At the girls’ nods, Alexander turned to their captor. “Untie them. Now.”
Patch approached, and the girls cringed away from him, as if they expected blows. Oh, yes, Alexander was going to take a great deal of pleasure in tearing the man apart joint by joint. Just as soon as his daughters were free, he’d no longer have to worry about frightening either of them.
The moment their bonds were released, Francesca and Helena jumped up and trotted over to Alexander. He pulled them both into an embrace, hugging extra tight, to erase the look of fear on their faces, he told himself. He thrust aside the possibility this was the last he’d ever see of them. He couldn’t think that way. They’d no one left in the world but him. He had to come back. He’d taken on that duty of the heart the moment he’d agreed to marry their mother.
“Go now,” he said, releasing them. “Just like I said. I’ll be along in no time.”
But they didn’t obey immediately. They both went to Henrietta, who kissed them on the top of their heads and murmured something he didn’t catch. What caught was his heart. She was behaving as a mother would.
You can’t think of that now. She doesn’t want to see you again. You might not even make it out of this alive.
“All right.” He turned to Scruffy the moment the girls disappeared down the passage. “You have what you want. I’m here.”
Scruffy still stood next to Henrietta, not pointing the pistol at her, exactly, but holding it ready, in case he should need it. Toying, like a cat with its prey. “But we still do not have what we want. You have in your possession something that does not belong to you.”
Alexander withdrew the box from his waistcoat. “It’s all yours if this is what it takes to buy our freedom.”
“I have no need of that.”
Alexander shook his head in disbelief. “Then what the hell do you want?”
From behind him, Patch spoke, and something solid and round pressed into Alexander’s spine. “That which is in the box.”
“How do you know what is in it?”
“I know, because I have been sent to retrieve it, and I was given an explanation of where I might reasonably expect to find it.”
“Then take it, and open it, because there’s some secret trick that I am unable to work out, or use your damned pistol and shoot the thing to bits. I know no other way of accessing its contents.”
The pistol still firmly set to Alexander’s back, Patch shifted sideways until he could reach the box. He ran his fingers over the wood, as if he knew its secret already. Doubtless, the case itself was a treasure, and the trick to opening either compartment could not be common knowledge. Nilmani would have no choice but to let them in on the secret, even if the pair did look like common thieves. Whatever was hidden in there, the Raja might be fortunate to get it back. Something valuable enough to trail to England—something worth killing for—would certainly buy these two passage anywhere in the world, with enough left over to build a luxurious life.
If they were thieves. If they truly represented Nilmani, did that make Marianne’s father the thief? Alexander could no longer be certain.
“You might do me the courtesy of telling me what you’re so damned fired up to have that you’ve chased me halfway around the world to get your paws on it,” Alexander drawled as the other man continued to inspect the box with his fingers.
“You know very well. You must have seen it among your wife’s things.”
“Not if it’s been hidden all this time in a box I’ve no clue how to open. The most I’ve ever heard is the rattle.” And that only once they’d removed Marianne’s belongings.
Patch left off with his fingers, seized the box, and gave it a shake. Whatever was inside made its presence known. Hard, solid, small. Beyond that, its exact nature escaped Alexander. Although if he’d supposedly seen it among his wife’s things, and the box normally held jewelry …
“You are fortunate, it seems to be in there still,” Patch said.
“What is it?”
“Do you truly not know? Has your manservant not told you?”
“Satya? What has he to do with any of this?” Although his heart rapidly misgave him. Satya had disappeared at an inconvenient time, certainly. Might he be behind whatever Patch and Scruffy wanted? Satya came from Nilmani, the same as these two.
But that made no sense. Satya could have made off with the box at any time before they’d even left India, handed it over, and returned to his service with Alexander none the wiser. Satya would never have had to risk himself in the fire.
“He was there that night.”
Alexander was lost now. “What night?”
“The night you earned his service to you as a reward.”
