Brentwood's Ward

by Michelle Griep

  Ten paces one way. Ten the other. Years ago, Emily had seen a lion at the Tower of London’s menagerie. Now she understood the animal’s bizarre pacing behavior. Locked in Captain Daggett’s quarters, she was every bit as caged—yet deprived of the roar that begged for release. Still gagged. Still bound at the wrists. The only things free were her feet and her mind.

  So back and forth, one foot after the other, she slowly wore away the thin leather of her shoes, worrying, wondering, waiting. What was to become of her? A month ago she’d had her entire life planned out. The perfect marriage. The perfect husband. A fresh trickle of tears leaked down her cheeks. The only thing perfect now was the mess she was in.

  And this time Nicholas wouldn’t be getting her out of it.

  At the wall, she stopped and rested her forehead against the wood paneling. Nicholas. Just thinking his name brought a small measure of comfort. The short time she’d spent with him hadn’t been enough. Would never be enough. Above, the footsteps of sailors preparing for a dawn departure beat a steady cadence. Would she ever see her guardian again?

  A sob rose in her throat. The gag cut it off. She’d never felt so alone in her life. Not when her mother died. Not when her father ignored her. Not all the times she’d clung to her little pug, trying to ease the ache in her heart.

  Whirling, she flounced to the single chair in the room and sank. Deprived even of speech, she closed her eyes. God, why? Why? I have nothing left to hope in. Not my father’s provision, not a prosperous marriage match. Not even Nicholas. How will I survive? All I have is the dress on my back and You. Is that enough to live through this? Are You enough?

  “I am!” The words rumbled like the crack of an unexpected thunderstorm tearing from one end of the sky to the other.

  Her eyes snapped open. A jolt of heat shot through her. Prickles raised gooseflesh on her arms. Had God seriously just answered her?

  “And if you think I am not the sole reason you live and breathe,” the voice continued.

  She slid off the chair to her knees. Yes, Lord. Yes, God. You are. You are!

  “Then I’ll give you some time to think on it in the brig. Is that understood, Mr. Snelling?”

  The door crashed open—but it wasn’t God who entered. It was Satan.

  Captain Daggett.

  Chapter 31

  Nicholas fell through the jaws of hell. Spikey edges ripped through fabric and flesh alike as he plummeted through the hole in the warehouse floor. It was a great escape route—for a small child. Not for shoulders like his. Splinters lanced into the gunshot wound in his upper arm. Darkness swallowed him and then spit him onto the mucky bank of the Thames. Pain stole most of his breath. Low tide’s stench took the rest.

  How had things gone so wrong?

  Panting, he rolled to his knees and pressed his hand against the torn muscle on his arm. Warmth oozed through his fingers. Dizziness swirled in like an eddy.

  And another pair of boots thwunked into the muck behind him.

  He doubled over, giving the impression he’d been hurt badly, though the added moan was real enough.

  Footsteps neared. Closer. Louder. He waited for the telltale whoosh of air, signaling the lift of a pistol handle to crack against his skull.

  Then he twisted and sprang.

  The heel of his hand thrust into the soft flesh of Weaver’s throat. The man’s windpipe gave. His head snapped back. He dropped like a drunk on a binge. If he lived, he’d never again hit the high notes of a bawdy song.

  Sucking in air, Nicholas forced away the blackness creeping in at the edge of his vision, then turned and ran. Staggered, really. Sludge yanked his boots with every step. The incline of the bank wasn’t steep, but that didn’t make it any less treacherous. Slipping, he caught himself and pressed on until the mire stopped at a wall of rotted timbers—the barrier marking the alley’s end.

  The place where Flannery should have been crouched and waiting.

  Dread knocked the wind from him an instant before an explosion thundered through his bones. A red flash desecrated the black sky. Both happened within the space of a breath.

  Neither boded well.

  Nicholas threw himself against the wall and hoisted himself upward, not caring who heard his deep grunt each time he grabbed for a handhold with his wounded arm. Clearing the top, he rolled over the edge, the fire in his arm burning well past his injury.

  Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to his feet. The reek of burnt flesh added to the nausea building in his gut.

