by Brenda Novak
“You’ve killed prisoners with your club easily enough. What’s the difference?” the clerk scoffed. “So I use a knife instead.”
“Cut me loose, and we’ll test your prowess.” Nathaniel focused on Sampson, hoping he could goad the clerk into a fight before the duke arrived. In a way, this little meeting boded well. It meant that Greystone hadn’t yet found the guns, and it got Nathaniel on shore, without chains, for the first time since his arrival.
“I could cut you to ribbons.” Sampson’s eyes blazed with the desire to do so.
“Words mean nothing, right lads?” Nathaniel looked to the two guards. “Let’s put your fearless leader to the test.”
“Do you think I’m a fool?” The clerk lashed out, quick as lightning, and sliced Nathaniel across the chest.
He laughed when Nathaniel’s jaw clenched in pain. “What? You’re not going to scream?” Sampson’s mouth hung open in a wicked grin as he laid the blade above the flickering flame that danced at the end of a single candle. “Oh, I forgot. You never show any sign of weakness. Perhaps we should see just how far you can be tortured before you do.”
Despite the evil glint in Sampson’s eyes and the blood pouring down the front of his coarse gray shirt, Nathaniel tried to keep calm. The wound was not mortal, though the pain was severe. He needed to buy some time. His hand worked frantically, straining against the rope that held it fast as he tried to reach the knot. The bands were weakening, but Nathaniel doubted they would give way soon enough.
“How much is the duke paying you? A few guineas perhaps? I’m worth much more to him than that.” Nathaniel’s long fingers continued to work nimbly. For once, having only one arm worked to his advantage. The guards had been sloppy when they tied him, at a loss to know how to secure his hand without another to anchor it to.
Sampson scowled. “He’ll give us what we ask. He’s getting a bit eager to be done with you. Seems someone held him at knifepoint last week, looking for you.”
Worry for Alexandra living with his father lanced through Nathaniel as effectively as Sampson’s knife, strengthening his resolve. He had to get her away from Berkeley Square. Her letter had promised him help, but if Greystone ever suspected a connection between them, she would not be safe.
“Why bother with him when you’re already making a fortune by cheating starving men out of their rations?” Nathaniel asked. “Tell me, how big of a cut do you give the overseer when you use the government’s money to buy inferior meat and clothes for us and pocket the difference?”
Sampson coughed, nearly choking on his surprise.
“Do you think I don’t know how you have gained such a hold on the overseer’s heart?” Nathaniel raised a mocking brow. “You line his pockets with gold, and he gives you whatever you want.”
“Hold him.” The clerk lifted the knife from the flame. “The blade’s ready.”
The guards glanced uncertainly at each other, and their hesitation gave Nathaniel the extra second he needed. He tugged one last time on the knot that bound his arm, and the rope miraculously loosened. Then he exploded with all the force left in his body, shoving James back at the same time he kicked Sampson in the groin.
James landed on his backside. Sampson crumbled to his knees. The last guard’s face met Nathaniel’s fist. Jarred from the impact, the man crashed onto his back as Nathaniel sprinted for the door.
“Get him,” Sampson yelled as they scrambled to their feet.
Nathaniel stopped just long enough to throw the bolt and swing the door open, but the few seconds it cost him were too much. James pulled him back by the collar before he could escape, forcing him to turn and fight.
Swinging with a strength born of panic, Nathaniel sent the guard skidding across the floor into Sampson, then leveled another blow at the unknown man’s chin. But he was exhausted in mere seconds, and he knew it was only a matter of time before they overwhelmed him. He had to make a run for it.
Following one last blow with a high kick to James’s gut, Nathaniel turned to flee, but Sampson managed to grab his arm and pull him back onto the point of the knife. Nathaniel felt the blade slice through the skin of his back, as smoothly as through bread pudding, just before he fell to the ground.
It’s over, he thought, as something warm seeped beneath him and Sampson’s blood-covered knife came into view.
“You’re dead,” the clerk jeered, bringing his hand back for the final thrust.
