A Wild Justice

by Gail Ranstrom

  She crawled on her hands and knees toward the thin line of light, praying she would not bump into anything or put her hand in something vile. A rough voice, that of a man Annica assumed to be the captain, was explaining a sailing schedule.

  “We have clearance. I sent the night watch to fetch the rest of the crew. We will leave when they’ve returned. We’ll make Tunis in record time.”

  Tunis? Tunis! The city where Tristan had served in the Diplomatic Corps?

  “Damn delays. The crew should have been on board, Captain Abrams. And sending the night watch to collect them means that no one is standing guard. If there’s a problem, el-Daibul will have your hide.”

  Annica caught her breath. She recognized that voice! It belonged to the man who had talked to Wilkes in the garden. And the name el-Daibul was familiar, too—one of those contained in Tristan’s papers. She pressed her cheek to the floor and squinted through the crack at the bottom of the door. The wood panel was too thick and the gap too narrow to afford more than a glimpse of three pairs of shoes in the other room.

  “I should never have got involved in this,” the captain said. “If I did not need the money to make the payments, you could go whistle for a ship.” Disgust was thick in his voice.

  “There are other captains, Abrams. I’ll just look in on Auberville’s wife.”

  With a sigh, Abrams said, “The woman—that’s what worries me. Someone is bound to come looking for her. We must leave tonight. I’m not spending the rest of my life in Newgate just because you want to put this woman out of the way.”

  Annica shuddered. If the plan was to “put her out of the way,” how did they propose to do that?

  “I’d as soon kill her for all the grief she’s caused me,” the familiar voice was saying. “But Mustafa el-Daibul wants her first. He always coveted what Auberville had.”

  Auberville. Annica’s heart twisted. Just hearing his name brought a lump to her throat. Lord! Had it been worth it? Was justice more important than her life? More important than her marriage and her husband’s trust?

  She hugged herself against the sudden cold. Nausea churned in her belly and her head felt as if it would explode with pain. She could not credit the treachery and betrayal of these acts to the most likely suspects. Geoffrey Morgan had won her friendship when all he’d asked in payment for a debt was the benefit of a doubt, and the voice in the garden had not been his. Roger Wilkes was not intelligent enough to conceive of, let alone execute, such a scheme. Mr. X was clearly no more than a messenger. Chauncy’s demeanor indicated that he was too accustomed to obeying orders to be comfortable giving them. Who, then, could be behind this treachery? Dear Lord—she, who was seldom wrong, had been nothing but wrong since this whole affair began!

  Metal scraped as a bar was slid back, and the wedge of light exploded and blinded her. Annica’s heart beat faster and her mouth went dry. The only man she could think of who was capable of such villainy was…surely not!

  “Farmingdale?” She blinked, trying to adjust her eyes to the harsh lantern light. But she had seen him board a ship bound for Jamaica with her very own eyes!

  “Surprised, Lady Annica?” he asked, a nasty grin splitting his face. “Did you really think you had seen the last of me?”

  Annica rubbed the back of her head, glad that she’d had a chance to collect herself before he opened the door. This was what Naughty Alice had meant about “bad pennies” turning up. “Not really, Mr. Farmingdale!”

  “I went over the side before we left the Thames. Had unfinished business, you see. There was still money to be made. Slaving pays good wages, Lady Annica. I’m surprised Auberville didn’t explain that to you.”

  “I cannot believe this,” she muttered.

  “Loose ends, Lady Annica, loose ends. Let this be a lesson to you. Never leave loose ends.” Farmingdale shook his head. “You’ve been deuced hard to kill, but I’ve got you this time.”

  “So you were behind my accidents? What a pity you are such a blunderer,” she taunted.

  “’Twasn’t my fault. Auberville had developed an instinct where you are concerned. But I’ve got you now, Lady Annica. You won’t escape this time.”

  “I hope you have been very careful. Auberville will be coming for me soon.”

  Farmingdale laughed, a hollow sound. “You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you? But you are out of luck, Lady Ruin. Auberville will not find you.”

  “Will he not?” she asked.

