To Chase the Storm Read online

  "Tea?" Hagar turned to Tessa, lips parting, eager. "Will you put honey in it?"

  "Aye, I'll put honey in it if you promise to lie down after you drink it. Papa would want you to sleep a little."

  "It is hard for me to sleep. Hurts."

  "I know," Tessa said soothingly, attempting to guide Hagar toward the wattle and daub cottage clinging to the sea cliff’s edge. "But I'll show you the new marionette I carved. It is King Philip of Spain with knobby knees and a most prodigious belly."

  "You needn't try to play ring-a-rosy with me, miss," Hagar said. "I know what you be about."

  "And what is that, Mama?" Tessa managed a weak smile.

  "Never you mind." Hagar pulled against Tessa's grasp, and the mischief twinkling in her vague eyes warmed Tessa's heart. "You are a stubborn child, even for a fairy." With a laugh tinged with a tightness born of pain, Hagar hooked her frail fingers in her heather crown and sent it sailing upon the sea gusts whisking past the rim of jagged stone.

  "It is a crown to trap the evil ones, my poppet!" Hagar cried out to something she alone could see. "To drag them down with their ropes and their timbers."

  Tessa gently urged her foster mother forward, her lips curved in a half-smile. "You would have our noble Drake drown, Mama?"

  The woman's lips curved with pleasure. "Not to be drowned," Hagar whispered conspiratorially. "But to be carried down to the castle beneath the sea. The one in the waves, all carved of crystal."

  The tightness about Tessa's heart lessened, and she forced herself to release her dread of the future, of death and the loneliness it would bring. She laughed as Hagar continued spinning out tales of the fantasy world her William had peopled with wraiths and fairies, a land to which the old woman now added Sir Francis Drake.

  Tessa laughed until she caught a glimpse of a grizzled, dull-witted face half hidden in the brush—a face dark with fear and a blind cruelty that chilled her blood.

  She started to call out, recognizing the smith from the village below. But the filthy man was already hastening down the path to Gnarlymeade, leaving behind only the sound of the sea.

  Yet now the sea whispered a warning.

  * * *

  Like a jealous lover the sea raged, hurling silver-crested waves against Rafe's battered body. He clung to the plank that held him afloat in the whirling madness, chill waters filling his nose and mouth, brine stinging his eyes, already raw from powder smoke, exhaustion, and despair.

  With every shifting of muscle, pain ground through his thigh where some fragment of mast or hull had been driven into his flesh by the force of the explosion. But even the wound that plagued him held little power to dull the torture that ran far deeper.

  Armageddon.

  Rafe closed his gritty eyelids, heedless of the burning, wanting only to shut out the scenes that tormented him even now, endless hours after the clashing ships' guns had fallen silent. But the sea flung the images back at him as though to taunt him with its betrayal, tormenting him with the sound of shattering hulls, the screams of sailors torn by cannon fire or being sucked down into the sea's dark belly.

  Yet most merciless of all—the sea's final, most crushing betrayal—lay in the shifting patterns of the waves and the shadows of the enemy ships, now scattered in the distance like a child's toy fleet. For amid those blurred images, the sea-spawned enchantress painted agonizing images of Bastion's laughing face and Rique's wide-eyed innocence.

  Dead, both dead, the sea reminded Rafe, as much by your hand as if you had pierced their hearts with your saber.

  Guilt twisted in Rafe's gut, a shudder of self-loathing rocking through him as a wave swept him high, the force of the water nearly ripping the plank from his grasp.

  She was right to blame him, his sea witch, Rafe thought bitterly. For it had been his choice to lead his men into disaster. And he alone should pay the forfeit unyielding fate demanded.

  A choked sound wrenched from him. The hot dampness of tears burned his chilled cheeks. It would be so easy, he thought numbly, his fingers loosening on the mangled length of wood, so simple to let go... of pain, of life. Without the Lady, without Bastion, without the crew Rafe had fashioned from a mass of raw adventurers, he had nothing, was nothing. It was the most bitter of ironies, was it not, that he alone should live? The one man with nothing to lose, with no one, not even Bastion, left alive to lament his passing.

  So many of the others, from the bumbling gunner lad to the crotchety old Basque sail maker, had had families—wives or mothers, at least—who would grieve for them. Yet they had died, while only Rafe had lived.

