Lady Doctor Wyre (8 page)

Seated on the floor as though he were a pasha, Sig chuckled. “I suppose you haven’t had many opportunities to survey this side of a cell, have you, Sheriff?”

Masters gave each bar an experimental shake to see if he could bust out. “Where are they transporting us?”

“The jail in York wasn’t secure enough for desperate criminals like us.” Sig laughed at the disgruntled look on the man’s face. “Why, you’ve fallen into the company of a hardened criminal. Your reputation will never be the same.”

“You’re the famed assassin, so why the hell don’t you kill your way out of here?”

“I will.” Sig dropped his head back against the metal hull. It hummed against his skull, but he could tell neither how fast they traveled nor the direction, but he suspected they were flying in the opposite direction they were taking Charlie. The buzzing joy he felt in his body decreased with every passing moment, confirming that fear. “When it’s time.” At the other man’s frustrated curse, he continued, “We have no idea how many marshals they assigned to us. There’s no need to go on a killing spree until I know whether I must eliminate five or five hundred. The technique is different.”

Masters turned his head and pinned Sig in a hard glare. “Are you telling me you’d kill five hundred men? At once?”

“If I had to get through them to her, most definitely. I’d rip them apart one by one with my bare hands.”

The sheriff grunted and threw himself down against Sig with a disgusted sigh. “Truth be told, I would too.”

“And that is why we have a problem.” Sig closed his eyes. “I told her she ought to marry you.”

The man beside him twitched with surprise. “I thought you came to take her off Americus.”

“I did.” He twisted his mouth into something he hoped was wry self-depreciation and not misery. “She won’t go.”

“Did you ask her?”

“Not in so many words. I didn’t have to.”

“I’m not one to beat around the bush, so I’m just going to come right out and ask you. What’s between you two? Don’t tell me that she saved your life, or that you saved her life by getting her out of Londonium. I already know that.”

“She knows my deepest secret shame,” Sig whispered. With his eyes closed, he saw the ugliness that had twisted his mother’s beautiful face. Hatred, rage, he wasn’t sure that it was a singular emotion but rather an animalistic need to maim and hurt and destroy. “A mark once managed to ask me a question before I completed the deed, and since I was feeling magnanimous, I answered. She asked why I’d chosen the name Regret, when I obviously had no regrets about killing another person.”

“And?” Masters asked in a low voice. “Why Regret? Why not Blackmore or Devilshire or some other atrociously evil name?”

“Have you ever had someone else die for you, Sheriff? Truly die for you, save you with their own life, while you escape unscathed? Only later, years later, do you realize that they didn’t really save you at all. That you died on that day, at least a little, and that you’ll never be whole again.”

“People die in war all the time. Even as a marshal, I lost my partner two years ago, and they assigned me to Smith. I just never had that same connection with him. My fault, I suppose, because I kept expecting him to die on me too.”

“I wasn’t in war, Sheriff. In fact, I was just a boy.”

“Who was hurting you?”

The vibration stopped. Opening his eyes, Sig jerked his hands apart, and the brittle, thinned handcuffs crumbled into dust. If only his crippled heart would simply dissolve the same way and put him out of this misery. “We’ve arrived. Be ready.”

“I’m not even going to ask how the hell you did that, if you’ll tell me why you chose the name Regret.”

“Distract them as much as possible while I pretend to be the dandy again, and for God’s sake, find out what hellhole they’ve brought us too. I smell swamp, so I’m betting on Orleans.”

Masters grumbled but made no more questions as footsteps echoed in the hold. Keeping his hands together and close to his body, Sig drew up his knees and shook his hair forward to conceal his eyes. Masters jumped up and barked at the two guards. “Where are we? I’m an Americus Federal Marshal and you have no right to hold me! I demand to speak to the director immediately.”

Grim and scowling, the big sheriff made a formidable opponent, even handcuffed and behind bars, but the two guards didn’t act intimidated at all. Eyes narrowed, Sig watched them carefully, trying to tell what fueled their confidence.

“Your director is the one who signed your warrant, fool.” The guard’s key jingled against the bars. With a loud click, the ancient lock fell open and the door swung inside. Stepping back obligingly, Masters lowered his head, preparing to charge the guards. With a smug smile of amusement, the second guard aimed a short wand no longer than his hand at the big man. A pulse of energy slammed into Masters and slung him back against the hull.

