Lady Doctor Wyre

by Joely Sue Burkhart

  Her stomach churned like she’d swallowed an entire pot of bitter coffee. That suddenly, all her plans and contingencies crashed, leaving a glowing tail of debris like a comet. Seven years of hiding had been destroyed in a heartbeat.

  I refuse to run again.

  She took a deep breath and forced her voice to the calm, deliberate accent of one of the highest ladies of Britannia. “On whose behalf do you call upon me, Mr. Gatlin?”

  “President Jaxson of Americus. We’re marshals, Your Grace, sworn to uphold the laws of Americus and protect our citizens from harm.”

  “And you believe me to intend harm to your colonists?” She let out a trilling laugh and waved her hand dismissively. “I’ve had seven years to harm, sir. I assure you that harm is the last thing on my itinerary.”

  The other man stepped forward. “You misunderstand our purpose, Your Grace. President Jaxson extends the warmest of invitations for the Solstice celebration in the Capital.”

  If they want to lure me with a party, then let me prepare for a full celebration. Charlotte let a warm smile brighten her face and she clapped her hands with delight. “Oh, excellent! I haven’t enjoyed a decent soiree in ages. Do come in, gentlemen, while I pack for the trip.”

  The marshals exchanged glances and conferred briefly to decide which of their party should come inside with her, while the rest, she presumed, encircled her cabin to make sure she didn’t attempt escape. As though she’d managed to turn her entire brain into an army of lightning quick assemblers, her mind blazed from plan to plan, thought to thought. Someone had figured out who she was. It didn’t take a nanobot to figure out who that might have been.

  Worry made her drum her fingers on her crossed arms. Gil might have secrets he hadn’t shared yet, but she knew that man’s heart. He would be devastated that his confidence had been compromised. Had these men injured or arrested him? Tortured him for information? Or simply misled him in some way? Perhaps some interrogation of her own was in order. If nothing else, an aggressive stance would keep them off balance.

  “Forgive my lack of hospitality, gentlemen. After your little demonstration at the Bostonia port, you know how pricy tea has become.” She watched their faces for any flicker that might betray them as they glanced about her sparse living quarters. She knew they must be second-guessing their supposition, for no aristocrat of a royal House would surely live in such conditions willingly for seven years. “Will Mr. Masters be a part of my escort?”

  Mr. Gatlin’s eyes widened and his rose-bud mouth fell open into an O.

  Mr. Colt was slightly more in control of his emotions, but he slipped his right hand beneath his coat. She detected none of the usual bulge of the antique six-barrel pistol, so she had to assume it was a slim stick of the lazor. “Pardon me, Your Grace?”

  “Mr. Masters,” she said slowly and loudly as though the man had gone deaf or lost his wits. “The sheriff of this provincial town and obviously a marshal in his own right.”

  “How…” Mr. Colt swallowed. “There’s no way you could know that Masters is…was…a Marshal.”

  She arched a brow at the man, peering down her nose at him despite their height difference. “An imbecile would have figured it out, sir, considering my only contact this past year has been Masters. If you’d known where I was last Solstice then I’m sure President Jaxson would have extended her polite invitation then. Masters is not the sort of man to sell information to the highest bidder; he’s too honorable for that. So he must have trusted you in some way to give you any information at all, which implies he must also be a marshal. Now please follow me, sirs. I have need of your assistance.”

  She swept into her bedroom as though she wore the finest ballgown and jewels to dazzle the highest Court in the universe. From the dusty depths of the wardrobe, she dragged out a hefty traveling trunk, threw open the lid like a child opening her Solstice gifts, and began rifling through the last few gowns she’d been unable to bring herself to destroy, not even to make her bedroom more habitable.

  “We don’t have much time…” Mr. Colt began.

  She waved him off. “Nonsense. There’s always time to look one’s best and I simply cannot be introduced to the equivalent of the Americus queen if I’m not properly clothed. Mr. Gatlin, could you please fetch that hatbox on top of the wardrobe? I’m afraid I can’t reach it without a chair. And, Mr. Colt, if you would be so kind as to drag out my tea chest from beneath my bed. I daren’t leave it behind for someone to throw out into deepest space in order to make a political statement.”

