“Jump,” Alex ordered.
“Ye daft? I can’t swim!” the shorter man shouted.
“Then you’ll learn. Off you go.” He shot one of the guns just over their heads.
Both men jumped.
He retraced his route to the road and collected the dropped weapons, all the while scanning should there be any more assailants about. His mount had taken off, so he’d have to hoof back to where he’d left the viscount.
Keeping to the cover of the tall grass, he dashed ahead, hoping Coburn would be gracious enough to share his mount. But as he approached the stand of trees where he’d ordered the viscount to wait, that hope fizzled and a new fear kindled. There was no horse and no man. Had the villains he’d dispatched been nothing but a ruse to lure him away from Coburn?
He retreated to the road and crouched, examining the ground for clues. Hoof divots headed into the grass, then about five paces over, headed out, along with quite a kicked up bit of gravel. Some kind of skirmish happened here—and just might again, for something thundered up the road.
Straight for him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
With each pull of the oars, the shore slipped farther away. Once again Johanna considered heaving herself overboard, but with the rope cutting into her wrists behind her back, she’d sink. Still, a watery death might be preferable. Who knew what the seven men on this boat—or the rest of the scoundrels on the ship they rowed toward—might have in mind. So she stared at the water sloshing at her feet, refusing to look forward or back.
Mr. Quail and his men did the rowing, and with each jerk of the boat through the surf, she cursed him for the villain he truly was. Alex had been right to distrust the man—and she never should’ve trusted Alex. A scream welled in her throat, already hoarse from pleading and bargaining. Why had she let either of those rogues stay at the inn on that ill-fated May day?
The rowing stopped. The boat bobbed. Johanna lifted her face, then was sorry for it, for a spray of salt water hit her in the eyes. She blinked, trying to work it away, the sting sprouting fresh tears.
“The woman were yer idea, Que.” Mr. Cooper’s voice rumbled from the bow like kicked gravel. He tossed something to Mr. Quail, or Que, or whoever he was. “Hoist her up and haul her below.”
Rising, Mr. Quail held on to the thrown object, but did not pocket it. “I do the work, I expect a cut o’ the profits.”
“Oh? A businessman, are ye?” The red-headed Mr. Pickens glanced back at Mr. Cooper. “We know what to do with those, aye?”
Their laughter chilled Johanna more thoroughly than her damp gown and wet feet.
Without a word, Mr. Quail stuffed the item into his pocket. Then he grabbed her around the waist, lifted her up, and slung her over his shoulder like a sack of unwanted kittens to be thrown into the sea.
She squirmed, but his grip tightened as he straddled the center thwart. Her face mashed into his broad back, his topcoat as wet as her gown.
“Be still,” he warned. “Or we’ll both take a dive.”
She hung there, balanced between a grave of the deep and a ship full of miscreants, jostling on the shoulder of a man who smelled of sweat and danger. The rowboat bobbed smaller and smaller beneath her as Mr. Quail began climbing a rope ladder, rung by rung. She’d known fear, for Tanny had taught her well, but never anything like this. The shakes trembling through her were unstoppable. No one would help her—no one could. She was alone in this. Horribly, dreadfully deserted.
By the time Mr. Quail lugged her over the gunwale and stood her on her feet, even the afternoon sun abandoned her as it ducked behind a cloud. Men moved about like spiders, creeping in the sudden shade, setting sails and coiling ropes. The silence in which they all worked shivered down her back.
Mr. Quail grabbed her arm. “This way.”
She wrenched from his grasp.
He yanked her back.
“I knew you were involved with smugglers.” Her words came as fast as the trip of her feet. “I should’ve turned you in.”
He dragged her toward a door. “Good thing for you that you didn’t.”
“No wonder your music was so awful.” It was a churlish thing to say and wouldn’t do her a bit of good, but it felt like a small victory.
Without a word, he dragged her down a set of narrow stairs to a corridor below. When her feet hit the bottom, he released her and swung about to face her.