  God…no.

  Swiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he straightened. Onlookers emerged at the opposite end of the alley, creeping out like life-size cockroaches. Two bodies—or what remained of them—lay on the far side of what had been the rigged chest. The body nearest him sprawled facedown. One of his arms stretched out. Reaching. As if he’d tried to swim the current of the blast to safety. Remorse ran red through Nicholas’s veins…the same color as the hair on the man lying dead still.

  He sprinted and slid to a stop on his knees next to Flannery. Grabbing him by the shoulders, he carefully eased the man over. “Here now, come on. Flannery? Come on, man!”

  Sharp bits of gravel pitted Flannery’s brow. His eyes didn’t open. His lips didn’t part. A sour taste pooled at the back of Nicholas’s throat. He never should have given such a dangerous task to an untried man.

  “Flannery!” His ragged voice bounced from wall to wall.

  Somewhere deep inside Flannery’s rib cage, a low rumble started. Or was that merely because Nicholas wanted to hear it? To believe it? To not have to live with Flannery’s death on his conscience? He bent closer.

  Flannery spasmed. His hands shot up, grabbing handfuls of Nicholas’s coat, and pulled him nose-to-nose. “Did we…did you…” His grasp slackened, thin as his voice. When his eyes rolled back, he let go completely.

  Nicholas stared, horrified—until the rhythmic lift and fall of Flannery’s grit-coated chest caught his eye. He was alive. For now. But how much longer?

  Rising, Nicholas hated the choice set before him. He reeled to catch his footing. Should he hasten Flannery to a doctor and risk the possibility that Emily might set sail for God-knew-where? Or should he leave the man here and continue his search?

  Rock. Hard place.

  His decision was every bit as granite—cold and unyielding.

  He cried out as he slung Flannery’s limp form over his shoulder. Even so, the white-hot agony in his arm was nothing compared to the torture in his heart.

  The instant the gag was cut from behind and pulled off, Emily whirled. Frightening as it was, facing danger head-on was better than a stab in the back. And with the captain’s knuckles still wrapped around a knife hilt, that was a distinct possibility. Though doubtful, the way his eyes undressed her.

  She retreated until her shoulder blades smacked against the farthest wall—not far, in this tiny cabin. Fear wrapped tight around her chest. Nonetheless, a crazy peace steadied her fingers as she ran them across her lips. God was here. She knew that now, not just in her head but in her heart. Slowly, she worked her jaw, surprised that it still moved at all.

  Captain Daggett slipped the blade into a sheath at his waist and advanced. His body blocked the single escape route out the door. The only way around him was to hurdle the table laden with maps and measuring tools—or scramble across the bed.

  His bed.

  “You cur!” The words rubbed raw in her throat, sounding more like an animal’s growl than a lady’s. What he’d done to Wren, what Wren had done to her, the lick of his gaze fondling places that ought not be touched—all of it boiled up and spewed out. “You filthy cur!”

  “Ugly words from such a pretty mouth.” His words slurred together, and she felt a tremble to his touch as he ran his knuckle along her cheek. He stank of rum and salt and treachery.

  She jerked her face aside. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Ahh, but I’ve waited nearly a year for this.”

 
His breath drifted over her skin, and she shivered. “Beast!”

  “You have no idea.”

  “I have every idea!” She wrenched her gaze back to his. “You ruined my maid then turn your back on your child. You trade for me as if I’m nothing but a—”

  “Child?” He staggered then braced a hand against the wall. “What are ye talking about? What child?”

  “Your child!” She studied the tic at the corner of one eye. Was he daft as well as drunk and dangerous? “Wren carries your babe, Captain. She’s an outcast because of it.”

  Her words whipped up a tempest. For one sober moment, emotions rippled across his face like waves on a storm-swept sea, too fast for her to navigate the thoughts running through his mind.

  “A…a babe?” He staggered again, though he still held the wall.

  Emily tensed. Was this some kind of ploy?

  He lurched from the wall and shored himself against the table, his eyes searching her face. “Are ye certain?”

