The abuse had been gradual, so gradual it had been easier to submit than to fight, until he began to persecute the children. Never, even at her worst moments, however, did she think he would consider killing one of them, selling her to the vile man in the warehouse, or using her to control Martin.
They reached the corner when a colossus in seaman’s clothes carrying a duffle bag turned into their path and doffed a hat at Meggy. “Ma’am,” he said.
She saw Brill’s face and quickly pulled her ear. Once. She hesitated and then pulled it again.
Dear God, I hope what I heard is enough this time. Let this be over.
Chapter 36
“Are you sure it wasn’t three times?” Rand demanded, rubbing ash on his face to darken it.
“I’m not even sure I saw her tug ‘er ear twice,” Brill answered, stuffing a pistol into his belt. “It doesn’t matter. When I went by The Turk’s Head earlier, the woman had two linens on the sill. Trouble right enough, but she isn’t asking us to yank her out. She has backbone, that one.”
“Last night’s message gave us a place to go with the name. If we’re successful tonight, we can end it,” Stewart added. He, too, dressed in black. He leaned over to put a knife in his boot.
No one had seen Meggy all day, and Rand couldn’t help imagining what sort of trouble her signal implied. They kept a guard on The Turk’s Head night and day. Blair came and went once, but she wasn’t with him.
“If she could testify against Blair, we’d have what we need,” he grumbled.
Charles peered at Rand over a black scarf he had used to cover his lower face. “Too much?” he asked, his words muffled by the scarf. He shrugged and pulled it down to his chin. “She can’t testify, though. Pity. She’s his wife.”
Rand cursed under his breath. Pity didn’t begin to cover it. At least they planned to bring him along since, as Stewart coldly put it, “She won’t be there, and you’re likely to use your brain.” He ignored the jibe and just hoped for a chance at Blair, or, barring that, Sylvester.
A deputy magistrate watched them with wide eyes while he obeyed the duke’s orders to strip and dress in black. His presence made it legal. The overwhelming force of outsiders in the form of the duke and his employees ensured there would be no corruption. Rand didn’t care as long as Blair went down.
The five of them, including the deputy and one of the two other “grooms” that had come with Brill, traveled most of the way together. The third still watched The Turk’s Head. When they came within two streets of their goal, they divided by the predetermined plan. The building, an abandoned fish-smoking plant, had boarded up windows. Brill had scouted three exits but warned there could be hidden bolt-holes he didn’t catch. Charles and the groom took one, and Brill and the deputy, another.
That left Rand with Stewart. For a man who dressed and behaved as a gentleman, Stewart moved with remarkable stealth and appeared fit. Rand thought him younger than Will and Sudbury, but not much. He just hoped the inquiry agent could hold his own when trouble started.
They moved along the rough wooden wall toward the water. The door on that side opened directly to a dock for small boats, two of which were tied up there. Neither seemed big enough to provide Blair’s escape as Meggy’s note described. Stewart put a finger to his mouth to urge quiet.
Does he think I’m an idiot?
When a cloud moved to cover the moonlight, Rand slipped into the building behind his partner. With any luck, the others moved at the same time, but he could make out no movement in the shadows. The smell of smoke and fish assailed his nostrils. This is where they brought me, he thought, where they beat me.
Rage so great it ought to alert the entire building to his presence coursed through him, but no one noticed. The people at work were preoccupied. Rand could hear voices at the far end, behind a damaged wall. He and Stewart waited to allow their eyes to adjust to darkness, watched the shadows for any sign of a lookout, and inched forward.
The wall only reached shoulder height, so he could peer over and make out several figures at work as they approached. He had no trouble identifying Sylvester’s tall outline. He heard their leader—Becton, he guessed, but definitely the man who questioned him—bark orders. “Those are dry. Count and bag that batch. Blair wants ‘is share tomorrow.”
