'Just don't ask me to demonstrate,' Anthony retorted. 'You know a great deal more about that than I do!'
Anthony's mother had been a runaway slave, his father had been the older brother of Gifford's father. His parents had been killed in a carriage accident when he was a baby. If they'd been married, Anthony would have inherited the Raven lands and title which had now devolved to Gifford. Gifford's father, Sir Edward Raven, had reared his brother's bastard with his own sons. Anthony knew how much he owed to Sir Edward's integrity and deep humanity. He was as close to Gifford as if they really were brothers. But even with Gifford he was sensitive to casual references to his mother's people.
Gifford, sure of who he was and where he came from, had never hesitated to learn about the various cultures and peoples he had encountered during his naval career. Anthony hadn't left England until he'd fi-
nally sailed with Gifford in the Unicom frigate. He'd acted as an unofficial artist, recording the scenes he'd witnessed in quick sketches and, later, on larger oil canvasses. He'd enjoyed life on board ship, but he'd found their brief run ashore in the West Indies a disturbing experience. His feelings about his own antecedents were complicated and still unresolved. But he knew one thing for sure—even to help rescue Abigail he wouldn't impersonate a West Indian slave.
'The Blue Buck may or may not host some kind of devil's club,' said Gifford grimly, as they rejoined Ned. 'Most likely it's just a drinking and gambling den. But it's busy tonight and, according to Tidewell, it's still a licenced alehouse. Let's ride in and call for a tankard of ale. Ned, you can hold the horses for a shilling. Try to look less upright and more hangdog. And don't let anyone distract you from your post.'
Gifford's party was stopped at the entrance to the inn yard by a thick-set, stubble-chinned man leaning casually on a thick wooden staff, taller than he was.
'Evening, gentlemen,' he greeted them, his eyes flicking intently from Gifford to Anthony. 'Strangers, aren't you?'
'Anchored yesterday,' Gifford said. 'Only in port a few days. But we heard there was rare entertainment to be had at the Blue Buck.'
'You're seafaring men, friend?'
'Aye. And thirsty!' Gifford said belligerently. 'What's the problem, friend? Our rhino not good enough for you?'
Anthony watched the gatekeeper, and listened as his cousin transformed himself into a swaggering sailor. Gifford had coarsened his voice and manner by a few degrees. The subtle changes blurred his social station, without committing him to any particular role.
What the gatekeeper saw when he looked at Gifford might well depend on what he expected to see. A pirate playing at being a gentleman—or a gentleman playing at being a pirate. Either was likely to be acceptable in a thieves' den turned into a rake-hellish gentlemen's club.
'Sailors are always welcome at the Blue Buck,' said the gatekeeper, bowing without taking his eyes off Gifford. 'Are your friends also sailors?'
'My mate, Job,' said Gifford jerking his head at Anthony. 'And our Ned. Are you plannin' to keep us talking all night, friend? I've got a powerful thirst.'
He altered his stance. The threat was a subtle one. It could be ignored without loss of face if the gatekeeper decided to let them in—but it also sent the un-mistakeable message that Gifford wouldn't back down without a fight.
If there was some kind of Hellfire Club centred around the inn, it seemed to Anthony that membership would certainly depend on more than a gatekeeper's nod. But if it was no more than an alehouse for thieves and whores, Gifford's money should be as good as the next pirate's.
Black clouds lay over the landscape like an oppressive shroud. The hot, humid night increased the tension coiling around the small group at the entrance to the inn yard. Anthony could sense Gifford's roiling anger.
Gifford was edgy and dangerous as the Devil tonight. His scowling impatience at the gatekeeper's slow response threatened to boil over into violence.
Anthony kept his face impassive but he was alert to the gatekeeper's smallest movement. To his immense relief the man backed down. A few seconds later they walked into the Blue Buck's yard.
