Chapter 8

  Gwyneth ran straight from the frying pan and into the fire, which proved to be two guards waiting just outside the cabin on the quarterdeck.

  Shoving her hair off her brow with a trembling hand, she mentally composed herself and went straight for the nearest one, too distraught to notice his lecherous leer, his hungry eyes.

  "Excuse me, but I beg you to see me off this ship, immediately."

  The sailor leaned on the stock of his musket and regarded her lazily. "Is there a problem, ma'm?"

  She glanced nervously behind her. "No problem at all. Please, I must leave. Now."

  Her heart was thundering in her breast, pulsing against the pearl choker at her throat, banging in her ears. She must look a sight, but at the moment all she could think about was self-preservation, escape — and Morninghall. Any moment now, that enraged prince of darkness was going to come storming out of his cabin and drag her right back into the Hades he ruled.

  "Right this way, then, ma'm," the guard said, smoothly, and took her elbow in one massive hand.

  Thank God, thank God, thank God. . . . Relief swept through her, and it was all she could do not to succumb to the tears hovering just beneath the surface. Gratefully she allowed him to guide her away from the cabin, his companion trailing just behind, their boots thudding hollowly on the deck. She thought of Morninghall, again, and his kiss. How it had stirred things deep inside her, made her want more, and how close she might have come to giving it to him. Oh, I'm so very mortified! She forced her head up, straightened her spine, kept her gaze straight ahead. Inside, though, she was shaking, confused, burning with shame and fury and a host of emotions she could not name —

  She closed her eyes on a silent moan of dismay, opened them, and saw that the guard was escorting her toward the stairs built against the hull that led off the ship.

  And then past them.

  She paused, his blunt fingers biting into her elbow.

  "Excuse me, but I would like to leave," she protested, trying to wrench her arm free.

  "You can leave when 'is Lordship says ye can." The guard hauled her forward, his fingers hard against her flesh. "Meanwhile we gots to put you in a holdin' area."

  "Aye, a holding area," aped the second guard, who pushed himself so close to Gwyneth's backside that she could feel his bulging stomach and erect penis pressing against her, could smell his pungent, unwashed body over the acrid odors snaking up through the hatches.

  Alarm shot through her. She looked around for help. The deck was cleared of prisoners for the coming night, and only a few guards, all pretending to ignore her plight, were about. Panic iced her spine and she began to struggle with sudden foreboding.

  "I said, I wish to leave this ship immediately!" she said angrily, trying to appear braver than she felt.

  "Oh, we'll let ye go. Just as soon as the cap'n gives us permission," said the first. "Meanwhile, ye'll be quite comfortable in the holdin' area. Spacious accommodations. Complete with a bed."

  Gwyneth dug both heels into the deck as he tried to pull her forward, her shoes scraping across the weathered old wood. Oh, damn her haste in fleeing Morninghall, for had she been composed, she wouldn't have forgotten her pistol! "I demand that you release me this moment, or I shall scream for help!"

  "We wouldn't like that none, ma'm. Wouldn't like it a'tall." And then, without warning, the first guard yanked her against his chest, slapped a palm that smelled of sweat and gunmetal across her mouth, and dragged her, kicking and struggling, toward an ominous, ramshackle deck house garbed in peeling paint and smoky grime, through which someone had drawn an obscene network of graffiti.

  Gwyneth fought madly, ineffectually kicking out at the guard with one foot. Her hand was wrenched cruelly behind her back, and the guard, laughing, hauled her toward the sagging door of the deck house. Didn't anyone see her, and what was happening?

  Help! Her voice was a muffled cry against the guard's palm. Somebody help me!

  Several other guards lounged against the deckhouse and railing, not saying a word, some pretending interest in the harborfront, others merely grinning and watching with high amusement. One of them yanked open the door, sending it banging back against the wall, and Gwyneth's captors hauled her inside.

  The door slammed shut behind them.

  "You can stop yer strugglin', ma'm," the first guard said, still keeping his hand over her mouth. "We won't hurt ye."

  "Aye, we already knows what they all like, don't we, Ralph?"

