To Chase the Storm Page 4

  A moment, Tessa thought desperately. Just one moment. She staggered to a halt, and sucked in a fiery, steadying breath, her shoulder raking against the coarse bark of a tree that clung to the rim of stone. Hagar sagged, limp, against her.

  "Mama, it will be all right," she choked out. "We're nearly there." Her toes bit into the ground as she prepared to lunge the final steps over the top of the cliff. But at that instant the moon bathed Hagar's withered face in silvery light, revealing wide, glassy eyes staring at nothing and pale, shrunken lips curved into the ghost of Hagar's babe-like smile.

  "Nay!" She cried. “Mama!"

  Dead. Sweet Mary, she was dead.

  The certainty slammed into Tessa's stomach, draining away all hope, all will. Her legs gave way beneath her, the coarse tree bark scraping her back and arms as she crumpled to the chill, damp earth.

  Grief slashed through her as she clutched her mother's limp body. A sob clawed at her throat. Wild relief mingled with a sorrow that drove all thought from her mind. She reeled from the pain, nearly drowning in it, wishing that she would drown, end this anguish.

  The pounding of footfalls seemed to engulf her. The stench of hate and brutality roiled about her. But she did not care. The bellowing of the crowd seemed like a child's night terror.

  "Mama." She clutched the birdlike fingers of Hagar's hand, stroked the tangled mass of silver hair. "Mama..."

  "There the witches be!" The triumphant cry penetrated the haze of Tessa's grief. Her broken crooning was lost in a gasp of pain as her tresses were yanked in a brutal grasp.

  Her head snapped back against a beefy male shoulder, and Tessa cried out as she saw the leering, blood-lusting faces. The enemies who had driven her and her mother to desperate flight, and Hagar to her death.

  Tessa struggled against the hands that held her, still clinging to the old woman's limp form. Feral protectiveness surged through her as she battled to shield her mother's body from the pack of circling beasts.

  "Murderers!" Tessa screamed. "Leave her alone! She's dead!"

  A meaty fist slammed into Tessa's jaw with bone-shattering force. "Shut yer yap, Satan's daughter." Her attacker turned. "McKenna, get the cursed hag away from her!"

  Tears burned Tessa's cheeks as hands locked upon the old woman's frail body, ripping her from Tessa's grasp.

  "Nay!" she screamed. "Mama!" Tessa tried to free herself, but her captor's sinewy muscles only coiled more tightly around her, the stench of the forge making her certain it was the filthy smith who held her. "Let her go!" she shouted. "God curse you!"

  " 'Tis not God who honors yer curses, is it, witch? Aye, but he'll watch with a whore's own pleasure as ye roast upon a stake! Cursing brave Sir Francis, feeding poison to the waves."

  "You're mad, the lot of you!" Tessa cried.

  "Did you not hurl nightshade into the sea and call out incantations?" Alisette's pointed features appeared near Tessa, the eyes that had once sparked with jealousy taking on a glimmer of righteous satisfaction.

  "It was nothing but a wreath of heather!" Tessa kicked at her assailant.

  "You think that matters?" someone cackled. "Hagar will soon feed the flames. And you, her child, devil-spawned—"

  "We'll see you both cooked on Satan's spit." The smith's breath was hot in Tessa's ear. "An' God will rejoice in yer screaming!"

  "There'll be no screaming from Hagar, you bastard! You can't hurt her now." Tessa’s eyes raked the night-shrouded sea as Hagar's final joy-choked whisper echoed in her mind. "Papa came for her," she said.

  But the smith heard nothing, deafened by his thirst for her pain. "Drag the witches down to the place where they worked their evil magic. " He licked away the saliva pooling at the corners of his lips. "Take them near the sea."

  Tessa saw three men jerk Hagar's body upright, blood lust glittering in their eyes. But it was the slight curve that still softened Hagar's mouth that tore at Tessa—the ghost of her mother's sweet smile.

  The thought of that innocent face being consumed in flame, despite the oblivion of death, was too much for Tessa to bear.

  She drove her elbow into her captor's groin, then broke free the instant she heard his bellow of rage.

  "Beware! Catch her!" the cries rang out in warning. But Tessa was like a wild thing, her fists flailing at any who would try to stop her from reaching her mother.

