The Uncompromising Lord Flint

‘English pig! Imbécile! Tout ça ne sert à rien!’

‘We are both going to drown!’

‘At least I will take you with me!’

Flint managed to move his hand a split second before her teeth clamped around it and tilted his weight so that she was lying on her back down the length of his body. Then, with the last strength he possessed, he kicked towards the rowboat.

It took the three of them to get her into the thing as it rocked dangerously from side to side. Once they did, he happily allowed one of the sailors to tie her hands behind her back while the other restrained her. There was no telling what damage the wench could do in such a confined space otherwise. Tethered and impotent, that riotous mane of hair plastered all over her face and shoulders, she began snarling and insulting them, alternating seamlessly between French and English as they rowed back to the ship. He got the gist. He was an idiot and he would die.

‘We’ll winch her up.’ It struck him as a simpler solution than coaxing her up the rope ladder. The fact that it served to send her into an outraged rant after she had made a fool of him was a bonus that went some way to making Flint feel better. If she had been a man, he would have punched her back there in the water and dragged her sorry, unconscious carcass back. Because she was a woman, and he couldn’t seem to get over that inconvenient yet ultimately minor detail no matter how hard he tried, he had suffered every blow—and there had been rather a lot of them. The saltwater was stinging the numerous scratches her nails had gouged in his hands and arms, his throat was raw, his eyes rawer and his ribs hurt like the devil. He would add feral to the growing list of adjectives he already had to describe her, alongside traitorous, beautiful and infuriating.

Flint sat back in the rocking boat to steady it and happily allowed the others to wrestle the rope around her middle, then saluted her as she was lifted kicking and screaming out of the boat.

She was going to be a handful.

Typical, really. He spent his life trying to avoid feminine histrionics and manipulations, yet fate kept throwing them at him regardless. At least he would be shot of this one within the week. He was stuck with his exasperating family for life.

The cheer from the deck signalled her safe arrival and was closely followed by another tirade of insults, this time all in French. Despite the fruity tone, Flint preferred the French. Her voice was seductive. Breathy and earthy. If he let it, the sultry sound made the hairs on the back of his neck and forearms stand to attention in a wholly pleasant way. Something he was determined to quash indignantly. He didn’t deal well with difficult and emotional females. Aside from the obvious obstacle of her impending date with the hangman, he preferred his women sedate and calm. Like a mill pond. If he were to compare her to water, Lady Jessamine Fane was akin to the crashing waves on the rocky Cornish coastline near his home in winter. Unpredictable, noisy and very, very dangerous.

The men were now jeering above him. The whistles and inappropriate comments were getting out of hand. She didn’t deserve that. Nobody did. Until he was shot of her, she was his responsibility and he wouldn’t see her abused—verbally or otherwise. With a weary sigh he climbed the ladder. The crew had circled around her, baying like wolves tempted with the scent of fresh blood. The rope they had hoisted her with was still wrapped around her body and held firmly by the belligerent toothless sailor who had been appointed her guard. The malicious glint in the fellow’s eye sickened Flint. To be a bully was bad enough. To bully a helpless woman was deplorable.

‘Stop.’

He didn’t shout or snarl. The icy stare he had perfected in his youth when his womenfolk had pushed him too far always served him well. He shoved himself past the wall of men to stand in the circle. ‘Does this make you all feel better? Does humiliating a shackled woman make you feel proud?’

Flint allowed his gaze to slowly meet every pair of eyes. Most dipped in shame. He turned and purposely glared at the Captain who had been lounging against the rail with his arms crossed, a laughing spectator who should know better. ‘Deal with your crew. They are a disgrace, Captain.’ He let his expression convey the fact that he also lumped the officers in with that criticism.

Couldn’t they see that beneath all the shouting she was terrified and cold? Her slim body was quaking with the force of her shivers. ‘Might I remind you all that we serve the Crown and we do so with honour. A crown that prides itself on its adherence to the doctrine of habeas corpus. The prisoner is presumed innocent until she stands trial and all the evidence has been heard. Until such a time as that happens, she will be afforded the same respect as any other human being on board this ship. It is not your place to be judge and jury, nor is it ever appropriate to treat a woman like an animal.’

