“We have to go,” Captain Jan hissed.
“I can’t!” Matthew said. “I can’t leave Alex.”
“She might be dead,” the captain said. “She may have drowned.”
“Not Alex.” Matthew filled his lungs and yelled. “Alex! Where are you?”
In the far distance, he heard a muffled reply, cut abruptly short.
“He’s taken her,” Matthew gasped. “Goddamn that worm of a man, he’s taken my wife!”
Chapter 34
It had taken Alex at most a second to understand who it was that had pushed her underwater. Up she came, gasped for air, and before she could scream or fight, she was submerged again, dragged towards the far-off shore. Brown was a strong swimmer. Actually, he was a bloody strong man, as Alex realised when she tried repeatedly to kick herself free from him out there in the water. At one point, she thought she heard Matthew call her name, and she filled her lungs and yelled for him, tried to do so again but had her head brutally pushed into the sea.
Now they were almost on land, Brown wading through the shallows with Alex spluttering behind him.
“Let go of me!” Alex yanked, succeeded in freeing one of her hands, and dealt Brown a hard punch to the side of his head. The planter grunted, grabbed at her flailing hand and when she kept on struggling, hit her back, punching her so hard in the gut she collapsed to the ground, all air knocked out of her. He tore at her shawl, used it to tie her hands together and heaved her back to her feet.
“Walk,” he said. No way. Alex had no intention of making this easy for him, shrieking like a cornered rat when he dragged her over the pebbled beach in the direction of one of the warehouses. “I told you to walk,” he hissed, slapping her in the face.
In reply, Alex rose on her toes, kneed him so hard in his crotch he stumbled back, and for a few seconds, Alex was free, running hell for leather in the general direction of Klaas’ house.
Brown brought her down roughly. Pebbles and grit scraped her skin, she had sand in her mouth and her nose, and her jaw ached with the impact. He rolled her over, his knife in one hand. “Now, Mrs Graham, no more of this. Either you walk, or I cut your throat, here and now.”
Alex swallowed, was back on her feet, and walked meekly in front of him, the tip of his knife an uncomfortable, constant prickle in her nape.
He pushed her inside one of the warehouses, lit a lantern, and studied her for a couple of minutes. He sauntered close, and she spat him in the face, making him laugh.
“Should I want to, I would,” he said, “but you’re not much to look at in your present state, are you, Mrs Graham?” He reached out to tweak at her breast. She reared back so quickly she overbalanced and crashed into the wall behind her.
“Nor are you,” she snapped back, “and once I get out of here, I’ll—”
“Get out of here? What makes you think you ever will?” Mr Brown kicked at one of the solid walls, jerked his head at the barred window. “No. Mrs Graham, this is where you die. Tonight, I’d wager, and as we both know, I’m an accomplished gambler. Frightened?” he jeered.
Alex just shook her head.
“Oh yes, you are, but that’s what you get when you meddle in affairs you should best leave alone.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said stiffly.
“Marijke Hendrijks – she was supposed to be mine, she was meant to be mine, and then you ruined it all, you witch.” He straightened up, looked down at her. “Have you got any idea how rich she is? And now it all slips through my fingers, all on account of you and your slanderous mouth.”
In the weak light from the moon outside, she couldn’t make out more than the general shape of him – that and his eyes, gleaming wetly. She took a deep breath, crouched and launched herself at him, tied hands held like a battering ram before her. She took him unawares, and sent him flying to land against the opposite wall. She kicked him, heard him grunt before collapsing on the floor.
Her hands…she had to get her hands free. She used her teeth to worry at the knot, felt the material give. There! One hand free, the other, and she rushed for the door. He’d bolted it upon their entrance, and she couldn’t budge the damn thing, no matter that she tore at it with both hands.
“Think! Think, think!” Right, she needed some kind of tool, looked about desperately in the dark. A stool, a piece of sacking, some rope…nothing she could use as a crowbar, and Brown was groaning, already moving.
