by Barbara Dan
"Watch your tongue, Evans," Sergeant Nielson snapped. "He's still our bloody sovereign monarch."
"Huh! It's him an' that son of his what's responsible for us bein' here in this godforsaken corner of the world," Toller said.
Lydia handed out the drinks, which everyone accepted readily enough. Tessie, already under the weather, sampled her drink prematurely.
Lydia flashed an insincere smile at all three men. "But we have good King George to thank for this party, do we not?"
Calvin draped his arm around her shoulders. "Right you are, Sally! I'd never have met you, if I was still in England. Most likely I'd be fightin' with my wife." He laughed uproariously.
"Here's to George," said Evans calmly, "and to fightin' women, wherever they are."
"Here, here." Toller and Calvin hoisted their glasses and gulped the contents. Tessie chose that precise moment to fall gracefuly to the floor in a swoon.
Evans still hadn't drunk up.
Lydia thought her heart would stop, as he looked across at her.
"Damn bitch can't hold her liquor," he said casually. "Guess you'll just have to share Sally, Sergeant."
"Not on your life," said Sergeant Nielson. His arm around Lydia's shoulders was already growing heavy. She stood frozen, glass in hand, not breathing. What if everyone passed out, and Evans still had not partaken?
Lydia shrugged off Calvin's arm and came off the desk. Fastening a bright smile on Evans, she sidled over to him.
"C'mon, you handsome devil." She boldly pushed her breasts up against the front buttons of his uniform. "Drink up, and I'll show you a real good time."
She watched Evans take the whiskey in his mouth. "Good," she smiled. Congratulating herself on a job well done, she started to step away.
Evans' arm snaked around her. He leaned into her face, his eyes dancing with malevolence. Planting his mouth against hers, he bent her backwards and thrust his tongue like a poker down her throat. Lydia gagged on the taste of searing alcohol. She tried to resist.
Without freeing her lips, he muttered, "Drink up, Sally. Let's get drunk together."
Total panic broke. Lydia fought desperately not to swallow. Private Evans was brutal in his kiss. With his mouth clamped against hers, she couldn't breathe. He pushed her against the edge of the desk, his free hand fumbling at her skirts.
She dropped her glass and beat on his shoulders. He meant to force her! Holding her breath, she fought fiercely with all of her fast ebbing strength to push him off. She felt her brain swim dizzily and her body lose control. Her legs gave out.
In her womb, the baby's fluttering protest only added to her terror.
"Oh, dear God, no!" Her cry was muffled against Evans' mouth.
She swallowed convulsively, the Redcoat's insane laugh swirling in her brain. Then Private Evans collapsed on top of her.
Unconscious by the time they joined the other bodies crumpled on the office floor, Lydia's last coherent thought was of Bruce and their baby.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Silent figures darted furtively through the night, their escape concealed by a sudden squall. Rolling in from the Atlantic, the rain blocked out the summer solstice's late evening sun. It was dark, except for the occasional flicker of lightning in the distance. The abrupt change in weather worked to their advantage. The streets were deserted. The citizens, mostly resettled Brits and Scottish immigrants, stayed home, their shutters closed against the approaching storm.
Leaving Lydia to entertain the guards, Seth and Andrew had quickly subdued the two sentries patrolling the signal masts and the watch tower. Once Bruce and his men were freed, they opened up the rest of the prison. While other prisoners ran into the woods, Seth led Bruce and the ill-fated crew of the Angelic Lady down Citadel Hill. Passing through the sleepy town, twenty-four men walked swiftly to the shore and boarded the longboats left at the water's edge by the Isobella's crew.
Bruce boarded the Isobella from the second boat. He could not have been more relieved. The escape had gone without a hitch. They had only to slip their cable and disappear into the night. Once the storm hit full force, it would make pursuit well nigh impossible.
Seth signaled his crew to haul anchor. "Well, MacGregor, what say we get the hell out of here?"
"I'm ready." Bruce extended his hand. "Guess I owe you an apology."
"Thank Lydia," Seth shook his hand. "It was her idea."
Lydia. That reminded Bruce. "Where is Lydia?" he asked, glancing around. His men were scrambling up the ropes to give Seth's crew a hand with the sails.
Andrew gestured toward the stern.
