by Betina Krahn
She looked around the cabin, searching for anything that might help free her hands and feet. There was nothing . . . a charting compass, a number of rolled charts, an inkwell and old-fashioned quills. On the table was a chessboard set up to play. Her gaze went back to the cup of quills. Writing quills had to be sharpened regularly . . . there had to be a knife hereabouts. She scooted to the edge of the bunk and tried to stand but collapsed back on the bunk.
Just as her spirits sounded the depths, the cabin door opened and in strode Obadiah Murdoch looking satisfied. He removed his top hat and set it on the chart table before turning to the bed and studying her with a glint in his eyes.
“Poor little miss.” He made a moue with his mouth, crossed the cabin, and removed the rag from her mouth. “There, that’s better, isn’t it?”
“What are you going to do with us?” Her voice was dry and raspy.
“Us?” He paused, running his eyes over her and smiling.
“The boy Jims and me.”
“We’ll find some use for him. If we don’t, the fish will.” His eyes narrowed in speculation. “It’s yourself you should be worried about.”
“What good will I be to anyone with no hands or feet? I can hardly feel them, I’m bound so tight. Perhaps you should just make me fish bait right now and save us both the trouble.”
He considered that, then secured a knife from a drawer in the chart table and came back to cut her restraints. When she struggled to push herself upright he pulled her up.
“You think you’ll be trouble, do you?” he said.
“I usually am. Ask my intended, Rafe Townsend. He certainly got more than he bargained for.”
“I’ll wager he did.” He backed away and dropped the knife on the chart table. He was smarter than he looked, Obadiah Murdoch, not turning his back on her even when he had a knife’s advantage.
“Let’s see just how much trouble you can be, Miss Alcott.” Her eyes widened at his use of her name, and he smiled. “I know who you are, Street Angel. I’ve heard of you.” He removed his coat and hung it over a chair at the large table, then started to unbutton his vest.
“Without even offering me a sip of water?” she said, emphasizing the crack in her voice.
“Rude of me.” He went to the captain’s table and poured her a glass from the pitcher there. “Hands behind your back and sit still. At the first sign of movement I’ll send you all the way to dreamland.”
He insisted on holding the glass while she drank. She was too thirsty and exhausted to try anything at the moment, so she did as she was told. The water was fresh and felt like a godsend. By the time he backed away her wits and throat were lubricated enough to function. When his hands went to his shirt buttons she sighed wearily.
“Really? Now? Not very imaginative of you.”
He paused. “I’ve never been accused of having an imagination, Angel. I certainly don’t aspire to it.”
He was a man of pride, however, and she hoped appealing to it might buy her some time. “But you speak like a gentleman . . . when you’re not cursing at your men.” She looked him over, pretending to find him interesting. “Surely you’ve had enough women to know that there is nothing unique I can give you in the carnal realm. I am a ‘miss,’ after all.”
He nodded at that information. “That might be a novelty in itself. Not sure I’ve ever had a virgin, though some claimed to be.”
“However, I could give you an experience you may never have had.”
“Yes?” He did seem curious, so she glanced at the chess set on the far end of the table.
“A trouncing in a game of chess.”
He studied her. “You’re just delaying the inevitable, you know.”
“Perhaps.” Then a truthful impulse struck her. “But perhaps I’ll delay just long enough to be rescued.”
“You are forthright.” He crossed his arms and spread his legs. “I‘ll give you that. I’ve never matched wits with a female before.”
“You might find it more pleasurable than you expect.”
He grew serious for a moment. “Damn, woman. Are you like this with Townsend? Talking dogs down off of meat wagons? Too bold by half ?”
She sighed, unable to hide her relief to have put off the carnal ravishment aspect of her imprisonment for a while.
“Why do you think we’re still just ‘intended?’”
* * *
“Barr Howard!” Rafe roared as he stalked into Barclay’s house leading a trio of seamen who stood in the entry hall looking around at the luxury they had heard of but had never actually seen. They halted while Rafe charged back to the study to find the master of the house.
