Poseidon's Daughter

by Diane A. S. Stuckart

  He gave a harsh sound of amusement that was hardly recognizable as a laugh. “Generous? You will forgive me if I prefer to decline your offer and take my chances with your American court system, instead. I rather think they will view me as the innocent victim, considering that I am the one being held against my will by a self-confessed kidnapper and thief.”

  His words were laced with languid disdain now, and Halia realized in some alarm that he was calling her bluff. Unless she promptly regained control of the situation, he would simply walk away, taking with him any chance left her to finish the work her father had begun.

  “The decision is yours, Mr. Northrup,” she replied in a cool tone the equal of his. “You may accompany us without protest to the ship, or you may remain here bound and under Christophe's care while I turn over the evidence of your perfidy to our local authorities—”

  ”—the third alternative being that you will shoot me where I stand?”

  “That is correct,” she answered and in a fluid move cocked her pistol. “Now, shall I instruct Christophe to bring the ropes, or will you start for the door?”

  “Given the charming manner in which you have phrased your invitation, how can I possibly refuse? Besides which, I must admit to a horror of firearms—particularly those in the hands of women.”

  The bow he made her was a mocking one, as was the smile with which he favored her before he turned and began walking. Warily, Halia followed behind him.

  At the doorway, Christophe moved aside to let them both pass, and then fell in step behind her. They started down the narrow hall, their footfalls muffled by the threadbare red runner that led through the corridor to the front entry.

  As they made their way Halia kept a good arm's length distance between herself and her captive. She let out her breath in a small sigh. Indeed, the entire affair was progressing more smoothly than she had dared hope. Though the man had yet to admit his culpability—either in the matter of his spurious identity or with respect to the greater crime of defrauding innocent people—she could almost believe that her desperate scheme might succeed.

  By the time they neared the door, however, her arms had begun to ache from keeping the heavy weapon trained upon the man before her. And she was finding herself oddly distracted by the unavoidable sight of his broad shoulders emphasized by the expensive tailoring of his black jacket. Neither could she help noticing how his dark hair, longer than currently was fashionable, curled just above his collar. It gave him an almost rakish air that, for a painful instant, called to mind memories of her father.

  The sound of the Englishman's cool voice promptly returned her to the matter at hand.

  “I must admit, this has been an illuminating experience,” he began in a light, conversational tone, as if there were no pistol leveled at his back. “I can hardly wait for the next scientific gathering, to entertain my colleagues with my adventures. I am sure they will find the tale quite amusing—”

  He broke off abruptly and swung about to face her, the fluid move momentarily catching her off guard. In the next instant, he had knocked the pistol from her grasp and sent her sprawling across the faded carpet with the force of that same blow.

  Her outraged cry of protest ended on an undignified whoosh of expelled air. Struggling to regain her breath, she scrambled to her knees and frantically groped for her dropped weapon. An instant later, her fingers closed on its smooth grip, just as the Englishman reached the door.

  Instinctively, she raised the pistol. Every thought fled her mind, save for the realization that he was about to escape and take with him all her hopes and dreams.

  Dear God, his hand was already on the knob! She had to distract him somehow, had to divert his attention.

  A blow from behind jostled her arm. The pistol erupted in a deafening explosion of smoke and fire that knocked her backwards again and set her ears ringing.

  Barely had she registered the fact that she had fired the gun than a pair of beefy arms—Christophe's, she vaguely realized—hauled her upright. She clutched at the servant a moment to steady herself, glancing about the hall to see that the pistol's accidental discharge had not resulted in any apparent damage.

  “I assure you, that was quite unintentional,” she faintly apologized to the Englishman, who had halted in his tracks. “Perhaps this will serve to convince you that I am quite serious—”

  She broke off as he turned and took an unsteady step toward her, his expression one of dazed disbelief. Then, slowly and almost deliberately, he slumped to the floor.

  Halia stared for an uncomprehending moment at his prone form on the carpet before her. Then her heart lurched into her throat as stunned realization swept her, and she let the pistol drop from her suddenly nerveless fingers.

  “Dear Lord...I-I killed him.”

  The words tore from her lips in an anguished whisper. Guilt and denial battled within her as she struggled with the enormity of what had just happened. Despise Northrup though she might as a liar and a cheat, she never had meant to harm him!

  “We should notify someone, I expect,” she finally said in a voice devoid now of emotion. “Do not worry, Christophe, I will explain to the authorities that you had no part in any of this.”

  “No, Miss Halia. The fault, it be mine.” The servant gave her a sympathetic shake of his head, though his dark features remained impassive as he studied the still form at his feet. “I be tryin' to stop him, and I be bumpin' you.”

  “But I was the one pointing the pistol at him,” she protested, desperately wishing she could block out the chilling sight before her yet unable to wrench her gaze from the Englishman's body. “Besides, I—”

  She broke off with a gasp and dropped to her knees, reaching a tentative hand toward Northrup. ”I-I thought I saw him breathe,” she whispered, placing her palm on his chest while she made a silent, frantic prayer that her eyes had not deceived her. “He seems to be...oh, Christophe, I do believe he is still alive.”

