"You have a wife to think of now."
"I've no intention of dying this night, Ram." He moved him bodily aside and lifted the box of rag-stuffed bottles. "And I believe, as senior officer, I have that choice."
"Aye-aye, sir." Ram saluted, his smile not reaching his eyes, displeased that Dane would not allow him to do this small service. "A bloody waste of good rum," Ram grumbled, looking at the dark bottles.
"How a man of your caliber can stomach the vile brew is still a mystery." He shook his head ruefully, moving toward the doors. "I swear 'tis sieved through filthy smallclothes."
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Ram tightened his lips in an effort not to laugh out loud. He knew Dane preferred the smoother drinks to the harsh black rum rationed to the men.
"Make certain the way is clear," Dane ordered. Ram strode off to see that the men had departed and were well from sight, then drew a black gelding just inside the warehouse doors. Dane handed over the box before he mounted the beast, then reached for the cocktails, carefully placing them in the saddlebags braced across his lap.
"Be gone with you," he told Ramsey, holding the last one in his hand. Ramsey's shoulders drooped, and he opened his mouth to plead his case once more. Dane's eyes narrowed. " Tis an order, O'Keefe."
Ram nodded, reluctantly walking through the doors, then mounting his own steed and moving down the piet. He looked back once. Dane had the reins caught between his teeth, the horse stomping and prancing as he struck flint.
She was lost, Tess was sure of it. She'd been to the docks before, and nothing around her looked familiar. Having to stay in the shadows wasn't much help, and she hadn't made it very far. At least she didn't think she had. She kept moving toward the sound of water. Already she'd passed a couple of taverns and recognized several of the crew. Can't ask directions, she thought, thankful that most who'd seen her simply disregarded her as a boy.
She stopped at a darkened intersection, settling her rear on a hitching rail and considering her situ-
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ation. Awfully noisy for one a.m., she thought, laughter, a baby's hungry cry, and the slow clop of hooves melting with the cooing of the island birds. It took a full minute before Tess realized she'd gone in a complete circle, A couple of blocks away, above the low roofs of small homes, she could see the distinct arched windows of the house, and beyond that, the inn. Damn, Renfrew, your sense of direction is the pits! Dane was probably finished by now, she decided, pushing away from the rail. She hadn't taken more than two steps when a rustling sound reached her ears. She turned, her heart picking up its pace as she strained to discover what was making the noise. Man or beast? Her imagination taking flight, she half-expected Jason to suddenly appear brandishing a bloody hatchet. A second later the friar materialized from the tree line, and Tess sighed heavily, sagging against the post.
"Mistress Blackwell?" He peered closer. "Is that you, my child?"
She fanned herself. "Ah, yes, it's me, Father Jacob."
"What on earth are you doing out this late?" He scanned the area. "Alone?"
Tess straightened. His gaze was roaming up and down her clothing, halting and squinting at the black Lycra she knew he could see at her throat. "Why are you disguised as a boy, lass?"
"Urn, well, I, ah, was, ah." Oh, Jeez, she couldn't lie to a priest! "I was looking for Dane," she blurted in a rush. "And thought I'd draw less attention dressed like this." She plucked at the trousers, having never felt quite so awkward about
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wearing pants before this moment.
He smiled gently at her flushed face. "Then we must get you to him, lass. Tis not safe for such a delicate creature as you to be out unescorted." He walked with a determined step toward her, offering his arm. The lass had sneaked out, he deduced, knowing well her new husband would never have allowed such a liberty freely. The man's short steps had barely covered the space between them when the thunder of hooves came from all directions.
The priest moved swiftly to her aide, pulling her along. She let out a sharp cry, stumbling when a horse barreled into their path. Father Jacob yanked her protectively behind him but a second horse skidded to a stop in back of her, its rider chuckling nastily, the animal's breath snorting hotly on her neck. She sidestepped, trying desperately not to get tromped on, when a carriage, black and massive, careened around the bend to block their escape, chains and wood screaming as it came to a grinding halt. The friar muttered something in Latin. The small gold-trimmed door burst open.
