Mary shrieked and flung her purse at his face.
"Take my money!" she cried. "Don't hurt us!"
The horse shied and snorted. Anne found her balance on the step and used the dash to lever herself up onto the seat. Behind her, she could hear the Irishman tearing at the straps that held her luggage. "Get away!" she shouted. "They hang thieves in this city!"
"Hear that? The bitch means to see us swing." The bully with the crutch reached for Mary. Anne lashed out at him with the whip.
The lead-weighted tip tore a furrow down his cheek, and he staggered back, howling in pain. Then a third man grabbed Anne's arm and tried to yank her from the carriage.
She didn't hesitate. She cracked the whip across the horse's rump as hard as she could, and yelled "Get up!"
The gelding bolted ahead, but the man hung on, half in and half out of the chaise. Anne struck at his face with her fist, but the far wheel hit something and the vehicle tilted and bounced.
Both Anne and her attacker fell. He tried to keep his footing, but he tripped and she landed in the lane on top of him. Her right palm skidded across splintery boards, sending pain shooting up her arm. For an instant, the wind was knocked out of her.
Then rough hands encircled her waist and yanked her up. "Sure and that's no way to be friendly," the Irishman hissed into her ear. His unshaven jaw scraped against her cheek, and she caught the sour smells of old sweat and unwashed clothing.
The man who had pulled her from the chaise got to his feet and laughed, exchanging foul jests with his comrade. Then he began to paw her as well.
"Anne! Anne!" Mary's strident cries echoed above the din of the galloping horse and speeding carriage.
Heat flared through Anne's body, and her knees went weak as milk. Her heart hammered wildly, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.
She was going to die.
Her unborn child would die with her.
"No!" She drove the palm of her hand up and caught the Irish villain squarely under his nose. He yelped and let go, blubbering curses. She hoped she'd broken his nose.
The leader uttered a foul oath. "You've lost the carriage, you witless arseholes." The thump-thump of the crutch approached. In his free hand, the thief carried the twisted lantern that had hung on Mary's chaise.
"Lost the other'n, but got this'n. And she smell good enough to eat." The third robber, the drunkest of the lot, snickered stupidly.
Anne took a hesitant step back, careful not to look directly into their faces. If they weren't afraid for her to see them... The thought was chilling. "My father will pay you well to let me go unharmed," she stammered, trying to hide her fear. She'd lost her bonnet when she fell from the chaise. Her torn cloak and muslin dress gave little protection against the raw night or the pawing hands of her tormentors.
Bony fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her head back. "Singin' a different tune now, ain't ya? We all know ya came to the docks lookin' fer action."
She gritted her teeth against the pain. Tears stung her eyes, but she would not give in to her terror. Instinctively she sensed that any show of weakness would mean her end. There was no pity to be found in these men, only greed. "We were lost. My family is wealthy. You've done nothing irrevocable yet. Will you lose all that money and risk your necks... for... for..." The awful words died in her throat.
"I say we cut our losses," the Irishman said. "Swive the wench then wring her neck."
Anne sucked in a deep breath and screamed, "Help! Help me!"
"Shut up!" The man with the crutch slapped her, and she tasted the coppery bite of blood in her mouth. The other two crowded close, and the big man handed the lantern to the drunk. Anne tried to run, but the brigand was on her in an instant, shaking her until her teeth rattled.
"Be still," Cove rasped. "This can go easy or this can go hard."
"Quit talking and get to the swiving," the drunk urged. "Less you want me to show ya how."
The yellow-haired brute seized hold of her collar and ripped the neckline of her gown. "Be nice. You might like what I got fer ya."
"No! Stop!" He gripped her wrist, twisting her right arm behind her back. She screamed again, beating at his head with her free fist as foul whiskey breath scorched her face. He slobbered at her throat and she gagged as his wet tongue rasped her skin.
"She's too much for ye!"
"Let me show ya how it's done."
Anne fought back with every ounce of her strength. Cove shoved her and she fell, landing on a heap of rope. Instantly, he was on her, pinning her thrashing body and groping her leg with a filthy hand.
