Hart put out a booted foot. “Of course, if you are a-harborin’ the man we’re looking for, we’ll be forced to wonder just how loyal ye really are. Too pretty you are, Mercy, for tar and featherin’. But I’ll take your word for it. Mind ye lock your doors, and come fetch me if ye see anyone who puts your hackles up. Ain’t safe out there tonight.”
“Thank you, Mr. Hart. We will be on our guard.” And then, her heart pounding, “What does he look like, this man?”
“Tall, dark-haired, well-spoken. That fellow you sewed up ... he look like that?”
“In the excitement and terror of the afternoon, Mr. Hart, I can assure you I don’t remember much about him.”
He just looked at her, chewing slowly, his smile full of malice. “Well then, must’ve been someone else, I reckon, because if you’d seen this particular man, ye’d not be forgetting him so easily. But I’ll take yer word for it.” He spat over his shoulder. “Just mind yourself, Mercy. I wouldn’t want to see any trouble come down on yer head or that of yer family, ye hear?”
Mercy’s her heart thudded in her chest; Mr. Dorian was only two feet away, hidden by the door.
“And what is so terrible about this individual, Mr. Hart, that you’re banging on good people’s doors late at night in search of him?”
“Did ye not hear, then?” Hart’s eyes gleamed. “Dressed in common clothes he is, but he’s no minuteman and he’s sure as tarnation no friend of the rebels. The man ye sewed up, Mercy Payne, is the captain of His Majesty’s ship Thames, one of the most hated and feared men in the Royal Navy. He was sent out here to retrieve his admiral’s errant nephew.” He ignored her look of stricken horror. “Don’t tell me ye’ve never heard of him?”
“Heard of whom? I ... I have no idea who you’re talking about.”
“He’s Lord Dorian de Wolfe, second son of the Marquess of Morninghall. But everyone from Newburyport down to Providence—” he replaced his hat and his small eyes burned into hers—“know him as the Sea Wolfe.”
* * *
Mercy shut the door and was immediately pushed up hard against the wall.
“Don’t move,” he snarled.
Pinned as she was, she couldn’t even if she wanted to.
“And don’t scream. Hart is just outside, walking around the house. He’s looking for an excuse to come back in here and if you give him one we’re both as good as dead.”
“You’re the Sea Wolfe?”
“Shhh!” Just outside a window, Mercy saw shadowy movement and knew he spoke the truth. Hart wasn’t giving up so easily. Now he was inspecting the perimeter of the house, peering in the windows, hoping to see something by the dim glow of firelight.
“You tricked me!” Mercy began. “You told me you were—”
“Quiet!” he hissed, leaning up against her and all but crushing her when she would have struggled to get away. “Do you want him to come back?”
“I can’t believe you misled us, that you took advantage of our charity and put our lives in danger like that!”
“I had no choice,” he growled. “And I tried everything I could think of to get back to Boston. Now hush before that traitorous rogue out there returns.”
“Why, if I had known—”
He cursed, and the next moment his mouth came down hard on hers, his body crushed her up against the wall and all but flattened the air from her lungs, and she was silenced. By the force of his kiss. By his assault on her senses. By the magnificence of his big body, dwarfing her, the slight scrape of stubble against her chin, the raw strength of his massive arms, blocking her escape on either side of her head.
Outside, she heard the crack of a stick breaking underfoot, a low murmur of voices.
He broke the kiss, his mouth still very close to her own, his breath touching her cheek, his body still pinning hers, crushing her to the wall.
“Promise me you won’t scream,” he whispered.
“I can’t believe you just did that.”
“You were about to scream. I’d apologize, but I’m not sorry for it. And if you talk in anything more than a whisper,” he murmured, his breath warm against her cheek, “I’ll kiss you again. Now be still and don’t say a word. He’s still out there.”
Mercy could only jerk her head in assent.
And at that moment she heard a creak on the stair.
“Mercy?”
“Mother, go back to bed.”
“Who was at the door?”
“Just Mr. Hart, making sure we were all right. P-please, go back to bed, Mother.”
