Jo Goodman (9 page)

Confronting two of them was the same as having to face all of them. Two now. Four tomorrow. The entire population of Sydney Town the day after.

The trouble might start with an irksome loss of inventory. If you were a merchant, you might discover broken windows in your storefront. If you were a miner, your claim could be taken over. There might be a fire of unknown origin or a crippling injury from a fall. Or, if they weren't of a singular mind to create accidents, you might just get a shiv poked in your side and yanked across your belly so you were gutted like a fish. It was a hard way to die but a good lesson to your friends.

As Grey watched, the Ducks took up position on either side of the boy and lifted him by his upper arms. His feet dangled several inches above the dock, and when he kicked at the bullies one of his shoes flew off. It sailed in the air, spinning end over end before it landed squarely in the fishmonger's cart.

Even without witnessing the look that passed between the Ducks, Grey knew what was going to happen next. They hoisted the hapless lad a full sixteen inches off the dock and carried him like a trophy in the direction of the fish wagon. The boy realized what was going to happen as well, and he renewed his struggles. He was unexpectedly silent throughout the ordeal, squirming and wriggling like a hooked worm and with just about as much sound. Somehow his hat had been pushed even lower on his face, and now it covered his eyes completely. If they changed direction suddenly and dropped him in the bay instead of the cart, the boy wouldn't know it until he heard the splash.

There was some laughter on the wharf now, a chuckle here and there as the merchants and dockworkers realized the Ducks weren't intending any real harm. There was relief in the low rumble. A few men coughed behind their hands or cleared their throats, trying to disguise their amusement. No one really wanted to encourage the Ducks. There was no telling when their playfulness would turn vicious and who their next victim might be.

Grey's small smile wasn't prompted by relief. Although he wasn't particularly proud of it, he was being genuinely entertained at the boy's expense. He could just make out the boy's mouth opening and snapping shut again as his ankles were grabbed. The Ducks began swinging him by his arms and legs, back and forth, higher and higher, until they started their count.

One... two... threeeee....Grey's gunmetal glance narrowed as the boy was sent flying. At its apex the boy's lean frame reached a height of about ten feet before he dropped like a stone, headfirst, into the fish cart. Fish flopped over the sides of the wagon and landed on the wharf. The monger scrambled to save his catch, getting down on his hands and knees to pick up the fish and toss them back. The boy came up, gasping for air, and got slapped in the face with a mackerel for his effort. The Ducks thought this was funny in the extreme. They laughed hard and loud until one of the fish came spinning tail over dorsal in their direction.

The bigger of the two Ducks made a better target. The fish struck him in the center of his chest and he actually had to take a step backward to keep his balance. His mate saw the humor in the situation but not the fish that eventually whacked him in the side of his head.

The boy was on his feet now, standing in the middle of the wagon, knee deep in fish, hefting them like knives and hurling them like darts. His arsenal was extensive, and the Ducks weren't of a mind to take the attack until he ran out of ammunition. With a great roar of
Kill the bugger!
they mounted a frontal assault, charging the wagon so the boy was shaken off-balance.

Grey took a step forward as the boy toppled and the Ducks scrambled onto the cart. With a casualness that belied any urgency he felt, Grey tucked his scope into his jacket and removed the blade from his boot. He concealed it in his sleeve and began walking toward the wagon. He stopped when the boy, owing to superb reflexes or dumb luck, managed to writhe free of eighty pounds of fish covering his torso and vault himself over the side of the cart. The Ducks came up holding fishtails but no boy, and their angry stomping soon mired them to mid-calf in slippery, stinking fish.

Grey shook his head at their adult-sized temper tantrum. He supposed the fun was definitely at an end. They were glaring at him now, not because they'd seen him smile—because he hadn't—but because the boy was running at him full tilt as if seeking his protection.

He sidestepped the boy, grabbed him by the collar of his flannel shirt, and put him at his back. "Stay right there," he ordered. The child was breathing hard. Grey supposed he couldn't catch his breath to answer, but he felt the brim of the boy's hat rub up and down against his spine. He took the motion as agreement.

The Ducks had freed themselves of scales, gills, and fins and were advancing on Grey. Behind them the fishmonger salvaged what he could of his load and hurried to lead his horse and wagon out of the way.

"Gentlemen," Grey drawled. His voice was like honey over velvet. "Can I assist you in some way?"

They knew him. Grey Janeway was not someone they would purposely set out to bother, but neither could they back down. "G'day, Mr. Janeway," the brawnier of the two men said. "Name's Bobby Burns. My mate here's Jolly."

Grey greeted them formally. "Mr. Burns. Mr. Jolly." He could feel the boy trying to peek around his arm to get a closer look at them. He pushed the lad back in place. "You want...?" He purposely let his sentence trail off. Let them state exactly what they came for.

Uncomfortable, Bobby Burns shifted his considerable bulk from one foot to the other. "Aww, Mr. Janeway," he said almost apologetically. "You know we come for the boy."

"What boy?" Grey asked coolly.

"The one hidin' behind your back like he was a joey and you were a bloody roo."

"I'd have him in my front pocket then, wouldn't I?"

Burns wasn't sure what to say to that. "It was just an expression."

"A bad one." Grey looked at Jolly. He was fingering the scar that went from one corner of his mouth and disappeared into his reddish blond side whiskers. "Do you have an expression, Mr. Jolly?"

The Duck shook his head. Nothing came to his mind.

Grey continued, unruffled and pleasant. "I'm expecting a delivery this morning, and the boy, the one who's
attached himself to me like a barnacle to a ship's hull, is helping me collect it."

"He works for you?" Bobby Burns asked.

"He works for me."

