Lord Sinister (Secrets & Scandals Book 3) (19 page)

“Shhh, Julian, don’t try to speak now.”  She had tears in her voice.  “You’re going to recover, darling.  That is all that matters.”

As unconsciousness tried to claimed him once again, an uneasy memory tugged at him.  But he couldn’t recall…

Some low sound hummed in his ears, followed by sharp, agonizing jabs in his upper chest.  Julian drew in a slow, careful breath and focused on controlling the pain.  The humming subsided.  He opened his eyes and blinked until his vision sharpened.

“Hello, darling,” his mother said with a tender smile.

“Mother.”  He used every ounce of strength he had to remain conscious.  The room tilted, then straightened.  He recognized the blue silk walls and painted dome-shaped ceiling of his bedchamber in Sagemeadow.  “What happened?” he asked, moving his head weakly back his mother.

Her smile wavered.  “Don’t you remember?”

Closing his eyes, he saw sparks flying from the barrel of a pistol and being pitched to the ground of the stables.  Then nothing.  An urgent thought, some unexplainable desire to see his wife and son filled him.  Where were they?  “Amelia,” he whispered, fighting to stay awake.

His mother nodded.  “Yes, dearest, we know.  Everything is fine now.”

Amelia had saved him.  He recalled her soothing words and cool touch as he slipped in and out of consciousness.  No doubt she was resting from the ordeal.  He took a deep breath and winced from the shooting pain it caused.  “Alex?”

“Alex is staying with Megan for a while.”  His mother moved a lock of hair from his brow.  “You mustn’t worry about anything.”  After a moment of silence, she reached for the glass beside the bed.  “Are you thirsty?”

He nodded.  She brought the water to his lips and tipped it up.  The cool drink was heaven against his arid tongue and soothed his rusty throat.  A nagging and insistent thought tried to form in his mind as his mother returned the glass.  But before he could hold onto it, his father entered the room and distracted him.

“Ah, Julian, you’re awake.”

“How long…have…I been…here?”  His strength evaporated with each word.

His father frowned.  “Three days.”

Some elusive urgency continued to plague him.  Julian closed his eyes, trying to recall what he needed to remember.  He didn’t know…couldn’t think.  Pain tore through his middle, keeping his thoughts scattered.  Fatigued pulled at him.  He could escape the searing torture for a while.  All he needed to do was give in and sleep.  He started to drift, then the need to see his wife and son rose up sharply.  “Amelia,” he whispered, fighting to stay awake.  “Where—”

“Rest, Son, lest you cause yourself harm,” his mother warned and rubbed cool fingers across his stubbly cheek.

His eyes would not open, no matter how hard he tried.  “Shooter.  Where Amelia?” he whispered.

“Shhhh.  Rest, Julian.  No one will harm you, I promise.”

Julian wasn’t concerned with himself, he thought, losing consciousness.  The shooter.  He just remembered something important.

CHAPTER 20

Amelia pressed a clammy palm to her mouth.  Sweat dotted her forehead as the stagnant heat grew unbearably suffocating.  Her stomach twisted in nausea, but she refused to give in as some of the others had.  Sounds of retching mingled with moaning echoed off the ship’s wooden hull.  Since being kept in the hold with the prisoners, the mostly nauseous prisoners, she had gotten used to the noise by the third day.  The sight of the sick women didn’t bother her as much as the acrid vomit and feces hanging heavy in the thick, hot air.  That turned her stomach.  And for the thousandth time, she wondered if pleading guilty of shooting Julian hadn’t been a bit too hasty.  Instead of going to trial where she’d be found guilty and sentenced to death, she would instead spend the rest of her days in a prison compound in Australia.  That had been the deal she made before signing the confession.

She was surprised to find the authorities actually abiding by the deal, until someone hinted that some titled person had interfered, ensuring she would not die.

Amelia suspected either the Duke of Kenbrook for saving Megan’s life at childbirth or Megan herself.  She recalled her sister-in-law’s visit and smiled to herself.  At least she knew Alex was safe and would be taken care of.

She couldn’t say the same for herself.  Eight days aboard this ship of horrors had death sounding more appealing.

Turning away from a tall, thin woman squatting in a corner to relieve herself, Amelia thought back to how she had learned to keep track of time.  Once a day, a guard came in with moldy chunks of bread and thin, sour broth, another came in a little later to empty the overflowing chamber pots.  Eight moldy chunks of bread meant eight days.

At least the sea had calmed.  The third night out, winds picked up and the ship rocked to and fro, going up one side of a large wave and crashing down the other side.  The storm lasted a full day and a half, making everyone in the hold sick at the same time.  Two prisoners even died during the night.  Then the ship steadied and the rocking and vomiting ceased.  Unfortunately, the smell remained.

“’Oy, tart, ye gunna eat tha’?”

Amelia glanced over to the large woman, Delilah.  Shaking her head, she handed the rest of her moldy meal over.