Suddenly she wished for the brightness of the deck, for the lantern light down here emphasized the sharp angles on his face. Her throat closed. When had he grown to be so large? She’d always compared him to Alex, but here, standing solitary before him, he stood at least a head taller than her.
He advanced, and she pressed her back against the wall.
“Listen,” he whispered.
She bit her lip to keep it from quivering. Why did he not shout? Or rage? She knew what to do with a man’s anger, but this? All the unknowns twisted her belly as sickening as the sudden cant of the ship.
“I’ve not time to—”
“What’s this?” A man stinking of ale and strong cheese stumbled off the last stair. “What ye got there, a little lacey?” He peered over Mr. Quail’s shoulder, his black eyes fixed on her. “Oh, a dainty nibble, I’d say. You a mind to share?”
Quail wheeled about. His big back blocked her, and she was glad to not have to face the venom in his voice. “This one’s mine. Shove off.”
The man scuttled down the corridor like a rat.
Quail turned back to her. “Come on.”
He didn’t grab her this time, he just pivoted and strode down the narrow passage in the opposite direction of the other man. She stood for a moment, debating on making a run up the stairs and a dive overboard. But the thudding of her heart indicted her for a fool. She’d never make it across the deck—and the tromp of boots coming back down the corridor signaled the return of the other fellow.
She hurried after Mr. Quail.
He stopped in front of a door and swung it open, indicating for her to enter with the tip of his head.
She edged past him, expecting what, she had no idea—but not this. Something dark and furry whisked across the floor just ahead of her. She spun. Were her hands not tied behind her back, she’d drop to her knees and throw her arms around his legs. “Mr. Quail, don’t do this. Please, let me go.”
Thin light from the corridor lantern lit only half his face, moving over the strong lines of his jaw and straight edge of his nose. “This will soon be over. For your own sake, Miss Langley, stay quiet. I will return.”
The door slammed. A key jiggled in a lock. Mr. Quail’s footsteps faded.
Johanna stood still, too frightened to move or even think, for it would feed the panic begging release. Blackness so thick it breathed closed over her. So she counted. Numbers. One after the other. Anything to distract her from what she’d first seen when she’d entered the room. But time and again, the scratch of claws scurrying across wood forced her to start back at zero. When her skirt hem riffled from the nose of an inquisitive rat, she abandoned her counting as she’d been abandoned—
And screamed.
Alex dove into the undergrowth at the side of the road, dropping the rest of the guns he’d picked up and loading his own. Better to face an enemy with an old friend in his grip. By the sound of it, two horses neared, so he kept the other guns within reach and flattened belly down in the grass. Timing was his truest asset.
He sweated at the approach and held his breath when the horse drew even. As soon as the second horse passed, he shot to his feet and aimed his muzzle at the back of—
“Lord Coburn?” He gaped.
Heart pounding, Alex released the hammer and lowered his pistol. The viscount had no idea how close he’d come to death at the hand of the man he’d brought along to protect him.
Coburn swung his horse around, Alex’s mount following, tethered to his saddle. “Lose something?”
Alex heaved a sigh while retrieving the rest of hi
s weapons and his horse. “I thought I told you to stay put.”
“I did—until your mount barreled past me. I figured you’d be needing it.” He nodded to where Alex shoved the guns into a pack lashed to his saddle. “Looks like you gained a few new trinkets.”
“Found ’em lying on the road. Imagine that.”
“And their owners?”
With a smirk, he hove into the saddle, eager to be on the move instead of sitting ducks. “It’s a good afternoon for a swim, don’t you think? And a ride. Shall we?”
Side by side, they rode the rest of the way to Ramsgate unmolested. He’d kept a vigilant eye the whole way, but didn’t detect any more threats. It would be harder now, though. As they neared the harbour, night fell hard. A half-moon peeked out from clouds, shyly, sporadically, like a scullery maid sneaking glimpses of a stable hand out in the yard.
The viscount took the lead, and when he dismounted, Alex did as well. As Coburn swerved into a narrow lane, Alex took the opportunity to cock open one of his pistols, covering their rear. Years in London’s rookeries had taught him well.
