Jo Goodman

by My Reckless Heart

  "I sent her back to Charleston," he said. "And she moved north on the Underground. I had no notion of who might be caught by the net we threw out. Imagine my surprise when she landed herself in your home. I could hardly credit that you would risk Remington Shipping for such a thing."

  "But if she's done everything for you, then why is she in that trunk?"

  "Because I'm very much afraid she's turned on me. Rather like you, Jonna. It requires some punishment, wouldn't you say?"

  Jonna fixed her gaze again, this time on a dark object in the distance. "Surely you don't intend to pitch her trunk overboard."

  "That depends. I may choose to toss your husband instead."

  It was Grant's hold on her elbow that kept Jonna upright. Her heart hammered, and the blood draining from her face seemed to settle in her feet. She wavered but didn't fall. "Decker!" In her mind she had screamed his name. What came out was only a hoarse whisper.

  Grant's narrow smile was without humor, although he was finally enjoying himself. "That's right," he said softly. "I could be persuaded from making you a widow, but then I would require your promise to divorce. I don't know that you would give it, and if you did, I'm not sure I could be convinced that you'd honor it."

  "Put them down," she pleaded. "For God's sake, Grant. You can have whatever you want. My business. My designs. I won't say anything about Salamander or Chameleon. "

  "Very affecting, but also unnecessary. My mind's set on this. I've given it a great deal of thought, Jonna, and I believe the only way I can assure your cooperation and your silence is to prove that I will do anything to gain it." He gestured to the trunks. For a moment they both teetered as the men holding them thought he meant for them to be dropped. He stopped them with a sharp shake of his head. Losing both trunks now would change his bargaining position. "I'm going to let Jonna choose," he said. "Jonna? The trunk on the right or the left?"

  They are both empty, she thought. They have to be. Grant Sheridan could not be so cruel or obsessed. "I won't," she said. Her stomach spun again, and she sought the object in the distance that had been her focus earlier. It was at a different point than before, no longer on the line of the horizon, but nearer now, and with a shape and clean, sharp lines that she could distinguish.

  Huntress.

  She only needed time. Jonna raised her face to Grant. "You can't make me choose. I won't do it."

  "You must. If it would make it simpler for you, pretend I'm bluffing. You can always console yourself later that you didn't really believe me. It will ease your own guilt." He waited a long moment. "Well, Jonna? If I make the choice you can be assured it will be your husband who drops in the Atlantic. If you decide, your chances are even that he might be spared."

  Jonna felt strangely light-headed. "I can't," she said weakly.

  "They're still alive, Jonna. I made certain of it. Whoever falls, will drown."

  She shook her head slowly. Her mouth opened, but no sound was uttered. She couldn't do what he was asking. It could all be a ruse on his part, but she couldn't assume that. If he was telling the truth, how could she live with herself if she made the choice?

  "Why don't I tell you that your husband's in the one on the right," he said. "Does that make it easier for you?"

  Jonna closed her eyes. Her knees sagged briefly. Grant yanked her up and steadied her.

  "You can save your husband," he said. "You only have to give Rachael over to her grave."

  "Please," she whispered. "Anything you want. Anything."

  "I want this. It will make everything that follows so much easier if you have this moment in your memory."

  "Go to hell!"

  Grant pointed directly at the trunk on the right. "All right, men. Let him go."

  Jonna screamed. She yanked free of Grant and ran to the rail. One of the men who had released the trunk grabbed her by the waist to keep her from going over the side. "It's floating!" she cried. She looked back at Grant. "It's floating!"

  He was unmoved. "Not for long. It's not watertight. Give it time."

  Jonna's frantic eyes turned to the water. Beside her the other trunk was being lowered to the deck. She paid it no attention as the one in the water began to sink. Tears filled her eyes. "Stop it, Grant! Cast a net for it! I swear I'll kill you myself if you let it go!"

  "It's too late, Jonna." His voice was actually gentle. He nodded once to the man who held her, and she was released. Grant placed an arm lightly around her waist and drew her back from the rail. "You don't really want to watch, do you? Come below with me. Rachael will be needing your help."