  The Haitian made no answer but squatted next to her on the faded carpet. Halia watched as he ran his beefy hands over the unmoving man. A moment later, he drew back one hand from Northrup's temple so she could see the crimson blood that stained the paler inner skin of his ebony-hued fingers. He ignored her gasp and in quick succession rolled back the Englishman's closed eyelids, frowning at what he saw.

  “What is it?” she softly demanded. “Is he—”

  The Haitian glanced up at her, a white-toothed grin unexpectedly stretching his broad lips. ”A lucky man, that. He still be alive. Now, be bringin' me some cloths and water, and I be fixin' him up for you.”

  Swept by a profound sense of relief, Halia silently complied. She returned a moment later with several clean lengths of cotton cloth and a pan of warm water. Struggling against the faintness that always afflicted her at the sight of blood, she knelt down beside the injured man once more and prepared to assist Christophe.

  Almost immediately, the pan of clear water took on a bright pink tinge, while several cloths were stained crimson. Halia swallowed against the nausea that threatened. But she remained where she was, wringing out the bloodied cloths as Christophe used them and handing him fresh. The bleeding finally slowed, and she could see that the wound was not as serious as she had feared. It was merely a crease along one side of the Englishman's scalp.

  With the last of the blood mopped away, she carried off the makeshift medical supplies, returning as Christophe whipped the snowy handkerchief from Northrup's breast pocket and fashioned it into a bandage around the man's forehead. Then, with a satisfied nod, he sat back on his heels and glanced up at her.

  “We best be gettin' him to the ship now,” he urged. “Lally, she be takin' care of him there. By tomorrow, he be better.”

  “I hope you are right.”

  She leaned back against the wainscoting and briefly shut her eyes against the wave of giddiness that swept her. She had struggled for days over her decision to abduct the Englishman, weighing that bit of duplicity against th
e chance that her actions could conceivably benefit multitudes. As it was, her conscience was already uneasy.

  Never would she have been able to live with the knowledge that she was responsible for someone's death.

  And he will be better, she firmly told herself, that belief bolstered by the fact she had seen countless other examples of Lally's healing skills. Unorthodox as the older woman's treatments were, a flamboyant combination of potions, powders and obeah spells, she had yet to lose a patient.

  With that in mind, Halia gathered up her reticule and gingerly caught up the pistol, once more tucking it in her skirt pocket. Not that she had any intention of ever using the cursed thing again, she vehemently reminded herself, but she could hardly leave a loaded gun lying about the hallway.

  Christophe, meanwhile, had propped the unconscious man over his shoulder and now stood waiting with his ungainly burden at the front door. Halia joined him there, sparing another anxious look at the Englishman.

  His eyelids flickered for an instant, their lashes like sooty smudges against a face now as pale as the white linen handkerchief wrapped around his head. Just as she thought he might regain consciousness, he subsided with a soft groan.

  She drew a deep breath against the sudden constriction in her chest. The Englishman bore little resemblance now to either of his earlier personae: the genial charmer or the cold-eyed criminal. Instead, he looked vulnerable and quite tragically handsome despite his awkward pose, rather like some Greek hero of antiquity fallen upon the field of honor.

  “Do we be goin', Miss Halia?”

  The Haitian's urgent question cut short her romantic musings. “Take him out to the carriage,” she replied, more brusquely than she had intended, in her embarrassment. “I shall be along directly.”

  She opened the door and walked out onto the stoop, waiting as Christophe and his burden descended the few steps from her brownstone to the modest coach standing alongside the curb. To her relief, the street was relatively empty of both vehicles and passersby this afternoon, and no one showed any undue interest in this little drama.

  While the servant stowed the unconscious man inside the carriage, Halia pulled the front door shut and locked it, mentally rebuking herself as she did so for her lapse into misplaced sentimentality. After all, she had been forewarned—

  ...a cold, craven man...cares only for his own comforts... not to be trusted for even an instant...

  All three unsigned letters had contained those same dire exhortations, along with information regarding Northrup's true identity and urgings for her to help put an end to his nefarious schemes. Who her anonymous informant was, she could only guess. One of her father's friends, perhaps, or else an enemy of the Englishman who somehow had learned of her connection to Atlantis.

  Either way, she would be a fool to ignore that person's warnings.

  With those disturbing thoughts in mind, she made her way down to the carriage. She accepted the Haitian's help in clambering inside it, and then settled on the worn leather seat across from her unconscious traveling companion. Her own small valise, the only piece of luggage that had not accompanied Lally to the dock, took up much of the remaining legroom between them. After swift consideration, she pulled the pistol from the pocket of her gown and stowed it away in that bag.

  “Don't be worryin' none, Miss Halia, you won't be needin' dat gun,” Christophe assured her through the open window as he refastened the door. “This Englishman, he be sleepin' for a good while.”

  Halia nodded, rallying with some of her earlier spirit. “I am sure you are right,” she replied. “To the wharf then, Christophe, and hurry. I fear this mishap has cost us much valuable time.”

