Heart's Safe Passage

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  “She would have come whether I came with her or not.” They tacked further east, and Derrick hauled the line to better catch the wind in the single sail. “I thought it better to come with her, not that I did such a good work of taking care of her. I should have stood guard outside her door.”

  “Brock would have found a way to get her even if you had.” Rafe fixed his gaze on his friend. “What better way to lure me in than to take Phoebe.”

  “Yes, sir, we be sailing right into a trap.”

  “’Tis not a trap if we ken ’tis one.” Rafe scanned the coastline, ash-gray against the charcoal of the sea in the darkening twilight, a rocky landscape not easy to defend. “We’ll set in here.”

  They steered the tiny craft into an inlet not much larger than the boat itself. No one challenged them as they used a rocky outcropping for a mooring post. No one challenged them as they climbed onto the rocks despite inevitable noise from falling pebbles and the scrape of boots. Lights blazed in the near distance, and no one challenged them as they stalked toward them, toward the aroma of wood smoke on the frosty air.

  “I don’t like it,” Derrick murmured.

  Rafe nodded. His gut felt like someone had crushed it beneath the wheels of a two-ton carronade. No challenge to their presence meant they were supposed to get inside without a hindrance, then the trap would spring. Brock’s men would surround them, capture them, probably even kill them.

  A copse of stubbled pine rose up along the path from water to house. Rafe slipped into it, motioning for Derrick to follow. Derrick blended with the darkness beneath the prickly branches. Rafe drew the edge of his boat cloak over his face so its paleness would not shine in the approaching night.

  “We’ve got to find them before they find us,” he said in the undertone he’d learned traveled less distance than a whisper. “What do you suggest?”

  He knew nothing about land tactics. One couldn’t hide on the ocean if one encountered another vessel. One fought or prayed to outrun a larger enemy.

  Prayed. Of course he’d prayed, to get away from an enemy, to stay alive for Mel’s sake if nothing else, to keep his daughter safe. Those prayers had been answered, and he hadn’t even acknowledged either that they were prayers or that God had listened. Yet there he stood, ready to finalize what he’d wanted and never prayed for because, unlike what Phoebe had accused him of what felt like a lifetime ago, he did have a conscience, one that knew his quest for vengeance was wrong.

  “If Phoebe wasn’t there,” he told Derrick, “I wouldn’t go. But she is there, and I don’t have a choice but to rescue her. Will you—” He sought for the right way to ask his question through a dry mouth. “Will you pray for our safety and Phoebe’s?”

  “I have been all along.” Derrick squeezed Rafe’s shoulder. “Welcome back to the Lord, my friend.”

  Rafe shook Derrick’s hand as though they’d been separated for years, and the tension inside him uncoiled. Peace descended, and he knew what to do.

  “They want me, not you. Go back to the boat and get back to Dieppe for aid, or direct the Navy lads here.”

  “I’m not letting you go in there alone.” Derrick’s gentle voice held steel. “I’m going to set up a decoy while you slip in.”

  “Nay, that will not do. They might kill you, and I will not have anyone else’s blood on my hands.”

  “They’ll have to catch me to kill me.” Derrick’s voice held a smile. “I know how to get around in the dark. Did a lot of that back on Jamaica when I wanted to see my wife.”

  Rafe suppressed a chuckle, then sobered. “You do not ken this territory.”

  “I can find the house and the sea. That’s enough.”

  “You could trip.”

  “And I could’ve been shot all these years fighting. Now let’s go. Time’s a-wasting.”

  It was. Short of tying Derrick to the tree behind him, Rafe couldn’t stop the other man from doing what he liked. He was no longer a subordinate, no longer one of the crew. Rafe had given up being a captain.

  “God be with you,” was all he said.

  “He will.” Derrick slipped from the copse and strolled toward the house, his footfalls nearly silent, his tall frame a mere shadow against the now cloud-blackened sky.

  Rafe followed, his movements deliberately slow to minimize noise, his ears alert for the sound of others. He kept his hand on his dirk, ready to defend Derrick in an instant. And he prayed for the Lord to keep his friend safe to go home to his family.