“What? This has to do with the night I saved the Raja’s son?”
“That same night, one Mr. Foster stole something that did not belong to him.”
Alexander searched his memory. Nilmani had hosted a reception, one of many for the East India merchants and local dignitaries alike. Alexander had noticed the Raja’s boy growing paler and paler, breaking out in the sweat and chills of malaria. He’d rushed in with the cure, but in the general worry and panic—in the distraction—surrounding the boy’s illness, Marianne’s father might well have helped himself to a trinket.
But the entire box containing the treasure? Foster had claimed it was a gift from Nilmani. Had he stolen that, too? Or had he planted something else in the secret compartment? A chill passed over Alexander as he recalled his father-in-law’s words mere days before his death. Just making sure everything is where it belongs.
“What did he steal?” Alexander asked at last.
“Nilmani owned a ruby.”
“As I recall, he owned many rubies.”
“But this one was special. It is as large as a quail’s egg and clear enough that light passes unbroken through it. It is also an heirloom, and his power is tied to it. As long as he remains without it, his reign is in peril. Anyone might usurp the throne.”
Good God, and how had Foster managed to make off with something so valuable? Surely the thing had been under heavy guard if it was such an important symbol. Unless he’d known, unless he’d planned to take it in any case and leapt on an opportunity.
“Anyone still might,” Alexander pointed out. “The voyage here took months, and you have yet to return. By the time you reach home, your Nilmani may be deposed.” If they went back to India.
“Nevertheless, it is my sworn duty to return it to its proper place.”
“You have it, then. It’s in the box. Take it and be gone. If it will end things, I’ll even secure you passage on an East India ship.” And to the devil with their final destination—whether Calcutta or some forsaken island in the middle of the ocean—as long as they let Henrietta go. “There’s no need to hold us any longer.”
“There is still the matter of price.”
A chill pierced Alexander to the marrow. “Price? I’m giving it back to you.”
“For the insolence of the theft, the Raja exacts a price in blood.” Patch trained his pistol on Henrietta and with a jerk of his head, gave an order in Bengali.
Scruffy lowered his weapon and plucked a length of rope from the cave floor. He yanked Alexander’s hands behind his back and bound them. Alexander struggled, but the knots tightened cruelly with every twitch of his fingers.
“Foster is already dead,” he protested, his hands growing numb. No more doubt—that death was in connection to this ruby, too.
Patch kept his pistol trained on Henrietta while Scruffy bound her hands in turn. “Foster died before the ruby could be restored to its owner. The price has not yet been paid.”
Was that it, then? Was that why they’d gone after Marianne, as well?
“If you ask me, it bloody well has,” Alexander muttered.
“There are times when death is preferable.” Patch stepped closer, blocking Alexander’s field of vision with his ravaged face. “Do you see this?” He pointed to his empty eye
socket. “The Raja took one eye for failing. If I fail again, he will not kill me, not outright. He’ll take the other eye and cast me into the streets of Calcutta to find my own way.”
“Can anybody pay this price?” Henrietta. Christ, did she have to speak up now?
“What the hell are you talking about?” Alexander demanded. “You cannot even consider what you’re thinking.”
“Why can’t I?”
“Why would you?” Yes, that was the question. She had no stake in this affair. It was all on him. Asking her to pay the ultimate price for a curse he’d brought back with him was unfathomable. Unless she was attempting to create a distraction.
“I’ve no one left, while you have the girls.” How could she discuss the matter so calmly?
Good Christ, she was in earnest. “No.”
“It can’t possibly be you. Who will see to your daughters? And they’ve already lost their mother. Would you leave them orphaned?”
“I can’t let you do it.” He had to find a way out, but he was outnumbered.
Pistol wavering between Alexander and Henrietta, Patch simply laughed, his yellowed teeth glimmering in the shadow.
How Alexander wanted to shove them down the man’s throat.
“I’d say we’re at an impasse.” Henrietta screwed her eyes shut. “Just get it over with.”
