His unblinking scrutiny was breaking her heart. "You are a man of honor, doing what you think is right, and in that we are the same."

"I don't think so."

"Do you know what it is to go to bed hungry every night? To spend all day up to your knees in salt water to harvest a few measly c.o.c.kles?" Her eyes blazed. "I don't suppose you've ever wanted for firewood or clean clothes?"

He spoke more softly, his clear blue eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with emotion. "I understand more than you think, truly I do, but you have to help me first."

She shook her head; he was playing the oldest trick in the book and she would tell him nothing, not even if he made her blood heat like a lovestruck girl. His face resumed its guarded expression as he stood.

"Doesn't it bother you that they left without you? Think about it and on my return, I suggest being more helpful."

"I know what you're thinking...but there is honor amongst the free traders."

"And that's worth dying for?" For a moment, he looked immensely sad. "Because you will swing unless you give me a reason to save you."

"They would die for me, just as I will for them. Would your men do that for you?"

She saw doubt flash across his face and was glad.

"I have the comfort of knowing I do the King's bidding."

"Even if that means hanging those trying to put food on the table?"

"Yes." The Captain said mechanically.

She dreaded to ask and yet had to know. "What happens now?"

Captain Huntley regarded her with cold, dead eyes. "Once well enough to travel, you will be sent to Ringwood Jail, put on trial and most probably hung."

That night Hope had plenty of time to reflect, for never had the hours of darkness seemed so long. The following morning, there were steps on the stairs. Hope braced herself to face Captain Huntley, but this time a bulky, bustling man, who squinted like a mole, appeared behind the banisters.

"I'm the surgeon, my dear. Bristol's the name. Been sent to sort out your leg."

"Really?" Hope raised herself onto her elbows; if they meant to make her well, perhaps they also meant to be lenient.

"Aye, the Captain wants to make you fit for the gallows, he does."

"Oh."

"Well, what did you expect?"

"Nothing, absolutely nothing." Hope's opinion of humanity reached an all-time low.

"Now then, let's take a look at the offending article."

"Excuse me?"

The surgeon sighed. "The leg, dear, the broken leg."

Hope tried to free herself from the covers but found she hadn't the strength. The surgeon pulled away the blankets, leaving Hope feeling exposed, wearing just a night-rail. She hugged her arms across her chest as the surgeon pushed the skirt above the knee. Even though the ankle was heavily bandaged, her foot was clearly at an unnatural angle and the sight of it made her queasy. For the first time, the surgeon glanced at her with something approaching sympathy.

"I won't beat about the bush. You are obviously a brave sort which is just as well. The ankle is dislocated and must be put back in place."

Hope nodded, her mouth too dry to speak. He seemed to approve of her lack of histrionics.

"That's a good girl."

"This is going to hurt, isn't it?"

He nodded. "A lot, I'm afraid, but with a good dose of laudanum, you won't remember."

Reaching into his bag he produced a brown vial, and measured out two drops. He studied her face...and then measured out a further two. "Here, take this."

True to his word, Hope found she remembered little of the next half-hour. She was vaguely aware of two stable hands coming up the stairs, bringing with them the smell of horses and straw. She remembered the indignity of their large hands on her shoulders, pushing her down onto the bed and then being surprised at the doctor's strength as he gripped her leg. Then excruciating pain wiped out all else. Too surprised even to scream, she set her mind free and welcomed the oblivion of unconsciousness.

Captain Huntley sat at an oak desk, lost in thought. From his position in the Custom's Office, he had an uninterrupted view of the harbor which stretched for miles, over the sandbanks and out to sea, and on a clear day he could see the Isle of Wight. But today, becalmed in the fog, fishing smacks and cutters bobbed at anchor, but in his distracted state Huntley saw nothing. Once again, Hope Tyler niggled at his conscience in a most irritating way.

"d.a.m.ned messy business," he said to no one in particular.

Interrogating a woman would be an unsavory business, distasteful, and yet it had to be done-even if there was an unexpected loyalty about Hope Tyler that inspired his respect. Her circ.u.mstances had moved him and for the first time in his career, Huntley felt torn. Putting down the quill, he rested his head in his hands. d.a.m.ned smugglers! This whole thing was a mess: a woman doing a man's job, not what he'd antic.i.p.ated when he'd volunteered for this posting. With his ship, HMS Swann, in refit, he'd seen this as a chance for adventure with the Preventatives-and not, as it now seemed, an exercise in breaking a woman's will.

"h.e.l.l and d.a.m.nation." His fist collided with the desk. "What are you-a man or a mouse?" His sense of duty overcame his misgivings. As senior officer he had to set an example and he had Cooper's death to avenge, for just as the surgeon had predicted, it was the priest who had a job to do. Huntley snorted. Free traders indeed, they were nothing but common felons.

