by Rainbow
“Is that what this is all about? You damned fools. You believe a whore?” Quinn’s mind quickly ran over possibilities. It couldn’t be Daphne. Then who? And then he remembered Cam telling him about Sarah. “She was acting strangely,” he’d said. Christ. Not only he and Cam were in danger now, but Sophie as well. And Meredith, damn it. Meredith and Lissa. Thank God, he had told Cam not to board in the morning if he wasn’t on deck.
“I believe this one,” John Carroll said. “We knew there was someone running slaves on the river, and I had a feeling about you.”
“Your feeling was wrong,” Quinn protested indignantly.
“You like games, do you?” John Carroll mocked. “I don’t mind them myself.” The knife cut again and, for the Carrolls’ benefit, Quinn winced and moaned.
“I’ll have the sheriff on you,” he groaned.
“Oh, the sheriff will be here all right. He’s out looking, like everyone else, but I left a note on his door. And I want that little bird before he gets here. Do you understand, Mr. Devereux?”
“I told you I know nothing…If that black bastard was involved in anything, he did it on his own.” One of the Carrolls laughed, and once more the knife dug deeper.
Quinn took a deep breath, and faked unconsciousness.
Cam had a bad feeling. A very bad feeling. And what made it worse was that he had never felt anything like this before.
He and the captain had been in dangerous situations several times, yet this dread crawling along his spine was unfamiliar. Therefore, he was of a mind to pay attention to it.
He was sitting just inside the door of the shack. He’d insisted that the two women use the cots. Cam had no intention of resting, not tonight. He wanted to stay awake, to make sure he would hear any noise. He’d prowled outside the shack several times, but there had been no sign of man or beast other than their own tired mounts.
Perhaps, he tried to tell himself, it was the waiting. He had never liked the waiting.
Cam rose again and quietly unlatched the door. Outside the sky was dark and forbidding. He was cold, very cold, and not because of the weather. He heard a noise behind him, and the door opened. A moment later Meredith stood beside him.
“Something’s bothering you, isn’t it?” she asked quietly.
He shrugged. Cam had come to admire Meredith in the past few days. She never complained, never asked for special considerations. She had endured the first day’s long ride, and the cold miseries of the following days without comment. And he liked the way she and the captain looked at each other, and touched each other. Some of that iron hardness, the remote aloneness, had faded from the captain’s eyes.
“What is it, Cam?”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “It’s just a feelin’.”
“You want to go to him.”
He turned around, surprised at her instinct. “The capt’n asked me to stay with you.”
“We’re safe enough here,” she said. “Quinn said he would send the buggy in the morning.”
The uneasiness in Cam deepened. “You have a gun?”
She nodded.
He hesitated.
“Go,” she said.
He finally nodded. “I should be back no later than midmorning. Ask the buggy driver to wait until then. If I don’t show up, go to Sophie’s. Wait for us there. They won’t be looking for two women.”
Meredith reluctantly assented. She wanted to go, but she had Lissa to worry about, and they really didn’t know that anything was wrong. Just the same, Cam’s restlessness scared her. From what she had seen of him, he didn’t alarm easily.
She watched him saddle one of the horses huddled under the trees. He mounted awkwardly, and looked back at her for a moment. Then he disappeared among the leaves.
Chapter 25
WATER SPLASHED in his face, and Quinn couldn’t help sputtering.
He wondered what time it was. Time was a commodity that was running out, he feared.
If the sheriff did appear and he was held, Marshall Evans would surely identify him despite the changes in his hair color. He was profoundly grateful that he had told Cam not to board if he did not see Quinn on deck. The three of them—Cam, Meredith, and Lissa—would be safe. Cam would ensure that.
Quinn blinked his eyes, feigning confusion. There had to be a way for him to escape! He thought of Newgate again, and Norfolk Island in Australia. Christ, he didn’t know if he could survive prison again. At least, this time no one else would get hurt. There was some satisfaction in that.