  She rushed toward the old woman, crazed with the need to wrench her from the mob's grasp. But at that instant hands flashed out, slamming with bone-cracking force into Tessa's back.

  The rim of the cliff spun before her eyes, the loosened stone giving way beneath her as she hurtled toward the edge.

  Then Tessa was falling, plummeting into stygian blackness. She screamed, grasping desperately for the jagged wall of the cliff, certain that she was crashing to her death. Suddenly a giant fist seemed to smash into her body, driving the air from her lungs.

  Sweet Savior, it hurt so much she must be dying, Tessa thought, fighting to claw her way through the pain to the peace that awaited her.

  "Mama," she croaked, reaching out for Hagar's hand, wanting the old woman to draw her into the shimmering serenity beyond the pain. But other hands closed about Tessa, warm hands, their strength seeming to seep into her very soul.

  "Nay," Tessa choked out, "I... have to find her."

  "Chiton, chica. Hush."

  The deep velvet tones enveloped her, wrapping her in a soothing cocoon of warmth.

  Tessa's fogged mind struggled with confusion. "Please," she groaned. "Please help me."

  "Sí, ángel. You are safe now."

  Tessa opened her eyes, but pain pierced her, sickening her. She caught just a glimpse of the presence bending over her—the hair dark as midnight over the sea, the face rugged, tender.

  "Who—who are..." Her faint voice trailed off.

  Hagar's voice seemed to whisper upon the wind: "Perhaps they'll work a charm on you... send their sea ghost to wed you."

  "Sea ghost," Tessa murmured without knowing she spoke aloud. "Mama warned me..."

  Tessa's lips curved in a faint smile as she drifted into the haven of the bold sea phantom's arms and away. Away from the beach and the mob and the horror and into a world of crystal castles beneath the ocean waves, and fairy sprites that blessed her with Hagar's sweet smile.

  Chapter 3

  How long had he lain there, cradled within the crook of stone? Rafe did not know. He only knew that he had crawled ashore what seemed an eternity ago. Half dead with fatigue, he had ripped strips of linen from the hem of his shirt and bound them about the jagged wound in his thigh. He had been too exhausted to attempt to dislodge whatever was embedded in his flesh and had promised himself that he would tend to the task when he awoke. But now the wound scarce even oozed blood, and opening it would start the flow afresh, weakening him. He could ill afford weakness now.

  Weakness? He was lucky he wasn’t dead! He cast a grateful glance toward the cold waves. They had numbed his pain and slowed the flow of his blood, most likely saving his life. Yet now he longed for some heat to drive back the ice that seemed to chill the very marrow of his bones.

  The sunrise would be a mixed blessing, for while it supplied warmth it would also strip away the cloak of darkness hiding him from the prying eyes of anyone who might happen along this godforsaken strip of beach.

  A grim laugh breached his lips as he tightened the bandage on his leg. Only a madman would choose this rugged wasteland as home. Daunting cliffs soared above the ledge on which Rafe sat. The stone face fell away beneath him before plunging into waters studded with huge boulders, like the fangs of a beast that would tear open the hull of a ship and devour it, as they had nearly devoured Rafe as he battled his way through that deadly maze.

  Rafe had no idea what lay above him, obscured by the rim of earth. A lush valley, perhaps, or verdant farmland, he thought with a stirring of wry amusement. Or some vast city or bustling village. But whoever dwelt above would be discomfited to find an enemy Spaniard upon
their shore and would most likely be eager to capture him.

  Rafe's fingers closed around the dagger still attached to his leather belt. Even though he was wounded, it would be difficult for one of Elizabeth's subjects to chain this Spaniard and display him like a dancing bear in a player troupe. He had already endured a hell far worse than any English heretic might deal him. The will to survive that had ebbed away as the Lady disappeared into the sea now surged into his limbs anew with his thirst for vengeance.

  "This is not what you would have wished for me, is it, Brother Ambrose? This thirst for another's blood," Rafe murmured, leaning his head back against the rough plane of rock behind him. He closed his eyes as the beloved hermit's face rose in his memory. Ambrose had always been a peace weaver, truly forgiving any wrong done him, infinitely patient, with a tolerance rarely seen among the Spanish. Rafe could still smell the musty, familiar scent of herbs and leather and ink that clung to the holy man’s clothing as he bent over his young charge, teaching, always teaching.

