“What the . . .” Derrick seemed to have forgotten his eagerness to leave the scene, for now he craned his neck. I didn’t prod him; I was just as interested in this new development as he.
Would Consuelo make an appearance now?
Another rope ladder was dropped over the side of the boat and a pair of rough-looking men clambered partway down and leaped onto the rocky shore. Ropes were tossed over from the deck. Working together, the two men coiled the rope around the first of the barrels, which was then hoisted up the side of the boat. Another pair of men reached over the rail and hauled it the rest of the way, carefully unwinding the rope from around the stout cask and lowering it to the deck. Then they leaned over to await the next piece of cargo.
“What do you suppose is in those barrels?” I whispered to Derrick.
He glanced at me, then stared back at the activity on the water. I made a decision and before Derrick could react, I scrambled over our stone wall.
“Emma!” His frantic whisper grazed my back, but I kept going. I had to learn as much as I could about these goings-on. That they were somehow connected to Winthrop Rutherfurd meant they could also be connected to Consuelo. Quickly, stooping low to keep myself small, I made my way closer to the waterline.
“Hurry it up, dammit. Stanford’s waiting. Said he’d dock our pay for every minute we delay.”
I stopped in the shadow of a clump of scrub pine and crouched. Stanford. I knew that name. Hope Stanford . . . Oh, but that was ridiculous. What would the temperance leader be doing consorting with midnight brigands? Stanford was a common enough name—
A presence at my back nearly forced a gasp from my lips, but I swallowed it down. Derrick had followed me and now he slipped a hand around my forearm and squeezed. He didn’t have to speak to convey his meaning. He wanted us gone from there. I turned back to the steamer, hoping to catch a glimpse of something that made sense before Derrick dragged me away.
“D’ya see that?”
“What? Where?”
“Up there! I think someone’s there.”
“Shit!”
More expletives followed, but Derrick and I didn’t wait around to hear them. Our feet were in motion taking us back the way we’d come, heedless now of how much racket we raised. Footsteps pounded behind us. Derrick’s hand clamped around my own and he pulled me along over the wall, then over rocks, dips, and hillocks. My feet protested inside Aunt Sadie’s boots, which pinched my toes. My cap flew off and bits of my hair came loose and flopped in my face. I gasped for breath and ran blindly, until Derrick’s arm went around me, scooped me off my feet, and I was tossed to the deck of our little boat.
The dinghy rocked with Derrick’s weight as he jumped in after me. Our pursuers reached the narrow beach, their strides sending pebbles skittering across the sand to ping against our oaken hull. Fear clawed at my throat and clouded my thinking. Just as groping hands reached out to catch hold of the boat, we shoved away from the shore.
Derrick rowed madly, grunting with the effort. And I . . . I could only sit and watch the island recede, with those men standing on the sand, their fists raised in our direction.
My breath of relief was drowned out by the chugging of a steam engine.
Like some hulking sea monster angry to be awakened from its slumber, the freighter rounded the island and headed straight for us. It cut through the water, gaining momentum, and within seconds Derrick and I both knew he could not out-paddle the larger craft. We knew, too, that it would not swerve away at the last minute.
I thought to lean out over the water and paddle with my hands, anything to help Derrick bring us to land faster. But each instant brought the freighter closer, the water it displaced sending a bulging wave beneath us that hindered our progress even more. Soon, the freighter was nearly upon us, and, heart surging to my throat, I glimpsed one of those men standing at the center of the prow, grinning fiendlike as he anticipated our demise.
“Emma, jump!”
Derrick’s shout filled me with terror. He dropped the oars, one hitting the deck, the other sliding ineffectually through its rowlock and into the water. Jump? I shook my head. But at the same time I realized there was no other way, no other hope.
“To your right! Go deep!” As if he didn’t trust me to understand, Derrick lunged to his feet, locked a hand around my shoulder, and shoved me even as he sprang over the side of the dinghy himself. Together we went in headfirst, and in the last instant before we hit the water I sucked in a breath.