"Tomorrow, d.a.m.n it, tomorrow she goes to jail."

Huntley screwed up the report and tossed it onto the growing pile beneath the desk. To add to his troubles, he could trust no one. The office door squeaked open and along with a blast of icy wind, Bennett entered.

"Captain." He hung his hat on the rack and made for the fire.

"Lieutenant Bennett. What's it like out?"

"Grim, Captain, in more ways than one."

As Bennett stretched his hands towards the fire, steam rose from his damp outer coat. He had aged these past few days, his air of carefree joviality gone. Huntley knew his own presence was resented, but this was more than that.

"Is there something you want to say, Lieutenant Bennett?"

Slowly, the older man faced his superior, the glint of determination in his eye.

"Captain, the men were wondering if you had any names yet?"

Huntley leant back in the chair, his muscular bulk making it creak. "The prisoner has proved remarkably stoic."

Feet apart, shoulders square, Bennett stared at a spot on the wall above Huntley's left shoulder, refusing to meet his eye.

"The thing is, the men have been talking and...well..."

"Spit it out, man."

"It don't seem right as she's featherbedded while Cooper's widow has three mouths to feed-four including her own."

Huntley narrowed his eyes. "You have to trust me on this."

"Sir?" Bennett's nose twitched in the hint of a sneer.

"I'll see Mrs Cooper is taken care of, she'll not go short, you know that."

"Aye, sir, I do." Bennett continued to stare at the wall.

"Well? There's more?" A pulse throbbed on Huntley's temple.

"Happen a stay in the cells would loosen the chit's tongue. Happen then she'd be less brave." The grim set of Bennett's lips betrayed his determination.

Huntley noted the vehemence of Bennett's reaction, not the response of a man in cahoots with smugglers. The Captain controlled his expression; he needed to pacify Bennett, give him something to take back to the men. "Don't think I haven't thought of that, but there is another option."

"Better be good, Captain, strong feelings hereabouts."

"Really? Because from the support the smugglers get on the mainland, it makes me wonder whose side folk are on."

Covertly he studied Bennett, watching for a twitch, or other telltale sign of guilt. Nothing. Inwardly Huntley sighed. Fighting the French was one thing, but suspecting your own kind quite another.

"Aye, that's true enough when it was just about cheap whisky, but Cooper grew up in these parts as his father did before him. His murder's made folk a mite less friendly towards the smugglers."

"About b.l.o.o.d.y time." Huntley curled his hand into a fist. "Shame it took a death to open their eyes."

"So the girl goes to jail?"

Huntley's mind raced. How to make Bennett understand that Miss Tyler was a p.a.w.n-a victim of the gang's ringleaders, every bit as much as Cooper had been? Then the idea came to him; like sunshine breaking through cloud, a way to appease his conscience while avenging Cooper's death.

"Confidentially, just between us, the girl is bait in a trap. We'll let her friends think the Grange is unguarded, an easy target, and when the felons crawl out of their holes to spring her, we catch the whole d.a.m.n lot like the rats they are." It wasn't a perfect plan, but it wasn't bad, as he waited, steely-eyed, for Bennett's response.

The Officer nodded thoughtfully. "It could just work. The smugglers will be worried she talks. They'll want her free to protect themselves."

"Exactly." Huntley picked up his quill. "Now, if you don't mind, I have reports to write."

Bennett saluted and made for the back office.

Once the door shut on Bennett, Huntley's head sank into his hands. He blamed himself for Cooper's death: if he'd thought faster his rating would still be alive. Instead of which, he was using a girl in a game of brinkmanship which could end with her family being hung. Little wonder, he reflected, he slept badly of late.

Chapter Three.

Despite the cotton sheets and china plates, Hope knew she was a prisoner. Down the attic stairs behind the door, a guard was stationed day and night. From what she heard he ate at his post, and a servant took his place when nature called. Sometimes she caught snippets of conversation; chatter about a bullock run amuck in the High Street, of grim weather and poor fishing.

One morning, a ruddy-faced maid b.u.mped a tin hip bath upstairs. She left without a word, and reappeared ten minutes later with pails of steaming hot water.

"Captain Huntley said as how yer might want a wash."

Hope regarded her with surprise. "How kind." Indeed, Hope didn't know which was more uplifting: the antic.i.p.ation of a hot bath, or that Captain Huntley had considered her comfort.

Hope pushed away the covers and with the maid's help, stood. Unable to take any weight on the injured leg, she leaned against her to hobble to the bath. At the thought of removing her night-rail in front of a stranger, Hope blushed but the maid spoke softly.