  From the depths of the trunk, she dragged out a deep red gown that made her fingers twitch with excitement and her stomach clench with remembered foreboding. This is the gown I wore when I died to Britannia. “Excuse me, gentlemen, while I change into something more presentable for Madame President.”

  She stepped behind the screen and hummed beneath her breath as she stripped off the ugly gown. She deliberately tossed it over the top as evidence of her nudity. Peeking through a small hole, she verified her tactic of distraction had been effective. Scattered and off balance by her commands, they whispered among themselves couldn’t even bring themselves to glance at the screen. Satisfied, she slipped the scarlet silk over her head and realized she had a problem. This gown had been crafted by the finest modeste in Londonium at the height of her social status. As such, it had a much tighter, slimmer silhouette than she was used to wearing on Americus.

  She tugged the gown back off. Her feminine finery had certainly made an impression on Gil, and she’d use whatever weapon at her disposal to make sure she came out of this alive. Fluffing her bosom and shaking her head so her hair hung disheveled and tumbled about her, she stepped out from behind the screen.

  Mr. Gatlin snapped to attention like Madame President had just bellowed an order at him. Mr. Colt had been snooping through some papers on her desk. Blushing at her notice, he turned an alarming shade of puce when he noticed her dishabille.

  She marched toward him and presented her bodice like a prize. “Do make yourself useful, Mr. Colt, and tighten my corset for me.”

  He made a choked sound as though he’d swallowed his own tongue. “Ma’am, I mean, Your Grace, I can’t possibly…”

  “If you do not tighten my corset for me,” she said in a cold, measured voice, “then I cannot wear my best gown. And if I cannot wear my best gown, I shan’t go with you at all.” She gave him a tight, glittering smile. “I would regret your dismissal from the service at Madame President’s disapproval because of your failure to bring me to her soiree simply because you were too modest to assist a lady’s toilette.”

  “For heaven’s sake, man, it’s not that difficult.” Mr. Gatlin surprised her by stepping over and grabbing the laces at her waist, although his hands were trembling. He tugged firmly, while Charlotte used her hands to shape her waist and bosom to her satisfaction. “There. Will that satisfy, Your Grace?”

  She slipped the red silk gown back over her head, slimming and smoothing the dress over her hips. “Not bad, sir. Do you have a lady wife whom you assist at home?”

  Mr. Gatlin blushed and gave her a small bow. “A sister, Your Grace. She had a modest season in York and would sacrifice her first-born child to go to Londonium and be presented to the Queen.”

  “Indeed, that might be required nowadays,” she muttered beneath her breath. She took note of Mr. Colt swaying slightly and sharpened her voice. “Breathe, Marshal, before you pass out in my house and your associates are forced to drag you out by your boots.”

  Chapter Seven

  Prowling his cell like a cage, Masters was practically frothing at the mouth.

  Seated on the floor as though he were a pasha, Sig chuckled. “I suppose you haven’t had many opportunities to survey this side of a cell, have you, Sheriff?”

  Masters gave each bar an experimental shake to see if he could bust out. “Where are they transporting us?”

  “The jail in York wasn’t secure enough for desperate criminals lik
e us.” Sig laughed at the disgruntled look on the man’s face. “Why, you’ve fallen into the company of a hardened criminal. Your reputation will never be the same.”

  “You’re the famed assassin, so why the hell don’t you kill your way out of here?”

  “I will.” Sig dropped his head back against the metal hull. It hummed against his skull, but he could tell neither how fast they traveled nor the direction, but he suspected they were flying in the opposite direction they were taking Charlie. The buzzing joy he felt in his body decreased with every passing moment, confirming that fear. “When it’s time.” At the other man’s frustrated curse, he continued, “We have no idea how many marshals they assigned to us. There’s no need to go on a killing spree until I know whether I must eliminate five or five hundred. The technique is different.”

  Masters turned his head and pinned Sig in a hard glare. “Are you telling me you’d kill five hundred men? At once?”

  “If I had to get through them to her, most definitely. I’d rip them apart one by one with my bare hands.”