Instinct took over; I kicked my feet and flapped my arms. I searched frantically for the surface, but Derrick tugged me lower and lower still. Boulders struck my sides and scraped my legs through my trousers. For a moment I fought him, but then I remembered his command and realized the sense in allowing him to tow me as deep as we dared for as long as our breath held out.
A sound like distant thunder boomed in my ears, eerily muffled but no less violent. A shock wave followed, pitching us sideways into the currents. Through the darkness, with my eyes shut tight against the brine, I rolled, spiraled, then thudded side-first into Derrick. His arms went around me briefly before falling away. In that instant I panicked. But his hand found mine and he held on as never to let me go.
My lungs shrieked for air, but I resisted the urge to surface. When cruel talons tore at my lungs and I thought I could stand it no longer, Derrick kicked away from the rocks we clung to and began our ascent—too slowly for my comfort, but I trusted him. We didn’t know what we’d find when we broke the surface. Would those awful men be waiting?
But it was the quiet night, disturbed only by the wistful tolling of a buoy bell, that greeted us. My mouth surged open and I dragged in precious oxygen, filling my lungs painfully but gratefully. The freighter was nowhere in sight, and any sound from its engine now merged with the tide, the breeze, and the other ordinary sounds carrying across the water. Perhaps they’d circled back around the island, or perhaps they’d sailed farther along the coastline to blend in with the other vessels moored in the harbor. Would Uncle William gaze out from The Valiant, glimpse the men who had almost killed us, and, with an aristocrat’s indifference to the commonplace, think nothing of them?
At that moment I couldn’t summon the strength to care. I realized the only thing holding me above the waterline was Derrick; I’d collapsed against him, my cheek sunk against his shoulder. He kept tight hold of me, his own panting breaths heaving me up and down. I searched the water for the dinghy. Splintered boards littered the gentle tide, no more useful to us now than driftwood.
“Grab hold of a board,” he whispered, “it’ll help us float.” With one arm around me, Derrick dragged his other through the water to pull us in the direction of the shore. “We’ve got to swim for it.”
I lifted my head and nodded, still too exhausted to speak. Together, both of us kicking and using the broken board as a floatation device, we struggled toward land. Thank goodness I’d worn trousers; with skirts and petticoats holding us back—well, I wouldn’t like to contemplate what might have happened.
We reached the shore some half mile from where we’d started, no longer at the McPaddens’ dock but farther north, near where the Point gave way to the shipyards.
“Dear God, Emma,” Derrick managed between panting breaths, “we need to double back south.”
We’d reached the seawall, which soared some twenty feet above our heads, creating a slick, vertical barricade between us and land. “It’s all right.” I had barely enough strength left to croak the words. “Just a little farther north. Trust me.”
Derrick apparently did trust me, because without another word we felt our way along that slippery barrier until my outstretched hand found what I was searching for—steps built into the wall, rising up and out of the water.
With our remaining strength we yanked our ankles free of tangling seaweed and pulled ourselves up. I went first, crab-walking on all fours to avoid slipping off the steps. Derrick followed close behind me, his hands never f
ully releasing their hold on the back of my waist. Finally, we pulled ourselves up and over, and fell facedown onto a weed-choked mound of earth beside the road that ran along the seawall.
My eyes fell closed, and when I opened them again I was no longer sprawled on the ground with the sandy grit between my teeth, but lying with my cheek on Derrick’s chest, his hard body like a shield beneath mine protecting me from the elements. His arms once more encircled me tightly, I might even say forcefully. I let out a sigh deeper and longer than I believe I’d ever sighed before, a trembling breath of relief and gratitude and, yes, tremendous affection for the man who was somehow always there when I most needed him. And then I promptly passed out.
When I awoke sometime later, the stars were gone and the sky had turned a tarnished silver color. Dawn couldn’t be far off. I stirred, disoriented and half-disbelieving the memories that rose up like a sudden squall. But I held no illusions as to where I was: on a sandy, narrow bank beside the harbor, cradled by the man who had saved my life.
