Dangerous Seduction: A Nemesis Unlimited Novel (41 page)

For all the rough terrain, and the fact that the carriage wasn’t built for moving this fast, Simon handled the drive capably. He never once seemed to lose control of the horses or the vehicle. But that didn’t stop fear from coursing through her, thinking of her brother and friends in danger. God, what were the men planning?

A brief, terrifying eternity, and the hulking forms of the mine and its equipment rose into view. She and Simon cursed when she saw the trap was parked outside the engine house. The men were nowhere to be seen.

“Jesus,” Simon snarled, leaping down from the carriage. “The pump.”

Alyce jumped down, too, following Simon as he raced inside the engine house. Both the former managers stood beside the giant machine, Harrold looking on, with Gorley holding a massive wrench. Abel, a machinist who kept the pump running, lay slumped on the ground, out cold.

Gorley saw Simon and Alyce, grinned, and lifted the wrench above his head. “Wheal Prosperity won’t be any use to anybody.”

“No!” Alyce shouted. “Men are down there!” The man-engine was running, but even at top speed, Henry and the others wouldn’t be able to get out in time to keep from drowning.

“Even better.” Harrold sneered.

As Simon darted forward, the wrench came down, smashing into the pump. Gorley moved to swing again. Simon leaped to stop him, but Murton threw a punch. Simon dodged the blow, yet Murton managed to graze his chest, knocking Simon off balance. Alyce, too, hurried to stop Gorley, but by the time she reached him, he’d already slammed the wrench into the pump once more.

The machine sputtered and wheezed. Air now moved through the pipes, not water. The tunnels below were no longer being drained. They were flooding.

And Henry and the others were down there. The mine would flood completely in an hour. If Henry and the surveyors were at the bottom of the pit, it’d take them too long to climb out.

“Can you fix it?” she demanded of Simon.

He gathered his balance. “Need time.”

“Then get it working!”

“Do something, goddamn it,” Harrold shouted at Murton and Gorley.

As Harrold hid himself behind a large piece of equipment, the two managers attacked. Gorley used his wrench like a club, swinging it wildly. Murton didn’t have a weapon, except his sizable fists. Both men came at Simon and Alyce.

She did her best to duck and dodge as Gorley swung at her. Other than scrapping with Henry when they were children, she hadn’t been in a fight in almost fifteen years. All she could do was move instinctively. She wove to one side just as Gorley struck, the wrench leaving a massive dent in one of the tanks.

Simon bellowed in anger, but Murton’s fists held him back. The two men traded punches, Simon narrowly avoiding Murton’s clumsy but strong blows as he himself moved with precision, peppering Murton with sharp jabs to the torso.

All the while, the pumps whistled, no longer pulling water out of the mine.

Remembering Simon’s move from the managers’ office, she kicked Gorley in the side of the knee. Just as Tippet had, Gorley went down, groaning in agony. The wrench dropped from his hand.

She scooped up the tool. “Simon!” She tossed it to him, and he snatched it out of the air.

Simon whacked Murton across the jaw with the wrench. The man stumbled back, into Harrold’s arms. The owner slapped at Murton’s face, trying to rouse him. Instantly, Simon began to work on the pump, using the wrench and other tools lying nearby.

It wouldn’t be long before one or both of the managers collected themselves. If only she had a damn weapon of her own!

Oh, but I do.

She ran outside, and straight to the dressing floor. Rows of hammers and bucking irons were lined up, waiting for bal-maidens to use them to smash ore into pieces. If there was one thing Alyce knew how to use, it was a bucking iron. She grabbed one and hurried back toward the engine house.

She skidded to a stop at the sound of hoofbeats. There, riding up on horseback, were Tippet, Oliver, and Freeman. Blood trickled down the side of Freeman’s face from the blow Bice had given him earlier. Alyce’s lungs burned as she ran full out to the engine house. She had to get there before the constables.

Just as Tippet and his men pulled up outside the building, Alyce positioned herself in front of the door, brandishing her bucking iron.

Tippet dismounted, as did his men, and he swaggered toward her. “Out of the way, lass, or you’ll get a nasty little hurt.”

“Back on your horses and ride the hell away,” she snarled back, “or you’ll get a nasty
big
hurt.”

He chuckled, then nodded at Oliver to remove her.

