The Innkeeper's Daughter

by Michelle Griep

  “Alex!” It was more a scream than a name, one that competed with the boom of an explosion.

  He didn’t move, not even as the air vibrated with the last blast from the dying ship. But he saw her just the same. The dark of his eyes slipped ever so slowly to the left, back at her, then to the left again. Commanding. Pleading.

  She bit her lip. Even without looking she knew exactly what he asked. The stairs. He wanted her below deck. It was a good idea, and she took a tentative step toward them—then stopped. Was this how it’d been for Mr. Nutbrown? Had he faced death alone, perhaps a needless death because of the inaction of a fearful bystander? How could she hide away and let Alex die without doing something?

  Yet what could she—a simple girl with a stick—do against men with guns?

  She clenched her piece of wood tighter, the rough grain cutting into the tender parts of her palm. Assess. Assess. Repeating the words in her head, she matched her breathing to the rhythm until her heart rate slowed.

  Between Alex and the railing stood a line of men. Unruly hair curled out from beneath the hat of the central figure, tall of stature, less burly than Alex, but just as familiar. Mr. Quail-Clarkwell. If the man truly was a revenue officer, he wouldn’t harm Alex. Unless he still believed Alex to be a smuggler. But being a lawman, as long as Alex didn’t threaten him, the man wouldn’t shoot him … would he?

  She snapped her gaze to the men in front of Alex. There were only three. A dandy of a fellow, who appeared to be unarmed, the axe-wielding Mr. Pickens, and the gun-toting Mr. Cooper—and who knew when that villain would let loose. Behind those three, near the opposite railing, seven others stood with guns raised as well.

  Her shoulders sank. The situation was beyond her salvation—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t try. Perhaps if she got Mr. Cooper’s attention, for even the space of a breath, maybe Alex could use it to his advantage.

  She crept forward.

  Just as five more men emerged out of the hatch from below. She grit her teeth. Wonderful. More guns.

  “Stop!” Mr. Quail-Clarkwell’s command boomed.

  Johanna froze. So did everyone else. Was he speaking to her or to the others?

  “As the man said, you’re all under arrest.” Mr. Quail-Clarkwell and the rest of his men stepped abreast of Alex.

  She blinked. Surely she wasn’t seeing this, but … apparently she’d been wrong. Very wrong. Mr. Quail-Clarkwell and his men hadn’t been aiming at Alex, but at the three others in front of him. No wonder Mr. Cooper hadn’t pulled his trigger yet.

  “If you’re lying, Moore, you’re a dead man.” Mr. Quail-Clarkwell handed Alex one of his guns.

  Moore? Johanna angled her head.

  So did Alex—a movement she’d learned from living with him the past month that meant he was confused yet still determined to be in charge. He grabbed the pistol, his gaze once again meeting hers, this time with a visible twitch of his head toward the stairs.

  Then he extended his arm and aimed the barrel at Mr. Cooper. “You should’ve shot me while you had the chance.”

  Grating laughter rumbled out the man’s mouth. “Night’s not over yet.”

  “It is for you. Drop your gun.”

  To her left, near the railing, a man crept toward her, closing in fast. Without thinking, she whaled the board at him.

  And missed.

  He roared.

  A nightmare unleashed. Popping, smoking, curses and hollers exploded. Something hot whizzed past her cheek, grazing a line of fire across the skin.

  Was it too late to reach the stairs?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  One bullet. Just one. Alex crouched behind a cannon, shots pinging off the metal. Smoky haze distorted the scene. Blasts of red dotted the night. Rising slightly, he waited, assessing, judging where best to place his one shot. Thank God Johanna had disappeared below deck. Beside him, Quail reloaded. Why the devil had the man jumped sides?

  Burnt gunpowder stung his nose. So did the thick odor of spilled blood. Around the deck, men dropped like swatted blackflies. Except for one man, crouching low, who duck-walked his way toward the quarterdeck. Alex knew his short shape well. He aimed his gun at Robbie’s lower half and fired, hoping for a wound, not a kill—just as a bullet whizzed past his own head. He dropped behind the cannon.