A pistol shot shattered the night.
Chapter 2
Anne's attacker swore and released his grip. Stomach churning, she scrambled out of his reach and crawled on hands and knees until a solid wall blocked her way.
"Stand away, lads," the stranger called.
Another Irishman. Anne's hope of rescue plummeted. Numb with fright, she got to her feet and braced her back against the crumbling bricks. She clenched her fists, preparing to sell her life dearly.
"Ease off, paddy," the Irish thief said. "Nob or nay, that's Limerick Town I hear in yer words. That makes us brothers."
"Not kin to you, by the grace of God." The newcomer moved closer. "I've no wish to shed your blood. Crawl down your rat holes, and I'll let you live."
Anne's heart thudded. Irish he might be, but he spoke with the cultured authority of a gentleman.
"There's three of us and only one of you!" The drunk laughed. "Not good odds fer a bloody gent."
"True enough. But I'll put a ball through your heart before you get close enough to make use of the advantage."
Anne's knees were weak. She didn't think she had the strength to run, but she began to inch slowly down the wall, closer to the shadow with the pistol. He might be as wicked as the others, but one devil was better than three.
"What's the trull to you?" demanded Cove.
"Bitch worth getting yer throat cut for?" The bubbling, distorted voice could only have come from the man with the smashed nose.
The reply rang with quiet confidence. "I'll ask you the same."
"Rush him before he reloads!" The lantern went out.
"He can't get all of us!"
"Gutter wisdom." The gentleman's scornful laughter echoed through the dark alley. "Your captain seems willing to allow one of you to take my second bullet."
Anne froze. She hadn't heard footsteps, but the gunman was directly in front of her, an arm's length away.
"Shhh," he whispered. "I've come to help."
Yes, she thought. But whom does he mean to help? She drew in a ragged breath as his coat brushed her hand. It was too dark to make out his features, but he was taller than the footpad with the crutch and had broader shoulders.
"I've no need to reload, lads. I've a single shot left. Who feels lucky?"
A bulky figure rushed out of the swirling fog. Anne stuffed her hand in her mouth to suppress a cry of fear as the men slammed together and scuffled. Fists and knees collided. Then came the thud of a dull blow, a groan, and a body slumped to the ground.
Anne shuddered.
"For shame." If her rescuer was out of breath, his mocking sarcasm gave no evidence of it. "One down, and I didn't need to waste my powder and shot. Who's next?" The metallic click of a pistol hammer echoed through the mist.
"If he had another bullet, he'd have used it!" the yellow-haired ruffian exclaimed.
Anne waited for what seemed an eternity. Then the silence was broken by receding footfalls as one thief fled back toward the water.
"Another time, Shannon." A crutch tapped away across the worn planks.
"Aye, Ty Cove. Another time."
Seconds passed.
"Are you all right?" Anne's rescuer's words were accented, but pleasant. He sounded like a man she could trust.
"Than—thank you, sir." Her tongue felt thick, her mouth dry. "I'll be on... on my way."
"Did they hurt you?" Hard
steel lurked just beneath the surface of that lilting Irish veneer.
"No... not... No." She was bruised and shaken, her palms scraped and bleeding, but that wasn't what he meant. He was asking if she'd been violated. The thought made her stomach pitch.
Anne took a step. Something scurried beneath her foot. She yelped, stumbled back, and would have fallen if he hadn't caught her in powerful arms.
"Easy, colleen."
He smelled slightly of tobacco, oiled leather, and brandy. She could detect no hint of body odor on him or on his clothing. His touch was oddly reassuring. Still, she began to shiver violently.
"Hist, hist," he soothed, removing his coat and wrapping it around her quaking shoulders. "You're safe."
"Am I?" She didn't feel safe. The air around her seemed charged with electricity. "I don't know you. I don't even know your name."