“Ye ain’t like the others,” the woman said around a mouthful of bread, her gaze flitting over Amelia.

Instead of replying, Amelia glanced down at the thin broth before her.  Seeing the cockroach floating up-side-down in the cloudy liquid, she frowned and pushed the bowl aside.

Delilah laughed.  It sounded rusty, as if the woman hadn’t laughed in years.  “Ye ain’t like the others,” she said again, more convinced.  “Wot’d ye do, ducks?”  She scooted closer, her voice dropping into a raspy murmur.  “Caught doin’ some shift-work with the master’s son like wee Mary over there?” she asked, nodding to her right.

Amelia noticed the thin girl, probably not above her seventeenth year, heaving into a bucket.  She turned away quickly and shook her head.

The woman crossed her meaty arms.  “Well, ducks, wot’d ye do?”

“Does it matter?” Amelia asked.

Delilah frowned a moment, then shrugged.  “S’pose not, just curious is all.”  She rested back against the dingy straw.  “Ye just don’t look the sort to be ‘ere.”

Amelia closed her eyes.  “It was either me or my son,” she whispered.  And before the woman could respond to that, she asked, “What about you?  What did you do?”

Delilah made a sour face.  “I caught one o’ the Tolliver boys jumpin’ me niece behind Two Bits.  I beat the bloody ‘ell out of ‘em is wot I did.  Ain’t sorry for it, neiver.”

“But that doesn’t seem like—”

“Then I took a knife an’ lopped it right off.”

Amelia could only gape at Delilah.

“Little Annie is only eight years old.”  The fire in the woman’s light brown eyes showed that she would do it over again without a moment’s hesitation.

Grimacing, Amelia turned away.  It would take a long time to get that grisly image out of her mind.

A scream cut through the low moans, making her jump.

“Bad dreams,” Delilah said, reaching for the discarded bowl of broth.  “Ye gunna eat this, ducks?”

Amelia eyed the roach floating belly-up on the filmy surface and shook her head.  “Be my guest,” she answered, pushing the bowl toward the larger woman.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she whispered, cringing when she heard the crunch.

Amelia fell into a fitful sleep a short time later.  Dreams of Alex being arrested made her jerk awake with a cry on her lips.  Wiping the sweat from her face, she listened to the snores and moans between creaks of the ship’s aged timber.  She must have drifted off once again, for when she woke, Amelia found two sailors carrying Mary out of the hold.  The girl’s pale gray face and lifeless eyes said it all.  Mary had died.  No one spoke as the door closed behind the men.  The splash came a minute later, hardly any time for a prayer. 

As Amelia settled back onto the filthy straw, she wasn’t sure why that death bothered her so much.  Perhaps it symbolized all that was unfair in life and how quickly things could change for the worst.  Whatever the reason, Mary’s death made Amelia realize she had nothing left to live for.  Her life was truly over.

With one last glance to where Mary had been just moments ago, Amelia turned toward the wooden hull and brought her legs up to her chin.  She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for the young girl whose life had ended much too soon.  Then she prayed her own death would come quickly.

Amelia was trying to recall how many days had passed since Mary’s death when she heard the commotion up on deck.  Feet scurried about and men shouted, but she was too exhausted to open her eyes.  Besides, she didn’t care.  The ship could catch fire, fall apart, or sink.  She didn’t care.  She felt too sick to care.  She was dying.  An unfortunate side-effect of starvation and lack of water.  She didn’t care about that, either.

The commotion stopped, and a few minutes later, the hatch above opened with a bang, bringing the sweet smell of fresh sea air.  Several women screamed.  Amelia still didn’t open her eyes.  She didn’t care what was happening.  Some shuffling sounded and several men murmured, then someone called, “She’s here.”

Strong arms picked her up as though she were a rag doll.  Perhaps he would throw her overboard.  What a blessing, she thought, and wished he would hurry and get it over with.

As the man carried her up from the hold, she heard Delilah’s raspy voice.  “C’mon, love, ye can takes me too.”

Instead of replying, the man closed the hatch and secured the lock.

When the cool, salty breeze struck her face, Amelia gasped.  Fresh air filled her lungs and gave her the strength to open her eyes.  White sails flapped against a cloudy gray sky.  She then focused on the man carrying her, how he cradled her against his chest in a gentle manner.  Odd, she thought.  Turning her head, she found a tanned throat and thick black stubble beneath his chin.  She could see nothing else.  Exhausted, she closed her eyes.  The man’s identity mattered little, nor what he would do with her.  She probably wouldn’t live long enough to find out.

The man hopped up and sprang forth, landing on a hard surface.  The movement jarred Amelia back to full consciousness.  She glanced around, noticing they were on another ship, this one smaller.

“Let us be on our way.  I’ll take her to my cabin.”

That voice sounded familiar.  As her mind went fuzzy, she was content to slip back into unconsciousness. The man settled her down onto a sweet-smelling bed.  She sighed as footsteps clanked across the floor and back.

