Patricia Potter

by Rainbow

  “Next time, Brett. Next time. I promise.”

  “I’ll hold you to it,” Brett replied. He went over and held his hand out to his brother, taking it with a warmth that both hurt and pleased Quinn.

  He had nodded and left. Now he wondered where in the hell Cam was.

  He needed something to take his mind from thoughts he found both destructive and unproductive.

  Quinn went to his cabin, seeking refuge from his confused emotions. He felt like the turbulent Mississippi in the painting that adorned the wall and wished, for a moment, that he had something of the tranquility of the rainbow.

  Perhaps it was time to consider the future. He and Cam would probably be discovered sooner or later, and he needed to develop an escape plan. And then what? The future seemed to stretch emptily and endlessly before him.

  More for the activity than anything else, he changed his clothes, exchanging his black suit for a loose flowing linen shirt and more comfortable black trousers. The mirror caught the ribboned scars on his back, and he imagined the horror Miss Seaton, or any other woman, would feel at seeing them. His hands clenched as he remembered the pain of the lash….

  He tried to remember O’Connell’s words as they stripped his shirt from him and tied his arms securely around the mast.

  “Don’t let the bloody bastards git ye down. Think o’ the meadow, lad, o’ the bright sky. Fix yer eyes and yer mind on that, and don’t let it go.”

  He tried to do that, but the first slash of the skin was like fire running through his body, and the second was like a red hot poker pressed against it. He knew his body jerked, and he bit his lips to keep from screaming, until his throat choked with blood.

  The lash tore into his shoulder, and he felt the skin ripping through the previous cuts. Even his bare chest was covered with splattered blood now, and his eyes swam with red mist as he struggled to keep his voice inside him.

  Keep your mind on the meadow, on the sky, he told himself. But how could he when his body was fiery agony, and each additional slash added to a torment he had never known could exist, and never known a body could endure?

  He screamed, and the scream echoed in his ears. But it wasn’t an echo. It was another scream, and another…

  “Capt’n?”

  Quinn shook his head to rid it of the memory.

  “Cam.” He opened the door.

  Cam looked at him in concern. The captain’s face was white, his mouth tense, his eyes bleak.

  “Somethin’ wrong?”

  “I saw Miss Seaton this morning. Daphne’s with her.”

  Cam’s face fell, and his hand stilled on the knob of the door. He had been expecting word any day that Daphne was safe in Illinois.

  “It’s just a matter of a few more weeks,” Quinn said.

  “It’s gonna be harder every day for her to run,” Cam said quietly.

  “I know,” Quinn replied. Slavery, any form of captivity, had a way of wearing a person down, of sapping courage, particularly courage that was but a bud. He often thought there was no greater bravery or gallantry than that of escaping slaves, of men and women who knew nothing of freedom, who had had no experience with it, yet were willing to risk everything for it.

  “Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully, “perhaps we can help her from here. Perhaps Elias…”

  “And she could travel with us.” Cam’s voice was explosive with a feeling that Quinn had never seen in him before.

  “Why not?” He grinned.

  “How?”

  “Elias. I was going to see him tonight, anyway. I received a message that he expects a new shipment. I’ll ask him then.”

  Cam’s face relaxed, his lips broadening into a smile as he thought about Daphne. It would be a hard journey in the bowels of the steamboat, but he would be able to see her, to reassure her. He would make sure she was safe and situated happily. Eventually…well, eventually, perhaps he could even court her.

  He didn’t know why she meant so much to him. Perhaps, he mused, it was the innocence she still had, the innocence that he had never had. Or even that reservoir of courage he had sensed in her. He only knew he wanted to protect her, to give her the world.

  And then…?

  As long as he remained with Captain Devereux, there was no safety for him. And yet, he knew he couldn’t leave the captain or the Lucky Lady. They had given him a reason to live, had returned his heart and soul to him, had made him feel his worth as a human being and, after thirty years of being considered little but a beast, that was very much indeed. Each escaped slave was a victory that raised his self-esteem.