He snatched the line of rope from the toothless sailor’s hand and untied it, then gently led her by the elbow through the parting line of subdued men as the embarrassed Captain began issuing a litany of orders. For once, she came quietly and waited patiently for him to open the cabin door before quickly rushing through it to sanctuary.

‘Thank you...for that.’

So, there were manners beneath all that pithy hostility? Oddly, he would have preferred there weren’t. Manners made her likeable and likeable was dangerous. He nodded curtly and made a show of locking the door behind him and pocketing the key. Only then did he go to the bonds still on her wrists and untie them. It wasn’t an easy task. In the struggle, the men had caught the over-long sleeves of the linen shirt she wore in with the rope and both materials were now hopelessly knotted together. As soon as they were free she instinctively lifted her arms to rub the area. One of the sleeves dropped to her elbow, revealing a band of scarred red skin encircling her wrist. It had been irritated by the rope, but not caused by it. She saw him stare at it and hastily covered it before standing proudly to meet his eye.

‘You are not the first man to imprison me, Monsieur Flint, but you will be the last.’

Probably true. Once Flint delivered her to Newgate she wouldn’t have long left. The charges were drawn. They had witnesses, albeit dubious ones. Conclusive evidence. The trial, at this stage, only a formality. Still, he hated seeing the signs of mistreatment on her body. A body that was still shivering violently. ‘If it is any consolation, my lady, I am as reluctant to be your gaoler as you are to be my prisoner. Let’s try to make the best of it.’

‘By that, you mean you want me to comply and not try to escape again? I can’t promise that.’

‘Nor would I in your position. Unfortunately, as I am in charge, I have no intention of allowing you to do so.’

‘C’est la vie. Then I suspect the next few days will be interesting—non?’ As she spoke she unconsciously reached up to gather her sopping hair to one side, wringing it out like wet washing matter of factly. The thin wet linen stretched taut over her body, almost transparent and leaving little to his imagination. Dark pebbled nipples shifted slightly as she moved. His instant physical reaction angered him. That she had done it on purpose angered him more.

‘I won’t be seduced as easily as those sailors.’ But damn him, he was. Just as with that prisoner all those years ago, her blatant femininity affected him. She was like a siren. That voice. That body. That fiery spirit.

‘Seduced?’ She appeared genuinely baffled until he gestured to her full breasts with his eyes. Like the consummate actress she was, Lady Jessamine did an excellent job of being mortified and instantly clamped her arms tightly over her chest.

More shaken by his reaction than he cared to admit, Flint stalked to the washstand and grabbed a towel. He tossed it to her unceremoniously and then rummaged in his own bag for dry clothes. He’d scarce packed enough for his own use, but figured the more he covered that delectable, ripe body with the better. Breeches, another shirt and a waistcoat were a good start. A large sack and a thick eiderdown might be better, although he already knew the image of those dusky nipples would be seared on his brain for ever. An image a man who had to put duty before all else, who knew only too well the dire consequences, had to ignore. ‘Put these on!’

For good measure, he took himself to the other side of the cabin and, because he had no idea how to behave without appearing riddled with unfathomable need, stood with his hands planted on his hips, hoping he looked unimpressed and in control rather than suddenly consumed with unwanted lust.

‘Do you intend to watch me?’ Her eyes were wide and that sultry, accented voice a little high-pitched. When he didn’t move, those dark eyes became darker and convincingly sad to purposely manipulate him. ‘Ah. I see. Everything you said out there was a lie. I am not to be afforded the basic dignities of a human being after all.’ Once again she stood proudly. Five feet of shivering, strangely noble femininity that did weird things to his emotions. He wanted to protect her. Why? ‘These wet clothes will do well enough, I think.’