  Jonna's legs moved in the direction he guided her. She looked over her shoulder once, not to her husband's icy grave, but to the trunk from which Rachael's battered body was being removed. The last tenuous thread of hope was cut. She managed to hold the rising bile back until they reached Grant's cabin.

  "Take this," Grant said, handing her a tumbler of whiskey. He directed one of the men who brought Rachael in to empty the basin in which Jonna had retched. "Rinse your mouth and spit. The next mouthful you can swallow."

  Dazed, Jonna went through the motions without question. The whiskey settled solidly in her stomach. The effect was at once burning and comforting. She faced the bed where Rachael lay. The young woman was huddled in a fetal position. Her eyes were tightly closed, and her entire body shook with cold. Jonna arranged the blankets over Rachael while Grant dismissed the crewmen.

  "I'll need some hot tea or broth," Jonna said. "She's freezing."

  "Later."

  Jonna got up. Without asking permission and careless of the consequences, she poured Rachael a glass of whiskey. She cradled Rachael's head while the girl sipped the liquid. Jonna encouraged her efforts. Her voice was soothing, yet somehow detached, and Jonna recognized that she had no feeling left in her. She was perfectly, blissfully numb.

  "Jonna?"

  "I have nothing to say to you, Grant. Leave us. I'll take care of Rachael by myself." She might have said more, but she was yanked roughly to her feet and thrown sideways into the leather chair. Jonna stared up at Grant, no expression on her face as he bent over her. He braced himself on the arms of the chair, effectively trapping her.

  "Have a care how you talk to me," he said with soft menace. "I can do to your face what I did to hers and with even less regret. And if you find that you care so little for yourself, keep in mind there is always someone close to you I can hurt." He straightened slowly. "You should have turned to me, Jonna. I gave you so many opportunities to come to me for guidance and support. There was that time you fell in the harbor. Why did you never come to me about that? Was it because Decker saved you then?"

  Jonna could only stare at him.

  "You never once asked for help after you were injured on the wharf. And the fire? I thought you would come to me then. You almost did, but Thorne was there and he took you away. It always seemed that you valued the counsel and protection of others. Colin. Jack. Decker Thorne. Why was that, Jonna?"

  Her voice came as though from a great distance. "You arranged all those things?"

  "You were so self-sufficient. You wanted for nothing. It was only meant to get your attention and bring it around to me."

  "I might have been killed," she whispered.

  "No, I was careful. There was never any chance of that."

  "Decker was beaten for asking questions about what happened on the wharf. He was put in jail. Was that your doing, too?"

  "He had to be stopped. I don't apologize for it."

  It was difficult to breathe with him so close. She gave him her shoulder and averted her face. "Get away from me."

  There was a moment of silence in which Grant Sheridan didn't move; then a voice from the doorway drawled, "I'd do what the lady suggests, Mr. Sheridan."

  For very different reasons, Jonna and Grant remained perfectly still. On the bed, Rachael pushed herself up. Her one good eye opened, and she stared into the sloop's dark passageway. "Falconer."

  It was the se
cond time in her life a prayer had been answered by this man.

  Chapter 16

  Grant raised himself up slowly. He stared at the man on the threshold for a long moment before his eyes moved past him and refocused on the shadowy figure behind him. "It can't be," he said softly. "It can't—"

  Graham Denison stepped more fully into the room. Decker Thorne was on his heels. The steady tattoo of water dripping on the teak floor reminded everyone in the cabin that Decker had cheated death.

  Jonna began to lift herself out of the chair, but Grant blocked her. She gave a heave worthy of a longshoreman and shoved him out of the way. Even Graham had to sidestep her to avoid being pushed aside. She gave a happy cry as she threw herself into Decker's arms.

  "I'm wet," he said, grinning. He clutched her hard.

  "I don't care." Her body was close enough to his to wring another spoonful of water from his sodden jacket. Cupping his face in her hands, she kissed him full on the mouth. "How did you... what happened... were you really...?" The questions were delivered breathlessly, separated by the sweetly hurried kisses she placed along his jaw. "I thought I would never... did they... you should get out of those..."