  He could not give Daphne a secure life, not if he continued with the Underground Railroad, and how could he do anything else? How could he not help his own people?

  He stared out at the levee, at the bales of cotton waiting for loading, at the dark bodies lifting and stacking under white overseers. He quietly figured the number of bent and tired bodies that had been required to bring the cotton here, from the preparing of earth to final harvest to hauling. He remembered the way every bone and muscle in his body ached and burned and suffered after fourteen straight hours in the field.

  Daphne. He would see her to freedom and an unfettered life in Canada. And that, he realized now, excluded him. He could never give up his work. With a pain that had no physical cause, but was perhaps even more debilitating, he turned and went below deck to prepare the secret space between the walls.

  Chapter 12

  SHIVERING IN the cold, a heavily cloaked Meredith clutched her wrapped painting and slipped through the streets of a darkened New Orleans.

  Elias Sprague’s warehouse was on Canal Street, not far from where she was staying, but it seemed a hundred miles away. Coming to him was very dangerous. If the connection between them was ever discovered, she knew it would be disastrous for both of them. Yet there was no other way.

  Her blond hair was twisted into a knot and well-hidden under the hood of her cloak. The dark gray of the material blended into the night. She was thankful there was very little moonlight, and that the back of Elias’s warehouse was not lit by the gas lamps that adorned so many other parts of New Orleans.

  She welcomed the need for concentration. It was a relief to think only of her safety and of those dependent on her—not of Quinn. She pulled the hood tighter around her face as she watched the warehouse for several moments, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She should be tired. It had been a long day, but instead she was filled with the kind of tension that kept all her senses alert.

  When she approached the warehouse, she hesitated and searched the windows for a particular light. It was there, positioned in the third window to the left, a lamp burning brightly. It was a signal that all was safe. Elias Sprague may not know she was coming, but he often had unexpected visitors, and the lamp was his beacon.

  Meredith quickly moved to a side entrance, knocked lightly, and after several seconds was admitted by a small man with a ready smile.

  “Meredith, how good to see thee.”

  “I saw the light,” Meredith replied. “Are you expecting a shipment?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll be quick, then,” she said, not wanting to see the newcomers or them to see her. The less anyone knew, the better.

  “I wish thee could spend more time with us, but I understand,” he said. “What can I do for thee?”

  “There’s a slave, Jim, who will be escaping from the Mathis plantation near Natchez. Can you alert the stations to be looking for him?”

  “It will be done,” he said quietly without question.

  “And I have this.” She unwrapped her painting and waited nervously as he looked at it. Meredith was always uncertain about the quality of her work. She liked it, but that didn’t mean that anyone else would. The fact that she never saw anyone’s pleasure, that she could never reveal this side of herself, always hurt. Although she often chided herself for wanting something as inconsequential as praise or approval, the need was there, dee
p inside her.

  He took the painting to a gas lamp and studied it, his face wreathing into a smile. “I think it’s the best thing thee has done. It’s very powerful.”

  “You will send it North?”

  “Yes, M. Sabre,” he said. “In fact, there’s a boat here now expecting my shipment. I’ll send it along.”

  “The proceeds go to the Railroad.”

  “The last one brought two hundred dollars,” he said. “Our agent said there is one particular buyer who’s very insistent on purchasing all of Sabre’s paintings. I think he will like this very much.”

  Meredith felt a surge of warm satisfaction. She hated to give the paintings up, but it was good to know that someone appreciated them.

  “Thank you,” she said. “And I wanted you to know, the detective thinks he might have located Lissa.”

  His smile grew broader. He knew how much Meredith had wanted to find her half sister. “I will pray for thy success,” he said.

  She reached out and touched his hand. “Thank you. I’d better go before your other visitors arrive.”

  His hands tightened around the painting. “I thank thee…and the joy thee creates with thy work. When will thee be back?”

  “Probably four months.” She grinned impishly. “I’m afraid my trustee will have a stroke if I return any sooner.” The smile disappeared. “Be careful, Elias. I’ll keep in touch through the Parson.”

