The Secrets of a Scoundrel (29 page)

Gin concluded that they must have rounded Gibraltar and sailed into the Mediterranean. It seemed the most likely explanation. The warmer temperature obviously spelled a southern latitude, but she doubted Rotgut was taking them to Africa.

Besides, she was certain that nowhere near enough time had passed for them to have reached some far-flung tropical destination like the West Indies.

And it wasn’t
that
hot. It was enough of a boon simply not to be freezing every moment anymore.

Whatever their current location, she had done her best to keep the girls’ chins up. They had played simple games, sung songs, told stories, explained to one another how they had been tricked or outright kidnapped by Rotgut and his men, and talked about their families.

Gin thought often of her father and missed her darling son even more than she missed Nick.

But she could not let herself dwell on them.

Having quickly emerged as the leader of the captives, she had to keep her wits about her. Especially since she had long since realized that any plan of escape she might hatch could be jeopardized by the traitor in their midst.

Susannah Perkins, the very girl she had first set out to find, was a risk to them all.

The headstrong lass had made it clear that she was chiefly out for herself. She meant to survive this, no matter what. She had taken to pleasuring a few of the sailors with the most clout in order to get out of the cell now and then and to procure a few simple comforts for herself. Better food, extra blankets.

When one of the other girls called her a whore, Miss Perkins slugged her in the face. Gin had had to break up the fight but she knew full well that any girl who would get down on her knees for such trifles could never be trusted.

Moreover, she had no doubt that Susannah would use any information about a mutiny brewing among the prisoners for her own gain, too.

Unfortunately, the only way to escape the traitor’s hearing in their closed prison was to wait for her to fall asleep.

But it scarcely mattered. There was no point in making an escape plan if they were in the middle of the sea.

One day, however, Susannah returned from one of her visits with the crewmen to report brusquely to the others that they had just arrived in Greece.

S
till no sign of Limarque.

Nick had been constantly on the watch for him, but the Promethean’s ex-bodyguard and his gang had not yet joined the gathering horde of criminals descending on Sidári.

That day, Phillip was fishing off the side of their boat, determined to net an octopus. Captain Antonio, as patriarch of his clan, was also something of a chef. He had promised to prepare this great delicacy for the boy to sample if he succeeded. And so, the octopus hunt was on.

Nick, meanwhile, was hunting more dangerous prey. He peered through his telescope from the rails of the brig and spotted another person of interest tromping into the Seahorse Inn: E. Dolan from Room Fourteen of L’Hôtel Grande Alexandre. Rotgut, if his suspicions were correct.

At once, Nick ordered the dory lowered into the waves and duly told Phillip, “Of course not,” when the lad asked if he could come along.

As soon as Nick had buckled on his brace of pistols, he was climbing down the ladder, stepping into the boat.

After all, he was going out of his mind waiting for the opportunity to rescue Virginia; but since Limarque had still not appeared, he might as well see about saving those kidnapped girls. It was what she would want, and at the moment, it was the only task that he could fix upon.

He seized the opportunity, his first goal to find out where the son of a bitch was keeping his human cargo.

Once again, he rowed ashore, past the pair of towering rock formations that rose from the shallows on both sides of him. He dragged the boat up onto the sand and strode back to the Seahorse Inn.

The pub was now crowded with all the visiting members of the cutthroat class—though most were respectably dressed. Pausing in the doorway, Nick’s stare homed in on the tall, husky Mr. Dolan, sitting at a table, washing down shots of whiskey with tankards of ale. He wondered how long ago the man had reached Sidári. But one thing was certain.

The direct approach was out of the question.

Fortunately, Nick had a fair notion of how to reel in this Geordie bull shark. The man sold women, after all.

Thus, as Nick crossed the pub to order his usual ouzo, he decided on the spot that this was the perfect day to get very drunk (or seem so) and come on very strong to the curly-headed barmaid.

This he did, without so much as a glance at E. Dolan.

He got louder, laughing with her, complimenting the lass on her body; he pinched her cheek, downed another shot of the fiery stuff, and pulled her onto his lap with a hearty laugh.

