A Secret Love (49 page)

Returning his gaze to her face, Crowley smiled unpleasantly. “Swales remembered the name. After that, it wasn't hard to put two and two together. You Morwellans have decided to try to weasel out of honoring the promissory note your father signed.” Crowley's gaze hardened. Fingers tightening on her wrist, he shook her. “Shame on you!”

Alathea's temper flared. “Shame on
us
? I hardly think the notion applies to chousing a cheat out of his ill-gotten gains.”

“It does when I'm the cheat.” Crowley's jaw set pugnaciously. “I know how to hold my own, and as far as I'm concerned, your father's wealth became
mine
the instant he signed that note.”

He shook her again, just enough to let her feel his strength and how puny hers was pitted against it. “Family honor—
bah
! You can forget all concerns about that. You'll have more than enough to concern yourself with, with what I've got planned for you.”

The pure malice in his snarl seized her; Alathea fought down her fear. Some fleeting flare must have shown in her eyes—his demeanor changed in an instant, the change itself so quick it was frightening. “Oh-ho! Like
that
, is it?” Eyes gleaming, he shoved her against the wall. “Well, then, let me tell you what I've planned.”

He leaned closer; Alathea fought not to turn her head away, forced herself to meet his black gaze without a single flinch. He was breathing heavily, rather too fast even given his bulk. She had a nasty suspicion he was one of those men who found fear in others arousing.

“First,” he said, enunciating each word, his eyes locked on hers, “I'm going to use you. Not once, but as many times as I wish, in whatever way I wish.”

He looked down at her breasts, at the ivory mounds so enticingly displayed by her rich gown. Alathea felt her skin crawl.

“Oh,
yes
. I've always had a hunger to taste a real, bred-to-the-bone lady. An earl's eldest daughter will do nicely. Afterward, of course, even if you live, I'll have to strangle you.”
You're mad
. Alathea swallowed the words. His voice had deepened and slowed, slurring slightly. He continued to gaze at her breasts. She tried hard not to breathe deeply, but her pulse was racing, her mouth dry, her lungs laboring.

“Mind you”—his tone was that of one pondering aloud—“I suppose I could sell you to slavers if you survived. You'd fetch a good price along the Barbary Coast. They don't see many white bints as tall as you, but . . .” He drew the word out, head tilting as he considered. “If I wanted to get a good price, I'd need to be careful not to mar the goods too obviously. That's hardly fun. And I would never be one hundred percent certain the threat was gone. No.” Shaking his head, he raised his eyes to hers.

They were flat, bottomless, utterly without feeling. Alathea couldn't breathe.

His face a malignant mask, Crowley stepped back, hauling her away from the wall. “I'll get rid of you after I've had my fill. That way I won't need to exercise the least care in taking you.” Abruptly changing directions, he thrust his face into hers. “A fitting punishment for your meddling.”

With a leer and a laugh that echoed manically, he started along the corridor, dragging her behind him. “A fitting punishment, indeed. You can join your friend Struthers on the morning tide.”

Alathea dug in her heels. “Struthers?” Throwing her weight against Crowley's pull, she managed to jerk him to a halt. “You killed Captain Struthers?”

Crowley scowled. “You think I'd let him go with all the information he had?” He snorted and pulled her on. “The captain has caught his last tide.”

“He had information that threatened you, so you simply
killed
him?”

“He got in my way. People do disappear. Like him. Like
you
.”

Alathea scratched at the hand locked about her wrist. “You're crazed! I can't just disappear. People will notice. Questions will be asked.”

He threw back his head and laughed. The concentrated evil in the sound shook Alathea as nothing else had. The laugh ceased abruptly; Crowley's head snapped around. His black gaze pinned her. Unable to help herself, she shrank against the corridor wall.

“
Yes
.” The word was vicious. Crowley rolled it on his tongue and smiled. “People will indeed notice. Questions will indeed be asked. But not, my beauty, the questions you think.” He stepped closer, crowding her against the panelling, the gloating she'd noted before more pronounced. “I did a little checking of my own.” His voice had lowered. Raising a hand, he went to caress her cheek. Alathea jerked her head away.