"She came right back to the ship, as soon as she—" Seth broke off, seeing Bruce's scowl. "Now calm down, MacGregor," he cautioned, stepping out of range of Bruce's right hook.
Bruce's dark gaze skewered both men. "My wife was at the prison tonight?" Suddenly he was furious. "Doing what?"
"She gave the guards whiskey with knock-out drops in it," said Seth.
"It worked." Andrew grinned. "You didn't hear anyone sound the alarm, did you?"
Bruce's jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed. He strode toward the deck cabin and flung open the door. He meant to give Lydia the worst dressing down of her life.
"Lydia?" He scanned the darkened cabin. It was empty. "All right. Where is she?" he demanded, fixing both men with a fearsome glare.
Seth turned to one of the oarsmen from the longboat. "When did Mrs. MacGregor get back?" he asked, sudden urgency in his voice.
"Haven't seen her, sir. We expected her, like you said, but she never came back."
Andrew laid a restraining hand on Bruce's arm to keep him from strangling Seth. "Hold on, Bruce! We all thought she'd be here by now."
"My God, man! She's still at the prison!" Bruce froze, his rough appearance worsened by the pallor sweeping over his darkened countenance. "If they catch her, she'll hang!"
"I can't imagine what went wrong," said Seth, in a daze. "We went over every detail."
"Never mind. You've got to slip anchor and sail, or they'll be all over you like flies on dead carrion!" Bruce broke into a sweat. "All right, Burton, where am I most likely to find her?"
"Try the office next to the front gate. I hired a couple of bang-tails to run interference, knowin' there'd be three guards on duty tonight."
"What the hell!" Bruce nearly lost control. But he couldn't allow himself that luxury. Every minute counted. "All right, she was with two—" he swallowed hard, "—whores. What else do I need to know?"
"Nothing! After she gave the guards drugged whiskey, she was supposed to return to the ship." Seth shook his head in disbelief. "If she ran into trouble, why didn't we hear anything when we went out the gate?"
"No time for speculation now," Bruce said grimly. "I have to go back and find her. The rest of you go on without me."
"I'll go with you," Andrew volunteered.
'No. I'm going alone. Give me your pistol."
Bruce took Graham's pistol and stuck it in his trouser waist, along with the one Burton had given him earlier.
Seth handed him a well honed knife. "Here, you may need this."
"Aye, for cuttin' out your liver, if I don't find my wife." Bruce's voice seethed with rage and passion. "If anything's happened to her, Burton, you'd best put an entire ocean between us."
Seth swallowed hard. "I want her safe, as much as you!"
Andrew gripped the tall Scot's arm. "Don't forget your sailboat in the cove, Bruce."
Bruce patted his pocket. "I have the map."
"We rendezvous at sixty-fourth longitude, forty-fourth parallel, at six tomorrow morning," Seth added.
"Aye. Sixty-four, forty-four. See you tomorrow, God willing." Without a backward glance, Bruce slid down a rope over the side. He landed upright in the second longboat, which still lay alongside.
Andrew and Seth watched Bruce MacGregor lay his back into rowing. After an anguished silence, Seth called softly into the rigging, "All right, men. Time to set sail."
> * * *
Whores? What on earth had possessed Lydia? Bruce agonized, as he put more muscle into the speed of his oar stroke. He was making good time, despite winds that had arisen, increasing the waves' choppiness in Halifax Harbor.
Of all people, Andrew should have talked her out of such a foolhardy venture! And that brother of hers! The bastard wouldn't just be limping when he got through with him; he'd be damned lucky if he ever walked again. Normally Bruce's cool rational side, inherited from his father, prevailed. But as he reviewed this night's mischief, his mother's Latin blood stirred to a white hot anger. God help him, Lydia was to him what his mother had been to his father: Trouble! All Lydia's pink and white curves and golden curls had distracted him from seeing the truth. He only hoped he wasn't too late to rescue his headstrong wife!
Just wait till he got his hands on her!
As the bottom of the boat scraped the rocky shore, Bruce jumped out into the icy water and hauled the longboat onto the beach. Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the sky. The wharf lay to his right; the town of Halifax, battened down for the night, lay ahead.