  A fierce frown pulled at her sore mouth, completely unstoppable. The man was either a consummate actor—to what end she couldn’t imagine—or he truly was clueless. “How can you be so surprised?”

  “Impossible!” The denial draped years onto his frame. Deep lines creased his brow. He stomped to a cabinet door and retrieved an amber bottle.

  As he pulled out the cork and tossed back his head for a drink, Emily edged sideways toward the door, careful with her light movement. Too fast and her chance for freedom might shatter, the opportunity thin as glass.

  Five steps from freedom, his voice stopped her. “Where is she?”

  Slowly, Emily rubbed the chafed skin at her wrists. Though Daggett hadn’t been the one to tie her up, that didn’t make him a saint. “Have you not done her enough harm?”

  “Please.” His voice bled like a bruise. By faith, he sounded as if he’d been the one wronged.

  She kept her gaze locked on his while daring another step. “Perhaps you ought to explain yourself, Captain.”

  He lowered the bottle to his side, a long slow breath escaping his lips. His mouth barely moved when he spoke. “I was married once. ’Twas an abysmal match. I was young. Foolish. She was a real beauty, though. A widow…” His face hardened. “And a shrew.”

  He wrenched up his arm and threw the bottle. Glass exploded.

  Emily flinched.

  “The woman was a harpy! A hag!” Daggett’s shout filled the small room. “She came with four extra mouths to feed. Four! Should that not have been enough? Should I not have been enough? Yet she wanted one more, one I couldn’t afford. One I couldn’t produce.” His voice lowered until his last word was nothing but a whisper.

  Emily watched transfixed as a shiny film covered his eyes. Did he even know she was still there? Maybe not, between his memories and the amount he’d drunk. She dared another step.

  “She said the fault was in me. Me! That I wasn’t man enough to sire…” He shook his head, and for a moment, his shoulders sagged.

  When his face lifted to hers, she gasped. A shadow moved across his face. This was no charade. The captain’s soul sailed in a sea of darkness. He knew what lay on the other side of pain so deep, so black that no amount of time could separate him from the hurt.

  Her breathing hitched. Compassion was a strange friend, calling at the most inopportune time. But now was definitely not the moment to take tea with empathy. “I am sorry for what happened to you, Captain.” She snuck another step closer to the open door, speaking as her skirt swished to cover the movement. “But that doesn’t justify what you did to my maid.”

  His sigh could’ve filled the ocean. “I suppose it does not. But believe me when I say I had no idea there’d be lasting implications. I merely thought the one time, the one night—”

  Emily’s jaw dropped. “How can you think so lowly of a woman, to use her like that?”

  “How can a woman think so lowly of a man, to scorn him in public, make him a laughingstock? Flaunt his impotence to the world!” He barreled toward her faster than she could flee. His fingers dug into her arms, pinning her in place. Anger sharpened the bones of his face. Grief mingled with the rum on his breath. “I never wanted to go a’sea, Miss Payne, but I didn’t have a choice! Life on land was hell itself.”

  Her heart beat loud in her ears. His heavy breaths, all the louder. Everything hinged on this moment. Her future. Her freedom.

  His salvation.

  “You were wronged, sir,” she began slowly, casting the words like a life preserver. “Wronged and damaged, through no fault of your own. So was Wren. And so am I. A wise man once told me no one escapes this life without scars. Not even God.”

  She paused, waiting for the slightest hint of a break in his stormy gaze. “Let me go, Captain. I am not the woman who hurt you.”

  His jaw tightened. Nothing more. His fingers still bit into her arms. Overhead, the thumping of sailors’ feet readied to sail. She measured time by the vein pulsing on the captain’s temple.

  After an eternity, she tried again. “Don’t add wrong to wrong. I’ll see that you’re paid back every penny you spent for me if you simply let me go.”

  A low laugh rumbled in his chest. Then he shoved her, wheeled about, and retrieved another bottle. While he uncorked it with his teeth, she resumed her slow trek to the door.

  Daggett swilled half the contents on his way to the porthole, where he stooped and looked out at the inky darkness before dawn. The way the lamplight fell, he couldn’t have seen anything other than his own reflection. Emily shuddered. Truly, was there anything more horrific than peering at one’s own self?

