Duke by Day, Rogue by Night (12 page)

By now, Mrs. Mortimer could be heard whimpering from the other side of the door. “Shhh,” she hissed. “It's Constance. I've come to free you.”

Silence, then the woman's voice shouted. “No, child. What are you thinking? Return to your cabin.”

“I've got a plan, Morty. We shall be free of these men soon.”

• • •

The time to act had come.

Lieutenant Henry Guffald grimaced as he reached for the door sealing the hold. Wind pelted his face and the wounds he'd sustained during the
Octavia
's attack burned with salty brine. He was drenched to the core, exhausted, but no longer paralyzed by orders of the crown.

A storm had overrun them. Every capable sailor manned the lines. The timing couldn't have been more perfect. He couldn't have planned or predicted an outcome so fine. Sexton's attention was focused on the
Striker
, his newly acquired crew, and the squall. No one would be missed. And if he was going to get off the ship with Lady Constance before anyone was the wiser, he needed a diversion — Frink. Setting Frink free provided the perfect cover.

While he revered Sexton like a brother, Henry knew the man's moral compass. He would take Lady Constance back to London, and return her to her misguided father. But London had nothing to offer. Once there, she would be forced to wed Lord Montgomery Burton, the man she'd fled when she'd boarded the
Octavia
bound for Spain. Henry had been privy to this information thanks to Simon Danbury and before setting sail, he'd sworn to protect her. The best way to do that, he reasoned, was to become her champion. Rescuing her from the Striker's men would surely raise his credibility, especially since he had no other opportunity to prove himself worthy of marrying a duke's daughter. He wanted Constance, had wanted her ever since he'd seen her visiting her uncle on the docks. This was his chance to prove himself.

Certain he hadn't been noticed, Henry lowered himself into the hold. He expected no difficulty. Most of the men present knew him in more ways than one.

The ship swayed left, and then pitched right. Henry braced himself against a rail. “Captain wants all able-bodied men topside,” he shouted to two sailors guarding the Striker's crew.

“We've been given strict orders not to let these men out of our sight,” one of the guards shouted.

“No doubt you have,” Henry agreed. “But there's a wicked whip to this wind and the cables aren't secure. Unload the lot so we can get the ship under control. We'll round them up soon after.”

The men looked at each other, uncertain. “To keep them below would be a waste of muscle,” Henry reasoned. “These men know every splinter on this ship. If we lose sail now, we
lose
this ship.”

The other sailor spoke. “What if they try to escape?”

“Where are they going to go, man?” he asked. “Worst case, they'll get blown overboard by gale force winds. Best scenario, we stay afloat.”

The second man nodded to the first guard. “Can't argue with that logic.”

Henry grinned. He had them. They could not quarrel about facts.

“Tell the captain, we'll be bringing the men as soon as we get them loose,” the smaller man said.

“Captain's at the helm. Deliver the message yourself. I'll make sure these men are released and impressed into service. This will have to be a group effort. I fear we've lost one sail already,” he added for effect.

The two men bolted for the hatch. When they disappeared, men inside the hold began to rattle their chains.

“Stand back,” he ordered the Striker's crew, as he approached the iron monstrosity the men had been impounded in. “Captain Frink, step forward.”

The group parted and the weathered looking captain closed the distance between the back of the cell and the gate.

“Thought you was dead.”

“Not quite,” Henry replied, opening the gate, his instincts honed to Frink's every move. “Do you fancy avenging the mutiny of your ship?”

Frink's bulbous nose wrinkled and his beady eyes narrowed. “Aye, and then some.”

“We've a gale raining down upon us. This might be your only chance.”

“I don't like being indebted to you. Why so obliging?” Frink asked. “Or do you plan to stab me in the back?”

“I'm not like you, Frink.”

“Aren't you now?”

Henry did not speak. No explanations were needed. “I'll make it worth your while,” he promised.

The cell door creaked as Frink moved into the open. Henry didn't trust the fiend, but he needed him. He pushed the cage closed.

Several men jeered, “Make it worth our while, Captain.”

“Why take such a chance?” Frink asked. “Let me guess. You want your turn with the woman.”

