A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(24)

“And pirates,” he said, rolling his eyes ecstatically. “I love pirates.”

“Of course. I had quite a fancy for them when I was your age.”

He blinked. “You, miss? You liked pirates?”

“Naturally. Boys are not the only ones who want to sail the seven seas in search of plunder,” I assured him. “In fact, that’s rather my vocation.”

“You have been to sea? Actually to sea,” he said, waving his arms to encompass the horizon. “Not just the bit between Pencarron and here?”

“Not just that bit,” I said. “I have been as far as China and back again.”

“That,” he told me seriously, “is all the way.”

“It is indeed.”

“Did you ever fight anyone with a sword?”

“I regret to say, I have not. But I was caught in the eruption of a rather nasty volcano and shipwrecked, so I have had rather more than my fair share of adventures.”

His eyes shone in admiration. “I say, that is good. But you ought to know how to fight with a sword. Shall I teach you?”

“What a gallant offer,” I replied. “Do you know how to fight with a sword?”

“Not yet. But I met a pirate just now, and I mean to ask him to teach me.”

“A pirate! Well, we are living in interesting times indeed. Did he sail up under the banner of a skull and crossbones?”

Peter’s expression was painfully tolerant. “Well, of course not, miss. A pirate would not want folk to know he’s a pirate, would he?”

“I suppose not,” I admitted. “But you were clever enough to penetrate his disguise?”

“I was. I told him I knew him for a pirate and that if he didn’t want me to tell folk, he would have to teach me to use a sword properly.”

I gave him a thoughtful look. “It is a dangerous business to blackmail a pirate, young Peter.”

“I am not afraid,” he told me with a stalwart air. He put his hands into fists at his hips. “When he has done and I have mastered it—which I think will be in a week or so—I will teach you.”

“That is a most excellent plan. I shall look forward to it.” I paused and put out my hand. “Thank you for escorting me to the gate, Master Peter. You are a true cavalier.”

He swept off his cap and made a low bow, as graceful as any Stuart courtier, as I passed through the gate and onto the path to the castle. I returned the way I had come, up the path that wound from terrace to terrace, each forming a little wooded place or patch of wilderness. As I moved through the last copse, the sunlight faded, replaced by thick grey cloud and a mist that seemed to materialize from nowhere at all. One moment I was walking jauntily through damply dappled woods, the next I was surrounded by wisps of incoming fog.

“Bloody islands,” I muttered. The path before me was obscured as the cloud rolled in, smothering sound and stifling even the shrieks of the gulls. They sounded faraway now, and eerie, as if they were crying, and I shook myself free of the fanciful notion that they were shrieking a warning.

Even as I told myself there was absolutely nothing to fear, I heard a footfall upon the path. It was the unmistakable sound of a boot upon the gravel, and then another, and still another, coming closer to me. Someone was walking up from the village, and I had a sudden, thoroughly ridiculous urge to run.

“Don’t be so missish,” I told myself firmly. I walked with deliberation back towards the castle. But the prickling feeling between my shoulder blades returned. The footsteps did not stop. They sounded, each a little louder than the last, and in between, the gulls shrieked their muffled screams.

I quickened my steps. Surely whoever was behind could hear me as well? I had made no effort to disguise my presence. They must know I was there, and yet there was no greeting, no friendly hail through the mist. I stopped sharply, and the footsteps stopped as well. There was no sound except the beating of the blood in my ears. Even the gulls had fallen suddenly silent.

My mouth went dry and my hands dropped instinctively to my wrists. It had long been my custom when walking abroad to stick my cuffs with minuten, the tiny headless pins of the lepidopterist’s trade. Useful for mounting specimens, they were equally useful for fending off unwanted attentions. Unfortunately, I had left the little box of them in my room along with the knife I habitually carried in my boot. That had been a gift from Stoker—a souvenir of one of our murderous little adventures—and I had had recourse to use it once in defense of his life. I almost never went without it, but something about this peaceful little island had lulled my defenses. Even my hatpin was not to hand, for I had worn a modest cap instead of my usual enormous brimmed affairs. I had nothing except my wits and my courage, I realized, and I intended to make the most of them.

I set off again, quickening my pace further still. I must have caught my pursuer off guard; the footsteps did not resume until I had gone a little distance. But then I heard them, coming on, faster now. I looked ahead to where the orchard wall stood atop the next terrace. It was above the mist. If I could reach it, I could see clearly who was behind me, closing the gate if need be. I had noticed on my way down that the key was in the lock.

I stopped in my tracks. Mertensia was in the garden by the orchard. If I was being followed by some sort of miscreant bent upon bad behavior, I would be leading him directly to where she was, possibly endangering her as well. There might be safety in numbers, I reflected, but I would not have it said that Veronica Speedwell was afraid to fight her own battles.