by Joanna Lloyd
“I handled that well,” she muttered. At least she had eaten, although it could very well be her last meal. She no longer held any hope that William might find her. Besides, her disappearance might solve most of William’s problems. She pushed the cynical thought aside.
Although his actions had, at times, indicated deep feelings for her, he had still not told her he loved her. If only she could have that last night with him back. Surely, they could have worked through the complications of Isabele being his daughter. Even if Charlotte took the girl back to England, the birth of their child would ease the pain for him. Enough of dreams, she sighed. Her immediate problem was staying alive.
Electra was under no illusions as to Murphy’s plans for her. He meant to defile her, allow the others their turn, and then kill her. Her heart constricted in the knowledge her child would die with her, never having known its mother or father.
Thoughts of her unborn baby hardened her resolve. Never one to give up, Electra determined she would fight them every inch of the way. It would certainly help to know what they planned. She turned her head and discovered to her surprise that the men were not too far away. In fact if she strained, she could hear their conversations. Seconds later, she wished she had not.
“She’s mine,” snarled a voice. “You gets most o’ the ransom money but I gets to do what I want with her.”
“Ye forget yourself, man. I say what ye get and what ye don’t get. Ye’ll be havin’ my leavin’s and be grateful for that,” Murphy answered icily.
Ransom money? They mean to rape me, kill me, and pretend I’m still alive until William pays for my return? It just gets worse and worse. She struggled, trying to loop her fingers into the knots and loosen them. Damn, it was no good. Defeated, she laid her head back against the tree. What was she going to do? Her lip trembled but she bit down, determined not to cry.
Her struggles were interrupted by the now familiar sound of footsteps coming her way. She sucked in a breath as she saw who it was. He still wore his mask but the unease grew as she noted the piggish eyes and the sweating brow.
His left arm reached out and he gripped her throat. “Yer a filthy whore and it’s me will teach yer how to treat a man, not him. If I have to kill Murphy first, I’m comin’ to get you and mark my words,” he jabbed at her chest with his right hand, “I’ll have you, as rough as I want and as long as I want.”
His last words were lost in the thunderous roar of her blood as she noted the missing finger on his hand.
“It’s you,” she said, her voice strangled. “How — how did you get here?”
Critchley pulled the scarf from his face and regarded her with seething contempt. “Yer new fancy man reported me little bit o’ fun with yer to the captain. I got flogged within an inch of me life and was booted off the ship with only half me pay.”
She closed her eyes. Of course, he held her responsible. This whole exercise was his plan for revenge on her and on William. She might as well know it all.
“What do you plan to do?”
“Oh, I got big plans, duchess. I’m gonna keep yer as long as I likes and ask a ransom what’d ruin yer fancy man. He will think he is payin’ to get yer back. But, guess wha’?” He cackled and wiped his nose with his sleeve, bringing his face inches from hers. “Wha’ he gets back, the dogs won’t even fight over.” At this he doubled over with laughter.
As he straightened, Electra collected all the saliva in her mouth and spat into his eye hissing, “You filthy animal, I will kill you before I let you touch me again.”
There was no way to avoid the blow that followed. But she remembered Murphy’s cold instructions to Critchley and let out a scream as the back of his hand connected with her cheek. When her head stopped spinning, she opened her eyes to see Critchley on the ground, bellowing, as Murphy’s boot connected with his kidney. It was cold comfort, as she knew with certainty that Critchley would add this further humiliation to his lust for revenge.
Their camp was in a hollow, surrounded by brooding mountains and the dark night fell swiftly, creeping up the trunks of the trees around them. They were high enough that the air chilled rapidly once the sun set, and Electra shivered, grateful for the coat she had pulled over her light shift. Grateful and surprised it had not been ripped off her. Murphy moved her closer to the group and she could feel the barbs of hatred from Critchley’s unwavering stare. The men had been drinking constantly since making camp and she was not sure whether they were more dangerous intoxicated or sober.
Suddenly there was a gasp from Red. “Bloody hell, what’s that?”