“Don’t care for women who try to fight back,” Oliver growled, ink from the thrown inkwell still staining him. He moved to shove her aside. His snicker turned into a shout of pain when she brought her bucking iron down on his arm, and there was a snapping sound.

Oliver cradled his wounded limb. “Sodding bitch broke my arm!”

The three constables stared at her, disbelieving. She could hardly believe it herself. But her heart raced and her blood cried out for justice.

She clutched the bucking iron like the weapon it was, ready to swing again. “Not another step,” she growled. Without taking her eyes off Tippet and his men, she shouted over her shoulder to Simon. “How’s the pump?”

“Getting there,” he yelled back. There came the sounds of grunting and fists hitting flesh—he must be fighting off Murton and Gorley as he kept working on the machine. Doubtful that Harrold would join in the brawl.

Damn, she needed to keep them from interrupting his task, but if she tried to help, Tippet and Freeman would attack. Oliver continued to hold his arm close, alternating between whimpers and furious curses. How could she and Simon do this on their own, with Henry and the others trapped?

The air filled with the sound of many angry voices and someone on horseback. Craning her neck, Alyce saw Constable Bice atop a horse, leading a small marching army of workers. They headed toward the engine house, looks of determination and defiance on their faces.

Alyce’s heart lifted. She and Simon weren’t alone.

Tippet sneered at Bice. “Think you and these weaklings can stand in our way?” He glared insolently at the workers. “We’ve kept you maggots beaten down for over ten years. Nothing changes.” He lifted his truncheon, and despite the fact that the workers outnumbered Tippet and his men, the habit of fear must’ve been too deeply rooted for the workers to lose it in an instant. Many shrank back. Bice looked too uncertain of his role to rally anybody.

It fell to her. “Brody, Wendell,” she shouted at two men, “get down into the pit. Carefully. We’ve got men trapped down there and the mine’s flooding.”

The two miners hesitated, eyeing Tippet.

“Go!” she yelled.

They took off at a run, heading to the entrance to the pit.

“Stop ’em,” Tippet ordered Freeman.

The huge constable looked uncertain. “What about this lot?”

Baring his teeth, the chief constable said, “They’re going to be good little maggots and stay put.”

She stared at him. Any mask Tippet had once worn—the one that painted him as a protector of the village and the mine—had slipped. The loss of his rule showed him for what he really was: a power-hungry bully who didn’t give a damn about the welfare of the people.

“He’s got no hold on us anymore,” she cried to the assembled workers. “No control.”

“He’s got a truncheon,” someone pointed out.

“Then grab it!” she fired back.

There were murmurs of uncertainty, and Alyce ground down on her frustration. She couldn’t be the only one to stand up for the workers. They had to do it for themselves.

But then a wave of energy moved through the crowd, and they surged toward Tippet and his men. The constables looked momentarily stunned, surprised that anyone would really dare to defy them.

Alyce began to turn toward the engine house. She needed to help Simon. But then the sound of a carriage’s wheels froze her in her steps.

One woman in the crowd gave a quiet scream, and a few men cursed. She almost joined them.

Leaping out of the carriage was the owner Stokeham. And he held a shotgun.

As her blood chilled her mind whirled, trying to figure out exactly where the gun had come from. Even Tippet and his men were armed only with truncheons. But then she remembered once seeing the managers on the hills, cradling shotguns, as men beat at the shrubbery, flushing birds out into the sky. When things went mad at the managers’ office, Stokeham must’ve sneaked out in the remaining carriage and gone to get the gun from the managers’ house. Then ridden out to the mine to put an end to the rebellion.

A gun meant one thing: someone was going to get shot.

And she had a horrible feeling that someone would be Simon.

*   *   *

As Simon worked furiously on the pump, he had to continually beat back Gorley and Murton, with Harrold shouting them on. Didn’t surprise him that the owner and two managers fought so hard to destroy the mine. Men pushed to the edge acted like unchained beasts. He finally landed a blow to Gorley’s chin that had the man crumple to the floor, out cold. Murton didn’t go down quite as easily. Simon kept switching between replacing a cracked fitting as it whistled, sucking air, and dodging the other manager’s punches. His own back and arms were riddled with bruises. Tomorrow, he’d look like spoiled meat. If they made it to tomorrow.

