Of Noble Birth (38 page)

Joseph cowered in
Sampson’s presence. “I didn’t mean nothin’ by it! I
swear.”

“Perhaps it’s time to show
our one-armed man what happens to those who make trouble. Come on,
Old Joe. You first.”

“But you know me, sir,”
Joseph cried. “I’m harmless enough. Just an old man, minding his
business.”

“Didn’t sound as though
you were minding your business to me.” Sampson motioned to a guard,
who grabbed Joseph by the shirt front and hauled him up. “It’s time
for a flogging, boys!”

Everyone poured out of the
mess hall behind Nathaniel, Joseph, and those who pulled them both
along. Unable to keep up with the quick pace of the guards because
of the shackles on his feet, Joseph fell and received a kick in the
ribs for his folly.

“Get up, coward!” Sampson
raged, drawing back for a blow to the head.

Nathaniel grasped
Sampson’s fist in his hand. “Give him a minute.”

The other prisoners stared
at them, mouths agape, as silence fell over the room like a
blanket.

“Touch me again and you’re
a dead man,” Sampson threatened, spittle wetting his
lips.

Nathaniel’s eyes met those
of the clerk, and he refused to look away. Finally Sampson pulled
his hand back and turned to the guards. “Give Joseph double the
usual for this man’s interference. And give One-arm double as well.
He’ll soon learn what I will tolerate and what I won’t.”

The flogging triangle was
connected to what used to be the main mast. Though not particularly
large or threatening in looks, it waited ominously while the other
prisoners formed a tight circle around Nathaniel, Joseph, Sampson,
and a single guard.

The guard removed Joseph’s
shirt and tied his hands and feet to the triangle, then made ready
with the cat-o’-nine.

“No, please!” Joseph
jerked as the first lash struck his bare skin, causing several
welts to appear.

Nathaniel cringed at the
sight, trying to block the other man’s cries from his mind, but
they seemed to echo off the sky.

Most of the prisoners
watched with disinterest, as though a flogging were such a common
occurrence as to warrant little or no attention, but others seemed
to enjoy the spectacle. Some even encouraged the guard to continue
when he finally stopped.

Only the chaplain showed
any empathy for Joseph’s suffering. He stood with a pained
expression on his face throughout the ordeal.

When it was over, Sampson
took hold of the whip to administer Nathaniel’s blows himself.
“This will teach you some respect, Cripple,” he said. “You think I
haven’t noticed your haughty attitude? It certainly won’t last long
around here.”

A guard began to remove
Nathaniel’s shirt, but Nathaniel jerked away and took it off
himself. A bewhiskered man tied his arm and both feet to the
triangle as Sampson shook out the nine thongs of the
whip.

Pain exploded across
Nathaniel’s back as the clerk dealt him a hearty blow. But he was
ready. He gritted his teeth and focused his thoughts on other
things, imagining Alexandra standing beside him, looking on. He
would not want her to see them break him. For her, he would not cry
out... or beg for mercy. He would endure his punishment like a man,
and when it was all over, she would comfort him by kissing his
eyelids closed and pressing her small, cool hands to his burning
cheeks. Alexandra could ease the pain.
Oh
God, where was she?

Soon something trickled
down Nathaniel’s back, and he knew it must be blood. Only the
thought of Alexandra watching gave him the strength to stand, the
will to endure until silence replaced the roar of the crowd.
Finally Sampson stopped and threw down the whip, and Nathaniel
slumped, letting himself dangle, at last, from the ropes that held
him.

“It’s time for work,”
Sampson announced. “Get these animals ashore and stacking shot at
the arsenal before they think this man’s some kind of hero. And put
One-Arm here in solitary confinement.”

The clerk stomped away,
and Nathaniel felt a small sense of victory. Alexandra would have
been proud of him. The flogging hadn’t given Sampson the
satisfaction he’d been looking for—and he and the clerk both knew
it.

* * *

On the surface,
Alexandra’s second day went very much the same as her first, except
that the duke was about the house. Fear that he would soon discover
the broken lock on his metal box left Alexandra edgy. So did her
apprehension that the milkman would not deliver her message to
Trenton, as he had agreed. What if Mr. Donaldson read her words, or
didn’t bother to keep his bargain? Worse, what if he betrayed her
to the duke?

She hauled water, beat
rugs, blackened the stove, and cut vegetables for Cook before
sitting down to a light dinner, but her thoughts were always on
Greystone—and Nathaniel. She remembered the pirate captain standing
on the deck of his ship, the wind whipping his hair, the smell of
his clothes, the warmth of him sleeping beside her, the rich sound
of his voice... and feared she’d go mad with worry and longing if
she didn’t find him soon. She’d had to break the lock, and she’d
had to trust the milkman. For Nathaniel, she’d take the same risks
again.

After dinner Alexandra
began to scrub the kitchen floor, only to be interrupted by the
robust form of Mrs. Wright.

“His Grace and Lord
Clifton would like to see you,” the housekeeper said, a slight
frown on her face. “They’re in the study.”

Alexandra’s heart felt as
though it came to a sudden, skidding stop. The box! Had he
discovered her tampering? “Lady Anne mentioned me to them?” she
asked hopefully.

“Must have. A new hire
doesn’t warrant much of their attention. They usually leave that
sort of thing to me.”

Alexandra rushed up to the
attic to improve her appearance as best she could, then headed to
the second floor. The memory of snooping in the duke’s study made
her cheeks burn, but she paused to collect herself before knocking
timidly at the door.