Murphy took another swig from the jug of whisky. “Is it ghosts ye’re seein’ now boyo?”
Red jumped up, screaming, “Aieeee!”
Critchley clutched his groin as a dark, wet patch appeared under his fingers.
Bench looked bewildered.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” blustered Murphy.
Electra gazed with awe at dozens of ghostly figures beside the trees at the edge of the clearing. They were so black as to blend into the night but their eyes and the luminous white markings on their faces pierced the darkness. She blinked and they were gone.
“Where they gone? What’s happenin’? Oh Jeezus,” croaked Critchley.
“Pull yourself together. Ye’re just a bunch of old women. It be the shadows, ye fools,” said Murphy, a waver in his voice.
There was a loud moan from Critchley and a sob from Red as the figures reappeared beside the trees. Motionless as the trees themselves, the yellow eyes stared unblinkingly into their fear and then they were gone again. The apparitions were followed by a short, rhythmic clacking sound, its direction and distance indiscernible. Slow at first, the rhythm got faster and faster until it reached a fever pitch. Just as suddenly as it started, the frantic rhythm of the clacking stopped, and a deathly silence pervaded the night. The men hovered beside the fire, fear etched on their white faces.
Electra decided that whatever was out there, it might just be better than her current fate and shrank back against the tree to watch events unfold.
After some minutes, Murphy stood up, yelling at the men to cover his own fear. “Right, ye cowardly eejits. Don’t be sittin’ snivellin’ like a bunch of frightened schoolgirls. Bench, ye blockhead, take Red and go find out what be happenin’ out there.”
“Bloody hell, no way we’re goin’ out there,” said Red.
Murphy grabbed the boy by his collar and delivered a hard blow to his face with the back of his hand. “Ye’ll do what I say or I’ll kill ye myself.” He glowered at Bench. “You got anything to say?”
Bench shook his head mutely, picked up his gun and dragging Red by the arm, walked away from the clearing, into the trees.
The camp waited … and waited. Not a sound. Nothing.
The two men never returned.
Transfixed by the events before her, Electra jumped as a hand shot noiselessly from behind the tree and clamped across her mouth.
Her heart pounded in her chest as she twisted to see her attacker. A head appeared around the tree and split into a wide, toothy grin.
“Mmgghh,” the hand loosened across her mouth, “Yaraay, Oh God, Yaraay,” she whispered, tears of joy and relief running down her cheeks. The deft black fingers loosened the ropes around her hands and she pulled them free.
Murphy’s cruel head spun around at the sound. “I heard ye, girl. Who be ye talkin’ to?”
Yaraay blended back into the night and Electra slipped her arms behind the tree again. “I’m praying. I’m praying for deliverance from the forest devils. I don’t want to be taken like the other two,” she answered.
“Shut your stupid mouth girl, there be nothin’ out there.”
She felt Yaraay’s hand slip into hers behind the tree and heard the whispered words, “Ecca. Sista.” The comfort of the warm hand settled the fear in her stomach, but there was still danger and she had no weapon.
With her hands behind the tree, she tried to simulate the stabbing motion of a kni
fe to Yaraay. The woman was quick to understand and within seconds, Electra felt the sharp, cold metal of a knife blade in her palm. Whether she had the stomach to use it remained to be seen.
Her tight grip on the hard weapon gave Electra the first glimmer of hope. Enough hope that her mind, until then focused only on survival, started to register what Yaraay’s presence meant. If her friend was here, then the painted ghosts in the bush must be the people from Pretty Creek Camp. Electra blew out a quiet breath of relief. Although there were too many, weren’t there? She shivered, wondering about the powers of her tribal friends. But if Yaraay and the others were here then William must be near. Why hadn’t he come to her? She swallowed her disappointment and reasoned that he needed to disarm Murphy and his men to protect her. She slid the knife into her coat pocket, dropped her hands to her side, and drew her focus back to Murphy and Critchley. They were circling the clearing, their guns cocked ready to fire at the slightest movement, both sweating, despite the chill air.