  The closer they drew to the house, the more tension threatened to wrap Rafe like a shroud. He fought it back, kept his breathing slow and even, willed his heart to remain at a steady beat. If blood roared through his ears, he wouldn’t hear the approach of another man.

  But he saw them first, shadows flickering against the light from the house. He hissed a warning through his teeth, then ducked into the vegetation along the track, ready to surprise the men if they assailed Derrick.

  They did. With a shout in American English, they charged Derrick. One grabbed his arms. A glint of light flashed on steel that rested against Derrick’s chest.

  “Don’t move,” someone commanded.

  “No, sir, I’m not stupid.” Derrick spoke in a tone that sounded like he was.

  The man behind him cursed. “This isn’t Docherty.”

  “Where is he?” the other man demanded.

  “I don’t know.” Derrick didn’t lie.

  “Where is he?” the other man repeated.

  Rafe rose from the shrubbery behind the man holding Derrick’s arms. “I am right here.” He held his dirk to the man’s throat. “Release him.”

  “I’ll skewer him,” the other man cried.

  But he didn’t have time. With Rafe’s blade against his neck, the first man obeyed. Freed, Derrick leaped to the side, light and agile as a cat, and twisted the other man’s blade out of his hands and held it to his chest.

  “How many are you?” he asked.

  Neither man spoke.

  Rafe applied a bit of pressure with his blade. “How many of you are there?”

  “Enough to kill you,” the man beneath Rafe’s blade responded.

  Rafe admired his mettle and, because of it, began to search him for weapons. He confiscated a knife, a rapier, and a pistol and threw them into the bushes. “How many?”

  “Four,” the other man said in the voice of a sulky child.

  “Besides you?” Rafe pressed.

  “Including us.” The man spat on Derrick. “And Mr. Brock. Who’s got your lady.”

  “Yes, and for that alone—” Rafe stopped himself. “Where are they?”

  “Stop talking,” the first one said.

  “Why should I?” the second one said. “I’m not going to die spitted like a pig.”

  “A wise man,” Derrick said. “Now you two jus’ take us into that stable I see over there so we can make sure you don’t cause us no more trouble.”

  “I’m not going without a fight.” The first man lunged toward Derrick and away from Rafe’s blade.

  With the grace of a ballet dancer, Derrick spun and slammed a ham-sized fist into his jaw. The man dropped like a stone. And his companion raced for the house, shouting for aid.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have done that,” Derrick said.

  “Oh, nay, you should have.” Rafe smiled as he stooped to secure the fallen man. “Take off his stockings and tie his ankles. I’ll use his belt on his hands. And by the time we’re finished, we will have company, I have no doot.”

  A hundred yards away, the front door of the house burst open. One man charged out, shouting for another one to be quiet. Then footfalls thudded toward Rafe and Derrick.

  “Company,” Rafe muttered, yanking the belt tight.

  The bound man grunted and tried to roll away.

  “I’ll just be dumping him into the bushes.” Derrick did just that with a crash that brought the other men racing toward them, only to halt out of arm’s reach.

  They g
lanced around, seeking Rafe and Derrick, who crouched in the shrubbery, weapons drawn. Rafe didn’t want to shoot. He would use the pistol for a club first. If he’d had rope and time, he’d have affixed a snare across the track. No matter. He’d come up with something else.

  With his left hand, he yanked off a branch of the pine boughs, wincing as the needles pricked his fingers, and tossed it along the path. In the dark, it could pass for the flickering shadow of someone darting an arm or leg from the bushes. Perhaps.

  The men didn’t fall for the old trick. Rafe tried again. Still nothing. Then Derrick on the other side of the path yanked up an entire shrub and sent it sailing toward the men.

  Brock’s men charged. Derrick rose and met them, one man against two, not a fair fight with most men. With Derrick, almost unfair to Brock’s men. Still, Rafe leaped to enter the fray.

  “Go,” Derrick commanded. “Go get Miss Phoebe free.”

  Rafe didn’t argue. He didn’t want to distract his friend. Hearing grunts and the thud of blows, then the crash of breaking branches suggesting one man had ended up in the bushes behind him, he raced for the still-open front door and the one man left inside, provided the man outside hadn’t lied.

