“As you say, it is beastly hot up here. I seem to have lost my taste for hot tea. My husband will be wondering where I’ve been.” When she began to stride away, the French woman, who clearly had nothing in common with Ariadne, made her move. She tripped Willa with her parasol and then dragged her toward a wooden shed. Willa, who was having none of it, snatched at the abandoned parasol and gave her attacker a sharp crack on the side of the head.
Willa gazed at Mrs. Towle, if that was her real name, who had a bluish lump forming on her forehead. She was still breathing, which was more than she deserved, but she’d awaken to a deadly headache. Willa walked away without looking back and hastened down the nearby path toward the Armitage cottage.
Her mind raced through a series of possible ways she’d explain what had happened to Mrs. Towle. She stopped suddenly. She didn’t care. If the woman’s husband hadn’t guessed what she was really up to on this godforsaken island, then Willa had no intention of enlightening him. On a hunch, she turned around and walked back to the house where she’d left the untouched cup of tea. She lifted the cup of hot liquid to her nose and sniffed carefully. The bitter almond smell made her drop the hot drink, the delicate cup smashing on the stone floor.
She raced away in the direction of the Armitages. She’d gone only a few steps when she felt a hard metal cylinder pressed painfully against her head and someone with her arm in a tight grip. From the looks of the man she could almost view without moving and possibly losing part of her ear, he would not be amenable to reason. And she couldn’t be sure, but his bright red uniform jacket might be evidence that there was indeed a Lieutenant Towle.
Chapter Twenty-Three
When Cullenfinally arrived at the Towle cottage, his already heavily taxed brain had a hard time understanding what he was seeing. First Lieutenant Towle held a cocked pistol to the side of Willa’s head, his thumb hovering in preparation to fire.
An angry woman he assumed to be Mrs. Towle sat on a stone bench next to the front stoop with a piece of wet linen pressed to her forehead. The tall and glorious Mrs. MacCloud nearly matched the lieutenant in height, and he was having a hard time controlling her movements. As usual, she maintained the look of a self-righteous and unrepentant Royal Navy officer. Fortunately, she was not, because with a mess like the one this scene suggested, an officer might be court-martialed and end up in the brig.
Cullen calculated a quick size-up of the man. He had at least two or three stone on Towle, and was a head or so taller. The lieutenant was too busy trying to subdue Willa to notice Cullen’s presence behind him, and the man’s wife was too absorbed in her own misery to notice his approach. It was ridiculously easy to wrest away the man’s service pistol, letting it discharge into the air. Sometimes it was a blessing to be a hulking, thick-headed Scot. He towered over most men which gave him considerable leverage in a mill.
After throwing the man’s service pistol as far as he could into the jungle-like undergrowth surrounding the cottage, he turned and made a reasonable suggestion.
“I require the pleasure of the company of all of you inside…now.” Cullen stretched his arm in the direction of the cottage. When he turned to Willa, she gave him a dark look before falling in behind the Towles. In a whisper-like growl, she assured him, “I had everything under control before you showed up to meddle.”
He gave her a not-so-subtle firm push from behind and said, “You’re welcome.”
Once they’d all settled in around the wooden plank table in the tiny kitchen, Cullen decided to be blunt and save time.
Lieutenant Towle immediately accused Willa, pointing his finger and waving his hands about.
Cullen slammed a fist down onto the table so violently that all the china in the corner cabinet shook and clattered. “Stop and listen carefully, because I will not repeat myself.”
“One - I happen to know that my wife was defending herself, fighting for her life. Two - your wife, if that’s her real identity, is an agent of the French royalists and just took possession of a havey-cavey locket which has a hidden packet of powder that I doubt you would wish to have examined if we were to bring this before Governor Lowe. And three - Captain Still of theArethusaknows exactly what is inside the locket, because he took it into safe-keeping for my wife while I was incapacitated from a beating ordered by one of your lot.”
Lieutenant Towle paled and pushed away the other woman’s hand which she’d moved to cover one of his. “Go on,” he said. “We’ll say nothing.” He waved a hand at them.
The dark-haired woman stood and accused Willa. “Did you leave the locket intact?”
“Maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t. I suppose one of you will have to test the contents.” Willa rose from the table and Cullen stalked behind her out into the sun.
“Ye couldn’t leave well enough alone, woman? Ye had to poke the bear one last time?” Cullen shook his head at his wife’s insane insistence on cracking the whip of her tongue to have the last word over the royalist spies.
They walked briskly back down the mountain path, not trusting the couple they’d left in the cottage.
Cullen eyed Willa solemnly from the side. “I had no idea what a bloodthirsty lass I married.”
Willa did not deny his words but threw him an angry stare.
He blinked. “I’ll take that to mean I should sleep with one eye open from now on.”
Cullen sat in a damp sitting room and listened to the rustling of mice in the walls at Longwood House. And he prayed to God the world’s most famous prisoner would not show up. He’d had word sent to theArethusaby the shore boat waiting on the quay in Johnstown. He and Willa would be ready to board that afternoon after his “summons” to give medical advice on the state of the prisoner’s health.
Captain Still had kept the ship out, not far beyond the harbor, patrolling and guarding who knew what secrets. He was beginning to get an uneasy feeling that Captain Still knew more about the state of the politics and intrigue on St. Helena than he’d let on. Cullen, for one, would be grateful to get this assignment behind him.
He’d nearly nodded off after several hours of sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair when he was suddenly alert again. A whispered conversation floated across the screens separating the waiting area of the long sitting room. From the rhythm and tone of the back-and-forth of the words, he guessed an argument and debate were taking place. Great. He was within an hour of turning his back on the madness of St. Helena.
Just when he thought someone would come out and dismiss him, a young Frenchman appeared. His English was heavily accented, but good enough. “The General has decided it would not hurt to give you an audience from behind the screen. You can ask him questions about his health, and, if appropriate, he will answer.”
Cullen’s mouth dropped open. He could not think of any intelligent response to such an addle-pated suggestion. But he did want this ordeal to be over.
“Fine. I would be happy discuss the Emperor’s health.” When he stood, the young man dragged his chair across the thin, faded carpet to the area next to the screen.
Cullen sat gingerly on the wobbly chair which could use re-assembly with some new nails.