Henry nodded. “She's all I want. You can have everything else.”

Frink's laughter filled the void. “I'll be damned! That wench has bewitched us all.”

• • •

Percy stood at the helm and gazed down upon the swells beginning to crash over the rails. So far, the damage inflicted upon the
Striker
had been slight but Percy feared the center of the storm would weaken the rudder and throw them perilously off course. Perhaps even crash them upon the rocky coast along France's shoreline, if he couldn't steer them away in time.

His muscles complained against the powerful pull against the helm. He'd held the steering mechanism steady for nearly an hour now and his arms felt like leaden weights. His neck muscles strained against the wind, and his back ached like he'd pulled a cask of heavy rum up a rocky incline. Seawater bathed him and occasionally his stomach heaved against the distasteful brine. The more he steered the ship ahead of the storm to prevent shredded sail, the more his braces caught the crosswinds. Fearful the storm would get the best of them, his spirits lifted when more men came pouring out of the hold. One by one, each man moved onto the deck to man the lines. But as much as the sight brought relief, his teeth ground together in concern. There was only one place this crew could have come from — the stockade.

Percy scanned the deck in an effort to monitor each man's activities. Rain drove down upon them in sheets. There was movement along the lanyard rail. Two dark forms emerged, slipping along the deck, making for the gig that banged against the side of the ship in protest.

“Stay clear of the buoys,” he hollered, a briny spray spewing from his mouth.

One figure stretched to loosen the straps. Or was there was a problem with the knots? In any case, the cloaked figures were at a disadvantage. Any moment the ship could be slammed by another errant wave. And no one would be able to locate a man who'd fallen overboard should any one of his crew fall into the violent froth.

“You there!” he shouted, pointing to a man lurking on deck. “Get those fools off the deck!”

The figure, rotund and slow to obey, peered upward, shielding his face with a hand. He then glanced at the lanyard side to discover the source of Percy's concern. When the man did not move in the direction of the endangered duo, Percy's fury intensified. As captain, it fell to him to ensure that everyone on board was safe. He'd be damned if he lost another man.

Percy called to Ollie. “Take my place,” he ordered.

“Aye, sir!” Ollie responded immediately, strapping himself to the helm.

Percy could not abide fools. What had gotten into his crew? He rushed down the steps to the lower deck. But before he landed on the last step, something hard pelted him, forcing him to fall flat on his face, gasping for air.

“What the — ” He choked and inhaled a lung-filling breath. A quick glance upward revealed why he'd been caught off-guard.

Captain Frink stood above him. “I want my ship back, boy!”

Frink's boot thrust forward but Percy rolled away from the kick that would've keeled his head and rendered him unconscious — or worse, killed him. He rolled over and grabbed the captain's foot and twisted the limb sideways, flipping the man onto his back. A swift turn and a downward thrust enabled Percy to ram his elbow into the man's solar plexus. The captain wheezed, but recovered to push Percy aside.

“You underestimated me, Sexton.”

“Not possible,” Percy admitted. “How did you get loose?”

Frink grinned wickedly. “I've my share of friends,” he offered, “same as you.”

The captain leaped in for another left-hand jab to Percy's chest. The shock against his ribs sent Percy reeling backwards. He gathered what strength he had left and lunged sideways, penetrating his fist into Frink's open mouth, cracking the man's teeth and jaw. The captain sank to his knees clutching his face, spitting blood.

Jacko and two of his men surrounded Frink. Within minutes, the captain was bound and manacled to the rail.

“What was he babbling about?” Jacko asked.

Percy's mind thrummed with possibilities, all of which led him to the fact that they had a traitor on board. Someone had cut Frink loose, but who? Who benefited by the chaos?

Frink eyed Percy strangely. “You … slow-witted … ” he wheezed.

“Shut it, Frink!” Percy shouted.

He scanned the deck where most of his men struggled to right the ship against a deluge of sea spray. Where was Constance? Was she still locked in the captain's cabin? Or had Frink done something horrible to her?