"Join me, mistress," a silky masculine voice commanded.
"In your dreams, buddy! Come on, Father." She started to move between the horses, but the riders tightened the circle about them. Then she heard an unmistakable click. She whirled toward the carriage to see a pistol barrel emerge from the darkened interior, ringed fingers closed around the weapon,
"Get in."
"Do not, lass."
"I won't, Father," she assured, then said, "Look,
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mac, you've obviously got the wrong person. I don't know who you are, and I'm definitely not going anywhere—"
He tsked softly. "You force my hand, lady. Kill the friar."
The casually spoken words made Tess's heart freeze mid-beat. A rider swiftly tossed a rope around Father Jacob's torso, yanking it tight, pulling him from Tess's side. A gun barrel was suddenly pressed firmly to his temple.
"Please-don't hurt him!" she begged, moving toward the conveyance. "I'll go, you damned coward! I'll go!"
"For the love of God, mistress, nay!" Father Jacob screamed, wildly struggling with his bonds. "Do not go! Run, RUN!"
"I shall caution you not to insult me further, ma-dame." Tess gulped thickly at yet another threat. "And be quick about it." The jeweled hand waved the gun impatiently, giving her a view of a lace cuff and blood red brocade. She stepped onto the landing, ducking slightly.
"Nay!" the priest cried hoarsely, struggling to get to her.
The weapon fired, blasting near the back of her head, making her ears ring, and singeing her braided hair. She twisted sharply, waving frantically at the white smoke as the friar dropped to the ground with a thud, blood gushing from what was left of his head and pooling on the dirt. Her legs trembled, her stomach rolled violently, and for a split second Tess couldn't move a muscle.
"You bastard!" Tess screamed, lurching at the
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killer. She clawed and scratched at his face. "What the hell did you do that for?" Her nails raked his cheek, yet he made no move to stop her. "I agreed, for Christ's sake!" His blood wet her fingertips, giving her little satisfaction.
"Witnesses, my lovely," he said, and Tess froze. His tone was smooth, liquid, far too controlled for what he'd just done.
A roaring blast ripped into the night, the earth shuddering with the force. The man grabbed her arm, yanking her into the carriage and slamming her against the far wall at his feet. Above her head he brushed back a short red curtain with the nose of the gun. Explosions erupted in erratic repetition. The blaze of yellow flames radiated against the ebony sky, the brilliant glow lighting his face for an instant. His fingers tightened on her arm. It was his only response. Citizens raced from their homes. He let the curtain drop back into place, slowly looking in her direction, his face expressionless. I'm a dead woman, she thought, struggling in his grasp, trying to peel off his fingers, her strong feet kicking viciously. He grunted once at her assault, then quite calmly backhanded her, the pistol butt smashing against the side of her head. Pain detonated in her skull, her surroundings narrowing rapidly. His shadowed silhouette swam in her line of vision, blond waves framing sharp, handsome features, then he smiled—shark-cold, a slow baring of white teeth as his gaze rested on the blood she could feel trickling down the side of her face. Then unconsciousness took her past the agony as she slumped onto the carriage floor.
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* * #
Wood smoldered, then burst, flames waving like wisps of orange silk.
Gunpowder sizzled and smoked, the sulfur trails burning rapidly toward the kegs. Dane touched the flint to the cloth and threw the last bottle into the warehouse, then reined around sharply and kneed the beast. The frightened charger bolted out the open doors seconds before the first explosion ruptured. Debris burst from the building, shattered wood shooting like flaming bullets and dropping into his path. He skillfully maneuvered the horse over the wreckage, hastening his pace. Dane never saw the hunk of burning timber fall from the sky, yet felt the pain when it impacted with his body, knocking him from his mount.
