If he was here, he meant to take her home. Somehow, in some incredible fashion strictly his own, he had discovered where she had been taken. He was in the common room out there, rubbing elbows with the drunks and derelicts and desperate men, trying to find his way to her. And he was drinking.
He was drinking the foul brew stirred up by Ma Skaggs. The brew that was laced, liberally if not lethally, with knockout drops. How long he had been there, she did not know. How many drinks he had taken she could not tell.
Did he suspect, or know, that the concoction in his glass had been designed to render any mortal man unconscious? She had no idea, and would not until he managed to come to her. Or fail to come.
There was only one thing to do. She drew in her breath to scream.
“Here, now, none of that,” Ma Skaggs said, blocking the door with her huge form, then slamming the door panel shut. Advancing on Angelica, she fell to her knees with a solid thump and dragged a dirty rag of a handkerchief from her bosom.
The struggle was furious, but brief. The big woman put a knee in Angelica’s abdomen, shifting her horrendous weight. Hampered by roped wrists, Angelica had to open her mouth to drag in air. The rag was pushed in so far she thought she would suffocate.
Ma Skaggs climbed, huffing and groaning, to her feet and moved to resume her mixing. Angelica lay breathing in and out of her nose in winded rage overlaid by terror.
Long minutes passed. She grew calmer, her brain more clear. She could not just lie there and wait for whatever was going to happen.
She fastened her gaze on the lantern of pierced tin. She might be able to upset it as a means of drawing attention, preventing Renold from drinking, even if at the risk of self-immolation. However, there was no way to reach the lantern without running afoul of Ma Skaggs.
She thought she might, if she were quick, trip the old woman next time she carried a keg into the main room. The crash when she hit the floor should be spectacular; the commotion should attract some notice. It would not be particularly useful, of course, if she herself were crushed by the fall.
The best thing she could do for the moment, it appeared, was to concentrate on her bonds. They were so tight her fingers and toes had no feeling; Ma Skaggs’s Clem was an expert at such things, doubtless for good reason. As she worked her wrists back and forth, she searched the room with her eyes at the same time, trying to find some other way to help herself.
Ma Skaggs had not reached her current place on Gallatin Street by being unwary. She gave Angelica no opportunity to trip her, but sidled around her each time she came and went. After the third trip, she carried a keg away and did not return.
The voices from the front room grew louder and more coarse. Now and then a man was ejected into the muddy street for buying no more than a single drink. Frequent fights broke out with the patrons shouting encouragement that consisted of helpful recommendations such as “Bite off ‘is ear, Jack!” or “Yank out ‘is other eye!” Two women fell to pulling hair and bets were placed on the outcome. On three separate occasions, the Skaggs brothers dragged unconscious men into the back room where they relieved them of their valuables before taking them out a rear door into the alley. The last time they stayed longer than before. There came from that direction the sound of a strangled cry, suddenly cut off, before the brothers returned, passing through to the front room again. While the two men were near, Angelica pretended unconsciousness until all was quiet again and she could renew her frantic efforts to release herself.
Her ankles grew raw and her wrists wet with blood and the fluid of broken blisters. Her back ached from lying on the hard floor. Strangely enough, the pain in her head faded away, vanquished, perhaps, by anger and concentration. Her spirits were flagging, however. The barrelhouse was such a den of corruption she could not see how she was ever to escape it. More, she was beginning to think that Renold’s appearance had been a fluke after all, or else she had imagined his voice out of the fervor of her need.
Lying there in the dimness and the stench, Angelica recognized that she had fully expected he would rescue her as he had before. She knew, too, that she longed to see him, to hear his voice ringing in humor and anger, in desire and persuasion. She wanted to be held close by him, to feel shielded and secure once more. He had in such a short time made her a part of his world, had come close to filling hers. It was startling to realize how close.