Little flashes of exploding light sparked behind her eyes. She'd never fainted in her life, but she feared this might be a first. Once, when she was small, she and her father had been caught on the Chesapeake in a storm. Wind and water had churned a maelstrom, tossing the sailboat, making her certain she was going to die. She had closed her eyes and clung to her father.
She wanted to do that now.
"I'm Michael O'Ryan, late of Dublin."
A single tear welled up and spilled down her cheek. "I... I am Anne Davis of Gentleman's Folly." The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she realized how foolish she sounded. "On the Chesapeake—in Maryland," she finished lamely.
"You're a long way from the Chesapeake." He released her and she heard the scrape and click of a pistol being loaded.
"You—you were bluffing," she managed. "You didn't have a second shot."
"No."
The thief on the ground stirred and began to moan.
"You faced them down without any bullets in your gun." His bravery made even more tears spill from her eyes. This man, a total stranger, had risked his life for her.
He gave a small sound of amusement. "I've had a fair run of cards this night. I hoped luck was still with me."
"But if they hadn't believed..." She couldn't complete the thought. Her mind was jumbled—wild. She knew she had to get away from this awful place before her terror got the best of her—before she shamed herself by begging him to hold her again. "My sister," she said. "I'm visiting my sister."
"She lives near here?" He sounded doubtful.
"No. We were—She lives on Spruce. If you'd just point the way to St. John's Churchyard, I could find the house from there." O'Ryan's greatcoat slipped off one of her shoulders. "I'm grateful for your help, but I'm perfectly capable of—"
He cut her off brusquely. "What were you doing on the docks at this hour?"
"I—we—went to St. John's to meet... Sweet hope of heaven! Mary! My sister! She was still in the carriage when the horse ran away. She may have been injured. She may be dead!" The thought that she had been so concerned with her own welfare that she'd forgotten Mary cut through her like a whip. "I've got to find Mary."
"Like as not the horse has carried her safely home. At least she didn't have to contend with these dock scum."
"Do you think she's really all right?"
"I'll wager she gained control of the animal before the chaise tipped over. You'd have heard the carriage smash if she'd not rounded the corner safely." Then his voice dropped even lower. "You went to the churchyard to meet someone, a lover?"
"No!" The lie made her cheeks flame. "Yes," she whispered. "He was my betrothed. We were running away to be married. This was supposed to be my wedding ni—night." Her tears became a torrent as she dissolved in racking sobs.
Muscular arms enfolded her, and his act of compassion washed away her last reserves of caution. Shamelessly she pressed her face against his chest and told him how Stephen had seduced and betrayed her.
"Shh, shh," he crooned.
"He swore he loved me. I believed him, and now... now I'm lost. My father will disown me."
* * *
Anne's fresh burst of weeping pierced O'Ryan's reserve, and he was filled with the urge to protect her and kiss away her tears. Peggy was right. The ladies were his undoing.
What is stronger than a sword? demanded the lyrics of an old Irish ballad. And the answering refrain, A woman's tears are stronger than a sword, was as true today as it had been in the ancient days of Irish kings.
"I'll see you safely home, Annie Davis."
'His jaw ached where the river swine had landed a solid left before he'd rapped him on the skull with his pistol barrel. The blackguard's knife had sliced through his best pants and nicked his thigh deep enough to draw blood. The wound wasn't serious. He'd suffered far worse and lived to tell the tale, but a few inches to the right and he'd have lost something far dearer to him than a pair of good wool trousers. And broken saucy Peggy's heart, no doubt, he mused with black humor.
"...I can't let you—"
What was it the lass was saying? O'Ryan shook his head, impatient to be out of here before the thieves came back with reinforcements. "They may be out there in the dark, waiting for you. I'd not sleep this night if I didn't take you safely to your family."
"But—"
"Enough," he answered firmly. "By now your sister should have raised the alarm. We must get you back before the city is up in arms."
* * *
When horse and carriage clattered into the side courtyard, George Whitfield, Mary's husband, rushed out of the house, swearing so fiercely that she could barely explain what had happened.
