by Cara Elliott
“Shut your mouth, Daggett!” cried Morton, his voice perilously close to a shout. “Get up.” The dual shadows of the pistols shimmied across the waterstained wall. “You, too, Miss Lawrance.”
“Actually, I’m quite comfortable where I am,” drawled Cameron. “Though an extra blanket or two would be welcome. And perhaps a bottle of champagne, seeing as the water tastes a trifle foul.”
“Let us shoot him now,” growled Dudley, shifting his hand to his coat pocket. “And be done with it.”
“Silence!” roared Morton as he cocked both of his weapons. “The next one to make a sound will get a bullet in the brain.”
Seeing the wavering of the gun barrels was growing even more erratic, Cameron decided that he had pushed his captors far enough. Bowing his head in submission, he kept quiet.
To her credit, Sophie had not panicked during the exchange. No tears, no wailing. Just like their childhood adventures, where she had always been brave, resourceful. Intrepid to the bone.
I will get her out of this mortal peril, he promised himself.
And then…
“Get up, Daggett.” Satisfied that he had reasserted his command over the situation, Morton relaxed his grip on the pistols. “Slowly. Any trouble and Miss Lawrance will be the one to suffer.”
Levering to his feet, Cameron nodded in submission. “Meek as a mouse, that’s me.”
“Now you, too, Miss Lawrance.”
“I still say we should put a bullet in his mangy hide,” muttered Dudley. “The sea swallows a body without leaving a trace.”
“That is why you should leave the thinking to me,” snapped Morton. “It does no good for him to simply disappear—the Wolcott title and fortune could be wrapped up in legalities for years.” His pale lips stretched to a humorless smile. “No, no, I’ve got a better plan.”
“Do you?” murmured Cameron, as he slowly limped past him. “You had better pray so. For so far, your efforts haven’t been overly impressive.”
A shove propelled him through the doorway. “Keep moving,” snarled Dudley.
“Take them to the coach, Wadsworth,” ordered Morton. “Dudley and I will be along in a moment.”
“So this is where our fellow Hellhound cut his teeth?” Shading his eyes from the bright sun, Connor reined his mount to a halt and slowly surveyed the craggy hills and wind-ruffled meadows that tumbled down to the sea.
“Yes, the town of Terrington lies over the next rise,” replied Gryff.
“I confess, I’m a bit disappointed. I rather liked thinking of Cam as some exotic changeling, a puff of colorful smoke rather than an ordinary flesh-and-blood member of the human race.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” chuckled Gryff. “I daresay that he’ll be forced to make a great many transformations in the coming days, though it’s highly doubtful that he’ll ever turn into a bland, boring shade of gray.”
“Cam a lord? It still boggles the mind,” said Connor. “God help the peerage.”
“It’s survived us, so I imagine that it can tolerate Cam’s eccentricities. Besides, I think Miss Lawrance will be a steadying influence on him.”
“It’s hard to picture him putting his paw in the parson’s mousetrap.”
Another chuckle. “Stranger things have happened.”
Connor allowed a small smile. “Actually, I take umbrage at that. Cam’s foibles are far stranger than mine.”
“Let’s just say that none of us can claim to be a paragon of propriety.”
Gryff shifted in his saddle. “According to the innkeeper at our last stop, the Lawrance cottage is nestled in a small hamlet about a half mile ahead. Let’s pay a call and see if there is any word of what our friend is up to.”
A short ride brought them to a narrow road, its high hedgerows twined with wild roses. Taking a turn down its winding way, they continued on at a leisurely trot until they spotted a rambling whitewashed cottage tucked behind a stand of apple trees.
“Good day, Miss Georgiana,” called Gryff, immediately recognizing the willowy young lady who had just come through the garden gate and was hurrying toward the lane. “We were passing through the area…”
She was now close enough for him to see her face.
“Is something amiss?” he asked tersely.
“I…I…” She hesitated, her eyes clouding with confusion. “I am not certain that I should say anything until my uncle and aunt arrive, milord.” Her lips trembled. “God willing, they should be arriving this afternoon.”
