Drake burst out laughing. “You think I’ll agree to marry that girl, after all? You’ve a better chance of marrying her off to the Prince of Wales than to me, at this point.”
“Oh, you’ll marry her. It will all be within the letter of the law. At least, that’s how it will look to your grieving friends, when your widow returns to England and presents them with the facts of the matter. Your signature on the wedding certificate, your ring on her finger, and a touching tale of love and loss on the high seas to go with them. Good God, it will no doubt make the papers.”
“And just how,” Drake asked dryly, “do you propose to induce me to sign anything?”
“Oh, it’s quite simple, really. If you don’t agree to marry Rebecca”—Tyler stepped smoothly from the cell, and then returned a second later, dragging a very alarmed-looking Payton Dixon behind him by the wrist—“then I’ll kill the Honorable Miss Dixon.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Payton pressed her ear to the brig’s outside wall, straining to hear what was happening on deck above her. She could hear the sound of water lapping—the ships had dropped anchor for the night—and, more distantly, the wheeze of an accordion, and a few snatches, here and there, of a drunkenly slurred sea chantey. Occasionally, footsteps sounded overhead. Apparently, some of the crew were still awake, though it had to be past midnight by now. Still, even with the comparative silence, she could not hear the one thing she’d been listening for above all others—the sound of Drake’s voice.
Was he still alive? She didn’t know. He’d definitely been alive a few hours ago, before the rum had started to flow so freely. She’d heard the deep rumble of his voice, as he’d uttered his vows. Had they killed him directly after? If only she’d been there! If only she’d been allowed out of this dreadful hole! She could have stopped it. She didn’t know how, but she was certain she could have. She’d stopped it once before, after all.
That time, however, she hadn’t had Sir Marcus to deal with. Lord, how shocked she’d been, when he’d stepped out of Drake’s cell and seized hold of her. How had he recognized her? She’d never even noticed him looking in her direction. How had he noticed, in a matter of minutes, that she wasn’t who she was pretending to be, when a whole pirate crew had lived and breathed with her for a month, and never known she was a girl?
Well, no one had ever said pirates were clever. Diabolical, maybe, and certainly merciless, but not clever.
How the color had drained out of Drake’s face when Sir Marcus had produced her! Why, if it hadn’t been for his chains holding him up, Payton was certain he’d have collapsed of shock right then and there. But he’d remained upright and, looking Tyler quite calmly in the eye, said, “If she’s harmed, you’ll die.”
Which had only made Sir Marcus laugh. Because of course what could Drake do to him? He was all chained up, after all, and very much at the disadvantage. Still, Payton had gotten a chill when he’d said it. Because she knew he meant it. Even if he had to come back from the grave to do it, Drake was going to kill Marcus Tyler. There wasn’t any doubt about that.
But he wasn’t given an opportunity to do so then. Instead, they unchained him, tied his hands behind his back, and dragged him away. Payton they left behind, locked in the very cell where Drake had languished for so long. They tried to chain her up, too, but the manacles that had kept Drake imprisoned were far too big for her slender wrists, and kept slipping off. She didn’t suppose they considered her much of a threat, since they just shut the door and locked it behind them—though she did think Tito looked a little sad about it. He had liked Hill, after all.
The wedding had taken place almost immediately afterward. Payton had heard the crew gather to witness it. They made any number of rude remarks during the ceremony, at which the captain of the Nassau Queen officiated. And when it was over, there was a general cry of hurrah—though Payton wasn’t sure whether that was because they’d killed Drake, or tapped the rum casks. Surely if Drake was dead, she’d know it. She’d have felt it, she was certain, if his life was suddenly snuffed out. She’d loved him for so long, she’d have to know it. She’d known everything else about him, for God’s sake.
