According to Hoyle (20 page)

Chapter 10

F
LYNN
had been on his share of boats, mostly as a soldier earlier in his life, being transported up and down the rivers, but he was quickly realizing that he had rarely paid attention to the way the damn things were laid out. He had no idea where anything was except for his cabin, the main cabin and dining salon. Rose kept saying words like prow and port and aft and starboard and Flynn wanted to hit him and tell him to speak English.

Rose was guiding them, deciding whether to turn left or right when they came to a causeway and up or down when they found stairs and pulling Flynn into empty crevices to wait out ominous sounds. Flynn just hoped that he knew what he was doing. They couldn’t afford to get lost or wander aimlessly. He at least
looked
like he knew what he was doing.

He also looked hurt, his hand holding his side as blood slowly soaked through his expensive shirt and vest. Flynn took care to make sure the blood didn’t leave a trail, but that was as much thought as he gave to Rose’s wounds. He knew they needed to find something to bind those ribs with before Rose bled himself weak. But first, they had to make sure they were safe.

All of the action sounded as if it was coming from the lower decks. The screams and shouts were rising toward them as they topped the last stairwell and emerged on the Hurricane Deck. Flynn had not been up here before. The only thing he knew about it was that this was where the calliope, the huge steam-powered organ, was located. But it was obvious that there were no passenger cabins on this level. It appeared to consist mostly of an observation deck and several dark, quiet rooms used for storage. Across a vast open space, they could see the pilot house, unlit and silent. That didn’t bode well.

Finally, they ducked into what appeared to be a closet, one full of mops and brooms and extra linens. Rose sank to the floor in front of the wooden shelves that lined one wall. He was gasping every few breaths and still holding his side. Flynn peered out the door to make certain they hadn’t been seen or left a trail and then pushed it closed with a quiet click.

“You hit?” he asked Rose in a whisper.

“He found me with the knife a few times,” Rose gritted out as he unbuttoned his ruined vest with shaking fingers.

Flynn knelt beside him. He pushed the shotgun Rose had been carrying aside and smacked Rose’s hands away from his buttons. He helped him open the shirt beneath the vest, fighting against the rising embarrassment the close contact caused him. If it had been anyone but Rose, he felt sure he would have been fine. Knowing what he did about Rose, though, and what was worse, Rose knowing about
him
, made it hard for Flynn to catch his breath as he pulled at Rose’s clothing. He could feel Rose’s eyes on him, but he refused to look up.

He told himself that it shouldn’t make a difference, knowing that Rose liked men, or knowing that Rose suspected it of him. But it did make a difference, nonetheless.

Rose straightened with a wince and pulled the shirt aside as soon as Flynn had undone it, grunting in pain as he twisted. Flynn carefully lit a match, shielding it with his hand as he frowned and examined the series of shallow cuts the knife had made in Rose’s side. None of them were very deep. They appeared to be more like slashing wounds rather than stabs. It was surely painful, but it wasn’t going to kill him.

“You’ll live,” he rasped as he shook out the flame. He took his kerchief from his pocket and pressed it to Rose’s side.

“Ow,” Rose muttered.

“You attacked a man with a shotgun already aimed at you,” Flynn whispered harshly. “You’re lucky all you got was cut up.”

“At least I had the advantage of surprise,” Rose said softly, voice amused but still strained and tight.

Flynn couldn’t help but smile and huff a small laugh. He supposed that a man launching himself at you through a door while you held a shotgun to his face would indeed be a bit surprising. Rose was just lucky the man hadn’t pulled the trigger.

“Thank you for coming back for me,” Rose murmured as Flynn tried to staunch the bleeding.

“Wasn’t ’cause I like you,” Flynn replied gruffly. He looked around the small closet, relieved to find several stacks of clean linens on the shelves. He reached for some and pulled them down, tearing them with his hands and teeth to make strips.