Her words drew a frown to Gryff’s face. “I applaud your caution, Miss Georgiana. But if there is any sort of trouble, you must trust that we can help.”
“The fact is,” added Connor, “we are in the area because we think Mr. Daggett may have got himself in a dangerous situation. If perchance, your sister has also become involved—”
At the mention of Sophie, her resolve suddenly crumbled. “Shesbeenabducted.”
“Slow down, Miss Georgiana,” counseled Connor, “Take a deep breath and start from the beginning.”
Several quick inhales seemed to calm her nerves. “Sophie has been abducted.”
“When?” demanded Connor.
“Y-yesterday.”
“Did you see who did it?” asked Gryff quickly.
Georgiana bit her lip. “Not precisely. That is, I saw a large traveling coach stop—it was mostly black, with claret-colored wheels and trim—and a man with a pistol ordered her to get inside.” Another ragged breath. “I had followed her because I knew she was going to leave a signal for Cam—we had discovered something important—”
“Miss Georgiana,” began Gryff.
“But that’s not all,” she peltered on. “The coach then stopped at Neddy Wadsworth’s cottage and Neddy got in, too.”
Connor frowned. “Who, pray tell, is Neddy?”
“He’s the local blacksmith and…and he’s been sweet on Sophie for years, though she turned down his proposal of marriage.”
“I think,” said Gryff to his friend, “that we had better ride like the wind to Holbeach. I know—”
The thud of fast-approaching hoofbeats caused him to cut off. Easing a hand to the satchel tied at the back of his saddle, he drew a cavalry pistol and slipped it inside his coat.
Connor did the same.
“Aunt Hermione! Uncle Edward!” Georgiana let out a sigh of relief as a carriage rumbled into view. “I sent immediate word to my aunt and uncle of what happened,” she explained. “But until they arrived, I thought it best not to tell anyone else. Sophie warned me to be careful.”
“That was very sensible, Miss Georgiana,” said Gryff. He and Connor remained silent while Georgiana rushed through a tearful greeting and a more detailed account of all that had happened. It was only when her uncle looked around, face grim with worry, that he introduced himself and offered his own explanation.
“We’re here because we have reason to suspect that our friend Daggett may be in trouble, too.”
“And we’ve an idea of where to look—for both him and your niece,” added Connor. “Never fear, we shall find them and bring them back unharmed.”
“While you wait here, we will head to the Wash,” began Gryff.
“With all due respect, milord, we’re coming with you,” interrupted Hermione. “And that’s flat.”
“Indeed,” echoed her husband.
Gryff frowned. “But…”
“Really, sir. You might have need of a traveling coach,” argued Georgiana. “Or someone to coordinate messages, or to handle…any number of useful tasks.”
“We shall not get in your way,” promised Edward. “Sophie and her sisters are as dear to us as daughters. Surely you must understand why we feel compelled to be close to the action.”
“There is an inn near Holbeach,” murmured Connor. “Spotted Dick and his ring of smugglers have used it on occasion.”
“Ah well—the more, the merrier, I suppose,” quipped Gryff, giving in with a wry grimace. “I can see that arguing will only was
te precious time. We’ll ride on ahead, and rendezvous with you at the inn after we have had a chance to look around. With luck, we shall be returning with Miss Lawrance.”
Gathering his reins, he turned his stallion to the road. “Come, Connor. Let us show these miscreants that the Hellhounds still have some teeth.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Sophie gratefully accepted a slab of bread and cheese from Neddy as they waited inside the coach.
“I ought to let you starve, you miserable bastard,” he muttered before grudgingly handing Cameron a share.
“I shall remember your kindness when I am lord of the manor,” replied Cameron cheerfully. “That is, if Morton lets you live.” Metal rasped against metal as he lifted his manacled hands to take a bite of cheddar. “Which is highly doubtful. Now that you’ve helped them with their dirty deeds, you are of no further use to them.”
“Cam is right,” said Sophie. “These men have used you cruelly, Neddy, and made you carry out a horrible act.” Seeing his face pinch, she pressed on. “An innocent woman and innocent child were on that yacht.”