Barclay was totally absorbed in the book he had abandoned last night to help Rafe. He sat—boots on—in a grand, tapestry-covered wing chair that had probably belonged to a spendthrift nobleman at one time. He looked up with a scowl as Rafe filled the doorway.
“Damn it, Rafe, not again. I’ve got just a few pages left.”
“I need help, Barr. They took her.” Rafe felt his throat tighten around those words.
“Miss Alcott?” Barr sat up sharply, though he refused to put down the book. “Who took her?”
“That Murdoch bastard and his Consolidated thugs. She went to our Cutter Lane warehouse and found them raiding the place—at least I think that’s what happened. Their ship—the Cormorant—set sail this morning right after she went missing. Damn it—she should have waited for me. But no, she had to go and be heroic again.”
“Are you sure they took her?” Barclay demanded, shrugging into his coat and calling for his butler. “I mean, she could be out there in the City somewhere, performing some miraculous deed.”
“She was at the hearing this morning, and later we found the hat she was wearing on the dock beside the Cormorant’s berth. She hasn’t been seen since.”
“She could be shopping or at a fitting. Women can spend whole days getting fitted for a dress.”
“Damn it, Barr, she’s missing and Murdoch’s got her!” Rafe was ready to throttle him. “Are you going to help us or not?”
“Who is ‘us’?” Barclay asked, tucking Ivanhoe under his arm.
Rafe grabbed his arm and hauled him out of the study and to the entry hall. Fosse, Gus, and Little Rob stood gaping at the plaster ceiling embellishments and the gilt-framed paintings on the walls. At the sight of him and his brawny friend, they straightened and came to attention as if under military inspection. “Boatswain Fosse, Seaman Gus, and Cabin Boy Rob,” Rafe introduced them. “They came from the Clarion to testify at the hearing.”
Barclay nodded to them before turning to Rafe. “Just what do you plan to do to get her back?”
“We’re going to go after her . . . fight whoever we have to fight . . . and rescue her.”
“Wait—we’re going to sail? On what?”
“The Clarion. Fosse here is the boatswain, and he swears the ship is still seaworthy. The fire was put out before it ruined the masts and the paddle wheel was untouched. There’s a bit of charring on the deck and hatch, but we can step around that.”
“There is one hitch, sarr,” Fosse spoke up. “We got no capt’n.”
The three Clarion crewmen looked to Rafe with unabashed concern.
“Do we really need one?” Barclay looked from crew to friend and back.
Rafe joined the stares of horror turned on his best friend.
“Hell yes, we need one,” Rafe declared. He thought for a moment and one name came to mind. “We need to head to the Crystal Palace.”
“Aw, hell no,” Barclay said, realizing Rafe’s intent.
“Got another suggestion?”
“There must be fifty captains cooling their heels in the harbor,” Barclay declared, adjusting the book under his arm.
“Any of them willing to abandon a ship full of cargo to step aboard a burned-out hulk with a strange crew?”
“I thought you said she was seaworthy,” Barclay protested.
“Speaking
from a salt’s point of view,” Rafe said. “She’ll float and catch the wind. That’s enough for any sailing man.”
He strode for the door while the Clarion’s crew looked on, confused.
“Hope you’ve all made peace with your maker,” Barclay said and strode after his friend.
* * *
Captain Harlow Stringer was at his usual haunt in the Crystal Palace, the café at the intersection of the halls. He sat at a table with his cheek propped on his hand, looking glum and out of place. The afternoon crowd had thinned and there was no one to listen to his tales of daring. At the sight of Rafe and a couple of odd-looking fellows in seamen’s proper dress, he lifted his head.
“Captain.” Rafe stopped beside the table and gave a smart salute. The old boy rose and returned the honor.