Whittingham jolted awake at the loud crash. He leapt from his bed, and, as fast as his chubby legs would take him and raced to the window, brushing back the drape. His eyes widened at the sight. All he could see was the vibrant glow of flames against the night. His warehouses! "Bloody hell! Blood friggin' hell!" He snatched up his breeches, jamming 'his foot into the legs and hitching them over his nightshirt. He grabbed the pistol kept loaded on the commode, shoving the barrel into his waistband as he took up more powder and shot, then thundered out of his room. He'd kill Phillip. He had his coin, and it would be just like the bastard to destroy his stores. The ledgers, he panicked, I must retrieve the
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damned proof. Nigel nearly fell down the stairs in
his haste and stumbled against the door, pausing to
catch his breath and hellow for the servants to bring
the carriage round. He opened the front door and
ran out, nightcap askew, sweating profusely as he
tripped and fell down the stone steps.
"How good of you to join us, Whittingham." Ni-gel lifted his gaze upward from the booted toes poised before his face. His vision climbed higher, up the long body, pausing at the gun barrel pointed at his nose. His eyes shot to its owner, and the young blond man smiled. "You weren't by chance going for these, were you, sir?" he asked with a grin, waving his ledgers triumphantly.
Nigel groaned, and the man's smile fell, his expression turning cold and hard, "By order of the President, George Washington, I charge you with treason on the high seas against the United States of America. Is that clear, sir?"
Nigel struggled to his feet, spitting dirt and pebbles at the young man's boots. "Who are you, and what gives you the right to — " "This gives me the right, sir." Gaelan Thorpe produced documents to back his claim, then neatly stuffed them in his coat pocket, ordering his men to shackle the fat little Tory.
Sitting on a milking stool, Dane leaned his head back against the doorframe of the stable, his breath hissing through his teeth as Duncan applied a salve to his arm.
"She should be tendin' this," Duncan muttered 358
tightly as he wrapped the bandage.
Dane glanced to his side. "I doubt her care would be as tender this night, my friend." " 'Twould serve you right, Dane." Dane looked at the old mariner with a bit of surprise. "You, seriously believe I should have taken her along?"
Duncan considered the question for a moment. "Aye, the lady is not like any other female, Dane, She's a true mate and can pull her own."
"She is my wife. Cannot even you understand that I dare not risk her being harmed?" Duncan chuckled despite the sharp tug he gave the ends of the cloth, and Dane winced, shoving off his hands. "Sweet Mercy, old man,' Mayhaps suffering her anger would bring me less agony." Dane flexed his scorched arm.
"I see through your eyes, Dane," Duncan said, climbing to his feet and looking down at the young captain. "My Meggie was like your bride, full of vinegar and spice, ready to fight the British face-to-face with her pots and kettles if I'd but allowed it. But she fought in other ways — smuggling information—" Duncan looked away, his eyes misting, the pain of his loss stabbing through his wide chest." After ten years the mere mention of her name still brought him to his knees. "I could not stop her in doing what she wanted—nay, needed to do, lad. "I was a wee bit like trying to stop mornin' from comin'. Yer Tess, God bless her, has Meggie's heart." His smile was tender as he looked back at Dane. "You've lived a dangerous life, lad. Now is not the time to coddle the woman for your own
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peace of mind. 'Twill destroy yer love. Me 'n' Meg-gie never had the opportunity to make peace before she was — " Duncan swallowed thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing.
Dane came to his feet, giving the old man's shoulder a gentle squeeze.
"I hear you, Duncan. I swear, I do."
Duncan turned his back to Dane. "Go on wit' ye, ye young whip." He waved. "She'll be havin* me hide if she knows 'twas me that kept you from her arms."
Dane pushed away from the wall and strode quickly toward the kitchen door, eager to make amends with Tess. He smelled of smoke and spilled rum and considered washing and changing before going to her, but the ache to hold her needed appeasing. He took the crooked steps two at a time, thrusting open the door. There was a collective sigh from the men scattered about the kitchen, and their soft thanks to the Lord warmed Dane's heart.
They raised their tankards. "A successful plan, sir."
"To Mistress Blackwell," Aaron bellowed, "and her finely brewed—what were they, Gaelan?"
"Molotov cocktails, I believe, Mr. Finch."
"She is not here?" Dane asked, scanning the room.
"Nay, sir. She has not shown herself."
Several expressions showed their concern about this. Dane grabbed a tankard held out for him and washed the burn of smoke from his throat, then thrust the pewter at Aaron as he strode from the kitchen. He climbed the stairs, gesturing in dis-
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missal to the guards.
