by Carrie Lofty
Then he was gone.
Hollis sat on a leather-padded bench that curved along the port side. Polly sat half propped on her elbow. She had smashed her knee against a crate during the mad flight from the warehouse. Blood seeped through her stockings. She shoved tangled hair out of her face.
The posh interior of that small schooner made Alex’s residence look fit for paupers. Decorated with elegant paintings and even a foot-tall marble bust, it more resembled a palace than a boat sitting in industrial Clyde Harbor. The scent of flowers was too absurd to believe, until she spotted a beautiful glass vase filled with freshly cut blossoms. A sideboard next to Hollis’s bench was full to bursting with crystal decanters, delicate wineglasses, and even a tray of ripe strawberries.
Trying for calm, she flicked her eyes to where Hollis sat leering. He smirked, then licked his lips. Polly hid the shiver that slunk down her spine.
“Where are we?” she dared ask.
“Shut up.”
Fine. No sense talking to a man who made a living beating up innocents. He sported a number of scars on his face, and his nose jutted at a strange angle toward his left cheek. Livingstone was a bully, but he’d always been clever enough to strut through town with bigger men at his beck and call.
Her thoughts kept jerking back to that warehouse and the fear she’d battled. Livingstone, Hollis, and that other, stumpy hunk of ugly muscle. All of them threatening the workers she’d only just reassured, rousing them against Polly’s entreaties for calm.
With one bullet, Livingstone had scattered her people as if they were terrified sheep.
And Alex. She’d met his gaze across that sea of fear, before he, too, was swallowed by the chaos.
She shouldn’t indulge thoughts of him or why he’d barged into the warehouse. To break up the meeting? Had he brought constables with him? Perhaps he’d really taken to such extremes. Now that she knew the pressure he faced to make Christie Textiles profitable, much of his obsession made sense.
Yet Livingstone was now her most important consideration. What game was he playing? What “others” had he gone to find?
The wail of a baby shocked her from her musings. She recognized that cry.
Edmund!
Although her first reaction was to distrust her own brain, her instincts were stronger. Edmund. With both the baby and Polly on board that schooner, Livingstone—or whoever was funding him—had gathered two of the few people on earth who mattered to Alex Christie.
A place in her heart sank in on itself, slowly, like an apple rotting from the inside. Alex would die before letting anyone hurt his son. She knew it like she knew that she loved him.
She wouldn’t sit by and watch that happen.
Turning away from Hollis, she faked a hard cough until her eyes watered. “Please. Water. Anything.”
The man sneered. But another round of hoarse, heaving coughs left her gasping. Blinking past wet lashes, she saw his frown of concentration. Lord, he looked dumb.
Come on, you pillock. Be just dumb enough.
She almost laughed when he stood and trudged with giant feet toward the sideboard. He opened a decanter of clear liquid, but Polly didn’t wait long enough to find out what he poured. Leaping up, she grabbed the marble bust off its plinth. It was heavier than she’d estimated, like lurching with a boulder. Her arms burned, and her back nearly bowed.
But she would not be deterred.
Hollis turned. She heaved the bust into his abdomen. He doubled over. Not waiting for him to recover, she grabbed the decanter. Rather than shatter, the glass thumped heavily against his skull, almost bouncing out of her hands. Another sharp blow, this time to the marble sideboard, splintered the decanter into shards. Its slender base fit neatly in her hand—an impromptu knife of jagged glass.
She attempted to jab his face, but had to skitter away from his sloppy attempt to grab her legs. She thrust the wicked decanter down again, this time connecting with the top of his spine. Blood spurted from his ragged skin. She kicked him in the kidneys, one boot after the other. He gurgled and slumped forward.
Part of her shook with the fear that she’d killed him.
Part of her wanted to kick him again.
But Edmund needed her.
She searched the long, narrow room in the belly of the ship for a better weapon. On the wall behind a wide oak desk hung a series of daguerreotypes. The sepia tones revealed unfamiliar hunting destinations. In each photo, a man with white hair and a full white beard stood over dead animals—elephants and tigers and a whole menagerie’s worth of wildlife. Whoever owned the boat was quite the hunter.