Becton’s operation didn’t stint on first-class equipment. Against the far wall, a boy cranked away at some sort of machine with rollers, creating the sheets of metal piled on a worktable where a gape-toothed man used a cutting device to stamp out blank disks the size of crowns and half crowns. On a massive table, teams of two, including a huge man Rand recognized as “the bruiser,” operated two huge screw press machines, popping out fabricated coins, one right after another. The machines looked modern. No amateur operation, this.
Sylvester stood in front of yet more equipment. He stood upright periodically to drop shiny coins into cloth bags. Coating the base coins to resemble silver no doubt.
Stewart gestured Rand down, and he went without question. They crouched behind the low wall and waited. The sound of his own pounding heart in his ears almost drowned out the sound of men cursing and counting on the other side. When the voice of authority spoke, however, he sat at alert.
“Stop and give over!” It was the deputy in their party. Rand couldn’t make out the reply.
“Why, I’ve come to arrest ya’ Enos. Button-fakery’s a crime. Almost treason, it is.”
Rand rose to his feet in time to hear Becton ask, “What army will manage that, do ya think?”
“Th’ duke’s,” came the reply.
Over the half wall, Rand saw Brill step behind the deputy. In that same moment, Becton hefted the table and sent two heavy screw presses tumbling toward the deputy. “Get the turncoat!” he roared, and in seconds, Bruiser had his hands on the deputy’s throat.
Workers ran in all directions, and some of the boys escaped, but Brill kept his eyes on Becton when the counterfeiter feinted to the side and tried to give him the slip. Brill shoved him against a wall.
Two men jumped at Rand. He saw Stewart go down but couldn’t help him. He fought off one attacker with his fist. The other choked him from behind until a well-placed elbow to the man’s midsection robbed him of breath. Rand reached for his pistol, swung around, and fired. The man went down.
“Don’t be a fool, Davey. Let Becton swing w’out us,” the man said on a gurgle of blood. The other, thinking that wise, turned and ran.
By the time Rand recovered, Stewart had also fought his way free and was going to the unfortunate deputy’s aid.
Sylvester, meanwhile, had grabbed up four bags of the counterfeit coins and run to the back of the building only to face Charles and the footman emerging from the shadows. He took three steps backward and turned, hunting frantically for an escape route. There was none. Rand felt a surge of triumph, eager to make the miscreant pay dearly for the beating.
Faced with capture, Sylvester dropped the bags he carried, and coins rolled everywhere, causing Rand to slip and slide when he moved to apprehend him. Charles, followed by the Murnane groom, leapt at the man. Trapped, Sylvester pulled a lethal-looking knife from a boot and slashed at the groom, slicing his arm. The groom charged forward with a bellow, but Sylvester backhanded him so hard he flew and landed with his back bent over the edge of the overturned table.
Bruiser had the deputy on the floor, gripping his neck while his face turned purple, until Stewart found a stout board and levered it sideways against Bruiser’s face. The brute fell sideways and let go, but he rose in a rage to come after Stewart. Stewart’s first shot didn’t stop him.
At the sight of Sylvester flashing a knife at his cousin, memories of his beating drove Rand into a blind fury, driving out all other thought. He strode toward the man, but the blank stamper tried to trip him. Rand shook him off and stepp
ed forward, ignoring the shaft of light that fell across the floor from the door.
“Blair, get this bastard off me!” The sound of Rand’s own blood pounding in his ears muted Becton’s voice. A moment passed before the most important word made it through the red haze that gripped him. Blair!
He turned in time to see Meggy’s husband, his face a mask of shock, drop his lantern, turn, and run. Rand started to pursue him, but a blood-curdling scream stopped him before he took two steps. He looked from the empty doorway to the center of the room where Sylvester held the duke’s right hand above his head in one hand and the knife in another. Charles pushed at Sylvester’s knife-wielding hand with his free one.
Stewart’s second pistol went off, the sound exploding in Rand’s ears, and Bruiser faltered, fell to his knees, and began to crawl toward Stewart.
