She had never lied to him. Not even from their first meeting. She had been chased down Savoy Row by these blaggards and by some queer stroke of fortune, he had been selected to partner her that night. Oddly, he had no regrets.
Odder still, his mood brightened. What if she and Dex had made it to the harbor patrol station? He inhaled a deep gulp of air. There might still be a chance to catch these knaves in the act.
“Who are you?” So, the Dutchman was going to give it another go.
He had nothing to lose. “Phaeton Black, Scotland Yard. And you are under arrest for piracy and murder.” He flashed a winsome smile that stung.
Willem stared, without so much as a twitch of expression. Then he began to laugh. Uproarious, hearty laughter. His crew joined him.
From the corners of his eyes, Phaeton perceived the faintest flutter of movement. A scurry of footsteps behind the barrels on shore. “Mind my advice, Cap’n.”
“And what might that be, Inspector Black of Scotland Yard?”
“Detective Black, actually.”
Willem glared at his crew. “Hurry up with those ropes.”
“There is an important distinction.” Phaeton raised a supercilious brow. “Metropolitan police—that is, CID and the like, use Inspector. Whereas Special Branch agents—”
Willem pulled out a pistol from inside his coat. “Take a walk up the bow and onto the boom.”
Phaeton tilted his head. “Why not shoot me? A lot less bother—”
Willem’s eyeballs nearly burst from their sockets. He grabbed Phaeton by the coat and shoved him onto the bowsprit. “And now, Detective, you shall die.”
He glanced at a smattering of stars before squinting at the captain. “ ‘To die would be an awfully good adventure’—who wrote that?”
Willem seized the line and pulled Phaeton off the boom. A high-pitched scream came from the direction of the pier as he fell through the air and plunged into the frigid water of the basin. Gun shots rang out.
Shocked into keen awareness by the icy water, bindings cut into his wrists as he was towed farther under the bow. He waited for a bit of slack in the line and reached for the knife strapped to his leg. In the inky blackness, he could see nothing, all he could do was feel his way along the ship’s keel. He tried walking the underside of the boat until all movement ceased. Under fire from the shore patrol, Willem’s crew must have abandoned the job and left him tied under the keel.
Death by drowning appeared imminent.
The echo of pistol shots rang in his ear and an odd zing of bullets zipped through the inky blackness of the water. The heavy swoosh of bodies plunging into the water meant some members of the crew had jumped ship.
His lungs, starved for air, began to burn. Phaeton angled the knife through the coil around his wrists and sawed through the rope. In another minute or so, his windpipe would close off, and soon thereafter, he supposed, his heart would stop.
And she was there, omnipresent in his thoughts. Just one more kiss, before he lost consciousness.
A last jerk of the knife finally unraveled rope, and he tore at the rest of his bindings. He had no more than seconds to come up for air before his lungs burst.
He stroked again and again. Was he swimming up or down? For a terrifying moment, he lost his equilibrium.
Amid a spray of bullets, he burst to the surface of the water and gasped for air. He spun around in the water to get his bearings. Advancing on him was a small crew boat holding several men making their escape. Phaeton lunged for the craft and grabbed hold of the skiff. An oar lifted in the air.
Thwack.
A spray of stars crossed his vision before everything went dark. His fingers lost their hold and let go. The dark, smothering chill of harbor waters engulfed him once more. Air left his lungs.
Just one more kiss, my dove.
America had just about chewed her bottom lip raw. Phaeton was below the keel and drowning. Fearful thoughts raced through her mind. She prayed he had somehow worked loose of the ropes when the crew abandoned their punishment and returned fire. She would haul in those lines herself if they would ever let her go aboard.
“Hold yer fire.”
She strained against Moore’s hold on her. Out of bullets, the crewmen who remained aboard came out from behind barriers, hands in the air. She wanted up the plank. “We must get to those lines.” She wrenched herself out of his hold and slipped in a slick puddle of red. She sniffed the air. The smell of Portuguese port was everywhere. The burnished crimson wine dripped onto the dock from barrels shot full of holes.