Now Polly was, too.
Because at the center of that pictographic arrangement hung a sword, a ceremonial pistol, and a small machete.
She grabbed it. Lord knew if she’d be able to use it without hurting herself. No matter. She adjusted her grip on the engraved silver handle.
Passing the sideboard, she grabbed the drink Hollis had poured and tossed it back, gratified to find it was liquor. The sudden blast of alcohol fired her brain—just what she needed. She couldn’t climb the ladder in her skirts while holding the machete. So, with the knife clamped in her teeth, she grabbed the rungs. Nerves made her swift. Years growing up defending herself against brothers and a neighborhood of curious young men had made her strong.
At the top of the ladder, she paused. The hatch remained open. Cautiously, so slowly, she peered into the night. The sky was murky with cloudy shadows, stealing her sense of perspective. But the men who stood there were easy to identify. Livingstone. Winchester. And the white-haired man from the photographs. Another figure caught her notice. Huddled nearby, with her back against a crate, sat Agnes. Edmund was in her arms, quieter now and wrapped in a blanket that glowed white in the strange evening haze.
Their gazes met.
Agnes’s eyes opened wide. She shook her head minutely.
Polly took the knife from her teeth and raised a finger in what was probably an unnecessary gesture for silence.
Three men. Winchester was a nasty old tycoon, but Livingstone was tough, muscular, and still had his pistol. The other man obviously had a penchant for killing innocent creatures. Polly didn’t like her odds. Not at all.
“You owe me.” Livingston sounded even more angry than usual. More importantly, he sounded betrayed. “I did everything you asked—the looms, the fire, the charges against the girl. She’s in your hold because I threw her down there. I deserve what you promised.”
Livingstone. This whole time. Everything had been his doing. The rumors about Jack Findley had been a ruse—whispers in the right ears, playing on who she would trust and suspect. The wild-goose chase had wasted valuable time enough to let the union rip itself open, and the masters would never be blamed.
The man with white hair snarled in that polite way gentlemen were best able to manage. “I paid you—both of you, goddamn it—to ruin Christie Textiles. I won’t pay up until that happens, and last time I checked, it’s still open for business. ”
“You’ve got his wife and his son,” Winchester said. “Isn’t that enough?”
“Not by half. I want him broken.”
Polly’s feet were growing numb on the rung. She needed to make a choice. Hide. Go to Agnes. Charge like a wild warrior woman.
“Josiah Todd!”
The three men turned their backs to Polly, but they didn’t obscure her view.
Alex!
Her husband stood at the top of the gangplank. He appeared ghoulish, like a burly Celtic warrior of old. Fierce and fiery. The suit he’d worn to the funeral, the one she’d so admired for its cut and quality, had been dragged through hell and back. His top hat was gone. His sandy hair was a rugged mess in the twilight. He carried a metal pipe in one hand and his walking stick in the other. Both weapons paled next to the grim determination that fixed his expression in stone.
“Ah, Alex. Good of you to join us,” said the man with the white beard.
My God.
He was Josiah Todd. Mamie’s father. For Polly, everything fell into place. This was the fiend who had ruined a woman’s life—his own daughter, no less. The monster whose callous perversions had driven Alex to take such desperate steps to save her.
“I’m here for my wife.” Alex’s voice was devoid of inflection.
Polly gasped. He didn’t know about Edmund. Not yet. Instead he was doing battle to save yet another woman. Chinese fireworks sparked in her blood. She had resented him when he behaved like a stubborn mill master, but that tenacity had forged him into an avenging warrior.
“You can’t have her.” Mr. Todd’s voice was just . . . odd. Up and down. Too loud, and then too quiet. Maybe that was how he always spoke, even in the face of imminent harm. Because Polly knew without a doubt that Alex was going to do him harm.
Her husband shifted the pipe in his palm. “Hand her over or endure what comes next.”
“I have no time for you now, Alex. Maybe later you can have your pretty whore of a bride. Maybe not.” He turned, grinning, toward where Agnes sat cradling Edmund, who started to cry. In Josiah Todd’s grin, Polly saw the soul of a living, breathing demon. “Either way, I’m keeping my grandson.”