I still lay on top of him; his arms still held me, though looser now, as though he slept. Yet when I slid one hand to the ground and pushed up to peer into his patrician features, his dark eyes were open and staring into my own. His lips curved into a smile. Good heavens, that he found both the energy and the frame of mind to reassure me with that small gesture . . . I can’t say how much that meant to me, how it warmed me despite the predawn chill.
Our clothes had dried, leaving them stiff and caked with salt and bits of seaweed. My skin itched everywhere, and my hair clung to my cheeks, neck, and the underside of my chin. With one hand I swept back the encrusted strands. Then I summoned a smile for Derrick.
“Thank you.”
His hands moved gently up and down my back, warming me further. “How do you feel? Does anything hurt? No, don’t try to move too much yet.” He gently cupped my head and lowered it back to his chest; and when he spoke again the rumble of his voice traveled through me with the steadying strength of brandy. “I wanted to carry you to safety,” he said, “but I was afraid to move you. There were those rocks we hit and if anything is broken . . .”
I shook my head against him. “I don’t think so.” I stretched slightly, wiggled my feet, and moved my legs. “I ache all over, but it’s a dull ache. Nothing sharp.”
He released a breath. “That’s good.”
“What about you?”
“The exercise did me good.”
I chuckled, then started to sit up. “We should go.”
“In a minute. Just give me another moment to . . .” With one hand he gathered up my hair, lifting it off my back. He rolled us until we lay side by side, and then his face was close, his lips closer. And yet he didn’t kiss me; not quite. He merely touched his lips to mine, our foreheads pressing, his nose grazing my cheek. We stayed like that for some moments before he slowly eased away, sat up, and helped me to my feet as he rose to his.
“You’ll be the death of me yet, Emma Cross.”
The words were anything but flattering, but the tone in which he spoke them lit a flame in my heart.
The sky had lightened, the eastern horizon tinged with pink. The place where we lay was adjacent to a row of houses whose yards faced the harbor. People would be stirring soon and we needed to make haste back to my carriage—and he to his, I supposed. “How on earth did you follow me without my knowing?”
“Oh, Emma . . . dear Emma.” He chuckled softly. “Once I saw the direction you were headed in, and in those clothes . . .” He tugged on the sleeve of the man’s coat I somehow still wore. “It wasn’t hard to figure out where you were going. I stayed well behind, and when you turned your carriage onto Walnut Street I continued on foot.”
“But at what point did you start following me?”
He smiled that same smile he’d shown me when I’d first accused him of spying on me. I should have been furious. Only, I couldn’t deny the simple fact that if he hadn’t trailed me, I’d be dead.
“We’ll collect your carriage and mine,” he said briskly. “I left it at the end of Third Street. And then I’ll follow you home. If you think you can drive, that is.”
“You don’t have to do that—”
“Are you going to waste your breath arguing with me?”
I couldn’t help a quick roll of my eyes. “No, I suppose not.”
As we proceeded down the street the distance between us grew—not by any conscious agreement, but instinctively. We walked as a pair of men would, close enough to speak without being too close. Yet I continued to feel the echo of his arms around me, and I found it difficult to concentrate on what he was saying until he cast me a dubious frown.
“Do you think you have the strength to handle your rig?”
“We’re talking about Barney here, hardly a challenge. I’ll be fine. But speaking of conveyances . . . I’ll need to replace the McPaddens’ dinghy.” I blew between my lips. How would I scrape up enough cash for a boat, even a small one? And how would I ever explain it to them?
As if he read my thoughts, Derrick said, “I’ll take care of it.”
“No, I couldn’t let you do that.”
We turned onto Walnut Street. I continued protesting about how the night’s debacle was entirely my fault and I would take proper responsibility for the damages I’d caused. Derrick brought us to a halt. With his hands on my shoulders, he turned me to face him.
“Shut up, Emma. For once, please just shut up.”
I had nothing to say to that.
