Surrender. Brenda Joyce

she cried, aghast. “You must be mistaken. It is August the fifth. We are on time. It is almost dawn. In another hour, he is taking us to Falmouth—he has been paid half of his fee in advance!”

      Laurent was starkly white. “He happened upon a very valuable cargo, and he left.”

      She was in shock. They had no means of crossing the Channel! And they could not linger in Brest—it was too dangerous!

      “There are three British smugglers in the harbor,” Laurent said, interrupting her thoughts.

      There was a reason they had chosen a Belgian to take them to England. “British smugglers are usually French spies,” she cried.

      “If we are going to leave immediately, the only choice is to seek out one of them, or wait here, until we can make other arrangements.”

      Her head ached again. How was it that she was making the most important decision of their lives? Henri always made all of the decisions! And the way Laurent was looking at her, she knew he was thinking the same thing she was—that remaining in town was not safe. She turned and glanced at Aimee. Her heart lurched. “We will leave at dawn, as planned,” she decided abruptly, her heart slamming. “I will make certain of it!”

      Trembling, she turned and went to a valise that was beside the bed. They had fled the city with a great number of valuables. She took a pile of assignats from it, the currency of the revolution, and then, instinctively, took out a magnificent ruby-and-diamond necklace. It had been in her husband’s family for years. She tucked both within the bodice of her corset.

      Laurent said, “If you will use one of the Englishmen, Monsieur Gigot, the innkeeper, said to look for a ship named the Sea Wolf.”

      She choked on hysterical laughter, turning. Was she

      really going alone to meet a dangerous smuggler—at dawn and in the dark, in a strange city, with her husband near death—to beg for his help?

      “His ship is the swiftest, and they say he can outrun both navies at once. It is fifty tons, black sails—the largest of the smuggling vessels in the harbor.”

      She shuddered, nodding grimly. The Sea Wolf…black sails… “How do I get to the docks?”

      “They are three blocks from the inn,” Laurent told her. “I think I should come with you.”

      She was tempted to agree. But what if someone discovered them while she was gone—what if someone realized who Henri was? “I want you to stay here and guard le comte and Aimee with your life. Please,” she added, consumed with another intense wave of desperation.

      Laurent nodded and walked her to the door. “The smuggler’s name is Jack Greystone.”

      She wanted to cry. Of course, she would do no such thing. She pulled up her hood and gave her sleeping daughter one last look.

      Evelyn knew she would find Greystone, and convince him to transport them across the Channel, because Aimee’s future depended on it.

      She hurried from the room, and waited to hear Laurent slide the bolt on the door’s other side, before she rushed down the narrow, dark corridor. One taper burned from a wall sconce at the far end of the hall, above the stairs. She stumbled down the single flight, thinking of Aimee, of Henri and a smuggler with a ship named the Sea Wolf.

      The landing below let onto the inn’s foyer, and just to her right was the public room. A dozen men were within, drinking spirits, the conversation boisterous. She rushed outside, hoping no one had noticed her.

      Clouds raced across the moon, allowing some illumination. One torch lamp was lit on the street. Evelyn ran down the block, but saw no one ahead and no one lurking in the shadows. Relieved, she glanced back over her shoulder. Her heart seemed to stop.

      Two dark figures were behind her now.

      She began to run, seeing several masts in the sky ahead, pale canvas furled tightly against them. Another glance over her shoulder showed her that the men were also running—they were most definitely following her.

      “Arrêtez-vous!” one of the men called, laughing. “Are we frightening you? We only wish to speak with you!”

      Fear slammed through her. Evelyn lifted her skirts and ran toward the docks, which were now in front of her. And she instantly saw that cargo was being loaded onto one of the vessels—a cask the size of several men had been winched up and was being directed toward the deck of a large cutter with a black hull and black sails. Five men stood on the deck, reaching for the cask as it was lowered toward them.

      She had found the Sea Wolf.

      She halted, panting and out of breath. Two men were operating the winch. A third stood a bit apart, watching the activity. Moonlight played over his pale hair.

      And she was seized from behind.

      “Nous voulons seulement vous parler.” We only want to speak to you.

      Evelyn whirled to face the two men who had been following her. They were her own age, dirty, unkempt and poorly clothed—they were probably farmworkers and thugs. “Libérez-moi,” she responded in perfect French.

      “A lady! A lady dressed as a maid!” the first man said, but he did not speak with relish now. He spoke with suspicion.

      Too late, she knew she was in more danger than the threat of being accosted—she was about to be unmasked as a noblewoman and, perhaps, as the Countess D’Orsay. But before she could respond, a stranger said, very quietly, in English, “Do as the lady has asked.”

      The farmers turned, as did Evelyn. The clouds chose that moment to pass completely by the moon, and the night became momentarily brighter. Evelyn looked into a pair of ice-cold gray eyes and she froze.

      This man was dangerous.

      His stare was cold and hard. He was tall, his hair golden. He wore both a dagger and a pistol. Clearly, he was not a man to be crossed.

      His cool glance left her and focused on the two men. He repeated his edict, this time in French. “Faites comme la dame a demandé.”

      She was instantly released, and both men whirled and hurried off. Evelyn inhaled, stunned, and turned to the tall Englishman again. He might be dangerous, but he had just rescued her—and he might be Jack Greystone. “Thank you.”

      His direct gaze did not waver. It was a moment before he said, “It was my pleasure. You’re English.”

      She wet her lips, aware that their gazes were locked. “Yes. I am looking for Jack Greystone.”

      His eyes never changed. “If he is in port, I am not aware of it. What do you want of him?”

      Her heart sank with dismay—for surely, this imposing man, with his air of authority and casual power, was the smuggler. Who else would be watching the black ship as it was being loaded? “He has come recommended to me. I am desperate, sir.”

      His mouth curled, but there was no humor in his eyes. “Are you attempting to return home?”

      She nodded, still staring at him. “We had arrangements to leave at dawn. But those plans have fallen by the wayside. I was told Greystone is here. I was told to seek him out. I cannot linger in town, sir.”

      “We?”

      She hugged herself now, still helplessly gazing into his stare. “My husband and my daughter, sir, and three friends.”

      “And who gave you such information?”

      “Monsieur Gigot—of the Abelard Inn.”

      “Come with me,” he said abruptly, turning.

      Evelyn hesitated as he started toward the ship. Her mind raced wildly. She did not know if the stranger was Greystone, and she wasn’t certain it was safe to go with him now. But he was heading for the ship with black sails.

      He glanced back at her,