Taking her ear away from the wall, she looked blearily about the cell in which she was locked. If he was dead, there was very little point in going on herself. Could she, she wondered, strangle herself with those thick chains, now lying on the floor? She doubted it. There wasn’t even a beam over which to throw them, to make a proper noose. Besides, she wasn’t going to leave this life without taking those responsible for removing Drake from it with her. She had killed men before—at least, she thought she had. She had certainly aimed pistols at them, and pulled the trigger, and seen her target go down. It was incredibly easy to take a life, really, if you didn’t think about what you were doing. She’d be able to take Sir Marcus’s life without a qualm. The anticipation of doing that, at least, was something to live for.
Glancing at her surroundings, Payton couldn’t restrain a sigh. How had Drake endured it, these past few weeks? She’d only been here a few hours, and already she was convinced she was going mad. It wasn’t the closeness that bothered her, or even the rats. She welcomed the rats, in fact. They were good company, and wanted nothing from her but what crumbs of food she could spare. No, it was the darkness she minded. Only the stingiest amount of light filtered down into the hold, through the cracks in the deck floor. How had Drake lasted as long as he had, without any light?
She leaned her back against the wall, then slid down it until she was sitting with her elbows on her knees. She couldn’t stop thinking that the whole thing was her fault. If she hadn’t stowed away, like she had, Drake would never have been coerced into marrying Miss Whitby. He’d have died first, she knew. Now she’d put her whole family in a horrible spot. Once they killed Drake, Miss Whitby—or Lady Drake, Payton supposed she was called now—would go back to England and claim Drake’s share in Dixon and Sons. The business would be run aground—to coin a phrase-in no time. And it would all be Payton’s fault.
Unless, of course, she could escape. She hadn’t much doubt she could manage it. She just had to get someone to open that door.
Of course, she knew what Marcus Tyler intended to do with her. Hold her for ransom. Oh, the ransom note wouldn’t come from him. Her family would never guess Marcus Tyler was behind the whole thing. And they would pay, of course. But Marcus Tyler would never let her return to them. He couldn’t. She’d tell them the truth about Drake.
So she had the honor of serving a double purpose on board the Rebecca. Her presence would insure that Drake did what was asked of him, and she’d earn her captors a pretty penny or two, after which she’d be killed.
How nice, Payton thought bitterly, to be of service to so many.
Above her, the accordion came to a wheezing halt, then clattered, with a thump, to the deck floor. A silence fell upon the deck. The last of the revelers had fallen asleep … or passed out from too much rum. She was probably the only creature on board who was awake—the only living creature, that is. Surely Drake, if he wasn’t dead, was awake, too. If only she knew! If only she knew whether or not—
A key scraped in the lock of her cell’s door.
So she was not the only creature on board who was awake.
Scrambling to her feet, Payton darted to stand on the far side of the door, so that whoever was entering would not see her until he’d come round the jamb. If it’s anyone but Drake, Payton told herself, I shall cause him a good deal of discomfort. Raleigh had once told her that if she clapped her cupped hands on either side of a person’s head very hard indeed, it would break his eardrums. Now seemed like a good opportunity to try his theory out.
Only just as she’d raised her hands, she saw through the gloom that her visitor was about her own size, though considerably wider. He was peering about the cell quite intently, one arm held at an awkward angle. “’Ill?” he whispered.
Good God, Payton thought, lowering her arms. It’s Jo
nesy.
“Jonesy,” she said, from behind the door.
He spun around, and faced her with eyes wide and startled.
“That you, ’Ill?” he asked.
“Yes, of course it’s me, you bleeding sod. Who did you expect? What are you doing here? You’re going to get yourself into trouble.” She couldn’t help it, this feeling of protectiveness she felt for this idiot boy. Yes, she’d broken his nose. But she’d been quite sorry for it ever since.
“I ’ad to come,” he whispered.
Touched, Payton reached out to him. “Oh, Jonesy,” she said. “That’s so sweet of you. Can you tell me … Do you know … Is Drake still alive?”
Jonesy squinted at her. Moonlight, very dim indeed, shifted in through cracks in the ceiling, just enough so that she could make out the boy’s features. “That bloke what was locked in ‘ere? Yeah, I reckon ’e ain’t dead yet. They’ve got ‘im tied to the mainmast. ’E’s s‘posed to stay there, with no water or food or nofink, till ’e’s dead.”