Gifford exhaled carefully, trying to rid himself of some of his tension, as he scanned his surroundings. Lanterns hanging at intervals from the first-floor gallery illuminated the cobblestoned courtyard. Deep shadows hid recessed spaces beneath the gallery the lantern light couldn't reach. The dark clouds trapped the oppressive heat of the August night close to the ground. Dirty straw stuck to the soles of Gifford's boots. The inn yard smelled of horses and unwashed men crowded too close together.
Gifford forced his emotions back under his full control. He was walking a fine line. His anger at Charles Johnson burned in his gut like hot lava. He'd used his rage to his advantage when he'd intimidated the gatekeeper—but he knew he was dangerously close to genuine violence. Cold logic would serve Abigail better.
A quick assessment of the men crowding the inn yard told him that many of them undoubtedly possessed equally hair-trigger tempers. They were an odd assortment, though Gifford had little doubt he was surrounded by the scum, not the cream, of society. Two gentlemen in well-tailored riding coats and glossy boots stood a few feet away from him. Both men looked as if they'd be at home in Gentleman Jackson's boxing saloon. Near them was a villainously scarred
fellow in a dirty coat and scuffed, down-at-heel boots. But his eyes were watchful and he moved with insolent self-confidence. When he turned to speak to his neighbour Gifford briefly saw the pistol he carried beneath his coat. Gifford had no doubt that most of the men here were armed, some less obviously than others. Both of the well-tailored gentlemen carried sword sticks.
The atmosphere was tense and filled with expectation. Men talked or joked with their friends—but they were waiting. When one of the inn doors opened, eager eyes looked towards it. When a tapman emerged carrying drinks into the yard, the waiting men lost interest. All the men were drinking. Occasionally voices were raised in brief arguments. It was a volatile assembly. A murderous brawl over an accidentally spilled drink was only an unwary gesture away.
The inn door opened again. Two men emerged first, one of them holding the end of a rope in his hand.
Scalding fury seared through Gifford, reducing every rational thought to ashes. For four seconds he was deaf and blind to everything but his own rage. Then he heard Anthony's low growl, and sensed rather than saw his cousin's instinctive movement forward. Behind them he heard Ned's shocked intake of breath, then his muttered curse.
'Stand!' Gifford's low-voiced order was the most compelling he'd ever given.
'Giff...?'
'Still!'
Three men against the fifty-odd crowding the inn yard didn't have a chance.
'What're we gonna do?' Ned's desperate question was covered by the whistles and obscene comments of the men around them.
'Wait.' Gifford's gaze never left the small party walking across the cobblestones to the empty farm cart drawn up beneath three gallery lanterns.'
One man held the end of a rope in his hand. The other end had been tied into a noose. The noose was around Abigail's neck.
Abigail followed Charles across the dirty cobbles. She heard the catcalls but she neither looked at the men who shouted at her, nor flinched from the sound of their voices. Her dignity wasn't much, but it was all she had left. She couldn't stop the tears of fear and humiliation which ran silently down her cheeks, but she was determined not to break down.
When Charles had first told her what he intended, she'd had a wild hope that she might be able to appeal to the men's chivalrous instincts. As soon as she'd stepped into the yard that hope had died. She didn't understand the import of all the lewd suggestions hurled at her—but she understood that her comfort was no one's concern.
Rough wooden steps had been placed at the back of the cart. Abigail ignored Charles's mockingly outstretched hand and climbed up unaided. She turned towards her hateful audience. The faces confronting her were blurred and featureless. She could barely se
e through her tears, but she lifted her chin proudly, as if
the rough hemp noose wasn't chafing her neck. As if it wasn't there at all.
The impulse to hug her arms protectively around herself was overwhelming, but she held her hands stiffly by her side. She'd never before appeared in public without her corset. She'd never worn such an immodestly low-cut gown, even in the privacy of her own bedchamber. Not since she was a child had she gone outside without wearing a hat or a bonnet, but now her unpinned hair tumbled in disarray all around her shoulders.
She listened as Charles Johnson briefly explained the auction to his leering audience.
Wife sales were commonplace, he declared. All the men present had come across such things. A low murmur of agreement followed his words. But tonight, Charles announced triumphantly, he had something much rarer to offer. Untouched purity—sold to the highest bidder.