Shaking water from a hole in his boot, he started through the semi-gloom toward the fortifications on the hill. At the Citadel, he pulled a pistol from his waistband and slipped through the gate. He knew the layout of Sommers' offices, having been interrogated often upon his arrival. A dim shaft of candlelight and the sound of low snores drew him toward the room beyond.
Lydia's plan must have met with success, he thought wryly.
Advancing cautiously, he cursed the squish of sea water in his worn boots. But he needn't have worried about the noise. Three uniformed guards lay sprawled, noisily serenading three young women who lay in equally oblivious slumber. Two of the sluttish females were unknown to Bruce. The other, her red dress half torn off her, was . . .
His wife!
Bruce drew in a sharp breath. A good thing she was his wife, or he'd have been tempted to leave her where she lay. The scene smacked of the worst waterfront dive he had ever laid eyes on. Lydia's legs, clad in cheap black hose and garters, stuck out from beneath an unconscious soldier.
Passed out with the rest of them, her mouth open and hair snarled, Lydia looked like any other brawling whore sleeping off a drunk. Only the bruise on her chin suggested that she'd gone down fighting. Shaking his head in disbelief, he pulled a soldier off of her. She was out like a light. Probably would be for several hours.
Bruce scooped Lydia up like a bag of dirty laundry and darted out the front gate. He didn't bother to close it, but set off at a rapid clip. He had committed Andrew's hand-drawn map to memory that afternoon. Melville Cove was . . . south. The rain would make it a rough go, with no stars to chart his direction. Hopefully he wasn't too far off. He needed to reach his sailboat before midnight.
Lydia hung limply over his shoulder, her arms slapping lightly against his back. She felt a bit heavier, he noticed absently, as he jogged along. Either that, or he was in worse shape than he thought.
She made no sound, nary a moan nor a sigh, and he couldn't help wondering how much of the drugged whiskey she'd drunk. It could be fatal to a tiny woman like her, if she imbibed very much.
He moved swiftly, anxious to be out at sea before the British discovered their jail had been emptied out. Mile after mile he trotted, breathing hard, the rain pelting his face. Carrying her was tiring, despite all his exercise in the prison yard.
Emerging from the woods, Bruce rounded a narrow strip of water on the south arm of the harbor. The rain was coming down in sheets, and he needed to shift Lydia to the other shoulder.
Seeing a large piece of driftwood on the beach, he propped Lydia against a log and sat down to catch his breath. Her head wobbled, giving her a curious broken-doll look in her bedraggled, flashy red dress. She was so limp he could have tied her legs in knots.
He grinned, trying to envision tying her limbs around his neck in a bow. God, he wished she'd wake up. Aye, he'd give her a good talking to!
But she just lay there, as pale as the underbelly of a dead shark. Her eyes were rolled up in the back of her head, and Bruce found himself getting frightened. Maybe he could get her to vomit, he thought. Hauling her over his knees, he stuck a finger down her throat. She didn't gag or flinch—nothing. He pressed his ear to her chest and heard a slow regular heartbeat.
"Damn you, Lydia!" he swore, shaking her upside down. "You wake up, ye hear me?"
Getting no response, he cradled her in his arms. Her pallor especially bothered him. Even in the semigloom, she looked half-dead. Damn her for taking such a risk! And for a husband she barely knew. It made no sense.
Bruce stared at her rain-drenched face, the pouty lips softly parted, her thick lashes wet and glistening on her cheeks. She looked so fragile. Hardly a match for three burly British regulars. Damned if she wasn't something else!
In spite of his anger and worry, he smiled—and lowered his head to kiss her. Phew! Lydia stank like a brewery. She looked like a cheap tart, too, all rigged up in her outrageous get-up.
First she visits the prison as a nun, and then as a whore. He frowned, watching her sleep. What sort of woman did I marry? Saint or sinner? Maybe a little of both. The fact that she had risked her neck for him spoke volumes to his heart.
She needed a spanking, just to put the fear of God in her! But right now, he had to get them way the hell away from Halifax. Getting up, he lifted her to his other shoulder and set out again.
It seemed an eternity before he spotted the outline of his sailboat in the cove. Lydia felt like an anchor. By the time he set her down, Bruce was beginning to feel like an old man.
He no sooner started to raise the main mast when a man rose from the bottom of the boat.
"God damn!" Bruce jumped back, new energy pumping through his veins. "And who might you be?" he demanded, raising his pistol.