“Good God.” Anguish gripped Payton’s heart. She’d heard, of course, that this was a popular way of punishing sailors. Without food and water, tied all day in the mercilessly hot sun, they soon became dehydrated, and were subject to fits and hallucinations before death—excruciatingly slow—came. She supposed Tyler had chosen this mode of murder since it took a long time. Simply keelhauling him, while entertaining to the rest of the crew, would be too quick. This way, they could enjoy torturing him for days, even weeks, before he finally perished.
“Well,” Payton said. “I suppose, if you let me have your knife—they took mine, you know—I can cut him down. We’ll make for a longboat—”
Jonesy stared at her. “What’re you talkin’ about?” he asked.
She blinked at him. “Well, isn’t that why you’ve come? To help me get away?”
His upper lip, upon which she’d noticed lately a hint of brown fuzz beginning to grow, curled. “No,” he said scoffingly. “I come because I ‘eard ’em sayin’ you was a girl. Is that true?”
She glared at him, annoyed now. “Well, of course it’s true, you great buffoon. It took you bloody long enough to realize it. Now stand aside. I’m getting out, with or without your help.”
He shook his great moon head, although she wasn’t at all certain he’d heard her. “I want to see,” he said.
“You want to what?” She didn’t think she’d heard him right.
“To see.” His voice had gone curiously thick. The fuzz on his lip, she noticed, was glistening a little with perspiration. And then he was actually reaching for the front of her vest. “I want to see,” he said, in a much deeper voice than she’d ever heard him use before.
Payton couldn’t back up, because there was a wall at her back. She couldn’t go right, because the back of the door was there, and she couldn’t go left, because there was another wall. He had her quite effectively trapped. Jonesy, for whom she’d been feeling sorry a moment before, had her trapped, and appeared to be intent upon feasting his eyes on her breasts.
“Listen, Jonesy,” she said quickly. “I thought we were mates, you and I. Remember the molasses? What fun we had cleaning that up? I don’t think this is any way to treat a mate—”
But Jonesy wasn’t listening. His gaze was glued to her chest. She felt his thick fingers on the buttons of her vest. She closed her eyes, and uttered a quick prayer, asking for forgiveness for that which she was about to do.
Then she lifted both her hands and, cupping her fingers, clapped them as hard as she could over Jonesy’s ears.
To his credit, he didn’t bellow. He didn’t even utter a sound, at first. He only looked considerably surprised. Then a low sort of keening noise slipped out of his mouth. His hands left the front of her vest and went to his ears, from which she could see twin rivulets of blood trickling. He fell to his knees before her, like a man who’d been smitten from above.
Payton wasted no time. She darted around him and ran to the door. Peering out into the hold, she found it in total darkness, save for the dim light that drifted down from the open hatch above her head. Tito lay slumped on the floor outside her cell, snoring fitfully. One of his hands was clutched around the rim of an empty cup. The other held the keys to her cell.
Quickly, Payton stepped over him and lifted the keys. She eased the door to her cell closed and made quick work of locking the moaning Jonesy inside. Then, pocketing the keys, she reached for the knife she knew Tito kept hidden in his boot. It was a long, cruel-looking dagger, but it would serve her purposes adequately. As soon as she’d tucked it into her belt, she hurried up the ladder to the deck.
Lord, what a mess. She was glad she wasn’t going to be expected to clean it up. Everywhere she looked she saw unconscious pirates. There were men passed out against the mizzenmast, men draped across the pumps, men curled up in piles of rope against the topgallant. Where there wasn’t a snoring body there was an overturned bottle or a puddle of vomit. It reminded her of their London town house after her brothers, recently returned to port, had been out on a carouse.
Men, she thought, in disgust. Revolting creatures, be they pirates or peers’ sons.