A gathering of sailors and citizenry, roused out of the pubs by the gun battle, crept forward for a closer look.
“Hold on there, Miss.”
“Captain MacLeod, we must go aboard and haul in the line. Detective Black is—”
“Is dead, my girl, if he hasn’t freed himself by now.”
The look on her face said it all, she supposed. “There now, lass, we’ll be hauling in the lines straight away.”
“Now,” she demanded.
His frown relented. “Come aboard then—if yer sure you wish to witness what we dredge up.”
A shiver caused her to pull her coat together. She followed alongside the patrolmen who walked the ropes back toward the bow. The keel haul line was dropped from portside and hauled in quickly, hand over hand. The job was too effortless—too swift. Her heart quickened. There was no dead weight hitched to the line. “He is alive. I feel it. I know it as sure as I breathe in and out.”
Wait. Something clung to the frayed edges of a coil of rope. The same coil that had fastened around Phaeton’s wrists and held him to the line. She squinted. Pray God it was not a severed limb or some other ghastly part of him. Her eyesight blurred.
One of the patrolmen unwound the item and held it up. A length of knitted wool.
“That’s his scarf.” Dexter stood behind her. She spun around. His mouth formed a thin, grim line. “I’m sorry, Miss Jones, he—”
She shook her head “He is not dead.”
He reached out, and she pulled away. “He is not!” America walked around the deck rails, stopping to inspect every wretched piece of flotsam and jetsam in the water. Crewmen who had jumped ship during the gun battle were being hauled out of the basin. She studied each drenched man closely.
No Phaeton.
She made her way around the deck a second time as the harbor police captured the last of the crew and led them off to the brig. Captain MacLeod and Mr. Moore approached her again, no doubt concerned about her state of mind. “There now, I shall be needing you to make out a claim of ownership. In the meanwhile, I will confiscate the—”
“The Ruby Star.” America sniffed, her eyes scanning the harbor landscape for any sign of him.
“Ruby Star it is. I’ll hold her cargo, as well, in the name of the crown.”
“I cannot leave, as yet. Not until we have found Detective Black.”
The harbor master’s forehead furrowed. “Ah, lass, we’ll not be able to send a man underwater till well after daylight.”
America glared. “He’s not dead.” She shook her head. “He cannot be dead. I would know if he was dead. We have—we have a kind of—” Her gaze darted about the ship and beyond, into the darkness of the surrounding waters. She searched for him, and for words. “I’m not sure what to call it.”
The looks on the men’s faces said it all. They believed she had suffered a hysteria of the mind, no doubt brought on by the terrible duress of recent events. Shoulders squared, she faced the two of them. “You go ahead Captain. I would like to remain here for some time.” She dragged a raw lower lip under her teeth. “Just in case.”
The harbor master widened his stance, folded arms over his chest, and shook his head.
“Perhaps, if we give her a bit more time.” Dexter stepped forward. “I’ll stay with her.”
The big Scot scrutinized Moore, then herself. Any other time, she would have been amused, even touched by his fatherly prote
ctive manner. “Inspector Moore has always conducted himself a gentleman, Captain.”
MacLeod grunted. “Mind you have her back to my office afore sunrise.”
“Yes, sir.”
The captain stationed two patrolmen at the gangplank and left the ship. Detective Moore turned back to her. “Quite a stroke of luck you knew the Harbor Master, wot?”
“For me, perhaps, but not for Mr. Black.” She ripped her gaze away from the horizon line to Moore. “There is a pontoon landing, just aft of the stern. We need to find the down ladder and have a look.”
Moore didn’t budge. “You’re soft on him, aren’t you?”
His scrutiny made her eyes water. “Don’t make me cry, Mr. Moore. Detective Black has been very kind to me.”
“Yes, so you say. Took you in when no one gave a care.” His lips pressed into a thin line. When he opened his mouth to speak again, America turned away.
“I have no time to refute your rude insinuations.”
He caught up behind her on the gangway. “Miss Jones, I would never suggest—”
“I know what you were thinking, Mr. Moore.” America set a brisk pace along the pier. “Ah, here it is.”
