Alex’s gut jerked. The villain! All of them! Coburn. Robbie. Overtun. As scheming as Louisa was, she’d not deserved such an end. He hesitated on the last stair, trying desperately to assess the situation.
But a kick to his backside sent him sprawling ahead.
“Have a seat, boys,” Jonesy ordered.
Alex used the momentum of the kick to yank out his pistol and whip around.
The soldier’s eyes widened. So did Robbie’s.
“Think, Jonesy.” Alex spoke low and calm. “Do you really want a gunfight down here, with a hold full of rockets and gunpowder? Put your weapon down.”
Jonesy’s jaw dropped. His gun didn’t. Did the fellow know his threat was empty—that it would take more than a gunshot to fire off this load?
“If you shoot me, you’ll have no time to reload before Robbie here takes you out.” Alex tipped his head toward Robbie, who lowered into a crouch, ready to spring. “Let it go, Jonesy, nice and easy.”
The young man’s Adam’s apple bobbed, a grotesque movement in the lantern light. But he did as bid, and squatted to lay down his gun.
The second his fingers let go, Alex lunged. He drove his gun grip into the man’s skull. Now it was Jonesy’s turn to sprawl. Alex scooped up the soldier’s gun and swung around to face Robbie.
“Nice work, ol’ boy!” Robbie flashed him a smile and held out his hand. “Give me one.”
Alex grinned back. “Sure.”
Once again he lunged, this time clouting Robbie in the head. Robbie hit the planks as hard as Jonesy.
Tucking the pistols back into his belt, Alex sidestepped the fallen men and reached for the lantern. The light hung over a barrel of water just in case the thing chanced a fall. Best to assess the situation first, then act, though he wouldn’t have much time.
Above deck, a madman reigned with no compunction about shooting on a whim. And down here? Alex strode deeper into the hold, along the center aisle. Big bales wrapped in canvas lined both sides. He frowned. Rockets wouldn’t be bundled in naught but fabric and rope.
He set down the lantern and slipped out his boot knife, then cut one of the bindings and sliced into the fabric. His blade dug deep and stuck into a bale of cotton.
Cotton?
What lunacy was this? Had the whole rocket scam been nothing but that—a scam? Had someone double-crossed the double-crosser, or was a triple-cross at play? He yanked out his knife, baffled. This was beyond his reckoning.
His gaze shot to the dark rafters above, and he prayed, for there was naught more to do. “So many lives are at risk, God. The stakes are too high, and I—I—”
His prayer juddered to a stop. So much anguish choked him he could hardly breathe—a feeling eerily like when he’d rotted in the gaol’s hole … and yet God had been there, as He was now.
He gasped, lungs suddenly filling. What a thick-headed dolt. Had he not learned that already? “Of course, God.” He smiled. “You are here, so help me. I cannot do this on my own.”
Blowing out a long breath, he cracked his neck, waiting for some kind of wisdom. None came. Nothing but the purl of the water against the hull. The purl of the water … If rows of thick cotton lined this hold, he’d not be able to hear that so clearly.
He pulled down the bale he’d cut open, then hauled out the one below it, creating an opening. Retrieving the lantern, he held it aloft. Golden light landed on the slats of crates. Stacks of them, by the looks of it. Once again he set down the lantern, then worked to probe a crate between the slats. His blade tip first met straw, then snubbed onto metal. Rockets. He’d bet his life on it—and just might.
Backing out of the passage, he snagged his light along the way. Someone had gone to much trouble to hide the crates behind a wall of cotton, probably as a front on the off-chance of an impromptu dockside check. Not that it mattered now. He had to stop these rockets from landing in enemy hands—and the cotton was going to do just that.
Bale upon bale, slice upon slice, he yanked and grabbed and spread a trail of loose cotton from one end of the aisle to the other, the length of the hull. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. His hands cramped and his lungs labored. But he worked like a demon, unstoppable—until a grunt ended his crazed dance. Either Jonesy or Robbie would soon be sounding an alarm.