A second later, his hand closed like a vise about her jaw. Fingers biting cruelly, he forced her face to his. “Perhaps,” he rasped, his gaze falling to her lips, “I'll keep you alive long enough to see it—what's going to happen to your precious family and who everyone will think is to blame.”

He paused. His very nearness made Alathea feel faint. She tried not to breathe deeply, to smell his smell. The sheer bulk of him closed in on her. Her head started to spin.

His lips curved. “Your disappearance is going to coincide with the calling in of the promissory notes. I can guarantee your family is going to be beating off the bailiffs almost immediately. They'll be in turmoil. No one will know where you are, or what to make of your disappearance. All the precious ton will see is your family thrown out of their home in
rags
and you nowhere in sight.” His gloating deepened. “I've heard there are offers in the wind for your sisters. Those offers will evaporate. Who knows?” He pressed closer, his gaze locking with hers; she felt the panelling hard against her spine. “If I enjoy breaking you, I might just send some ‘gentlemen' I know to make an offer for your sisters. All
three
of them.”

Alathea's temper erupted. “You
blackguard
!” With the full force of her arm, she slapped him.

Crowley swore and jerked back, hauling her arm up, pulling her off balance. Alathea screamed. He clapped a hand to her mouth and she kicked him.

That hurt her; the pain only infuriated her more and lent her strength. Swearing viciously, Crowley let go of her arm and caught her around the waist. She jabbed him in the ribs. He juggled her, then locked his beefy arms around her, trapping her with her back to his chest. Half lifting her, he bundled her down the corridor.

Toward the open door at the end.

Alathea wriggled and squirmed. No use. The man was as strong as an ox. She kicked back with her legs, but that was worse than useless. Dragging in a panicked breath, she thought back to her days of fighting with two young sprigs who had always been taller than she.

Gulping in another breath, she stretched and reached back. She grabbed Crowley's ears and tugged as hard as she could.

He howled and jerked his head back. Her nails scored his cheeks.

“Bitch!”
His voice grated in her ear. “You'll pay for that. For every last scratch.”

She could only be glad that, broad as he was, the corridor was too narrow for him to easily strike her. To do so, he'd have to risk letting her go.

Cursing freely, he half carried, half pushed her on before him. Alathea fought and twisted furiously, but did no more than slow him. His strength was overwhelming, suffocating; the notion of being trapped beneath him sent panic sheering through her.

Two yards from the open door, Crowley halted. Before she realized what he intended, he flung open another door concealed within the paneling and started to push her through.

Alathea saw the bed fixed against the wall.

She grabbed the door frame and redoubled her resistance, but inch by inch, Crowley forced her forward. Then he slammed his fist down on her fingers locked about the door frame.

With a yelp, she let go, and he thrust her across the threshold.

Footsteps pounded overhead. They froze, and looked up. Alathea sucked in a breath and screamed for all she was worth.

Crowley swore. He shoved her into the room.

She tripped on her skirts and fell, but immediately scrambled up.
“Gabriel!”

Crowley slammed the door in her face.

Flinging herself against the panel, Alathea heard a key scrape, heard the lock fall home. She crouched and put her eye to the keyhole.

And saw the paneling on the corridor's opposite wall. “
Thank God!
” Crowley had taken the key. She reached for a hairpin.

Outside the door, Crowley stared at the ladder. Footsteps moved over the deck above, checking one hatch after another.

“Gabriel?”

A smiling sneer curved his lips, then he laughed, turned, and strode for the open cabin.

Gabriel found the main hatch. He hauled on the heavy cross bolt and heard it grate. Swearing under his breath, he shot it fully back. Chillingworth appeared and helped him lift the hatch cover, easing it over. They looked down on a circle of lamplit corridor and the rungs of the ladder leading down.

Looking at Chillingworth, Gabriel shook out his hands, then signaled that he was going down. His face felt expressionless. He had no difficulty acting nerveless. His blood was ice-cold, his veins chilled. He'd never known fear like this—a cold cramping fist closed about his heart. He'd known Alathea forever but he'd only just found her. He couldn't lose her now, not when he'd finally bitten the bullet and opened his heart—and she'd been poised to give him hers. No—he thrust the idea aside. It was unthinkable.

They were not going to lose each other.

