The sturdier man looked interested. “Yeah, then arter we gots what we could, we could tip off the gent that we hunted high and low and knows where to find ’er, and maybe ’e’d pay to ’ave ’er back. ’E wouldn’t ’ave to know we was the ones to roll ’er.”
The third and oldest man shook his head. “’E’ll kill us fer not bringin’ ’er directly back. ’E’ll know she’s gone. It won’t do.”
The argument continued until someone appeared at the alley entrance to see what the noise was about, and they decided to make their decision in a safer place.
They carried their prize with her arms wrapped about their necks like a drunken doxy. Arguing and singing, they weaved their way back to their favorite inn in a shabby waterfront district near London Bridge, just off Bishopsgate, easily within walking distance of their posh surroundings.
6
Rory Douglas Maclean stood on the wharf staring over the jungle of rigging and masts that filled this point of the Thames. His ship had returned and was now anchored on the edge of the current, ready for sailing at a moment’s notice. More than ready. He scowled and contemplated the fog rising into the rigging. His fool crew hadn’t completed their run, and the casks filling the false bottom made the ship lie low in the water, a certain signal for the customs officers.
He cursed silently. The fog would hide the ship for now, but it would also prevent its sailing. He couldn’t afford to forfeit his entire livelihood to the customs agents.
The seaman who had brought the message said the revenue cutters had been waiting for them. That meant they were out there now searching for the Sea Witch. It had been a bold maneuver to sail straight up the Thames—bold but foolish.
There was no time left. That villain Cranville hadn’t been at his lodgings when Rory’s seconds went around to call on him. There had been creditors enough on the doorstep willing to report his comings and goings, but they hadn’t seen him in days. The coward evidently had no intention of returning until he had his hands on Alyson’s money.
Rory couldn’t leave the girl with a predator like that hovering around her. What in hell had he gotten himself into?
Well, Alyson and Deirdre should be safely installed at Lady Hamilton’s by now. He wouldn’t have to worry about Cranville immediately. Pulling out his watch, Rory considered the hour and decided there had been time enough for Dougall to get back to the inn. They could map out a plan to sail the brandy out of here, after disposing of the obnoxious earl.
Tugging his tricorne over his brow and pulling the caped greatcoat close, he stepped over the sprawling lines and set out for his meeting in Bishopsgate.
Once there, Rory halted in the doorway of the inn to survey the inhabitants. A man in his occupation learned to be careful. Besides every variety of illegal goods, information could be bought and sold in these waterfront taverns. The man sitting at the bar could be a customs officer looking for the owner of the Sea Witch, or just another retired navy man reliving his youth. The secret was to know which was which, and after fifteen years on the run, Rory Maclean had a pretty clear idea of which men wanted his scalp.
He also had an exceedingly low opinion of British revenue officers. Not one of them had the imagination to search for him here. That old tar was just what he seemed. Rory relaxed and searched for some sight of Dougall in the dim recesses of the low-ceilinged, lantern-lit room.
The sight that greeted him instead roiled his stomach in horror, nearly turning him white-haired in the space of a moment. He thought at first he was hallucinating. Had he caught some fever that had him seeing an angelic apparition where there was none?
But seeing the filthy vermin laughing as she groggily tried to hold up her head with a wrist tied to the table, he quickly disposed of all fanciful notions.
Ignoring his first urge to pull his sword and decapitate every man in his path, Rory stepped back into the shadows, removed his gold-braided hat, untied his queue, loosened his jabot, and grabbed a mug of ale from an astonished barmaid. Then, disheveled and rolling drunkenly, he made his way across the room to the table where his particular angel awaited.
Pulling up a chair, Rory sat down without ceremony, splashing ale from his mug as he slapped it against the worn planks. “Looks like you gents got a morsel of trouble on your hands.”
A young, sharp-faced excuse for a man poked his prisoner further into the darkened corner between bench and wall. Alyson moaned unconsciously, and Rory gritted his teeth. The bastards had drugged her, and from the torn state of her bodice, that wasn’t all they had done.
