“I suppose I could have. I’ve had other things on my mind.”
“Derek—”
“There’s the carriage. Put on your cloak. I’ll see to the candles.”
I picked up the long royal blue cloak lined with turquoise and placed it over my shoulders, fastening it at my throat while Derek blew out the candles we had left burning. When he blew out the last one, darkness descended, pitch black darkness, and I was momentarily disoriented. Then I felt his hand close over mine. He led me into the foyer and out into the courtyard. It was misty with fog. When had the fog come in? Derek locked the door, placed the key on top of the door frame and led me past the fountain.
As he opened the gates I suddenly thought of Jeremy Bond. When he returned to New Orleans, I would be on my way to England. I wondered if he would come to the apartment to try and see me. How would he react when he discovered that I was already gone? Had he really meant any of those wild, foolish words he had said that night after he walked me home? Of course not. It had all been preposterous, and he was an utterly preposterous man. He would never know that I had left the city. He would never make an attempt to see me again. He probably didn’t even remember my name.
Derek helped me into the carriage and climbed in beside me. He closed the door and rapped on the roof, and a moment later we were on our way. The fog was thick, a blurry, grayish-white veil that swirled and lifted occasionally to reveal a street lamp, part of a wall, an archway leading into a courtyard. The whirr of the wheels and the clop of the horses’ hooves seemed strange and eerie, echoing against the thick, moving walls of fog, and the carriage seemed to rock and bounce like a small boat in a choppy sea. I took Derek’s hand, holding it tightly. He squeezed my fingers and pulled my hand into his lap.
“Feel better?” he asked.
“A little. I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”
“We’ve both been under strain, Marietta.”
“Derek, I know you said your cousin wouldn’t dare try to do you harm once we’re in England, but—do you really think the danger is over?”
“He couldn’t risk attempting anything in England, not after all the talking he did, the threats he made. His one hope was to dispose of me while I was still over here, and he hired the wrong man to do the job.”
“There were two of them.”
“I would imagine he made a deal with the older one, the man in the heavy coat, in London, promising him so much money if he returned to England with proof of my death, and once he arrived in New Orleans the chap hired Hart to assist him. They’re bumbling fools, both of them. They lurked around, waiting for the right opportunity to present itself, and now it’s too late.”
“Your cousin must really hate you.”
“He always has,” Derek replied, “and now that I’ve won my rightful inheritance he has even more reason to hate me. I imagine we’ll have a confrontation one of these days,” he continued, “it’s inevitable, but when it happens it’ll be face to face, in broad daylight.”
He let go of my hand, withdrawing into himself again, and I leaned against the cushion and peered out at the fog. It seemed to be thinner here, lifting and parting, tearing open to show a flight of wooden steps, a string of lights, the corner of a warehouse. I realized we were nearing the docks, and the wind coming over the water was ripping the fog. The carriage rocked violently. I was pitched forward. Derek caught my shoulders, pulled me back, holding me as the carriage continued to jostle over the rough cobbles. After a few minutes the driver began to slow down, finally drawing to a full stop. Derek released me. Through the window I could see thick patches of fog that swirled and lifted, revealing huge stacks of boxes, coils of rope, the flaking hull of a ship, all dimly illuminated by three or four lanterns that swayed in the wind.
“I intend to speak to that fellow!” Derek snapped. “He had no business driving so recklessly.”
Scowling, he climbed out and helped me down. The wind caught my cloak immediately and sent it swooping back from my shoulders like madly fluttering blue and turquoise wings. Derek slammed the door of the carriage and started to step around to speak the driver. He had taken only three or four steps when the driver clicked the reins savagely, yelling at the horses. The carriage moved off at a frightening speed. My cloak came unfastened, lifted in the air, disappeared into the fog. I barely noticed. A cold hand seemed to clutch my heart.
“Derek!” I whispered hoarsely.
“Keep calm!” he ordered.
“It’s a trap. That driver—he—he must have been in on it. The ship isn’t leaving. There are no people. They set it up. They bribed the captain to tell you the ship was—”
“Shut up!”
Several moments passed. I was numb with terror. The fog lifted, parted, swirled like ghostly veils. I could hear water slapping against wood and wood groaning, and these noises somehow intensified the eerie silence that hung over the docks at this hour. The lanterns swayed, pouring dim yellow light over the crates, over the coils of rope. The gigantic old ship with its flaking blue hull rocked gently on the water, knocking against the dock, and it did indeed resemble a tired blue elephant. Through the fog I could discern several other ships moored nearby, cloaked in darkness like The Blue Elephant, tall masts a skeletal forest in the fog.