“I—I didn’t know that,” he whispered. “I swear.”
“When the authorities hear of how you have been manipulated, they will show some leniency,” she replied. “Won’t they, Cam?”
“I will do what I can for you, Wadsworth,” he answered. “I have some influential friends who will help as well.” He swallowed the last bite of his food. “And unlike your present cohorts, I honor my promises.”
The coach gave a slight lurch as the driver climbed up to his perch.
“Think about it,” murmured Cameron, amid the creak of harness leather and stomping of hooves.
A moment later, Morton and Dudley climbed inside. Shoving Cameron to the middle of the seat, they each took a place on either side of him.
“You can sit next to your slut,” said Dudley to Neddy.
Glowering, the blacksmith did as he was told.
“Well, well, isn’t this a jolly little group,” remarked Cameron as a crack of the whip set the team in motion. “Perhaps we can stop and enjoy a picnic overlooking the sea?”
“Only if I can serve your head on a platter,” retorted Dudley.
Sophie tried to catch Cameron’s eye, worried that his sarcasm might push one of their captors over the edge. As it was, he was dancing on a razorblade. One small slip and he might find himself sliced into mincemeat.
Her gaze could not penetrate the deep gloom. All she could see was the dark tangle of his hair and a tiny glimmer of pearl-white light. He was wearing the replica of her mother’s earring, she realized. A talisman? A beacon of hope, even though things looked awfully black?
Clinging to the remembered warmth of Cameron’s smile when he called her “Sunbeam,” Sophie leaned back against the squabs. Patience, patience. And perseverance. Cameron would likely leap into action when she least expected it, and she must be ready to move with him.
The rocking motion of the coach, however, made it difficult to stay alert. She found herself drifting in and out of fitful dreams…Georgiana and Penelope frantic with worry…Sara Hawkins of The Wolf’s Lair wagging a chiding finger…the Devil chortling and beckoning her to join him in eternal hellfire…
She awoke with a start as the coach jolted to a halt.
“Keep watch on the prisoners,” said Morton to Dudley and Neddy. “We won’t be stopping long. I need to retrieve something from the boathouse, then we’ll be on our way.”
She saw Cameron crane his neck to dart a look through the narrow gap in the window draperies.
“By the by,” Morton added as he reached for the door latch. “Do you wish to know how you are going to meet your demise?”
Dudley gave a nasty laugh.
“Let us just say that carriage accidents are not uncommon on the steep northern roads heading to Scotland.”
“Good drivers are rare as hen’s teeth,” said Cameron. “That is why I prefer other modes of transportation.”
“What a pity for you that the choice is not yours to make.” With that parting shot, Morton climbed out and let the door fall shut behind him.
Cameron waited a few long moments before half-turning in his seat. “Actually, I’ve decided that it is.” A quick flick freed his wrist from the unlocked manacle. A second swift motion of his other hand whipped the dangling iron hard into Dudley’s forehead. Stunned, he slumped back on his spine, his pistol slipping away and falling to the floorboards.
Sophie kicked it out of Neddy’s reach.
“Come, Sunbeam. It’s time to take our leave.” He looked at Neddy, who had not yet moved a muscle. “Don’t make me fight you, too, Wadsworth. I’ll crack your skull, but I would rather not have to waste the time.”
Neddy dropped his gaze to the floorboards.
“Thank you—I won’t forget it.”
“Nor will I,” added Sophie, pausing for a last look at her old friend’s downcast face before following Cameron out the door.
“I don’t think that we can outrun them,” she warned, stumbling over the rocky ground.
“Agreed.” He ducked low and took shelter behind one of the storage sheds. “Follow me.”
Sophie sucked in a sharp breath as he set off in the direction of the sea. “I hope you aren’t planning for us to swim,” she muttered. “My blood still runs cold thinking of the time you had us dive into the River Ouse to escape Squire Coxe’s wrath.”
“The stolen apples were well worth it.” Cameron paused for a peek around the corner of the building.
“Speak for yourself,” she muttered.
“Swimming won’t be necessary—save as a last resort.” He gestured at the dock. “We’re simply going to sail out of trouble.”