"Best I stay, Miss. You'll need help getting in and out."

With a resigned nod, Hope pulled the night-rail over her head and ignoring the embarra.s.sment as cool air touched her naked skin, allowed the maid to help lower her into the water. Hope let out a sigh as the warm water caressed her bruised and aching body. With the strapped ankle resting on the bath side, she sank deeper and surrendered to the water, letting the warmth seep into her pores.

"Well," she mused to herself, "if I'm to hang, I might as well look my best."

The soap smelt of lavender, reminding her of summer gardens and b.u.mblebees. Hope lathered every inch of her skin and then scrubbed until it glowed lobster-red. Finally, she sank into the darkening water to wash the sand from her hair. Exhausted by the effort she lay still, languishing in the cooling bath until gooseb.u.mps p.r.i.c.kled her arms.

"Best be getting out now, Miss. Don't want to be catching a chill now."

The maid helped Hope out of the water. Too weak to protest, Hope let herself be dried and a clean night-rail slipped over her head. Her limbs felt like jelly as she returned to bed and slid beneath the covers. Unable to keep her eyes open a moment longer, her head no sooner on the pillow, than she fell into a deep sleep.

Several hours later, Hope woke in darkness. She felt confused, disorientated at having apparently lost a day. She blinked, trying to make sense of the leaping shadows. While she slept, someone had drawn the curtains and placed a lit candle on the nightstand-a small act of kindness which made her yearn for home. Beneath the warm covers she felt safe, and yet, something dreadful haunted her...and then she remembered where she was.

Fully awake now, she sat up. The bath had clouded her judgment, for any day now Huntley would transfer her to jail. Time was running out. She must escape...

Her room faced the sea, she was sure of it. A lantern hung on a nail by the window and a plan took form. The room was chilly, and she shivered as she swung her legs over the edge of the mattress. Using her arms and taking her weight on the good leg, Hope lowered herself to sit on the floor.

Reaching up, she grasped the candlestick on the table. On her bottom, moving in a crab-like manner, she sidled across the floorboards, pushing the candle ahead of her. It seemed to take an eternity to reach the window, every second in expectation of discovery. But luck was with her, her movements gained rhythm and she reached the window.

Pulling herself up on the curtains, Hope got her stronger leg beneath her and stood. She leaned panting against the window ledge, breathing deeply to avoid pa.s.sing out. Slowly, she regained her senses enough to peer into the black night. In the distance came the gentle shush of waves. .h.i.tting the sh.o.r.e, and the courtyard below was in darkness. She faced the sea and it seemed those who would see the signal, were those on The Solent who thought to look. Not only that, but ivy tapped the window pane and when Hope opened the window, she saw the creepers were thick as a man's wrist: perfect for climbing. Buoyed with optimism, Hope lifted the lantern from the nail and lit the wick. Now all she had to do was hope that her signal would be seen by those with a mind to help.

She devised a way of covering the lantern, such that she could reveal the light in three short and then three long flashes. Working patiently, signaling continually, time pa.s.sed swiftly. A guffaw of laughter on the landing below interrupted her concentration and with fear like a stone in her stomach, she extinguished the lantern. Plunged into darkness, the male voices seemed even louder. Her body refused to respond, she couldn't move and stood shivering, waiting to be discovered. Slowly, her heart beat less chaotically and her body became hers again.

Lowering herself to the floor, Hope made for the bed. All the while, the men's conversation continued outside the door. Growing bolder by the second, Hope paused to listen. Words drifted up, talk of...tides and storms...of tea and tobacco...of smugglers and spies. Hope's eyes dilated in distress.

The more she heard, the more alarmed she became, as the Excise men discussed the time and place of the next haul....information supposedly known only to the smugglers.

Hope grappled with the bedclothes, hauling herself up and almost weeping with the effort. She rolled into a ball and prayed, the hardest she'd prayed since her mother's last illness, that the smugglers had seen her signal...for she must get word to her stepbrother or he would sail into a trap...

The next morning, thudding feet on stairs woke Hope. It wasn't Huntley, but the same maid who had brought her bath water.

"Good day." Hope wriggled into a sitting position.

The maid looked startled. Used to Hope being groggy with laudanum, this lucidity surprised her. She deposited the tray and backed away. Hope smiled, but only succeeded in alarming the young girl.

Later that same day when the maid brought fresh water, growing weary of isolation, Hope tried to strike up a conversation. The two of them were, Hope surmised, of a similar age, and as the maid padded across the room, the scent of wood smoke clung to her clothes.