“A year ago, Heward likely poisoned your father and caused his death.”
“W-what?” she stammered. “You cannot be serious.”
“I would never jest about something like this, Antonia. Two days after you became betrothed, your
father discovered some damning information about Heward that caused him to withdraw his support of your marriage. So Heward brought him a bottle of brandy that later was suspected of containing poison. I don’t believe your father’s death was due to heart failure.”
She was too shocked to say a word. For the span of a dozen heartbeats, she simply stared.
“That is preposterous,” Antonia finally gritted out in a shaky voice.
“No,” Deverill insisted. “It’s entirely too credible.”
His sincerity gave her pause, but then denial welled up in her. “How could I possibly believe such a wild accusation? The notion is mad—”
“Not at all. I’ve suspected Heward for some time now.”
“Then why are you just now telling me?”
“Because I wasn’t convinced he was guilty.”
“And you are convinced now?”
“Yes. A woman is dead tonight because of him. I just can’t prove it yet.”
Antonia shook her head, not wanting to hear such terrible allegations against the man she had promised to marry.
Deverill grasped her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Your father trusted me. You can do the same, Antonia.”
A feeling akin to panic churned in her chest as her conflicting instincts battled inside her. Trust Deverill? And believe that Heward was a murderer? The choice was impossible. “You will need to give me some reason to trust you,” she exclaimed, her tone stubbornly heated.
“I have evidence. There is a letter on board my schooner I want to show you. I’m leaving London tonight, within the hour, since I can’t stay without risking arrest. I want you to accompany me to my ship.”
“Now?”
“This minute. You need to get dressed.”
“You truly are mad!”
Deverill rose from the bed. “I don’t intend to debate with you,” he said in the voice of a man accustomed to command. “You have two choices, princess. You can dress and come with me, or I can carry you out in your nightshift.”
Her mouth dropped open. Watching Deverill’s grim, set expression, though, she realized he would do exactly as he threatened if she didn’t give in gracefully.
After another mutinous moment, Antonia clenched her jaw and slid out of bed. When his gaze raked over her thin nightshift, she felt the sudden, stomach-
tightening awareness of Deverill as a man, but she squared her shoulders and hurried to her dressing room. Fuming, she quickly pulled on a brown muslin, long-sleeved gown, then stockings and sturdy half boots, not bothering with a shift or corset or garters.
When she came out again, Deverill was waiting by the door. He scrutinized her choice of attire and gave a qualified nod. “You need to wear a cloak with a hood. I don’t want you to be recognized.”
Antonia shot him a darkling glance. “How was I to know what to wear? I am not in the habit of skulking about in the middle of the night as you obviously are.”
“Humor me just this once.”
She fetched a cloak and put it on. As she was fastening the clasp at her throat, Deverill came up to her. Reaching up, he drew the hood around her face, tucking tendrils of her hair inside the collar. “You’ll do.” He took her hand. “Now come, we have very little time.”
Instinctively resisting his orders, she pulled back. “But I want to write a note to Miss Tottle first and tell her—”
“I’ve already told Mrs. Peeke where you are going.”
Antonia gaped at him. “You are rather sure of yourself, aren’t you, Mr. Deverill?”
“I hoped you would be curious enough to want to know about your father’s murder.”
Antonia stiffened, but she pressed her lips together to stifle a retort. She might be compelled to accompany Deverill to his ship, but she didn’t intend to give his outlandish allegations any credence whatsoever until he showed her his so-called evidence.
She determinedly held her tongue, even when he ushered her out the servants’ entrance instead of the front door.
He had a hackney carriage waiting down the street. Deverill handed her in and gave the coachman directions to the docks, then joined her inside.
They maintained a taut silence during the entire drive. Antonia’s thoughts were a mass of confusion as she contemplated Deverill’s incredible charge that Heward had murdered her father. It stunned her that he would even make such an outlandish allegation. Stunned and shocked and upset her. Even the possibility was too dreadful to credit.