"Josiah Bromby of New London," a sleepy voice said. "You must be Captain MacGregor."
"That's correct. So you're part of my wife's rescue team, eh?" Puting his pistol back in the waistband of his trousers, he looked the young man over, liking what little he could see in the gloom.
"Yes, sir. Here, let me give you a hand," Josiah volunteered, coming forward to help Bruce with the mast. "I expected you hours ago."
"I ran into a slight snag," said Bruce, glad that Bromby had kept the boat covered with a tarp. It hadn't taken on water in the storm.
"What sort of a snag, sir?" Josiah helped Bruce shove the boat into the water.
Still breathing hard from his long foot race, Bruce nodded toward a reddish lump of flotsom lying on the sand. "I picked up a little excess baggage along the way. How about stowin' her aboard for me?"
His curiosity piqued, Josiah bent to examine the "baggage" MacGregor referred to, then straightened in surprise. "Why, it's Mrs. MacGregor!"
"Aye, so it is," Bruce said drily. "Well, throw her in, lad, and let's shove off."
Giving Bruce a look bordering on hostility, Josiah picked up the testy sea captain's wife and carried her to the boat. He helped cast off. They passed York Redoubt and were nearly out of sight of land when he finally broke the silence. "What's wrong with her, Captain?"
"Good question," MacGregor tersely replied. "You tell me."
"Me, sir? How would I know? Is she all right? Why's she wearing that dress, sir?"
"How old are ye, lad?" Bruce asked, too weary for polite conversation or being reasonable. "Barely wet behind the ears, I'll warrant."
"I'm nearly twenty-one, sir."
"Let me give you a little advice, Bromby," said Bruce, tacking south by southwest. "Don't ever try to figure women out. Just find a homebody. Someone who will stay put and keep your back warm on a cold night."
"Yes, sir." Josiah smiled, for Captain MacGregor couldn't possibly be describing his own wife. No doubt he was tired and a bit out of sorts. Whatever the reason, he saw no need to rile the Captain, who had a reputation for being handy with his fists.
"You have a wife back home, Bromby?"
Josiah blushed in the dark, thinking of Sarah Mullens. "No, sir, but I have a special girl."
"Don't rush into marriage," Bruce advised. "Here, you take the tiller for a while. Is there any food aboard?"
"Yes, sir. Food and dry clothes. Mrs. MacGregor thought you might be needin' new duds."
"She did, eh?" Bruce rummaged around in the boat's tiny galley. Finding two oil slicks, he handed one to Josiah. "Here, put this on, lad."
"What about Mrs. MacGregor, sir?" Josiah asked, pulling the rain gear around his shoulders.
"I'll stow her inside," Bruce said offhandedly, and hauled his wife toward the cramped galley. Her dress gave way with a rip, her generous breasts spilling into his hands. Crouched to shield his wife from the young seaman's gaze, Bruce hastily ripped off what was left of her flimsy costume, leaving her black undergarments, and wrapped her in a woolen shirt and blanket.
"Lydia, dammit, wake up." He was rewarded by a soft snore. "All right," he said disgustedly. "Sleep it off."
Then he stripped and, making sure the trousers and jacket she had provided fit his long lanky frame, he threw his old clothes overboard, glad to be rid of them. Then he dressed and threw an oil slick over his dry clothing.
Unable to do anything for Lydia, Bruce rejoined Josiah topside, his mood eased by a slight let-up in the storm. "Did you by any chance take a fix on our location before the storm?" he asked Bromby.
"Aye, Captain. While I was waiting, I tried my hand with the sextant and compass."
"Good lad." Bruce felt heartily relieved. "What time? Can you give me your readings?"
Josiah nodded. His sightings might be all they had to go by for several hours. He carefully explained how he had determined their location in the cove; then he asked, 'Where are we headed, sir?"
"We rendezvous with the Isobella at approximately six bells. Sixty-fourth longitude, forty-fourth latitude."
"That's some thirty miles out, sir. South by southwest."
"Not bad, Bromby. You've got a good head on your shoulders. Now hand me that compass." Bruce took the instrument from Josiah, struck a match from the waterproof packet in his slicker, and checked their heading. "A little more to port on that tiller, lad. 'Twill make up for the seas."
