Firelight

by Kristen Callihan

  Mckinnon gave it a glance and then raised a questioning brow. “You’re trying to clear his name, aren’t you?” He smiled. “If you think learning West Moon Club’s secrets will absolve Archer, you are wrong.”

  She fell against the wall with a small gasp. “You know of West Moon Club?”

  He flicked the coin high and then caught it neatly. “My father is a member, aye?” Mckinnon tossed her the coin. “I know more than I care to know.”

  “Then will you—” She stopped, and he grinned.

  “It’s never that easy, is it?” he said.

  A pregnant silence ran between them as his gaze held.

  “I’m leaving.” She moved to go but he stepped forward, not touching her, but pinning her to the spot just as effectively.

  “You’re right to worry. Archer’s back is to the wall, and he knows it.”

  Her shoulders hit the cold brick behind her as she edged away from McKinnon’s advancing form. He stopped, seeing the movement, and regarded her with shrewd eyes.

  “You’d do anything to protect him, wouldn’t you, lass?” Soft wonder filled his voice.

  She pressed her hands into the wall. “I believe you are overreaching.”

  Mckinnon shook his head slowly, a feral grin creeping over his shoulders. “I don’t believe so.” He took a small step closer. “Shall we find out?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Rusty Spanner was located in the middle of a crooked narrow street two blocks off of the London Docks. The scent of tar rising from the sail maker’s shop next door overrode everything: the thick perfume of tea, the briny sharpness of sea water and dried fish, the sulfuric smell of the tanneries, and the general stench of too many people and goods forced into one small area.

  Archer tried to ignore the burning in his nose as he walked down the street, the low-lying buildings leaning this way and that like a set of jumbled bottom teeth in an overcrowded mouth. It was dark here, save for the golden light spilling from the tavern windows and the sound of merriment within. Someone had procured an accordion, and from the sound of the boisterous singing that accompanied the instrument, the patrons within were already well in their cups. Not well enough. The music stopped the moment Archer came through the door, the dying wheeze of the accordion punctuating his entrance. Through the thick, gray haze of tobacco smoke, a multitude of glassy eyes stared at him. But only for a moment. The song started up once more, the singer’s voice unsteady at first, and then the accordionist began to play. The patrons returned to their fun but Archer knew better than to feel safe from attack. Hard stares bore into his back as he made his way toward the bar. He kept his head bent, the rough-hewn beams overhead so low he might brush them should he stand in full.

  He could only imagine the scene if he’d come dressed in his usual fashion; the black top hat, mask, and cloak would have caused an outright revolt. He’d dressed like one of them, donning a heavy peacoat—the collar turned up high, thick woolen skull cap pulled low—then wrapped his face with linen. Even so, sailors were a superstitious lot. At best, they thought him a victim of a tragic accident, which made him bad luck. He couldn’t blame them. He remembered his days of sailing and that feeling of helplessness mixed with excitement. It took some nerve to put your life in the hands of that tempestuous mistress, the sea.

  He did not feel fear now, only a sick knot of hope mixed with fury. Fury for Cheltenham. His fists ached to strike something when he thought of the elderly man slaughtered like a pig. And hope. That coil of emotion stuck like soggy pudding to his gut ever since Leland had sent him a note telling him of Dover Rye, Hector Ellis’s old manager and sea captain. Apparently Dover had been stealing out from under Ellis all this time, a bit of larceny among thieves. Dover had been the captain of The Rose when it had pirated Archer’s ship. Only Dover lived. All this time, he’d been hidden away in some forgotten taproom.

  The man behind the bar watched Archer come forward. He was a big fellow, chest like a full sail, masts for arms, ginger-haired and skin reddened by the sun. He set down the mug he’d been wiping.

  “An’ what can I be getting you then?” There was a fair amount of accusation in the man’s voice. That, along with an odd mix of Scottish and Cockney.

  Archer sat on a high stool. “Ale.”

  He set down his coin, and a large tankard of thick ale appeared. Archer drank for a moment, well aware that the barkeep had not wandered off but continued to study him with a jaundiced eye—a keen eye that knew Archer wasn’t there for ale or company.

  He set the tankard down and met the pale gaze. “I’m looking for a man,” he said without preamble.