Light slashed into the room. With it came the forms of three men. Two were burly and upright while the third sagged between them, head hanging, feet barely moving. He wore the impeccable clothing of a gentleman, though he was minus his hat. The dark waves of his hair hung forward over his forehead, trailing across his closed eyelids.
Renold. Unconscious.
Angelica smothered a cry of dismay. At the same time, she shut her eyes to the barest slits and lay perfectly still.
The two Skaggs brothers kicked the door shut and flung Renold to the floor not far from Angelica. Crouching over him, they rifled through his pockets, taking purse and watch, gold chain and signet fob. Silent, efficient, they stripped away coat and waistcoat and flung them on the pile against the wall. They stooped to take hold of his boots, smearing fingerprints on the polished leather.
“Clem! Danny! Gent’s here!”
The screeching yell came from the front room. It was Ma Skaggs summoning her sons, perhaps to make sure they would be paid for Angelica.
The older brother known as Clem gave the man on the floor a rough kick and waited to see if he would move. When he remained inert, they exchanged a low rumble of comment that Angelica did not quite catch. Swinging around, they plunged from the room.
Angelica waited a few minutes, fearful the two might return. She then dragged herself across the planks to where Renold lay. She raised above him on her braced arms, but could not free her hands to touch him or search for a heartbeat. Hovering over his face, she lowered her cheek near his mouth to see if she could feel his breathing.
Abruptly, his warm lips pressed the soft contour. In a single swift movement, he caught her shoulders and rolled with her, ending on his elbows above her as she lay on her back. His eyes in the dim light were bright with drink, large-pupiled, and frenetic with laughter. “Damnable jade,” he said with great cheer, “all worried care and with tangles in your hair. What in the name of heaven do I have to do to keep you out of trouble?”
The sound she made was indignant, if somewhat muffled. It would not have been particularly coherent even if plainer. The hard length of his body was pressed against her from breasts to ankles. He was not especially incapacitated by the liquor he had taken; there was an extraordinary firmness nudging like a wedge at the line of her closed thighs.
“Well, yes, I know you may be a bit overwrought,” he said as if she had made perfect sense. “And you’re right, I might have found you sooner. Only I didn’t feel capable of taking on all of Gallatin Street single-handedly, and there seems to be some difficulty with the arrival of reinforcements.”
Drunk. Not profoundly so, but enough to be loquacious and confiding and inclined to recklessness. Enough to account for the caress in his voice. She did her best to make him understand that it was urgent that her gag be removed.
He gave her a considering glance as he levered his weight from her, then began to work at the knots at her wrists. “Speech,” he said, “can be a blessing or a curse. I’m not sure how far your voice travels, or what kind of maledictions you may call down upon my head.”
She begged him with her eyes because it mattered so much. She gasped with relief, coughing, as he pulled the noxious gag from her mouth. Ignoring his abrupt oath caused by the nature of that rag, she said, “How many drinks did you have?”
“Three more than I wanted, two more than I needed, one more than I dared. How many is that?”
“Don’t be so glib,” she snapped. “There were—”
“Knockout drops in them. I know. So the faster I can get out of here and rid myself of what passed as liquor but taste
d like cow — anyway.” His smile was crooked. “It would not improve your current condition to have me throw up in front of you, but I well might if I am forced to think — God, the stupid bastards!”
There was more, all of it lurid, inventive, and specifically accurate. He was holding her wrists with their bruised and swollen flesh smeared with blood. She said in abrupt embarrassment, “Never mind, I did it myself. We have to get out of here.”
“If you managed to truss yourself up that tightly one-handed, you have unheralded talents,” he said, his gaze suddenly hooded as he began to release her ankles. “The question that exercises my curiosity is why you tried so hard to get free.”
“There is a man coming, the man who paid to have me — stolen.”
“And you were afraid you would miss him? Is he worth mutilating yourself over, or did you do it to earn his sighs?”