“All the same, Marshal,” Rose whispered with an embarrassed nod as Flynn tended to him. “You didn’t leave me there to die like a caged dog. I thank you for that.”

Flynn looked up to meet the man’s dark eyes briefly. He appeared and sounded sincere. Flynn was certain Rose didn’t have much need or inclination to thank people in his life.

He turned his head away as he reached around Rose’s body and tied one of several strips of linen around his ribcage.

“Yeah, well,” Flynn muttered as he finished tying the last of the strips. “Don’t mention it.” He took Rose’s hand and slapped a hand iron on him.

Rose gave a muffled shout of surprise and jerked his arm away, but not quickly enough to prevent Flynn from hastily turning the key and attaching him to the wooden shelves behind him.

Flynn stood up and looked down at him, putting the key in his breast pocket pointedly. Rose stared up at him in silent disbelief, his mouth ajar and his dark eyes wide.

“Keep quiet, you won’t get hurt,” Flynn told him.

“You can’t leave me here, Flynn.”

“That’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

In the unearthly silence of the besieged ship, the grandfather clock in the salon began to ring out the hour. Flynn held his breath and listened to the mournful chimes until the echo faded away over the water. Nine o’clock.

“I’m going to go find Wash,” he told Rose determinedly, and turned toward the door.

“Flynn, you can’t just leave me here!” Rose hissed.

Flynn closed the door on his protests and moved away carefully.

C
AGE
was on his knees, head hanging and blood dripping down his cheek and off his nose as he tried to clear his head. Bat Stringer still hit like he was holding a hammer.

“I liked your other name better,” Stringer mused as he squatted next to Cage. “Had more of a ring to it,” he murmured. Cage looked up at him as he turned his head. Bat’s brown eyes were glinting mischievously. “Whistling Jack Kale,” he whispered ominously, low enough that only Cage could hear. “Strikes more fear into the heart, don’t it Cage? That what they call you now? Do you just go by Cage again? I suppose that has its own... charm.”

Cage shivered violently as he looked up into Stringer’s eyes. Memories, both good and bad, were flooding him. But he shook his head minutely in denial. He wasn’t that man.

“Oh, but you are,” Stringer whispered maliciously, understanding Cage’s meaning perfectly. “Just ’cause you’re back to your Christian name don’t mean you ain’t Jack Kale no more, Micajah,” he went on in a low voice meant only for Cage.

Cage glared back at him, trying not to let his upset show.

“Who’s your new friend?” Stringer asked as he looked over Wash critically.

Wash stared at him silently from several feet away as Cage glanced between them furtively.

“Oh, don’t tell me he can’t speak neither,” Stringer drawled in amusement as he stood, then bent over and hauled Cage to his feet. He reached up and took Cage’s chin in his hand, looking into his eyes with obvious, sadistic pleasure. His fingers dug into Cage’s cheeks. The fourth finger on his right was missing, and Cage knew exactly how that had happened. Stringer didn’t seem to be bothered by its loss now. Cage jerked away and huffed at the man, jaw clenching angrily. The number of guns at his back helped him to keep his temper in check.

“Leave him be,” Wash ordered in a low voice.

Cage was surprised at the marshal’s continued attempts at protecting him, but he also knew that the man was asking for a beating if he said much more. He reached out and discreetly gestured for Wash to be calm and quiet.

“Leave him be?” Stringer repeated in a soft, taunting voice. He put his hand to his chest and looked at Wash apologetically. He lashed out suddenly, catching Wash under the chin with his closed fist.

Several feminine screams emitted from amongst the passengers, then dissolved into whimpers and sobs.

Cage reached for the marshal as he staggered backward, but missed him completely as he swiped at him. To Cage’s surprise, though, Wash kept his feet, only swaying before righting himself and turning to look back at Stringer with a glint in his green eyes as blood trailed down the side of his mouth. Cage had rarely seen Stringer hit someone who didn’t end toe-up, just like he himself had done.