  Brother Ambrose's hermitage had been chill and bare, yet within that tiny hut the hermit had flung wide the gates of the world to Rafe—showing him a tapestry embroidered with blazing deserts, raging oceans, and jungles heavy with foliage. Ambrose had taught him French, Italian, Latin, and English, languages the hermit had treasured; and he had woven among them bright-hued skeins of history glittering with threads of intrigue and adventure.

  Enraptured, Rafe had listened to his mentor, drinking in all the knowledge the brilliant man had to offer. Yet never had Rafe suspected what other, subtle lessons he'd been taught—a respect for true wisdom, empathy for the suffering of others, and a sense of justice, honor, and courage that had little to do with flashing swords and blazing pistols.

  Now Ambrose's carefully mastered lessons, combined with Rafe's own battle-honed instincts, would prove his most valuable weapon in effecting his escape. It would be enough. It had to be, Rafe thought, his memories melting away, carried off by the sound of the waves.

  Ever attuned to his mistress's capricious moods, Rafe raised his head, a tiny smile playing about the corners of his mouth as he listened. Even without opening his eyes he could hear the subtle shift, sense that the sea's formidable temper was rising. Yet though he could hear the gathering storm in the distance, the wild, sweet tang in the air that always accompanied the sea's fury was strangely absent.

  Bemused, he drew in a deep breath, trying to smell the storm. But there was nothing but the slightest hint that something was very wrong. His eyes snapped open, his muscles tensing.

  The breakers still displayed their formidable magnificence, yet he could detect no tempest rising.

  The hair at the nape of his neck prickled as he listened, alert. The sounds he had heard seemed closer, sharper. Voices. He could hear them on the wind now, high above him, and he could see an eerie orange glow staining the rim of the cliff. A fire? No, there wasn't the thick stench of land being consumed by a blaze. The glow was something more perilous for him—torchlight.

  The wickedly curved blade of his dagger hissed as he pulled it free of its scabbard. Had they come for him? Had he somehow been discovered? No. No one could have guessed he had found haven on this shore. Why, then, the shouts of outrage splitting the night?

  "Burn the witches! Take them!"

  Rafe's flesh crawled at the blood lust in the man's voice. He could sense the hot eagerness in the unseen face, an eagerness Rafe had been forced to confront far too many times upon the countenances of his countrymen as they reveled in the Inquisition's awesome spectacle of auto-da-fé. San Savior, the English heretics were putting some poor wretch to the flame!

  “It is none of your concern, Santadar,” Rafe told himself grimly. “The English are hungry for blood, and it would please them no end to add you to their pyre. It would be suicide to interfere. It would be mad.”

  But at that moment a woman's cry—desperate, shattered with grief—tore at him.

  "Leave her alone! She’s dead!"

  He could feel the woman's anguish as though it were inside his own skin. Mad? Rafe thought, casting caution to the winds. It would not be the first time he had been labeled thus.

  With an oath, he looked up the steep cliff face and slid the dagger back into its sheath. He slipped from his hiding place and began to climb, his hands grasping at the rough stone, his leg throbbing as he fought to reach her.

  Rafe's scraped fingers bled as he struggled to gain a handhold. Then suddenly his heart lurched and he froze as he looked up.

  "She is going to fall! Don't let her!" He gasped as a silhouette broke the line of orange rimming the cliff. Skirts whirled like a phantom's robes, and hair flew wildly about a lithe body as the woman clawed at the emptiness beyond the edge of the cliff.

  "Mama!" It was a hopeless, agonized cry. Rafe stretched out his arms, as if his will alone could break her fall, but the figure plunged onward, plummeting down.

  Rafe heard the mob's angry roar at being robbed of their prize, felt his own stomach roil at the sickening thud as the delicate figure crashed into an outcropping a stable's length from where he clung. Heedless of his own safety, he crept across the space that separated them, his feet skidding on the rocks.

  "Sweet Mary, don't let her be dead!" Rafe flung himself to his knees beside her, his stomach knotting as moon glow limned death-pale features obscured by a lush tangle of ebony hair. She was so delicate, Rafe thought wildly. She could not possibly have survived the fall. Yet he clung to hope, remembering the courage he had heard in her voice as she confronted the mob.