The inspector peered over the edge to the narrow strip of landing built to moor launches. “Perhaps I should go first, in case you slip or fall?”
She eyed him suspiciously. Even decent men got ideas about a woman with lax morals. “Very well, Mr. Moore.”
The way down was slow. Twice, her foot slipped from the slick rungs and Moore held her until she regained her footing. When they reached the bottom, he did not remove his arms from around her waist. “Might you ever accept my attentions, Miss Jones?” He held her from behind, his voice just a whisper in her ear.
“Take your hands off me, Mr. Moore.”
He released her with obvious reluctance. “Why Phaeton Black and not me?”
She spun around. “How could you ask such a thing?” Her eyes filled with tears she could not control. Tears that welled up and poured down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry.” Moore hung his head. “I’m sorry, the man laid down his life in the line of duty”—he hesitated—“to protect you.”
America uttered an otherworldly shriek. “I am telling you he is not dead.”
She turned and walked to the end of the landing. “Phaeton Black. Do you hear me?” She repeated the cry over and over, until she became hoarse from tears and shouting. “I am here, Mr. Black, can you make your way toward me? Please, please, Mr. Black.”
Could he really be gone? Dear God, this could not be happening. A wave of guilt nearly leveled her to the ground. For his part, Dexter Moore at least had the decency to hang back and wait for her to collapse onto a column of coiled rope. She buried her head in her hands and sobbed and sobbed for what seemed like a very long time. Eventually, there were no more tears left, just a running nose, puffy eyes, and hiccups.
Moore moved up behind her and touched her shoulder. Tentatively, she reached back and placed her hand on his. Far off in the bay, she heard the lonely ring of a bell buoy and the bark of a harbor seal.
“Are you about ready, Miss Jones?”
Her heart broke under the pain in her chest. She sucked in air and exhaled a sigh. Rising slowly to her feet, she inched over to the landing’s edge. The basin sparkled periodically as hints of moonlight shone through wispy clouds. She could barely see the outline of ships, stark ebony silhouettes anchored far out in the bay.
As the fog drifted closer to shore, the lapping waves turned dull and dark. Fisting a hand on each hip, her gaze drifted out past the gloomy water. “Phaeton Black.” She hiccupped. “You find your way back to me this minute!”
Chapter Twenty-two
WAS HE DEAD OR ALIVE?
Alive, possibly. Phaeton was not entirely sure. He opened his mouth and belched out sea water. Lifting his head, he managed to look about. Hints of moonlight edged the undulating surface of the bay. He blinked to clear his vision and traced the narrow platform he lay on around the circumference of a bell buoy. A loud clang nearly sent him off his precarious perch.
Something ticklish snuffled over his neck and ears. Gingerly, he shifted onto his back, enough to meet the liquid brown eyes of a harbor seal who appeared to take a most startling interest in him. The creature rocked back and forth between flippers and sniffed farther down his body. The eyes of the animal glowed amber then shifted to gold. The musky smelling sea beast barked a jarring bellow.
“Edvar?” He hardly recognized the croaked query as his own voice. A bit groggy brained, Phaeton contemplated whether the annoying gargoyle was some kind of silkie, or could he be imagining things? The hovering harbor rat let loose a series of ear deafening barks.
“Mr. Black. Do you hear me?”
Stunned by the clarity of her voice, his heart beat an erratic pulse as he listened for more. Again, her call carried over the silent bay water. “I am here, Mr. Black.”
He lifted his head to rasp out a response, but his breath had no power. A deep inhale caused a spasm of coughs. Everything came back at once, a barrage of events. Pushed off the ship, he had plunged into the bay. Bullets had zipped through the water. He was trapped in darkness under the keel. He was dead, wasn’t he? So why was Miss Jones calling after him?
The dung of harbor sea lions and rotted fish drifted into his nostrils and caused an involuntary spasm of retching. Chilled to the bone, he tried moving a limb or two. Yes, there appeared to be legs and arms attached to his soggy torso.