  But no—at least one other had evaded death's claws. The thought burned Rafe like a poisoned brand. A breaker crashed over his face, but he scarce felt its chilling force as an image of blade-sharp features and disturbing opaque eyes flashed across his memory—the grand inquisitor, gliding away from hell upon sea-borne wings.

  Encina. Lucero Encina. The man who despised Rafe. The man who sought to destroy him. But had the inquisitor's hatred burned so deep that he had been willing to cast Rafe to the devil at any price? Even at the cost of the armada's defeat? Even at the cost of a hundred other lives?

  It seemed absurd that a man who had never even looked upon Rafe's face before the armada left port should go to such lengths to destroy him. Why, then, were the instincts honed in countless battles now clamoring inside Rafe? The memory of Encina's triumphant smile gnawed within Rafe.

  He would live. Rafe gritted his teeth and dug deep into himself, dredging up his last reserves of strength. He must live to find the man who had sent his ship to the bottom of the sea and murdered his men. Vengeance. The Lady cried out for it from her tomb in the sea, and Rafe would give her rest if it cost him his own soul.

  As if in challenge, the sea witch whirled her mighty current against him.

  His stomach lurched as she bore him aloft then dragged him down, carrying him ever farther from the vanishing fleet.

  Vengeance? Her voice jeered within him. You are wounded, weak as a babe, and I have broken the strongest of men.

  A wild laugh burst, raw, from Rafe's lips. "Ah, but don't you know?" he sneered. "You are my lover, my only lover, and capricious bitch that you are, it will please you more to torment me than to grant me peace."

  A smile split his parched lips as he clung to that thought, his feverish indigo eyes fastened upon the distant hazy line of gray that bordered the glittering sea. England. Land of heretics. Pirates. The bastard queen who had brought mighty Spain to its knees. He would have to reach those hostile shores if he were to survive.

  His eyes narrowed against the glare of sunlight glinting off the sea. Despite her cunning, Elizabeth Tudor had failed to crush all loyalty to the Catholic faith from her subjects. If he could just reach the shore and find some Englishmen with such religious leanings, perhaps they would help him escape to Spain. At best, it would be like searching for an uncharted isle within a vast sea, or a single star in all the heavens. And he'd be slowed by his wound as well. No, he had suffered a score of injuries more daunting in years past and had battled, caroused, even wooed ladies afterward. He would seize his only chance.

  As if in answer a mighty wave swept him high, the water rippling against his beard-stubbled cheek. A feral smile slashed across Rafe's lips, his voice harsh with determination. "Let me live another day, you cursed temptress. And I vow I'll prove constant. I will give you my soul if you'll spare my life this one last time."

  Passion and resolve pulsed through him as he locked the full force of his will upon gaining that elusive shore. Grinding his teeth against the exhaustion and pain, he kicked against the pull of the waves, driving himself closer, ever closer to his destiny.

  * * *

  Tessa shifted restlessly on her pallet, her eyes open wide against the darkness that pressed in all around her. For hours she had struggled to sleep, to build the reserve of strength she would need on the morrow. But it was as if Hagar's sprites darted about the cottage's corners, pricking
at Tessa with arrows tipped with dread. And even the haunting presence of her father, which had soothed her on the cliff, now whispered soft reproach: The pain was worse this night. Your blasted tea can do nothing. Your stores of food are almost empty, and your coin is gone.

  Tessa tried to blot out the voice, her hands knotting in the faded coverlet. The lack of funds was only because she had not been able to peddle her wares. The chest was full of new-worked ruffs, if she could but go to the castles to sell them. And her marionettes... If she could gather a crowd at some crossroads and perform, there would be coin aplenty. But she dared not leave Hagar.

  Not even long enough to steal down to the village? her father's voice challenged.

  Tessa shoved herself upright, fighting the bitterness that always filled her at the thought of a sojourn to the cluster of dank hovels three miles east of the cottage. I’m especially not going to the village, Tessa thought fiercely, throwing back the meager coverlet she allowed herself, all the others being mounded over Hagar's easily chilled form. Most likely Tate McKenna is still angry over my refusal to bed him, and Alisette is still raging over the dolt's faithlessness. Aye, and doubtless the villagers are all busy conjuring devils upon King Philip's ships.