“That’s enough. If you value your own life, you will spare his.” Reverend Hartman stood at the entrance, his robes wet from a hasty passage. In one hand he held a gun.
Sampson gaped at the chaplain before a self-satisfied smile split his face. “He won’t do it, boys.” He waved them forward. “A man of the cloth could never commit cold-blooded murder.”
Neither Hartman’s hand nor his eyes wavered from their target. “I would consider it an act of humanity. I’ve never killed a man before, but then, I don’t consider you much of a man. Now, tell them to get back and let that prisoner up.”
“You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re not thinking,” Sampson insisted, waving the guards back.
“Now drop the knife.”
The blade clattered to the floor as Nathaniel tried to stand. The people around him seemed out of focus and a buzzing filled his ears, but he managed to find his feet. He stood, swaying unsteadily as he surveyed the situation.
“Look at him. He probably won’t last the night. You did this for a dead man,” Sampson shouted.
The chaplain glanced Nathaniel’s way. “No, I did this for me. It was the only moral thing I could do. I’m taking him back to the hospital where he belongs—”
Nathaniel’s mind cleared a bit as Reverend Hartman’s words sunk in. The chaplain was taking him back to the hulks. He would die there. He had to do something.
Lunging forward, he took the reverend off guard. Slamming him into a heavy table, he easily retrieved the gun, and turning, he squeezed the trigger before Sampson landed on top of him.
The blast deafened him as the clerk cried out in pain, the ball penetrating his gut.
The reverend gaped in astonishment. “They’ll hang you for this,” he whispered as the guards backed away.
“They’ll have to catch me first.” Nathaniel waved the priest toward Sampson and the guards. “I’ll have the key to this place, please.”
One of the guards quickly handed him a metal ring on which hung a single key.
Nathaniel felt the cool metal and took as big a breath as the pain in his torso would allow. “I’m sorry, Reverend, but my life wouldn’t be worth a farthing if I let you take me back.”
Forcing his body to move despite the pain, he trained the pistol on the group that huddled around the bleeding clerk and backed outside. Then he locked the door behind him and hurried away. He had to make it to safety, and to a doctor, before it was too late.
* * *
Alexandra blew out the lamp and sat on the last step of the stairs in total darkness. She couldn’t stitch anymore. Lord Clifton’s visit had destroyed her peace. All she could do was wait—wait and think about Nathaniel. Did he long for her as she longed for him? Did he close his eyes and picture her face as automatically as his apparition blocked out the darkness behind her own lids? Did she haunt his thoughts and dreams as persistently as he paraded through her own?
What was he doing right now? And the biggest question of all, how could she help him?
The kitchen clock chimed eleven and then each quarter hour until midnight finally approached. Alexandra stretched her neck and rolled her shoulders, thinking her nerves had never been so taut. At least the duke was out, and Clifton, it seemed, had gone to bed. If she moved quietly enough, no one would be the wiser about Trenton’s visit. At least she hoped not, for all their sakes.
Alexandra carefully lifted the latch of the back door a little ahead of the clock. She couldn’t wait a minute longer.
Moving as silently as possible, she headed through the g
ardens and sheds, past the stables and beyond, into the mews with only the moon to guide her.
When she arrived, Trenton wasn’t there.
Standing on one foot and then the other, Alexandra waited against the back wall of the stable. She could hear the horses inside, whinnying, but Harry was gone. The footmen slept in the basement of the house. Only Rory was anywhere around, and he was probably fast asleep.
Footsteps on gravel made Alexandra turn. A man approached, leaving his horse several houses down.
“Trenton.” Alexandra whispered his name as she flew to meet him. Throwing her arms around his neck, she nearly bowled him over.
He laughed softly and hugged her back. “This is quite a reception, considering you’re the girl I helped to kidnap.”
Alexandra gave him a fleeting smile, but couldn’t wait to share her news. “I know where Nathaniel is.”
Trenton sobered. “Where?”
“He’s in the hulks at Woolwich.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw him there. I watched a guard beat him.” She winced, the memory too painful to relive. “How do we get him out?”
