by Untamed
Would he ever understand this woman? Ever stop wanting her? She had the face of an angel and the wild, untamed spirit of a mountain cat. She’d lied to him with every breath, yet could still tie him in knots with a toss of her head or a flash of those turquoise eyes.
He should hate her. The Lord knew he’d come close to it in Washington. It had been hard to maintain his fury those weeks at sea, though, with Barbara so damn wretched. Harder still tonight, when she’d all but demanded he kiss her. Whatever else had passed between them, the heat still flared bright and hot.
Darkness blanketed the windows when Zach eased his arm from under her head. He let her sleep while he went down to the taproom and roused the boy dozing beside the hearth. The boy summoned the innkeeper, whose wife was already in the kitchen setting loaves beside the ovens to rise. She soon served up a hearty breakfast of ale, fried shark and hot honey cakes.
Instructing the innkeeper to have a carriage brought around, Zach requested a tray and a pitcher of hot water be carried up to Barbara, then settled the bill. The innkeeper didn’t question the early rising or departure. Ships and the sea were Bermuda’s lifeblood. His patrons came and went with the tides.
Barbara was still asleep when Zach lifted the latch and let himself into her room. He stood beside the bed for long moments before brushing back the tangle of gold hair spread across her face.
“Barbara.”
Her eyes flew open. She blinked at him in confusion. “What is it?”
“We’ve but an hour until dawn.”
She swallowed. Her face looked paper white against the sheets. To ease the fear that pooled in her eyes, Zach grinned and gave her hair a tug.
“It’s almost over.”
He kept his tone just as light some time later, when he passed her a small bundle.
“I withdrew some extra funds from the bank, in case you should need them. Tuck them away, with this.”
The small, bone-handled knife would hardly protect her from Throckmorton or his crew should Zach not return from his dawn foray. He was counting on the stack of bills to do that.
The darkness to the east was beginning to pearl when the carriage rattled over the wooden drawbridge connecting Somerset and Ireland Islands. The Royal Naval Base and Dockyards lay a mile and a half ahead. To the left, a thick stand of mangrove fringed a wide, restless bay. To the right was the Great Sound, with the lamps of Hamilton Township beginning to wink in the distance.
A thump on the roof signaled the driver to stop. If he thought it strange his passengers would alight on this uninhabited stretch of road, the coins Zach passed him killed his curiosity and kindled his delight. He backed up the carriage, brought it around and drove off whistling.
Barbara stood gazing through the dim gray light at the narrow bridge. Zach joined her, imprinting yet again on his mind the wooden span, the restless waters on either side of it, the thick brush and spiky palmettos fringing the waters.
“Are you sure the quarry detail will pass this way?” she asked in a small, tight voice.
“It must, if the convicts are to work the limestone caves on Somerset Island.”
His plan was simple enough. The drawbridge worked on a pulley mechanism operated by massive concrete weights. A single fisherman wanting to take his boat from the sound to the bay could haul on the rope dangling on the bridge’s side, raise the ramps, row or walk his boat through the narrow opening, then lower the ramps again by tugging on the rope on the far side.
Zach intended to crouch beneath the bridge. When the lead elements of the quarry detail had tromped over the boards, he’d slice the pulley rope and send the heavy concrete weight splashing into the channel. The wooden ramps would shoot upward and divide the work detail. In the resulting confusion, Zach would disable the rear guard, use the man’s keys to unlock Harry’s shackles and make for the Chesapeake.
Where Barbara would be stowed safely aboard.
He’d left strict orders with Throckmorton. If anything should go wrong, if there was so much as a hint of trouble, the captain was to lay on all sail and depart Bermuda immediately. Barbara would not birth her child in a rotting prison hulk.
He let his glance roam over her a last time. In the gray light, her face looked pale and worried and so beautiful he could almost forget the conniving self-interest behind it.
“It’s coming on to dawn,” he said, taking her arm. “We’d better find the Chesapeake.”