Rand glanced back at the direction in which Blair had gone. Every instinct urged him to follow Meggy’s tormenter. Poised to run to the door, he glanced back at Charles just as his cousin went down under the force of a kick to his privates. Sylvester’s knife moved relentlessly downward, and the hand pushing it back faltered.
Rand leapt at Sylvester with a scream, knocking him sideways off his cousin. The knife skittered across the floor, and the villain kicked, bucked, and bit, trying to get to it. Rand hit him with the handle of his collier pistol, too filled with rage to simply shoot the man, and began to pound his face. He hit him over and over, long after he stopped moving. Pent-up anger over Meggy, over his beating, and over Blair rained down on Sylvester’s face. He hit him until Charles clamped a hand on his shoulder and spoke in a loud voice right next to his hear. “Enough. Enough. Stop before you kill him. Let the magistrates deal with him.”
Rand pushed him away, but when someone else grabbed his arm, the red fog began to clear. Sylvester’s unrecognizable face, a bloody mess, and his closed and battered eyes materialized through the haze. Still straddling the man, Rand slowly lowered his trembling fist and staggered to his feet with Stewart’s support. Blood dripped from his hand onto Sylvester’s motionless form where it lay surrounded by shiny coins.
“Is he dead?” he rasped.
Stewart bent over the man. “Not quite.”
“Left half dead,” Rand mumbled, remembering how the men had left him.
“Pity,” the duke replied, “but less complicated. Rand?”
Rand turned his head toward the duke’s voice, breathing deeply and trying to clear his head. When did Charles rise?
He felt his cousin’s hand on his shoulder. “Listen to me. We aren’t finished.”
Rand peered around the room, still dazed. Becton leaned against a wall, trussed like a suckling pig. Bruiser lay across the plank floor with a gaping hole in his chest. Their deputy, retching and gasping for air, would live. The rest had disappeared. Blair had disappeared. Charles regarded him intently, waiting.
“Blair!” Rand breathed. “He’s getting away.”
The stairs of The Turk’s Head turned sharply to the right halfway up. That and the narrow treads made it easy to stumble and grab for the railing, especially if a person wanted to delay. Meggy needed to delay.
Blair backhanded her across the face. “You’re not staying behind,” he shouted, every vein in his face swollen. “I ain’t leaving you here for that bastard. I’ll cut your throat first. He and his damned interfering cousin ruined everything.”
Corporal Martin shoved him back a step. “You promised me a go!”
“Then get her moving. The boat is in the harbor.”
Martin seized Meggy by the upper arm and half dragged her to the door. She stumbled behind him onto the cobbled street, took two steps, and fell to her knees.
Blair didn’t stop. “Move it, or I’ll leave you here to hang. Fat lot of good she’ll do you then,” he called.
Martin yanked her up. Meggy’s knees ached from the fall, and blood leaked to her ankle. She ran and skipped to keep from falling, certain Martin would drag her along in the muck of the gutter if she didn’t. She kept her eyes on his feet, struggling to follow, and missed whatever alerted Blair to trouble.
Without that warning, she found herself shoved between two buildings.
“Damn. No way out,” Blair pounded the flat of his hand on a stone wall. They had turned into a narrow alcove between two stone buildings. A crudely constructed barrier blocked passage to the back.
He drew a blade so massive Meggy gagged and began to shake violently at the sight. I’m going to die! Visions of her death at Blair’s hand flashed through her mind. He saw her expression, and his eyes glittered. “That’s right. I’m saving it for your lover boy, but I’ll use it on you first if you make a sound before I’m ready,” he spat in an undertone, his attention riveted on the opening.
Rand. He must be on the street. Did he see us? Blair stood between Meggy and the street, blocking her view.
Martin came up behind her, clamped one hand over her mouth, and clamped the other like a vice around her waist. “I won’t let him cut you,” he cooed into her ear. “At least not until I’ve had my reward.” When he chuckled, she shivered. When his wet mouth moved across her shoulder, her stomach roiled. When she felt the sharp nip of a bite, a shriek came unbidden from her throat, only to be silenced by his hand. She clamped down and tasted blood.