  The sheriff grunted and threw himself down against Sig with a disgusted sigh. “Truth be told, I would too.”

  “And that is why we have a problem.” Sig closed his eyes. “I told her she ought to marry you.”

  The man beside him twitched with surprise. “I thought you came to take her off Americus.”

  “I did.” He twisted his mouth into something he hoped was wry self-depreciation and not misery. “She won’t go.”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “Not in so many words. I didn’t have to.”

  “I’m not one to beat around the bush, so I’m just going to come right out and ask you. What’s between you two? Don’t tell me that she saved your life, or that you saved her life by getting her out of Londonium. I already know that.”

  “She knows my deepest secret shame,” Sig whispered. With his eyes closed, he saw the ugliness that had twisted his mother’s beautiful face. Hatred, rage, he wasn’t sure that it was a singular emotion but rather an animalistic need to maim and hurt and destroy. “A mark once managed to ask me a question before I completed the deed, and since I was feeling magnanimous, I answered. She asked why I’d chosen the name Regret, when I obviously had no regrets about killing another person.”

  “And?” Masters asked in a low voice. “Why Regret? Why not Blackmore or Devilshire or some other atrociously evil name?”

  “Have you ever had someone else die for you, Sheriff? Truly die for you, save you with their own life, while you escape unscathed? Only later, years later, do you realize that they didn’t really save you at all. That you died on that day, at least a little, and that you’ll never be whole again.”

  “People die in war all the time. Even as a marshal, I lost my partner two years ago, and they assigned me to Smith. I just never had that same connection with him. My fault, I suppose, because I kept expecting him to die on me too.”

  “I wasn’t in war, Sheriff. In fact, I was just a boy.”

  “Who was hurting you?”

  The vibration stopped. Opening his eyes, Sig jerked his hands apart, and the brittle, thinned handcuffs crumbled into dust. If only his crippled heart would simply dissolve the same way and put him out of this misery. “We’ve arrived. Be ready.”

  “I’m not even going to ask how the hell you did that, if you’ll tell me why you chose the name Regret.”

  “Distract them as much as possible while I pretend to be the dandy again, and for God’s sake, find out what hellhole they’ve brought us too. I smell swamp, so I’m betting on Orleans.”

  Masters grumbled but made no more questions as footsteps echoed in the hold. Keeping his hands together and close to his body, Sig drew up his knees and shook his hair forward to conceal his eyes. Masters jumped up and barked at the two guards. “Where are we? I’m an Americus Federal Marshal and you have no right to hold me! I demand to speak to the director immediately.”

  Grim and scowling, the big sheriff made a formidable opponent, even handcuffed and behind bars, but the two guards didn’t act intimidated at all. Eyes narrowed, Sig watched them carefully, trying to tell what fueled their confidence.

  “Your director is the one who signed your warrant, fool.” The guard’s key jingled against the bars. With a loud click, the ancient lock fell open and the door swung inside. Stepping back obligingly, Masters lowered his head, preparing to charge the guards. With a smug smile of amusement, the second guard aimed a short wand no longer than his hand at the big man. A pulse of energy slammed into Masters and slung him back against the hull.

  Wincing in sympathy at the helpless twitching of the man’s muscles, Sig flopped to his feet and babbled out entreaties for mercy in his shrillest voice. One guard took a stance over him with a similar stick in his hand, but his attention was wholly on Masters. “What has the poor man done to warrant a jolt from a tazor?”

  “According to the warrant, he’s a traitor,” the guard closest to Masters replied. “He’s been working with rebels against our new government.”

  “Not…exactly…true,” Masters wheezed. “Against Britannia. Rebels across the galaxy have to unite if we want to survive.”

  Now that’s an idea. Sig had assumed Masters was just a marshal sent to spy on a contact, who’d then made the mistake of falling in love with her. But if the man really was a rebel—with plans of a galaxy-wide attack against Britannia—then he might actually have some hope of keeping Charlie alive. Staying on Americus indefinitely was impossible if they hoped to keep her alive and free.

  Of course Americus wouldn’t like that idea at all. They’d want all of Lady Doctor Wyre’s dangerous research all to themselves.