Wincing in sympathy at the helpless twitching of the man’s muscles, Sig flopped to his feet and babbled out entreaties for mercy in his shrillest voice. One guard took a stance over him with a similar stick in his hand, but his attention was wholly on Masters. “What has the poor man done to warrant a jolt from a tazor?”

“According to the warrant, he’s a traitor,” the guard closest to Masters replied. “He’s been working with rebels against our new government.”

“Not…exactly…true,” Masters wheezed. “Against Britannia. Rebels across the galaxy have to unite if we want to survive.”

Now that’s an idea
. Sig had assumed Masters was just a marshal sent to spy on a contact, who’d then made the mistake of falling in love with her. But if the man really was a rebel—with plans of a galaxy-wide attack against Britannia—then he might actually have some hope of keeping Charlie alive. Staying on Americus indefinitely was impossible if they hoped to keep her alive and free.

Of course Americus wouldn’t like that idea at all. They’d want all of Lady Doctor Wyre’s dangerous research all to themselves.

“Why did you have to bring us to Orleans?” Sig asked in his most plaintive voice. Then he released an explosive sneeze. “I’m allergic to mold.”

The guard gaped at him. “I guess they wanted the worst prison on Americus for you two. You’ll be headed upriver within the hour.”

“Assuming that damnable pirate leaves us alone,” the other guard muttered. “Too bad Britannia can’t aim for Laffite’s arse and save us all the trouble of hanging her.”

Masters managed to laugh even though his arms and legs were still twitching helplessly. “You’d have to catch Laffite first. She doesn’t take too kindly to Britannia or Americus alike.”

“Pirates.” The guard spat on the floor. “They’re even worse than rebels like you.”

Sig reached out, snapped the nearest guard’s neck, and jerked his hands back behind him as though he were still handcuffed. The guard toppled like a rag doll.

“What the…” The other guard turned, lifting the tazor threateningly, but wavered when he saw no threat or violence. “Will, are you sick? Will?”

Sneezing again and again, Sig moaned and wrung his hands. “I told you the mold here is wretched. I’ve heard of people dying out here because of the brain fever it causes. They don’t even know they’re sick, and then bam—” He threw out a hand with fingers stiffened into blades and crushed the guard’s larynx. Choking, the guard fell to his knees, digging at his throat. A nudge from Sig’s boot knocked him over to topple on top of his partner. “They drop dead.”

Rifling through each guard’s pockets, Sig found the shackles key and tossed it over to Masters. He also confiscated both communicators and tazors. “Dare I hope that your acquaintance with the dread pirate Laffite might be more than as sheriff and wanted criminal?”

“You may,” Masters replied, taking the offered equipment. “She hates Britannia as much as we do, but she’s not too keen about President Jaxson’s exorbitant tariff on everything from Francia. If they wanted to get us as far away from Lady Wyre as possible, then they couldn’t have brought us to a better spot to find an ally.”

“Marshal, sheriff, and now pirate.” Sig laughed and slapped the man on the back. “You’re a man of many talents, Masters.”

Madame President Jaxson possessed the stature of a mighty tree and unfortunately, a complexion to match. Ruddy and sun-tanned, her skin looked as rough as weathered, mossy bark. It was all Charlotte could do not to sit the poor woman down and slather her face with skin cream.

“Lady Wyre, we meet at last,” the President intoned in a voice more appropriate for the battlefield than a private interview. “Welcome to the Capital of Americus. I trust your trip was uneventful.”

“Quite,” Charlotte replied faintly. Dear, dear, no wonder Britannia had absolutely no regard for the fledgling government struggling to bring peace and prosperity to this planet. Queen Majel would look at Jaxson and see nothing but a horse-faced soldier in a dress, and a very ugly one at that.

“I trust the marshals were courteous?”

The woman beside Charlotte bristled. “Of course my marshals were courteous and most discreet in—”

Arresting? Acquiring my cooperation against my will?
Charlotte smothered her amusement as Director Howitzer floundered for an inoffensive term.

“—
escorting
Lady Wyre to join you for the Solstice celebration.”