There was a loud clatter, a tinkling crash. One of the lanterns went out. Someone had thrown a rock at it. Pistol in hand, Derek motioned me to move behind him. Several more moments passed, the heavy silence broken only by sounds of water slapping, wood creaking. They were out there, lurking behind the boxes or crouching behind the bales of cotton, watching us, waiting. Another rock was thrown. Another lantern went out. There were just two wavering pools of light remaining, shadows intensified, the fog drifting, breaking, moving in a ghostly dance around us.
“What are we going to do?” I whispered.
“We’re leaving,” Derek said. His voice was frighteningly calm. “Stay behind me, Marietta.”
He started moving away from The Blue Elephant, keeping close to the edge of the pier, near the water, skirting the stacks of wooden crates, the bales of cotton, and I followed, my heart pounding, my knees so weak I thought I would stumble and fall at any moment. Ten yards, twenty, and we passed under one of the remaining lanterns, dim yellow-orange light pouring down. Thirty yards, and The Blue Elephant was behind us, and it was dark, so dark, nests of shadows on every side, water slapping, sloshing, fog swirling, the smell of salt and tar and damp wood assailing our nostrils. There was another pool of light up ahead, at least fifty yards away, and we moved slowly toward it.
Both of us heard the footsteps, scuffling footsteps that echoed and seemed to come from all around. Were they ahead of us? Behind us? Following us on our left, darting from cover to cover? It was impossible to tell. Derek held up his arm, motioning me to stop, and we stood very still in the darkness, listening. They stopped, too. Where were they? From a distance came the sound of raucous laughter and music, muted, barely audible. The waterfront bars were not too far away. If we could reach them, there would be lights, hundreds of people, safety, and I knew that was what Derek had in mind. My terror was so intense it had gone beyond feeling, and a curious numbness had come over me now, a numbness almost like calm.
A brisk wind blew over the water, tearing at the fog, lifting it, driving it away, and suddenly strong rays of moonlight streamed down, illuminating the area with a clear silver light that sharpened details and darkened shadows. I saw the ships on our right, enormous black monsters crouching low on the water, and I saw the boxes, the bales, piled in awkward pyramids on our left, deep, blue-black shadows around them. I saw Derek’s face, skin taut, mouth tight, his eyes alert. I saw the pistol in his hand, long, black, lethal. He knew how to use it. He was an expert. They didn’t have a gun, I told myself. If they’d had a gun they would have fired earlier, when we were standing in the light just after the carriage drove away. Perhaps there was hope. Perhaps there was still hope.
I shivered, folding my a
rms in front of my waist, the wind tearing my hair, lifting my skirts. There were tears in my eyes. I hadn’t been aware of them until Derek reached over to brush them away with his finger. Holding the pistol in his right hand, he wrapped his left arm around me, pulled me to him and kissed me on the lips, tenderly, so tenderly, telling me without words that everything was going to be all right, that he loved me. The kiss was all too brief. I clung to him for a moment, and then he gently withdrew, stepping back, turning around to watch the shadows. The moonlight wavered, washing the pier with silver, wisps of fog still floating, and Derek nodded, indicating that we should move on.
We proceeded slowly, cautiously, Derek keeping a sharp watch, gripping the pistol firmly, ready to fire. The music and laughter seemed nearer now, and in the distance I could see clusters of light. The moonlight began to fade, growing dimmer, dimmer, disappearing as a cloud passed over the moon. The darkness was total, a solid black shroud cloaking everything. I watched the shadows and saw one of them move, a dark, bulky shadow disengaging itself from the others, moving stealthily toward us. I screamed. Derek whirled around and saw the shadow and shoved me roughly aside, so roughly that I reeled, tottering backward, finally falling.