He grasped the hatch's rim and swung himself into the hole. Locating the rungs, he quickly descended. He was so tall, he reached the floor before the corridor came fully into view. Stepping onto the lower deck, he looked straight along its emptiness—directly into the maw of the pistol Crowley had pointed at his heart.

Gabriel heard the trigger click. He dove for the floor.

The corridor wall exploded outward. A door swung across, blocking Crowley's shot. Alathea burst into the corridor. The door panel splintered beside her shoulder. She instinctively ducked.

The percussion of the shot boomed and echoed, the sound bouncing deafeningly around the corridor.

“Get down!”
Gabriel roared.

Alathea looked at him, then at the door. They both heard Crowley curse, heard his pounding footsteps nearing. Alathea shrank back along the corridor wall.

Crowley slammed the door shut. He didn't look at Alathea but at Gabriel, coming to his feet, the promise of death in his eyes.

Crowley turned and raced back to the main cabin.

“Wait!”

Alathea heard Gabriel's bellow but she didn't even look back as she raced straight after Crowley. He would need to reload. Gabriel was unarmed. She could at least slow Crowley down.

She rushed into the cabin, expecting to see Crowley at the desk or bed, frantically reloading. Instead, she saw him fling the pistol across the room as he strode past the desk. Reaching the wall, he grasped the hilt of one of the twin sabers hanging in crossed scabbards between two portholes.

The saber left its sheath with a deadly hiss.

Alathea didn't pause—she flung herself at Crowley, trusting in her sex to keep her safe. It never occurred to her that Crowley might use the saber on her.

It did occur to Gabriel; he crossed the threshold just in time to see her grapple with Crowley, now brandishing a cavalry saber. One swing and he could cleave her in two—Gabriel died another death. He should have felt relieved when Crowley flung Alathea aside, much as an ox would swat a gnat. She fetched up hard against the wall, shocked, shaken, but essentially unharmed.

Gabriel saw it all in an instant—the instant before blind rage took possession of his senses. After that, all he saw was Crowley.

Crowley settled his weight evenly, taking a two-handed grip on the saber, his very stance declaring he'd never used one in battle.

Gabriel smiled a feral smile. Crowley shifted. Reaching out, Gabriel pushed a small table out of his way—it slammed against the wall. His eyes didn't leave Crowley's face. Slowly, he circled.

It was Crowley's move; he was the one armed. Despite his pugnacious expression, his overweening belligerence, uncertainty flickered in his eyes. Gabriel saw it. He feinted to his left. Crowley raised the saber and slashed—

Gabriel was nowhere near the space the saber whistled through. From Crowley's other side, he stepped inside his guard, left hand closing about Crowley's fists on the saber hilt, right fist slamming into the man's jaw. Crowley grunted. He tried to turn on Gabriel; Gabriel's hold on his fists prevented that, but Crowley's double-fisted grip also prevented Gabriel from gaining any hold on the hilt.

Crowley bunched his muscles to throw Gabriel off. Gabriel released him and spun away. Crowley slashed again and again, following Gabriel as he circled. Each slashing stroke threw Crowley off-balance. Gabriel feinted again; again Crowley fell for it. Gripping the saber hilt, Crowley's fists and all, Gabriel landed a swinging left on Crowley's jaw. Crowley roared and fought back. Wrenching the hilt free of Gabriel's restraining hand, he slashed and found his mark.

Ignoring the stinging bite of the sabre along his left arm, Gabriel flung himself at Crowley, locking both hands on the saber's pommel. Crowley was off-balance; Gabriel forced him back across the desk, pressing the saber closer and closer to his face.

Eyes locked on the blade inching nearer, Crowley gritted his teeth, gathered his strength, and shoved Gabriel and the blade to the side. Reading the move, Gabriel sprang back. The saber flew free, clattering on the floor.

Crowley reared upright—to be met by a solid punch to the gut. He bellowed and swung, starting after Gabriel, his clear intent to grapple with him.

Gabriel wasn't about to give Crowley the satisfaction of breaking his ribs. The man was a bruiser, the sort who'd learned his science in tavern brawls. Given his size and lack of agility, he relied on his brawn to win. In any wrestling match, Crowley would triumph easily. Fisticuffs, however, was another game entirely, one at which Gabriel excelled.