“Shit!” She grabbed yet again at the bolt, tugged, and it gave a half-inch. “Yes!” Another tug, another half-inch. She threw a worried look in the direction of Brown. He wasn’t there. She ducked, forewarned by the rush of air, and the stool crashed into the door. Alex yelped, darted away from the planter who swung for her, roaring that she was going to pay, he was going to punch her, kick her, and then, well then, he’d tie her up and set the warehouse on fire, and how would she like that?
“Uhhh!” The stool caught her on her right shoulder, but she was still standing, still capable of moving. Brown was forcing her into a corner, laughing as she attempted to break free. She was getting tired. All of her hurt, and her right arm hung useless. Alex backed away, trying to find enough space to use her martial arts skills, but the shed was too small, there were uprights everywhere, and she stumbled over discarded sacks, over broken crates. Instead, Alex opened her mouth and screamed for her husband.
“No one will hear you,” Brown sneered, lunged and pinned her down.
“No!” she shrieked when he dragged her towards one of the supporting uprights. “No!” she gasped when he clapped her over the head, bringing her to her knees. Her hands – he tied them to the upright, laughing at how she struggled to free herself.
“Apt, Mrs Graham, you’ll burn, like the accursed witch you are.” She shook her head: she was no witch. That just made him laugh, his mouth an inch or so from her. “Not so cocky now, hey?” he said, and his hand did whatever exploring it wanted to do, no matter that Alex twisted like an eel. “Too old,” he said, pinching her hard. “Well, time is flying, so best get our little bonfire started.” He giggled, looking about the little space. “It will go up like a torch, I think.”
“Please,” she said, “please…” She yanked, she pulled, and her wrists protested at the pain. The shawl ripped, but Brown had used twine as well this time, and her tugging only resulted in the thin rope sinking into her rapidly swelling hands.
Brown ignored her, humming to himself as he concentrated on lighting a couple of lanterns. It took him an awful long time to do so, and all the time, Alex screamed. At the top of her voice, she called for help, for Matthew, for anyone. So hoarse, so dry – her voice barely carried at times.
“There,” Brown said, satisfied with his lighting. “And now…” He placed one of the lanterns on the rickety stool, nudging it until it slid to stand precariously on the edge. “Oh dear, I wonder how long it will take for it to fall over.”
“No,” Alex groaned, unable to tear her eyes away from where he was arranging rubbish in a neat pile below the stool.
“Very nice,” he said before reclining one of the lanterns against the back wall. “The wood is quite dry,” he said over his shoulder. “Look, it’s already beginning to smoulder.” Once again, that high-pitched giggle.
“Help! Oh God, please help me!” She renewed her efforts, tugging wildly at her ties.
“I don’t think He’ll hear you,” he snickered, making for the door.
“No,” she shrieked, one long panicked note that reverberated in the enclosed space.
Mr Brown stopped in the doorway and swept her a bow. “A pleasure, Mrs Graham, but now, I fear, I must go.” With that, he sent the lantern still in his hand sailing through the air, and disappeared.
*
“There!” Matthew froze. “That’s Alex.” Except that he’d never heard his wife scream like this before.
“She’s in one of the warehouses,” Captain Jan said, pointing to where faint light leaked out from a smal
l window. Yet another scream, a loud anguished ‘Matthew’, a high-pitched repeated ‘please’.
Matthew set off at a run, with the captain and the dog at his side. He saw a shape emerge from the warehouse, heard Alex scream, heard the door slam closed. Matthew didn’t quite understand why Alex was screaming as she was, unless there was more than one man. Smoke – why could he smell smoke? He heard Jan gasp beside him, the younger man rushing off in a sprint with the dog at his heels.
Sweetest Lord! Matthew increased his speed, forcing himself to fly over the rocky ground, despite his bandaged thigh. The shed was alight. Alex shrieked, calling for him, a high wailing that tore at him, made him sob with fear as he ran. Captain Jan was at the door, struggling to lift the crossbar.
“Help me,” Jan gasped, and together they lifted it off. The door was hot to the touch, part of it was on fire, and, God, where was Alex? Jan kicked the door open. Smoke welled, thick and black. Fire was everywhere, tongues of bright light that danced all over the further wall, the ceiling. Matthew rushed inside, making for the terrified, gibbering woman that was his wife, tied to one of the posts.