  “God go with thee,” Elias said, and saw her to the door. He watched as she once more lowered the hood over her face and reached out to touch him in farewell. He saw the momentary loneliness on her face, a reluctance to leave, but they both knew she must. She finally lowered her eyes and turned, moving toward the lush garden that hid the back of the warehouse from the street.

  Meredith heard a whisper, the soft sound of footsteps on hard earth, and she slid behind some trees. Her eyes had once more adjusted to the dark and she could see a small group of hesitant figures, led by an obviously more confident one, make their way to the door she had left seconds ago. When the last man entered the warehouse, she turned to leave.

  She heard a rustle behind her and started to whirl around. But she was too late. She felt an arm around her, and another over her mouth. She struggled violently against her attacker until she felt a sudden sharp pain at the side of her head, and everything went black.

  Quinn, as usual, approached his Quaker contact carefully, although he had business reasons to meet with him. Elias Sprague was a merchant and often shipped goods on the Lucky Lady. Still, caution had become second nature to him.

  He moved into the shadows when he saw dark figures near the warehouse. His fugitive cargo, he suspected. They would be fed and sheltered in a secret room in the warehouse and sometime in the morning placed in crates and carried to his boat. They would know, of course, that they were on a steamboat, but not which one. The only person they would see was Cam, and no one would mention the Lucky Lady. It was safer that way, particularly now that there were rumors up and down the river that a steamboat was involved in the Railroad.

  Quinn relaxed against the tree, planning to wait there until Elias had time to secure the fugitives in the hidden room. Perhaps it would be possible to secret Daphne with this shipment, although arrangements would have to be rushed. He disliked haste; it usually meant carelessness and errors, but he knew how important this had become to Cam…almost like a personal crusade.

  But how would he get Daphne away? He could try to lure Meredith Seaton out in the morning. But after their meeting at the bank, he doubted that even his best behavior would move her. And, God only knew, he had a hard time maintaining any semblance of good manners with her. She seemed to unleash the devil in him every time they met. It was a situation that baffled him, especially since he had also sensed her own battle between attraction and aversion to him. Unfortunately, it was the latter that usually won. He smiled wryly. A premonition told him he hadn’t seen the last of her, not by any means. He didn’t know whether it was expectation or dismay that accompanied that odd knowledge.

  He saw a movement in the garden and edged closer, trying to identify the figure, even as he was aware that the last of the silent shadowy figures had entered the warehouse.

  Bloody damn, he thought. Someone was spying on the warehouse! How much had they seen? Enough to convict Elias, that was obvious, and probably doom the poor souls who had just entered.

  He looked around, seeking other furtive bodies lurking among the trees, but there were none, so the individual wasn’t the police. Slave hunter? Or merely a bounty hunter looking for the large rewards offered for escaping slaves?

  Quinn’s oath expanded into a flood of profanity. There was only one way to keep Elias safe now, and that was violence, though he knew Elias, with his strong Quaker beliefs, would never tolerate that, not even for his own safety. He, Quinn, would have to take matters into his own hand.

  He moved silently forward, each step carefully taken to avoid rustling a leaf or a bush. He couldn’t tell much about his quarry’s figure for it was wrapped in a voluminous cloak.

  Stealthily, he reached the spy. One of his arms snaked around the watcher’s midsection and his hand covered the mouth. The figure, slighter than Quinn had imagined, struggled violently, and he clipped the side of his captive’s head. The body relaxed in his arms, and he caught the form as it crumpled to the ground.

  He swore once more. As he lifted the body, the cloak fell open and he saw the dress. He went rigid. His hand uncovered the hair and he saw the gold in the darkness. Something in his gut constricted. From the first glance at the dress, he had instinctively known who it was. Damn it, he knew.

  What in the hell was the spoiled Miss Seaton doing on the grounds of an abolitionist in the early hours of the morning? He had always wondered if there wasn’t more to her than she allowed to be seen. But this? His mind ran over possibilities, all of them apparently preposterous.

