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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

S he couldn’t swim, not in this. The Bristol Channel at rising tide was nothing like her quiet Lake Tegid. She had just killed herself, when what she wanted was to be with Hew.

Anne fought to the surface, kicking her legs wildly, pushing water with her arms. Brine filled her mouth, and she choked.

Her feet hit something, and she found her footing.

Sand. Her choke turned to a laugh. She was on a long spit of sand.

Saved. She need only wait till Hew arrived.

She heard shouts from both ships and the creak of ropes, smelled scorched wood.

She felt wild and free in a way she never had in her life.

A swell knocked her to her knees. This was not Lake Tegid.

Here, where the Bristol Channel turned into the Severn Estuary, the land was a funnel for the water, turbulent and greedy, with an unpredictable bore that could arise any time and wash everything before it.

Hew had spoken of it in his discussions about wharves and shipping and navigation with the men.

Hew. He was coming. She’d never seen anything so magnificent as Hew with his cannon, determined to blow Darch’s ship out of the water to save her.

Sand closed around her hands, and she yanked them free. Honestly, she need only stand here on this sandbar until he came, and?—

Another wave pitched her into the water, sand sucking her legs up to her knees. Good Lord, it was like quicksand. She pushed aside her skirts, wet and tangled, and tugged at her feet. She had to get free. She had to keep her head above water, she had to wait, she had to be with Hew?—

“Anne.” An arm snaked around her middle, pulling her face from the water. She knew the chest she was hauled against and sputtered a half-laugh, half-cry of relief.

“Hew .” She turned and threw her arms around his neck.

The tiny boat rocked. Morys held the oars, steadying them as Hew sat with Anne in his arms. She scrubbed her face into his neck.

“You saved me.”

“You saved yourself. I’ve always wanted a woman who rose from the sea. My very own water sprite.”

Anne laughed into the curve of his shoulder. He smelled of gunpowder and salt. She curved her hands on either side of his cheeks, lifted her head, and kissed him.

“They didn’t make you marry him?” Hew murmured against her lips. “You didn’t say the words.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered. Calvin didn’t have a license.” She drew back, fear clutching her heart in its wild leap. “He said he would kill you to have me. He said?—”

“Shh. We’ll sort everything. I promise.”

“So.” Morys cleared his throat. “Ready to board, Cap’n? ’Pears His Grace has his men rounded up and himself’ll be wanting answers, I don’t doubt.”

“So do I,” Hew said.

“His Grace?” Anne asked, looking up to see that Hew’s ship had secured Darch’s brig with grappling hooks while his men boarded.

“The Duke of Beaufort, commander of the Monmouthshire Militia, and my commander now, I think,” Hew said. “Come, love, I know you don’t like kidnapping, but will you away with me?”

Anne gripped the sides of the yawl as the sailors hoisted them. Oh, she hated this part, the swaying in midair with naught but tiny bits of wood to hold on to. “I’ll away with you , but they can’t hurt you, can they? The duke will stop them?”

“ I will stop them,” Hew said, “and they won’t hurt you. I’ll be sure they can never hurt you again.”

“And a pardon for me, remember,” Morys remarked, stowing the oars. “Helped save the lady, I did.”

They were a bedraggled group, assembling on the deck of the Fierce . The duke held court as calmly as if he stood before his peers in the House of Lords or at ease in his own drawing room, his backdrop lowering clouds laced with crackles of lightning as the promised storm drew near.

“Darch.” The duke regarded the smuggler, who stood at indifferent ease, shoulders back, though his hands were bound behind him. “You’re responsible for the cargo on this brig, none of which has paid the King’s tax?”

“Not I, Your Grace,” Darch drawled. “The cargo belongs to Sutton here.” He nodded at Daron.

Anne gaped from her safe place snugged at Hew’s side, his arm firmly around her. “Daron? Smuggling?” Her dismay was real.

“And the contraband stowed at the Fleur de Lys, which Mr. Morys has described?” the duke inquired.

Darch nodded. “Sutton’s also.”

Daron huffed and turned on him. “Set me up! Sell me out! You—” He whirled on Calvin. “Tell ’im! Tell them all.”

“Tell what?” Calvin backed away, palms raised, his pale blue eyes wide. “You said you’re the Black Hound. We all heard it.”

The duke frowned. “The Black Hound is responsible for a great number of crimes around Newport and Cardiff. Has been for years.”

“Not me!” Daron yelped, struggling as several of the duke’s men stepped forward to bind his hands. “Someone else! Darch’s trying to frame me, he is?—”

“You demanded my ship,” Darch said. “You commandeered my cargo. Morys will vouch for it. Then you kidnapped your own sister for the purpose of forcing her into marriage with this one?—”

“No harm done!” Calvin bleated, waving his hands through the air. “Didn’t marry her, did I? Gel said no. That was the end of it. Wasn’t that the way of it, vicar?” He turned to glare at Stanley.

