Well, Alyson and Deirdre should be safely installed at Lady Hamilton’s
by now. He wouldn’t have to worry about Cranville immediately. Pulling out his
watch, Rory considered the hour and decided there had been time enough for
Dougall to get back to the inn. They could map out a plan to sail the brandy
out of here, after disposing of the obnoxious earl.
Tugging his tricorne over his brow and pulling the caped
greatcoat close, he stepped over the sprawling lines and set out for his
meeting in Bishopsgate.
Once there, Rory halted in the doorway of the inn to survey
the inhabitants. A man in his occupation learned to be careful. Besides every
variety of illegal goods, information could be bought and sold in these
waterfront taverns. The man sitting at the bar could be a customs officer
looking for the owner of the
Sea Witch,
or just another retired navy man
reliving his youth. The secret was to know which was which, and after fifteen
years on the run, Rory Maclean had a pretty clear idea of which men wanted his
scalp.
He also had an exceedingly low opinion of British revenue
officers. Not one of them had the imagination to search for him here. That old
tar was just what he seemed. Rory relaxed and searched for some sight of
Dougall in the dim recesses of the low-ceilinged, lantern-lit room.
The sight that greeted him instead roiled his stomach in
horror, nearly turning him white-haired in the space of a moment. He thought at
first he was hallucinating. Had he caught some fever that had him seeing an
angelic apparition where there was none?
But seeing the filthy vermin laughing as she groggily tried
to hold up her head with a wrist tied to the table, he quickly disposed of all
fanciful notions.
Ignoring his first urge to pull his sword and decapitate
every man in his path, Rory stepped back into the shadows, removed his gold-braided
hat, untied his queue, loosened his jabot, and grabbed a mug of ale from an
astonished barmaid. Then, disheveled and rolling drunkenly, he made his way
across the room to the table where his particular angel awaited.
Pulling up a chair, Rory sat down without ceremony,
splashing ale from his mug as he slapped it against the worn planks. “Looks
like you gents got a morsel of trouble on your hands.”
A young, sharp-faced excuse for a man poked his prisoner
further into the darkened corner between bench and wall. Alyson moaned
unconsciously, and Rory gritted his teeth. The bastards had drugged her, and
from the torn state of her bodice, that wasn’t all they had done.
Pain washed through him, not a crippling pain, but a
vengeful, murderous one. He came from a breed of warriors with tempers fiercer
than the winter snows of his home. He would slit their throats slowly, giving
them time to swallow their tongues in fear. Then he would go after Cranville.
Planning what he would do to that unlucky earl kept him calm as his new
companions objected to his intrusion.
“Move on, mate. We ain’t lookin’ fer trouble. We’re just
havin’ this ’ere friendly discussion.” The sturdier rogue stood unsteadily to
block the newcomer’s view of their troublesome prize.
Rory modified his accent to match theirs. “If I were you
gents, I’d get ’er off me ’ands just as soon as I could. The word’s out for ’er.
Daughter of a bleedin’ earl or some such. They’ll probably draw and quarter the
blokes unlucky enough to be found with ’er. Plannin’ on shippin’ ’er out to
France, was ye now?”
The older man blanched and pulled his sturdy companion back
down to his chair. Neither of them looked at the skinny young one guarding his
prize with a possessive grip.
“We talked uv that, but we ain’t found a likely prospect to
pay us what she’s worth. We figured Molly would ’ave ’er, but if word’s out,
Molly ain’t goin’ to pay ’arf what we ought to get. I’m for takin’ ’er back to ’er
bleedin’ old man what’s offered to pay for ’er.”
Rage roiled Rory’s stomach, but he kept a steady hand on the
table. The other rested on the hilt of his sword beneath the greatcoat. “Figured
’at’s what yer were about when I saw ’er. You’re in luck, gents. I’m about to
set sail for foreign shores this night, if you get what I’m sayin’. I can
always use another item to trade. Where I’m goin’, they don’t even speak the
King’s English, and she can squeal all she likes, but they won’t be able to
nail yer. How’s ’at sound?”