They walked the horses down a narrow passage between two buildings. The stink of waste—both of man and beast—hung thick and heavy. Good thing it was too dark to see what his boots strode through. Eventually they came to an opening, surrounded by broken crates and a few overturned barrels missing staves, all sitting on a stone walkway. Water lapped at the other side of it. Across the bay, moored at the nearest dock, was an East Indiaman—but by the looks of it, it wouldn’t be there for long. A towboat was even now being attached, readying to haul her out to sea.
Coburn shook his head. “Something’s not right.”
Alex clutched his gun grip tighter. “How do you know?”
“Captain Fielding was to meet me here.” The viscount yanked out his pocket watch, scowled, then shoved it back. “We were to swap clothes, the men onboard that ship”—he aimed a finger across the bay—“being none the wiser.”
Alex snorted. “Surely you don’t sound the same as the captain.”
“No need. Fielding gave the crew express orders the rest of the voyage was to be completely silent and dark. Once he returned—or rather I did—they were to set sail.”
“Are we too early? Too late?”
“No.” The viscount’s voice tightened. “Right on time. I’ve made sure of it.”
“Well,” Alex blew out a breath. “The ship’s obviously still there, but not for long.”
“Then we board her before she sails.” The viscount pulled out his gun.
Alex planted his feet on the slick stones. “I don’t like it.”
“There’s nothing for it, man. We must. I must! It’s of national importance.”
“What—?”
“There’s no time to explain.” The viscount’s gaze burned deep into Alex’s eyes. “Are you the man I’ve credited you as, or not?”
Alex hesitated, as uneasy about accompanying Coburn into an unknown situation as he was about trying to haul the viscount against his will back to safety. Either way was a risk … but which stakes were the best bet?
“Give me a moment.” He slipped back to remove the extra guns from the horse’s pack and tucked them into his belt—a mite uncomfortable, but far better than taking a bullet for being unprepared.
He and the viscount secured the horses, then worked their way along the stone walkway and across the edge of the shingle to the jetty, where the ship was docked. Each step of the way ratcheted his heartbeat up a notch.
Before the viscount could set foot off the beach, Alex tugged him back by the sleeve. “Pocket your gun but keep it handy. Hide your face in the shadows as much as you can, but walk with a purpose. Sometimes swagger can save your life.”
Just then the moon peered out, casting a milky light on Coburn’s scowl. “No wonder you took so much of my money at the table.”
Alex bypassed the man and strode down the dock, gaze darting from the sailor untying mooring ropes, to another up near the gunwale, coiling them up. The gangplank remained against the dock for now, but once that sailor finished his task, it would be drawn up. Alex increased his pace.
The viscount’s footsteps followed. The sailor looked them over as their feet hit the gangplank. Without slowing, Alex tipped his flat cap at him, and for a heartbeat, he held his breath. But thanks to Coburn’s forethought, their longshoreman clothing made them blend in. They navigated the plank without a remark.
The deck was a ghost ship, with inky specters working in silence, save for the scraping of ropes and clanking of tackle as the men prepared to raise sails once the ship was towed out to sea. Danger lurked here, but where exactly? Alex exchanged a glance with the viscount. His face was unreadable in the dark. Well then, why not meet it head-on? Alex stalked toward the quarterdeck, where the captain was sure to be—until a woman’s voice stopped him.
“Father?”
Alex turned. The viscount stood where he’d left him, facing a short man with curves like a lady—and the voice of Louisa. No wonder she’d blended in with the sailors, for she was dressed as one. Robbie was nowhere to be seen, and unless he was busy below deck, that left only one plausible conclusion …
Louisa was the traitor all along.
Alex crept to the mainmast, flattening against it not only to watch the spectacle, but also to gauge the precise moment to nab her. He shouldn’t be surprised, really, that a shipment of rockets was to be offered over to England’s arch enemy by the hand of a woman—for had not Eden fallen in the same manner? Suddenly Ford’s directive to ally himself with Louisa via a betrothal made complete sense.
“Louisa!” Coburn’s voice shook. “What are you doing here?”