Outside, the murmurs had stopped. Hart was listening. He could hear them through the window, left ajar and facing the street.
Mother took a step down the stairs. “At this hour?”
Mercy shut her eyes and began to tremble. Please, Mother, don’t say anything about or to our guest. Please, just go back to bed. I beg of you....
A shadow loomed at the open window twenty feet away and Mercy sensed Hart and his two companions peering inside. If they didn’t move, perhaps Hart wouldn’t spot them in the shadows. If they were lucky, her neighbor would be on his way. If Mother went back to bed, she could let out her breath, which she realized she was still holding, and with Mr. —no, Lord— Dorian’s big, strong body pressed against hers, dwarfing it, and her response to his kiss still making her head swim—
“Very well then,” Mother said wearily. “Make sure you wrap up the remains of that bread in a cloth so it doesn’t go stale, and leave it with Mr. Dorian in case he gets hungry during the night. I’m going back to bed.”
“Damnation,” the man crushing her to the wall said, and in the next moment the door burst open and Hart and his son were there and Isaac was running off into the night to raise the alarm.
Chapter 9
Mercy didn’t even have time to scream.
Their guest moved faster than anyone on a wrenched ankle should have been able to do, snaring Hart by his neckcloth and yanking him into the house in a motion so swift, so violent, that Hart tripped over the rug and went flying, face first, into the stair railing.
“Father!”
The younger Hart didn’t even have time to raise his musket before the Sea Wolfe had yanked it from his grip, swung it around, and clouted him across the ear. He went down with a grunt. As his father, cursing, tried to get up, Dorian was on him, the muzzle of the gun stabbing into his kidneys and shoving him back down to the floor, pinning him there.
“Stay where you are,” he snarled.
Hart raised his head, blood dripping from his bottom lip where he’d hit the railing. “Knew that traitorous bitch was a-harboring ye,” he seethed. “There’ll be hell to pay now, mark me—”
“Quiet!”
Mother, her eyes huge and one hand pressed to her mouth, took another step down the stairs, her hand white against the banister. “Oh, dear,” she said shakily. “Oh, dear God....”
Dorian looked up at the older woman and immediately took charge of the deteriorating situation. “Mrs. Payne, please get your son out of bed and dressed and find me some rope. Quickly. Mercy, get your horse hitched up and ready for travel. Pack some food and warm clothing. It’s going to be a long night.”
The older woman just stood there, stunned and unable to move.
“Go, Mother!” Mercy cried, her head spinning. “He’s right. Isaac took off toward town and it won’t be long before he returns with the mob. We’re no longer safe here. We need to leave. Now!”
“But ... where will we go?”
Mercy turned toward Mr. Dorian. Lord Dorian now, she corrected herself yet again.
“Boston,” he mouthed to Mercy, so that Hart would not hear.
“Mother, just do as he asks!”
Her mother turned and ascended into the darkness of the second floor, and Mercy ran outside to the barn. Chickens squawked an alarm as she threw open the door, then settled back on their roost. In the darkness she could just see Sally, her white blaze cleaving the gloom as she peered over the door
of her stall.
The horse gave a low whicker.
“No time to give you a treat old girl,” Mercy said, grabbing up the harness and bridle, her heart pounding and her stomach in knots. Lord Dorian’s kiss was still fresh in her mind, imprinted across her lips, her mouth, her memory. No time to think about that now, no time to think about anything but escape before it was too late.
Hart suspected all along we were Loyalists.
Now, having harbored a Royal Navy officer—especially this officer—he knows it for certain.
Her fingers worked hurriedly in the darkness as she slid the bit into Sally’s mouth and the bridle over her head. She buckled the throatlatch, her fingers fumbling with nervousness. Don’t think about what’s happening, there’ll be time to think later. Just get Sally ready, just hurry, no time to lose because Isaac will be on his way back here at any moment with reinforcements. Oh, the irony! Here they were, loyalists pretending to be patriots, while the man they were harboring was a king’s officer pretending to be a rebel.