  “We’ll be underway within two hours, and you shall fare no better in my hands than I did in yours. The wheel has turned, milady, and now I’m on top.”

  “The top of a dung heap is not very high, Mr. Farmingdale,” she said, without much hope that he would appreciate her wit. She was right. He delivered a stinging blow to her left cheek, sending her staggering against the bulkhead.

  “You are mad to taunt me,” he snarled. “Ah, but that only makes my victory sweeter. You shall see how varied and amusing my tastes are, my dear. By the time we arrive, you may even be relieved to meet Mustafa el-Daibul. He knows how to treat a woman—you may depend upon that.”

  A lump formed in Annica’s throat. She could only guess what Richard Farmingdale was threatening, and she’d rather jump overboard. “Is Mustafa el-Daibul The Turk?” she asked, knowing that was the name of the ringleader.

  Farmingdale laughed. “Not bloody likely, Lady Annica. El-Daibul is not half clever enough to pull this off. But I am amazed that you have not figured it out. Auberville is The Turk, you little twit! He wanted you removed. Aye, he just handed you over like so much dirty wash.”

  Annica lifted her chin proudly. “Do not even try to pass that one off, Farmingdale. Tristan would never have dealings with the likes of you and Wilkes.”

  “His fine sensibilities will be of no use to you now, Lady Annica.” Farmingdale sneered. “You are mine now, and I will have you well broke in before we arrive in Tunis. El-Daibul will revel in adding to your education. Men like him expect their doxies to do tricks. I shall like seeing you do tricks, Lady Auberville.”

  Her skin crawled as Farmingdale reached out to touch a lock of her hair. Her throat closed and she gagged at the thought of him doing the things Tristan had done.

  She slapped at his hand and shrank away in revulsion, needing to hold on just a little longer. Tristan would be searching for her. She knew that with absolute certainty.

  “Accustom yourself to the notion that I am now your master. Not Auberville,” Farmingdale was saying, his breath foul on her cheek. “Look up. See who is in charge now.”

  Annica lifted her head in a slow arc. When her gaze met his, he stepped back a pace as she froze him with a glare. She doubted this ploy would work once they were under sail. Farmingdale had some very wicked things planned. Unwavering, unblinking, she followed his retreat from the room with a stone-cold glare, groping in her pocket for Tristan’s letter opener. Gone! The knowledge that Farmingdale had touched her, searched her while she was unconscious, threatened her sanity.

  When the door closed, she pounded her wadded blanket with her doubled fists. The voices in the other room faded and a door closed somewhere. A cold calm begin to fill her. She shook her head and dashed the tears away from her cheeks with the back of her hand. A long black hairpin slipped from her hair and fell to the floor with a muffled ting. She stared at it in the dim light filtering beneath the door for a long minute before picking it up and crawling toward the locked door.

  “’Tis you! You are The Turk! I know you are. You won’t defeat me. You won’t!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Renquist joined the hushed group behind a warehouse. “The dock master gave clearance for two ships to sail with the tide. The Mary Jane and the Dolphin. He vouches for the captain of the Mary Jane, but he knows little of the Dolphin,” he whispered.

  Tristan released the neck of a longshoreman and allowed him to slip to his knees.

  “I swear I never seen ’er, sir. I only seen one bloke carryin’ a
drunk over ‘is shoulder. I swear before God!” the man babbled while he rubbed his neck.

  “Where?” Tristan asked.

  “Down toward the end.” The man scrambled to his feet and backed away.

  “What ship did he belong to?”

  “I never seen ’im before.” The sailor glanced right and left, ready to bolt.

  Renquist threw him a coin. “Keep your mouth shut, man. Take my advice and lose yourself until tomorrow. A pint will ease that raw throat.”

  Tristan turned to fasten his gaze on The Sheikh and allowed himself a grim smile when his friend recoiled. The darkness was controlling him again—the bleakness, the aloneness. “I’ll lay odds the drunk was Annica, unconscious. So, Renquist, what are the captains’ names?”

  “The Mary Jane is captained by Henry Tilman. The Dolphin’s captain is Frederick Abrams.”

  The Sheikh closed his eyes and muttered under his breath. “Christ…Freddie.”