“He’s awake,” he heard one brother say, and the front of his wet shirt was bunched in a fist as he was pulled to a sitting position. Another groan escaped his throat, this one not altogether voluntary as agony arced through his back.
Quinn tried to think, tried to concentrate. Without Lissa, they had no evidence except Marshall Evans’s testimony that he had used another name, and that Lissa had disappeared the same time he did. He could make up some story that would probably soothe a divided Illinois jury if not a proslave Kentucky one.
If only he could goad or trick the Carrolls into untying him.
His eyes adjusted once more to the dark. The Carrolls were careful to keep the room black. They wanted no alarm, no rescue from Quinn’s friends. Quinn wondered again what time it was, how long before dawn.
Suddenly, out of the gloom, a fist struck his face, and pain shot across his strained back. He grunted.
“Once more,” John said pleasantly. “Where’s the gal? She’s all we want. Perhaps we can even make a deal. If you’re carrying fugitives for money, you can continue to pick them up, and we can collect them from you and split the rewards.” Quinn could imagine the man’s eyes narrow speculatively. “Is that why you’re doing it? The money? If so, we can all make a fortune before anyone’s the wiser.”
Quinn let his head fall. “I tell you I don’t know anything about a girl.”
John shook his head sadly. “Now why don’t I believe you?”
Quinn tried a sneer. “You think any goddamned fugitive slaves have a penny? You think I’d risk my neck without so much as a coin? You think I would risk it, even with gold?”
“Now that is a puzzle,” John replied. “I’ve been trying to figure that one out. I heard you won’t fight. Won’t even race the Lucky Lady. So why don’t you tell us, or mebbe I should try the knife again.”
Quinn watched the curve of steel in the air and drew back as much as John Carroll’s hold on him allowed. He couldn’t help flinching. He could smell his own blood now and feel the rivulets still running from previous cuts. His skin stung in a dozen places, but the knife cuts weren’t nearly as painful as the whip lashes had been.
He blocked out the present and thought about that whip now, slicing through open skin and tearing muscles. He saw Terrence suffer another hundred strokes for the third straight morning, his back already infected. That was the day Terrence died. As he had been dragged to the post because he could no longer walk, he’d turned to Quinn and whispered the words that had gotten them both through seven years. Don’t ever let the bloody bastards get ye down. How readily the words came back, and the image of Terrence O’Connell with that devil-be-damned smile, although that day it was only a ghost. Yet it had been there to the end. Even as he lay dying, he had mocked the guards with it. Terrence had been a true ironman. And he, too, would be.
Quinn forced a smile on his own face now. “Damn it, I’d tell you if I knew anything. If that damned slave of mine is involved, I’d be the first to see him hang. I might anyway, him getting me into this.”
“Then where is he?”
“He should be down in the cargo deck, where he sleeps.”
“He ain’t there. He ain’t anyplace on this boat.”
“Then I’ll pay you to find him.”
“Him instead of the girl,” John mused. “Now that’s an interesting proposition.”
“Kind of like a bribe,” Ted, the brother who had lingered in the background, replied.
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“Is that what it is?” John said, like a cat playing with a mouse.
“Hell, no,” Quinn denied. “I just want him back.”
“Mebbe we can get both him and the girl,” Ted said hopefully.
“And mebbe we’re being played for fools,” John answered. “Like we were several months ago.”
Quinn silently cursed himself as he dropped his head wearily. He’d used poor judgment that long-ago evening, inviting the Carrolls for supper and then relieving them of all their money. But something within him had wanted to teach them a lesson, to tweak their noses. He was certainly paying for that error now.
He started to lift his head when he noticed the door behind the Carrolls open very slightly. His hands behind him curled into frustrated balls. Cam. It had to be Cam. The Carrolls must have broken the lock to enter his cabin. They had to be damned good to do it without waking him, but they would have been unable to lock it again.