  The popping died out. Quail and his men reloaded once again. Likely the other side did too. Alex used the lull to rise up and evaluate how many were left. Bodies were strewn about, not the one he’d shot at, but another snagged his attention at center deck. Blackie sprawled in a dark pool, his wooden leg splintered off mid-calf. He didn’t move.

  Next to Alex, Quail raised his gun.

  Alex flung out his arm. “Hold. Look.”

  Across the deck, smugglers were in various stages of throwing down guns and flinging themselves overboard—and one of them had red hair.

  “Grab some rope,” Alex ordered, then bolted and grasped the man. Squeezing a mite tighter than necessary, he kept Axe in a chokehold until Quail brought the rope.

  Breathing hard, he straightened. Charlie yet struggled at his feet, but he wouldn’t be going anywhere—except to gaol.

  Around him, Quail’s men seized fleeing smugglers. Some slipped their clutches, but most they nabbed and tied up.

  “You know your business.” Quail clouted Alex on the back. “Looks like you really are a runner.”

  He snorted, swiping the sweat from his brow with his still-wet sleeve. “And you? Who are you, really?”

  Quail’s eyes found his, and for the first time, no hint of foolery or scheming glowed in their depths. “The name’s Henry Clarkwell, revenue officer, sent to ferret out a guinea gang operating out of Dover.” He scanned the deck. “Looks like I stumbled onto something bigger.”

  “That you did. Sedition, which is why I’m here, though I’m currently missing my traitor.” Alex darted his gaze around the ship. No Robbie. Had he missed his mark?

  “Come on.” Alex sprinted over to where Robbie should’ve been, then followed a gruesome path. The bloody trail ended at the rear of the ship, portside gunwale, where a few men wrestled with ropes and a ferrying skiff, just about to lower it over the side. Only one man stood inactive, grasping on to the railing to keep from falling over. A dark stain spread from his knee to his foot.

  Alex pulled his gun. “Stop right there. Step away from the boat.”

  A bluff, for he had no ammunition. Would Robbie and his few minions fold, or did they have a last ace to play?

  No matter. Clarkwell and his men caught up, fanning out on both sides of him, weapons drawn. He’d never expected a miracle of such magnitude in the guise of bad musicians, and he stifled a laugh. Indeed, God surely did have a sense of humor.

  “Deserting again, Robbie?” Alex smirked. Judging by the twitch on Robbie’s jaw, the question struck sharper than a well-aimed right hook. “I’d have thought you’d learned your lesson by now.”

  Robbie unraveled quite a string of profanity as he sank to the deck.

  For the first time in weeks, the tension in Alex’s shoulders loosened. He lowered his pistol and glanced at Clarkwell. “Can you and your men manage these few without me?”

  “I may not play the violin with finesse, Moore, but I do know my way around smugglers.” Clarkwell flashed him a grin. “Go. Tend to Miss Langley, for I have no doubt you’ll not rest easy until you do.”

  Shoving the gun in his waistband, Alex turned and sprinted back to the stairs. He took them two at a time, nearly missing the last, but landed on solid footing nonetheless. Lanterns lit a corridor, and halfway down one of them, a lone figure in a gown huddled on the planks.

  His step faltered. As much as he wanted to gather her in his arms, she might not wish to be held. Not by him. Especially not when he told her all—for he must. He knew that now. It was time he revealed who he really was, laid bare his soul before her, and risked either her gain or loss, for such was the ultimate power of truth.

  Oh, God, g
o before me. I cannot endure the thought of losing her.

  He strode ahead, driven by grim determination, and gripped her by the shoulders, pulling her upward. “Johanna?”

  She lifted her face to his, and he staggered back a step. She held a cloth to her cheek.

  Soaked with blood.

  She’d lived a hundred years this day. Or more. By the looks of it, Alex had too. Silently, Johanna studied him in the dim light. His wet shirt clung to his muscles, alluring, but judging by the bend of his shoulders, he was worn as thin as her. Hair clung to half his face, darkened to burnt honey from seawater and sweat, all snarled and wild. Smoky residue smudged his jaw. Creases at the edges of his eyes disappeared as his gaze narrowed, focusing on her.

  “You’re hurt.” Pain raged in his voice, as if he’d been the one grazed by a bullet.