  Tristan pondered for a moment. “Abrams was in our unit. There’s a link. Where else would The Turk go but to an old comrade? I’ll dispatch a messenger to Kilgrew, then catch up to you.” His voice was tightly controlled. “Stall Abrams. Do not alarm him, but do not let the Dolphin sail. Offer him immunity. Find out if Farmingdale is aboard. If all else fails, shoot him.”

  The Sheikh nodded and hurried north on the pier, Renquist not far behind.

  Clink, click…the tumblers fell into place. Annica withdrew her hairpin and gave the knob a cautious twist. It moved! She closed her eyes for a second and said a silent prayer, thanking God and asking for strength.

  The smallest push of her index finger swung the door outward on its hinges. The adjoining cabin was empty, and she tiptoed to the far doorway to give the knob an experimental turn. Unlocked.

  The companionway, too, was dark and empty. A faint light filtered downward from the hatch. Feathery gray tendrils drifted across the opening to the main deck. Fog! She prayed it was very thick.

  She crept down the narrow passageway and climbed the steep ladderlike steps to the deck. Ahead, just thirty feet to her left, a gangplank disappeared over the edge to a dock below.

  The rise and fall of masculine voices from the quarterdeck—one in particular—came clearly through the fog. She knew the voice this time. Geoffrey Morgan.

  Her stomach twisted. Matters just kept growing worse in this quagmire of treachery and deceit. She turned her coat collar up and crept from the shelter of the overhanging hatchway to hide behind the mainmast on her way to the gangway.

  “…surprised to find you in these circumstances, Abrams,” Morgan was saying.

  “I needed the money, Geoff.”

  Annica peeked around the mast to see Morgan nod. “Auberville is rabid. I would not want to be the one to cross him. Would you, Abrams?”

  “Jesus, no! His wife is safe enough, Morgan. I won’t vouch for her once we’re underway. Farmingdale has it in for her.”

  Annica frowned. Tristan? Involved with the captain? No. This was wrong. Tristan had nothing to do with this scheme.

  Morgan spoke again, a firm, almost lethal tone in his voice. “Where is Farmingdale, Abrams?”

  “He said he had some last minute scores to settle. He should be back momentarily.”

  Sarah! He is going to hurt Sarah. Annica thought in panic. He is going to get even with her just as he intends to get even with me!

  She slipped to her knees and crawled behind a row of barrels standing between her and freedom. The conversation was lost as she made her way ever closer to the gangway. There would have to be a diversion if she was going to make her escape.

  And there, mounting the gangway in answer to her unspoken prayer, was Tristan, exuding determination, strength and purpose. He did not call for permission to board, but took the deck as if it belonged to him. His attention was focused on the group on the quarterdeck, and their attention was on him.

  Abrams froze in place. If ever she had seen naked fear, she saw it now—etched clearly on the captain’s face.

  “Abrams,” Tristan said in a voice cold enough to freeze quicksilver, “where is my wife?”

  “She’s below, Lord Auberville.” The captain rubbed his palms on his pant legs, the gesture betraying his nervousness.

  “And where is that traitorous bastard, Farmingdale?”

  “At your service!” a voice answered from the gangway. Richard Farmingdale stepped aboard, a cocked pistol in his hand.

  Annica’s heart began to race. Her plans for escape dissolved in an instant.

  Mounting to the quarterdeck, Richard Farmingdale trained the barrel of the pistol on Tristan’s heart. “Good of you to accommodate me, Auberville. I was afraid I’d have to go looking for you. What good is revenge if no one knows you’ve got it?”

  “Revenge, Farmingdale? What wrong have I done you? Am I not the one with cause for revenge?”

  “So, you know about the Algerian affair, eh? I thought you might be onto me.” The man gave a high-pitched giggle and his finger on the trigger began to twitch. “But no, Auberville. I had a profitable scheme going here—providing el-Daibul with a certain, er, valuable commodity. Then Lady Annica got onto our little diversion with Sarah Hunter and took it up like one of her ridiculous causes. She stumbled into my scheme.”

  “Let her go, Farmingdale. You can accomplish nothing by holding her.” Tristan brought up both his hands in a gesture of reconciliation. “If you release her, I may let you live.”