“Indeed. Mr. Gatlin even helped me tighten my corset.” Charlotte gave the marshal a warm smile, earning a blush from him and a stifled growl from his director, who, if possible, wore an even more hideous gown of chartreuse ruffles. She was of such stocky blood that no corset could possibly create a curvature in her midsection. “However, I must declare that I would have been more pleased to accompany Sheriff Masters to the Capital instead of these marshals who were utter strangers, albeit extremely polite.”

“Ah. You mean Marshal Wesson.” Jaxson offered a cut-crystal snifter of brandy, which Charlotte took eagerly. Director Howitzer sniffed with disapproval, so Charlotte threw back the dark amber liquor and held out her glass for more. “A woman after my own heart.” The President smiled with approval, and Charlotte noted the genuine amusement in the woman’s eyes. When she smiled, the President was quite attractive if still rather masculine in features, but then she frowned and a canyon tore across her forehead. “Regrettably, it has come to my attention that he’s a traitor.”

Charlotte spluttered on her brandy. Director Howitzer took the opportunity to pound her so hard on the back that she nearly knocked out her teeth. “Impossible, Madame President. I assure you, Gilead Masters, or Wesson, whatever his name, is as true and loyal a man as I have ever had the pleasure to meet.”

Abruptly, President Jaxson said, “That will be all, Director,” in a voice that invited no commentary.

Ignoring that steely tone, Director Howitzer protested, confirming exactly who had provided whatever damning evidence to warrant for Gil’s arrest. “But, ma’am, if you’re going to speak to this…woman…about my marshals, I have a right to know what accusations she might bring against us!”

“I promise no accusations,” Charlotte said with her most frigid smile. “Except those I lodge against you. That dress you’re wearing is a crime against silk and you really shouldn’t wear so many ruffles, dear. It does dreadful things to your thick waist.”

Turning her back on the protesting woman, Jaxson simply stared into the roaring fireplace without another word. Charlotte sat daintily in one of the high-backed wing chairs thoughtfully positioned before the fireplace and sipped her brandy. She couldn’t help the Cheshire cat smile curving her lips as she traded amused stares for the ugly glare from the insulted Director Howitzer.

With a loud rustle of tortured silk, the woman whirled and stomped toward the door. In a mean voice pitched to carry, she commanded her marshals. “Strike Wesson’s name from the roll and make sure the traitor is heavily guarded. I don’t want any accidents before the man can be brought before the firing squad.”

Charlotte bit back her response until the director had slammed the door behind her men. “President Jaxson, surely you don’t believe that woman’s accusations. Gil is the most honorable man I know.”

President Jaxson sat in the matching chair. “You say this when he mislead you about his true intentions?”

“I do,” Charlotte replied with fervor. “He never lied to me. He was a good and caring sheriff, which is a subset of his duties as marshal. Instead of protecting all of Americus, he was protecting Queenstown, and me, indirectly. I realize he must have been assigned to watch me and to gain my confidence, which I gave most reluctantly, I assure you. I would not be sitting here this day chatting so amiably with you, Madame, if not for his friendship and influence.”

“I see.” President Jaxson stared down at her drink and smiled ruefully. “Then I suppose I must recall the warrant sending him to Angola Prison.”

Charlotte shuddered at the thought of Gil trapped in that dreadful swamp prison full of poisonous snakes and vicious crocodiles…and she didn’t mean the creatures living in the murky waters.

“What of the second man arrested with Marshal Wesson?”

Staring into the fire, Charlotte schooled her features and allowed her mind to race. She dearly hoped that second man was Sig, because then Gil would have a much better chance of surviving or even escaping from his captors. But was any sort of cooperation too much to hope after last night? What if Sig had hunted the sheriff down to kill him and eliminate the competition, only to be arrested as an accomplice?

“If it makes any difference,” President Jaxson continued in an even, careful voice, “I just had a transmission from Orleans—to which Director Howitzer is not yet privy—that the two men arrested in York have escaped from their prison transport.”

Relaxing enough to sip her brandy, Charlotte suppressed the smile of joy threatening to give her secrets away. Then the second man
had
to be Sig; no one but Lord Regret would have been able to escape a prison transport headed for Angola, guarded by Americus’s best marshals.

Fortuitous, indeed, that he’d escaped, for Lord Regret in hand would have made almost as powerful a bargaining chip. Desperate to win more allies against Britannia, President Jaxson could have simply bequeathed him to Francia and started another Hundred Year War.