  I trusted you to take care of her, the voice railed at her.

  "I have, Papa!" She shut her eyes for a moment, furious with herself for having fallen prey to Hagar’s madness, and pleading with some spirit that most likely had little use for the mortals it had once loved.

  "You don't understand how hard it is. The people here, they make my skin crawl." She crushed the urge to continue pleading with her father's ephemeral spirit as a far more menacing vision rose in her mind—that of the village smithy, his eyes glowing, cruel.

  Nay, she did not have the fortitude to endure the dull stares and sly murmurs as she passed the people of Gnarlymeade. She did not have the patience to listen to their idiotic rambling about sin and sorcerers and Satan.

  A scrap of memory flitted across Tessa's mind, and a smile dimpled the corner of her mouth as she recalled the last time she had walked the village’s rutted streets. She had seen a spindly cooper's apprentice make the sign to guard against the evil eye as she passed, and she had not been able to resist sashaying over to him like some Siren and brushing his cheek with a kiss.

  The lad had fled as though he could feel the flames of hell licking at his heels, and Tessa had not been able to quell her laughter until she was halfway home.

  A wistful smile curved her lips. William Ravenscroft would have roared with glee had he seen the boy's rabbit-like flight. But even now she could not fully enjoy the incident. All too soon, she’d seen the danger in her jest, and knew she had to rein in her mischievous nature.

  "If a thunderbolt split a blasted tree, that lot of fools in Gnarlymeade would need to find someone to blame," Tessa muttered to herself. "And if there is anyone on this coast they would delight in accusing it would be me."

  Forcing herself to her feet, Tessa shook out the skirts she had worn to bed to ward off the biting drafts. Nay, it was better thus. Better that she and Hagar stay close to the cottage while Spain reached greedy fingers toward English shores, for fear could make the most gentle hound savage its own master. And as for anyone who might be seen as an enemy...

  Bare feet chilled by the earthen floor, Tessa made her way to Hagar's pallet to reassure herself that her foster-mother was safe. The old woman's withered hand was curled upon her cheek, an aching contrast to Tessa’s strong, supple fingers as she brushed back the tangle of moon-colored hair strewn across the crumpled bedding. Though Tessa had scrubbed the bedcovers that very morning, the coarse homespun was already taking on the smell of the sweat that beaded the old woman's brow. Tessa leaned down, laying her cheek against Hagar's shrunken one. "I love you, Mama," she whispered, her eyes stinging. "I'm doing my best to take care of you."

  Tessa straightened suddenly, dashing away her tears. Drawing her hands away from her face, she turned, aware that the orange and red lights dancing upon the darkness were not just some trick of eyes strained with crying. Rather, the lights were coming in through the cracks in the oak shutters.

  She padded across the tiny room and pushed one of the shutters open. Her eyes fought to identify the eerily torchlit shapes upon the cliffs. They seemed like a seething mass boiling up the path from the village, and for a heartbeat Tessa was certain that the Spanish legions she had so impatiently dismissed from her mind had landed to lay waste to anything in their path.

  She started to spin around, intending to rouse Hagar and carry her into hiding in one of the caves that riddled the cliffs. But she froze as she glimpsed features that were disturbingly familiar—Tate McKenna's saffron hair glowing amid the crowd, Alisette's ivory cloak, the smith's hulking form. Tessa stared as though seeing them all for the first time. Moon rays splashed shadows across the mass of Gnarlymeade villagers, and the torchlight stripped their faces of all decency, leaving primal viciousness.

  Tessa gaped for an instant. The sounds from the nearing crowd were clearer and more frightening than any threats couched in Spanish.

  The voices railed in English, lashing out a single word that chilled Tessa's blood: "Witch!"

  "Child?"

  The frail voice made Tessa wheel to where Hagar now sat upright upon her pallet, her lips parted in a drowsy smile.

  "Is that William coming?"

  Fear bounded in Tessa's breast as she stared into Hagar's sweet, innocent face. When Hagar saw the mob storming along the cliffs, suspected the evil the villagers intended, there was no telling what would happen to the fragile thread of sanity she still possessed. Unless Tessa could hasten Hagar to safety without the old woman suspecting...

