The instant Keely's feet hit the wooden deck of the ship, she snatched Laura from Mort's arms. "Thank you." she whispered.
Mort grinned sheepishly, then turned away.
As soon as Dickie was on deck, Keely was ushered across the dark ship and down into its bowels. Faintly, she could hear the sound of men's voices and the lap of water at the hull, but mostly she heard the beating of her own heart.
Dickie kept his hand possessively on her right shoulder as he guided her down a long, stinking passageway. Then he pushed open a door and shoved her forward into a blinding light.
Keely blinked in confusion, trying to adjust to the white light of the cabin's lanterns.
There was a tall man with dark hair tied in a club, sitting at a rough pine table. Chicken bones were strewn across the table and onto the floor. The man reached for a bottle of wine and took a swig, baring a full set of shiny gold teeth. "Good even to you, missus," he said through a mouthful of wine and chicken. "Have ye dined?"
Keely swallowed hard. The cabin reeked of unwashed bodies and rotting food with a distinct overlay of cheap ladies' perfume. "I . . . I'm not hungry," she managed, clutching Laura.
The man turned to Dickie, the smile falling from his face. "Yer late, Dickie-boy. Expected you hours ago." He plucked a wing from the chicken carcass on the table and gnawed at it. "Run into problems?"
Dickie yanked off his red knit cap. "No, sir. Not exactly, Mister Elijah. Just took longer than we thought . . ." He glanced up at Keely." Ah . . . carryin' the brat and all."
Elijah looked up at Keely and smiled. "Pretty lady. She knows why she's here?"
Keely lifted her chin, meeting the man's stare head on. "I do."
Elijah looked to Dickie. "Ye weren't supposed to bring the child. My orders were just her."
Dickie bobbed his head. "I know, sir, but we just thought she'd behave better on the way. We didn't have no problems with 'er tryin' to get away or nuthin'."
"I should think not." Elijah took another swig of wine. "Well, now that the little thing's done her purpose, she can be on her way."
Keely tightened her grip on Laura. "No! You can't have her!"
Elijah got up from the chair. Wiping his hands on his breeches, he came slowly toward Keely. "Now, little lady, we're just sendin' her home to her papa. A good faith offering to go with the ransom request." He put out his hands. "Now just give the sweet little thing to Elijah and no one will get hurt."
Keely's hands trembled. "You're going to take her back to Dover?"
He nodded, the light of the lamps glimmering off his gold teeth. "I'm a man of my word. Now give her up."
Keely's breath quickened. He promises she'll be returned to Brock, she reasoned. She kissed the tiny forehead, cradling her against her breast. If I don't give her up, he'll take her and then she might get hurt. Showering the baby's face with kisses, Keely slowly, agonizingly, offered the bundle. She looked up at Elijah. "If you harm a hair on her head, you won't have to worry about my husband, because I'll kill you myself," she whispered.
"I don't like threats." A flicker of red-hot anger streaked across Elijah's face and then was gone. He smiled down on Laura, holding her as if she were spun glass. "There ye go, little thing," he crooned, heading for the door. "Dickie, outside."
"Where are you taking her?" Keely demanded, coming across the room.
"You stay!" Elijah barked. "And then she remains safe."
Keely didn't dare take another step closer.
"I'm just sending her on her way like I promised."
Keely nodded, swallowing to hold back the tears as she watched Laura disappear from view.
Elijah stepped out the door behind Dickie and closed it. "Here, take the little bastard," he ordered, dropping Laura into Dickie's arms.
"Me? What'll I do with her?"
The baby began to wail, flailing its arms.
Elijah chuckled. "Dump 'er overboard, of course."
Chapter Eighteen
Brock leaned into the wind, lowering his head against the driving rain. He sank his heels into the gelding's sides, urging him faster. He was anxious to get home.
In the last few days he had turned the past month's events over and over in his mind. Keely professed to be innocent of any wrongdoing, yet everyone in his circle of friends was quick to believe her guilty. Even Micah, who had been her friend, made accusations. But when Brock thought it out, he'd realized that the evidence against his wife amounted to little more than suspicions and prejudices. She was English and they were not, and it frightened them. Brock of all men could understand prejudices. They put a fear in people that sometimes obscured the truth. Besides, to blame her was just too obvious. Keely couldn't be the person betraying him and the patriot cause here in Dover; she just couldn't be. He feared the truth ran deeper.