Jiggs Throckmorton had anchored the sloop exactly where Zach had instructed, in a small cove at the north end of the bay. The strange trees that gave the area its name almost shielded the boat from sight. The mangroves rose from great humps of roots that looked like islands floating in the silvery water.
Throckmorton’s rum-running days had made the captain cautious. Despite the secluded location and early hour, he’d kept a watch posted. Zach whistled softly to alert the sailor. Moments later, the captain and his mate climbed into the sloop’s dinghy and rowed it to the muddy spit of land where their passengers waited.
“Take Lady Barbara aboard,” Zach told the captain, “and be prepared to depart as soon as I return. If all goes as I’ve planned, I’ll be back within the hour.”
The captain pursed his lips. “Don’t you be want-in’ some help with this plan of yours, Morgan?”
“It depends on surprise and speed, not strength of numbers.”
Standing off the side of the dinghy, Barbara caught the look Zach aimed at the captain. She understood well enough the message behind it. Throckmorton and his crew were to remain poised for flight and wait.
Zach didn’t know it, but Barbara was done with waiting, done with wringing her hands and standing by while he went about the business of saving her brother. She’d drawn him into this dangerous scheme. She’d not leave him to carry it off alone.
She knew better than to argue with him, however. He was an officer used to command. He’d not take kindly to having his orders questioned or his sacred plan meddled with.
She said nothing while he exchanged his greatcoat for a canvas jacket that allowed him more ease of movement. Nor did she comment when he tied a kerchief around his neck, dragged it up to cover the lower half of his face and tipped her a two-fingered salute.
Only after he’d disappeared among the mangroves did she turn to Throckmorton. “Have you a pistol on you?”
“I’ve a brace of ’em, missus.”
Hooking his thumbs in the lapels of his coat, he pulled them back to reveal the butts of the two weapons thrust into his belt.
Barbara held out a gloved hand. “I’ll take one, if you please.”
“You don’t need a pistol aboard the Chesapeake. You can trust me.”
“I wouldn’t trust you with my pet monkey, had I one, but that’s neither here nor there. It’s Mr. Morgan I’m concerned about. I’m going after him.”
“If I put a pistol in your hand and let you stumble along after him, Morgan will carve a hole in my gullet.”
Calmly, Barbara reached into her pocket and drew out the knife Zach had given her less than an hour ago.
“I’ll carve one if you don’t.”
A measure of respect glinted in Throckmorton’s good eye. Rocking back on his heels, he rubbed a finger against the side of his nose.
“Well, now, I’ll admit it goes against the grain of my pirate’s soul to miss out on this bit of fun.”
Fun! Dear God, fun! Gritting her teeth, Barbara battled a touch of near hysteria.
“I’ll tell you what, missus. You stay here at the boat and I’ll sneak along after Morgan. My mate here can steer a straight course back to Washington, if it comes to that.”
Out of patience and fast running out of time, she didn’t bother to reply. She swung around and started through the mangroves.
“Here now! You can’t go off by yourself.”
Her jaw set, Barbara marched on. Throckmorton scrambled after her.
They heard the crack of rifle fire while still some distance from the draw
bridge. Barbara’s heart jumped straight into her throat as she counted three shots. Four. A near fusillade.
Davenport had betrayed them!
Or been betrayed himself!
Picking up her skirts, she broke into a run. The marshy ground sucked at her half boots. The palmettos sliced at her with sharp-edged stalks.
Throckmorton raced along beside her. Over the pounding of her heart, she heard the snick of his pistols being cocked. She threw a quick glance sideways, saw he held one in each beefy fist, and ran on.
She heard the shouts. Saw the fan-shaped palmettos ahead sway madly. Cursing, Throckmorton shoved her behind a clump of mangrove roots and dived in after her.
A mere heartbeat later, Zach charged through the brush. He carried a cocked pistol in one hand and Harry slung across his shoulders.
Barbara’s heart seemed to stop in her chest. “Dear God!”