  A moment later, the coach began its rumbling journey down the cobbled city streets toward the waterfront. She paid little heed to the familiar passing sights: rows of neat, anonymous brownstones crowded together; humble wagons and carts jockeying with sleek carriages for position along the avenues; pedestrians, intent on their destinations, milling in steady streams down the sidewalks. Though she had lived most of her life here, she'd never felt quite at home in this city of stone and noise.

  She turned her attention to the unconscious Englishman. Christophe had propped him in a position somewhere between reclining and sitting. The pose looked anything but restful, the less so because he was jolted against the backrest with every bump the coach encountered. Hardly the sort of treatment to inflict upon an injured man, criminal or not.

  Impulsively, she reached for her valise and withdrew the new black shawl she had packed in anticipation of any inclement weather the coming sea journey might bring. She folded the loosely woven length of wool into a wide square. Then, assuming an awkward, half-standing position within the low-ceilinged coach, she leaned forward to tuck the blanket behind his shoulders for support.

  The task proved difficult, for the Englishman was heavier than his lean build had led her to expect. She could feel the corded muscles beneath his jacket as she awkwardly maneuvered him about, could feel the warmth of his body through that fine woven fabric. Indeed, close to him as she stood, she could breathe in the unmistakable male scent of him...a scent that was shaving soap and warm flesh mingled with some spicy fragrance that reminded her of hot tropical nights and cool ocean breezes.

  That last untoward thought brought the blood rising to her cheeks. How was it that this man—this criminal!—could make her behave like some giddy girl fresh from the schoolroom, rather than the woman of sense and purpose that she truly was?

  Determinedly, she leaned over once more and had just managed to straighten the blanket, when another bump of the coach unceremoniously tumbled her into the unconscious man's lap.

  Halia choked back a cry of surprise and scrambled to regain her balance. She managed, in the process, to twist her skirts quite wantonly about the Englishman's long legs and to catch one hand beneath his waistcoat. She bit back another cry and resumed her struggles, fervently praying as she did that the man would not choose this moment to come to his senses.

  Luckily, he did not.

  By the time she recovered her footing and resumed her own seat, she had convinced herself that her breathless state was nothing more than the result of her exertions. After all, she had no feelings for this man save contempt—that, and the sort of neutral pity one reserved for any wounded beast.

  Still, it was with a profound sense of relief that she felt the carriage rumble to a stop a moment later. She had been aware for some minutes of the dank, salty air sweeping off the water. Here on the pier, that odor was joined by the stench of rotting timber and dead fish—yet to her, drawn as she had always been to the ocean, the familiar smell was as sweet as any rare perfume.

  “We be here, Miss Halia,” Christophe unnecessarily called as he swung off his perch to open her door. He helped her onto the sodden wharf and removed her valise from the coach, then spared the Englishman a suspicious look. ”Dat one, he not be giving you any trouble?”

  “No trouble as yet,” she lightly replied, though she felt her pulse quicken and knew her answer for a lie. The man did mean trouble...and not just to the success of her expedition. The sooner she was shed of him, the better.

  “This is our freighter, then?” she asked in a swift change of subject and indicated the aged vessel docked before them.

  At the Haitian's nod, she studied it more closely. The Esmeralda had once been a proud vessel, and time had not yet blunted her jaunty lines. Though wind and salt had taken their toll on her, she was still sturdy. Rather like a shabby dowager, Halia decided, who had fallen upon hard days but continued to hold her chin high.

  With that whimsical thought, she caught up her valise and waited for Christophe, who now was exchanging words with the slight, dark-skinned man from whom he had borrowed the conveyance earlier in the day. Once a few coins changed hands, the Haitian turned back to the coach and lifted out their unconscious captive. With the Englishman safely hefted over his shoulder again, they started toward the ship.

/>   “We shall proceed much as originally planned,” she explained once they were out of earshot of the other driver. “I will still claim kinship with Mr. Northrup, but now we shall say we are taking him to our relatives in Savannah so under their care he may recuperate from his injuries.”

  “And do let us think positively,” she added as they mounted the rickety gangplank. “The most difficult part of our plan is behind us, and Savannah is but two days' journey ahead. What other disaster could possibly befall us before then?”

  Christophe grunted and rolled his eyes. “Me, I can be thinkin' of many. A gale, maybe...or else this ship, she could be sinkin'... or maybe—”

  Halia paid scant attention, however, as the Haitian recited several other unlikely if unwelcome possibilities. By now, she was aware of a painful truth—that the sole threat to her grand plans did not lie in the sea or sky.

  Rather, it rested with her.

  ~ Chapter 3 ~

  Malcolm Northrup lay flat on his back in a narrow and unfamiliar bed, eyes half-closed as he waited for the dire rumblings in his stomach to subside. It had to be early morning, he determined, for faint gray light seeped past his slitted eyelids. Where he had spent last night, he could not guess, but one thing was certain—wherever he had been, he'd had too bloody much to drink.

  Odd, that he had no memory of overindulgence, though how else could he account for his aching head and the unsettling way the bed seemed to sway beneath him? What he could not explain away, however, was the leaden sensation in his arms and legs, rather as if those limbs were tied down to the bed. Suspicious all at once, he opened sleep-heavy eyelids to gaze about him.

  “Bloody hell!”