  He hadn’t, at least from the first glance. The guard stood tall and tense in front of a door on one side of the marble-floored entry hall. He brought up his pistol. It clicked as he cocked it. Rafe darted to one side, then the other, a moving target hard to strike. Still the man fired. One shot. His only shot. Rafe dove to the floor, hearing the whine of the ball streaking above him, then tackled the man’s legs. He dropped with a floor-shaking boom and lay gasping for breath.

  Rafe didn’t take time to secure him; he grasped the handle to the room. Locked. He stepped back and kicked the door near the latch. The portal sprang open and slammed back against the wall. Light blazed from several candelabra and reflected in Phoebe’s spun-moonlight hair.

  For a moment, Rafe felt as though he’d been knocked half senseless onto the floor. She smiled at him, and he couldn’t breathe.

  Then Brock rose from behind his desk, a pistol in his hand. “How did you get in alone?”

  “Sorry, sir.” The guard wheezed the apology from behind Rafe. “He just . . . came out of nowhere. Shall I secure him for you?”

  “No.” Brock’s face tightened. “Since you’ve failed thus far, you may leave. I can manage him myself.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Go.”

  Before the guard could protest further, Rafe grasped the door and slammed it in his face. Setting his shoulders against the panels, he faced Brock, his own pistol in hand. “I wonder which of us is the better shot. Or do I get my duel?”

  “Rafe, no,” Phoebe protested.

  He dared not so much as glance at her. He kept his gaze fixed on Brock’s face, his eyes, as he took two strides farther into the room. “What will you have, thief, murderer, wife killer?” He took another step closer. Though his eyes remained steady on Brock’s, his hand holding the pistol shook just a little from the tautness of his grip.

  Prayers for all to go well, for repentance for the desire for revenge, evaporated from his head with Brock so close. Blood roared through his veins as it did before battle. Only Phoebe halfway between him and his enemy stopped Rafe from charging the other man.

  But Phoebe was there, quietly weeping.

  Rafe shut his ears to the rebuke of those quiet tears and pressed forward. “Why did you do it, Brock? Why did you let my wife and parents die for your greed?”

  Brock swept out his right arm as though shooing away a fly. “Your wife was dying anyway.”

  “But she didn’t deserve to die like she did. And my parents were well. They had years of life left in them, years of taking care of the sick, lost because of you.” His chest tightened, his throat threatening to close. “You robbed the world of a great physician.”

  Brock grinned. “Seems I robbed the world of two, Dr. Docherty. But I dare say you’re richer for it, just as I am.”

  “Have you no conscience?” Power surged into Rafe’s hand. He raised the pistol and cocked it.

  “Rafe, don’t.” Phoebe choked out the protest. “He’s not worth your life. He’s not worth your future.”

  “Get onto the floor,” he said without looking at her. He caught a gleam in Brock’s eyes and understood his intent. Now was the time to fire, put an end to a man who had caused so much misery. His finger tightened on the trigger. Now, now, now the time lay upon him.

  And crushed him. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t see. Through the roaring in his ears, he heard Davina asking God to forgive her, then his own feeble prayers.

  He threw the pistol aside. It hit the wall and went off with a blast that silenced the roaring, the cries, everything but Phoebe’s quiet prayer.

  Until Brock began to laugh. “Coward. You waste all these years trying to catch me, and now that you think you have, you can’t do it. I should shoot you where you stand.”

  Rafe crouched beside Phoebe and stroked her hair away from her face, its silk tangling in his fingers. “’Tis a’right, lass. I will not kill the mon in cold blood or otherwise. ’Tis not my place to take a mon’s life.”

  “All the easier to take yours.” Brock rounded the desk and stood over Rafe, his pistol pointed. “Why shouldn’t I pull this trigger?”

  “Because even you cannot get away with shooting an unarmed mon.”

  “You’re in my house without invitation.”

  Rafe shrugged. “I cannot stop you. I will not. Just do not harm my lady.”

  Phoebe shot a glance up at him, her green eyes as bright as stained glass. Then she straightened and faced Brock. “I’d rather you used that pistol on me than him. Let him live. He has a daughter to raise.”