"She ceased asking to be let out hours ago, sir," Sikes offered. "Bless her heart, she tried well, though"
Dane nodded curtly, feeling even more rotten at how he'd treated her. Locking her away? God's teeth, what was he thinking! He waited until the guards were down the stairs before he turned the key and pushed open the door. His gaze darted to the bed. It was mussed, the depression in the pillow telling him she had been there. He frowned, stepping inside and calling her name. His eyes lit on the open window, then to the spot where he'd tossed the black garment, and Dane instantly knew the depth of her hurt. Tess was no longer in the house.
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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Dane moved swiftly around the room, searching her trunks, trying to discover what else she had worn and mayhaps taken with her for protection. Ahh, Tess, what have I done? His shoulders drooped when he ascertained the leather pouch of tools was all she had with her. Leaning his forehead against the bedpost, he cursed his insensitivity and her recklessness, truly understanding how deeply she'd wanted to be with him: enough to risk her life to escape. Escape! He rubbed the back of his neck. Jailing his own wife. Sweet Christ, what mind was he in when he did that?
Duncan was right; his coddling would destroy what they had. He stiffened, looking toward the window. Where in God's name was she now? he thought with a strike of fear. Surely she'd heard the explosion? Time had well passed for her to return. Was she staying away to see that he suffered? I do, my love, I do, he thought, his heart brimming with guilt. Fool! Tis my fault. I should have realized the
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woman would never sit idly and take orders. From anyone.
"Sir?"
Dane didn't move. "You should have counseled me sooner, Duncan. I am too late. She has fled."
Duncan's expression fell. "There is someone here to see you, lad."
"Send them away or tend the matter yourself." He waved. "I've a wife to find." Dane went to his trunks, retrieving pistol and sword. He primed the weapons and checked the honed edge of the blade. Duncan remained silent, still standing at the door.
"Please, sir, come with me, now."
Dane looked up at the pleading tone, his features pulling tight. Duncan appeared ready to cry, he thought, his heartbeat escalating. Dane dropped the weapons into the trunk and ran out of the room, leaping down the stairs, his boots thundering on wood floors. He f
roze in the center of the parlor, his gaze on the wretched-looking man standing at the door, a thin packet in his gnarled hands.
"You be Capt'n Blackwell?" he asked, shuffling from foot to foot.
Dane nodded curtly, his eyes pale jade and narrow.
"This be fer you." The messenger held out the package. Terror crept up Dane's back, settling heavily on his shoulders as he reached. He turned the parcel over in his hand. There were no markings. Only his eyes shifted to the man. "Who gave this to you?"
The man shrugged, glancing away. Dane with-
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drew a small blade from his boot and slit the ties, peeling back the layers of parchment.
His bellow of rage ricocheted throughout the house, penetrating the rafters, making the men in the building shiver at its power. Gaelan's eyes went wide at the agonized sound, and he quickly set his mug on the table and raced from the kitchen, officers fast on his heels. He halted just inside the parlor. Dane was on his knees in the center of the room, his head thrown back, a paper crumpled tightly in his hand. Gaelan's sight flitted to the filthy man standing near the door, attempting to flee past the burly Sikes.
The captain slowly came to his feet, then with a harsh growl, he lunged.
"Who gave this to you?! Who?!" Dane shouted, hauling the man up off the floor by his shirt front. "Spill his name before I tear it from your bloody throat!" He shook him so hard the man's teeth clicked.
"Ah-ah bloke in red, I swear! Paid me ten shilling to give it te ye. Here—take the coin." He tried frantically to reach his pockets, seeing his death in those green eyes. Dane slammed the man against the nearest wall, sending a powerful fist into his ribs. The air left his lungs in a sharp grunt, and there was the unmistakable crack of bone.
"Jesus! Tis only a messenger!" Gaelan was there, using all his strength to keep the captain's fist from bludgeoning the man to death. "For God's sake, Aaron! Help me! He's mad!" It took no fewer than four men to hold him back.
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