Derek raised the pistol to shoot, but before he could get a shot off the shadow lunged, falling on him, knocking the pistol out of his hand. I could see the two of them grappling, hugging each other, it seemed, locked in a deadly embrace, and I got to my knees, out of breath, my heart pounding again, hair spilling over my face. The cloud that had hidden the moon drifted past. Moonlight streamed down again, and I could see them clearly, the heavyset man in the bulky navy blue coat gripping Derek savagely around the waist, trapping his arms, Derek kicking his shin, breaking free, swinging his fist back to pound it into the man’s stomach, cracking him across the jaw as the man bent over double in pain. The second blow sent him sprawling, landing on the wooden planks with a heavy thud, and Derek leaped upon him, seizing his throat. The man thrashed, kicked, struggled, toppling Derek over, rolling on top of him.
I saw the pistol. It had skidded across the pier. It was only a few feet away from where I kneeled. Bruised, still out of breath, I doubted I could get to my feet, but I knew I had to get the pistol. I began to crawl toward it, and then someone shoved me viciously and I fell flat, lifting my head in time to see Will Hart reach down and pick up the pistol. He was dressed exactly as he had been before, in brown boots and plum-colored breeches and coarsely woven white shirt, the full gathered sleeves billowing, the leather jerkin shiny in the moonlight. He stood with his legs apart, watching the fierce combat, a smile playing on his lips.
I groaned, getting to my hands and knees. Hart turned and looked at me, the smile spreading into a leer. He stepped over to me, seized my hair, and jerked savagely, pulling me up. I couldn’t restrain a scream of pain. He slung an arm around my throat, hard muscles tightening, cutting off the scream. Swooping black wings closed over my brain. I almost blacked out.
“I’ve been waitin’ for this,” he whispered, his lips at my ear. “I’ve been waitin’ a long time.”
I tried to speak. I couldn’t. Hart tightened his grip, his arm curling, squeezing, and the blood rushed to my head. I closed my eyes and knew I was going to die, knew my throat was going to be crushed any second now. The pain was unbelievable. Orange and red lights seemed to whirl on my eyelids and I was in a black void, struggling to breathe, struggling to live. Hart loosened his hold, chuckling, and I gulped air, gasping, coughing. He continued to chuckle, delighted to have me in his power, savoring my pain.
“Be a good wench, now,” he said in a crooning voice. “You be good and I’ll let ya watch Bert cut your toff’s ’eart out. ’E ’as a knife, Bert does, bloody fool ’adn’t pulled it out yet, shoulda ’ad it in ’is ’and before ’e leaped on your toff.”
Derek and the man in the navy blue coat were both on their knees now some ten yards from where we stood. Both were dazed, struggling to their feet, and Bert fumbled with the tail of his coat and pulled a knife out of a scabbard at his thigh. It glittered in the moonlight, long, sharp, hideous. He lunged at Derek, and Derek moved aside just in time to avoid the deadly blade that passed not a fraction of an inch from his side. He whirled, caught Bert’s wrist, and twisted violently. Bert yelled and dropped the knife. Hart made an exasperated noise.
“Bloody fool,” he said, “bloody bumblin’ fool. Looks like I’ll ’ave to settle your toff’s stew myself. Nice he was carryin’ this pistol.”
Derek had Bert’s arm wrenched up between his shoulder blades, and Bert was yelling, trying to break free. He reared forward, throwing an arm back, catching Derek’s head in an awkward grip. They fell crashing to the planks, both of them losing their holds. Bert tried to get up. Derek caught his legs, jerking him back down. Bert’s head banged loudly. Derek stood up, stunned, weaving and shaking his head to clear it. Bert groaned, reaching for the knife that was almost within his grasp. Derek kicked the knife and sent it skidding into the water.
Hart chuckled again and curled his arm tightly around my throat again and lifted his free arm. I saw the pistol in his hand and saw him pull the trigger. I heard the explosion and saw a violent orange flash and a puff of smoke and saw Derek clutching himself and reeling backward, stumbling, tripping on the edge of the pier, falling. I heard a loud splash, and I screamed again, the sound welling up in my bruised throat and splitting the air. The world seemed to spin, revolving faster and faster, and I fell into a merciful void of blackness.
“Th’ ring, goddammit! Th’ bloody ring. He ain’t gonna give us tuppence if we don’t give ’im th’ bloody ring!”
The words seemed to come from a long way off. They were muffled, indistinct, part of a terrible dream. I opened my eyes and everything was blurred, black and silver and blue. It was several moments before I could focus, before I realized where I was. I was in a sitting position, leaning against a bale of cotton, and Hart and his colleague were standing a few feet away. Bert’s face was bruised, contorted now with anger, and Hart wore a smug, mocking expression.