  He reached out and touched her ivory skin, which was still as warm, soft, and smooth as a babe's. He pressed his fingers to the delicate arch of her neck, finding the hollow where her pulse should have throbbed. Nothing.

  "Blast it," Rafe said through gritted teeth, scooping her up into his arms. "Don't let those savages do this to you!"

  The shouts of the mob above sent outrage and fear for the girl shooting through Rafe. He cast a furious glance at the cliff's edge, its once clean line now sullied by the silhouettes of the cruel, screeching townspeople.

  "The witches! They both be dead now, an' we'll be gettin' no screamin' to pleasure us!" a feminine voice cried in the tone of a child robbed of a sweet.

  "Stop yer caterwaulin'!" someone else snarled. "We have the old hag here, an' Tessa she be among the crags at the bottom of the cliff. We'll drag 'er to the stake even if she already be dancin' with Satan."

  Tessa? Rafe cursed the vicious wench above for giving the girl in his arms a name, a name that made the fallen waif even more painfully real to Rafe.

  "What if she flew away?" a woman whined. "What if she escaped?"

  "Look, Alisette. I'll throw my torch down, an' ye'll see."

  Rafe's heart lurched as he saw a flaming brand arch through the night sky. How many times had Ambrose, a healer, warned him about the danger of moving someone who had taken a fall? Yet scarce thinking, Rafe hauled the girl into a hollow the harsh waters and winds had carved into the stone.

  His eyes locked upon the torch streaking in a blur of light down the crags. In a shower of embers, it landed on the ledge an arm's length away from Rafe's boot. Gritting his teeth against the pulsing pain in his thigh, he scrambled deeper into the hollow, holding his breath, afraid even that the slight rasping sound would betray them. He held the girl closer, as if his body could shield her from the mob.

  Could the townspeople see the two of them? If the murderers descended upon Rafe and the girl, there would be small chance of escape. Hampered by his injured leg, he had barely been able to climb the jagged cliff himself. To attempt it with the girl in tow would be impossible.

  And beneath them stretched the beach, studded with boulders that gave way to the implacable sea. They were trapped as surely as though they were chained in the hollow of stone.

  Suddenly Rafe's racing thoughts were stilled by an odd silence from above, a silence heavy with fear. He could sense it. He wished desperately tha
t he could see the crowd, but the outcropping that shielded him and Tessa blocked his view.

  He strained to hear some sound, gain some clue as to what was happening, but there was nothing but the ominous silence. "By God's wounds," he heard someone say at last. "The witch be gone."

  Someone shrieked. Then a voice he recognized as that of the bloodthirsty wench of moments ago babbled, "But—but she cannot be gone! She—Tate, tell me she did not fly away!" There was real fear in the woman's voice now and none of the eagerness that had laced it before. Rafe rejoiced in it, praying the mob would succumb to terror and not search for the girl further.

  "Tate." The wench's voice choked with alarm. "She could not have flown unless she really was a witch."

  "Of course she was a witch!" the harsh voice interrupted, and in those masculine tones Rafe could hear a warning. "Remember? The fine lady who came to the village. She said—"

  The voices of the man and woman were lost in fearful gasps and uncertain babblings.

  "Don't be fools," a gruff voice broke in. "Even if she do be a witch, even if she do be flown, we still have the hag, and she, after all, be the one we wanted."

  "You cannot mean to burn old Hagar," someone said. "She be dead. An' Tessa, she loved 'er sorely. She'll do us evil."

  "Evil?" the gruff voice bellowed. "I'll do ye evil if ye be soft on Satan's daughter! Damn yer hides, we snared at least one of the birds we set our nets for. An' I intend to see this old whore roast."

  Rafe's stomach churned, and he gritted his teeth against his fury and helplessness. Whoever still lay in their clutches was dead—they had said so, and the girl had cried it out in her anguish. But the girl might yet live. Rafe's fingers tightened about her delicate frame, willing life into her as he listened to the shouts of the crowd.

  "Rannal is right," came a cry. "I rousted meself from me bed for a burnin'!"

  "I did the same! And I'll be damned if I'll be cheated."