The barmaid squealed and giggled; that was rather unexpected. Bloody hell, she was not supposed to react with naughty interest to his loud, obnoxious flirtation.

E. Dolan scowled at his rakish display, Nick observed from the corner of his eye. He had certainly got the man’s attention now. Dolan was studying him, eyes narrowed with recognition.

Nick ignored him, capturing her hand. “Come, take a walk on the beach with me,” he cajoled her. “You’re the prettiest girl in this town.”

“I can’t!” she insisted, her English better than his Greek though her accent was strong. “My father does not let me walk out with the customers.”

“But I can pay you,” he whispered loudly.

“What do you take me for?” she scolded, blushing.

“Come, my little Aphrodite, don’t be cruel. A man needs some company every now and again.”

Pinned on his lap, she struggled against his hold around her waist, but when he laughingly kissed her on the cheek, she seemed inclined to let him do it.

Fortunately, her proud Greek papa came out from the back just then, saw Nick pawing his daughter, and flew into a rage, as expected.

Now that’s more like it,
Nick thought, as her father promptly threw him out of the pub.

Nick went peaceably enough, but pretended outrage. “What’s wrong with you people?” he yelled in a slurred, drunken voice. “Don’t you have any wenches around here? Good
God
!” He straightened his jacket and staggered away from the door.

But within a few seconds, he sensed someone behind him. “You, there! Don’t I know you?”

He spun around with a mean, drunken glower. “Who the hell are you?”

Dolan took a wary step toward him across the wooden planks of the dock. “I recognize you from Paris.”

Nick looked him up and down suspiciously. “So?”

“You here for the auction?” the Geordie demanded.

“Aye. You?”

Dolan nodded, studying him. “What’s your name?”

“Jonathan Black. You?”

“They call me Rotgut,” Dolan informed him with a cagey nod of greeting.

Nick raised his eyebrows. “I heard about you from my friend, Limarque! I’ve been meaning to talk to you!” he said.

“Why?”

“I’ve got a business proposition for you. Shall we?” He gestured toward the docks; Dolan sauntered along beside him with a wary look, one hand on his pistol. But the slaver heard him out as Nick explained how they were in parallel lines of business and perhaps could profit by sharing transportation costs on their various shipments in future. Coordinating their efforts could also be a boon to help them both evade the Water Guard.

Rotgut was intrigued. But he needed proof that Nick was really the gunrunner he claimed to be.

“Come aboard, I’ll show you the stock Angelique sent me to sell. In fact,” he said, giving the Geordie a hearty clap on the shoulder, “I’ll give you a crate of Baker rifles as a token o’ good faith.”

Rotgut was still seemed suspicious, but he agreed to come aboard the
Santa Lucia
and take a look. After all, Nick had done nothing threatening. The hostility he had shown toward Rotgut before they had been properly introduced was to be expected among criminal colleagues.

So, Rotgut joined him in the dory, and Nick put out again for the
Santa Lucia.
Soon they had both climbed aboard. Phillip and the crew watched silently as Nick led the shifty-eyed stranger down to their hold, where the crates of guns were stacked. He cracked one open and showed him the ten shiny rifles inside.

“They’re yours,” he said with a generous flourish. “I’ll even throw in some ammunition for you. Think about my offer.”

Rotgut was pleased, but Nick kept their visit short, especially when he saw how interested Rotgut was in the light, nasty, always-useful howitzers. He lidded the crate again and nailed it shut with the store of black powder and bullets inside. Then he hefted it abovedeck and carried it over to the crane, where he strapped it in to be lowered to the dory.

“My pleasure, where do you want it?” he asked.

“Might as well take it to my boat. And . . . perhaps since you couldn’t snare the barmaid, I can repay the favor in kind.” He grinned. “Would you like to see
my
merchandise?”

Nick laughed. “More than you know.”

As soon as they had the crate securely in the dory, Dolan pointed to his ship anchored farther out.

Ah, Nick thought, the infamous
Black Jest.
A merchant vessel, it was smaller than a frigate—about ninety feet long—but rigged like one, and three-masted.