  Slowly, he pulled her hand from her cheek. With a touch infinitely tender, he angled her chin and bent to examine the wound. He smelled of the sea and gunpowder, of salt and man. An awful scent—yet marvelous, for it meant he lived. He breathed. He was here.

  For a second, she closed her eyes and whispered, “Thank You, God.”

  “Indeed,” Alex echoed, then he released her and ripped off a strip from the hem of his shirt.

  She stood, dazed, too spent to move or even care.

  “This is going to sting, but it will help in the long run.” His eyes held her gentle, then his voice broke. “I’m sorry.”

  He pressed the cold, saltwater fabric to her face.

  She sucked in air, fighting to shove down a scream. Her cheek burned like a thousand beestings. Tears bled from the sides of her eyes, and she clenched her hands to fists. Merciful stars! That hurt.

  Through it all, he held on, applying firm pressure. He said nothing, but a strange, strangled groan rumbled in his throat.

  Finally, the pain began to ebb. She unclenched her hands and breathed easier. Maybe—just maybe—this nightmare had come to an end.

  “Is it over?” Her voice came out choppy. She cleared her throat and started again. “I mean up there.” She lifted her gaze to the rafters, then back to his. “No one’s trying to shoot you anymore?”

  “No, leastwise not this bunch.” His lips curved, a bitter smile, but a smile nonetheless. “What are you doing here? Why are you not safe at home?”

  She blinked. How did one explain what’d happened over the space of a hundred years? So much. Too much. “Long story,” she murmured. “The short of it is Mr. Cooper wanted to kill me, but Mr. Quail, er, Clarkwell talked him out of it.”

  Alex shook his head, the damp straggles of his hair brushing against his collar. “I really do owe that man a debt.”

  Despite the pull on her cheek, she frowned. Why would a gentleman of Alex’s wealth and stature owe a revenue man anything? For that matter, what was he doing here instead of courting his betrothed? “I don’t understand any of this. What have you to do with the law? Why are you even here?”

  His breath huffed out, warm against her brow. “In your own words, it’s a long story. The short of it is I’m not who you think I am. I am a Bow Street officer, a lawman, just like Clarkwell, though here for different purposes. I was sent to uncover a plot against the Crown.” He tucked his chin, much the same as Thomas when caught in a mischief. “My true name is Alexander Moore.”

  “Moore?” She tasted the name, rolling it around in her mouth, unsure if she liked the flavor or ought to spit it out. “Not Morton.”

  “That’s right.”

  The knowledge lodged in her mind like an unwanted guest—one she desperately wanted to evict. He’d lied. Alex had lied. To her. The realization pricked worse than her cheek.

  She leaned back against the wall, grateful for the support. How many lies had her mother heard from her father’s mouth? Memories surfaced, one after the other, as black as the water keeping them afloat. So many arguments. So many tears.

  “Only going out for a bit, lovey. Back in a trice.”

  “I swear I don’t know where the rent money could’ve gone, sweetling.”

  “No, of course I’d not gamble away our future, darlin.’”

  Johanna moaned as a horrid understanding spread from her heart to her head. She’d done exactly what she’d vowed never to do—fall in love with a deceiver. A beautiful, handsome deceiver. What a fool. Just like her mother. Bitterness nearly choked her.

  She reached to pull his hand from her face. “Then you are not a wine merchant, either.”

  “No.” His arm was steel. “Please, allow me to hold this a minute more.” She clawed at his sleeve, desperate to get away from his touch. “I suppose you’re not a gambler, either, or a rake or a rogue?”

  He held firm, but his voice softened. “To my shame, those things are true.”

  So, a gambler and a deceiver. She had almost reconciled herself to his gaming, but now lying, too? Her anger flared, and she scowled. “Who are you, really, Mr. Moore?”

  A tremor travelled up his arm, trembling his fingers against her cheek. “I’m just a man, Johanna. A sinful man, but one who loves you very much.”

  He leaned close, closer, a breath away. Surely he didn’t mean to—

  His mouth claimed hers, and to her horror, she pressed against his wet, solid body. Traitor! She was the deceiver, telling herself she’d never love a man like …

  Her thoughts, her anger, her everything drifted away on a rising swell of sweet warmth. An ache, not unpleasant and altogether enticing, settled low in her belly. His lips were a whisper, a balm, one with hers—and yet ought not be.