"You didn't say anything when we grabbed him."

"That's because I didn't mind. He'd been running up and down the wharf long enough. He's a bit of a dervish, you understand, but eager to please."

The Ducks nodded in unison.

"So I didn't care that you took him in hand, but now that everyone's gone fishing, I think it's over." He pointed past Jolly's shoulder. "Our ship's preparing to drop anchor soon. Do you really want to argue about the boy?"

"Didn't know he worked for you, Mr. Janeway," Bobby said.

"Now you do," Grey said quietly. He pinned them both back with his flint-colored eyes and waited.

They shifted again, exchanged glances, then Jolly spoke up. "We have a ship to meet, Mr. Janeway. Pleasure talking to you."

"Surely was," Bobby Burns added.

Grey watched them go. When their backs were turned and he was certain their attention was on the incoming clipper, Grey let the knife concealed in his sleeve drop to his hand. He bent and slipped it back into his boot.

"You would have used that?" the boy asked huskily.

"If I had to," Grey said with complete indifference. He turned and eyed the boy critically. His shoulders were hunched again, and he was staring at the ground. Grey started to raise the brim of the boy's hat to get a better look at his face, but the child flinched as if he were about to be struck and grabbed the hat, jamming it on even tighter.

"How old are you?"

"Fourteen." The reply was sullen and reluctantly offered.

"You're alone?"

The response this time was a nod.

"Orphan?" Grey didn't waste any more words in asking the questions than the boy did answering them.

"Yes, sir."

"What's your business with that ship?"

"I'm leaving on it."

Grey almost laughed at that. "You have money?" The absence of a reply this time told Grey all he needed to know. His hand snaked out, and he grabbed the boy's chin and raised it. "They'll pitch you overboard if they find you stowed away. You're too scrawny to be any use to them but as fish bait. And how were you planning to get to the ship? You'll need money if you expect one of the scows to take you. They'll smell the desperation on you and ask for something you can't—or shouldn't—be willing to give." Grey's fingers tightened. He gave the chin a little shake and bent his head closer. His voice was still soft, hypnotically so, and deep with intensity. He stared at the large green eyes raised fearfully in his direction. "And if they realize you're a woman, you'll be flat on your back instead of bent over the bow."

Tears flooded her eyes.

"For God's sake," Grey said. "Don't cry here."

Her attempt to blink them back was only marginally successful. Several dripped over the rim of her lower lashes. She wrestled her chin free and wiped them away quickly. Glancing around, she looked to see if anyone had noticed.

"Everyone else is occupied with the ship," Grey said.

"I thought you didn't want them to see me cry."

"
I
don't want to see you cry." He observed that she flinched almost imperceptibly. God, he thought, spare him from overly sensitive females. In spite of the way he seemed to be able to lash her with mere words, Grey noticed that she continued to stare at him. "What's your name?"

"Berkeley Shaw."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-two."

Grey was mildly surprised and not entirely convinced. He knew she was older than the fourteen-year-old boy she'd pretended to be, but he wouldn't have put eight years on her. "Is there someone I should be turning you over to?"

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"A husband? Brother? Father?" He paused. "A pimp?"

"No!"

"None of them?"

"No," she said more softly. "None of them."

Grey found himself disconcerted by her slightly awed, wide-eyed regard. "Why are you staring at me?"

"Those men, they called you Mr. Janeway."

"That's right."

"Is that your name?"

He was more amused than frustrated. "Do you have a better one?"

Actually, Berkeley Shaw thought she might. She refrained from saying it because coincidence loomed so large that she couldn't accept what her eyes were seeing. The man who stepped forward to protect her from the Sydney Ducks couldn't be Graham Denison. "Will you help me get to the clipper?" she asked.

The change in subject didn't bother Grey. In a way it was a relief. "What's your business there?"

"I have a letter I need to deliver."

Grey felt his confusion mount. "Then you don't want to leave."

For entirely different reasons, Berkeley was confused as well. She continued to search his face. There were similarities, to be sure, with the artist's sketch she'd seen from a Boston newspaper. Jonna Thorne had given Anderson one of the accounts that had been written about Graham Denison, alias Falconer.

The article was five years old now, and Jonna had warned them the sketch was no better than an adequate likeness. It didn't capture either his intensity, she had told them, or the self-indulgent pose he sometimes affected. At best, the sketch would serve to eliminate impostors.

"You're staring again," Grey said.

Berkeley blinked. "I'm sorry." The details of the sketch, the ones that she could remember, faded from her mind's eye. She wished now that she had pressed Anderson harder to allow her to study it. He had assured her it wasn't important, and now that it might be, Anderson and the clipping were gone. "Have I been rude?" she asked earnestly. "I haven't meant to be."

Grey waved her concern aside. "Answer my question."

She tried to remember what it might have been. "You mean about leaving?"

"That's the one."

It really hadn't been a question the way he had put it to her, but Berkeley didn't think he wanted to hear that. "I'm staying," she said.

"Then you lied about wanting to go?"

"I've changed my mind." She added quickly, "But I still have a letter to take to the ship. Will you help me?"

Grey knew he should say no. He already had proof that she was trouble, and he didn't need any reason beyond that to refuse her. Besides the fact that she lied to him and had shown the good sense of a jackaroo, she was possessed of a pair of eyes that were so deep and green and compelling that no exact likeness with any natural thing was possible. They had more facets than an exquisitely cut emerald, and they were darker than a spring leaf. Even a forest pool had a bottom; Berkeley Shaw's eyes did not.

It didn't seem to matter at all that she smelled like fish.

"You're staring," she told him.

So he was. He didn't apologize for it.

"Will you help me?" she asked again.