They were trapped. The safety of Boston lay a good ten miles away.
He’ll keep us safe.
She heaved the heavy harness up and over Sally’s back, and making quick work of buckles and fastenings, backed her into the shafts of their old wagon. Her heart pounded in her chest and outside, she could hear the peeper frogs, shrill now off in the night as though warning her to hurry. A dog barking somewhere back in town.
Shouts.
Oh, dear God. They’re coming!
She ran Sally out of the barn, tied her to a tree and dashed inside, where Lord Dorian was just tying up Hart’s hands while Mother tied a cloth around his mouth. Zachariah was beginning to stir. Elias stood nearby clutching a knapsack, and Mercy quickly grabbed his little woolen jacket and breeches and stuffed him into them.
“We’ve got to go,” she said urgently to Lord Dorian as she grabbed her woolen cloak. “They’re on their way.”
He nodded, relieved the younger Hart of his cartridge box, and shouldered the musket. Elias doused the fire at Mercy’s direction. Mother took the framed silhouette of her dead husband off the wall and holding it to her bosom, her eyes wet with tears, took Elias’s hand.
They could hear it now through the open window. Shouts, getting louder, out in the night. Approaching voices.
“Let’s go,” Dorian commanded, and using the musket as a cane, hustled the little family toward the door.
But at the last minute, Mercy remembered. She ran back inside and prying up the loose floorboard with desperate fingers, snatched up the velvet bag and stuffed it deep into her pocket.
There was not a moment to lose.
* * *
Dorian didn’t know whether to rejoice or curse when he saw the horse and wagon waiting outside in the darkness.
If only pretty young Mercy Payne had offered him the use of the conveyance earlier, he could have been well on his way back to Boston and his presence amongst these good people would not have cost them their home, if not their safety. Now, it was too late.
The horse had sensed the tension. Head high and eyes rolling with fear, she began to jig, blowing hard through her nostrils. Dorian untied her, steadied her with a soft word and a hand on her muzzle, then hobbled back toward the wagon. He put the musket on the floorboards. Gritting his teeth against the pain in his ankle, he hoisted young Elias into the vehicle, then handed up Mrs. Payne and finally reached for Mercy as she came racing back out from the house.
“I can do this myself,” she protested, her face white with fear as she glanced off toward Concord, but he allowed her no choice. The shouts of the approaching mob were getting louder, and he planted his hands around her waist, lifted her, and plunked her neatly down on the seat. She gathered up the reins.
“Head east,” he directed, climbing up beside her. It was a tight squeeze between the girl and her mother. “Stay off the road. Use the fields until we’ve put some distance behind them.”
She nodded, her face pale and strained. Dorian caught Mrs. Payne’s frightened gaze and wished he had words of assurance. Beneath them the wheels started moving, slowly at first, and then faster as Mercy urged the big mare into a trot, leaving behind the homestead she’d known all her life.
The cart bumped over the uneven ground, throwing them against each other. Dorian could feel the girl’s hip bone against his, the warmth of her thigh through her woolen cloak and petticoats. She urged the mare off into a nearby pasture, skirting the stone wall where poor Lord Charles had died and the horse that could have saved him, saved all of them from this unnecessary flight into the night, had stood. Both were long gone, and Dorian had time to wonder what had become of the horse, let alone his friend’s body, as they moved further into the night.
He twisted around to look behind him. Elias sat in the bed of the wagon, holding on for dear life and his eyes wide with fear as Mercy shook the reins and urged more speed from the mare. Behind them, far off across the darkened fields, pinpoints of light began to appear as the townsfolk came down the road, carrying torches and headed toward the Payne homestead.
“Mother, I’m scared,” the little boy said, his lower lip trembling. “I want to go home, not to wherever Mr. Dorian is taking us.”
Mrs. Payne was far to distraught to answer, only huddling over the framed silhouette and weeping, her ample body bumping against Dorian’s.
Dorian shot another glance behind them. “Why don’t I come back there with you?” he asked. “Your mother and sister can sit up front, and you and I can stand guard from back here. We’ll keep the ladies safe. What do you say to that, Master Payne?”