A low moaning noise came from the bush and Critchley, spooked, fired his gun into the trees. Suddenly, in response, two figures with painted faces and howling a battle cry hurtled from the bush, firing their pistols. Critchley went down but, stubbornly, hauled himself up and barrelled into one of the men. Total chaos ensued with fists flying, bodies rolling, and sparks flying from the fire.
Although the faces of the two strange men were painted, the energy and magnetism of the tall fair-haired warrior grappling with Murphy was as familiar as the hand clenched by her side. With an effort, Electra forced her eyes from him and turned to watch Critchley and what could only be Callum, head-to-head in battle. Despite Callum’s size, the vile Critchley was holding his own.
A spray of sparks lit up the night as Murphy tackled William to the ground, toppling a burning log. Murphy had the upper hand, straddling William’s body with his arm across William’s throat. Electra watched in alarm as Murphy pushed his arm harder against William’s windpipe. He then lifted his head and grinned, the flickering fire distorting his scarred face to resemble a grotesque mask.
“Yer wife was a grand piece of meat, Radcliffe. She squealed like a pig she did, when I took her,” he said, as William gasped for breath.
She saw the cold, burning rage on William’s face and watched as, energised by his anger, he lurched his body up, threw Murphy off-balance and in one quick movement the roles were reversed.
“You’ll die for that, Murphy,” he growled.
There was a glint of metal as Murphy pulled a knife from nowhere and lunged at William. Caught off guard, William released his grip on Murphy’s throat to block the knife. The knife moved closer and closer to William’s chest as he fought for control.
Electra would not let him die. She leapt to her feet, ready to rush to his aid and was jolted backwards by a steely grip on her wrist. Yaraay, now joined by Billy, held her, shaking her head. Electra, weakened by her ordeal, was no match for the wiry woman.
“Let me go. I must help him. Someone, help him, please,” she sobbed, struggling wildly to free herself.
Billy moved in front of her and held his hand up, staring deep into her eyes. “This boss fight. This not your business, missus. Not my business. Sorry,” he said, still holding her gaze.
Her eyes were drawn into the mysterious depths of the black man’s and as she stared, Billy’s voice spoke in her head of ancient tribal warriors, dark-skinned and dark-eyed, fighting to protect their land and the honour and virtue of their women. She blinked, and as the sound of his voice faded, she knew she could not deny William the honour of defending what he believed was his.
She turned back to the broiling fury of the four men fighting in the clearing. In those moments though, something had changed. William, his eyes blazing with purpose and revenge, turned the knife from his own chest to Murphy’s, the sinews in his neck bulging with the supreme effort. The sleeve of his shirt had been ripped from his arm and she saw the sweat gleaming on his bulging muscles, as he and Murphy rocked the knife backwards and forwards between them.
Callum and Critchley rolled away from the fire and she tore her eyes from William in time to see Callum draw back his fist and slam it into Critchley’s face. There was a sickening crack as Critchley’s nose broke. Callum dropped the limp form and headed back to help William. At last, she thought, it will be over.
Murphy, however did not give up and in desperation, plunged his hand into the fire, grasped a burning stick, and swung it onto William’s back. In horror, she watched William’s shirt ignite and heard his roar of pain as the flames lashed his back. She sank to the ground, her eyes riveted on the horrific scene before her.
Then she saw William rear above Murphy, plunging the knife into the man’s chest. “That’s for my wife.” Then again. “And that’s for Annie Holbourne.”
A split second later a huge figure hurled himself onto William’s back rolling him away from Murphy and the fire. Callum’s body smothered William’s burning shirt and they both lay, unmoving on the ground.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“William! Will. No! Don’t you die on me,” she screamed, as she collapsed next to his still form.
She had no memory of Yaraay releasing her hand, nor did she remember moving from the tree to the clearing. Her eyes searched frantically for something or someone to bring him back. Billy helped Callum to his feet and no one spoke. She could not bring herself to look at the carnage on William’s back. And she felt her heart would break. Against all odds, he had found her. He had fought to the death for her life and now she might lose him.