He snatched the lantern and lifted the glass, then touched a piece of cotton to the flame and threw it on the loosened tinder. He repeated the action, working his way back toward the stairs, toward the men. By the time he reached them, flames licked at the bales—and would soon hit the crates.
And the rockets.
Robbie sat up, dazed, moaning, holding his head.
“Time to go,” Alex hauled him up.
“Wha …?” It might’ve been a question. Or another moan. Hard to tell
Alex shoved him toward the stairs. “Move it, man!”
Robbie started stumbling upward. Alex grabbed a pail and dipped it into the bucket. Hefting the pail, he dumped the water on Jonesy, who immediately sputtered and choked, coming to with great gasps.
Alex threw the lantern toward the inferno then darted up the stairs after Robbie.
Up top, Robbie bent over the bodies on the deck. Louisa’s crumpled form heaped atop her father, closer in death than they ever were in life. The sight twisted Alex’s gut.
“Fire!” Sailors broke into a dead run toward them—toward the stairway.
Alex grabbed Robbie’s arm and dragged him to the gunwale. They both peered over, Alex judging the best place to land. Black water licked up the sides far below them.
Robbie turned to him, the whites of his eyes wide. “I can’t swim!”
Alex growled. Did no one consider swimming a skill to be learned?
“Over there!” Overtun’s raspy voice hit him in the back.
Alex grabbed Robbie’s arm. “There’s no time. Hold on to me.”
Without giving the man a moment to consider, Alex swung over the rail and tugged Robbie down into the sea.
The coldness sucked his breath.
The darkness was worse.
Alex kicked, struggling to break the surface. Robbie was a dead weight.
God, please!
His head emerged from black into black, but at least there was air. He sucked in until his lungs burned. So did Robbie, every time he bobbed up long enough to snatch a breath.
“Kick your feet, man!”
An eternity later, they worked out a rhythm—though Robbie refused to let go of his stranglehold on Alex’s arm. It was impossible to see the shore, despite the eerie light of spreading flames behind them. Hopefully Robbie was right about that rendezvousing ship of his and it would arrive soon. Alex strained all his muscles into plowing through the waves.
Putting as much distance as he could between themselves and the rockets that would soon explode.
Forget the counting. It wasn’t working anyway. Neither was fear or worrying about how Mam was suffering on her behalf—for surely Thomas had told her by now of how she’d gone to look for Mr. Nutbrown. Johanna curled her fingers into fists. There had to be a way to get off this ship of demons. She’d waited long enough for Mr. Quail-Clarkwell to rescue her—if he were even telling the truth.
But what to do? Maybe, if she were able to pry off a lid from one of the crates, or even a single slat, she could whack whoever next entered the door right in the head, then make a run for it. Jumping into the sea was a better option than wallowing in this dark hole.
Feeling about, she set to work. What seemed like hours later, she’d broken three fingernails, and so many splinters needled her flesh, she felt like a human pincushion. But the pain finally paid off, and she worked loose a piece of the wood.
There wasn’t much room to practice swinging. More often than not, she smacked her elbow. One time her sleeve caught on a nail and ripped the fabric. Her hair stuck in her eyes and her stays chafed her skin. But she managed to figure out that a chopping motion, slicing downward from high over her head, was the
most suitable action. Now, to judge how far to stand from the door.
She crept across the small space, taking care to avoid the earlier rats she’d downed, one hand out to feel for the wood—then stopped.
And listened.
One explosion. Two, three, four. Fives and tens and twenties. Popping, hammering, like the bang of fireworks she’d heard the one time she’d visited London. She clutched her slat, driving splinters deeper into her fingers. These were not fireworks, not on the sea, which could only mean one thing.
The ship was under attack.
Panic tasted like vinegar. No! She had to get out of here. Now.
She sprang ahead, dropping her pathetic weapon. With both hands, she beat against the wooden door. “Let me out—”
The door jiggled in the frame. She paused, hands yet upraised.
A locked door wouldn’t jiggle.
She swung the door open wide. Light barreled in from the lantern in the corridor. For a heartbeat, she stood frozen.
Really God? All this time I could’ve walked free?