From the way her brother flopped about on Zach’s shoulder, she couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead. She started to rise, but before she could get her feet under her, another crack of rifle fire split the air.
Grunting, Zach went down. Harry tumbled to the marshy earth with him.
“No!”
With a small, animal cry, Barbara scrambled up and ran toward the two men. She didn’t see Throckmorton pop out from behind the tangle of roots. The weapon went off behind her, almost deafening her with its roar.
There was a flash of red. A royal marine crashed through the brush. Stumbled forward. Fell onto his face.
“Over there!”
The shout came from somewhere off to the right. Close. Too close.
“We’re in for it now,” Throckmorton muttered.
Keeping his head low, the captain scurried after Barbara.
Harry was alive, she saw with a sob of relief. Cursing and kicking and fighting the leg irons that still shackled him, he struggled to free himself from Zach’s sprawled body. He shoved to his feet just as his sister reached his side. Whipping around, he spared Zach one swift glance.
“Well, he’s done for.”
Barbara heard him as if from a distance. Horrified by the red stain spreading across Zach’s back, she sank to her knees beside him.
“For God’s sake, Babs!”
Harry wrapped a fist around her arm and yanked her up.
“We’ve a whole platoon of marines after us. Where’s this sloop Morgan said he’d have waiting?”
Throckmorton was already charging back toward the boat. “This way!” he yelled over his shoulder.
Harry dragged Barbara two short, shuffling hops before she wrenched free.
“We can’t leave Zach! He’s still alive!”
“He won’t be for long,” Harry snarled. “He’s done for, I tell you.”
He grabbed for her arm again, but she whirled away and rushed back to the fallen man.
“Dammit, Babs!”
Swooping down, she snatched the pistol from Zach’s outflung hand. Her heart pounded with fear and desperation as she leveled the barrel at her brother’s midsection.
“Pick him up and carry him, Harry.”
20
When Barbara broke out of the brush and ran onto the muddy spit, Throckmorton and his mate had already shoved the dinghy into the water and were fumbling for the oars.
“Wait!”
“Here, missus. Get aboard.”
She splashed into the water and scrambled for a hold on the slippery gunwale. The captain reached for her arm to drag her in. She whipped it free and dug in her heels. She’d hold the boat on this spit by the sheer force of her will, if necessary.
“My brother’s right behind me,” she panted. “He’s bringing Zach.”
Throckmorton threw a doubtful glance at the palmettos, as if expecting a wave of red-coated marines to pour through them at any moment.
“Please! Help him.”
Muttering a curse, the captain jumped over the side and disappeared back into the scrub.
He reappeared long, agonizing moments later with Zach slung over his shoulder. Harry short-stepped behind him. Both men splashed into the shallow water. Throckmorton dumped his burden into the dinghy, shoved Barbara in almost on top of Zach and hooked a leg over the gunwale. Harry flopped belly first over the side.
“Row!” Throckmorton barked to his mate. “Row!”
The marines broke through the scrub when the dinghy was still a good hundred yards from the sloop. Running out into the shallow tide, the marines took aim.
Gunfire rattled across the bay. The gray-green waters around the dinghy began to dance. Barbara heard the soft plunk of a bullet thudding into wood, saw the plank just inches from Zach’s head splinter. With the blind instinct of an animal protecting its mate, she threw herself forward and covered his body with hers.
Throckmorton’s arms pumped. His mate blued the air with curses. The two sailors skimmed the dinghy around a tall mangrove and used the tangle of its roots as a shield. Long, agonizing moments later the boat careened into the Chesapeake’s hull.
Barbara could never think back on the horrific hours that followed without shuddering.
The Chesapeake’s crew laid on every inch of sail in the ship’s locker. The sloop picked up speed in the relatively calm waters of the bay and plunged into the Atlantic. Timbers creaking, she plowed through troughs and crested waves. Barbara paid little attention to the frantic activity of the crew, still less to Throckmorton’s warning to keep a sharp lookout for pursuit by British warships. Her wet skirts wrapped around her like a shroud, she crouched beside Zach and tried desperately to staunch the blood running in pink rivulets from the bullet hole in his lower back.