Despite her best intentions Abigail folded her arms protectively across her breasts.
The first man made his bid. A second man raised it. Abigail's heart hammered with fear. Her throat was so tight she couldn't swallow—she could barely breathe. She couldn't see the men bidding on her, but their voices were hateful. She blinked to clear her tears, but more tears flooded her eyes, blinding her just as surely as if she had a cloth across her face.
A third man bid for her. His voice was clipped. Hard-edged. Familiar?
Another bid. The familiar voice raised it.
Abigail blinked furiously, then lifted a trembling hand to her eyes. Gifford.
Her legs gave way. Just before she hit the floor of the cart Sampson grabbed her from behind and hauled her up to her feet.
She panted, desperate for air in her fear-cramped lungs. Her eyes locked on Gifford's face. She was hardly aware that Sampson still held her.
Gifford's gaze met hers. He gave no indication that he recognised her. His expression was as chillingly brutal as his voice when he bid for her a third time.
Abigail's attention was caught by a movement beside Gifford.
Anthony. When he saw that she was looking at him he nodded almost imperceptibly, but he didn't smile. His eyes flickered to Charles, acting as auctioneer, then back to her face.
Abigail looked beyond Gifford and saw Ned. She frowned in confusion. Ned had no business in a place like this. Ned was a fine young man...who looked grimly angry.
Abigail finally noticed Sampson's grip on her arms and jerked out of his grasp. He chuckled, but let her go.
The bidding went high. Charles's voice became increasingly excited. Abigail had time to collect her wits and pay some attention to what was happening.
Was Gifford here to rescue her? It seemed to her that he should be—but why was he bidding for her? Why didn't he simply denounce Charles for the abductor that he was, and—?
For the first time she noticed how many men were present in the yard. They were shudderingly disgusting—and they all looked as barbarous as Charles and Sampson at their worst. Even the men not bidding for her were enjoying her degradation. Perhaps it was all one to them. A public hanging. A cock-fight. The sale of a woman...
Not one man in the yard would be willing to let this spectacle come to a premature conclusion.
She could smell their rancid bodies. The stench nearly made her throw up. She swallowed her bile. Stood as straight as she could. And waited.
Gifford knew the moment Abigail saw him. His stomach clenched as he saw her fall. It took all his ruthless self-control not to launch himself at the man who laid cruel hands upon her.
He didn't think it would matter if Abigail revealed that she knew him. As long as she didn't cry out his name. He'd been counting on the fact that Charles Johnson had never met him to preserve his anonymity. Johnson might or might not have an interest in naval affairs. But if he had heard or read about some of Gifford's recent exploits he might well be suspicious of his motives for attending the auction. Gifford didn't want to be thrown out of the Blue Buck yard. If possible, he wanted to rescue Abigail without exposing her to violence.
The violence would come later, when Abigail was safe.
Gifford was bidding against one of the well-tailored gentlemen he'd noticed earlier. Whenever the fellow made a bid he lifted his sword stick towards Johnson.
Gifford controlled a desire to ram it down his throat. He also took careful note of the man's appearance. For future reference.
Gifford raised the bidding again. Sword stick turned to stare at him, his expression hostile. Gifford recognised that he'd made an enemy. His lips curled in a smile that resembled a tiger's snarl.
Abigail clung to the side of the cart and prayed.
And then the auction was over. The man with the cane who'd been bidding against Gifford fell silent. Gifford shouldered his way through the crowd towards her, Anthony a couple of paces behind his cousin.
Abigail felt a rush of relief so overwhelming she nearly fell a second time. She clutched the side of the cart, fighting off her light-headedness. She wouldn't faint in front of this crowd.
Then she realised Anthony's attention was not on her, nor even on Gifford. He was watching the men on either side of Gifford. Then she knew with frightening clarity that, although the auction was over, they still weren't safe.
But Gifford was taller than most of the men around him. And he looked more disreputable than any of them. A dangerous pirate no sane man would willingly cross, she thought hopefully. She was so used to his eye patch and his scar she was almost comforted by the sight of them, but that was hardly likely to be how he affected most people.