“Damn bitch bit me,” Martin complained to Blair who waved a hand to urge quiet.
Martin slammed Meggy’s face first against the wall and began to fumble with her skirts. He had them to her waist before she could bite him and scream in protest.
“You trying to get us killed?” Blair demanded hoarsely.
“I’m taking what’s owed me,” Martin said, still pinning Meggy’s shoulders with one arm and struggling with his fly with the other.
“Not now, you fool. They passed us, but they won’t give up.”
Meggy felt the touch of skin on skin and screamed again. Martin stifled it.
“Shut her up, damn you,” Blair demanded, his eyes on the road. “I didn’t say you could have her. You’re going to get us caught.”
Martin’s breath came in heavy pants as he tried to hold her down, cover her mouth, and push apart legs that kicked and bucked. The man seemed past reason, and Meggy’s desperation threatened to choke her.
“I said stop,” Blair roared.
Martin jerked back and fell to the ground, pulling Meggy with him in a tangle of skirt and legs. Blood ran down his left arm from a cut at his shoulder. She rolled away in time to see the corporal pull a knife of his own and lunge at Blair with a roar.
They rolled across the filthy cobbles, arms flailing, legs kicking. Meggy scooted back, pulled her knees to her chest, and slapped at her skirts, trying to cover herself while keeping her eyes on the flashing knives. A deep guttural moan followed by a loud gurgle made her gorge rise. Silence followed.
Both men lay still. When Martin rose up at last, her husband stared with vacant eyes, Martin’s knife protruding from his throat. She felt a surge of relief mixed with grief but had no time to sort out her confusion. Martin turned toward her, blood dripping down his arm to one hand, Blair’s knife in the other. He approached her, pulling at the waist of his trousers, and she scuttled back until her head hit the stone wall.
She heard screaming far away and knew it was her own. Her throat ached with it, but he kept coming, knife poised. Frantic, she pushed herself to her feet and tried to slide away from the knife hand, to escape any way she could, but he hit her, forcing her against the wall, and grabbed at the neck of her dress, tearing it. She knew he would kill her when he finished, maybe even before that. She prayed for her children, grateful they, at least, had been spared.
The roar of a pistol echoed in the narrow space. At the same moment, Meggy felt Martin’s hands go slack and heard the knife hit the cobblestones. He fell forward a
nd trapped her between the wall and his chest, before he slid slowly down her body toward the ground while blood gushed from the gaping hole in his back.
Shock held her immobile until another pair of hands yanked Martin away, pulled her from the wall, and hugged her close. Kisses, hard and demanding, ravished her mouth. She twisted her face from side to side and pushed at her captor—a dark-haired, black-faced stranger—and screamed over and over until she heard a commanding voice boom, “Let her go,” and she slipped to the ground.
“Let her go, Rand,” the voice had said. It made no difference. One more ravening man had attacked her. She curled up in a fetal position and began to weep.
Chapter 37
Bloodlust, Rand knew, drives even the gentlest man out of his mind to do things he would never do normally, to his shame and regret. For the things he did to Sylvester, and even less for what he did to Martin, he felt no regret whatsoever, but he had frightened Meggy. Sorrow and shame brought him to his knees.
He hunkered over Meggy’s shaking body, watched her convulse with sobs, and froze in frustration. His hands hovered above her, afraid to touch and unable to back away.
“Meggy, please,” he cooed. “You’re safe now. You’re well. It’s Rand. I’m here to protect you. I am so sorry. I just— Oh, God, Meggy, I’m so sorry,” he said over and over, his own tears making his voice thick.
A black jacket, slashed and bloody at the shoulder, fell down on her, covering her exposed skin and torn dress. He heard his cousin’s voice over his right shoulder, “You’ve had a shock, Mrs. Blair. We need to take you to comfort where you can bathe and recover. Can you stand?”
The Renegade Wife Page 24