“I did it because I heard you out there and knew you were drinking yourself insensible,” she said in a heady rush of anger. “I had the odd idea that it might be a good thing to stop you. I failed, but that’s no reason to suppose I am now all a-twitter at being sold to a stranger. I think he’s here now, but if you could hurry just a little, we might avoid him and the others. Unless you would enjoy being sat upon by Ma Skaggs.”
“The mind boggles,” he said as he unwound the last of the rope from her ankles and dragged her to her feet. “Do you really think she would?”
“She would adore to,” Angelica said, and stopped, gasping, as she found she could not stand.
“Not as much as I’ll enjoy this,” he replied, and scooped her up in his arms.
She grabbed for his neck, holding tightly as he stood with his legs spread for balance and his arms slowly tightening around her. She looked into his eyes, and saw such insouciance and undisguised pleasure that it curled the edges of her heart. Then he swung with her, striding toward the storeroom’s back wall.
The door to the alley, barred from the inside, was easily opened, though the hinges squealed in protest. Renold paused, listening. After a moment, he shouldered out into the dark. There he paused once more, quartering the night and the confined space with his eyes. Nothing moved. He stepped out along the alley toward the noise and light of the cross street a short distance away.
He stopped again almost at once. A soft exclamation left him.
Angelica was deposited against the wall of the building, placed on her feet to lean there. She watched as Renold moved into the deeper shadow beside the wall.
“Open the door,” he said in soft command over his shoulder.
She stretched out one arm to do as he asked. Her fingertips barely reached the door panel; still she pried it open. Light spilled in pale yellow gleams into the alleyway.
She turned back toward Renold, then drew in her breath. In the dim illumination, she could just make out the body of a man with a black-red blotch of drying blood on his throat. As Renold shifted out of the light, going to one knee to feel for a pulse, she realized she knew the dead man. It was the mouse-like creature who had come to the townhouse to see Renold, the same one who had followed her and Deborah at the market.
The noises in the alley. She must have heard the man being killed. A shudder moved over her at the thought, gripping at the back of her neck.
“So much for reinforcements,” Renold said, the soft words barely stirring the air.
“He worked for you,” she said in the same barely audible tone.
“Among others.”
“Surely you weren’t depending on him alone?”
“He was to bring help. They must have broken and run at the first sign of trouble — if they came at all. My fault. I should not have rushed the job.”
She heard the guilt in his voice. “You could not have known what would happen.”
“I should have.”
The words were curt and carried dismissal. Rising with decisive swiftness, he swung in her direction.
“I think I can walk now,” she said in objection.
He might not have heard. Moving closer, he bent as if to take her in his arms once more.
The three men came from the cross street, turning the corner into the dark alleyway. Two were broad and heavy, looking like giants with the light behind them throwing their shadows into the alleyway. The other was more slender, with the swirl of a cape around his silhouette. Catching sight of movement, they stopped.
There was time for Renold to steady Angelica against the wall once more. He stepped apart, then, facing the men, drawing the attack away from her.
“Here now, what’s going — you!”
There was shock and wariness in the rough voice. Clem Skaggs, the man in the lead, dragged a knife from his belt, at the same time motioning his brother to swing wide to come up behind Renold. The younger brother did as he was told, sidling along the wall of the next building. The third man drew back into the shadows, waiting.
Renold and Clem circled each other, crouched and with hands held wide, ready to defend. As Renold moved into the light, it could be seen that his hands were empty.
“How now, buck,” Skaggs said in harsh triumph. “This time we’ll see how you do without that fancy sword of yours.”
Hard on the words, he lunged. The knife he held whipped through the air with a sibilant rush. Renold leaped aside. The big man cursed, then growled at his brother who was creeping close enough to join in. “I got him. You watch the girl.”
The other man hesitated, but stepped back out of the field.
“You’re very sure of yourself,” Renold said in tones of contempt as his gaze clashed with that of the riverman. “You just may need someone to back you.”
Skaggs let out a belly laugh. “Lord, man, I’m half bear and the son of an alligator. I can howl like a dog and run with the wolves, and I’m champeen on the river with a knife.”