  "A little kissin', to start with. Look at me, girlie." Ralph dug cruel fingers into her jaw and spun her around, nearly snapping her neck and instantly catching her around the waist before sealing her mouth up once more. "Ye fit me like a glove, ye do," he murmured huskily, brushing his lips over her brow and leaving her choking in the stench of a breath that was as foul as anything she had inhaled below.

  "She'll fit me better," the other whined, grabbing Gwyneth's other wrist and yanking her away from Ralph. "Come on, let's have a go."

  "Take your hands off me this instant, you wretched oafs!" Gwyneth cried, making a mad lunge toward the door. It was in vain. Ralph, losing his patience, caught her, flinging her toward a filthy gray mattress, his hands already going for his trousers as he dove after her. The mattress shot to the side as Gwyneth fell; she hit the deck hard, her shoulders smashing into a wall, her teeth nicking the inside of her lip. The guard's sweating, stinking body landed just inches from her own. Then his hands were groping at her bodice, his massive weight pinning her to the deck, his thick, sloppy lips dropping wet kisses on her throat, her collarbone, her bosom, as she screamed and struggled and tried to twist out from beneath him.

  "Oh, Ralph, ye're making her put on a fine show, tweak her nipples and she'll dance even nicer for ye!"

  "Get off of me, you wretched beast!"

  "Shut up, bitch," Ralph snarled, and then her air was cut off as his huge hand clamped around her throat and pushed downward, choking her.

  Blind panic shot through her. Her fists flailed against his shoulder, and she sank her teeth into her lip to keep from fainting.

  "Like that, don't ye?" the guard panted, his calloused fingers cruelly pinching one nipple through her bodice, his great, moist lips buried in the hair at her ear. "Cry and wail for Ralphie here," he growled, his other hand already going for her skirts. "Thrash yerself about like the vixen yer eyes tell me ye are. Go ahead, twist and wriggle, oh yes, that's it, sweetheart —"

  Gwyneth let out a gurgling scream, her nails ripping at the guard's neck in her panic.

  He flung her skirts up — and the door crashed open, a thunderclap from the gods.

  "Bloody hell!" the other guard screeched as Ralph, one handed fisted around Gwyneth's skirts, the other still crushing her throat, raised his head and sucked in his breath.

  It was the marquess.

  There he stood, tall, lethal, and silhouetted in the doorway. He was holding a pistol, leveled directly at Ralph.

  In his eyes Gwyneth saw only darkness and a total absence of soul. In his eyes, Gwyneth saw the devil incarnate.

  Ralph, his hand still on Gwyneth's throat, edged away from her, but the marquess' satanic gaze never left him. "Release the lady," he ordered in a dangerously soft voice which sent chills the length of Gwyneth's spine.

  Ralph sneered, and his beefy hand pushed harder against Gwyneth's throat. Panicking, she coughed, choked, clawed upward, her bulging eyes staring at the marquess even as her world began to go dark. Through it, she heard Morninghall's sinister command.

  "Release her or die. Now."

  Ralph began to laugh.

  And the marquess fired.

  His hand never lowered, his eyes never blinked as the pistol went off with a crashing bang. Ralph jerked, thrashed and went still.

  The scent of gunpowder filled the cabin as the guard's dead hand slid from Gwyneth's throat with terrible slowness. Her eyes fell shut and she felt a thick, numbing haze stealing mercifully over her, enfolding her in an envelope of fuzziness. Through it came no thought, no feeling, no emotion. Her hand went to her bruised throat, and numbly she crawled away from the guard, huddling in a corner and drawing her legs up beneath her as she coughed and wheezed and tried to get her breath.

  "Await me outside," she heard Morninghall say to the other guard, who cowered against the door, whimpering. Without a word the man fled, leaving Gwyneth at the mercy of the devil himself — a devil who advanced on her with purpose and magnificent rage, a devil whose footsteps echoed across the tiny room, a devil who reached down and wordlessly caught her elbow.

  His touch penetrated the blessed numbness, obliterating it.