Jan cut through her bindings, the ceiling behind her gave, and burning spars fell all around them. Together, they dragged her towards the door, a distance of two or three yards no more, that seemed interminable, the warehouse crackling with fire, the smoke making it near on impossible to breathe.
“Hurry!” Jan gasped, and just as they reached the doorway, it began to fold, half of the doorframe on fire. The dog barked, whined, barked. Jan and Matthew staggered outside, with Alex hanging in their combined arms.
“It’s alright,” Matthew crooned. “You’re safe, Alex.”
She breathed in heavy, rasping gulps; she coughed and retched, coughed and coughed. Remarkably unscathed, Matthew concluded after a swift inspection: no broken limbs, no major burns – at least, not that he could see.
“We have to go,” the captain said. “That Brown will raise the alarm, and I have to get the Althea out of here before the Governor gets his boats into the water – or, even worse, trains the cannon of the fort on us.”
“And how do we get out there?” Matthew estimated the distance to a furlong, no more, and had Alex been her normal self, he’d have suggested they swim. But now…he steadied her to stand, and all she did was drag in one wheezing breath after the other.
“We steal a boat,” the captain said. “Here, let me help you.”
“I can walk,” Alex croaked. “Of course I can.”
“Are you sure?” Matthew asked.
In reply, she just nodded, stumbling after Captain Jan.
*
In less than five minutes, they were making their way across the harbour towards the Althea.
“Charlie?” Alex asked.
“On board, I hope,” the captain said, eyes on the distant shoreline. “Torches. We’d best pick up pace.” He threw himself into his oars; Matthew did the same.
“He was going to burn me to death.” Alex couldn’t help it: her hold on Othello tightened, her face buried in his warm, wet fur.
“Well, he didn’t, did he?” Captain Jan gasped between his rowing.
“No thanks to him,” Alex muttered. “I hope he dies a horrible, painful death, preferably with his cock in his mouth.”
“Alex!” Matthew said.
“Well, I do! Men like him deserve to.” It helped to get angry. Ranting at Sassafras Brown made it possible to shove away the events of the last hour or so, eternal minutes when she’d been sure she would die, roasted like a trussed chicken.
Only once they were on board did Matthew have an opportunity to take in the full damage done to her. His mouth tightened into a long, displeased line.
“He hit you?” Matthew asked.
“Only a couple of times. He was too excited about the prospect of lighting his little bonfire.” She shuddered at that, just had to crawl into his arms, a few minutes of gulping in his reassuring scent, of assuring herself she was still here, with him, not a burning corpse in the little warehouse that at present stood like a beacon against the black of the night.
He rested his head against hers, stood silent, and held her.
“I…” Alex snuck her hands in under his damp shirt, had to touch his warm skin.
“I know,” he whispered into her hair, tightening his hold on her.
She fidgeted in his embrace, and he released his hold. Her shoulder was too tender, her face was a collection of swellings and scrapes, even if nothing seemed to be seriously damaged. She lifted her shoulder up and down a couple of times, and gave him a shaky smile.
“No big deal. All I need is a good night’s sleep. A bath would be nice, but that’s not on the cards, is it?”
“I think not.” Matthew stroked her cheek. Around them, the ship creaked into life, and Alex took his hand, making for the railings.
“At last,” Matthew said. Behind them, Barbados was nothing more than a large, dark lump against a slightly lighter sea, and above them the sky spread itself in an endless field of stars. The night was warm, so warm that Alex was glad her clothes were wet, and by the mast Charlie was sitting half asleep, long spindly legs stretched out before him.
Matthew went to help with the sails, and Alex remained by the railings, watching Barbados drop out of sight. The swells increased, the Althea dipped and rose, and Alex felt the contents of her belly come surging up her throat.
“Bloody hell, what is it with boats and me?” She leaned over the railing and retched.
“Mint helps,” a young voice informed her, and Alex turned to look at her son turned experienced sailor.