  “Why did you have to bring us to Orleans?” Sig asked in his most plaintive voice. Then he released an explosive sneeze. “I’m allergic to mold.”

  The guard gaped at him. “I guess they wanted the worst prison on Americus for you two. You’ll be headed upriver within the hour.”

  “Assuming that damnable pirate leaves us alone,” the other guard muttered. “Too bad Britannia can’t aim for Laffite’s arse and save us all the trouble of hanging her.”

  Masters managed to laugh even though his arms and legs were still twitching helplessly. “You’d have to catch Laffite first. She doesn’t take too kindly to Britannia or Americus alike.”

  “Pirates.” The guard spat on the floor. “They’re even worse than rebels like you.”

  Sig reached out, snapped the nearest guard’s neck, and jerked his hands back behind him as though he were still handcuffed. The guard toppled like a rag doll.

  “What the…” The other guard turned, lifting the tazor threateningly, but wavered when he saw no threat or violence. “Will, are you sick? Will?”

  Sneezing again and again, Sig moaned and wrung his hands. “I told you the mold here is wretched. I’ve heard of people dying out here because of the brain fever it causes. They don’t even know they’re sick, and then bam—” He threw out a hand with fingers stiffened into blades and crushed the guard’s larynx. Choking, the guard fell to his knees, digging at his throat. A nudge from Sig’s boot knocked him over to topple on top of his partner. “They drop dead.”

  Rifling through each guard’s pockets, Sig found the shackles key and tossed it over to Masters. He also confiscated both communicators and tazors. “Dare I hope that your acquaintance with the dread pirate Laffite might be more than as sheriff and wanted criminal?”

  “You may,” Masters replied, taking the offered equipment. “She hates Britannia as much as we do, but she’s not too keen about President Jaxson’s exorbitant tariff on everything from Francia. If they wanted to get us as far away from Lady Wyre as possible, then they couldn’t have brought us to a better spot to find an ally.”

  “Marshal, sheriff, and now pirate.” Sig laughed and slapped the man on the back. “You’re a man of many talents, Masters.”

  Madame President Jaxson possessed the stature of a mighty tree and unf
ortunately, a complexion to match. Ruddy and sun-tanned, her skin looked as rough as weathered, mossy bark. It was all Charlotte could do not to sit the poor woman down and slather her face with skin cream.

  “Lady Wyre, we meet at last,” the President intoned in a voice more appropriate for the battlefield than a private interview. “Welcome to the Capital of Americus. I trust your trip was uneventful.”

  “Quite,” Charlotte replied faintly. Dear, dear, no wonder Britannia had absolutely no regard for the fledgling government struggling to bring peace and prosperity to this planet. Queen Majel would look at Jaxson and see nothing but a horse-faced soldier in a dress, and a very ugly one at that.

  “I trust the marshals were courteous?”

  The woman beside Charlotte bristled. “Of course my marshals were courteous and most discreet in—”

  Arresting? Acquiring my cooperation against my will? Charlotte smothered her amusement as Director Howitzer floundered for an inoffensive term.

  “—escorting Lady Wyre to join you for the Solstice celebration.”

  “Indeed. Mr. Gatlin even helped me tighten my corset.” Charlotte gave the marshal a warm smile, earning a blush from him and a stifled growl from his director, who, if possible, wore an even more hideous gown of chartreuse ruffles. She was of such stocky blood that no corset could possibly create a curvature in her midsection. “However, I must declare that I would have been more pleased to accompany Sheriff Masters to the Capital instead of these marshals who were utter strangers, albeit extremely polite.”

  “Ah. You mean Marshal Wesson.” Jaxson offered a cut-crystal snifter of brandy, which Charlotte took eagerly. Director Howitzer sniffed with disapproval, so Charlotte threw back the dark amber liquor and held out her glass for more. “A woman after my own heart.” The President smiled with approval, and Charlotte noted the genuine amusement in the woman’s eyes. When she smiled, the President was quite attractive if still rather masculine in features, but then she frowned and a canyon tore across her forehead. “Regrettably, it has come to my attention that he’s a traitor.”