  “Aye?” The barkeep grinned, revealing deep dimples. “There’s a doxy house down that street that caters to mandrakes. Best you be asking there.”

  Archer chuckled low, knowing it irritated the barkeep. “And you know this from personal experience, do you?”

  Dark promise glinted in the barkeep’s eyes. “I also know how to make a man disappear if I was of a mind.”

  A large man knocked against Archer’s shoulder. When Archer glanced that way, a set of brown eyes beneath bushy white brows stared back at him for a moment before the man set to his drink. Archer suppressed a sigh. He didn’t want to hurt these men. Most especially not the man sitting next to him; the burly fellow had to be near sixty years of age.

  He took a slow slip of ale. “I’m looking for Dover Rye.”

  There was only a moment of hesitation from the barkeep, but it was enough. “Never heard of him.”

  “Oh?” Archer sat back a little. “For I’ve heard tell that this establishment is run by one Tucker Rye, son of Dover Rye.”

  The man barely blinked. “You’ve been misinformed.”

  “Tucker!” The shout made more than one man flinch.

  A short but ample woman clambered up the crooked stairs near the back. “Tucker Rye!”

  The barkeep turned two shades of red. “Leave off, Mabel! Can you no’ see I’m right before ye?” His blue eyes flicked to Archer in wariness as he shouted.

  Mabel was undeterred. “I’ve been waitin’ a bleedin’ hour for you to take down them casks. If you can’ get off yer lazy arse—”

  “Hush now, woman!”

  Tucker Rye kept his eyes on Archer. As the shouting woman drew near, she too spied Archer and grew hushed and stood open-mouthed and wide-eyed. Rye’s overlarge fists curled, defiance blazing in his pale eyes. “You best be goin’ before I’m of a mind to call in me mates.”

  “I’ve faced worse than a bar full of men such as these,” Archer said. The man stiffened, lifting his head, ready to fight. Archer merely smiled. “You won’t come near to harming me, I can assure you. And I’ll only haunt the place until I get what I want.”

  He glanced to the corner of the room where a dark booth sat unoccupied. “Why don’t we sit a moment?”

  Rye slapped the bar in irritation. “Fine then.”

  “What do you want with me da?” Rye asked as soon as they sat.

  “He was the dock manager and captain for Hector Ellis.”

  Rye’s gaze narrowed. “Aye. A bad lot, Ellis was. We’ve no’ dealt with him for years.”

  “We? You worked with him as well, then?”

  The man’s expression hardened, angry over the slip. “Aye.”

  Archer sat back. “Then you might have sailed on The Rose.”

  Rye’s round nostrils flared, and Archer leaned forward, letting the weak light of the table lamp show full on his gauze-wrapped face. “Forgive me,” Archer said. “I forgot. The Rose sank off the coast of Georgia. You’d be dead. Unless The Rose made a stop elsewhere. Perhaps lightening its load of men and cargo before going back out to sink in the Atlantic.”

  Frustrated rage almost made Archer punch the table, or Rye. He’d been a fool to not to have considered the possibility until now.

  “Who are you?” It was not Rye who spoke but the old sea dog who’d sat next to him at the bar. He stood now by the table, towe
ring above them and fixing a stern look on Archer, although it was not entirely hostile.

  Archer considered not replying but something niggled at the back of his mind, and he chose honesty. “Lord Benjamin Archer. And you are Dover Rye.”

  “It’ll be something Hector Ellis has done,” Dover said, sitting next to Tucker Rye. His weathered hands were swollen with work, so much so that they appeared more wood than flesh. “Are ye wanting justice, then? For I’ll tell ye now, husband of Pan or no’, you’ll no’ be walkin’ out of here if you aim to take us.”

  Archer looked at the men for a long moment. “I’m more interested in The Rose. Were you on that ship?”

  At this, Dover pulled a scrimshaw pipe from his pocket and slowly set to lighting it. Thick whorls of smoke ghosted in the air before being swallowed up in the blue haze that hung over the room. Behind them, men began singing again, stamping their feet to the beat. “We stole from you,” Dover said finally, his dark eyes squinting through the smoke. “I know that well. As I know of your agreement with Ellis. If ye can call it that.”