“No, it doesn’t. At least it doesn’t work on me.”
David came to stand very close, eyes scanning her face. His mouth set in a line as displeased as his father’s, and he gave her an awkward hug. “Are you alright then?” he asked, handing her a bucket.
“Yes, I am.” A new wave of bile and vomit flew up her throat. “All things being relative, of course.”
David laughed. “I must go. I’m on the nightwatch.”
“Good, please make sure the damned boat stops bucking about.”
“Bucking about?” David laughed again. “The sea is calm tonight, Mama.”
“No, it isn’t,” Alex grumbled.
“You’re an awful sailor,” David said before scurrying off to where the first mate was calling for him.
Alex groaned, took a firm hold of a bucket, and crawled off to lie down somewhere out of the way. She should probably change her clothes, she yawned, but knew that she wouldn’t, far too tired to even make the effort. She pillowed her head against a coil of rope, and stared up at the flying stars, winking like diamonds at her. She yawned again and fell asleep, one hand on the bucket, the other on the dog that had draped himself along her legs.
Matthew found her in the wee hours, and undid her hand from the bucket. He rinsed it out and replaced it, shooed the dog away, and, with a grunt, stretched out beside her, pulling her cloak over them both. His hand found its way inside her clothes to cup a warm and soft breast, and in her sleep Alex pressed her arse towards him. He chuckled in her nape, and kissed her just behind her ear.
“I think not,” he whispered, “not on the open deck of a boat.”
“Just hold me,” she replied, and pressed herself even closer. So he did, rocking them gently back and forth, shrouded by her heavy cloak.
Chapter 35
Alex wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry when a bedraggled Carlos was dragged into the light early next morning. Carlos had no such compunction, his face breaking out into a smile of such sweetness it made Alex’s breath hitch.
“How on earth—?” she began, and then threw a worried look at Captain Jan. “You know he’s a Catholic priest, right?”
Captain Jan nodded, looking askance at Carlos. “It would be difficult to miss, and this one carries no hidden weapons under his cassock.”
“But I thought—” Alex said.
“Oh,
I was planning to,” Captain Jan told her. “I had already thrown him in the water, but your son started bleating about this being a friend of the Graham family, and the stupid boy dived in after him and then—”
“—Othello jumped in after,” Alex said. Now that she looked closer, Carlos bore clear signs of a recent beating. “You hit him?”
Captain Jan shrugged. “Not me, but yes, someone did.” He leaned forward to touch Alex’s bruised cheek. “Just as someone hit you.”
“It’s not too bad,” Alex said, having given Carlos a brief recapitulation of the events last night.
“Not too bad? The man was going to murder you!”
“I know,” she said, swept by a wave of remembered fear. Carlos gave her a careful hug, rearing back when she yelped. “My shoulder, it’s a bit sore.”
“As is your face, I imagine.” Carlos’ brows pulled together in a ferocious scowl. “Men like him should be hanged.” He threw an angry look in the direction of the captain. “And so should he. That man’s a pirate, a sea wolf.”
“A privateer,” Alex corrected.
“Nomenclature,” Carlos snorted, “and your son is a pirate too.”
“David? He’s just a boy.”
“Precisely,” Carlos nodded, “and that’s why they got close enough to board us.”
Alex could feel her brows travel higher and higher up her sore forehead as Carlos told the story of how Althea had lain apparently deserted, a young boy crying piteously for help, because his shipmates were all dead or dying, and so the Spanish ship had nudged cautiously closer.
“And you didn’t recognise him?” Alex asked.
“No. He was dirty and covered in what we presumed to be blood. But we weren’t about to board her, not until we knew how the crew had sickened and died.”
David had played out a credible act of vomiting and stomach clutching, moaning that his head hurt, it hurt to breathe and, God, how his armpits ached, and he had wept and asked them to please take him aboard because he was scared to sit here among his dead companions. “Our captain refused, but took the sloop in tow, and so we lumbered on, slowed considerably.”
Whither Thou Goest (The Graham Saga Book 7) Page 29