Pain washed through him, not a crippling pain, but a vengeful, murderous one. He came from a breed of warriors with tempers fiercer than the winter snows of his home. He would slit their throats slowly, giving them time to swallow their tongues in fear. Then he would go after Cranville. Planning what he would do to that unlucky earl kept him calm as his new companions objected to his intrusion.
“Move on, mate. We ain’t lookin’ fer trouble. We’re just havin’ this ’ere friendly discussion.” The sturdier rogue stood unsteadily to block the newcomer’s view of their troublesome prize.
Rory modified his accent to match theirs. “If I were you gents, I’d get ’er off me ’ands just as soon as I could. The word’s out for ’er. Daughter of a bleedin’ earl or some such. They’ll probably draw and quarter the blokes unlucky enough to be found with ’er. Plannin’ on shippin’ ’er out to France, was ye now?”
The older man blanched and pulled his sturdy companion back down to his chair. Neither of them looked at the skinny young one guarding his prize with a possessive grip.
“We talked uv that, but we ain’t found a likely prospect to pay us what she’s worth. We figured Molly would ’ave ’er, but if word’s out, Molly ain’t goin’ to pay ’arf what we ought to get. I’m for takin’ ’er back to ’er bleedin’ old man what’s offered to pay for ’er.”
Rage roiled Rory’s stomach, but he kept a steady hand on the table. The other rested on the hilt of his sword beneath the greatcoat. “Figured ’at’s what yer were about when I saw ’er. You’re in luck, gents. I’m about to set sail for foreign shores this night, if you get what I’m sayin’. I can always use another item to trade. Where I’m goin’, they don’t even speak the King’s English, and she can squeal all she likes, but they won’t be able to nail yer. How’s ’at sound?”
“Fergit it. This ’ere piece is mine and I ain’t givin’ ’er up till I’ve ’ad a part of ’er,” the young one vowed. “I ain’t ever ’ad nothin’ like this before, and ain’t likely nothin’ like it ever come my way ag’in. Yer can all go yer own way and quitcher worryin’ ’bout it. I’ll take care uv ’er.”
“Hell, Tommy, with the gold we got tonight, yer can buy the fanciest piece on the market.” The older man turned to Rory. “’Ow much you offerin’?”
Judging from the way the skinny youth was holding on to his victim, he wasn’t coming away from this without a fight anyway. Rory named a sum that would have bankrupted him had he any intention of paying, then rose abruptly from the table.
“The tide’s turning, mates. I got to be gettin’ back to my ship. Bring ’er along and we’ll talk terms on the way down to the docks.”
The older two men scrambled eagerly to their feet, but the younger remained seated, blocking access to Alyson. A knife appeared in his hand, glittering evilly in the flickering light from the overhead lantern.
“I’ll give yer what I got in me pockets, Rob. Then the two of yer can take off with this nosin’ bloke here and leave me to me pleasures.”
“Tommy, she’ll ’peech on us when she comes round. I don’t wanter ’ang. You knows what they do when they draws and quarters yer? Your guts ’ang out right before yer very eyes, yer bleedin’ idgit. Now, let’s take the man’s money and get.”
Rory read the stubbornness in the younger man’s eye, and he didn’t wait for the knife to come arcing out of the night. With a well-placed kick, he overturned the table. In the same mov
ement he drew his sword and pointed it at the youngster’s neck.
“Get up slowly, Tommy, my boy, or you’ll not enjoy another piece of tail anywhere in this world again. Start contemplating what kind of females they have in hell, son.”
Instead of dropping the knife, the crazed thief slashed upward with it, intending to block the weapon cutting into his windpipe. He didn’t count on Rory’s rage, however. The sword never wavered, but neatly severed his jugular. As blood spurted from the wound and the rabid youth slumped, Rory shoved the body aside. He slashed at the rope tying Alyson to the table, threw her over his shoulder, and rushed toward the door before his stunned watchers could act.
From the corner of his eye Rory caught sight of Dougall’s worried face, and with a jerk of his head he indicated that he follow in his trail. Like jackals, the protesting thieves followed him, demanding payment for their ill-gotten goods.