“No!” Alexander roared. He could not witness another death, most especially not of a loved one.
Not of the woman he loved.
God, yes, he loved her. He always had. There was no other name for feelings that had endured so long, or for the deep, deep desire to protect her now, even at the cost of his own life.
Heedless of the weapon at his back, he lunged at Scruffy. The pistol came up, but Alexander rammed it out of the way. The shot echoed through the chamber. Henrietta screamed and crumpled as if she had been hit. Alexander cast himself after her. He pressed himself to her form as close as he could get to an embrace with his hands secured behind him.
Patch reared back and sent a savage kick into Alexander’s ribs. Bones splintered beneath the man’s booted foot. Pain seared his side, the sensation grimly familiar, like the waves dashing him against the rocks.
Relentless as the pounding surf, another kick smashed into his flank, tearing the air from his lungs.
Another kick. He gritted his teeth and fought off the impending blackness.
Another. He must keep Henrietta alive. He must.
Another. But he could not do so if he succumbed.
“You think I cannot have my blood price?” Patch said between kicks. “I do not need a pistol to kill. This way is more satisfying.”
“Stop! Stop this instant!” Vaguely Alexander heard Henrietta’s pleas, but they had no effect on his captor. The man seemed determined to kick his splintered ribs into his heart like a spear.
Another shout echoed through the chamber. Another voice, a different one. One that spoke Bengali. So reinforcements had arrived. Christ, it was all over then.
With the last of his strength, he summoned the will to whisper. “Henrietta, I love you.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
At the crack of the pistol, Henrietta flinched. With a cry, she hurled herself at Alexander’s prone body. Her bearded captor grabbed her from behind, hauled her upright, and poked his weapon into her spine.
Thump, thump, thump! The one-eyed man’s foot smashed into Alexander’s ribs.
With each blow, an answering ache throbbed in Henrietta’s chest. Dear heavens, his poor ribs. She struggled against an iron grip. “No! Stop! Stop kicking him!”
A metallic snap penetrated the fog in her brain.
The second pistol cocking.
“You want it to stop?” the man growled. “I can stop it another way.”
“No!” She lunged at Alexander, desperate to set herself between him and that relentless boot.
A new voice bellowed foreign words. Oh, dear God, not another of these heathens. One-Eye turned toward the sound and froze. Henrietta’s captor wrenched her arms behind her, shoved the firearm against her head, and pivoted.
Satya. He stood at the back of the cave, illuminated in the flickering light, holding a pistol of his own.
Her heart accelerated.
Part of her had always doubted his loyalty. Was he about to confirm that mistrust? But he wasn’t alone. Beside him, Tilly advanced, a pirate’s cutlass in his grip, a toothless grin broadening across his wrinkled face.
“Where …” She couldn’t even voice the question, but the lone word echoed through the cavern. Where, indeed, had they come from? And why hadn’t they turned up sooner? For that matter, why hadn’t they rescued the girls?
Something brushed past her skirts. Choking back a cry of alarm, she stumbled against her captor. A ghostly shape slipped past her ankles, feline tail bushed double its usual size. Albemarle?
Satya stepped forward, his face set in lines of rigid determination. Henrietta’s captor tightened his already merciless grip, a shackle locked about her waist squeezing the air from her lungs. Her pulse raced, each throbbing beat a dull ache in her neck. The man stood like an impenetrable wall behind her, the scent of his sweat sour, the barrel of his firearm cold against her temple.
Jaw firm, Satya checked himself. His stance radiated grim desperation as if he was ready to fight to the death—even his own. He shouted more unintelligible words, and their abductors replied, the echoes multiplying each syllable into a cacophony. All Henrietta understood was if she didn’t act, this standoff might last a week.
Or at least until One-Eye reloaded.
Against her captor’s arm, she drew a breath—possibly her last, but if the others had a chance to escape, her sacrifice would be worth it. Raising her foot, she stomped. Her shoe collided with a heavy boot.