The boy nodded and looked away, not wanting Dorian to see his tears.
Dorian managed to turn and clamber down into the bed of the wagon to sit beside the boy, the backs of their heads against the wooden seat on which the two women sat. It was a better vantage point to watch for pursuit, and he quietly reached for the musket so it would be close. They skirted a low hill and turned. In the distance, the buildings that were the family’s farm vanished into the night.
“A long time ago, when I wasn’t much older than you, I also left my home,” Dorian said with studied casualness. “And just as you’re doing, I did it to protect my family.”
In the darkness, he could see the child’s throat working as he fought back tears. “Was your family like mine?”
“There are many definitions of family, Elias. There’s the family you’re born into, of course, but family can also mean your friends, your neighbors, and those who live in your country whose protection depends on you, even if you’ve never met them. Anyone who is near and dear to your heart who are worth fighting for—that, Elias, is family.”
The boy sniffled, passing a sleeve beneath his nose in the hopes Dorian wouldn’t notice his tears.
“My twin brother came into this world seven minutes before I did, so he inherited the responsibilities to our blood-family. And he serves our country in a different way than I do, as he was born into his obligations whereas I, by fate of being the second-born, had a certain freedom to choose what sort of family I would define and protect. I could not be the next Marquess of Morninghall unless something happened to him and he had no heir, but I could be the next Sir Francis Drake ... the next Admiral Benbow.”
“So you’re not a rebel, then, like those bad people back there.”
“No, Elias, I am not. Are you?”
Elias looked at his sister’s back as though for approval, then to Dorian. “No. I am not, either.”
“England has many enemies, Elias, ones that don’t fight with pitchforks and muskets but with ships and cannon, armies and navies. Enemies that threaten the safety of everyone and everything I love. I left home when I was just twelve years old to join the Navy so that I could protect England, and everyone who lives there. They—the people of England—they are who I consider my family.”
Elias passed the back of his sleeve under his eye. “Are you really the Sea Wolfe?”
“People call me that.” He gave the boy a conspiratorial look. “But I’ll tell you something that not too many know, outside of my close friends.”
“What’s that?”
Dorian lowered his voice as though confiding a great secret. “I don’t really care much for the name.”
“Why not?”
“I had a many-times great grandfather who was a pirate a long, long time ago. Everyone called him the Sea Wolfe, and in England people still talk of his exploits. My friends here in the Navy, they learned that this pirate was my ancestor, and they thought it was great fun to resurrect the name and reassign it to me, knowing it needled me.”
“You are supposed to be a very bad man, but you don’t seem so bad, Mr. Dorian.”
“Why thank you, Elias. I don’t try to be bad. But sometimes when a man does the duty required of him, it doesn’t sit so well with others.” He nodded to the darkness behind them. “And such is the case with your neighbors back there. The ones who wish to do us harm.”
“Seems like they’re the bad ones, Mr. Dorian.”
The wagon hit a stone, became momentarily airborne, and continued on its frantic pace. In the darkness behind them lights had reappeared, streaming out toward the distant road. Dorian cast about for something to bolster the boy, to take his mind off their pursuers. “And how old are you, young man?”
“Seven.”
“Well then, you are being very grown-up, and I’m grateful for your help in keeping your mother and sister safe.” Again he lowered his voice for the boy’s ears alone, and looked him straight in the eye. “Because that’s what we do, Elias, as men. As protectors. We keep people we love and care about, safe.”
“And do you love Mercy?”
Do you love Mercy?
Dorian coughed. “Well, now, Elias, we have only just met, but I, um ... I am very fond of her.”
The boy gasped then, his eyes widening with terror, and Dorian followed his gaze. The night sky behind them was lit up and Dorian knew that the Payne homestead had been torched. He touched the child’s shoulder to get his attention off the sight, not wanting him to have nightmares.
World of de Wolfe Pack: Heart Of The Sea Wolfe (Kindle Worlds Novella) (Heroes Of The Sea Book 8) Page 6