was dark and we couldn’t call for him...

Smith interjected.

Lieutenant, was there any sign of pursuit or anyone else about?

The officer gave Smith a half reluctant nod, We spotted a lantern light to the south, and the marines investigated but it was moving away, so we didn’t engage, Sir.

The Captain took a deep breath and nodded towards the lower decks.

Very well, Lieutenant. My compliments to the shore party when there’s time. Dismissed.

Aye, Sir.

The Captain returned the salute absently before turning his attention to his Master and ship’s business, leaving Smith to contemplate the hat he still held.

Smith snapped out of his musing, Oh, Lieutenant?

The young man paused on the steps to look up at him, his failure still clearly rankling.

Sir?

The lantern to the south. Did the marines notice what lay in that direction?

A chateau, Sir. But it was too far off and there could have been a billet of French there. Captain’s orders were to stay away from trouble. His tone suggested he would have welcomed the chance to face trouble.

Smith nodded, Thank you.

Without a reply the officer jumped the few steps down to the deck and disappeared into the orderly chaos of a ship about to be underway.

Mister Smith braced against the slight roll as The Valiant flapped her sails a few times then snapped them taut under a filling wind. Her timbers settled into the reassuring creak of a sturdy ship free upon her natural element, secure under the hand of a good Captain and well-trained crew. He remained at the rail staring sightlessly at the dark shadow of the shore. With every minute the ship carried him into a dawning day and closer to safety. He took no comfort as his personal danger receded; the events left behind to be marked only in his own memories. Neither was he reassured that this infringement on the strict letter of his orders had cost nothing more than a few hours delay and perhaps a future missed rendezvous.

Nothing more than a few hours and a man’s life.

No, he was definitely getting too old for this game. The cold salt spray stung his cheeks as he stared out at the churning sea. No, not too old... too soft. He sighed. He would take the steps to make sure that timely news of what had happened to young Bladewood reached his family. Of that much at least he would make certain.

Chapter 4

Arthur was floating in a foggy haze. Must have come across a fog bank. Why the devil didn’t the lookout give the warning? Lanterns. Where were the lanterns?

What’s that ‘es sayin', Milady?

Nothing Munro. Pay no mind.

Something pressed up against his lips and he swallowed instinctively before the bitter taste gagged his throat.

Hush, hush. I know it is not the best tasting medicine, but it has the power of healing in it. Come drink a little more.

For a brief moment the mist cleared and he glimpsed a face close above his own. The candlelight glazed the soft cream of her skin and kissed her midnight tresses with gilt highlights. Above the graceful curve of her cheek he noted the fine lines of a frown insulting the perfect brow. Under the urge to gently soothe away the lines with his fingers his hand made an abortive attempt to rise. At his distress she looked up. The pair of soft chestnut eyes locked onto his and as this muddled reality gently but persistently faded from his grasp, he managed to understand three things.

Firstly, although he was absolutely not aboard his ship he was in company who did not wish him immediate harm. Secondly, he was shamefully lacking his uniform or any other substantive clothing. Thirdly, the splendid Angel who hovered over him was also quite decidedly déshabillé. What sort of lady visited a sailor in her night rail and wrapper, even if it covered her in high-necked woollen modesty? As his final thought lazily floated across his brain a smile tried but failed to rouse his lips.

Four things.

Judging from the surprise in those dark eyes, he was not the only one who had felt that jolt of frisson.

image-placeholder

Susanna straightened slowly, cup still in her hand, as Munro gently lay the sailor’s head back down on the pillow. He was insensible again but she was sure he had been fully conscious and alert for at least a few moments. More than alert. His light blue eyes had looked straight into hers and... well, goodness.

She shook off the moment. Regardless of whatever strange anomaly had just happened, he was her patient and needed care. She felt his brow with the back of her hand; he was no longer worryingly cool, but not yet in the grip of the fever which was sure to come.

Go to your bed, Munro. I will watch over him now.

Her manservant stood uncertainly by the gracefully carved bedhead.

Beggin’ pardon, Milady, but you has better be getting back to yer sleep yerself. Be ‘nother long day later.

She looked up at him and smiled gently, knowing he spoke only from concern.

It is quite alright. I’ll nap here ‘til morning. He has drifted away again I think, and this is the last draught we have to give him tonight.

The large man hovered for a few more moments before shuffling off out of the room, smothering a yawn as he closed the heavy-timbered door. She returned the cup to a tray filled with the jars and bottles of her healing arts. She checked the fire screen then the latch on the big windows behind the heavy curtains. As her hand brushed the curtain, she realised she had made the little circuit of the room which had become her nightly habit during Maman’s illness. She had to grip the curtain for support as a wave of loss hit. She pressed a palm to her chest as the brief episode ran its course. Little by little her heart calmed under the warmth of her hand. She dropped her hands to her hips and took a deep breath.

Her gaze travelled to the bed