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* * *
The sun was waning, as Swit reached the designated tavern for his meeting. He jumped off his horse, rubbed his gloved hands together against the chill in the air and handed his gelding over to a groom. “Eh, there,” he said and flipped the boy a coin, thinking that he was a good and generous man.
“Where the devil is he?” he asked himself out loud as he entered the main galley and looked about for David Horwich. Blasted fellow, he thought to himself. He wished he had never met him, or got into business with him. It wasn’t turning out to be either the lark, or the type of thing he wanted to do much longer.
It was too damned dangerous by far and he felt the hairs at the back of his neck forever spiking with his new fears. This was not what he had signed on for. Sure, he had enjoyed arranging the connection with the land runners for the brandy, but this…this wasn’t what he could talk himself into liking.
Money had always ruled his activities. He had none and he needed it. He was born gentry, but without a sou. His father had taught them to live by their wits, to hang onto those that had money. He had found his good looks and his charm useful advantages and had done just that for a great many years, staving off the debtor’s prison by a hairs breath. He only had a small estate, run down and unattended, but it was still his all the same, and his dream was to make one great killing, or marry into money, so that he could restore his home to its former glory.
This
business with David looked as though it might land him in prison, more than it would substantial monies.
David came in behind him, nudged his shoulder and led him to a corner table. David always had his back to the wall, as though forever expecting an attack.
They sat down and ordered and then he waited for David to speak. When David remained in thoughtful silence he said with frustration, “Right then, we’re here, heading for London in the morning, so tell me what this is all about.”
“Matters have changed. We no longer need to make arrangements with the land runners. You have suspected, though you haven’t been sure, that we are running more than brandy.”
“Right then, getting tired of the sport. I need to move on, anyway.” Jerry said.
“Oh no, Jerry, I think not,” David said. “You aren’t done, till I say so.”
The barmaid arrived with their pints, each took his tankard; Swit gave her rump a friendly pat and waited for her smile as she drifted off to another table.
Swit turned on David irritated because no one told him what to do. “Oh no?” he challenged, and then spoke his mind, “Aye, do you think I am a fool. I knew we weren’t just running rum and brandy. I went along with it at first, but now that I’m sure it is what I thought it could be, I’m out.” Swit’s eyes narrowed. “I am many things, but with talk about that damned Napoleon besting our Wellington, well, I’ll not be a traitor.”
“Quiet,” David said harshly. “What do you care for such things? The French are forever going to war with us, will continue to do so whether we win this battle or not. In the meantime, there is a profit to be made from it.”
“Zounds, man! You don’t need me! Besides, this is different. We could hang for this, have you thought of that?” Swit charged.
“Bellingham needs us. He steals the secrets from the Home Office for a price and we deliver them for a price. That is how it works.”
“I’m out of this. I don’t hold with it, besides Sir Jacob is showing signs of tiring of me. I don’t think it will be long before he boots me out.”
“He won’t do that, will he? You have something on him, don’t you?”
“Go to bloody hell!” Swit snapped. He hated being cornered.
“You will make the run the night after next, just as we planned. A great deal of money will exchange hands for what Bellingham will be giving us and we have to have our share.”
Swit eyed Horwich consideringly. “And if I won’t do it?”
“Don’t test me, Swit. I have no scruples whatsoever and if you must be eliminated, so be it.”
Swit’s brow raised up. This scoundrel meant it. He would kill him if he pulled out now. “I tell you what then Horwich. I’ll make the run with Jacob’s yacht and the regular crew, but then, I’m out—gone. Agreed?”
“We’ll see,” said Horwich downing his ale. “Now let’s order some dinner.”
* * *
Exerilla was all too aware of the silence as they rode their horses toward the forest and the narrow wooded trail that led to the cottage.
She concentrated on the thickly screened sylvan setting and asked herself what she was doing. She was a wanton woman, or at least, that was how he would view her in this time zone, in his social culture. Breathless, she sighed over the problem. Should she demure? Should she backtrack? Every common sense she owned told her to run. She was heading for a fall that she would never recover from. Still her heart and body ganged up on her and onward she went.
She made a feeble attempt and called out to him as he wielded the narrow trail just a short distance ahead. “Hunter!”
He turned and saw her face as he raised his brow and rode his horse back to her. “What is it, love? Doona ye want to be with me?”