Twenty-six
Josiah Todd had the power to drop the world out from under Alex’s feet with just a few words. Always had. For years he’d threatened to send Mamie away to a Swiss boarding school, just to taunt Alex. He never had, of course, because that would mean he, too, would have to give her up. Just the threat, however, had stolen many nights of sleep.
Now the monster had Polly. And dear Christ, he had Edmund. The twist of sleepless nausea in Alex’s belly was long gone. In its place burned fourteen years of heartache and loss, and a man’s determination to save his family.
“Winchester, what did he promise you?”
The capitalist sneered. “Why should I tell you?”
“Because I’d like to see if it outweighs the lengthy sentence you’ll receive when all of this is over.”
“I won’t go to prison.”
“Oh, but you will. There was a witness, George. Your man Livingstone left Tommy Larnach alive. He’s with the constables as we speak. And that boy sings like a canary.”
Winchester turned on Livingstone, his face darkened in rage. “You said you got rid of that nuisance!”
“Gutter slime like him can be tough to kill, sir.” He grinned. “They’re like rats.”
Alex made a point of ignoring him, despite the overwhelming urge to turn Livingstone’s face inside out. And where was Polly? Fatherly instincts demanded that he charge toward his son and hold him close. He could not afford to indulge any of those distractions. Instead he focused on Winchester. One less opponent to take by force.
“I doubt the other masters will be pleased that your greed meant running me through,” he said. “So you stooped to sabotage. And arson against your own factory? Where was the sense in that, man?”
“Mr. Todd has promised compensation. I was to—what was the phrase? Divert suspicion.”
“That won’t change what the masters will do to you. They’ll cast you out. ‘Strike’ is a dirty word, one that hasn’t been spoken here in many years. You’ve turned a ghost story into flesh-and-blood reality. No one will forgive you for breaking that peace. So tell me, what compensation did he promise?”
“One hundred thousand dollars,” Winchester said with a pinched voice. “And all of the inventory remaining when Christie Textiles is dismantled.”
Livingstone appeared ready to do murder. Not against Alex, but against Winchester and Todd. “Fuck that,” he growled. “One hundred thousand for this pig? I want the same.”
Todd only ignored him, as did Alex. He’d deal with the bully later.
“I hope it’s worth it, George. But if it isn’t, feel free to step right past me.” He hefted the pipe, gratified when Winchester’s eyes widened to the size of eggs. “You don’t need to suffer what these two have coming. Stay with them and it will destroy your reputation. You’re a fool to think you’ll be able to buy it back. Leave now and I’ll offer what protection I can.”
Winchester appeared ready to vomit and scream and faint at the same time.
“I said now!” Alex bellowed.
With slow but inexorable steps, Winchester backed away from Todd and Livingstone. “It’s all gone off the rails, you see.”
“You walk away,” Todd said tightly, “and I’ll have your head on a pike.”
“I’m sorry, gentlemen.”
Alex stepped aside as Winchester hurried past. He descended the gangplank with his head and shoulders bowed. His fate would be decided later.
Heath waited just out of sight on the dock. As soon as Winchester hurried down the street, the young man crept up the plank on his hands and knees. It was the best plan they could come up with on short notice, and with no idea who was aboard the schooner.
Now Alex faced two men instead of three, although Livingstone still had a gun.
He couldn’t help but glance toward his wailing son. There was Agnes, holding Edmund. The bow of her body over Edmund helped alleviate Alex’s fears only a little. The woman was endearingly loyal but no match for these beasts. Although his heart seized at the sight, he fought to calm his frantic pulse.
Then . . . another movement. Though shrouded in black, her pale skin still glowed a soft white in the evening gloom. The figure silently padded toward where Agnes huddled against a stack of crates.
Polly. Good Christ.
Although he tightened his fingers against a flash of dread, he did not waver. She was unharmed. And he had two more opponents to take down.
“And you, Livingstone? What did he promise you?”
“Five thousand. And Polly to do with as I pleased.”
Alex swallowed bile. “Seems you already tried that with her, and she came out the victor.”
