How they had managed to get him on the back of her horse, she couldn’t recall. Her mind had been stripped of everything but pure fear. Even now, she couldn’t be certain that Gus was still alive.
I wish someone would send word. I hate this not knowing.
Seeing the English smuggler so badly hurt had finally crystallized her feelings for him. For a long while now, every time his yacht docked at the small jetty at the bottom of the hill, she had waited impatiently for him to make his way up to the château. Had even felt a sense of jealousy over her uncle ushering Gus down to the cellars to show him the latest shipment of brandy which he was to take back to Portsmouth.
And as much as she had tried to deny it, the curious sensations all had one root cause. The rugged rogue had stolen her heart.
“What am I going to do?” she muttered.
Romantic notions of Gus Jones were not, however, one of her current priorities. Staying alive and keeping their home was paramount.
All attempted negotiations with the Lamballe gang had ceased months ago. Hostilities between them had increased to such a state that she was now firmly convinced that only a bloody battle would finally see one of them emerge the victor.
Closing her eyes, she sent a silent prayer to her dead parents. “Please let help arrive.”
When she looked again, the sea and the horizon beyond was still empty of ships. Disappointed, she turned and headed back to the château. Hoping and praying wasn’t working.
As Evangeline reached the top of the rise and stepped onto the gravel of the main courtyard, she immediately wished she had stayed at the beach.
A large black stallion stood next to the entrance to the stables. It was a beast of a horse, at least seventeen hands. Only one man in the local area owned such a mount. Vincent Marec.
“Merde,” she whispered.
Any plans she might have had to backtrack and not be seen quickly evaporated.
“There you are! Armand’séconome. I was wondering where you were hiding.”
Rude as always. There was not the slightest chance that Vincent might consider addressing her as Mademoiselle La Roche. No. As far as he was concerned, she was her uncle’s housekeeper, nothing more.
The thought of what else Marec had made plain he wished Evangeline to be sent a shiver down her spine.
Never. I would rather die.
“What do you want, Vincent?” she snapped. Bravado was one of the few weapons she had at her disposal.
The tall, heavily built Vincent approached her, arms held out wide. The smile on his face did little to hide the obvious price his body was paying for a life of heavy drinking and lechery. “Come now. Is that any way to greet a friend? Or an old lover?”
Evangeline gritted her teeth. She had made a mistake long ago, and Vincent was determined to remind her of it every time they met.
“Perhaps I should wave a gun in your face. That seems to be the only sort of reception that you understand,” she replied.
Vincent tutted. “Like how you shot at Claude? He is not a happy man. You put a hole in his best hat.”
She was sorely tempted to make mention of the fact that Claude had been the one who shot Gus but thought the better of it. Starting an argument would not see Vincent leave any time soon, and she needed him gone. The longer he remained, the less safe she felt.
“Where is Armand?” he demanded.
Evangeline shook her head. Vincent wasn’t one for wasting time with people who didn’t serve a purpose. And when it came to women, he only wanted them for one thing.
“I don’t know. I have been down at the cove,” she replied.
Vincent gave a huff of annoyance. “Well, you tell him that I called in on my way to town. And that I expect an answer within the next few days.” He nodded in the direction of a nearby wagon. “You should be able to fit your belongings in that cart, so he has no excuse. Feel free to leave the furniture.”
If the volume of weapons and ammunition Armand had been gathering and storing in the cellars below the stables was any indication, Evangeline was certain that her uncle’s answer was still a firm no. He was not going to let the Lamballe gang have free rein over the smuggling trade in this part of Brittany. Nor was he going to quietly give up the château.
She followed Vincent as he leisurely strolled over to the cart.
“I shall tell Armand you were here, now will you please leave?”