  Archer sat back. “Then you know of what I am capable.”

  “Aye.” Dover took a deep draw off his pipe. “I believe ye got a fair trade for your loss. More than fair by my measure.” He lowered his pipe. “I trust yer treatin’ Miss Miranda kindly.”

  Miranda. He didn’t want to think of her now. He dreamed of her with the constancy of breathing. Waking dreams. He had only to let his mind wander, and it went to her. The silken, slick feel of her skin, the way her lithe body felt pressed against his, fitting like hand to glove. He had gone too far in the alley. The rush of the fight, his fear and anger—it had overwhelmed him and pushed him over the edge. He would not repeat the mistake. Nor would he regret it, however.

  Archer forced a light tone. “Do you think Miranda capable of demanding anything less?”

  Dover laughed loud, and his son smiled. Yes, they both knew Miranda well.

  Mabel set down three tankards and then bustled away. Dover took a sip of ale, and Archer did the same.

  “What is it yer lookin’ for, then?” the seaman asked.

  “A box. Black lacquered. The size of a cigar holder.” He ought to approach the thing delicately but impatience got the better of him.

  Tucker Rye took a deep drink and gave an appreciative smile. Archer did not blame him. It was stifling in the tavern, and the ale was cool. Archer took another long drink.

  Dover set his pipe down and moved under the smoky light of an untrimmed gas lamp. His weathered features flickered in and out of shadows. “The box was taken off in Leith, along with everything else. We found the Madeira hidden in the hold right quick. Sold that an’ the saffron in Amsterdam. Only later did we find the crate, filled with straw and naught but that simple box within. The pearl necklace it held was fine, fetched a good price later.”

  Archer’s teeth unclenched as he made himself speak. “And the box?”

  Dover’s bushy brows lifted before he shrugged lightly. “Gave it to me lad.” He gestured toward Tucker. “He asked for it.”

  “Is it the box you’d be wanting?” Tucker Rye asked. “Or the ring inside of it?”

  Both men turned to him in surprise. Tucker Rye shrugged. “Found the hidden slot and the ring that very night. Kept that bit o’ knowledge to meself,” he said with an apologetic wink to his father.

  Dover grinned. “Aye, an’ what sort of son would you be if you gave up such a treasure with ease?”

  Father and son laughed comfortably.

  Soft warmth spread over Archer as he sat with the men sipping ale. He hadn’t shared a drink in years and had forgotten the feeling of it. Strangely it was comforting, as was the sound of frivolity around him. Miranda would like it here. He wished she were sitting next to him. Don’t think of her.

  “Being a right tosser,” Tucker went on after a moment, “I bragged about it in the tavern.” He gave a humorless laugh. “A man bet me for it. Three rolls of the dice, and it was his.”

  “A just penance for gamblin’,” Old Dover retorted with a snort.

  Archer set his heavy hand upon the table. “Who has the ring?”

  “Don’t know for sure. Could be anywhere now. Seamen aren’t apt to keep treasures such as that overlong.”

  Weariness settled over Archer, pulling at his eyes until he felt as though he must close them. “Give me a name.”

  Tucker’s smile warped, blurring at the edges, and as he leaned forward, the light hit the faded tattoo upon his forearm—a black wolf with DEI DONO SUM QUOD SUM inscribed around it. Rye saw the direction of Archer’s gaze and grinned. “Figuring it out, are you?”

  From deep within the stores of Archer’s mind, information rose up. DEI DONO SUM QUOD SUM—By the grace of God I am what I am. “Clan Ranulf…”

  “Aye, mate. Lord Alasdair Ranulf, Earl of Rossberry.”

  Dover’s laughter wheezed out as Archer’s hands curled into fists. “Didn’t know Ellis was in his pocket the whole time, did you?” He laughed again, his wrinkled face leering through the smoke. “Ellis hasn’t the brains, nor balls, for piracy. We was under orders to hunt your ship down from the first.”

  Archer sat back with a thud. “I’ll…”

  Tucker shook his head, knowing the direction of Archer’s weak threat. “Won’t do you any good, mate.”

  Archer pulled in a breath, the sound of the singing growing muffled. “Oh?”

  A twinkle of malice lit the man’s eye. “We ’eard you might be coming for us. Said we was to take real good care of you, should you show.”