Cage turned back to Stringer and stared at him emotionlessly. He couldn’t let Stringer think that he was upset over the attack, or Wash would take more beatings just to give Stringer the pleasure of seeing Cage in distress.

Stringer was rubbing his knuckles absently and looking at Cage thoughtfully. “Why are you here, Cage?” he asked finally. “Are you here for the cargo as well?”

Cage stared at him, determined not to answer in any form.

Stringer stepped closer and narrowed his eyes. “Or is it merely Lady Luck that set you in my path? I know you can answer me,” he murmured in a voice that was much too intimate for Cage’s comfort.

Cage remained still and silent, looking back at Stringer blankly.

Stringer moved quickly, backhanding Cage with all the force his large frame could deliver. Cage staggered sideways as several of the terrified ladies in the salon screamed again. Stringer kicked at the back of Cage’s knee and it gave out on him. He fell to his knees hard, pain lancing through him as his kneecaps slammed into the Oriental rug that covered the wooden floor.

Stringer’s hand clenched hard in Cage’s long hair, yanking his head back so he could look down at him from above. “Talk to me, my dear old friend,” Stringer drawled wryly. The anger was beginning to show through his calm exterior. He wasn’t accustomed to Cage being unresponsive and unreadable; Cage knew it was frustrating him. “You were always more expressive when you were on your knees,” Stringer murmured against Cage’s ear.

Cage repressed another shiver and continued to stare into the distance silently, not making eye contact with anyone. Stringer always had liked it rough.

“Do we need to find somewhere private to discuss this? Or would you rather your friend answer for you?” Stringer asked in a whisper.

Cage jerked his head to look up at him, and Wash shifted restlessly between the other two men that held him. Cage shook his head in answer, glaring up at Stringer briefly before returning his gaze to the floor.

Stringer released him and straightened up, studying him for a long time before turning and giving Wash the same unnerving once over.

“You found these two together?” he finally asked one of the men who had dragged them out of their cabin.

The man nodded and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, scowling heavily at Cage.

“Show me,” Stringer demanded as he looked back at Cage and smirked. “Let’s see what they were up to in there.”

Cage returned the look with barely concealed contempt. Stringer thought he and Wash were here as partners, working to steal the cargo themselves. Or as lovers, maybe.

Stringer merely grinned at him, obviously pleased to have finally elicited some sort of emotion. He ordered that Wash be kept in the salon, but separate from the other passengers, until they returned.

“Don’t harm none of ’em unless someone kicks up a row,” he told his men, loud enough for the captives to hear. “He comes with us,” he growled with a crooked smile as he pointed at Cage and then gestured for his men to lead the way. Stringer took Cage’s elbow and walked beside him, squeezing hard as he gripped him. “I’m happier seeing you again than I would have reckoned,” he whispered to Cage, amusement and anticipation clear in his voice. “This thing just keeps getting better and better.”

Cage tensed and shook his head as Stringer marched him toward the rear of the boat, past the graceful, curving stairwell in the main cabin. He jerked his arm away, only to have Stringer snatch it back, gripping it even harder.

“It’s good to see you again, partner,” Stringer murmured to him as he pulled him closer. “I’m gonna enjoy paying you back for what you done.”

F
LYNN
crept along the upper causeway of the steamer, stopping and flattening himself against the wooden siding of the ship whenever he heard a noise. There were no passenger cabins on the top level, and so apparently after their first sweep, no one from the boarding party had bothered to come up here. Flynn encountered no one as he moved.

He stopped next to the top of the large paddlewheel on the side of the ship, listening as it churned through the water and splashed back down rhythmically far below. He calmed himself and tried to reason through the situation. Rose had been right; they had to be after the gold. There were a lot of men involved with the hijacking and there was nothing else valuable enough
—
not that Flynn knew of anyway
—
that would split that many ways and be worth the trouble they were going to.