  Farmingdale’s grip on the pistol tightened. “Good try, Auberville. But I promised her to el-Daibul. That will even the score for her interference. Punish you, too.”

  Annica saw Geoffrey Morgan take a cautious step closer to Farmingdale. Was he going to join him, or attack? In the second of time that Farmingdale’s attention shifted, Tristan removed a pistol from his waistband and thumbed the hammer back. Geoffrey Morgan, too, reached for something in his waistband.

  Fear and urgency surged from her chest in the form of a cry when Farmingdale’s pistol came back around in line with Tristan’s heart. “Tristan! Look out!”

  “Annica!” He turned toward the sound of her voice.

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Here,” she called.

  Farmingdale whirled in her direction and squeezed the trigger, and Tristan lunged for him.

  The sound of a shot reverberated in the heavy air. Her step faltered; her feet seemed to be mired in quicksand. Another shot followed fast on the first, then a third, and still she could not move. A ball whizzed past her right ear.

  Tristan leaped from the quarterdeck, a smoking pistol in his right hand. Another shot rang out, but he didn’t look back or break stride on his way to her. Weak with relief, she sank to her knees on the deck. She slumped forward to rest her forehead on the wooden planking.

  “No!” Tristan howled, and a moment later he was kneeling beside her, gripping her shoulders and lifting her up to look into her eyes. His hands slipped up and down her arms as if to reassure himself that she was all in one piece “My God, Annica!” he muttered. “I thought you’d been shot. How could I ever have lived without you….”

  She gazed up into his eyes. They were filled with pain and tenderness as his finger traced the bruise on her cheek. “Tristan…” was all she could manage to whisper. She could not catch her breath from wanting him so.

  His expression changed with the sound of her voice. His features took on the soft, vulnerable look of a much younger man. The scar beneath his left eye all but disappeared in the slow smile that curved his lips—lips that bent to cherish hers.

  She nearly swooned with the sweetness of it. She whispered his name against his lips, and he groaned. His hold tightened around her so that she could scarcely breathe. The feeling was so exquisitely intimate that tears came to her eyes.

  “Annica,” he moaned, and with that single word she marveled that the Wednesday League could ever have thought him guilty.

  The pounding of running feet on the wharf, coupled with shouting voice
s growing nearer, penetrated her confusion. A constable’s whistle sounded a shrill alarm. Tristan stood and dragged her up with him.

  “Go, Annica! Run! A coach is waiting behind the warehouse. Don’t look back!”

  “Come with me,” she begged.

  “Damn it, Annica! I cannot protect your reputation if you do not go! Trust me!”

  Trust him? Yes—with her whole heart and soul. With everything she was or ever would be.

  Leave him? Never! Oh, never!

  Looking down at Richard Farmingdale, Tristan felt vaguely cheated. Never mind that death had not been easy or painless. Farmingdale should have been drawn and quartered—the old punishment for treason. He should have answered individually for each man and woman whose death he had caused. It was little enough comfort to note the two ragged holes oozing dark blood and stained with gunpowder. One hole, considerably lower than the other, was especially satisfying. Had Farmingdale had the colossal bad luck to survive, he’d never have raped another woman. He was no longer equipped for the job.

  Annica had been right, Tristan realized. Some crimes required justice. When the courts failed and the cause was grave enough, those with courage must accept the challenge. Revenge? Justice? Did it matter what it was named?

  He turned to Geoffrey Morgan, known in some circles as The Sheikh. “Good shot, Geoff. My aim was just a little off. Thanks for correcting the error.”

  “My pleasure,” the man said.

  “Somehow, it doesn’t seem enough.”

  “For Constance?”

  “And Sarah, and the Algerian fiasco.”

  “A trial could have been a very messy thing,” Geoff mused.

  “Embarrassing for the women and their families,” Tristan agreed, “not to mention dredging up the Algerian affair again.”

  “Kilgrew could never have allowed that to come out.” Geoff nodded. “Better this way, really.” Prodding at Farmingdale’s inert body with the toe of his boot, he asked, “What next?”