She couldn’t imagine how the bullet had missed Harry, slung over his rescuer’s shoulder the way he was. She could only pray it had missed Zach’s spine.
“Still breathing, is he?”
Her brother hunkered down beside her. His matted blond hair lay plastered against his skull. Hollow-eyed and gaunt, he looked like the angel of death waiting to claim another soul.
“Yes,” Barbara ground out, “he’s still breathing.”
“Well, he’ll be feeding the sharks before dawn.”
“Not if I can help it. We need to get him below-decks and see about removing the ball. Find someone to help us carry him.”
Harry’s careless shrug said she was wasting her time, but he went off as instructed. He returned a short time later with the short, bandy-legged seaman who went by the nickname Ropes. To Barbara’s intense relief, the man had served as a surgeon’s mate in the British navy before jumping ship and throwing in his lot with the rumrunners. He helped carry Zach down to the main cabin, stretched him out on the plank table and put a tin bucket of tar on the galley stove to heat.
“I know more about sawin’ off limbs than digging out spent cartridges,” Ropes warned.
He used a long-bladed knife to cut through Zach’s jacket and shirt. When he saw the wound, his breath whistled through his teeth.
“Blimey!”
Using the tip of his knife, he probed the hole. Fresh blood poured from the wound. Zach jerked and contorted his body.
“Hold ’im still!”
Barbara gripped Zach’s ankles, Harry his wrists. Ropes dug deeper. Sweat dripped from his forehead. Using the blade, he pushed aside skin and muscle to expose white, glistening vertebrae.
“Bloody ball’s caught between the bones,” he muttered. “Can’t get the knife under it.”
He dug deeper. The blade scraped bone. Zach went still. Horrified by the blood pouring from the wound, Barbara called a halt to the torture.
“Leave it!”
“It could poison ’im. Lead balls like that have made more ’n one man swell up with gangrene.”
She couldn’t worry about gangrene now. Zach was bleeding to death right before her eyes.
“Leave it, I said!”
Shrugging, Ropes tossed aside the knife and reached for the rum bottle.
The amber liquid he splashed in
to the wound must have set Zach afire. He jerked and writhed and kicked free of Barbara’s hold. She made a grab for the flailing leg and tucked it under her arm as Ropes retrieved the tar bucket from the stove. The thick black pitch inside bubbled and spit. The stink of it stung Barbara’s nostrils.
“Is that really necessary?”
“It is if you want to seal the hole and stop the bleedin’,” the surgeon’s mate said. Stirring the pitch with a wooden paddle, he issued another warning. “This will make him dance some.”
He tipped the paddle. Boiling pitch streamed onto the open wound.
Zach’s flesh sizzled. The shock of it ripped a shout from his throat. He jerked his arms and legs and almost knocked the tar bucket from Ropes’s hands.
Between them, Barbara, Harry and the sailor managed to keep Zach pinned until his frenzied thrashing stilled and he dropped into unconsciousness.
“Hell and damnation.” Harry wrinkled his nose. “He’s got the stink of a roast pig.”
“Carry him to my cabin,” Barbara snapped, near to tears and thoroughly out of patience with her brother. “I’m going to fetch a bucket of seawater.”
When she lugged in a sloshing bucket, Zach lay facedown on the narrow bunk. Barbara dropped to her knees beside him and tore a strip from her petticoat. Trying not to gag at the stench of burnt flesh and tar, she began to bathe his face.
Her stomach rolled rebelliously with every pitch and yaw of the boat, but she refused to give in to it. She wouldn’t be sick. She couldn’t. Not with Zach swimming in and out of delirium.
Harry shuffled in once to bring her a mug of tepid tea. He returned again, late in the day. This time he walked with a full stride.
“The captain struck off the irons,” he said with a delighted grin. “It took some doing, I’ll tell you, but Master Throckmorton knows his way around a set of shackles.”