She clamped down on the turmoil of emotions warring within her and tried to digest what else he had said. Had a woman really died tonight? Was Deverill actually accused of her murder? And was he truly leaving London? Leaving England?
She knew she should be relieved to see the last of him, but the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach was nothing at all like relief.
On his part, Deverill expelled an uneven breath, gratified that he’d brought Antonia this far, and hopeful that he might just manage to pull off his scheme. Through the carriage window, he could see that the docks were alive with activity, even though it was nearly midnight, since half a dozen ships were making ready to depart.
He had the hackney stop several berths away from his destination. Handing Antonia down, Deverill drew out his pistol and took her arm to escort her to his schooner. It further gratified him to see seamen scurrying to raise sails, for the tide was already well out. But a swift calculation told him that nearly half his crew was absent, which only increased his sense of urgency. He would have to help them get under way, Deverill decided, before they missed their chance to sail.
Even so, he paused before reaching the gangplank in order to survey the dimly lit quay. When Macky stepped out of the shadows, he felt Antonia tense beside him.
“Is everything in order?” Deverill asked quietly.
“Yes,” Macky replied. “Two of his men showed up here, but they are now tied up and slumbering peacefully.”
“I owe you a debt, my friend.”
Macky grinned. “Think nothing of it.” His gaze gliding over Antonia, he tipped his hat to her, but all he said was, “Best of luck, sir.”
Deverill felt Antonia watching him and knew she was eager to ask what Macky meant. She maintained a tight-lipped silence, however, as he escorted her on board and then below-deck, along the dark companionway to one of three passenger cabins.
When he lit a lantern, she blinked in the sudden brightness. “Now where is this ‘evidence’ you wished to show me?” she demanded, her gaze sweeping around the cabin.
He stepped close and startled her by taking her face in his hands. “I need you to trust me this once, Antonia. I swear to you, I will explain everything to you shortly. But I haven’t the time just now.”
Turning, Deverill let himself out of the cabin.
Caught off guard, Antonia was slow to follow. When she heard the key turn in the lock, she stared at the closed door in frozen disbelief.
“He wouldn’t,” she breathed.
But when she tried the handle and found the door wouldn’t budge, her heart sank.
Deverill, she realized with sudden brutal clarity, had made her his prisoner.
Seven
Antonia stood reeling at his audacity, fury welling in her at his deception. Deverill had duped her, and she hadn’t put up the slightest resistance. Well, that was about to change!
Pounding on the door and shouting brought no results, however. All she could hear was the muffled sounds of barked commands above and the faint slap of waves against the hull.
When the ship swayed scant minutes later, Antonia realized they were moving. Her hands clenched into fists. It was just as she feared; she was being abducted!
Struggling to remain cal
m, she glanced around the cramped cabin, searching for a weapon of some kind. The inventory was not promising: A narrow berth with two bunks, one above the other. A large wooden seaman’s chest. A tiny desk and single chair. A washstand. And shelves and hooks along the bulkheads for storing belongings, all of which were currently empty. She went straight to the chest, but found it also empty except for some woolen blankets.
Biting her lip, she tried frantically to think, to determine how she could orchestrate an escape. She would have to hurry. If the ship left the docks, she would be in desperate trouble, since she didn’t know how to swim.
She wasted precious seconds stewing, dredging her memory for stories she’d heard at her father’s dining table from captains and seafarers. Fire! Of course. Fire was one of a sailor’s worst fears. She could start a blaze in the small cabin. If any of Deverill’s crew noticed, surely they would come running. It would be disastrous if she let the flames burn out of control, for she would only defeat her own purpose if she caused her own demise. But if she could generate enough smoke to gain someone’s attention but not so much that it would choke her . . .
Rapidly Antonia reinventoried the cabin, noticing things she had missed before. A pitcher of water on the washstand. Towels. An empty brass chamberpot.