“What’re ye doin’ here . . . an’ in such questionable comp’ny?” Stringer asked, gesturing to the Clarion crewmen, whose eyes widened on the ranks of tarnished medals on the old boy’s chest.
“We need a seasoned captain,” Rafe said, “for a dangerous mission.”
Stringer rubbed his grizzled chin. “What kind o’ danger?”
“My intended—you remember Lauren Alcott—has been abducted by some sea-going bastards and we’re going after her.” He paused, watching the old boy’s eyes alight. “It’ll be hard sailing and probably vicious fighting at the end. But I’m determined to get her back and you’re my best hope to captain a ship to do that.”
“What kind o’ ship and when are ye shovin’ off ?” the old boy asked with a pucker to one corner of his mouth.
“A cargo ship, iron hulled, with steam as well as sail. Short on crew, but the men we have are as loyal as they come. We leave as soon as we can get to the docks,” Rafe answered, praying the old boy had one last adventure in him.
“Merchant swabbies.” Stringer winced as he looked over the three from the Clarion. But the thought of a deck beneath his feet again was clearly tempting. He squared his shoulders.
“Ye got rum aboard?”
“With your name on it,” Rafe answered with a relieved grin.
“Then wot are we standin’ about ’ere for?” The old boy straightened his coat and struck off for the entrance, setting a brisk pace—even with his peg leg—that left the others scrambling after him.
* * *
Barnaby Pinkum spotted them the minute they entered the Docklands. He had gone to the Customs House, hoping for information on the hearing, only to discover the proceeding had moved to the main Townsend warehouse. It had moved again by the time he made it there . . . to some ramshackle warehouses along a little-used dock. There were still a few coppers hanging about and, being the slight and sneaky fellow he was, he managed to overhear them talking about Lauren Alcott’s disappearance. They argued about whether she’d been abducted or not and what the odds were that she’d left on a ship.
Roused by the possibility of another profitable Angel story—perhaps the biggest one yet—he hung around the entrance to the Docklands until he spotted Rafe Townsend and what looked like an old sea captain and sundry seamen headed for the main quay. Whatever was happening he wanted in on it. He was willing to stow away on the ship if necessary . . . though he’d never been on a ship before . . . not any kind of boat really.
But he was nothing if not resourceful, so he ran after the carriage until it stopped to allow a string of wagons to pass on a cross street. While the passengers were occupied with the traffic, he caught a ride, unseen, on the rear of the fancy carriage. And he congratulated himself on his cunning and physical prowess.
Twenty-Two
Lauren had drawn out the game of chess as long as she could. Murdoch was good at it but grew increasingly annoyed at her slow play, which always seemed to match his own. Every time she caught his king in a vulnerable spot he managed to escape, ratcheting her tension higher. Beneath the table she grabbed handfuls of her skirts. When there were only four pieces on the board she checkmated him.
The moment the words were out of her mouth he swept the pieces from the table. “I believe I’ve been had. And shortly so will you.” He stood, breathing heavily, outraged by her unexpected cleverness at the game. She’d struck his pride too much of a blow. For the second time since she was brought on board, she felt a trill of terror run down her spine.
She grasped the sides of her skirt and felt something straight and wirelike that sparked the memory of removing her hat and placing the long hatpin in one of the lace-covered drapes at the side of her skirts. A hatpin could be a proper weapon wielded correctly. But she would have to be prepared for whatever punishment might follow. She glanced at the expanse of sea outside the cabin window. If he decided to strip her naked and throw her to the crew, there wouldn’t be much she could do about it.
He grabbed her arm and yanked, but she hardly moved. Her bones seemed to have turned to jelly.
“Get up!” he snarled, reaching for her other arm and pulling hard. When she slid from the chair her limp weight caused him to drop her and anger got the better of him. “Get up and take yourself to the bed or I’ll take you where you lay—on the damned floor!”