A small movement caught her eye. His hand moved and then a faint sound, something between a growl and a groan came from William’s lips. Dear God, thank you.
She brought her mouth down to his ear. “Will? Will, it’s all right. You’re going to be all right.”
At the sound of her voice, his body tensed and he tried to move, grunting with the pain. The best he could manage was to turn his head and, opening his eyes, looked at her in confusion as if she was an apparition. Then, tentatively he reached out to touch her face.
“You’re alive. Thank God, you’re alive,” he rasped.
She stroked his head, sobbing with relief until he carefully hauled himself to a sitting position. They looked into each other’s eyes and then she was in his arms and he was kissing her neck, her face, and her hair.
Suddenly he put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back from him. “Christ! What have they done to you?” He gingerly touched her cut, bleeding lips and swollen, bruised face. His eyes welled with tears. “I’m so sorry. Damn it, I should have protected you.”
She touched his cheek. “Oh Will, how could you? It was all so quick.”
“Not just from this.” He shook his head. “From everything … everything.” He pulled her back to him, crushing her to his chest, seemingly oblivious to his injuries. Then just as quickly pushed her away and looked down. Tenderly, he reached to touch her stomach. “Did he — ? Is our baby all right?” His thoughts seemed too awful to put into words.
She shook her head. “No. He didn’t. How — how did you know … about the baby?”
A gruff voice interrupted them. “Are ye all right, lass?”
She tried to smile through her swollen lips. “I’m going to be fine.” She looked over at her husband. “Just fine.” Callum’s eyes moved from one to the other and he nodded, seeming satisfied.
Electra finally allowed her eyes to move to William’s back. The sight of the shrivelled black lumps of fabric in his red, raw skin made her want to weep again for what they had all endured.
With a deep breath, she turned to Callum. “We must treat these burns immediately. Is there anything we can find to ease the pain?”
“It’s all in hand, lass. And here come the bonnie wee nurses now.”
Electra looked up to see Yaraay and Waruu running toward them with a small bark container and sheets of paperbark. As they knelt beside William, Electra moved closer and t
he three women gently pulled William’s shirt from his back. Her heart contracted at his gasps of pain but when she asked if they should stop, he shook his head. Once all remnants of the charred fabric were removed, Waruu handed the bark container to Electra and gestured for her to spread the sticky substance over his back. Without question, she began the task. It was only after her third handful she realised she was spreading wild honey over the burns. When his back was covered, the other two women placed the paper bark over the honey and gently wound strips of fabric, torn from Electra’s shift, around his body to hold the bark in place.
Breathless from pain, William indicated he needed water. Unable to watch him suffer further, Electra volunteered to get a water container from the saddlebags. As she walked into the forest, she had to remind herself that there were many ways this could have ended. Despite her ordeal and William’s injuries, at least they were alive. With this thought held firmly in her mind, she followed Billy’s directions and headed toward the supplies.
“Aargh! Hmph … ” Her cry was muffled by the leaves and dirt in her mouth as she landed face down on the ground. Muttering at her clumsiness, she pushed with her arms to raise herself when her head was jolted back by a violent tug of her hair. A pudgy, blood-smattered hand smacked against her bruised lips, muffling any further attempts to make a sound.
Rancid breath assailed her nostrils as her attacker spoke into her ear. “Yer filthy whore. Me whole life turned to shit the day I laid eyes on yer an’ I’ll make yer pay if it’s the last thing I do.”
With a desperate twist, she freed herself from his hands and turned to face him. In stunned disbelief she stared into the cold hatred of Critchley’s eyes. The bile rose in her throat as she realised with dull certainty that this time he would exact his revenge. His weight was on her legs, making it impossible to run. Thanks to Callum, his nose was a bloody pulp spread across his face; he was seriously injured, bleeding from the bullet wound and had no hope of escape. He had nothing to lose by killing her.
A white-hot rage built inside her. Critchley and others like him had taken so much from her already. He would take no more. Her eyes remained riveted on his as her hand slid to the pocket of her coat.