Trenton shook his head. “I don’t know. Perhaps a bribe or two might motivate the right people to turn their heads.”
“What about the guns? Have you done anything with them?”
“I sent the duke a letter offering to trade them for Nathaniel, but he scoffed at me. I’ve never met a more arrogant bastard. He doesn’t think we can hurt him, no matter what. I’ve since written to the Lord High Admiral. Now I’m waiting for him to respond.”
“I’d better stay here until Nathaniel is free,” Alexandra said. “I’m afraid Greystone will catch on to my reason for coming in the first place, and cause something even worse to happen to Nathaniel. But I don’t like it here. Lord Clifton is—” She stopped.
What was the use of explaining the marquess’s behavior when Trenton could do nothing to stop it? “Never mind. I’ll be fine, for the time being. Just hurry and do something, and let me know what that something is.”
“I’m going to Whitehall in the morning to see if I can meet with the police commissioner. Mayne might listen to us if we threaten to take our story to The Times.”
A sound near the house made Alexandra jump. They fell silent, waiting, but heard nothing besides the horses in the stable. “I’d better get back,” she said, uneasy. “Send me word.”
“I’ll be staying at Marley House if you need me,” he whispered.
Nodding, Alexandra headed back. The house was dark and silent, and despite her nervousness, all seemed as it should be as she made her way to her bedroom. She snuggled beneath her covers, anxious for the rest her body craved, and sleep came in an instant.
But she was awakened long before dawn.
“Alexandra.” Someone tapped timidly on her shoulder. As the sleep cleared from her eyes, she blinked to see Rory, the stable boy, standing above her.
“Rory, what is it?”
He motioned for her to be silent and beckoned her to come with him.
Puzzled, Alexandra rose quietly from her bed and followed the boy back down the stairs. “What is it?” she whispered again when they reached the back door.
He shook his head, refusing to answer until they were outside and well away from the house.
“Tell me, Rory,” she pleaded, mystified.
He turned and took her hand, pulling her toward the stables. “There’s a man out ‘ere. ‘E’s bleedin’ awful bad, an’ ‘e keeps callin’ yer name. ‘E asked me to get ye an’ to tell no one else—”
“A man?”
The boy nodded rigorously. “‘E’s been stabbed, I think.”
“Did he say who he was?”
“Aye. ‘Is name is Nathaniel Kent.”
Chapter 19
Alexandra found Nathaniel crouching in the straw of an empty stall, shivering. In the dim light of the lantern that swung slowly overhead, she could see a dark, sticky substance on the back of his shirt. Blood? Her pulse began to race as she bent to touch it. Sure enough. It was fresh, and it was warm.
His eyes fluttered open. “Alexandra—”
“What happened to you?” She started to lift his sopping shirt, but he moved his arm to stop her.
“I think my father feared the hulks were too pleasant a home for me.”
“Greystone did this? That’s where he went tonight?”
“Not him.” Nathaniel swallowed. “Someone he hired.”
Alexandra could see the sweat popping out on his forehead and tried to suppress the panic that made her hands shake. “Why did you come here? They’ll kill you if—”
“This was the last place they’d expect me.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “And the only place where I’d find you.”
“But Lord Clifton didn’t go with his father.” Alexandra looked anxiously behind her, through the open stable door toward the house. She glanced at Rory, who was watching them in awe. “Never mind. Don’t try to talk anymore. We must get you out of here.”
“What ‘appened to ‘im?” Rory whispered.
“This man is a friend of mine, Rory, and you were right. He’s hurt very badly. I need your help. We must get him away from here before your father returns with the duke.”
Nathaniel’s head fell forward, and Alexandra bent worriedly over him. “Nathaniel!”
“I’m here,” he mumbled, his voice thick and slurred.
Alexandra turned to the stable boy. “Rory, can you get me a mount? We need to get him on a horse and take him to a doctor.”
Rory gave him a skeptical look. “Don’t look like ‘e can stand.”