Stunning, truly, but no more than the inner voice that answered her back.
Is that not a picture of your life, child?
She gasped. God did have everything in hand—and always had, even when she ran ahead of Him or lagged behind, trying to do things her own way.
“Forgive me,” she whispered, tucking the truth away to savor later—then snatched up her jagged piece of crate-wood. After all, if God went through the trouble of opening the door, she probably should go through it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Sharp pain cut into Alex’s arm, each tug on the rope agony, but he held. Thank God he held. Robbie clung to him like a woman. They both banged against the hull of the newly arrived ship. Just a few more pulls and they’d clear the gunwale—if his shoulder didn’t dislocate before then.
The swim had been brutal, but a far cry better than remaining on the ship behind him. Or what was left of it. The last of the rockets exploded. An eerie orange light violated the darkness. Flashes of red shot out intermittently. How many men had made it off? How many hadn’t?
Deliver them, God—and us as well.
A groan ripped out his throat as a last, mighty heave lugged them over the wooden rail. He and Robbie hit the deck like landed mackerels. Wincing, Alex stumbled to his feet. A hank of wet hair fell over his brow, dripping salt water into his eyes. The sting was terrific. Blinking, he shook his head like a dog.
“Well, this is a surprise.”
He froze, then stared into a swarthy face, hellish in the fiery glow. Quail. The irony of being saved by a smuggler punched him in the gut, yet a half smile twitched his lips. “I knew you were scum from the moment I met you.”
“What a coincidence. I thought as much of you. This is going to be a real pleasure.” Quail nodded to his band—smugglers all—lining up beside him. Every one of them pulled a gun from inside their coats, yet none raised their muzzles. A quiet threat, but a threat nonetheless.
“Thanks, ol’ boy.” On the other side of Alex, Robbie staggered to his feet, then clouted him on the arm—his sore one. “We might be out a load of money, but we’re safe.”
He smirked. This was safe? Facing six men with guns at their sides?
“What’d ye haul up there, Que? Turn ’em around. Nice and slow.”
Throbbing started behind Alex’s eyes. The voice, altogether too familiar with its bass bluster, stabbed him in the back. There was nothing safe about this.
He and Robbie pivoted. Alex planted his feet.
But Robbie strode over to Blackie and Axe. “Good job, men. I’ll take it from here.”
Alex sucked in a breath. If luck smiled on him, the remnants of fire on the sinking ship behind him would be bright enough to blind Blackie from seeing his face.
But the villain stood there, leaning on his good leg, riding the canting deck like a sea monster come aboard—and the longer he stared, the wider his eyes opened. So did the red-headed scoundrel a head shorter next to him.
Blackie pulled a pistol. “Well, well, there is a God after all. Look what the deeps spit up.” A chuckle rumbled in his throat, garbly and altogether mirthless.
“We been gunnin’ fer you a while now.” Charlie pulled the axe out of his belt. “But ne’er thought to look in the sea.”
Robbie glowered at them both. “Put those weapons down. This man just saved my life.”
“And he’ll take it as fast.” Charlie hefted his axe.
“I’m in charge here. Drop your weapons!” Robbie’s voice bellowed, dark and deadly—a surprising tone, coming from the dandy of a man … or was he?
Alex scanned the immediate area, scrambling to find an out. Behind him was Quail and his men. That was a no go. In front, sure death. To his sides, cannons lined the decks. If he dove for the cover of one, who would shoot him first—Blackie or Quail?
Blackie belched out a curse at Robbie. “Idiot! You got no idea who you been keepin’ company with.” His black eyes shifted to Alex. “Tell him.”
Despite the cold, wet clothing sticking to his body like a second skin, sweat beaded on his brow. Once his identity was revealed, there’d be no mercy. A lawman’s blood was a prize. A trophy. A crown of glory to the criminal that drew it first.
He clamped his jaw shut.
Robbie swung his head toward him. “Do you know these men?”
He breathed in until his lungs burned. What a question. He’d been in sticky situations before, but this one? This just might be his last.