Then it occurred to him. The gig! He spun on his heels and headed for the small boat. The two figures he'd seen there were now gone, but thankfully, the gig was reasonably secure. He noticed one of the straps had been cut about the time a rogue wave took him by surprise. The wash pounded him against the ship, wedging him between the gig and the side of the bridge as a result. When the water cleared, he was trapped.

“Don't move, Captain!” Guffald rushed in and cut several lines to free him. The tiny vessel slipped over the side of the ship and hit the water, breaking into pieces.

Percy accepted Guffald's hand and offered his thanks. “Did you see them?” he asked.

“See who?”

“Two figures skulking here,” he said, concerned two members of his crew had fallen overboard.

Guffald held onto the side of the ship as a wave drenched him head to foot. “Not two figures.” The man grimaced. “Two women.”

“Women?” Percy scoffed. “The hell you say!” His eyes darted overboard to scan the rough swells. Had Lady Constance or Mrs. Mortimer escaped from their cabins and been swept overboard?

Guffald pointed to a dark alcove beneath the juncture where the gig had been secured. “I caught them trying to drop the gig.”

Percy followed the length of the man's finger. He squinted until he made out two figures huddled together, whimpering, soaked through and through.

“Constance?” he asked.

The two women screamed as a wave washed over them. Taken by surprise, Percy and Guffald were knocked into the side of the
Striker
and then slipped on the receding water. Just before Guffald disappeared over the side of the ship, Percy outstretched his hand and caught the lieutenant by the forearm. He grit his teeth as he struggled to lift the man safely back on board. Then, he turned to face the two women and none-too-gently grabbed Constance by the arm.

Yanking her up, he said, “You've had enough adventure for one night.”

He lifted Constance into his arms and carried her to the hatchway, expecting Guffald to usher Mrs. Mortimer behind him.

As they descended the stairs to the lower decks, Percy found the companionway in disrepair. Conditions below had worsened since he'd last left Constance alone in her cabin. His cabin door dangled off the hinge and banged against the wall, while Banks lay in front of the portal, snoring, oblivious. Angry and shouting an expletive to the lazy cur, he kicked open the swinging door and entered the room.

His foot grazed an empty bottle. It then rolled to the bunk with a clankety clank.
Damn!
She'd gotten that cantankerous fool drunk and escaped on her own. Furious, Percy dropped Constance onto the bunk and bent closely to ensure she heard him. “I warned you about this ship.”

Guffald ushered Mrs. Mortimer into the room. Percy caught sight of the woman out of the corner of his eye and snapped. “Not here. Put the old hen back in her cabin.”

“Please sir, let me stay,” Mrs. Mortimer cooed, trying to break away from Guffald. “I'll not be a bother. Only allow me to tend my mistress.”

“I'll tend your mistress, madam,” he explained. “Guffald will tend to you. And Guffald,” he warned without sparing the man a glance. “Explain to Mrs. Mortimer what will happen the next time Lady Constance tries to escape.”

“Aye,” Guffald responded gruffly. The room echoed with Guffald's and Mrs. Mortimer's retreating footsteps. The door closed roughly, though not all the way, and they were once again alone.

Constance shot him a defiant stare. Her mutinous eyes cut into him like daggers. But he was also conscious of her scent and the state of her sodden clothes. The dammed woman was a menace, a thorn in his side. She'd nearly cost him everything. And yet he wanted to embrace her, assure himself that she was unharmed. There was only one man he trusted, Simon Danbury. Without Simon, he'd be unable to locate Celeste's killers. He needed Simon, just as much as he needed Constance Danbury to stay alive.

“It's clear you cannot be left alone.”

The captain roared like a half-starved lion. He was angry and rightfully so. Outwardly his fury exaggerated the height of his brow and the length of his nose. His behavior would be almost comical, if she wasn't afraid of him. Afraid he would raise a hand against her, punish her for all the trouble she'd caused.

Instead of slapping her, however, he waged a silent war, until finally, he broke the silence.

“You've caused me more than my fair share of trouble,” he accused. His lip curled awkwardly, drawing attention to the crooked hook of his dark mustache. He crossed his arms over his barrel chest and cocked his chin sideways.