  Too late, Archer realized the feeling coming over him. By then, the sound of a footfall was behind him. He surged forward, sending his empty tankard flying and the bench beneath him clattering. Too late. The sack was over his head, the men falling on him before he could turn. His chin cracked against the table. Down he went, the drug turning his legs to water, his mind a fog, and the men tied him up tight. A sharp kick to his left side took his breath, and as darkness seeped in he heard old Dover, his words muffled through the heavy cloth now wrenched tight around Archer’s head.

  “Make sure no piece of him’s found.”

  Archer came to with a gasp as though suddenly doused with ice water. He hadn’t been out long. Men were carrying him. Four of them, by the feel of hands upon his body.

  “Lord, he’s heavier than a cannon, he is!”

  “Just as solid too,” said the one holding his legs.

  Archer hung limp as they bumped along with him. His head was heavy, his mind a fog. Whatever it was they gave him would have killed an ordinary man. As it was, however, he only needed a moment or two. A breath of fresh air would have helped, but the shroud over his head was too tight.

  “Shut it, both of you. We’re nearly there.”

  And then he smelled it. Burning. The acrid scent of burned goods, wood, rubber, metal; everything and anything. The distant clang of buoys and the mournful wail of a foghorn told him they were still at the docks. There was only one place near the docks that smelled pervasively of smoke—the Queen’s Pipe, a massive kiln set up to destroy condemned goods. They meant to burn him. Terror skidded through him, an altogether unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation. He moved then, thrusting his arms and legs wide. The thick bonds that held him snapped as he fell.

  “Christ! He’s alive!”

  He landed hard on the ground and in an instant was up, tearing the cloth from his head.

  “Get him!”

  Archer caught a glimpse of a dark alleyway and wet dock boards, and then they were upon him. Archer grinned wide as he went down under a heap of arms, fists, feet, and legs. The blows landed on him like rain. He let them tire, and then he used his fist, the right one. The time for mercy had past. He swung hard and felt the satisfying crunch of bone as a man’s jaw connected with his fist. His foot went into yet another’s gut, sending the thug flying back into a heap of rubbish. Still two came at him, both holding knives.

  He whirled, catc
hing one by the arm, snapping the man’s wrist, slamming his forehead into a tender nose. Snap. Crunch. Something took over. A white mist of fury that made his blood sing, his heart pump. Light. Strength. It surged through him.

  It took a moment to realize that the blows upon him had stopped, and the only sound was that of gurgling, like water eking down a clogged drain. Archer blinked, his vision clearing, and he found himself holding onto a neck, his fingers still in the act of crushing the man’s windpipe. The fellow in question was a big one, nearly as tall as he was. Archer held him aloft, high off the ground as he choked the life from him. Stop! Clawing helplessly at Archer’s gloved hand, the man’s eyes bulged, his mouth agape. With a last gurgle, his struggles stopped. Still Archer held him, his hand locked around that meaty throat, unable to let go. Archer’s chest heaved.

  The fellow went limp, hanging there in his hand. Stop! The man fell with a thud. Archer stared down at his hand. He’d killed with the strength of his left hand alone. His human hand. Shaking, he pulled off his glove, convinced he’d find his skin altered. The sight of normal flesh sent a flood of relief through him, and he sank to his knees, flexing his fingers experimentally. Not yet changed. But stronger.

  Around him lay the broken bodies of the men he’d slain. He’d killed them all. A diamond-dust sky lay overhead, broken only by black flumes of smoke drifting by in the breeze. He gazed up at it, breathing deep. The blood lust, the white haze—he’d felt the pull like never before. Shame swept over him. He ought to have walked away, left these men to the night. He did so then, his feet sounding dully on the old wood as he left the broken mess of bodies behind.

  Emptiness pressed upon him as he made his way home. He wanted to collapse, crumple into a helpless ball against the pain of it. Murder tainted his skin and pounded through his veins like a drug, whispering for more; he was losing the battle.

  Despite a firm resolve to keep his distance, Archer found himself standing before the glossy white door to Miranda’s room, his fist poised before it, caught in indecision. He was certain he had heard a soft sob break from behind her door as he crept past to his room.