When we arrived home we unhitched both rigs—mine, and Derrick’s hired curricle—and settled Barney and his guest in the barn with oats and water and piles of fresh hay. The chores helped settle my nerves. We worked in companionable silence, and once the task had been accomplished, Derrick and I strolled to the house, the invitation for him to join me unspoken. . . not needing to be spoken. I wasn’t ready to relinquish his company yet, and he seemed equally intent on remaining. When we reached the kitchen door he opened it for me, and I was overcome by a rush of how it might be to share a home with this man, to share those casual daily acts such as having breakfast, planning our days, settling in together each night....
A cheerful fire in the kitchen hearth greeted us as we stepped inside. A pot of coffee simmered on the stove, and the aroma of baking bread made my stomach rumble.
“I was just about to send out the cavalry.” Nanny stood in the doorway of the corridor that led to the morning room, her tight-lipped expression one of mingled censure and relief. She wore her dressing gown wrapped tightly around her faded cotton nightdress; a kerchief secured the coil of her salt and pepper curls.
I embraced her and kissed her cheek. “Oh, Nanny, have you been up all night?”
“Of course not,” she retorted as she hugged me back. Despite her denial, the shadows beneath her eyes told a different story. “I can see you haven’t slept a wink,” she concluded after assessing me from head to toe.
“Actually, we did get a bit of sleep,” I said, then regretted it when her eyebrows shot up. Before I could explain, Derrick spoke.
“I assure you Emma’s virtue is safe, Mrs. O’Neal. Which is more than I can say for the rest of her, with the way she insists on chasing danger.”
I swung about and struck him on the biceps, hard. Not that it fazed him in the least. Nanny clucked her tongue and, grabbing two towels off the counter, wrapped them around her hands and went to the stove.
“You both look like something the tide dragged up. Smell like it, too. You should both go and get changed. Emma, I’m sure you can find something of Brady’s for Mr. Andrews.” The oven door hinges whined. The toasty scents of breakfast bread—stuffed with raisins and walnuts, and dusted with cinnamon—enveloped me and I knew, in a way I hadn’t up until then, at least not wholly, that I was home. That I was safe. Once again relief poured through me, this time sapping the remaining strength from my legs. I sagged, and before I knew it Derrick’s arm was around me. He pulled out a chair fro
m the kitchen table and lowered me into it.
“I need something to eat first or I’ll faint,” I said. A nod from Derrick indicated he’d gladly put the needs of his stomach over clean clothing.
Nanny sliced her savory-sweet bread and handed it round while Derrick poured the coffee. The hearth fire snapped and hissed. I was glad we’d stayed here in the kitchen rather than moving to the morning room. This felt homier, cozier, like when I was a child and padded downstairs before any of the rest of my family to steal some private time with Nanny. Gradually my remaining anxiety eased away. I chewed slowly and, with a finally clear head, began to contemplate the events of last night.
“One thing is certain,” I said, breaking the pensive silence, “if Consuelo was on Rose Island, it wasn’t by choice.”
“What makes you so sure?” Derrick asked.
“She would never have anything to do with men like that. Never.”
Nanny plucked a walnut from her slice of bread and popped it into her mouth. “What if she was there against her will?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think she was there at all. Whatever those men were doing, I don’t think it had anything to do with her. They were criminals . . . some kind of smugglers is my guess.”
I looked to Derrick for consensus. He nodded faintly. I waited for him to elaborate, and when he didn’t I prompted, “Well? What do you think they were up to?”
He shrugged a shoulder, cradling his cup in both hands. “Judging by the barrels we saw, molasses, possibly.”
“Why on earth would anyone smuggle molasses?” Nanny laughed as if this were the most ridiculous notion in the world. “You can buy it anywhere. Not as if it’s illegal or anything. I’ve got plenty right in the pantry.”
I had to admit, I couldn’t fathom an answer. Once more I looked to Derrick, who reluctantly met my gaze.
“Molasses is used in rum making. It would seem someone is going into business for himself, distilling black market rum to avoid paying the liquor tax. Could be trying to corner the market, create a monopoly by running legitimate distillers out of business.” His gaze sharpened, practically pinning me to the back of my chair. “Whatever their intentions, it had nothing to do with your cousin and therefore nothing to do with you.”
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