And Cam was the only man who would ever enter his cabin without warning. That Cam knew something was wrong was evident by the fact that he did not knock. A trickle of sweat ran down Quinn’s back despite the cold chill that had lodged there. Damn Cam to hell. Why hadn’t he done what he was told? Quinn’s entire body tightened with foreboding. But still, he had to do what little he could to help.
Quinn groaned suddenly, falling against the wall. As one of the Carrolls started to grab his shirt again, his feet went out, hitting the man in the chest and sending him against his brother. Then Cam was there, his fists catching the second man in the chest and face and sending him crashing to the floor. The first Carroll recovered quickly, his hand darting for the knife, which had fallen to the floor at Quinn’s kick.
Cam’s foot caught Ted Carroll’s wrist and pressed down on it unmercifully. Quinn heard the crack of bones and Carroll’s scream just before Cam’s hand smashed the man’s mouth, knocking him unconscious. Cam then checked the other man, making sure he too was unconscious. As the head rolled, Cam’s teeth flashed with satisfaction before he picked up the knife and quickly cut Quinn’s bonds.
The sudden release sent a cramp through Quinn’s body, momentarily making it useless, and he gritted his teeth against the debilitating pain. His hands were numb, his wrists bloody, and when he stood he had to spend a moment trying to get feeling back into his limbs. He looked down at the Carrolls and knew it was only a matter of time before half of Kentucky and Illinois were after him.
He looked at Cam. “I thought I told you to stay with Meredith and Lissa.”
Cam shrugged. “I had a feelin’ you were in trouble.”
“Meredith?”
“I told her to wait at the cabin until midmorning. If I wasn’t back by then, they were to go on to Sophie’s and go through the Underground route.”
Quinn winced as he took a step, shrugging aside Cam’s hand. Even though Cam had probably saved him from a prison term, he couldn’t stop the anger boiling in him. It wasn’t an anger he understood, for he and Cam had long had a partnership in which neither was dominant, and Cam was under no obligation to follow his orders. Yet Cam’s sudden appearance made his skin crawl with some terrible premonition, and his mind kept flashing back to Terrence and the sound of the whip cracking against his back. He shook his head to rid it of images he couldn’t control. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said roughly.
Quinn gave one last look at the two fallen men and went to the door, opening it quietly. “They said they sent for the sheriff,” Quinn said. “I think we can expect him at any time.”
“Should we tie them up?”
“No time,” Quinn said.
Cam nodded, following Quinn as he darted out and made his way to the main cargo deck. As they started for the gangplank, they heard the sound of horses and saw five men approach the Lucky Lady. Quinn and Cam ducked behind crates and made for the back of the boat.
“There they are!”
Quinn heard the shout and looked up. One of the Carrolls was on the top deck, looking down, his gun pointed at them. On the wharf more men were gathering.
“We have to go into the water,” he said to Cam, who quickly nodded. They ran along the deck, their speed increasing as they heard the sounds of pursuers around them, now on both their own deck and above.
There was the sound of a pistol shot, and Quinn felt it speed by him, striking a lantern and spilling oil. He and Cam kept running. There was another shot, like the crack of a whip, and Quinn felt Cam falter, then heard his brief cry. He grabbed Cam and together they went off the side of the Lucky Lady, hitting the freezing water as another shout went up. They went down, the water trying to tear them apart, but Quinn wouldn’t let go as he struggled against the current. They finally came up, and Cam was a dead weight in his arms. Gasping for breath, Quinn looked around and discovered they had already been swept beyond the lights of the river-boat. He could see flames on the deck, and increasingly small figures turn their attention from him to fight the blaze. If the fire spread, not only the riverboat would be destroyed but much of the wharf also.
Quinn felt regret for the Lucky Lady. But he realized that the fire would give them valuable time to escape. He took one last look. There was still a figure on the top deck, his gun extended as his gaze swept the dark shadows of the river. If no one else came after them, Quinn knew the Carrolls would.