Alexandra steeled her nerves so she wouldn’t snap at the boy. “We don’t have any other choice. Will you get the horse?”
While Rory went to do her bidding, Alexandra clung to Nathaniel’s hand. “Hold on, Nathaniel. Please.”
To her surprise, a wry grin twisted his lips as the blue of his eyes lifted to her face. “I thought you hated me.”
“If you die, I will hate you. I’ll hate you forever,” she told him.
His eyes closed again and the smile disappeared as he leaned his head on the wooden planking.
“Hold on,” she whispered, smoothing his dark hair off his forehead.
Rory had a bridle on a horse in a matter of minutes but didn’t bother with a saddle. He led the chestnut gelding out of its stall, stopping a few feet away.
“Thank you. I owe you all the scones you can eat,” Alexandra said. “Now we must get Mr. Kent up and onto the horse.”
The boy’s brows rose as he looked at the huge man huddled at their feet. “‘Ow do ye suppose we do that?”
Alexandra stooped and pulled Nathaniel’s good arm around her shoulder. “Like this: Nathaniel!” She made her voice low and sharp, trying to cut through the cloud of his delirium.
Nathaniel lifted his head, but it fell back again almost immediately.
“Nathaniel!”
A groan was his only response.
“On the count of three, we’re going to help you up. You need to stand, do you hear? You’re too heavy for us to carry.”
“After what I’ve eaten, I should be as light as a woman,” he mumbled, and Alexandra had to smile. He was still there. He was still fighting.
“One, two, three—”
“Going somewhere?”
Alexandra nearly collapsed under Nathaniel’s weight as Lord Clifton strode into the light. She felt Nathaniel’s muscles tense and realized that he, too, recognized his half brother.
“My lord, please.” She set Nathaniel gently back down. “He’ll die if I don’t get him some help.”
The marquess laughed, pulling a gun from his belt. “And that’s supposed to move me? Throw that pistol away.” He motioned toward the gun tucked into Nathaniel’s breeches. “Over there,” he said, waving at the far wall.
“A dying man would garner sympathy from anyone who had a heart,” Alexandra replied as she took the pist
ol and tossed it a few feet. “Look at him. Haven’t you done enough already?”
Clifton kicked the weapon farther from the two of them. “What about me? What about this?” He waved his handless arm in her face. “I can scarcely ride or shoot. I’m no more accomplished than a three-year-old with a sword. And you’ve seen my writing. It’s hardly legible. But you don’t care about that, do you? You only care about him.”
“Jake—”
“It’s ‘my lord’ to you, remember?” He pointed the gun at her.
“No,” Rory cried, rushing forward.
Nathaniel tried to stand, but fell weakly back. “Leave her out of it. This is between us, remember?”
The marquess ignored him. Turning to Rory, he indicated the stable door. “Go. Get out of here. This man is a thief.”
Rory hesitated. “Shall I wake Mrs. Wright and have her send for a constable, then?”
“No. Go back to bed. I’ll handle this myself.”
The boy shuffled toward the door, hanging back.
“It’s all right, Rory. You go up to bed. Everything will be fine,” Alexandra said encouragingly, afraid of what Lord Clifton might do if the boy disobeyed.
Rory threw Alexandra one last furtive glance as he shut the door, his face revealing confusion. Alexandra hoped he would go for help, but deep inside she knew that Rory would never defy the marquess’s authority to that extent.
When the boy was gone, Clifton turned to Nathaniel. “Now, where are the rifles?”
Nathaniel staggered to his feet but swayed dangerously as though he might fall. He shook his head, his eyes on Clifton’s pistol. “I’ll never tell you.”
“Then I’ll find them on my own. Bristol is not so large a place.” Setting the barrel of the gun on his forearm, the marquess awkwardly attempted to aim it. By his own admittance, he couldn’t shoot well, but at such close range, Alexandra didn’t see how he could miss Nathaniel.
“My lord.” She stepped cautiously toward him.
“Stay back. I’m going to kill the bastard, like we should have in the first place.”