A roar rose up in the tavern as a barmaid screamed over the discovery of the bleeding body in the booth, but Rory was outside on the street now. The dead-fish-and-sewage-scented fog curled around them, masking their escape. Bow Street wouldn’t have time to arrive before he and Dougall disappeared into the maze of alleyways between the warehouses and the wharves.
Rory waited until he reached the entrance to a dark street away from the long slabs of yellow light of the inn. Turning abruptly, sword in hand, he inquired with a cold sneer, “Have you any weapons on you, gents?”
The two thieves stepped backward at his sudden change in demeanor, only to find Dougall behind them, dagger in hand. They grabbed for their meager weapons, but Rory’s sword swung faster, disarming them with swift slashes of his blade.
“Too bad, lads, I really would have enjoyed skewering you like your friend back there, but unlike you, I don’t pick on the defenseless. Go back to your employer and tell him the devil is on his trail. Maybe he’ll pay you well to guard his back, but you’d better be well-armed the next time you cross my path. I intend to have the bastard for breakfast.”
Lowering the sword threateningly to a vital point on the older man’s anatomy, Rory sent the two thieves scurrying into the night. When next he looked up, Dougall was staring at him strangely. Without comment, he started down the alleyway, this time gently cradling his precious burden in his arms.
“Captain!” Dougall hurried through the thick fog after him. Not daring to make any mention of the woman struggling feebly in Rory’s arms, he imparted the news that had made him late. “Customs officers are askin’ after the Witch. Word is, they’re settin’ out at daybreak.”
Rory uttered a string of curses that carried them through the alley and down the street to the wharf, where a variety of small craft bobbed up and down. Using every foul epithet at his command, he located an empty boat that seemed seaworthy, lowered his burden into the puddle at the bottom, and stepped aboard. Dougall followed, slashing the keel line with his knife as Rory reached for an oar. Noises drifting up the street warned that the two thieves had decided to raise their cronies in pursuit. Soldiers would be down to see what the hue and cry was about in no time now. The water was the safest place to be.
They rowed swiftly and silently into the ebbing current. The tide was on its way out. The fog hid them from shore. Only the slap-slap-slap of the waves against the boat and the occasional splash of the oar slicing the water could be heard at all. Rory set his jaw with grim determination as they neared the Sea Witch.
The girl was alive, but he didn’t know how badly she had been hurt. He couldn’t take her back within reach of Cranville until he’d had time to dispose of him. And he couldn’t go after Cranville until he had shaken the cursed customs officers. He was not a man to dally over decision-making, even when all the choices were disagreeable.
As the rowboat slowed and hovered in the shadow of the larger sloop, Rory whistled for the watch.
In minutes his crew was raising Alyson to the deck.
***
Not until the ship maneuvered into choppy waters, throwing Alyson from the bunk, did she wake again. Icy air blew across the floor, forcing her to consciousness. Shivering, she struggled to sit up, leaning against the bunk as the floor lurched. Blackness surrounded her. She could sense objects nearby, and she struggled to think coherently.
She eased up on the bunk she’d fallen from. Finding a heavy blanket, she drew it around her, trying to keep her teeth from chattering. Another wave lifted and carried the ship, and Alyson tumbled to the side.
The fierce heaving of the ship didn’t aid the queasiness in her stomach. This, then, was what her premonitions had warned of.
As her eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, she gradually made out shapes. Pulling the blanket tighter, she tried standing, bracing her hand against the wall. She needed a door. That much made sense.
She trailed her fingers along the wall, grabbing whatever came to hand when the ship lurched, then moving again when she steadied herself. From the howl of the wind and the shouts above, they were sailing into a storm, but she couldn’t piece that together with her need for escape. Snatches of remembered conversations raised black fears, and she knew she had to escape.
She located a break in the paneling and searched for a latch. With a sigh of relief, she found what she needed and turned it. Nothing happened. Frowning, she turned it the other way. Nothing. She jiggled it back and forth, then pushed and pulled and twisted and lifted, growing more frantic with each motion. The latch wouldn’t open.