  Biting her lip, Tessa grasped at Hagar's tremulous question. "Aye, Papa is come," Tessa said, dashing to the pallet. "Let's hasten to meet him near the caves."

  "Meet him?"

  Tessa winced at the joy that sprang into Hagar's soft blue eyes. "Aye, Mama." She draped a coverlet around the old woman's shoulders and drew Hagar to her feet. "We'll run down the path and surprise him."

  "But—but I cannot!" Hagar's gnarled fingers reached up to her tangled silver tresses, her eyes sweeping the worn fabric of her nightdress. "I look a fright." A laugh gurgled in the old woman's throat, and Tessa felt panic race within her. "Tessa child, find my blue gown. I have to make ready."

  "Nay, Mama! There is no time!" Tessa lunged to catch hold of the old woman's arm, but Hagar evaded her with stunning agility, whirling on her shaky legs with the rapturous aura of a new-bloomed maiden.

  "William. My William!"

  The screams of the crowd outside the little cottage swelled, seeming to swallow the tiny room and engulf the whole world. Desperate, Tessa clamped her fingers about Hagar's thin arms. "Mama, you have to come with me! Now!" Tessa cried, loathing herself for the pain that flashed across the old woman's features. "Papa is not coming. Never coming. But, Mama, the villagers are."

  "William..." The aching, empty little whisper tore at Tessa's heart. "He's not coming?"

  "Mama, do you want to die? Do you want them to murder us?" Tessa cursed, her fingers clenched tight around Hagar's frail wrist as she half dragged the woman toward the door. She heard Hagar sniffling and felt the chill night air dampen her face as she threw open the oaken door. It was as though cannon fire had split the night, the sound setting the mob to shrieking in fury. Their faces blended in a whirl of macabre horror. Tessa knew nothing but the primal need to flee, to survive. She wrapped her arm around Hagar's waist, the old woman's cry of pain mingling with the crowd's roars as Tessa struggled to drag her from their path.

  "Burn the witches! They'll not escape us!" The shrill cry grated against Tessa's ears, filling her with panic. Stones sliced Tessa's bare feet, and thorns raked at her skin and hair as she plunged toward the cliffs.

  But the old woman beside her had none of Tessa's lithe strength, and even Tessa's arm urging her forward could not make Hagar run.

/>   Desperation pulsed deep in Tessa, the sound of the charging crowd behind her swelling ever louder, becoming more menacing. A cry broke from her lips as she felt Hagar stumble, and Tessa heard the old woman shriek as she tripped on a jagged stone.

  "Hurry, Mama!" Tessa urged. Summoning every wisp of her fast-waning strength, Tessa struggled to bear the old woman's weight as they battled onward. Yet Hagar's frail form was stunningly heavy, dragging at Tessa, slowing her as she forced herself to keep running.

  We'll never reach the cliff, Tessa thought wildly, heedless of everything except the precious weight of her mother against her and the vital need to escape the jaws of the ravening mob.

  "William... Will. I knew you'd come."

  Tessa started from her own fear-crazed thoughts at her mother's raspy whisper. Hagar's voice was filled with a haunting serenity, but her already flagging steps grew even more awkward.

  "Mama, help me. You have to try," Tessa begged brokenly, her eyes, her will, fixed upon the sea cliff's edge. It beckoned, dangling a chance of salvation with its twisted pathway winding down to the sea and its tangled web of crannies and caves that Tessa knew as well as she knew Hagar's tiny cottage. If she could reach that perilous path, it would carry her and Hagar to safety, and one misstep would send the villagers catapulting to their deaths.

  Tessa's shoulders ached, her arms exhausted. Her lungs burned. A ragged sob raked her chest as she struggled to breathe, fought to keep on running.

  But as she neared the outcropping of stone, her endurance crumbled.

  Familiar as she was with the cliff, she knew she would need all her strength and steadiness to negotiate the treacherous paths. If only she could pause for a moment, catch her breath before she plunged downward, she could carry them both over the brink of the cliff and down the path to safety. She cast a glance over her shoulder at the crowd surging behind them, still terrifying, although their pace, too, had slowed as they crossed the rugged terrain.