  She pulled away, breathless, hating herself for having enjoyed such a forbidden fruit. What was she thinking? Even if he were who he said he was, that didn’t change the fact of his engagement. She pushed his hand away, and this time he let her, his brow weighted with an unnamed sorrow.

  “Johanna,” his voice was a sea of pain. “I lied to you, and for that I am eternally sorry. I thought it necessary because of a sense of misplaced duty, but I know now that my one and only duty is to God first, man second. It is much to ask, but I do … I beg your forgiveness for my deception, for so it was. Even though I did so for the sake of an order, that doesn’t change the fact that it was wrong. That I was wrong.”

  She froze, unable to move or breathe or think. What was she to do with an apology of such proportion? She’d been right all along, that he was like her father—but then again, not at all. Her father lied, too, but he’d never once admitted he was wrong or that what he did was wrong. He always had an excuse, a reason, a crutch. This level of integrity in a man was wholly unnerving—and completely irresistible.

  “Johanna?”

  Alex’s voice pulled her to the present, and she stared at a face she’d never forget, even if she tried. “Though my pardon pales in light of God’s, I freely give it, for how can I do any less?”

  He pulled her close again. Aah, but she could live here, hearing his heart beat strong against her cheek, wrapped in his arms and—she pulled back. Those arms were not hers to claim. “We should not do this. You are to be married.”

  “No, I am not.”

  She frowned, the pull on her cheek a slicing burn. What was she to believe? A fine whine sounded in her head, so high-pitched she winced.

  He sighed, and Atlas himself couldn’t have sounded more burdened. “Forgive my bluntness, but Louisa is dead.”

  “What?” She gasped. Would the macabre surprises never stop? “Oh, Alex. I am so sorry for you. How you must feel.”

  Refolding the square of fabric, he pressed it into her hand. She stared at it, afraid to read the emotion, the grief, that surely must be weighting his brow.

  “The truth is, Johanna, that I never had feelings for Miss Coburn, despite my pledge of troth. I tried several times to tell you I’d been ordered to marry her, but … well, the point is I overstepped the line. I gambled the one thing I couldn’t afford to lose—you. And that is a risk I don’t plan to ever take again. My heart has been yours since
the day you fell into my arms. Whatever you believe of me, believe this …”

  He grew silent, and she lifted her gaze to his. Such a burning fervency blazed in the blue of his eyes, a charge ran through her from head to toe.

  “I will come for you once this situation is over. I vow it. Wait for me. Only me. Will you?” His fingers reached for her, but a whisper away from making contact, he pulled back, then retreated a step, giving her space. Giving her time, for he stood there, saying nothing more.

  But every muscle beneath his wet clothes hardened to sharp edges.

  If nothing else, she knew then she held his life in her hands. His heart. His happiness. And hers, depending upon what she said. She swallowed, afraid to speak. Afraid not to. Afraid of the wild beating of her heart and the thrumming in her temples. Had it been the same for Mam?

  She bit her lip. First Alex had been a gentleman, too far above her station to notice her—but he wasn’t, not really. Then he was engaged—but by compulsion. And now? He pledged his love to her—a door opened by God alone, for she’d not done a thing to earn or encourage it. Should she risk walking through it? Was the gain, Alexander Moore, worth it despite his deceptive past?

  She lifted the cloth to her cheek, the hurt as painful as the years her next words might employ, and met his gaze. “I will never stop waiting for you.”

  And she wouldn’t. She would keep her word.

  But would Alex?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Johanna leaned her head against the wall, eyes closed, where she sat in the public room of the Ramsgate Arms. This early in the morning, the inn was just beginning to stir. A pot banged in the kitchen. The stairs creaked with shuffled steps. She really ought to use this opportunity to study the workings of this inn to compare it to the Blue Hedge, see if there was anything she could improve upon, but she was beyond exhausted. After a night of danger and love, her priorities had focused to more important things … like simply breathing.

  A small nudge to her shoulder popped her eyelids open.

  “Excuse me, miss.” Mr. Wigman, the Arms proprietor, stared at her with hound dog eyes and a snout as long as a beagle’s. “I let you rest as long as possible, but the coach is ready to leave.”