Wiping the rain from his mouth, Brock guided his steed west, peering through the darkness ahead. The dirt road into Dover had turned soft with the summer downpour, making the track dangerous. Water splashed high against the gelding's sides, covering Brock with a fine layer of gritty mud. More than once the animal slipped in the mire but Brock held on tightly, guiding his mount to safer ground.
Brock wondered if he should have taken the carriage; it would have been a damn sight drier. But it would have been slower, too.
All he could think of was Keely. Had her anger passed? Would she listen to him when he told her he didn't think she was guilty? He thought of her perfectly shaped mouth and the way it had quivered when they'd argued in the garden. He hadn't meant to hurt her like that. He hadn't meant what he'd said, but she'd made him so damned mad!
And she had hurt him . . . . Brock had sworn he would never get himself into a position again where a woman could have so much power over him, but he'd done it.
And now Keely wanted to leave him. She said she wanted to take Laura across the sea to England and never return again. Well, he wouldn't allow it. He'd find a way to make Keely happy here in Dover. He'd tell her he loved her.
Love . . . Brock smiled in the. darkness. It felt good to love again.
Not an hour later, Brock flung open the front door of the house. "Keely?" He yanked the wet hat off his head, his fingers moving to the buttons of his rain-soaked cloak. "Keely, are you here?"
Lamps were lit in the front hallway, casting eerie shadows across the handpainted wallpaper. The house was silent.
"Keely?"
Brock turned at the sound of footsteps and smiled with relief. "Keely, I—" But it wasn't Keely, only Ruth.
"Evenin', Masta Brock." The old cook's face hung.
"Ruth, what is it?" He pushed his wet hair off his forehead, "Where's my daughter? Where's Keely?"
Ruth shook her head ominously. "Don't know, Masta Brock."
"What do you mean, you don't know?" he bellowed. "I left strict instructions for them to remain in this house until I returned."
Ruth hung her head; her plump black hands twisted in her apron. "Yes, sir."
"Then where the hell are they? Where did she take Laura?" He paced, ignoring the water that ran off him and pooled on the hardwood floor.
Ruth lifted her head, her dark eyes meeting Brock's. "This mornin' she said she was goin' over to see Mistress Lewes. She took tarts."
He scowled. "And she never came back?"
"Never went. I sent Blackie lookin' for her just afore dark. The missus never saw her."
Brock swore beneath his breath. "She's gone," he whispered. "She's left me."
Ruth stood stock-still, her eyes fixed on Brock. "Don't know what happened here a few days ago with you two, but I can tell ya she was mighty upset."
Brock turned his back to the servant. "I told her not to leave. I told her Laura Gwen was not to leave this house!" He slammed his fist on a small table, sending a Chinese vase smashing to the floor.
Ruth just shook her head, mumbling as she went back down the hall toward the kitchen. "I got some supper for ya, sir, when you want it."
Brock stared in
to the tiny gilt mirror in the entryway. "God damn her!" he muttered. "She couldn't wait. She couldn't give me a chance. She never gave me a goddamned chance!" Lines of pain, of betrayal, were etched deeply in his bronzed face. In the reflection he saw dark, menacing eyes . . . eyes a person could fear.
All night Brock sat at the old desk in Lloyd's office, listening to the sound of the rain pelting the windows. He was deathly tired, but he couldn't bring himself to go up to his bedchamber . . . to their bedchamber. He had ridden to see Mistress Lewes himself, but the woman had only verified Ruth's statement. Keely had never reached her home. No one had seen Keely all day. It was if she had just disappeared. Samuel had left the carriage for her, though he admitted sheepishly that he'd gone fishing directly after that, not waiting to see her off. But Ruth was positive she'd heard the carriage depart.
Brock decided that when morning came he would go down to the docks and see if Keely had been there inquiring about passage to England. She couldn't have gotten out of town this fast. He'd find her and there'd be hell to pay . . . .