His gaze darted from Robbie to the gun in Blackie’s hand, then on to the axe in Charlie’s. A sour taste swelled at the back of his throat, one he knew too well. Regret. All his life he’d fought to be the best runner of the squad. To make Ford proud. And now? He swallowed hard. He’d end up the same as his father, gunned down by vermin.
Robbie angled his head in a jerky movement, grotesque actually, as if he were coming unhinged. “Answer me! Do you know these men?”
He sucked in a breath, desperately scrambling for a way to talk himself out of this. Absolutely nothing came to mind … except for four small words.
No risk, no gain.
The sentiment he’d spoken forever ago to Johanna barreled back in his mind with startling clarity. Of course the biggest risk was telling the truth. It always was. His whole body pulsed with the rightness of it. He would take the biggest risk of all, and while he might still lose, he would not be gunned down without a fight. If this was his day to die, then so be it.
He threw back his shoulders. “Let’s just say this is quite the reunion.”
Blackie narrowed his eyes. “One I been waitin’ on fer too long, Moore.”
“Moore?” His name was a blasphemy on Robbie’s lips.
“That there’s Alexander Moore, Bow Street Runner.” Charlie spit on the deck. “Liar. Scammer. And killer.”
Despite the black of night, Robbie’s face darkened. “Is that true?”
Alex grunted. “Some of it.”
“Which part?” The tip of Quail’s muzzle jabbed him in the back.
He threw back his shoulders. He might as well go out with bravado. “Axe is right. I am a Bow Street Runner, and you, gentlemen, are all under arrest.”
Robbie swore.
Blackie laughed—then sighted along the barrel of his gun.
Charlie hefted his axe, poised to throw.
Behind Alex, the click of six guns was a sound eerily reminiscent of the last ship he’d been on—and that hadn’t ended so well.
But then his entire world shifted onto its axis, draining his blood to his feet. Across the deck, a dark figure in a skirt scurried into his line of sight, face pale, hair loose, eyes cavernous.
God, no!
Hiking her skirts, Johanna took the stairs two at a time, her prayers as fervent as her pace. Whatever was happening above deck couldn’t be good. The popping explosions grew louder. Men’s angry shouts interspersed between the blasts. She clutched her gown ti
ght in one hand, and in her other, the crude club she’d wrested from the crate. If she could make it the short distance across deck to the railing without being accosted, she stood a good chance of jumping overboard—though her odds of swimming to shore were in God’s hands. But then, hadn’t He just shown her that was the best place to be? She ramped up her prayers and burst through the open door into night.
Or into hell, more like it.
Wicked red light bled onto a macabre scene. Beyond their ship, eruptions of fire shot into the sky from a vessel lying sideways, soon to be swallowed by the sea. Thank God it wasn’t cannon fire she’d heard. But with or without artillery, that ship was going down and no doubt taking men with it. Her heart constricted at the thought of the sailors about to lose their lives, whoever they were.
No time to lament now, though. She darted onward, eyes straining to pick out the best route to the rail that would avoid the sight of the men on deck. And the guns. Sweet heavens! So many guns. Was every last man armed and ready to shoot? But why? They were clearly not under attack.
By some miracle, the route to the railing was clear. No one focused on her, for they were all too busy looking at a poor wretch who stood at the center of their attention. All muzzles aimed at the man’s guts. But he didn’t seem to care a fig. His broad shoulders were thrown back, feet wide, the stance of a warrior about to wage battle. Either he was addle-brained or beyond reason.
Paces from the railing, though, Johanna stopped. Freedom beckoned—but so did the niggling suspicion creeping from her head to heart. Surely, she was wrong.
But she had to be sure.
Slowly, she retreated, craning her neck for a better view of the man. When her gaze landed on him, an invisible tether lifted his face to hers.
Time stopped, as did life and breath. Men in back. Men in front. All hefted weapons. All aimed at Alex.
Her scalp prickled. Her arms. Her soul. Despite the way he’d taken her heart and thrown it back into her face, she couldn’t stand here and watch him die, because she’d die too. Such was the love that throbbed in her veins.
The Innkeeper's Daughter Page 33