  The image of the broken Captain Daggett branded onto her heart. Even so, she took the opportunity to fly the remaining steps to the door. Would he notice if she slipped out?

  Before she crossed the threshold, she turned back. An insane move, as were the words burning on her tongue, but altogether necessary. “I don’t know if Wren will have you, Captain, but there’s one thing I am certain of.”

  He didn’t look at her. He didn’t need to. She spoke as much to herself as to him. “A child needs a father’s love. As long as you draw breath, it’s not too late to make things right. Think on that.”

  He grunted then tipped the bottle one more time. Rum dripped down his chin, dampening his collar. Tilting back to drain it dry, he lost his balance and crashed backward. The captain sprawled out flat, his eyes rolled up.

  Emily turned and ran into the narrow corridor then paused. Where exactly should she go? Portman Square? Nicholas’s room? Neither was safe.

  Undecided, she scurried ahead. First she’d have to clear the deck and the docks.

  Chapter 32

  Uncertainty—the only thing Nicholas despised more than waiting.

  He circled the doctor’s small receiving chamber for the twentieth time in as many minutes, turning his back to the jeering clock on the wall. Why must life—and death—hang on the spindly arm of a timepiece? And honestly, how much death could one handle in the space of a day?

  As soon as the door to the infirmary swung open, releasing the stinging odor of ammonia and vinegar, he pivoted. The fast action pumped a fresh flow of blood beneath the binding on his arm. The warmth, and pain, reminded him he ought be thankful his own body was not yet counted among the corpses of the past twenty-four hours.

  He pinned his gaze and his hope on Dr. Kirby. “How’s Flannery?”

  Without his hat, tufts of white hair stood at attention above each of the doctor’s ears, giving him a perpetually surprised look—and making it impossible to read the truth in the lines of his face. “Did I not tell you to remain seated, Mr. Brentwood?” His chin lifted, and he eyed the growing stain on Nicholas’s sleeve. “Even from this distance I can see you disregarded that order the second I left the room. At least your man is a more compliant patient.”

  Nicholas sucked in a sharp breath. “So he lives?”

  “Thus far.” Kirby stepped aside, sweeping one arm toward the open
door. “Which is more than I can say for you if you continue to stand there and bleed all over my floor. Let’s get you patched up, shall we?”

  He didn’t need to be told twice. Nicholas strode past him, entered a familiar corridor, then turned right, crossing the threshold into a small surgery. Before Kirby’s footsteps caught up to him, he tugged off what remained of his shirt and hopped up on the table at center, ignoring the discolored sawdust coating the floor. Practiced from warming this bench a time or two, he focused instead on a bottle-lined shelf.

  Kirby snorted. “Someone’s in a hurry.”

  He would have shrugged—but it would hurt. “Have at it.”

  Instruments rattled. A cork loosened. The fresh waft of alcohol competed with the mix of pungent odors permanently embedded in the pores of the walls.

  Kirby’s grip held Nicholas’s injured arm aloft as he unwrapped the temporary bandage. Nicholas set his jaw against the fiery pain. The doctor’s cold fingers did little to offset it.

  “I assume you’ve made arrangements for your sister,” Kirby mumbled as he worked.

  Nicholas gasped, as much from the fresh reminder of Jenny’s passing as from the insertion of a probe. The metal end dug around for a bullet, no less excruciating than the grief boring into his heart. He winced so hard, his eyes cinched tight, making it tough to form words. “Mistress Dawkins…is overseeing…the details.”

  “You have my condolences, Mr. Brentwood. Your sister was a rare one.”

  So was the new agony Kirby inflicted. The white-hot thrust and pull of the extractor blurred the individual bottles on the shelf into a smeared streak. This time, the bottles disappeared. Completely. A primeval growl roared out his mouth, and Nicholas gripped the table’s edge with his free hand to keep from falling over. The doctor shored him up further with a steadying hand at his back.

  “There now.” Metal pinged against metal. “Care to see the beast that bit?”

  “Just. Sew. Me up.” Wheezes punctuated each word, but at least the glassware on the shelf reappeared.