“Fergit it. This ’ere piece is mine and I ain’t givin’ ’er
up till I’ve ’ad a part of ’er,” the young one vowed. “I ain’t ever ’ad nothin’
like this before, and ain’t likely nothin’ like it ever come my way ag’in. Yer
can all go yer own way and quitcher worryin’ ’bout it. I’ll take care uv ’er.”
“Hell, Tommy, with the gold we got tonight, yer can buy the
fanciest piece on the market.” The older man turned to Rory. “’Ow much you
offerin’?”
Judging from the way the skinny youth was holding on to his
victim, he wasn’t coming away from this without a fight anyway. Rory named a
sum that would have bankrupted him had he any intention of paying, then rose
abruptly from the table.
“The tide’s turning, mates. I got to be gettin’ back to my
ship. Bring ’er along and we’ll talk terms on the way down to the docks.”
The older two men scrambled eagerly to their feet, but the
younger remained seated, blocking access to Alyson. A knife appeared in his
hand, glittering evilly in the flickering light from the overhead lantern.
“I’ll give yer what I got in me pockets, Rob. Then the two
of yer can take off with this nosin’ bloke here and leave me to me pleasures.”
“Tommy, she’ll ’peech on us when she comes round. I don’t
wanter ’ang. You knows what they do when they draws and quarters yer? Your guts
’ang out right before yer very eyes, yer bleedin’ idgit. Now, let’s take the
man’s money and get.”
Rory read the stubbornness in the younger man’s eye, and he
didn’t wait for the knife to come arcing out of the night. With a well-placed
kick, he overturned the table. In the same movement he drew his sword and
pointed it at the youngster’s neck.
“Get up slowly, Tommy, my boy, or you’ll not enjoy another
piece of tail anywhere in this world again. Start contemplating what kind of
females they have in hell, son.”
Instead of dropping the knife, the crazed thief slashed
upward with it, intending to block the weapon cutting into his windpipe. He
didn’t count on Rory’s rage, however. The sword never wavered, but neatly
severed his jugular. As blood spurted from the wound and the rabid youth slumped,
Rory shoved the body aside. He slashed at the rope tying Alyson to the table,
threw her over his shoulder, and rushed toward the door before his stunned
watchers could act.
From the corner of his eye Rory caught sight of Dougall’s
worried face, and with a jerk of his head he indicated that he follow in his
trail. Like jackals, the protesting thieves followed him, demanding payment for
their ill-gotten goods.
A roar rose up in the tavern as a barmaid screamed over the
discovery of the bleeding body in the booth, but Rory was outside on the street
now. The dead-fish-and-sewage-scented fog curled around them, masking their
escape. Bow Street wouldn’t have time to arrive before he and Dougall
disappeared into the maze of alleyways between the warehouses and the wharves.
Rory waited until he reached the entrance to a dark street
away from the long slabs of yellow light of the inn. Turning abruptly, sword in
hand, he inquired with a cold sneer, “Have you any weapons on you, gents?”
The two thieves stepped backward at his sudden change in
demeanor, only to find Dougall behind them, dagger in hand. They grabbed for
their meager weapons, but Rory’s sword swung faster, disarming them with swift
slashes of his blade.
“Too bad, lads, I really would have enjoyed skewering you
like your friend back there, but unlike you, I don’t pick on the defenseless.
Go back to your employer and tell him the devil is on his trail. Maybe he’ll
pay you well to guard his back, but you’d better be well-armed the next time
you cross my path. I intend to have the bastard for breakfast.”
Lowering the sword threateningly to a vital point on the
older man’s anatomy, Rory sent the two thieves scurrying into the night. When
next he looked up, Dougall was staring at him strangely. Without comment, he
started down the alleyway, this time gently cradling his precious burden in his
arms.
“Captain!” Dougall hurried through the thick fog after him.
Not daring to make any mention of the woman struggling feebly in Rory’s arms,
he imparted the news that had made him late. “Customs officers are askin’ after
the
Witch.
Word is, they’re settin’ out at daybreak.”
Rory uttered a string of curses that carried them through
the alley and down the street to the wharf, where a variety of small craft
bobbed up and down. Using every foul epithet at his command, he located an
empty boat that seemed seaworthy, lowered his burden into the puddle at the
bottom, and stepped aboard. Dougall followed, slashing the keel line with his
knife as Rory reached for an oar. Noises drifting up the street warned that the
two thieves had decided to raise their cronies in pursuit. Soldiers would be
down to see what the hue and cry was about in no time now. The water was the
safest place to be.