Latching on to an idea, she pushed opened the window of the small porthole so she would be able to breathe, then began creating her diversion, stuffing towels in the chamberpot and lighting them with the tinderbox.
The first time the flame fizzled out, so she tried again. When she had a small blaze going, Antonia added a few drops of water to the chamberpot, then dumped the smoldering mess of linen at the base of the door, onto the polished wooden planks of the deck.
She watched with satisfaction as smoke seeped under the cabin door. Tilting her head back, she screamed at the top of her lungs for help from the fire, then stood behind the door with the chamberpot raised.
She had barely time to repeat her cries when the key jangled in the lock and the door was thrust open. When a wiry, gray-haired old man came rushing into the room, Antonia brought the chamberpot crashing down on his head.
He fell hard, whether unconscious or merely stunned, she couldn’t tell. She spared only a moment’s regret for the grizzled old fellow before turning and fleeing the cabin.
The corridor was dark as she groped her way along, but she found the ladder at the end and quickly climbed up. After the acrid smoke, the fresh night breeze was like perfume, but it also filled every sail above her head.
Her heart plummeted. She was too late! To her utter dismay, the ship was already well out into the Thames River.
In the moonlight she could see the deck swarming with sailors, who hadn’t noticed her yet. Antonia rushed over to the rail to stare down at the swirling black water below. The quay was receding quickly. If she intended to act, she would have to do so immediately.
Gritting her teeth, she threw one leg over the rail-
ing . . . but then she froze, knowing she would never find the courage to jump. Even if she survived the fall, she would never make it to shore—
“Antonia.” The firm voice behind her made her start. “Come down from there.”
She glanced over her shoulder to find Deverill watching her. “And let you abduct me? I think not.”
“You could hurt yourself if you jump from this height.”
Of course she wouldn’t jump, but the threat was the only leverage she had over Deverill at the moment. He wouldn’t want her demise on his conscience.
Antonia scowled at him. “Jumping will likely kill me, since I never learned to swim. But drowning is preferable to letting you carry me off to who knows where. At least I will foil your despicable plan.”
“You don’t even know what my plan is. You haven’t given me a chance to explain.”
His infuriating calmness goaded as much as her own impotence. “And I don’t intend to after you lied to lure me here. You have wholly misjudged me, Deverill, if you expect me to meekly surrender to your treachery.”
Deverill shook his head. “I don’t expect you to meekly surrender. I doubt you’ve ever done anything meekly in your life.”
The edge of sardonic amusement in his tone was the last straw. “Turn this ship around,” Antonia demanded, “or I will jump!”
He was silent for a moment, obviously evaluating her threat, no doubt wondering if she was angry—or idiotic—enough to risk drowning rather than let him win.
Holding her gaze, he took a step toward her. All of Antonia’s muscles clenched. “Stay away from me! I mean it, Deverill. I will jump if you don’t return me to the docks.”
“Antonia, love,” he said with maddening patience. “Please come down from there.”
“Not until you turn the ship around.”
She held her breath, suspecting they were in a stalemate; she refused to surrender and Deverill refused to comply with her demand.
To her surprise then, he shrugged. “Very well. Captain Lloyd,” he called out to the man at the ship’s wheel. “A hard jibe to port, if you please.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Antonia, you need to look above your head,” Deverill warned calmly. “Beware the spanker boom doesn’t hit you.”
She glanced up at the billowing sails above her and saw a triangular sail attached to a thick wooden boom shifting her way. It was too high to actually hit her, but the distraction caused her to take her concentration off Deverill. Then the schooner suddenly dipped, making Antonia nearly lose her shaky balance. She grasped frantically at the railing to keep from falling overboard.
An instant later, strong arms pulled her back from her precarious perch, into the curve of a hard, male body.
She thrashed against Deverill furiously. “Damn you, you tricked me!”
“It was for your own good.”