“Christ, what have they done to you?” the man whispered, raking a cool cloth over her forehead.

Knowing that voice, Amelia pried her eyes open. “Jack!  How on earth did you find me?” she asked in a cracked, raspy voice.

He moved closer.  “I heard what happened.”  A sad smile touched his lips.  “I couldn’t let them take you to Australia, Amy.”  His dark gaze swept over her.  “Just look at you.”  He touched her cheek with the tips of his fingers.  “So pale and thin.  It’s a wonder you’ve survived.”  His expression turned contrite.  “I’m sorry it took me so long to find you.  I had no idea which route they’d take.”

“How long was I aboard?” she asked, having lost count of the days after the tenth day.

He closed his eyes.  “Thirteen days.”  With a sigh, he straightened and turned to the table beside the bed.  Pouring water into a bowl, he dipped the corner of a fresh handkerchief into the wetness and brought it to her lips.

The water, cool and fresh, felt wonderful.  As several drops trickled down her throat, she thought of her son.  “Alex,” she whispered, closing her eyes.  Being separated from him had been the worst torture.  And she thought of Julian.  Although she had saved him from bleeding to death, he was far from recovered.  Infection could have set in, his wound could have reopened, or any number of things could have happened.  She lifted her gaze.  “What of Julian?”  As she asked the question, she knew she wouldn’t be able to bear it if he’d died.  She also knew that no matter how hard she tried to feel different, she loved him.  Always had, always would.

Jack’s frown deepened.  He leaned back and sighed.  “Julian survived.”

Oh, thank God.
  Amelia relaxed and dragged some air into her lungs.  “You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

She eyed Jack curiously.  “How do you know these things?”

He placed the bowl aside and stood.  Fatigue showed in his movements, the slight droop of his shoulders, the sluggish steps he took.  “I have my ways.”

“You shouldn’t go to London,” she said weakly, “it’s dangerous.  What if you get caught?”

His lips twitched.  “I don’t go about wearing a sign that says ‘Here goes Jackson Townsend, the man believed to have murdered his father.’”

“I know.”  Tears sprang to her eyes.

His features melted in repentance.  “Oh, Amy, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to snap at you.”  He slid a chair to the bed, sat, and picked up her filthy hand.  “Forgive me?”

“Of course.”  She tried to smile.  “Why, we’re nearly in the same situation.”  When he raised a brow, she elaborated.  “Both escaped criminals.”

“For crimes neither of us committed.”

Her brows shot up.  “How do you know I didn’t shoot Julian?”

His dark eyes never wavered.  “I just do.”

Her blood pounded hard in her ears.  “Then who…?” she couldn’t finish.  She didn’t want to hear that everyone knew Alex had shot Julian.

“Relax, Amy.  Don’t look so scared.”

She pushed his hand away and tried to rise.

He held her in place.  “What do you think you’re doing?”

She couldn’t squirm from his grip, not in her weakened state.  “I’ve got to go back to the ship.”

“Go back?” he repeated in surprise.  “Why on earth would you want to do that?”

Tears of frustration and fear for her son slid down her cheeks.  “He’s just a little boy.  He can’t be sent to prison.”

“Amy.”  His hands tightened on her shoulders.  “It’s all right.  Listen to me.”  When she kept trying to get free, he shook her slightly.  “Will you listen to me?”

Hearing Jack’s commanding tone, she went still and lifted her watery gaze to his.

“As far as everyone is concerned, the case is closed,” he said, looking hard at her.  “Alex won’t go to prison.”

“But what if he confesses?” she whispered, a tear leaping out of her eye.

“You said it yourself.  He’s just a little boy.  No one will listen.”

Jack had to be right.  He had to be.  She relaxed.  Besides, Megan would take good care of Alex.  Of that, she was certain.  “Sorry,” she whispered as fatigue shrouded her like a thick blanket.  She could barely keep her eyes open.

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Jack’s voice grew distant as her eyes slid shut.

The next morning, Amelia jerked awake with a start.  Her heart pounded as she glanced around the dim room, disoriented.  Then she recalled what had happened and settled back against the pillows.

One of the open windows brought a refreshing breeze.  It also brought voices.  Voices trying to be discreet.

“…The last time a woman was on board.  It be bad luck, I say.”

“Aye, an’ watch us run aground or get struck by lightning…”

“Or get captured by the bleedin’ Royal Navy,” a third voice chimed in.

A chorus of agreement rose.

“Tha capt’n’s gel has gotta go.”

Amelia sucked in a breath.  Were they talking about her?

“Aye.  Sick or no,” another agreed.

They were talking about her!

The wind shifted and she couldn’t hear anything but a few garbled words.  Another chorus of agreement, then the wind died down again.

“…Throw ‘er overboard an’ say it was an accident.”

Amelia clamped a hand over her mouth.

A smack sounded.  “Are ye daft?  ‘Ow can she fall overboard if she can’t even walk?  Tha’ won’t look like no accident, ye dunderhead.”