  "Don't touch me!" she cried, pushing herself further into the corner and kicking savagely out at him. Tears stung her eyes, began to spill down her cheeks, and she covered her face with her hands, ashamed. "Don't touch me. I cannot take anymore. Please —"

  She was no match for his strength, no match for his determination, no match for this man who pulled her to her feet only to gather her stiffly, protectively, to his hard chest when her knees would have given out beneath her.

  She sobbed into her hands, feeling his heartbeat against her knuckles. She looked up into his chiseled, satanic face and saw, for the briefest moment, something hugely tender and unguarded there, before he jerked his head up and stared unseeingly at the grimy wall opposite him.

  His heart was thundering beneath her hands.

  "You have suffered much at the hands of others today," he said harshly. With one quick movement he swept her up and into his arms. "Come. I shall see you home."

  ~~~~

  "Switching clothes with an imposter sentry? It will never work."

  "It will work."

  The Reverend Peter Milford slowly paced Kestrel's small cabin, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes worried, the lantern light painting crescents of gold atop his fair curls. He was restless tonight, and with good reason. "It will never work, I tell you, because the guards are wise to us, Connor. You said so yourself. They'll notice a new sentry in their midst and be suspicious."

  His two companions sat watching him. A lantern swung gently above their heads, sputtering and flaring in the moist, salty night breeze that wafted in through the stern windows. Outside, the sea hissed and sighed, a great, black vista stretching away into the night. Far, far in the distance, the lights of Portsmouth lay like fireflies on the horizon, winking on and off as the schooner rose and fell atop the waves. But there was no chance that Kestrel herself was equally visible. She carried no lights on her deck, and with her head to the wind, her crew of recently escaped prisoners standing watch in the rigging and on the deck above, there was little likelihood of her being caught by surprise by one of the Royal Navy frigates that patrolled the Channel.

  "The guards can be bribed," Connor protested, topping off his ale and carrying his mug to the stern windows, where he leaned casually against the cushions. "I don't know what you're fussing about, Peter. We've used this same ploy before."

  "Which is precisely the reason why it should not be used again," the third man said, speaking for the first time since the discussion had turned from the plight of Merrick's cousins to the plan of getting them off the prison hulk.

  The others looked at him, Connor with deep distrust, the chaplain with something like relief. "See?" Peter said, as though these words had decided the matter. "I told you, Connor, it's too dangerous."

  Connor impatiently ran his hand through his chestnut hair, the strain of worry showing clearly on his face. He looked at the man who had spoken. "Fine. You're now the brains behind this venture," he conceded, a bit heatedly. "What do you suggest?"

  Ignoring Connor's taunt, the man leaned forward and refilled his own mug. At just over six feet, he was a formidable presence, lean, hard-muscled, and powerful. His coat was perfectly tailored to his shoulders, his boots, crossed lazily at the ankles, mirrored the lantern light. That same golden glow carved planes and shadows from his face, emphasized the bold cut of his nose and the firmness of his mouth, and gleamed from eyes that burned with intelligence. Even relaxed, he exuded moody, predatory danger; even seated, he made the schooner's cabin look ridiculously small.

  "The sentries aboard the prison hulk will be on the alert tonight," he said. "There was the incident with Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms this afternoon to rouse them, and another hole was discovered in the ship's hull just aft of the entry port, beneath the guards' scaffolding. An unfortunate occurrence, I'm afraid."

  "Who discovered the hole?" Connor demanded, setting down his ale and frowning.

  "Radley, of course."

  "Radley must be dealt with."

  "Radley cannot be dealt with without arousing suspicion."

  "Why not?"

  "Think, man," their new leader murmured, gazing patiently at Connor. "There's been a rash of escapes from Surrey. Should they continue, there is bound to be a full investigation as to why security is not tighter than it is. There is also the possibility that a change in officers aboard the hulk will be instituted, and that, we cannot afford. Radley is fanatical in his quest to root out would-be escapers, but he is a stupid man and easily made to do my bidding. We need him as an example of . . . authority, if nothing else."