Mort pushed off the side of the ship in the smallboat and began to row. At his feet lay the baby Dickie had passed on to him.
Mort could just make out the outline of the wee little thing kicking and squirming as he rowed farther from the ship and downriver toward the bay. The baby didn't fuss or wail as it had in Dickie's arms. The little lass seemed to trust him.
Navigating by the light of the moon, Mort took his time, putting more distance between the smallboat and the sailing ship. When he'd gotten into the rowboat, he'd told himself he was doing it to get the baby farther away from the ship. "Don't want it bobbin' up on the morning tide," he'd told the night watch as he'd shimmied down the rope ladder. But the truth was that he kind of liked the little thing.
Her mother had said her name was Laura.
"Laura," Mort called softly. He lifted the oars out of the water and dropped them into their cradle. Carefully he picked up the baby, tucking the old feed sack tighter against her chin. "Purty little thing, you are," he murmured. "A pity to feed ya to the fish." He lifted her gently onto his shoulder the way he'd seen his mother do with his own little brothers and sisters at home in Virginia.
"But what am I gonna do with ya?" he asked quietly. "Dickie's expectin' me back any minute. I take ya back and he'll throw you over before you can say. 'Mama's tit. ' "
He patted the little bonneted head and the babe gurgled, lifting a tiny hand to grasp a strand of long bond hair.
Mort laughed, prying his dirty lock from the child's clean hand. "Sweet little'n."
From the direction of the ship came a voice and Mort looked up.
"Mort!" he could hear. "Mort, where the hell are you?" It was Dickie's voice.
Mort looked to the shadow of the ship and back to the baby in his arms. "Only got one idear," he whispered, brushing a dirty finger against the baby's cheek. "Your mama ever tell you the Bible tale of a man called Moses?"
Laura opened her mouth, trying to close it around his finger.
"Well, this Moses, his mama put 'im in a basket and someone picked him up and made him one of the Pha-row's sons." He chuckled. "Maybe the Pha-row'll find you."
Kissing her forehead he laid her gently on the floor of the rocking boat. Then standing up, he slipped into the cold water of the Chesapeake Bay. For a moment he hung on to the side, staring at the little girl in the bottom of the boat, then he turned and swam away..
Halfway to the ship Mort turned onto his back and twisted to see the little rowboat floating gently down river. "God bless ya, little mite," he whispered. Then he turned back toward the ship and started across the water in smooth, even strokes.
When Mort came up the rope ladder to the deck of the ship, Dickie was standing in wait, a lantern swinging from his hand.
"Where the hell you been, Mort?" He swung a fist, striking the blond in the arm. "I told you to throw the brat overboard and the watch says you went rowin' off with her! Mister Elijah gonna be cussin' mad, now where is she?"
Mort swallowed hard. "I . . . well, Dickie, see I didn't want the carcass floatin' right here next to the ship where the woman could see it so . . . so I rowed off a little ways and then . . ."
"Then you dumped her over?" Dickie demanded.
"Uh-huh."
"Then where in the bloody hell is the smallboat, Mort? Why are you soakin' wet?" He held the lantern up in Mort's face.
Mort blinked. "I, well . . . I . . . I fell in throwin' 'er over!" he declared.
"You what?"
Mort nodded, more sure of himself. "When I threw 'er over, I slipped and went in myself and the dingy got caught in the current and done floated away." He gestured dramatically with a hand.
Dickie exhaled in exasperation. "You damned crotch-infested Virginians! I never known one that had any sense!" He whacked the man on the shoulder again. "All right, get below and get some sleep. It'll be dawn soon."
"Yes, sir." Mort nodded compliantly. "Right away."
The morning sun came pouring through the windows, filling Lloyd's office with the brilliant light of another day. Quietly, Ruth moved from window to window, pushing them open to let in the fresh garden air.
Brock slept leaning back in Lloyd's chair, his feet propped on the desk. He'd shed his coat and waistcoat along with his stock and wet stockings. The breeches and linen shirt he still wore from the night before were wrinkled and damp. His usually handsome face was dark with the shadow of a beard and with worry lines etched around his eyes.