“Vicar,” the duke said, “I want a full accounting of events from someone I can trust.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Stanley swallowed hard. “Only, might we stand on solid ground for that?”

“Please, let’s,” Anne’s mother said plaintively. “This has all been very distressing. I’m certain my nerves are shattered for life.” She leaned against her husband as he offered a protective arm.

Neither of her parents had inquired after Anne’s welfare. Instead, her mother fretted about Daron, worrying that the bonds were too tight around his wrists, promising his father would clear him of all these nonsensical accusations, and soon.

“Miss Sutton.” The duke turned to her. “I’ll want an account from you as well. In the event you wish to bring charges.”

“Of-f c-c-course, Your G-grace,” Anne said, teeth chattering from cold or fear, she wasn’t certain which.

“Charges?” Calvin yelped. “Anne, you won’t bring charges ?—”

“We’ll discuss this when she’s warm and dry,” Hew said, pulling Anne close against him.

He glanced at the master’s mate. “You heard His Grace command our return to port. Tell the helmsman.” He turned to the duke.

“You can grapple the brig into the mouth of the Usk, I’m sure, but you might want to beach her near the Ebbw for repairs. She won’t make it to Pillgwenlly.”

“As you wish, Captain.” Beaufort grinned. “She’s your ship now to command.”

Darch made a sound like a smothered moan, his shoulders dropping in defeat. “She’ll need repairs after the holes he put in her,” he muttered.

“Some of the best shooting I’ve seen. Demned fine gunner you are, Captain—pardon my language, ladies.” The duke clapped Hew on the back, shaking his shoulder. Hew winced, and Anne clutched her arm around his waist.

“The brandy,” Daron cried. “The tobacco. The tea. It goes to him ?”

“That goes to the customs officer, but the ship’s a spoil of war, ain’t it?” the duke said heartily. “Or she’s my prize to give away. One of those two things.”

“Your Grace.” Calvin pushed forward. “You should know this man is a disgrace. He left the Artillery under a cloud. Any day word will come of a court-martial?—”

“Not when I speak to the King,” the duke said genially.

“Stopping a smuggler who’s been plaguing this coast for years, and capturing the Black Hound?

Good God, his work at Acre had him in sight for a knighthood even before this.

We sent him home with a charge to plan British defenses so you all aren’t speaking French a year from now.

Your brother’s in line for honors, son, and if you’ve any sense, you’ll rise along with him. ”

“Beaufort. I shall be the first to congratulate my grand-nephew to be.” Aunt Gertrude made her way to Anne’s side, her cane echoing on the polished deck.

“But we can do this back in Newport, I hope? Granted, they won’t have a tearoom like what we’re accustomed to in Llandrindod Wells, but we’ll make do. ”

“Lady Poultenay.” The duke graciously offered his arm. “How do you do? I profoundly regret what these men have put you through, such a delicate bloom as you are.”

Aunt Gertrude cackled with delight. “It’s Gertrude to you, Duke, as it always has been.” She linked her arm through his as Beaufort led her off, matching his gait to hers. “How is your lovely duchess, and your very many beautiful children?”

Anne looked up at Hew as the others drew away, leaving them apart for a moment. She drew a deep sigh of relief, though she could imagine, with the need to confront her parents later, the ordeal was not over.

“Spoils of war.” Hew pressed a kiss to her forehead. His lips were cool and firm. An electric charge hung in the air, the clouds over his shoulder bristling with energy. “Does that mean I get to keep you?”

“That means I get to keep you ,” Anne said, and kissed him back.

They had a riotous welcome at St. Sefin’s, with everyone running everywhere at once to heat water, find dry clothing, and fetch fresh linens to make up beds.

Aunt Gertrude and the duke went to sit in the chapter house, the best the priory could offer for a formal parlor.

Anne’s parents followed, offering pleas and explanations for Daron’s behavior.

Cerys set herself to the serious business of making the ducal tea.

Dovey and the widows ransacked the kitchen for proper refreshments and sent Ifor and Tomos to the pie shop for baked goods, coins from Aunt Gertrude weighting their pockets.

Eilian came from the room where she’d been attending to Leah and pulled up short at the assemblage in St. Sefin’s kitchen, wafting the smell of damp wool.

“Anne? Why are you wet? Captain Vaughn.” She veered her glance away from Hew toward his brother. “Mr. Vaughn. Mr. Stanley? What is the meaning of this?”