She could feel his simmering rage even when he was still several feet away from her. See it in the tension in his jaw, his burning ice-blue eye—and in the fluid movement of his fierce predator's body as he leapt up
into the cart. Fear washed over her. Not for herself, but that she might see men die tonight.
She locked her hands together and tried to maintain her composure as she turned to face Gifford.
His gaze contained barely a hint of recognition as it brushed across her. But he took the time to loosen the noose around her neck. Then lift it over her head. His touch was gentle, but she felt his fingers tremble against her skin, and knew it was rage, not fear, that he struggled to control.
Charles edged behind Sampson. Sampson grinned. Abigail hated Sampson's grin, but in a jumble of confused thoughts it briefly occurred to her that it was his master's fear which amused him.
'An exceptional bargain.' Gifford's left hand stroked lightly over Abigail's hair, then slipped beneath the heavy mass to caress her neck. 'Do you have many such?' he asked, his predator's smile curving his lips.
Abigail shivered, and refolded her arms across her chest, her hands gripping her opposite elbows. In a tiny, calm corner of her mind, she knew his gesture was intended to convey different meanings to her and to the rest of his audience.
Reassurance for her. Ownership to anyone inclined to dispute his claim on her. But there was nothing reassuring about the dangerous emotions radiating from Gifford's powerful body. She was scared, excited, stimulated by his touch. But she wasn't reassured.
'Not—not often.' Charles stumbled over the words. 'Are you...interested in such.. .bargains?'
He licked his lips, and Abigail saw he was calculating the possibility that he might have found a new source of income.
'Assuredly,' said Gifford. He smiled.
Abigail looked at him and shuddered. She was dimly aware that the men in the yard were silent. Held in thrall by the force of Gifford's lethal personality and his quiet-voiced conversation with Charles.
Everyone wanted to know what he would say next. What he would do next. They were watching him, not Anthony or Ned.
Thunder growled somewhere in the distance. The hot summer's night lay dark and oppressive over the isolated inn.
Charles jerked his eyes away from Gifford, like a rabbit trying to free himself from the hypnotic gaze of a snake.
'Perhaps...perhaps you would lik
e to discuss future... arrangements in more privacy,' he suggested, gesturing vaguely towards the inn.
'I don't think so.' Gifford reached into his pocket with his left hand, withdrawing his card case. His movement was so unobtrusively fluid, yet so swift that Sampson didn't start to react to it until Gifford's card case was already in his hand.
He flicked it open with one finger, then thumbed up and extracted a card. He did it so dextrously he didn't call attention to the fact that he used only one hand.
'My card.' He presented it to Charles and in the same continuous movement swept up Abigail and tossed her over the side of the cart into Anthony's arms.
Gifford vaulted to the ground, then into the saddle of the horse Ned had led quietly through the crowd— and a second later Abigail was once more in his arms.
'Call upon me for settlement!' Gifford shouted. He hauled the horse around on its haunches and spurred straight through the scattering crowd of men—heading for the gate.
Abigail's world spun crazily before her eyes. One minute she was standing next to Gifford, the next she was flying through the air. Her breath flew out of her lungs. She jolted against Anthony's chest, then before she even had time to feel shocked she was airborne once more.
Later she would remember and be amazed by the strength and precision both men possessed to execute such a feat successfully. At the time she was only aware of a flurry of confusing, terrifying sensations.
She heard shouts. The thunder of shod hooves over cobblestones. Pistol shots.
Gifford was first to the gate when a man leapt in front of them. Abigail briefly saw him waving a long pole while Gifford lifted his right hand. A pistol fired so close Abigail screamed. The horse shied away from the shot and Gifford swore, his voice a savage growl in Abigail's ear. She felt the iron-hard tension in his whole body as he fought to control the horse with his legs and his left hand.
His left arm was all that held her safely in front of him and she started to slide over the pommel. His right arm clamped against her, but she couldn't hold on to him because her arms were pinned to her sides. She
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