“I–I will not.” She swallowed hard, looking at his boot, expecting a kick. But he fell on her, literally, rolling her onto her back and using his knees to try to force her legs apart. “So this is the only way you can get women—abducting and raping them?” A cruel twist appeared on his mouth, letting her see that talking was done. No amount of cleverness or appealing to his excessive pride would help her now.
The attack was so fast and fierce that she realized she had been duped by his gentlemanly façade. He had been playing with her, savoring the thought of what was to come. She shoved against both him and the floor, trying to scuttle away. But he knelt on her skirts to trap her as he raised up on one arm to unbutton his trousers. His movements were so quick and efficient that she realized he had probably done it numerous times before. He truly was the monster Mrs. Trimble had described.
“No! You can’t do this.”
“You can’t stop me,” he bit out.
She tried to kick him, but her skirts prevented her from raising her legs far enough. In desperation she pulled the hatpin from her skirt. It wasn’t much compared to his brute force, but it was all she had.
The minute his trousers started to slide she struck . . . jamming the point of the hatpin somewhere in the pale strip of his half-bared flesh.
He convulsed back with a howl, grabbing himself. The moment he recovered enough breath to curse, he lashed out with his fist but failed to reach his target. She had already scrambled away and was pulling herself up on the side of the captain’s bunk.
When he lunged for her she brought the hatpin up again, jabbing it deep into his arm. Though he was more prepared for her resistance, the stab of pain made him recoil. “What in bloody hell is that?”
He couldn’t see her weapon but was determined to find it and wrest it from her. She kicked at him and twisted to avoid his fist, but she managed to keep her hand with the hidden hatpin out of reach.
“Bitch—you’ll be fit for nothing but a prick in a dark alley when I finish with you.” This time he threw his shoulder into her and knocked her back, halfway onto the bed.
She sensed her next strike would be her last and went for his face. In her fury she prayed for an eye, but her aim was low and she managed to ram the hatpin through his cheek.
“Aghhhhh!” He flew back off the bed, grabbing his face and howling as she ran for the door. She made it up the steps and through the hatch. On deck the crew stopped dead at the sight of her rumpled dress and frantic state. More than one sailor smirked, thinking that their boss had taken a bite of that tasty piece. But a moment later Murdoch roared out of the hatch, clutching his bleeding face and snarling a command to “Seize her!”
The crewmen rushed her from all sides. Though she fought with every ounce of her strength, they subdued her and held her as their master stalked close with a rage that few in his crew had s
een and lived to talk about. They looked anxiously at one another.
“You’ll wish you’d never set eyes on me,” Murdoch declared, shaking with fury.
“I already do,” she responded, raising her chin a bit too high.
A blow snapped her head to the side and her legs collapsed. She barely heard him decree that she was to be taken below and thrown in the “meat locker.” It was all she could do to remain half-conscious as they dragged her down ladderlike stairs that carried them into the bowels of the ship. There they opened a rickety wooden door and shoved her inside. She fell onto something soft and foul-smelling. It turned out to be straw bedding for what was likely an animal pen. A pained grunt came in the darkness and she gasped, fearing she’d been imprisoned with a pig.
“Miz?” came a voice that brought her upright. “That you?”
“Jims?” As her eyes adjusted, she saw some shelves and a large wooden box on which the boy lay. “Are you all right?” She moved cautiously forward.
“Tha’ big guy got a wicked fist,” he said weakly. “I reckon I’ll live.”
She climbed up on the wooden box and he grunted again as he struggled up to look at her. Her first response on seeing his swollen face was one of anguish. She put her arms around him and drew him against her. His eyes were swollen and his lips were split. A dark smear across his cheek was probably blood. How could anyone beat a child like this? She closed her eyes, wishing she could have taken the beating and the pain on herself. As he put his thin arms around her, her heart felt as if it was breaking. But deeper inside her, deeper than tears or sadness or disgust . . . in the part of her where the very marrow of her bones was formed, anger began to coalesce into strength.
Bastards. The filthy, soulless animals.