Ruth sighed, staring at the sleeping man. "Ah, Masta Brock, what ya done?" she whispered. "Ya never told her you loved her, did ya? Never told her ya needed her . . ."
Brock opened his eyes slowly. "No," he answered, "I never did."
Unruffled by the fact that Brock had heard her, Ruth smiled sadly. "She's grown up so much since ya married her. Don't you see it? All she wanted was to make ya happy."
Brock shook his head, dropping his booted feet to the floor. He wiped his mouth with a palm. "So why'd she leave me?"
Ruth picked up a glass still half full of whiskey. She replaced the decanter on a shelf. "How would I know? I'm just an old woman." She turned back to him. "But maybe she'd had enough. You know as well as I do that she ain't no more a traitor to you than that there apple tree in the garden." She pointed to the windows. "Somethin's funny here, all right, but it ain't Miss Keely."
"She's my wife. She belongs here." Brock stood, stretching his cramped legs.
"Maybe she wasn't feelin' much like a wife . . ."
"Is there a servant in this house who hasn't got mouth?" he demanded irritably. "I thought you were supposed to be seen and not heard."
Ruth started for the door. "You asked, Masta Brock, I was just answerin'."
A knock sounded at the front door and Brock brushed past her. "I'll see who it is."
Flinging open the front door, Brock stood face to face with Micah.
"Christ! Why didn't you come by last night?" Micah asked, coming in. He swept off his cocked hat and dropped it on the table. "I just heard."
Brock closed his eyes for a moment. Micah was the last person in the world he wanted to see at this moment. "I saw no need to contact you," he responded stiffly. "I take it you know nothing about the incident."
Micah's blue eyes widened. "God sakes, man. Of course I don't. I was in New Castle until dinnertime last night." He started down the hallway. "I need a drink."
Brock followed him. "This is really none of your concern, Micah."
"The hell it isn't!" He went into the office and snatched the decanter of whiskey off the shelf. "Don't you see? Something's happened to her, Brock."
"Happened?" He sat on the arm of a wingback chair. Micah seemed to be genuinely concerned. "What do you mean? She threatened to return to England. I take it that was her purpose in going."
Micah poured himself an ample glass of the amber liquid and took a long swallow. "I don't think so. She wouldn't have gone without telling me."
The hair on the back of Brock's neck bristled, but his voice remained constant. "Meaning what? She was my wife, damn it! She didn't tell me."
Micah slipped out of his fustian frock coat and perched himself on the corner of Lloyd's desk. "I saw her two days ago. She was fightin' mad at you, but she had no intentions of going anywhere. Not without Laura."
Brock rolled his dark eyes heavenward. "Is there nothing confidential in my life?"
"With Jenna gone, who else does she have to talk to?"
Brock cracked his knuckles, studying Micah closely. "You don't think she fled out of anger?"
"The girl's too sensible."
"So what are you saying happened? She took the baby, she took the carriage, and she left."
Micah sipped his whiskey. "With a basket of fresh tarts?"
Brock leaped up. "You think she's been kidnapped?"
"It's a distinct possibility. Too many people know you."
"Well, if she had been taken, why haven't I heard from the kidnappers?"
"It's early yet. Go bathe and get yourself a clean set of clothes. Then go down to the ship and be sure nothing's been heard there. I'll wait here just in case."
Micah's revelation started the wheels of Brock's mind churning. It hadn't occurred to him before that she could have been kidnapped. It had certainly happened before. Not more than six weeks ago a Chestertown merchant's only son had been kidnapped and ransomed for a substantial sum of gold.
Why had he been so quick to judge her? The thought that Keely might not have left him, that she might have been forced, fired an uncontrollable anger within him. At the same time he felt a sense of relief, of hope. Maybe they still had a chance. If he could just bring her home and tell her how he felt . . . He knotted his fists. But first he had to find her.
Brock lifted his head to look at Micah. "Tell me one thing. Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me? You never hid the fact that you thought us ill matched or that you'd wished she was your own."
The Ruffian and the Rose Page 20