“Come in.” The voice
belonged to the duke, but it was Lord Clifton who stood and came
toward her when she entered.

“Alexandra.” He gave her a
congenial smile.

“You’re looking fit, my
lord,” she replied.

Greystone sat at his desk,
scratching something into a thick black book. He looked up at their
exchange, put his pen in its well, and leaned back in his chair.
His eyes traveled slowly from her feet to her white
mobcap.

“What are you doing here?”
he asked.

Alexandra blinked in
surprise. “You sent for me, Your Grace.”

“I mean, what are you
doing in my house?”

“I—I’m working off the
dress I took from your daughter, Your Grace.”

His eyes narrowed. “My son
tells me you have some connection to Nathaniel.”

“No connection, Your
Grace. I was abducted against my will. The pirate mistook me for
your daughter, Lady Anne.”

Now that they were
face-to-face, the duke’s gaze proved more unsettling than Alexandra
had anticipated. His eyes were shaped like Nathaniel’s, but where
the pirate captain’s were vibrant, filled with unspeakable passion,
Greystone’s were devoid of any warmth. Still, the flesh and blood
version of the man resembled Nathaniel much more than his picture
had. The square cut of his chin, the high cheekbones, even the arch
of his brows were all familiar, except that the duke was a much
smaller man.

Alexandra shivered.
Greystone had tried to murder his own son. He had succeeded in
killing the housekeeper who had saved Nathaniel. And he’d brought
syphilis home to his wife. Alexandra’s intuition backed everything
she had ever heard about him, and she knew then that the duke’s
heart had to be as hard as the flinty look in his eyes.

He pressed his fingertips
together. “What brought you here?”

“Once Nathaniel released
me, I tried to find work as a seamstress. But I had no luck. I had
nowhere else to go, and I thought”—she paused and glanced at Lord
Clifton—”I thought perhaps I could work off the dress I took from
Lady Anne. At least I’d have a roof over my head.”

The duke stood and
positioned his hands on the desk as he leaned forward. “I see. And,
of course, you have no contact with Nathaniel Kent or his cohorts
now.”

Alexandra had the uncanny
feeling that Greystone could see right through her. “No. But I know
where they are,” she said, hoping to improve her
credibility.

Lord Clifton spoke
impetuously. “We already have Nath—”

“Jake!” The duke slammed
his fist on the desk and gave his son a silencing glare. Then he
turned his attention back to her. “Where?”

“I overheard them talking.
They were going to Newcastle.”

“See, Father? After
everything he did to her, why would she sympathize with him? Though
I daresay, I think he was a bit taken with her.”

“A mere needlewoman? How
quaint.” Greystone sat back in his chair and picked up a clean
quill, twirling the nib in his mouth. “You can go back to your
work,” he told her, “but remember one thing: you’ll be sorry if
you’re lying. I shall be watching every move you make. And you do
not want to make an enemy of me.”

Trenton patted the pocket
that contained Alexandra’s message as he waited for the duke
outside the Greentree Tavern. The note had indicated that the duke
might come to the tavern alone. After Trenton had spent three
nights in the shadow of the pub, only to be disappointed, his luck
had finally improved. Tonight the duke had arrived without so much
as a valet or a footman to interfere. And Trenton had already made
quick work of the coachman. The poor man lay in his underwear,
bound and gagged, behind bushes not more than ten feet
away.

It was a cool night for
late May, with fog as thin as a watery gruel swirling in the
streets. Trenton would have preferred the fog to be thicker, but
one couldn’t have everything. At least Greystone was
alone.

As the hour grew late, the
tavern began to empty, but there was no sign of the duke.
Uncomfortably clad in the ill-fitting blue livery of the duke’s
driver, Trenton grew impatient. Now that Greystone had actually
come to the tavern, Trenton was eager to put an end to the
waiting.

When the duke finally
stepped outside, he was no longer alone. A young woman, dressed
like a prostitute, hung on his arm.

Trenton coughed to hide
his surprise, but Greystone and his companion paid him no
attention. The woman played with the fur on the collar of the
duke’s cloak and giggled when he whispered something in her
ear.

Stepping up to the
driver’s box, Trenton pulled the team to the curb, keeping his head
averted. Greystone gave the woman’s behind a meaningful grab as he
handed her up, then laughed and climbed in.

“Hurry,” the duke ordered,
rapping on the roof.

Trenton merged the
carriage into the street, heading north, away from the city’s
lights and people. Silence reigned inside the conveyance, making
him wonder what was happening, but he was grateful for whatever
kept Nathaniel’s father from noticing where they were
going.

By the time Greystone
finally realized they were heading in the wrong direction, only
cattle and a few lonely farmhouses dotted the
countryside.

“Bloody idiot!” he cursed,
rapping on the roof. “Where are you taking us?”

Trenton pulled to the side
of the road. They’d come far enough. “Get out,” he
cried.

The command proved
unnecessary. The duke barreled through the door, still bellowing at
Trenton, who he assumed to be his coachman.

Trenton pulled his knife
from his sleeve and jumped to the ground.

“What’s this?” Greystone’s
rage-reddened face gaped in astonishment. “Who are you? What do you
think you’re doing?”

“Never mind me. It’s what
you do that counts, if you want to come out of this alive,” Trenton
said.

“See here, if this is some
sort of robbery attempt, I carry very little on my
person—”