  Very gently, but firmly, Decker separated himself from his wife. He put her behind him by taking a single step forward and shielding her with his shoulder and arm.

  "Huntress has captured your sloop," he told Grant. "I imagine if you hadn't been so intent on terrorizing my wife and Rachael, you would have felt the change in the ship's pitch. They're rigging the tow lines now, and then we're returning to Boston. You'll have some charges to answer there."

  Grant didn't blink. He leaned back on his desk, resting one hip on the edge. His casual posture indicated indifference. His eyes did not. "Charges? You should explain yourself."

  It was Jonna who answered. "You tried to murder my husband."

  "Because two of my clumsy crew dropped a trunk overboard? You make it sound as if it were intentional. I assure you, I didn't know that anything was in it save my own belongings."

  Jonna started to step around Decker, but he restrained her with his arm. "We'll let a jury decide the truth of the matter," Decker said calmly. "There's also Rachael's condition to be considered. Unless it's your contention that she was injured by someone else's fists."

  Grant's attention shifted to Rachael. She was sitting up on the bunk, a blanket pulled around her hunched shoulders. She hadn't looked at him once since Decker and his companion walked into the cabin. Although he was certain she was following every word of the exchange, her focus was entirely on the stranger, and her face, for all that it was bruised and battered, had an expression that could only be called adoring.

  Grant's arms had been crossed in front of him. Now they fell to his sides and rested lightly on the desktop. He looked back at Decker. "We separated after leaving Faneuil Hall. I realized that I should have escorted her back to Jonna's, so I had my driver return. My worst fears were realized when we came upon her in an alley. Apparently she was accosted there. I took her to my home as it was closer."

  Decker's expression remained neutral, but his voice had a certain edge to it now. "And let her lie on the floor in one of your bedrooms."

  "I don't know anything about that," Grant said. "She must have gotten out of bed on her own. I know I certainly put her in one."

  "You abducted me," Jonna said.

  Grant frowned. His eyes were sympathetic as they alighted on Jonna. It was almost as if he felt sorry for her. "Is that the story you're going to tell to soften your own guilt? I've always thought of you as more honest than that, Jonna. My crew will testify that you came aboard quite willingly and that your intention to leave your husband was clear." Grant tapped a forefinger lightly on the polished desk. "That's certainly how I remember it. As my trip could not be delayed, and you refused to leave, there was really no other option but to take you along. I can't say how sympathetic Boston nabobs will be to your adulterous manners. I believe they will be less inclined to forgive you than me."

  Made speechless by Grant's twisted, facile explanation, Jonna simply blinked in astonishment. If he could toss off these lies on the spur of the moment, she had no doubt he would be extremely effective with time to prepare a defense. She looked sideways at Decker. He seemed unaffected by Grant's revelations.

  "Salamander and Chameleon," Decker said.

  "What about them?"

  "They're slavers."

  "Really?"

  "And they're yours."

  Grant shook his head. "I can't say what purpose those ships have been put to since I sold them, but I am interested in how you've come by this information. Is it possible you've returned to your old thieving ways, Captain Thorne?"

  Graham Denison had had enough. His drawl was soft, and his voice was without any real menace. Somehow that made him seem more dangerous. "I say we just kill him."

  Sheridan swiveled slightly and faced Graham. "Who the hell are you?"

  It was not Graham who answered. Rachael's whisper was husky with emotion. "He's Falconer," she said.

  Jonna cast a startled look at Decker. She had heard Rachael say that name earlier, with the same hushed reverence. When Decker walked into the room behind Graham, Jonna assumed she knew which of the men Rachael was referring to. Decker's complete calm helped Jonna mask her own confusion.

  "Falconer?" Grant asked. He had convinced himself that he had misunderstood Rachael earlier. "Is this true, Thorne?"

  Decker shrugged. "I told you I would help you make his acquaintance."

