Page 2 of A Christmas Love Redeemed

Chapter Two

Hannah Linton lay full length on the cold, dry ground, her brother’s spyglass pressed to her eye. For the last hour, she had been engrossed in the cat and mouse game taking place off the Dorset coast between a French corvette and a larger English frigate.

The little French ship, flying its flag proudly despite its proximity to the English coast, had managed to evade the slower, less manoeuvrable English ship, but now the frigate had it trapped against the coast. Hannah’s heart leaped as she heard the distant poof of gunfire, white smoke emanating from the frigate’s gun ports.

The French ship’s main mast toppled slowly towards the water, its sails billowing like a woman’s petticoats sinking into a curtsey.

Although crippled and helpless, the guns of the corvette hammered away in the face of the superior English firepower.

Another sally from the frigate and the little corvette lurched in the water.

Hannah squeezed her eyes tight shut, not wishing to witness the last minutes of the little ship.

It had fought bravely, defied the odds, and lost.

‘Hannah!’ Her mother’s voice drifted toward her on the sea breeze.

She slammed the spyglass shut and stood up, casting a regretful glance at the now-empty skyline. Only the sails of the victorious English frigate could be seen, heading for Poole.

Hannah pulled her heavy woollen shawl around her and took the path across the cliff top to the cottage, nestled in the lee of the cliff, a quiet, isolated place—the last refuge for herself and her mother and their two servants.

* * *

The next morning, as was her habit, she rose early, taking the steep path that led down to the isolated cove. She hesitated before stepping onto the sand.

Broken shards of wood and smashed boxes tangled with ropes marked the high-tide line, a testimony to the previous day’s encounter off the headland. The last thing she wished to encounter was any bodies, but the beach seemed clear of the human cost of the sea battle.

Hannah walked slowly, inspecting the detritus for anything that might be interesting or valuable. These days, her interest was not pure curiosity—anything of value could be sold, and with Christmas only a few days away, a few extra pennies for treats would be appreciated by her mother.

As children, she and her brother, William, had played pirates in the little cave concealed behind the fall of boulders at the end of the beach.

Although no longer a child, Hannah still visited it on her rambles, sitting cross-legged on the warm, dry sand with her back to the rocks, listening to the crash of the sea and remembering those long-ago happy days.

She used this precious time to write poems or little stories, taking gratitude that there were still things in her life to give her pleasure.

The words of a poem about the last battle of the French corvette had been tugging at her sleeve, and she clambered over the rocks, ducking her head as she entered the cave.

As she reached for the tinder and candle she kept in a niche by the entrance, she hesitated, aware of an unfamiliar tang above the familiar smells of the sand and sea.

Something… or someone… had invaded her private domain.

Before she could retreat to the open beach, a dark shape loomed out of the dark, catching her wrist and spinning her around as a hand clamped over her mouth and something sharp pressed against her neck. More out of anger than fear, she grabbed the hand and bit down hard.

The owner of the hand yelped and swore volubly in French, releasing her. He could only be a survivor of yesterday’s ship wreck. Frightened now, Hannah whirled on her heel and made a dive for the cave entrance, but the Frenchman moved swiftly, coming between her and the daylight.

They eyed each other across the distance of no more than two yards. With the light behind him, she could not make out any more than his silhouette. She deduced the man was tall, slight and, unless she was mistaken, he wore the coat of an officer of the line.

Not a common sailor but still an enemy on enemy soil and that made him dangerous.

She took a steadying breath and straightened. ‘Parlez vous Anglais?’

The man replied in heavily accented English. ‘I do. My apologies, mademoiselle. I did not mean to frighten you. I will not hurt you.’

She took a step back, but she knew the only way in and out of the cave was through the one entrance, the Frenchman now blocked.

‘Were you on the French ship that sank yesterday?’

He paused before answering, ‘I was.’ He let his hands drop to his side and took a step sideways, clearing the entrance. ‘You are free … to go … I …’

He faltered and slid to the floor with a groan, his back to the wall of the cave.

‘Mademoiselle, you have a duty to turn me in to your authorities. I pray you go now. I shall be here when they return. I have nowhere else to go.’

Hannah didn’t move. ‘Are you hurt?’

He looked up at her. His eyes were lost in the dark shadows of the cave, but she was conscious of his appraising gaze.