"The ruffians have Anne," she sobbed hysterically. "They've murdered her—I know they have." Mary rocked back and forth, hands over her face. "It was awful. I didn't mean to leave her. The horse bolted—"
"And what purpose would have been served had you been kidnapped as well?" George waved her toward the house. "Go inside and leave this to me."
"We made a wrong turn in the fog. I didn't—"
"Not another word!" His mouth tightened. "I've been patient with you, Mary, more so because of your youth and childish nature. But this stupidity is beyond belief." He scowled. "A less patient husband would have taken you in hand well before this."
"Don't—"
"Well you might weep, wife. If we find your sister alive, she will never be the same. And you must share the blame for her ruin."
Mary's maids followed her into the house as George shouted commands. Menservants milled about, lighting torches, saddling horses, and arming themselves with staves.
Brandishing a musket in his left hand, George led his employees out the back gate and down a side alley. They turned onto Spruce, the main street that ran in front of the town house, just as O'Ryan and Anne rounded the corner.
"Step away from that woman!" George bellowed. "Reach for a weapon and I'll send you to your grave."
"No!" Anne called as they paused under a circle of lantern light. "I'm unhurt. This brave gentleman came to my assistance. Is Mary all right?"
"Unharmed, praise God," George replied. "No thanks to you!"
O'Ryan glanced down at Anne. "Your brother-in-law?"
"I'm afraid so." She laid her hand on his arm. "Thank you for saving my life. I hope you'll forgive me for behaving like—"
"You have nothing to be ashamed of. And you have my word that what you've told me will go no further," O'Ryan said. "I'll bid you a good night."
Still yelling, George jogged toward them.
"But you must come back to the house," Anne insisted. "My father will insist on rewarding you for your courage. He—"
O'Ryan's back stiffened. "Do you think I did it in hope of reward?"
"I didn't mean to insult you."
She tilted her face up to his in the lantern light, and he found her striking despite her disheveled hair and tear-swollen eyes. In the time it had taken them to walk from the docks, Anne had regained much of her composure. She was, he decided, a rare woman of pluck and good sense, despite her naïveté about gentlemen who promised m
arriage in exchange for favors.
"I will ask you for one thing," he said.
"Of course. Anything. I—" She gasped as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her full on the mouth. Her protest died unspoken, and her lips molded to his, so warm and tender that his teasing caress became something more.
O'Ryan's heart slammed into his chest and excitement spilled through his limbs, making his toes curl in his boots. Vaguely, he was aware of her brother-in-law's cry of outrage.
Trembling, Anne pulled back. "Go," she urged. "Quickly, before..."
For an instant, their eyes met. Then he touched the brim of his hat in salute. "Good luck to you, Annie Davis," he murmured. "And try to stay away from dockside without an escort."
"How dare you!" George bellowed. "Stop!"
O'Ryan ignored the outcry. Thrusting broad hands into his pockets, he sauntered into the shadows, cut down a lane between two houses, and headed back toward Irishtown near the river. He had no wish to speak with Anne's brother-in-law tonight or to give further explanations as to why he had been near enough to the docks to come to her rescue.
He needed to think.
O'Ryan wasn't a man who believed in coincidence. Maybe stumbling into Anne's predicament was evidence that his luck had turned for the better. He'd not survived an English prison, cheated the executioner's noose, and escaped Ireland by ignoring his instincts.
By the time he climbed the stairs to the third-floor rooms he shared with wheelwright Sean Cleary, Sean's wife Nora, and their three small children, O'Ryan had reached a decision. It would take a greater fool than his mother had cradled to let fair Annie and her fortune slip through his hands.
He knew enough of society's ways to realize that she must wed someone and soon. Why not him? A smile creased the corners of his mouth. Marriage was a business arrangement after all—an alignment of families to ensure property and the protection of children. Nothing more.
Let poets and balladeers babble about true love between a husband and wife. He was no romantic. He'd seen enough of the trouble that following your heart could bring you. A sensible man depended on reason.
The Irish Rogue Page 2