She gave a cry of frustration. A tear trickled down her cheek as she dragged the blanket more securely around her and studied the situation.
She was a prisoner, and if her cousin were her captor, she was most likely on the way to that French brothel he had threatened her with. She’d heard the gossip about those places. The rumors were all over London. They said Frenchmen would pay high prices for young English girls. Some came back to tell their tales, the rumors said, but Alyson didn’t think she would be one of them. She would die of shame first.
Nauseated from the ship’s rocking and the lingering fumes of ether, damp and cold and terrified, she continued her search of her prison cell. Nothing. No escape. No weapons.
Her mind finally grasped the fact that even could she escape this prison, she had nowhere to go but overboard, but it couldn’t grasp the fact that she would soon be sold to a house of prostitution. She wasn’t even certain what went on in those places that made people lower their voices to a whisper when they were mentioned.
Wearily she crawled back into the bunk to face the wall. Perhaps she would die of misery before they reached land.
***
Drenched to the skin, his feet shriveled to frozen bone in the puddles that his boots had become, Rory staggered down the companionway to his cabin and dry clothes. No sighting had been made in the last hour of the navy cutters that had been chasing them, and he felt safe in taking some respite before the storm worsened. For it would worsen, his long years at sea had taught him. At least they were out of the Channel now and in the long stretch across the sea. He felt safer than he had in weeks.
Not bothering to light the lantern, he peeled off his soaked garments, sitting at his desk chair to wearily pry off his boots. He could use a pot of coffee, but fires couldn’t be lit on a night like this. A sip of good Scots malt would have to do, and he lifted a flask from his desk and took a long drink.
The fiery liquid warmed his insides as he toweled himself dry. Then, before the heat had time to wear off, he fell down on the bunk and reached for his blanket.
His welcoming bed erupted in a crescendo of shrieks and flailing limbs, nearly unmanning him before he had time to register that his guest was awake.
Vulnerable in his nakedness, Rory hung on to the blanket. A clog caught his shin, and, cursing, he grabbed at an arm aimed at ripping his eyes out. As another kick found its mark, he flung his leg over the dangerous weapons of her feet. Alyson! How had he forgotten Alyson?
Because he’d wanted to. Because he knew he had exc
eeded all bounds of propriety by taking her into his protection, and that there would be hell to pay when everyone came to his senses. It looked like the lass had finally come to hers. Rory caught her wrists behind her back and pulled her up against his chest, slowing her struggles.
“Hush, lass, it’s just me. I forgot ye were here. Calm down and I’ll find some dry clothes.”
The reassuring lilt of those rolling R’s brought Alyson’s heart back down from her throat, and fighting hysteria, she nodded. The iron bands of his hands released her. Rory moved slowly, his hand hovering over her as if wishing to alight somewhere, and she almost wished it would. She was freezing.
But he rose from the bed and she heard him rummaging in his trunk and grumbling about wasting a clean shirt.
He returned to the bed and cupped her chin. “I’m sorry to have frightened you, lass, but it is that weary I am that I canna think. How are you feeling?”
Numbly Alyson gathered the blanket tighter. She was half-frozen and completely confused. She didn’t even know where to begin.
Rory wouldn’t be taking her to France. She trusted Rory. “Are you taking me home?” she finally forced out between chattering teeth.
“And where might that be, lass?” He ran his hand down her blanket-covered arm, trying to warm her. “We’ll talk in the morning. I need a few hours’ sleep first. If you’ll spare me the pillow, I’ll sleep on the floor this night.”
Where would home be? That was a good question, one Alyson’s numb mind could not hold on to. What she did finally comprehend was that she was lying in Rory’s bed, and she had no desire to leave it. She struggled up on one elbow and untangled the blanket to give him a length.
“If you won’t be uncomfortable, there’s room for two. The floor’s awfully cold.”
He hesitated. Apparently too tired to question, he sprawled his length beside her, accepted the offered cover, and promptly fell asleep.
Moon Dreams Page 6