Phaeton patted coat pockets inside heavy, waterlogged clothes. Every move he made took enormous effort, as if his body was only half alive. He felt around for the long metal cylinder. The battery powered torchlight. His hands shook as he removed the gadget. He toggled the switch. Nothing. Drenched, most likely. He banged the cylinder against his chest.
A light beam appeared then faltered. “Drat it all.” He shook the torch again and once more a brief flash drilled into the darkness. Phaeton continued to shake and toggle until the torch flew out of his trembling hands into the drink.
He craned his neck. “Fetch, Edvar.” The pesky seal slid off the platform and slipped into dark waters.
Another spasm of coughs racked his chest and there was a sensation of choking. Perhaps he wasn’t dead yet, but his body felt like it wanted to be. He coughed up more sea water and strained to hear the sound of her voice once more. He rested his head on the platform. Another spasm of chills ravaged through his body, then faded. Eyelids heavy. Less painful now.
“Phaeton Black. Give me a sign this minute!”
The sea lion emerged from the water, torchlight in mouth. A sputtering beam of light bobbed about in the blackness. Phaeton drifted into unconsciousness.
America peered deep into the blackness of the bay. “Look, a flash just above tidewater.” She pointed. “There it is again.”
Dexter Moore squinted. “Ah yes, I see it now.”
“It’s him. I know it.” America lowered herself into a crew boat tied to the landing.
“Miss Jones. We don’t know if it’s Phaeton. Could be more of those pirates—some jumped ship—Yanky Willem among them.” He untied the mooring line but held on.
“Inspector Moore, climb aboard or I shall push off without you.” She lowered both oars into the water.
Dexter Moore climbed in, mouth drawn into a thin, unhappy line.
“Coil that rope and sit yourself down.” She adjusted oars.
“Are you going to row?” His look couldn’t be more incredulous.
She snorted. “I learned as a young girl, Mr. Moore. Think you can best me?” She angled the skiff away from the landing and pushed off. “I’d rather get us there quick and silent-like, just in case you happen to be right about those pirates.”
America dipped the oars into the bay and leaned back. The small boat skimmed over calm water. After a few strokes, Dexter’s shoulders dropped a bit. “I say, rather deft of you, Miss Jones.” He removed a pistol from inside his ja
cket and retrieved a handful of bullets from a woolen waistcoat pocket.
He loaded the weapon and spun the cylinder.
During the gun battle, Moore had shot and wounded several of Willem’s men aboard ship. “You appear to know your way around a gun, Inspector Moore.”
He pocketed the weapon. “Four years with Her Majesty’s Scot’s Greys.”
“Are you a sharp shooter?”
The barest semblance of a grin. “I hit the target, more often than not.”
The bell sounded close by. At Moore’s gesture, she stroked an oar in a starboard direction and headed for the buoy.
A grey nose, covered in whiskers, popped up alongside and tossed an object into the boat. Moore jumped slightly, rocking the skiff. America grinned. “A harbor seal, Mr. Moore. Harmless enough.”
“Sorry.” He felt around the boat bottom and retrieved a metal cylinder.
“I believe Phaeton was the last one with the torchlight.” She read his face, as he did hers. Grim at the thought he might be at the bottom of the bay, hopeful he still could be stranded somehow, somewhere. And alive.
America pulled in the oars. The buoy emerged from a wisp of fog. Her gaze traveled over the looming structure. Nothing.
The seal honked and swam to the other side of the floating metal tower. America dropped an oar down and skimmed the surface, turning the rowboat slowly around the buoy.
Dexter squinted through the rusty metal beams. “There on the ledge.”
The lonely form of a still body. No movement.
“Mr. Black, is that you?” She nodded to Moore.
Dexter stood up in the boat and set his feet apart. He leaned portside and grabbed ahold of the narrow ledge, then the body. He tugged on the damp, bulky clothing until he managed to tilt the lifeless torso toward them.
America gasped. It was Phaeton all right, but was he dead or alive? “Quickly Mr. Moore, lower him down. It took all of Moore’s strength and balance to get the bulk of Phaeton onboard. They laid him down and stretched him across the center seat.
The Seduction of Phaeton Black Page 20