“You almost mucked it up, mate,” he said: “If I ’adn’t got ’is pistol ’e’d a kicked your feeble brains out.”
“You mucked it up!” Bert growled. “You shot ’im, yeah, and he fell into th’ water and ’e’s got th’ bloody ring on ’is finger. Now one of us is gonna have ta dive down there and find ’im and cut th’ ring off ’is finger if ’e ain’t already floated out to sea!”
“Don’t get yourself in such an uproar, mate. I got it right ’ere. The wench ’ad it on ’er finger. I pulled it off. No one’s gonna ’ave ta get wet tonight.”
“Give it to me!” Bert ordered.
“I got it in my pocket. It’s safe where it is.”
“We’re gonna ’ave ta kill th’ wench, too,” Bert said.
Hart shook his head. “I got plans for ’er,” he said. “Big plans.”
“We gotta kill ’er,” Bert insisted. “She can identify botha us.”
“She ain’t gonna ’ave a chance ta identify us,” Hart told him.
“You plan on keepin’ ’er for yourself?”
“I plan on ’avin’ a bit of sport, yeah, and when I get through with ’er I’m gonna turn a nice profit. Red Nick’ll pay a fortune for a wench like ’er, pay double ’is usual price.”
I heard the words clearly, but they didn’t really register. They weren’t real. None of this was real. I wasn’t alive. I couldn’t be alive. I knew I was dead, and I was glad, for there was no reason to live. I was dead. I had to be dead. I couldn’t live. My throat hurt terribly and my shoulders ached, but I didn’t feel the pain. I was incapable of feeling anything. I stared at the two men and listened to their voices, but none of it was real. I wondered if I was in hell.
“’Ey,” Bert said, “I didn’t thinka that.”
“No, mate, you didn’t.”
“’E’ll pay top price! We’re gonna ’ave us a bloody fortune!”
“Not us, Bert,” Ha
rt said quietly.
“Hunh? Whatda you mean?”
Hart smiled and licked his lips and leveled the pistol at Bert’s chest. “I got the ring, Bert. I got the wench. Why should I share with you?”
“Will! You ain’t gonna do this! You ain’t gonna double-cross me! Not me, not your mate!”
“’Fraid I am, Bert.”
“I’m th’ one set this ’ole thing up! I made th’ deal with ’im in London! I’m th’ one who arranged everything, paid th’ captain a bloomin’ fortune to tell ’awke ’e ’ad passage and tell ’im th’ ship was leavin’ at midnight. I brought you in! I brought you in ’cause we was mates and I needed ’elp and I wanted my mate to ’ave a share!”
“Yeah,” Hart agreed. “Looks like you made a mistake, Bert.”
He pulled the trigger. Bert yelled, a look of amazement in his eyes as he grabbed his chest and blood spurted through his fingers. He fell to his knees, shaking his head, unable to believe what had happened. He continued to shake his head for several moments, moaning, blood spurting, and then his eyes glazed over and he fell face forward, his arms flailing out in front of him. Hart moved back, blew on the barrel of the pistol, and chuckled again.
I was in hell, yes, and the man in the leather jerkin was Satan, but where was his pitchfork, where were the flames? I caught hold of the bale of cotton and pulled myself up. I was standing, but my legs were numb. My whole body was numb. I couldn’t feel anything. That was perfectly natural, I told myself. I was dead and in hell and I couldn’t feel anything. The man in the leather jerkin looked at me, leering. He wedged the pistol into his waistband and started toward me, and I watched him quite calmly, not at all afraid. Why should I be afraid if I was already dead? He stopped in front of me and grinned, his dark eyes gleaming.
“You an’ me are gonna ’ave a real good time,” he said.
I looked at him with cool, level eyes, and I saw his wide, thin lips and his large, well-shaped nose. I saw the broad, flat cheekbones and gleaming eyes and the dark, arching brows that flared at the corners. His hair was blond and shaggy. Who would have thought that Satan had blond hair? I lifted my hand up as though to touch that heavy blond hair and watched quite objectively as my nails racked across his cheek, drawing blood. Satan yelled and jumped back and curled one huge hand into a fist. I saw the fist flying through the air toward me, and I felt something almost like pain, but I couldn’t feel pain, of course, and I welcomed the blackness that swallowed me up, claiming me at last.
Love Me, Marietta Page 12