It took her just a minute or so to reach Drake. As Jonesy had assured her, he’d been tied to the mainmast. But she could not, at first, believe his assurance that the man was not dead. Never had she seen a more awful sight than that of Drake tied to the Rebecca’s mainmast, with the possible exception of the sight of Drake marrying Rebecca herself. Both had nearly caused her to suffer an apoplexy of fright.
Stripped naked to the chest, he’d been tied with his back to the thick mast. Only the heavy ropes around him, cutting into the thick fur of his chest, kept him upright. His head hung between his broad shoulders, the taut skin over which still glowed from where the hot sun had beat down on it all afternoon. His arms were nearly hyperextended, they’d been stretched so far around the mast. Even in the light from the half-moon, she could see veins bulging from the undersides of his powerful biceps.
And that wasn’t all. It looked as if the crew had been entertaining themselves at the prisoner’s expense. Tangled in his thick mane of blond hair was a wreath of nowers—the same flowers she’d seen brought over earlier that morning, from the Nassau Queen, as a gift for the nauseous Becky Whitby. And at his feet lay a placard, upon which was scrawled, in crude lettering, “Came there a certain lord, neat, and trimly dress’d, Fresh as a bridegroom.” Payton supposed that was Sir Marcus’s contribution, since she’d spent a goodly amount of time with the crew of the Rebecca, and had never known any of them to quote Shakespeare. She had never liked Marcus Tyler, and now her dislike for him flared to all-out hatred.
It wasn’t until she saw that painfully scorched chest move that she realized he was still breathing. She’d taken him for dead, and had been wondering whether Sir Marcus slept here or in the after house of the Nassau Queen, and if so, how was she going to sneak on board and slit his throat, if the plank between the two boats had been drawn?
Then Drake breathed, and all thought of murdering Sir Marcus fled. She knew what she had to do. She sprang to action at once.
Tito’s knife was a sharp one, and kept in good condition by its proud owner. It was the work of but a moment to slice through the thick knots that held Drake against the mast. She had to support him to keep his unconscious body from falling forward once the ropes were removed, and that was when she realized she had a problem: he weighed a ton, far more than she could lift. Grunting, she heaved a shoulder beneath one of his armpits, and turned her mouth to his ear, hissing at him to wake up. If she was going to get them out of there, she needed a little help from him.
He seemed to hear her. His eyes opened, anyway—no more than mere slits, but the lids parted, and she thought he recognized her. Or maybe his legs straightened on their own accord. In any case, he was standing—at least somewhat. That helped, a little. Slowly, she managed to steer him in the direction of the only longboat that didn’t hold fitfully do
zing sailors.
There were longboats hanging on both the starboard and the port sides of the Rebecca. Reserved for use when the captain decided to go ashore, they hung suspended by ropes, and could be lowered into the water with the help of a system of pulleys. Payton had made sure that her long list of duties aboard the Rebecca included oiling those pulleys regularly, so she knew that when she began to lower the boat, there would be no tell-tale creaking to give her away.
She wasn’t wrong. Still, it wasn’t easy, lowering the heavy boat by herself—and since it bore only a single passenger, the unconscious Drake, the weight wasn’t distributed evenly, which made things even worse. But finally, she heard a splash. Peering over the side, she saw that the boat was bobbing gently alongside the Rebecca’s hull, Drake resting comfortably in the bottom of it as a baby in a cradle. Well, not really a baby, she corrected herself, since babies did not generally weigh so much, nor were they covered in quite as much thick, tawny hair.
But she hadn’t time to ponder that. In a flash, she cut the ropes that tethered the craft. Then she clenched Tito’s knife between her teeth, kicked off her shoes, and, trying hard not to think about sharks and jellyfish, swung her legs over the side of the Rebecca and dove into the sea.
The dark water was warm. It accepted her as welcomingly as a mother’s embrace. Payton’s heart felt as if it were bursting by the time she kicked her way back to the surface, but not from lack of oxygen—with joy. It had been a long time since she’d had a bath, and even longer since she’d last been swimming. She felt as comfortable in the water as she did on land, having learned to swim almost as soon as she could walk.
An Improper Proposal Page 25