Nick rowed toward it, biding his time. It was going to be difficult seeing those poor girls paraded before him like cattle for his choosing, but at least now, he knew which ship belonged to Rotgut.

“So what do you fancy?” the slaver asked as he pulled against the oars. “Blondes? Brunettes?”

He grinned. “Don’t really care, long as she’s got bottom. Spirited filly is more fun to tame, I always say. But . . . I suppose I am partial to redheads,” he added wistfully without quite meaning to.

“Well, you might be in luck,” Rotgut said with a snort. “You’d probably like the new one I got in. Redhead. Fighter! Got her through Limarque, actually.”

Nick nearly dropped the oars in shock at this casual remark. He stopped rowing for a second, suddenly queasy with the waves.

“Somethin’ the matter?”

“No, no.” He slammed himself back to his criminal role. “Now you’ve piqued my interest.”

“Well, if you want her, she’s yours. More trouble than she’s worth to me. Too much of a handful for me to be bothered with. Besides, my clients don’t usually have much use for anything over thirty.”

Nick nodded, but was so horrified by his near certainty that Limarque had handed Virginia over to Rotgut to be auctioned as a sex slave that he couldn’t say a word.

If this was Limarque’s way of apologizing for the misunderstanding, giving Nick a scare, but ultimately, making it relatively easy for him to get her back, that was
not
going to let the French bastard off the hook.

Limarque was now officially a dead man.

And if he had tortured her to reveal her father’s codes, then his death was going to be very painful and very, very slow.

Despite Nick’s years of hiding his emotions, it was difficult to mask his seething hatred, fury, and revulsion as they neared Rotgut’s ship. Thankfully, a plume of seafoam splashed up and hit him in the face. It helped to clear his head and focus on the task at hand.

When they reached the
Black Jest,
he counted five gunports along the ship’s flank. They’d be mirrored on the other side, so ten cannons, he thought, as well as two swivel guns bristling off both the bow and stern.

In short, they were quite efficiently armed.

Some of the slaver’s men let down a ladder, while others rigged the davits and lowered a line tipped with a chunky hook. When it reached the dory, Rotgut grabbed it and secured the hook to the strap around the crate of rifles.

As the crew began hoisting the crate up onto the deck, Nick tied the bow line of his rowboat to the bottom of the ladder. Then he and his odious new friend climbed aboard.

He immediately counted up the armed men he saw, noting a rifleman posted in the crow’s nest. About thirty crew on deck, but there were sure to be at least another dozen below. You couldn’t sail a vessel of this size without at least forty or fifty men, he thought.

With an unfamiliar knot of pure, cold fear in the pit of his stomach, he reminded himself he was Jonathan Black and flashed a cocky smile as he opened the crate to show the men. While they admired the fine weapons, he loaded one so Rotgut could test-fire it into the air.

It took all of his considerable self-discipline to hand the loaded rifle over to their captain instead of aiming directly at the bastard’s head and demanding that all the girls be set loose, including Virginia.

Of course, that would have been extremely foolish.

He had a knife in his boot and pair of single-shot pistols at his waist, but that would only take care of four of these devils. He doubted they’d give him time to reload.

He dared not take the risk with Virginia aboard, nor with Rotgut’s cannons within firing range of the
Santa Lucia,
where Phillip waited.

All that mattered was getting her safely out of here, and if Rotgut was willing to simply hand her over, that should soon be accomplished.

Rotgut fired skyward and murdered a seagull for no particular reason. His audience applauded, and the slaver nodded in approval, well pleased with Nick’s gift.

“Crate ’em up again and take ’em down to the arms locker,” their captain ordered one of his men.

“Would you like some help?” Nick offered, stepping forward in the hopes of getting a look around to find out exactly where the girls were being kept.

“That’s all right,” Rotgut said, clapping him on the back. “Your turn now.” He turned and barked another order: “You two!” He gestured at a pair of seadogs standing by. “Fetch the redheaded wench from Limarque. Bring her here. And watch yourselves! She’s mean. Of course, our friend here likes a lass with spirit.” He laughed heartily, but Nick could only manage a taut smile, his stomach churning with dread at what sort of condition he might find her—the woman he loved.