  "And Morninghall?" Connor drawled, raising one eyebrow.

  "What about him?"

  Peter cleared his throat and cast a hasty glance at their leader. "Oh, he's far too preoccupied with other matters to concern himself with prisoners who have no wish but to escape."

  "Poor Morninghall," Connor said with false sympathy, affecting a great, exaggerated sigh. "A sad lot, his! But we need him aboard that prison ship. Without him the Black Wolf would be all but helpless."

  "Yes, well . . . of course." Their leader did not laugh. "Tonight's rescue, gentlemen. It is off. Tomorrow night, I think, would suit us better. Peter, as tomorrow is the Sabbath, I expect you can devise a moonlight service of some sort?"

  The chaplain picked up his own mug, his eyes gleaming conspiratorially. "Such as a candlelight vigil for the souls of the recently departed prisoners?"

  "That would be appropriate. And it will not arouse suspicion. Include the guard that was shot today, if you will."

  "Good thinking — his friends will want to attend the service. The more that do, the more scanty the watch shall be."

  Connor watched them over the top of his mug. "Of course, Morninghall will have to give them all leave to attend."

  "He will," their leader said.

  "So, tomorrow then?"

  There was a light knock on the cabin door.

  "Yes?" Connor called.

  It opened and Orla, her dark hair loose around her shoulders and her cheeks flushed from the night wind, came in. She shut the door behind her, turned —

  — and stopped.

  There was a crash. All eyes turned to Peter, who had dropped his mug and was now staring at the lovely woman whose blue eyes were locked with his.

  Connor's grin was wicked. "Yes, Orla?"

  His second in command tore her gaze from the boyishly handsome chaplain, who was emitting hasty apologies as he bent to wipe up the spill, his rounded cheeks bright with color. She looked at her captain. "I thought you'd want to know that Jenkins has spotted a vessel a league or so off to the north. Probably a frigate, by what we can see of her."

  "Thank you, Orla. Our friends will want to be off shortly, then."

  Orla, with a shy, stolen glance at the discomfited chaplain, nodded and went out.

  "You were saying, Peter?" their leader murmured as the chaplain hastily set his mug back on the table, only to knock it over again with his sleeve.

  "Damn! Oh — Dear God — damn!"

  His two friends exchanged amused glances. Then their leader got to his feet, pulling the poor chaplain up with him. Peter's face was scarlet, his hands fluttering nervously. "I'm so sorry, Connor," he twittered, shoving his curls off his suddenly damp brow. "What a mess I've made —"

  Connor waved his hand in airy dismissal, his mouth quivering with suppressed laughter. "Never mind, Peter." He winked. "Go now, and Orla and I both will see you tomorrow."

  As the chaplain sputtered a protest, his companion dragged him to the door. "Til tomorrow, then, Merrick." He paused, his hand on the latch, a faint smile creeping over his stern mouth. "In the meantime do take pains to guard yourself well."

  The American regarded him quizzically.

  "Rumor has it that Admiral Falconer's wife is on a quest to get her ship back." His eyes gleamed. "Your sister has a formidable reputation, you know."

  "Shit," Connor said.

  The door closed behind them.

  ~~~~

  "Really, Gwyn, you have been dreadfully silent all day," Rhiannon said, as she sat in a chair in the back garden, a novel open on her lap and Mattie snoozing in the grass at her feet. "In fact, you've not been yourself since you returned from the prison ship yesterday afternoon." Gwyneth, abnormally quiet, was on her hands and knees pulling weeds out of the stones that framed her bed of purple Aubrietia. "It's Morninghall, isn't it?"

  Gwyneth's head dipped lower, the straw hat she wore shielding her face from Rhiannon's inquisitive gaze. "I don't want to talk about it."

  Rhiannon kicked off a shoe and rubbed her bare toes through Mattie's warm, sunlit fur. The dog stretched and groaned in delight. "You shouldn't let yourself get all hot and bothered just because he took it upon himself to steal a simple kiss. Why, I think it's all rather romantic, don't you? Besides, if His Lordship were to learn he's upset you so, he would no doubt consider it a great victory."

  The weeds that dared to sprout amongst Gwyneth's flowers had no chance against her sudden anger; up they came, roots and all, to land ingloriously in the wooden bucket. "Perhaps his Lordship has gained a victory," she conceded, averting her flushed face as she attacked the weeds, "but that victory will pale when he is faced with the consequences of my first attack."