Outside, he heard Alyce and Tippet arguing. Damn, but he wanted to go to her, but there was too much holding him in the engine house. Then Simon heard one of the other constables—Oliver?—scream in pain, and cry out, “Sodding bitch broke my arm!”

Simon grinned to himself. That was his woman.

Fixing the pump would take all his concentration. He needed to rally and end the fight now. Spinning around from the pump engine, he laid a combination on Murton—jab, hook, uppercut. Murton didn’t have his training and couldn’t keep up. Soon, he was lying beside Gorley, insensate.

He took a step toward Harrold. The man pressed himself against the wall of the building, bleached as bone, unmoving.

“Can’t do anything on your own,” Simon said, disgusted. Harrold only whimpered.

He got back to work. He heard more voices outside. Miners had come from the village to protect what was theirs. Another grin for himself.
This
was what Nemesis meant. Not simply coming in to play rescuer, but to help the oppressed find the means in themselves to push back, to give them the tools they’d never had to fight. Alyce’s voice rose above the others as she served as general, issuing orders.

Christ, but he’d miss her. Pain in the midst of everything.

He’d lick his wounds and suffer later. Now was for fixing the pump and seeing to the next step, whatever that might be.

Only a few adjustments left, and the pump would be working again. Already, water was beginning to flow out of the mine, giving the men inside a fighting chance to get out in time. Ironic that this was how he’d begun his mission here at Wheal Prosperity, by fixing this very same piece of equipment. The stakes had been high then, but nothing compared to now.

He froze when he heard a carriage approaching, and then a woman’s scream and men’s alarmed cursing.

Something or someone even more frightening than Tippet was out there, which meant Alyce was in even greater danger.

He moved without thinking, stalking away from the pump and out of the engine room. Harrold had sunk down into a crouch, continuing to whimper.

Alyce stood just outside the door, holding her bucking iron like a club. Tippet and his two men—one who clutched his arm to his chest—faced her. The workers and Bice had gathered in a panicky cluster. Everyone stared at Stokeham.

The former owner held a twelve-gauge double-barreled shotgun. He swung it violently back and forth between Alyce and the workers, his own expression wild. All of Simon’s muscles tightened. Few things were as dangerous as an untrained idiot with a firearm.

“Put that goddamn gun down,” Simon growled. “You’ll blow your own ruddy brains out.”

Stokeham spun toward Simon, who crouched in defense. But the former owner didn’t pull the trigger—yet.

“You’ve taken everything,” Stokeham shrilled. “Bloody tricked us! That’s not fair!”

“Fine one to speak of fair,” Alyce answered.

“You!” the former owner bleated. “Pretending you’re a fine lady, but you’re nothing but a low-bred wh—”

Stokeham didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence. Distracted by Alyce, he didn’t see Simon charge him. In an instant, Simon had grabbed the barrel of the shotgun and pointed it up into the air. Stokeham spent his life behind a desk or at a dinner table. He didn’t have Simon’s strength. Simon slammed his fist into Stokeham’s face. There was a crunch, a spray of blood from Stokeham’s nose, and then the man lay sprawled in the mud, unconscious.

Tippet bellowed in fury. He and Freeman charged at the crowd, and even Oliver swung at the workers with his good arm. The wounded constable lunged for Bice, spitting words about traitors.

The air tore apart with a boom. Oliver shrank back as Simon fired over his head. The constable turned terrified eyes toward Simon, clearly understanding that Simon had missed on purpose. A warning shot.

Babbling prayers, Oliver ran. He slipped and stumbled in the mud, but didn’t stop running as he crested one hill, then disappeared.

But even that wasn’t enough to stop Tippet from swinging his truncheon at the rest of the crowd, holding them back.

Freeman clipped Alyce on the shoulder with his club. Rage filmed Simon’s eyes as she yelped, staggered, and fell—though she didn’t lose her grip on her bucking iron. She struggled to get to her feet. Freeman loomed over her, raising his truncheon for a stronger strike.

Another boom ripped through the air. Freeman screamed and collapsed. He clenched at his calf, where a large hole spewed blood into the dirt.

Simon was at Alyce’s side in an instant, helping her to her feet. She stared at the ugly wound in Freeman’s leg, and paled. But she didn’t swoon or become ill. Only looked at the injured constable with an expression of satisfaction.