  She could not be a member of the Underground Railroad. If she was, he surely would have been told when he had visited the Parson. The Parson would have known. Bloody hell, he would have to have known.

  And his brother, who was not easily fooled by anyone, was convinced that little Miss Meredith cared only about money and her own pleasures.

  Money.

  Nothing else fit. She had to be doing it for the reward. Possibly because Brett wouldn’t give her everything she wanted.

  But that still didn’t feel right. But then nothing felt right.

  He thought about taking her inside, but he reminded himself that the Quaker’s own unshakable and uncompromising ethics would forbid him from taking any action. The merchant would go to jail first. And the entire Underground Railroad would suffer an irreplaceable loss.

  Quinn wondered briefly whether his own stomach or conscience could tolerate harming a woman, even one guilty of the actions he now suspected. He knew neither would, no matter what she was, or what she had done. But he was not above holding her prisoner for a short time. Or even scaring her witless.

  Witless. Damn it. He had once thought her witless. He was hastily revising that opinion, and he realized suddenly he had been doing so for some time. Slowly.

  He had no good choices. It was likely that either he or Elias would have to be sacrificed. And Elias was, by far, more valuable. Quinn had few illusions about himself. He did what he did because he enjoyed the danger, the adventure, the satisfaction of thieving from a class he despised.

  Elias, on the other hand, was a truly good man, one who deserved better than prison, one, Quinn suspected, who would not survive there long.

  He made his decision quickly. He would risk revealing himself to Meredith Seaton and find out what she knew. He could then warn the merchant in time for the Quaker to escape North while he, Quinn, kept Meredith Seaton prisoner until they reached Illinois. When Elias was safe, he and Cam would release her and make their own escape.

  Otherwise, Elias and this shipment could well be taken today.

&n
bsp; But it would mean the end of everything Quinn had built, had worked toward. Damn it. Damn her.

  His mind decided, he placed her on the ground. He took his belt from around his waist and strapped her hands together, then gagged her with a piece of cloth he tore from her petticoat. He knelt down and picked her up, then he strode quickly down the darkened street to where his horse waited.

  With the exception of one watchman, the deck of the Lucky Lady was clear. Quinn, without looking at his watch, surmised it must be about 3:00 A.M., late enough that most of the crew was asleep.

  He looked down at his burden. She was still unconscious, which worried him. When he had struck the figure, he had thought it a man, and he had not been overly gentle. Quinn cuddled her as he slid from the horse, one hand holding her head close to his heart, almost in a loving gesture. The gag was thoroughly hidden by his large hand.

  Quinn managed a conspiratorial smile for the watchman. “A bit too much wine for her.” He grinned. “Can you bring the horse aboard and tell Cam to come to my room? I have some tasks for him.”

  “Aye, sir,” the watchman said, only too aware of who owned the boat.

  Quinn carried Meredith to his cabin and laid her on his bed. He quickly lit the gas lamp and returned to her side, removing the hood from her head, his hand gently exploring the bruise on the side of her face.

  She looked vulnerable. She wore none of the heavy powder, and her skin was soft and luminous in the flickering light, except for the great purpling on one cheek. Her hair, for once without the tight curls that had never suited her, was pulled back simply, revealing an oval face that now seemed perfection itself. Long dark lashes shuttered those dark brown eyes that he had never been able to penetrate.

  What did they hide?

  Don’t be a fool, he told himself. Remember another woman who had seemed so damned vulnerable, whose plotting cost you eight years of life. Women were all the same—traitorous. And this one, he suspected, was even more so than most. She certainly wasn’t what she appeared to be. And that was damning in itself.

  He removed the gag and undid the belt that bound her hands awkwardly, then replaced it with a strip he tore from the sheet. He did the same with her ankles, noting with a jaundiced yet appreciative eye how very lovely they were before forcing himself to continue. With another piece of cloth, he linked her ankles with her wrists so she could move only slightly.