“In that case, we must pray that Hawkwood and . . .” Read paused “. . . your correspondent . . . are successful in their endeavours.”
“Indeed,” Brooke said. He smiled silkily and raised his cup. “Here’s to good fortune.”
“When does he embark?” Read asked.
“Tonight,” Brooke said. “A private coach is transporting him to Dover. There’s a vessel waiting. If the weather’s kind to us, he’ll sail on the evening tide.”
“Then we should pray for calm seas, as well,” Read said. Brooke kept his cup raised.
“Amen to that,” he said.
Maddie Teague watched silently from the open doorway as Hawkwood rolled the spare shirts and breeches he had removed from his army chest and laid them on the bed next to a battered valise. The lid of the chest remained propped open. Inside it, a curved sabre lay sheathed atop a dark green tunic. Even though it was folded, it was obvious that the uniform jacket had survived many campaigns and had been repaired innumerable times. Next to the tunic was a pair of grey cavalry breeches and a waist sash the colour of dried ox blood. Below the tunic and breeches lay an officer’s greatcoat and under that, partly hidden, was a long bundle wrapped in oilcloth. One end of the oilcloth had worked loose, revealing the polished walnut butt and brass patch-box cover of an army rifle.
“Matthew?” Maddie said softly.
Hawkwood turned.
Maddie lifted her gaze from the contents of the chest. Her eyes held his. “Should I keep the room?”
Hawkwood found himself transfixed by her look.
“It was a jest,” she said, though her emerald eyes did not hold much humour.
Maddie was tall and slender. Her auburn hair, pale colouring and high cheekbones hinted at her Celtic roots, while her strength of character could usually be measured by the depth and force of her gaze. On this occasion, however, there was only concern on her face.
She continued to stare at him. “What are you thinking?”
Hawkwood shook his head. “Nothing.”
Maddie stepped forward and placed her right hand on his chest. “You’re a poor liar, Matthew Hawkwood.”
Hawkwood smiled. “I was thinking yes, you should definitely keep the room for me.”
Her face softened. She tapped his waistcoat with her closed fist.
“It’s my job, Maddie. It’s what I do,” Hawkwood said.
“I know.”
She rested her palm against his cheek. Her hand was cool to the touch.
He thought back to the first time they’d met. It was not long after his return to England from Spain. He’d been in search of a roof over his head and Maddie was the landlady of the Blackbird Inn, with two empty rooms in need of an occupant. The financial arrangement had suited both of them; Maddie in particular. Her husband had been a sea captain and he’d bought the inn to provide an additional source of revenue when he retired. But Captain Teague had perished when his ship had fallen prey to the storm tossed waters of the Andaman Sea, leaving his widow with a string of unpaid bills and a lengthening queue of creditors. Hawkwood’s timely arrival had kept the wolves from the door and given Maddie the time she’d needed to turn the Blackbird from a debt-ridden back-alley hostelry into the respectable establishment it had become.
It had taken some months before their business partnership developed into something more; for the trust between landlady and lodger to grow into a bond of friendship, and it had still been a good while after that when Maddie Teague had first visited Hawkwood’s bed. Neither of them had ventured to translate feelings into words and yet it had become clear over time that what existed between them had long since transcended the need for mere physical gratification. There had been dalliances along the way, on both sides, and yet the affection and the closeness had endured.
“If you don’t hear from me and you need help, go to Nathaniel,” Hawkwood said. “You know how to get a message to him?”
She removed her hand and nodded. “Yes.”
There was a silence, mirrored by the look in her eyes. “How long should I wait for news?”
“You’ll know,” Hawkwood said.
She absorbed that. “Does Nathaniel know where you’re going?”
“I’m not even sure I do,” Hawkwood said.
She lifted her hand again and ran a fingertip along the line of his cheek, below his eye, tracing the scars. “Your wounds have barely healed.”
“No rest for the wicked, Maddie,” Hawkwood said. “You should know that by now.”
Her green eyes flashed. “That’s what you said the last time.” She stepped back and folded her arms about her, as if warding off a sudden chill. “Just don’t expect me to cry myself to sleep. That’s all.”
Hawkwood had always suspected Maddie Teague was too strong a woman for that, though in truth her comment made him wonder; was she still jesting, or not?
“Curious,” Hawkwood said. “That’s what I was going to say.”
She gave a wan smile and waited as he placed the shirts and breeches in the valise. Sensing her eyes on him, he turned.
“Take care, Matthew,” she whispered.
He nodded. “Always.”
Maddie lowered her arms and smoothed down her dress. “I’ll have Hettie find something in the kitchen for your journey. We don’t want you going hungry.”
“Perish the thought,” Hawkwood said.
She frowned. “Now you’re making fun of me.”
He shook his head. “I’d never do that.”
She gazed at him intently and took a deep breath. Then, without speaking, she leaned forward and kissed him fiercely before turning on her heel and exiting the room.
Leaving Hawkwood to his packing, alone with his thoughts.
There was something eerily familiar about her lines, even by moonlight, and as he drew closer Hawkwood saw why. She was a cutter. The long horizontal bowsprit, the sharply tapering stern and the preposterous size of her rig in proportion to her length and beam were unmistakable. The last time he’d boarded a similar vessel it had been at sea, in the company of Jago and the French privateer, Lasseur, and he’d been fully armed with a pistol and a tomahawk and screaming like a banshee. This time, his arrival was a lot less frenetic.
The journey from London had taken four changes of horses and the best part of the day, so it was late evening when the coach finally made its bone-rattling descent into the town; by which time Hawkwood’s throat was dry with dust, while his spine felt as if it had been dislocated by the constant jolting.
Even if it hadn’t been for the silhouette of the castle ramparts high above him and the lights clustered at the foot of the dark chalk cliffs, it would have been possible to gauge his proximity to the port purely by the miasma of odours arising from it; the most prominent being smoke, cooking fires and sewage, the unavoidable detritus of closely packed human habitation.
Dover was home to both an ordnance depot and a victualling yard, and keeping the navy armed, watered and fed was clearly a twenty-four-hour operation, if the number of people on the streets – both in uniform and civilian dress – was any indication. The town looked to be wide awake. The public houses in particular, to judge by the knots of men and women weaving unsteadily between them, were still enjoying a brisk