‘No, mademoiselle, your beauty has made me quite weak.’

Hannah bit her lip. ‘What is your name?’

A smile fluttered across his lips. ‘Forgive me for not rising. Fabien Brassard, et vous?’

‘Hannah Linton,’ she said. ‘I live close to here.’

She turned to the niche in the wall. Locating the candle stub and tinder she lit the candle and turned back to face him.

In the thin, flickering light, she could make out a lean, handsome face with the stubble of a day’s growth of beard on his chin.

His dark hair had been cut short in the new fashion.

It struck her how young he was, probably no older than William. Only a few years older than herself, perhaps.

In thel ight, he inspected the bite mark on his hand.

Hannah felt the heat rise to her cheeks. ‘Sorry, monsieur, I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

“I deserved it,’ he said. ‘I frightened you.’ A half smile softened the lines of pain on his face as he gestured at the candle. ‘You are well prepared, Miss Linton. I wish I had found that last night.’

‘My brother and I used to play in here.’ She set the candle in the sand and knelt down in front of him, keeping an arm’s length of distance between them.

Assuming her mother’s air of brisk efficiency, she said, ‘Where are you hurt?’

He drew back his uniform coat. The once white breeches were stained a dull watery brown, and it took a moment or two to see a jagged piece of wood protruding from his right side, just beneath his ribs.

She gave a sharp intake of breath and sat back on her heels. Was this what happened when round shot smashed into the fabric of wooden ships? Was this how William had died? She clapped a hand to her mouth to stop the tears that welled.

Fabien pulled the coat back across the wound.

‘I am sorry, mademoiselle. I didn’t mean to alarm you.’

She shook her head. ‘No, no. It’s not that,’ she said. ‘My brother... my brother died at Trafalgar. He would have been about your age.’

The Frenchman's steady eyes met hers.

‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘You have no reason to help me. As I said, please send for the authorities. I will surrender peacefully.’

She gestured at the shard of wood.

‘Should I pull it out?’ she ventured uncertainly.

His lips twitched with amusement. ‘I think if you did that, mademoiselle, there would be one fewer Frenchman to bother you. It needs a surgeon's skill.’

She rose to her feet. ‘Then you’ll have to come home with me. My mother can send for the surgeon. Can you walk?’

‘Perhaps, if you can help me stand, Miss Linton?’

Hannah slipped her arm under his left shoulder and helped him to his feet. Up close, he smelled of salt, sweat, and blood, mingled with the unmistakable reek of gun powder. It had been that particular scent she had smelled on entering the cave.

Pain creased his face, but he did no more than grunt as she took his weight and they clambered out of the cave and onto the beach.

She hoisted him closer to provide better support, but he was so much taller than her that she felt inadequate to the task ahead.

‘Is it far?’ he asked.

‘Along the beach and up the cliff path,’ Hannah said with more confidence than she felt.

He turned his face to the wintry sun. After the events of the day before, being washed ashore and surviving a cold, damp night in a cave with a nasty wound, he must be on the last reserves of his strength, and his unshaven face was grey with pain and exhaustion.

He leeched cold and his clothes were still damp. If she did not hurry to get him to care, he could die not just from the wound but from lung fever or any number of maladies.

They made slow but steady progress along the beach, their feet slipping in the shifting sands.

The path up the cliff was not wide enough to allow for two abreast so she made him go first, chivvying him when he faltered.

At the top of the cliff, he sank to the earth with his back against a rock, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

‘Is it much further?’

Hannah pointed to the curls of smoke rising from the kitchen chimney below them.

‘Not far,’ she said. ‘Can you make it?’

He held out his hand, and she helped him to his feet, sliding her arm around him again, letting his weight sink against her slight frame.

As she neared the gate to the kitchen garden, her mother came flying out of the back door.

Fabien stiffened and tried to pull away from Hannah’s precarious grip. Mrs. Linton slowed her step, standing in the path, her hands on her hips

‘Hannah, what on earth —’

‘Madame, your servant…’ he began but got no further.

His knees gave way and he sank to the ground, dragging Hannah with him.

Hannah disengaged herself from the unconscious Frenchman, and both women stood looking down at him.

Mrs. Linton took a deep breath. ‘A Frenchman… Hannah… how could you?’