Two dauntingly tall masts were silhouetted against the gray-clouded sky. “You know how to handle such a large vessel?” she asked, thinking of the small rowing skiffs they had rigged with old sheets when they were children.
Cameron winked. “But of course. I’m a pirate, remember?” Taking her hand, he zigzagged through the trees and cut across to the salt-streaked pilings. “And you, my love, are a hard-won treasure I don’t intend to part with.”
Love? Screeching gulls, thrumming rigging, gusting wind—the sound had surely not come from Cameron’s lips, thought Sophie as he lowered her into the cockpit of the racing sloop. Love? Love was too soft a sentiment for a swashbuckling pirate. He had most likely dallied with exotic princesses, danced with alluring beauties, dined with luscious courtesans.
How could she hold a candle to such excitement? I am simply Sophie.
“Sophie!” A heavy manila rope, slimy with smelly seaweed, landed in her lap. “Stop woolgathering and untie the stern line!” called Cameron. “And be ready to hoist the mainsail when I give the word.” After swearing like a stevedore as the swinging manacle clipped his jaw, he added, “I’ll take the tiller once I push us free of the dock.”
The sharp crack of a gunshot scattered the flock of seabirds. Sophie cringed, but kept working at the knotted lines. “Please hurry,” she called to Cameron, fearful that in the next instant a pelter of footsteps would come pounding along the slatted walkway.
Barnacles scraped against the sloop’s side as he maneuvered the bow out into the ebbing tide. A last mighty push, and he leapt onto the stern, just as the vessel floated away from the pilings.
Grasping the tiller, he gave a jaunty salute. “Haul up the sail, Sunbeam and let us set a course for wherever the wind will take us.”
With the waves rising and the gusts growing stronger, Sophie had no time for reflection as she scrambled to carry out Cameron’s barked order. An ominous line of stormclouds was hovering on the horizon, their dark, pewter-gray color smothering the slanting light of the setting sun.
“It looks like a squall is heading this way,” she called, feeling the salt spray sting her face as she turned.
Cameron nodded grimly. “Worse than a squall, I fear.” He, too, cast a glance over his shoulde
r. “But don’t worry. I wasn’t jesting when I said I was a pirate. After leaving Terrington, I spent quite a bit of time sailing the seven seas with a band of smugglers, so I know how to handle a ship in a storm.”
Grasping the shrouds for support, Sophie stood for a moment and squinted into the gloom. Fog was drifting in wispy tendrils over the white-capped waters, blurring the fast-receding shoreline. At least the only enemy they faced now was the weather, she mused. “We are safe from pursuit…” A pale flicker in the scudding shadows made her pause. “Aren’t we?”
He didn’t answer.
“Cam?”
“Go below,” he said calmly, “and see if you can find the sloop’s charts. They will likely be stowed near the binnacled table.”
Sophie hurried to do his bidding. Locating the oilskin bag, she quickly returned to the cockpit.
“Can you find one with the town ‘Wrangle’ marked on it and spread it out on the bench?” Cameron had to raise his voice to be heard over the whistle of the wind through the rigging.
“Here.” Sophie smoothed out the chart. Venturing a look past him, she saw the unmistakable shape of a sail looming out of the fog.
“Is it them?” she asked.
He nodded. “The chase is on.” As he lifted his arm, the iron manacle swung in a wild circle. “Help me get rid of this. Then I shall show you that a pirate always has a few tricks up his sleeve.”
“Will he live?” asked Connor, turning from his surveillance as Gryff came out of the boathouse shed.
“No. The bullet was lodged too close to his heart. He’s already stuck his spoon in the wall.” Wiping the blood from his hands with an old piece of sailcloth, Gryff swiveled his gaze to the angry sea. “Mr. Wadsworth remained conscious long enough to confess his role in sinking Wolcott’s yacht, and finger Morton and Dudley as the masterminds of the crime.”
“No great revelation,” muttered Connor.
“Agreed. However he did pass on some useful information. Cameron and Miss Lawrance apparently slipped away from their captors and fled in one of Morton’s sailboats.