“But you are afraid of your mother,” Renold said, cutting off the typical riverman’s boast with sarcastic brevity.
The other man cursed and swung, a clumsy move fueled by anger. Untouched, Renold drifted away like smoke before swirling into a new defensive posture.
Now the purple of rage congested the riverman’s face. His style of fighting was without finesse, relying on bluff and might and animal ferocity. Yet he was dangerous in his power there in the narrow space between the buildings. There was a limit to how many times Renold could avoid the crude blade in his hand.
Angelica, standing with wide eyes and her fingertips stopping her mouth, could feel the roughness of the wall biting into her back. Hot horror curled in her mind. She did not want to watch, yet could not look away. Her stomach contracted with every plunging attack, every move Renold made counter to it. At the same time, she was aware that the second man had edged around to the wall where she stood.
Renold, retreating in smooth coordination, spared no more than a flickering glance for Angelica and the man closing in on her. His concentration was reserved for the knife point that dipped and swayed and drove toward his vitals. Instinct sharpened to a razor edge, he watched for an opening, a weakness, a moment of inattention.
Skaggs was forcing Renold farther down the alley. The riverman’s teeth gleamed with his brutish grin and sweat ran in runnels down his face. His breathing was a harsh rasp in the enclosed space.
Then a flash of low cunning twisted the riverman’s face. He swiped at Renold again in a bull-like rush. As Renold leaped back, the big man feinted, then tossed his knife to his left hand in a dull gleam of honed steel. Striking backhanded, grunting with effort, he put the entire force of his huge body into a roundhouse cut.
Renold should have been caught on the wrong foot, unable to avoid the blow. He wasn’t there. Clem Skaggs could not stop his hard swing. Renold stepped behind its arc, caught the man’s knife hand in a grinding hold. They swayed, grunting. Then with an abrupt, wrenching effort, Renold brought Skaggs’s arm down across his knee. There came the sickening sound of breaking bone. The knife went flying. Clem Skaggs gave a hoars
e scream and fell to his knees with his arm dangling.
His brother whipped around. The flung knife spun to a stop near his feet. He sprang to snatch it up. Arms spread, he faced Renold. Then in a sudden about-face, he swung on Angelica, reaching for her. His grime-encrusted hand closed on the front of her nightgown.
Renold did not hesitate, but bent in a single smooth movement to sweep his hand along the top of his boot. He came up fast with a gambler’s silver-chased pocket pistol glittering in his fist.
The small firearm boomed out, drilling red-gold fire across the alley. Skaggs gave a hoarse yell as he was flung backward. Falling in an ungainly sprawl, he lay with red spreading over the dirty white of his shirt front.
Immediately, Renold swung toward the third man. No more than a gray shadow, he swung around in a billow of his cape to slide into the night, disappearing around the corner.
Renold looked to Angelica. His face was pale, with a white line around his mouth. “Let’s go home,” he said.
Chapter Twelve
The townhouse blazed with lights as Renold and Angelica approached. Angelica’s absence had been discovered, the alarm given. The house servants were up and standing in hushed groups in the courtyard. Their outcry as they saw their master and his wife brought Estelle and Deborah hurrying onto the gallery.
Tit Jean was not there. He had sent runners in every direction in search of Renold, and was himself out looking for him. Estelle was nearly incoherent in her relief at seeing them safely returned, though she was horrified at Angelica’s scrapes and bruises. Deborah, eyes sharp, demanded to know where they had been and what had happened.
Renold had no time for explanations. Handing Angelica over to the two women, he shut himself into his dressing room where he was extremely, if usefully, sick.
It was not going to be enough. He had never been quite so completely drunk or drugged to near insensibility in his misbegotten life. Careless hilarity waned in his veins with an overwhelming need to lie down somewhere and sleep like a dog. He could give in to neither, but had to keep moving, force himself to think, to plan. There was too much to be done.
Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection) Page 17