Rhys had imagined that this hut had once been the hideaway for a pirate because he could think of no other reason why it would have been built. Well, unless it was someone like him who did not want to be bothered by people.
As for those in Fort-de-France, they thought he had come across the abandoned house by accident and decided to live there.
It was far enough away from town that nobody ever bothered to visit. Some residents thought he was mad for wanting to live in such solitude, others thought he had a problem with drunkenness because he purchased large quantities of rum, or perhaps it was both. He did not care what others thought because the hut, and the solitude, were perfect for him. And, if he drank large amounts of rum, it was no one’s concern because it did not hinder his ability to do the job for which Lionston had hired him.
With a crate of supplies, details and information in his mind, Rhys trekked down the newly worn path through the forest from Fort-de-France, eager to put his supplies away and take a nap. Then he would pen the final coded dispatch of what he had learned and have it ready for when the next boat arrived either that evening or tomorrow night. He also hoped that he would be provided with a date for when the British intended to invade Martinique so that he could be removed from the island before he was caught in the middle of a battle.
As he reached the back of the hut, Rhys stopped and listened, everything about him alert. He was not alone but he had not yet determined who was here or where they were. He just knew his home, or the area surrounding it, was being occupied by someone else.
He tilted his head to listen and wondered if the boat had been sent in earlier than planned, but he would already know because the man would have been watching for him and made his presence known, mainly because he had an aversion to being shot, which had almost occurred the first time the messenger arrived and ended up surprising Rhys. If anything, the man was now the very opposite of quiet.
Except, the noise he heard now, the scraping of furniture on the floorboards, was not that of his colleague. That man would have no reason to move his furniture about as if he were searching.
Bloody hell!
Searching meant the French.
He had been confident that the true purpose of his being in Martinique had not been discovered, but one could never be too careful and he had a plan of action in the event discovery was made.
Standing completely still, he took in the area. He noted footprints in the sand and dirt around the hut, further proof that this place had been discovered. A few led to the small door at the back of the hut that faced the forest. But most were along the side of the building.
Rhys silently set the crate of supplies on the ground, withdrew and checked his pistol to make certain that it was ready to fire, then unsheathed his knife, his preferred choice of defense. He slowly and soundlessly crept along the side of the building until he reached the corner where a raised terrasse had been attached, facing the sea to enjoy any breezes, and partially covered to protect from the sun. He’d slept out here when it became too hot to be inside.
Slowly he peeked around the corner of the house to find a woman standing on the terrasse and looking out at the sea. Her hands were clasped in front of her and the breeze blew against her deep rose dress, pressing it against her body and accentuating her gently rounded hips, narrow waist and full breasts. He only had a view of her profile but it revealed a slender neck and pert nose, along with her golden hair knotted behind her head, twisted in a manner that led him to believe that she had hastily found an efficient manner in which to keep it out of her way with no concern for appearance or fashion.
If she were a spy, sent to find him, her failure to remain hidden was a sloppiness that could get her killed.
“Who are you and what are you doing in my home?”
She squeaked and jumped as she turned to face him.
Rhys nearly sucked in a breath and hoped that he did not reveal his surprise at her beauty. The bluest eyes, the color of the Caribbean, nearly bore into his soul as they were narrowed with her study of him.
“Where did you come from?” Rhys demanded
Before she answered, four little girls and another girl who would soon be out of the schoolroom emerged from the house.
“Where did you come from?” the woman countered.
“Fort-de-France and this is my home. I want to know why you are in it.”
She stiffened and lifted her chin. “A boat dropped us off.” Her tone was crisp and authoritative and reminded him of one his sister’s governesses, who had been rather priggish.
Was she a teacher or a governess and were these her students or charges?
Not that it made a difference because they were still in his home after they had been dropped off. This wasn’t a place to holiday. It was a French island surrounded by British ships ready to invade.
“Are they coming back for you?”
“I do not believe that will be possible.”
“Why not?” Rhys demanded.
“Must you yell?” she asked.
Rhys stomped away to retrieve his crate and returned to the terrasse. “Forgive me if I am out of sorts but I did not expect to find my home invaded when I returned.” He took a step and then paused. “Is this all of you or are there more? A man maybe.”
“It is just us.”