Louisa pulled up in front of her father. “The real question is what are you doing here, Father? But no matter, not now at any rate. There’s a scheme in motion that for once is not of your conniving—one you cannot control. In fact, it’s too late for you to change anything. Far too late.”
And it was. For all of them. The sailors had already heaved in the gangplank. The ship freed from the jetty, and the deck rocked beneath Alex’s feet.
“For God’s sake, Louisa,” Coburn’s voice roared. “What do you think you’re about?”
Louisa fisted her hands on her hips, the stance of a gamecock set to kill. “You shouldn’t have come. You will have to be put overboard.”
“What on earth are you babbling about?”
“How does that feel, Father, to not know what shall happen next? To not comprehend the actions and commands of those around you.” She stepped closer to the man, her words gaining in speed. “To have no say whatsoever in what your future might be.”
If she meant to cow the man, she’d gone about it the wrong way, for he straightened to a ramrod. “I don’t know how you found out I’d be here tonight, but I do know this—your little tantrum has gone beyond bounds, even for you. What was it you hoped to accomplish?”
“Ask all you like, but you will have no answers.”
“Looks like I have mine, though.” Pulling his gun, Alex strode from the shadow of the mast, aiming the muzzle at the viscount’s daughter. “Louisa Coburn, I arrest you in the name of the Crown.”
Coburn pivoted. “What’s this?”
“I knew it!” Louisa growled, quite the brave act at the other end of a pistol. “I knew you weren’t who you appeared to be, Mr. Morton. But there’s no crime in elopement. On what charges could you possibly arrest me?”
A sickening feeling twisted his gut. Had he been wrong in his assessment?
But no … a woman like Louisa would say anything to gain the upper hand. He cocked open the hammer of his gun. No sense letting the little vixen try to slip her way past him. “You are charged with conspiracy. It took some untangling, but it looks like I’ve finally found the real traitor.”
Another hammer clicked open, just behind his head.
“Are you sure about that, Alex, ol’ boy?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Alex froze, body stiff with a gun at his back, but his mind took off running. Robbie stood behind him—though he should’ve been in Dover loading frames. Judging by the wide eyes of the viscount in front of Alex, Coburn was just as surprised to see his nephew here. Only Louisa appeared at ease, gracefully balancing on the deck as the towboat began to row them out of the harbour. Robbie must’ve paid the captain well to dare such treachery.
“Drop the gun, Morton.” Robbie’s voice cut the air, a sharp contrast to the relative silence of the sailors scrambling up ratlines and securing ropes.
Releasing the hammer, Alex let the pistol fall to the deck, the clank of it as loud as a shot. No worry, though. Two more guns dug into the tender skin of his waist beneath his coat.
“Good chap. Now, turn slowly, hands in the air.”
Alex pivoted. Robbie’s smirk was that of a man holding a set of aces.
“Line up with the old man there.” Robbie tipped his head, moonlight slicing his face in half. “But keep your distance. You two have held hands long enough.”
“For pity’s sake, Robert.” Disgust coloured the viscount’s tone to an ugly darkness. “Lower your weapon. As usual, you’ve fouled up everything.”
“Shut up.” Robbie pulled the trigger.
The bullet tore through the viscount’s arm. He crashed to his knees, clutching the wound. He didn’t howl, but his breathing chopped out in draws and huffs.
“Father!” Louisa dropped beside him. “Robbie, stop it! Are you mad? This ship is full of gunpowder. One wrong shot and we all go up in flames. Just put them overboard and be done with it.”
He pulled out another gun. “It’s not that easy, love.”
Louisa couldn’t see Robbie’s face as she ripped the hem of her shirt to create a makeshift bandage. But Alex didn’t miss the pleasure shining in the whites of the man’s eyes.
“The way is never easy for a traitor,” Alex murmured.
Robbie shook his head. “I’m no traitor, just an opportunist. As are you, Morton. What’s the matter? Did I not supply a sufficient sum in that envelope I sent you? Or were you somehow angling to get more from the old man?”
The Innkeeper's Daughter Page 31