“That won’t happen again.” The man drew his pistol out of his waistcoat. “Maybe what I want to do tonight is put a bullet through her pretty little face. She hasn’t been worth all of this.”
He strode back toward the crates, as if he, too, had seen Polly’s movement. Heard her. Sensed her. Because he found her without difficulty. He placed the muzzle of the pistol against the side of her head.
“Better yet,” he said, “let’s talk about what we really want. There are three men on this ship. And three prizes: Polly, this mewling brat, and money. Both of you fine gentlemen have more than enough to spare. Did you really think you could offer Winchester so much without me getting wind?” He shook his head at Todd. “Too bad Christie laid all your cards on the table. Had I learned later, I’d have shot you in your bed. Would’ve enjoyed that.”
“You’ll regret this.” Todd’s silver beard shook with pent-up fury.
“Like you made Winchester regret his decision to walk away? Hardly. You hired me for a reason, Mr. Todd. Because you’re too much of a coward to do the dirty work yourself. That’s not a scruple to dog me.” He cocked the pistol and waved it at the huddled trio. “Let’s see what you’ll pay to make sure I don’t pull this trigger.”
Todd stepped toward him. “Put that gun away, you cretin. Don’t you dare hurt my grandson! He’s mine!”
“Get back.” Livingston turned the pistol on Todd. “I don’t care who I have to shoot, but I’m not leaving this bloody boat without compensation.”
A glint of metal snaked up from where Polly knelt, as she stabbed Livingstone in the side. Even from the distance of a dozen yards, Alex heard the squish of flesh being ripped open. The man howled and dropped to the deck. The pistol discharged a plume of smoke and sound, but the bullet flew wide of any target. Edmund began to scream.
Alex bolted from his place on the gangplank. He swung the pipe low across the backs of Todd’s knees, then struck twice more at the base of his skull. The sick crunch gave him far too much satisfaction. The old man fell to the deck.
“Heath! Hurry!”
He didn’t stop to see if the
lad obeyed. With his eyes fixed on his final opponent, he raced forward and kicked the gun away. Polly straddled Livingstone where he sprawled face-first on the deck. She held what was perhaps a machete. Blood appeared black on the blade she pressed to the back of his neck. A nasty gash in his side was visible even in the dim light, bleeding profusely.
“Get Agnes and Edmund off the ship. I’ll hold him here.”
“Mrs. Christie, as you are wont to say, bollocks to that.” He yanked her off the man’s back and hauled her up, over his shoulder. Polly squealed. Paying no mind, he shoved the tip of his walking stick into the gash in Livingstone’s open gut. The bully gnashed out a pain-laced scream. “Mind you, I also have this steel pipe. Move and I’ll shove it up your arse.”
In the distance came the sound of police bells. Wallace had done his job. Good lad.
“Livingstone, I hope you live long enough to tell the constables what you know about Todd. If you do, I’ll pay for your treatment, recovery, and a ticket out of Scotland. Agreed?”
Livingstone groaned and nodded.
“Alex,” Polly shrieked, “let me go!”
“I’m not letting you go again. Just watch what you do with that knife.” He jerked his chin at Agnes. “If you would, Mrs. Doward. We’re leaving.”
Agnes struggled to her feet. In her arms Edmund still writhed and screamed. It pounded Alex’s heart to see his son so distressed, but distressed was far preferable to harm. He’d make it up to the boy when they were safe. He’d make it up to Polly, too, even if she hammered his spine to pieces.
“Heath, how are we—?”
The blast of another gunshot ripped open the night.
Alex flinched. He watched as Heath cupped his arm and slumped against the side of the schooner. Todd was lying on his back, arm outstretched and holding a small caliber pistol that spewed smoke.
“Heath’s here, too?” Polly’s voice neared hysteria. “What happened?”
The good man who’d spent years repressing his inner beast gave over to a rage so great that Alex thought nothing of shrugging his wife off his shoulders. The way she cried out her brother’s name only added more fuel. He strode to where Livingstone’s Colt had skidded to a stop. He picked it up and aimed it at his father-in-law.