The unspoken insinuation stung. ‘Unlike you, I don’t lie, Lady Jessamine. I meant every word I said to those men. While in my charge, I will respect your right to dignity and no harm will come to you. Not of my making anyway. But I am not your friend. Nor will I be manipulated like those fools out there, or succumb to your wiles and you would do well to remember that, too. Do not confuse basic decency with stupidity. The best you can expect from me is indifference.’ He fished in his pocket for the key and turned to the door. ‘Get changed. We dock within the hour.’

Slamming it behind him made Flint feel marginally better. He locked it and marched away in search of dry clothes. He’d been so flummoxed by the sight of her, so ashamed that she had basically accused him of being a hypocritical voyeur, he hadn’t had the wherewithal to collect any for himself. It took him less than ten minutes to dry and dress, and by the time he strode back across the deck the ship was once again back on course and riding effortlessly across the waves, the Devon coastline looming large on the horizon.

The Captain beckoned to him, clearly intent on making amends for the gross dereliction of his duty and supremely aware that Flint worked for Lord Fennimore—a man with not only the ear of the First Lord of the Admiralty, but the King as well.

‘Despite our little detour, we should still reach Plymouth before the afternoon tide turns, Lord Flint.’

Little detour! The captain had allowed his men to abuse the vixen while he had stood by and watched the entertainment. If the shocking innuendo and insulting whistling Flint had only just witnessed coming from the crew were anything to go by, Lady Jessamine had been violated twice this hour alone. It was hardly a surprise she had flung herself over the side. How much more had she endured in the five days before he’d arrived? The woman was a walking advertisement for gross mistreatment. Those bruises on her arms were fresh. The marks on her wrists were old...

‘Still—no harm done, eh? We’ve been at sea months. Seemed cruel to deny the men a bit of sport.’

‘Do you have a wife, Captain? A mother? Sisters?’ Flint’s tone was bland and measured. Those that knew him well, knew that was always when his temper was closest to the surface.

‘All three, Lord Flint—but we’re not comparing like with like, now, are we? She’s naught but a traitor and deserves all that’s coming to her.’

‘If she’s found guilty!’ Despite all the evidence to the contrary, a little nagging voice in his head wanted to believe she wasn’t guilty. In all likelihood it stemmed from his own disgust at finding himself overwhelmingly attracted to a criminal once again and attempting to justify the attraction by attributing noble qualities to her that she did not truly possess. Even so, there was still something in her eyes and the proud set of her shoulders. Something that called to his heart and his head. Either that, or at her contrived behest the contents of his breeches had taken over all rational thought—which made him little better than the entire ship’s crew. Unpalatable food for thought. ‘Until such time as that happens, she will be treated with the respect and consideration due her. Keeping her in the dark, in that festering brig, allowing your men to be rough with her and talk to her like a harlot is not what I, and no doubt the rest of our illustrious superiors, expect from the Royal Navy!’ He turned on his heel and left the Captain standing with his mouth hanging slack at his furious tone.

The toothless guard snapped to attention as he approached his cabin.

‘What’s your name, sailor?’

‘Foyle, sir... I mean your lordship.’

‘You are dismissed, Foyle.’

‘But I’ve been assigned to keep watch over the traitor till we make port. You’ve seen for yourself how wily she is. There’s no telling what she’ll do without a constant watch on her. Them’s the Captain’s orders...’

‘As I outrank the Captain on this voyage, take it from me you are not only dismissed, but you will confine yourself below deck until Lady Jessamine is safely off this ship. Until then, I will be her only guard.’ Because it went without saying, Flint was the only man within a mile he trusted with the task. He might well be overwhelmed with unwanted attraction, but at least he knew exactly what she was about and would never fall for it.

‘But, sir...’

‘Thanks to your negligence, she escaped. I could have you court-martialled for that alone. Get below deck and spare me the sight of you else I change my mind!’

The sailor didn’t need to be told twice and practically ran away. Flint took a moment to compose himself, then politely tapped on the door. ‘Lady Jessamine, are you decent?’

No reply.

He knocked again, louder this time, and when he heard not so much as a movement in the cabin beyond began to feel uneasy. She wouldn’t? Couldn’t, surely? His fingers fumbled with the key and Flint flung open the door. The spacious cabin was silent save the gentle lapping of the waves against the hull. One of the tiny windows was wide open, a knotted rope of sheets, blankets and Flint’s own spare breeches dangled from the ledge where they had been secured and flapped in the sea breeze.