  “He hasn’t cared about that all these years, so why should I?” Brock asked.

  “He’s changed.” Phoebe stood, and Rafe rose with her. “Or just let us walk out of here. As you can see, we’re finished with hunting you down.”

  “No.” Brock shifted the muzzle of the pistol from Rafe to Phoebe and back again.

  They smiled at him. Rafe looked into Brock’s eyes, judging when the man intended to pull the trigger so he could push Phoebe out of the way. Intent on Phoebe and Brock, he didn’t hear the shouts and shots from outside until Phoebe gasped, darted around Brock, and raced for the door.

  Brock spun and fired. Phoebe fumbled at the door handle and turned to look back.

  “Stay in here.” Rafe grabbed Brock’s wrist and twisted. The gun fell. Rafe kept twisting Brock’s arm back and up between his shoulders. The man cried out and tried to kick. When he raised his leg, Rafe pushed him off balance. He fell with a thud, Rafe holding him down.

  “Phoebe, I need your sash,” he said calmly.

  She smiled, albeit tremulously. “My dress will look a fright without it.”

  “Perhaps your dress, but not you.” Rafe smiled back. The tension inside him melted in a glow from his core outward. “Stay in here, lass. ’Tis safer.”

  Brock said something vulgar, but his struggles to free himself proved too feeble to so much as dislodge Rafe’s little finger, let alone his hands.

  Rafe looked down at his captive, noted the gray hair, the thin body inside the fine clothes, the gray tinge to his skin, and realized the man was old, aged beyond the five and forty years he knew Brock to have.

  “All your thieving has done you no good,” Rafe murmured. “You are dying, are you not?”

  Phoebe knelt beside him and began to tie the ribbon sash from her gown around Brock’s hands. “Consumption?”

  “Or worse, aye. Let us get him up. He will be hurting no one else, I’m thinking.”

  The door burst open, and three British sailors plus Derrick crowded into the room. “Is all well here, sir?” the lieutenant in the lead asked.

  “Aye. Quite a’right.” Rafe rose to shake their hands. “You can take him away if you like.”

  “You’ll take care of him
for us?” Phoebe asked.

  “He’s a prisoner of war, ma’am,” the officer said. “He’s committed crimes against our country.”

  Rafe drew her away from the bustle of sailors, a protesting James Brock, and Derrick with his eyebrows raised high enough to stick to his hairline. She went with him without a struggle, and they circumvented the others and slipped into the hall. The front door stood open, allowing the cold night air into the house. Rafe glanced around and picked a door at the back of the hall. As he hoped, it led into the kitchen, warm from a still-burning fire. Warm and empty for the moment.

  “Are you a’right? He didn’t hit you?”

  “I’m well.” She smiled up at him, her eyes glowing with wonder. “You didn’t kill him.”

  “Nay, ’tis not my place to do so.” He drew her against him and kissed her. “Perhaps ’tis not my place to do that either, but I can hope.”

  “You can more than hope.” She buried her face against his shoulder.

  “I have so much to tell you, about my wee talk with the Lord and a bit longer one with Dominick Cherrett.”

  Her head shot up. “Dominick? Here?”

  “In Dorset now. He has gone to see his father, since you dragged him across the sea to save me.” Rafe smiled at her. “Quite unnecessarily, you ken.”

  “I don’t know enough. Tell me everything.”

  “Aye, I will.” A thousand words crowded into his throat, words about finding his faith, words about forgiveness, words about his future wishes. All that squeezed its way out was, “I love you.”

  “I know.” She buried her fingers in his hair. “I love you.”

  “You must. You were prepared to die for me. You—” His voice broke, and he held her more tightly.

  She laughed. “I left Belinda for—” She pulled free. “Belinda. How is she? Do you know?”

  “She is well. She delivered a wee lass safely and is with her husband.”

  “Thank God.” Phoebe set her hands on his shoulders. “You’re not good for my patients. I keep neglecting them for you.”

  “Then I’m thinking I can’t ask you to marry me.” He started to step away.

  She held him fast. “You certainly may. Except . . . Rafe, will you go back to Scotland?”