They rowed swiftly and silently into the ebbing current. The
tide was on its way out. The fog hid them from shore. Only the slap-slap-slap
of the waves against the boat and the occasional splash of the oar slicing the
water could be heard at all. Rory set his jaw with grim determination as they
neared the
Sea Witch.
The girl was alive, but he didn’t know how badly she had
been hurt. He couldn’t take her back within reach of Cranville until he’d had
time to dispose of him. And he couldn’t go after Cranville until he had shaken
the cursed customs officers. He was not a man to dally over decision-making,
even when all the choices were disagreeable.
As the rowboat slowed and hovered in the shadow of the
larger sloop, Rory whistled for the watch.
In minutes his crew was raising Alyson to the deck.
***
Not until the ship maneuvered into choppy waters, throwing
Alyson from the bunk, did she wake again. Icy air blew across the floor, forcing
her to consciousness. Shivering, she struggled to sit up, leaning against the bunk
as the floor lurched. Blackness surrounded her. She could sense objects nearby,
and she struggled to think coherently.
She eased up on the bunk she’d fallen from. Finding a heavy
blanket, she drew it around her, trying to keep her teeth from chattering.
Another wave lifted and carried the ship, and Alyson tumbled to the side.
The fierce heaving of the ship didn’t aid the queasiness in
her stomach. This, then, was what her premonitions had warned of.
As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she gradually
made out shapes. Pulling the blanket tighter, she tried standing, bracing her
hand against the wall. She needed a door. That much made sense.
She trailed her fingers along the wall, grabbing whatever
came to hand when the ship lurched, then moving again when she steadied
herself. From the howl of the wind and the shouts above, they were sailing into
a storm, but she couldn’t piece that together with her need for escape.
Snatches of remembered conversations raised black fears, and she knew she had
to escape.
She located a break in the paneling and searched for a
latch. With a sigh of relief, she found what she needed and turned it. Nothing
happened. Frowning, she turned it the other way. Nothing. She jiggled it back
and forth, then pushed and pulled and twisted and lifted, growing more frantic
with each motion. The latch wouldn’t open.
She gave a cry of frustration. A tear trickled down her
cheek as she dragged the blanket more securely around her and studied the
situation.
She was a prisoner, and if her cousin were her captor, she
was most likely on the way to that French brothel he had threatened her with.
She’d heard the gossip about those places. The rumors were all over London.
They said Frenchmen would pay high prices for young English girls. Some came
back to tell their tales, the rumors said, but Alyson didn’t think she would be
one of them. She would die of shame first.
Nauseated from the ship’s rocking and the lingering fumes of
ether, damp and cold and terrified, she continued her search of her prison
cell. Nothing. No escape. No weapons.
Her mind finally grasped the fact that even could she escape
this prison, she had nowhere to go but overboard, but it couldn’t grasp the
fact that she would soon be sold to a house of prostitution. She wasn’t even
certain what went on in those places that made people lower their voices to a
whisper when they were mentioned.
Wearily she crawled back into the bunk to face the wall.
Perhaps she would die of misery before they reached land.
***
Drenched to the skin, his feet shriveled to frozen bone in
the puddles that his boots had become, Rory staggered down the companionway to
his cabin and dry clothes. No sighting had been made in the last hour of the
navy cutters that had been chasing them, and he felt safe in taking some
respite before the storm worsened. For it would worsen, his long years at sea
had taught him. At least they were out of the Channel now and in the long
stretch across the sea. He felt safer than he had in weeks.
Not bothering to light the lantern, he peeled off his soaked
garments, sitting at his desk chair to wearily pry off his boots. He could use
a pot of coffee, but fires couldn’t be lit on a night like this. A sip of good
Scots malt would have to do, and he lifted a flask from his desk and took a
long drink.
The fiery liquid warmed his insides as he toweled himself
dry. Then, before the heat had time to wear off, he fell down on the bunk and
reached for his blanket.