Chapter Four

With the beach now firmly in her sights, Jess began to relax. For a little while the turning tide and her own newly crushing guilt had almost beaten her and sent her careening towards the rocks, but she had fought it like she fought everything and escaped a foamy death by the skin of her gritted teeth and through sheer stubborn determination.

She’d lost sight of her floating prison long ago as that same tide had taken her briskly around the rocky headland and sheltered her from sight. Only then had she removed the makeshift turban she had fashioned out of a green-velvet cushion cover and that had undoubtedly helped her dark head to blend into the vast expanse of ocean. Close up, she was a ridiculous woman with a cushion on her head. From a distance she was merely one of the many kaleidoscope colours that made up the English Channel.

Later she would take a moment to selfishly congratulate herself, right now she had to drag her exhausted body to the beach and find a place to hide. The last few months, and Saint-Aubin’s cruelty, had taken a toll on her body and, despite religiously exercising every day in her cell to maintain her fitness should an opportunity present itself, the laboured swim had pushed her to the limits of her endurance.

Every stroke made the muscles in her arms and legs scream in rebellion. The partially healed welts on her back stung thanks to the salt water. Even her lungs hurt—but she was free. That heady feeling superseded all others and spurred her on. When her feet finally scraped shingle, she stood gratefully and, with the last of her severely depleted energy, dragged her aching body the last few yards, then collapsed exhausted on her knees to catch her breath before the next leg of her journey. She daren’t hang around too long. Lord Flint would be furious when he realised she had duped him and would have that ship sailing up and down the coastline searching for her.

Jess allowed herself a triumphant smile which slowly slid off her face when she took in her surroundings.

Incroyable!

The isolated and tiny beach she had washed up on was secluded. It had that in its favour. But little else. The ragged rock formations she had seen at a distance were enormous close up and ringed her tiny bay, effectively cutting it off from everything else. Walls of solid rock loomed menacingly. The crescent cliff jutted out to sea at both ends, meaning to leave she either had to take her chances with the crashing waves again and swim around them or forge on ahead and scale the craggy wall in front of her.

As it wasn’t a sheer cliff, more a haphazard collection of giant boulders on top of one another, climbing seemed the lesser of two evils. But with no rope to aid her and a life-long fear of falling to her death making her dizzy, it was only marginally less dangerous. Gelatinous, slimy seaweed coated every surface, waiting to send her careening to the ground. Aside from ignoring the fear, she would need a great deal of strength to achieve it. The muscles in her arms and legs were quivering from the exertion of her frantic swim and the dangerous, powerful waves which had done their level best to smash her against this very cliff. Jess had nothing left to climb a mountain—and these jagged rocks might as well be a mountain in her current state. They clearly displayed an obvious waterline, telling her in no uncertain terms that this narrow beach wouldn’t exist when the tide turned and she would be at the mercy of the sea again—probably very soon. The sudden urge to succumb to tears had her crumpling into a ball.

She was petrified of heights.

The thought of them left her paralysed and shaking.

Rationally she knew that fear stemmed from breaking her ribs after falling out of a tree at the tender age of twelve shortly after being displaced in France. She also knew that it wasn’t so much the fall that was responsible for this persistent phobia, but the dreadful way Saint-Aubin exploited that fear afterwards. In her youth, whenever she became too rebellious, he would drag her to the roof of the chateau and use his superior strength to lean her over the ledge precariously until she promised never to defy him again. Finding a twisted and perverted delight in hearing her beg for mercy and confessing how much she feared him. Later, in Cherbourg... Involuntarily she shuddered. The beatings... The window. Saint-Aubin’s mocking laughter at her fear, reminding her he would happily allow her to plunge to her death the moment she ceased to be useful or dared to defy his express instructions.

While she gave the guards the run around and defied them for as long as she was physically and mentally able, it didn’t take long for her to selfishly surrender to just the beating from Saint-Aubin, pathetically confessing that nothing in the world scared her more than him. In case he truly did send her tumbling to her death while in the grip of his all-consuming and bloodthirsty temper.