She tried to pry herself away from that powerful body, but he trapped her close with both arms around hers.
His relentless embrace only riled Antonia more. When she continued to fight him, he bent her over the rail to keep her still, so that the wood pressed painfully into her stomach and ribs.
“Let me go!” she gasped. “You are squeezing the breath out of me!”
“Not sufficiently, it seems,” he retorted dryly.
His taunt only added to her fury. She threw her head back, connecting with his chin at the same time she stomped her foot down hard on his boot. Surprise more than pain made Deverill release her.
Antonia scrambled away from him, glaring and shaking with resentment. “You . . . you . . .” Words failed her.
“Devil?” he supplied helpfully, rubbing his bruised chin.
“Exactly! You’re a devil, a fiend, a villain!”
“Perhaps. But I am only trying to save you.”
When Deverill moved toward her, Antonia frantically searched the deck for a weapon with which to defend herself. When she spied a length of chain, she picked up the end. Although it was heavy, her frenzied wrath gave her the strength to wield it.
With fire in her eyes, she swung the chain in a wide arc, nearly striking Deverill on the shoulder. He had to jump back to escape a serious blow.
Antonia swung again, although even she wasn’t certain whether she meant to do him real injury or was simply acting out of fear and frustration.
Oddly, he held up a hand. “Fletcher . . . I can handle this.”
He appeared to be speaking to someone on her left, but she wasn’t about to fall for Deverill’s tricks again. She hefted the chain, advancing on him. Yet she’d taken barely a step when a warning sound sent a prickle of uneasiness through her. From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the grizzled old man she’d struck down in the cabin. He had snuck up on her, holding what looked like a large canvas sack or piece of sail.
He had halted at Deverill’s command, but when Antonia pivoted in alarm and flung the end of her chain at him, the aged seaman gave a startled yelp and charged her, his canvas raised high as if to throw it ov
er her head and capture her. Somehow, though, he tripped over one corner of the cloth and barreled headfirst into her side.
The effect was like a battering ram. When his forehead hit her rib cage, Antonia gasped as the air rushed from her lungs and she was sent spinning. She felt herself flying to the deck, with the old man splayed on top of her.
Then pain lanced through her head and everything went black.
Ten minutes later, Deverill sat beside an unconscious Antonia, remorse filling him as he bathed her purpling brow with a wet cloth.
When Fletcher had tackled her to the deck, she’d hit her head against a belaying pin with enough force to knock her out cold. A sick feeling of dismay knotting his gut, Deverill had carefully carried her to his own cabin and laid her on the bunk. She hadn’t stirred when he removed her cloak or when he’d chaffed her wrists to try to rouse her.
For a time Fletcher hovered behind him, grumbling reluctant apologies and muttering imprecations. The old seaman’s pride was severely wounded, since he’d first been hit over the head with a damned chamberpot by a mere girl and then had unintentionally rendered her unconscious with his bumbling effort to apprehend her chain weapon.
Deverill had finally dismissed him, wanting to be alone with Antonia. She was hurt, but at least she was alive. His heart had nearly failed when she’d threatened to drown herself rather than be taken captive.
He understood the sentiment, though. During his two hellish months in a Turkish prison, he’d longed fiercely to rebel against his captors, but his survival instincts had triumphed, and he’d conserved his strength until he contrived the opportunity to escape and rescue what was left of his crew. Briefly Deverill squeezed his eyes shut, his mind sweeping back ten years to that terrible time of agony and guilt.
Crushing the gruesome memory, he dipped the cloth in the basin beside the bunk, then gently drew it over Antonia’s ivory skin. He wouldn’t lose her like he’d lost nearly half his crew. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to protect her.
Hating to see her so helpless, he traced her pale face with his fingers. Searing heat and fierce tenderness pulsed through him, the primal response of a man’s need to protect his woman. Yet she wasn’t his woman, he reminded himself. Far from it.
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