Instead she composed her emotions. “Mrs Davies told me Cemaes is five miles from here in the opposite direction from Holyhead.”
“Then we shall go to Cemaes.” He smiled.
Mrs Davies brought Tanner’s coat, waistcoat, boots and Marlena’s half-boots. She rose and took her shoes from the woman’s hands. They were still damp and the leather tight, but she did not care. Tanner was going to help her to get to Cemaes.
Arlan Rapp sat in front of the fire in the inn at Llanfwrog, sipping hot cider, waiting for his clothes to dry through and through. He puzzled what he should do next.
All he really wanted was to return to London and get paid for his work, but he’d better not do that until he discovered if the Viscountess Corland had been lost with most of the other passengers and crew, or if she had by some miracle survived.
The Vanishing Viscountess had vanished again. That would make a good story for the newspapers, he’d wager, but he’d rather it not be widely known he’d been the one to lose her.
He stared into the fire and pondered the choices he’d made. He refused to feel guilty about taking her place in the last boat. She’d been as good as dead from the moment he first put her in shackles. He would have taken her back to a hangman’s noose, nothing less. The Vanishing Viscountess had killed her husband in a jealous rage. Everybody knew her husband rutted with any female he could find. The Viscountess had been caught red-handed. Her cousin had discovered her standing over Viscount Corland’s dead body, bloody scissors in hand. There was no doubt that she’d committed the murder.
She had escaped, however. The guilty always ran away if you gave them half a chance.
She’d escaped again, Rapp thought, rubbing his face. He hoped drowning was an easier death than hanging by the neck.
He took another gulp of cider. A log sizzled in the fireplace. He glanced around for the serving girl, who seemed to have disappeared. Rapp’s stomach growled, ravenous for breakfast. He was also bone weary from being up all night, pulled out of the sea by local folk and sent to this inn in a wagon with the handful of other survivors.
Rapp bowed his head, thinking of the women and children in his boat. They had not been strong enough to hang on when the wave washed over them.
Rapp suddenly wanted to hurry home to his wife and children. He wanted to kiss his wife, hug his two sons, hold his baby girl. It was only right that he’d seized the chance to survive. His wife and children needed him.
Only eight passengers survived, as far as he knew, and a few more crewmen. The Vanishing Viscountess was not among them. If her body lay at the bottom of the sea, it might never wash up on shore. Rapp cursed the storm. Wexin would not pay him without proof that the Viscountess had perished.
He’d have to investigate, make absolutely certain she was among the dead. He was a Bow Street Runner. It should be a simple matter for him to discover who survived the shipwreck.
The serving girl finally set down a plate with bread and butter and thick pieces of ham.
He nodded his thanks. “Bring me paper, pen and ink,” he asked her.
He’d pen a letter to Wexin, reporting the shipwreck, and one to his wife, as well, telling her he loved her, but that he must delay his return to London until he had searched up and down the Anglesey coast.
Chapter Three
By the time Mr Davies’s old horse pulled the cart to the front of the cottage, Tanner was more than ready to leave this place. He had no wish to tarry until the son returned.
Tanner pressed a hand to his still-aching ribs, remembering the strength of the man’s boot. He had no wish to meet young Davies again.
He stepped aside for Miss Brown to walk out ahead of him. The red cloak the old lady had found for her was threadbare, but Tanner supposed it would keep her warm enough. His lack of a top coat did not worry him overmuch. The temperature was not that harsh and would keep him alert.
Mrs Davies trailed behind him. “You promised us payment, sir.”
He turned to her. “I will pay when your husband delivers us where we wish to go.” He strode on.
She skipped after him. “How do we know you will pay? Your lady is walking away wearing my clothes. We can’t afford to give our possessions away. Times are hard.”
He stopped again and the old woman nearly ran into him. “You will have to trust my word as a gentleman, will you not?” He walked over to where Miss Brown waited next to the cart.
He did not know how much of her story to believe, but he’d be damned if he’d turn her over to a magistrate. No matter what she had done, she’d paid for it by what that deuced Bow Street Runner made her endure, leaving her to die while he saved himself. As far as Tanner was concerned, that alone should give her freedom.
Saving her life absolved him, in part, for the other deaths that weighed on his conscience. He would see her safe to help repay that debt.
He touched her arm. “I will climb up first, then assist you.”
His ribs only hurt mildly as he got up next to the old man. He reached for Miss Brown’s hand and pulled her up. As she settled next to him, he wanted to put his arm around her. He wanted to touch her, to keep fresh the memory of their naked embrace. He remembered the feel of her in his arms as he lay between sleep and waking. Her skin, soft and smooth and warm. Her curves, fitting against him as if tailored to him.
“Let us go,” he told the farmer.
Mr Davies snapped the ribbons and the old horse started moving.
“You make him pay, husband!” Mrs Davies shouted after them.
The old horse pulled the cart past the vegetable garden, colourful with cabbages and kale. Wheat was already planted for the winter crop and a rook swept down and disappeared into the field of swaying stalks. The cart rolled at a slow speed finally reaching a road, leaving the cottage some distance behind.
At the road, Tanner turned to Mr Davies. “Take us to Cemaes.”
The old man’s head jerked in surprise. “Cemaes is north. You’ll be wanting to go south to the ferry to Holyhead.”
“We wish to go north. To Cemaes,” Tanner said.
Mr Davies shook his head. “You want to go to Holyhead, I tell you.”
Tanner felt a shiver crawl up his back. He’d wager the old man had some mishap planned on the road to the ferry. He held up the sovereign, which glittered in the sunlight. “If you wish to earn this coin, you will take us to Cemaes.” He returned the coin to his pocket. “If not, we will walk from here.” Tanner began to stand.
The farmer gestured for him to sit. “I’ll take you to Cemaes,” he grumbled and turned the horse and cart north.
The road, still muddy from the rains, wound past more farmland and other small cottages like the Davies’s. Sometimes Tanner could glimpse the sea, looking calm this day, like a slumbering monster that had devoured its fill. The old man kept the frown on his face and did not speak. Miss Brown gripped the seat to steady herself as the cart rumbled along, but she,