Now that she knew for certain men had died because of that weakness, did that make her a traitor? Was she more like her self-centred mother than she realised.

Now there was a comparison she had never imagined possible—that like her mother Jess had eventually complied for an easier life.

She quashed the errant thought ruthlessly as she vowed to ignore the irrational way the fear of the cliff set her legs a-quiver and her stomach lurching.

She wasn’t a traitor. Not intentionally at least. And she would make amends for all her unwitting crimes, because they were unwitting and the alternative had been her own demise when her soul internally screamed she deserved to live. Just once she wished luck or God would favour her. Just once! Was that too much to ask after all the obstacles she’d had thrown in her path? All the ordeals and pain she had been subjected to. It wasn’t fair!

It wasn’t fair!

But whining and wailing about it was pointless.

She swiped the tears away angrily. Self-pity wouldn’t get her out of this mess. Neither would luck. Jess would simply have to do what she always did and endure. She hadn’t come this far to fall at the last obstacle. Going up was much easier than going down, because going up meant not having to look down. Down was her nemesis after all. It wasn’t that high and once the cliff had been climbed then she truly would be free and clear.

Which was all she had ever wanted.

Wearily, she stood and wrung the seawater out of her hair, then spent a few minutes squeezing it out of her clothes. By her best guess it was late afternoon, so there were many hours of daylight left, which in turn meant she could put a good few miles of road between her and the sea before nightfall as soon as she had conquered her irrational fears. Focusing on what came after might lessen the nerves.

With no idea where exactly she was and no destination in mind, common sense told her she would need to stick to the small lanes and paths rather than the main roads. From somewhere she would need to procure a hat to disguise her waist-length hair. A woman in breeches was probably still a scandalous sight in England and with her slight frame and distinct lack of height, there was a good chance she could pass for a boy. Lord Flint’s fine silk waistcoat now protected her modesty, so there was no chance of inadvertently flashing her bosoms to anyone else who happened upon her. Jess was still mortified that he had seen them—or most of them. The wet linen left little to the imagination.

Of course, he had been nonplussed, the horrid man. The brief flash of temper she had witnessed when he had caught her in the water was swiftly buried under his emotionless, aristocratic expression back on deck. Only his stormy green eyes gave any indication of his mood. He didn’t like her, hardly a surprise, and found her an inconvenience. But he had been kinder than anyone had in a long time and that alone made her predisposed to like him a little bit even though she hated him with a vengeance, too.

Jess turned a slow circle and considered the best route out. Neither end of the tiny bay looked better, so she went with instinct and took the one beyond the foaming rocks she had battled to swim around. The initial boulders were worn smooth by the sea, allowing her to climb tentatively up several feet before the ragged, smaller rocks above stalled her pace. Although considerably less slippery, they were sharp and chiselled nicks in her skin if she stepped on one incorrectly. She didn’t dare look down, or up, or even side to side, knowing that focusing on the solid wall in front of her was the sight least likely to send her head spinning and her stomach lurching. Using her small hands wedged between the crevices or the occasional tenacious clump of coarse foliage, Jess was able to take some of the weight of her body from her feet, but not much. The saltwater dripping from her sodden breeches infiltrated the cuts and added to the pain. She ignored it. Onwards and upwards towards better things.

Midway, well past the ominous waterline, she paused on a flattened ledge and risked a brief gaze out to sea, making sure her eyes never dipped down. Still no sign of the frigate or Lord Flint. Either he had yet to discover she was missing or they had taken the direct route to land and were miles shy of her position. Perhaps God had heard her prayers and had sent the powerful currents to save her? Both things made her smile and as a reward Jess allowed herself five minutes of rest which then gave her a burst of physical and mental strength to continue upwards.

She could do this!

The final stretch was steep but easier, thanks to a thick blanket of grass which covered the rock that now gently tapered to form a hill rather than a sheer cliff. The ground beneath her feet was now reassuringly solid again.