  "But the paper," Sheridan said. "The Liberator reported—"

  Graham nodded. "You must be talking about Matt Willet. I'm sure everyone in Charleston has come to realize they were mistaken about poor Matt. He's no more likely a candidate to carry the Falconer name than say... oh, I am." Graham indicated Rachael with his hand, but he never took his eyes from Sheridan. "But you have this young woman to tell you it's a name I sometimes answer to. More usually I'm known as Graham Denison." His flint-colored eyes shifted just once to Decker. "I don't mind killing him," he said. "Unless you want to?"

  Decker pretended to consider it. Finally he said, "I'm still hopeful we can resolve this in court."

  Graham's indifferent shrug caused him a moment's sharp pain. He sucked in his breath and managed to make it seem that he was only impatient with Decker's line of reasoning. "It's your decision, of course." He pointed to Rachael. "But I believe she'd be grateful if we killed him."

  Grant was wary, but not cowed. "I told you what happened to her," he said.

  "You've hurt her," Jonna said quietly. "In ways I'm only beginning to understand. You used her to expose stations on the Underground. You used her to betray people who were trying to help her. Tell us what really happened to your hand, Rachael."

  Rachael's head bent. She stared at her crippled hand. She was quiet for so long that Grant began to hope she would say nothing while the others despaired of her speaking. "He held me down," she said at last. There was no emotion in her voice, but tears slipped free of her lowered lashes and slid over her cheeks. "He held me down while they greased my hand with meat drippings. The dog they brought in was half-starved. It had to look real, he told me. It had to seem I was so hungry for freedom I would mutilate myself to get it. I screamed and screamed...." Her voice trailed away. She didn't look up, but she could feel their attention on her. "He told me not to worry. There would be people who would help me, he said. I should only remember their names and their faces and where it was that they took me in. And if I came across one named Falconer I should remember everything and tell him all of it." Now when she fell silent her dark eyes lifted to Graham. "And I have remembered, but I've never said a word. Not to anyone."

  Graham nodded. "I know you didn't. There were others he sent out, and they weren't as strong as you."

  "If I had never passed through Miss Remington's home, he wouldn't have seen me there and he wouldn't know about her station on the Underground. I wouldn't have told hi
m. I never told him about any of the others. He couldn't have made me tell."

  "I believe you," Graham said gently.

  Rachael used one corner of the blanket around her shoulders to dry her tears. Feeling was absent from her voice as she spoke. "I think you should kill him."

  Grant's dark eyes narrowed. His gaze seemed to pull Rachael's attention to him, but she didn't flinch. "Slut," he said softly under his breath. Satisfied to see her eyes darken with a mixture of pain and anger, Grant turned to Decker. "Let's have done with this, shall we? You have a story. I have a different one. We can produce any number of witnesses to support each of us. Is there really any point in pursuing this when Remington Shipping will be ruined?"

  Decker placed a light restraining hand on Jonna's wrist. "You're not making a convincing case to save yourself," he said. "It seems that killing you would be a more satisfactory solution than making your lies public."

  "You don't believe me about Chameleon and Salamander, do you?" Grant said easily. "I assure you the sale of those ships was done several years ago. I have papers to prove it. It's unfortunate that you didn't steal those when you rifled my files." A thought struck Grant. "You know, I may have something right here that would show you..." He reached for the desk drawer that was closest to him. Before it was opened more than two inches Grant cried out from the unexpectedly sharp pain in the back of his hand. At first he didn't understand it. In spite of where the pain was located he thought his fingers had been slammed in the drawer. That would have made sense. What did not make sense was the knife that appeared from nowhere and was now lodged deeply in the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. Dazed, he lost the opportunity to pull it out. Decker did that.

  Holding the finely honed scrimshaw blade against the corded muscles of Sheridan's throat, Decker finished opening the desk drawer. He did not glance down, but felt his way around the space. "I see," he said softly. "You do have something in here." He pulled out a pistol. The weapon's polished maple butt was smooth and cool to the touch. He held it out to Graham. "Is it primed?"