“Cam,” he whispered, but there was no answer. Cam’s body was motionless except for the movements caused by the river. How badly was he hurt? Deep chilling despair filled him. Not again. Dear Christ, not again. Death followed him like a shadow, falling on everyone he cared about. The echo of that last shot reverberated in his ears, like the sound of the whip had for so many years.
His body was freezing in the icy water, but his heart pounded as loudly and harshly as a hammer against iron. His arm tightened around Cam and he allowed the current to take them farther downstream, his legs moving in steady strokes to keep them above water and heading slowly toward shore. He thought about praying but disregarded it. Prayer had never helped him before. Never helped those he loved. Terrence, who died under the lash for attacking a guard who was beating Quinn. His father and older brother, who died because they wouldn’t leave New Orleans during an epidemic, because they were anxiously awaiting word of him. And now Cam. All of them destroyed trying to help him.
He yelled out against the night, against the river, against darkness, only the cry died in the roar of the river. His legs started to stiffen with cold, and his body once more cramped with fatigue and pain. He thought about letting go, letting the water take him, before he killed anyone else, before he killed Meredith too.
Just then the figure in his arms stirred and moaned softly, and Quinn struggled toward shore. He could no longer see the Lucky Lady, nor, thank God, any more flames. Yet he knew that even if the flames had been doused, attention would remain on the boat for a long time. There would be too much danger of a spark igniting again. He and Cam had a chance.
Quinn moved slowly toward the bank, every movement a supreme effort. God, he was tired. His strength was gone, and only determination drove him on, determination that Cam wouldn’t die because of him.
At last his feet found bottom and he dragged Cam to the bank. He turned Cam over so he faced the ground, and water flowed from his mouth as he choked and sputtered. Then Quinn pulled Cam farther inland until they were well under the cover of the trees. Only then did Quinn sink down beside his friend. Cam groaned, and Quinn knew he was still alive.
But for how long?
With fury so deep and so strong that it rejuvenated a body drained of all strength, he leaned over Cam and swore, his every word an anguished cry in the night, a tortured moan that tore from his throat. “Damn you, Cam, damn you. Why did you come? Why?” And he fell over Cam’s form, tears mixing with the muddy river water that dripped from his face.
The harsh breathing of the man next to him startled Quinn into action.
Quinn cursed the darkness as he tried to find the ex
tent of Cam’s injury. He heard the rasping attempts to breathe, felt the movement of Cam’s chest as he gasped for air. Quinn finally found a rip in Cam’s trousers, both front and back. The bullet had gone through his thigh, and Quinn worried that it might have shattered the bone. The impact of Cam’s hitting the water might have also caused a head injury. Quinn had been prepared; Cam, hurt by the bullet, had not.
Drizzle fell from the skies. Shivers ran through Quinn’s body, and he felt the icy skin of Cam.
“Don’t die on me,” he whispered. “Don’t you dare die on me.”
The cold, he knew, was deadly. He had to find them some shelter, some warmth.
How far were they from the shack where he had left Meredith?
It was downriver from Cairo, and they had been carried perhaps a mile by the current. Not nearly close enough. He had to find shelter now, or they both would die. Already he was feeling the drowsiness that came with extreme cold, and he had to fight to keep awake. To give into it, as he wanted to, would mean death.
He looked around. He saw only trees, no sign of light, no indication of any farmer or fisherman. But his eyes caught a path on the ground. A path led somewhere.
He stood and moved along the path. His toe caught a root, sending him sprawling. As he pitched forward, his hand landed on something hard and curved—and hidden by branches.
His fingers skimmed over the find, and he knew instantly it was a rowboat. Because of fugitive slaves, there was a law along the Mississippi that all boats had to be secured. The owner of this one apparently hid his, for as Quinn tossed aside its camouflage, he could find no chain tying it to a tree. He did discover a length of rope attached to one end of the boat, and a paddle and an oilcloth nearby. His luck was changing.
Dragging the boat to the bank, he moved through the trees, mindless of the branches scratching his arms, and the cold eating into him. He only had to carry Cam back to the river; the boat would carry them to the shack.