The man’s grip loosened.
She ducked.
Bang!
The report echoed through the chamber. Her captor let out a howl of pain, and Henrietta hit the cave floor with a thud. Struggling for breath, she opened an eye. Albemarle clung to the man’s thigh, claws sunk deep. With a savage kick, he thrust the cat away, but the distraction was sufficient. With an unearthly cry, Satya rushed the man.
Dodging the brawl, Henrietta battled the panic threatening to consume her. Where was Alexander? She squinted through the flickering light. There. He lay a foot or two away, face pale, eyes shut. She twisted her hands, but the bonds bit into her wrists. Nothing for it, then. Drawing her knees under her, feet tangled in her skirts, she inched forward on her belly.
One-Eye grappled with his pistol, trying to reload, but Tilly, surprisingly agile for a man of his years, jumped in front of him. With a sneer, One-Eye dropped his firearm and pulled a curved knife from his belt. He pressed the blade to Alexander’s throat and grinned, as if to say, Go on, then. Try it and see what happens.
“No!” Henrietta couldn’t hold in her cry.
With barely a glance at her, he dug in with the blade. A line of blood trickled along its edge and down Alexander’s neck.
Tilly shouted more unintelligible words, and One-Eye reacted. His single eye narrowed and focused on his adversary. Henrietta eased nearer. Not that she could do a thing about the knife at Alexander’s throat when her hands were tied. She might only succeed in witnessing a slit jugular up close, but she had to get to him.
Tilly lunged, and his cutlass swung in a lethal arc toward One-Eye’s head.
Certain—one way or another—she was about to witness something horrid, Henrietta looked away. Blades clashed, but nobody fell. Her stomach lurched. If One-Eye had survived that blow, what of Alexander?
Reluctantly, she turned back. Both fights had moved away. Grunts, shouts, the harsh screech of metal collided in her ears. And Alexander still lay on the cave floor, blood oozing from his neck. The cut had widened—no doubt One-Eye had jumped and his knife slipped when Tilly ran at him.
Inch by painful inch, Henrietta worked her way to his inert body. She set her chee
k against his. Still warm, and his breath feathered against her skin. All right. He had to be all right. Please, please, please.
A body hit the ground with a dull thud. Lord, please let that be One-Eye or his friend. Craning her neck, she twisted. His pistol long since lost, Satya stood over his opponent, a foot on the man’s neck. Tilly held One-Eye against the wall of the cave, his cutlass at the man’s throat.
“Shall I finish him?” Tilly growled.
“No!” she shouted. Alexander would likely have given the same order, and she could not bear any more violence. “Tie them if you can. Keep them alive. Alexander will want them for questioning.”
How long before Alexander would be in a state to interrogate them was another matter altogether.
Flanked by Satya and Tilly, Henrietta limped into the morning room. The moment she entered, Francesca launched herself off the sofa. “Where is Papa?”
Helena sat primly beneath the curve of her grandmother’s arm, but the girl’s eyes were round in her young face, the expression identical to the one she’d worn in the cave. Henrietta’s heart turned over, but she had to maintain a calm, confident façade if she was to reassure her charges.
She leaned down and opened her arms to Francesca. “A pair of footmen are bringing him up. He’s been injured again.” Best to tell the truth and be done with it. Otherwise the girls would insist on seeing their father. “You cannot disturb him until a doctor has seen to him.”
Alexander’s mother leaned forward in her seat, as if she might leap to her feet. “What has happened to my son?”
Henrietta winced, both at the memory and at the necessity to remain positive in front of the children. “His ribs again, I’m afraid. He was beaten, but I’m positive he’ll be all right in a few days.”
She hoped. While the cut on his neck would heal readily enough, One-Eye’s boot had pummeled Alexander’s ribs harder than the ocean. Dear Lord, as long as the broken bones hadn’t pierced anything vital.
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