The Wild Princess (39 page)

Fifty-three

Louise felt cold, dreadfully cold, head to foot. From her waist down, she was submerged in the Thames River's slime—dark as tea, the consistency of congealed gravy. The upper part of her body stretched across a shattered door of the coach but was no less wet. She'd swallowed mouthfuls of the filthy water before kicking off her shoes and hauling herself up onto the only part of the broken coach within her reach that seemed not to be sinking.

She was fairly certain a bone in her shoulder or collarbone had snapped during her fall. Her ribs ached, and the pain whenever she took a breath was unbearable. The stench coming off of the water filled her mouth and nose. She concentrated on drawing only shallow puffs of air into her lungs between coughing fits.

Swimming was impossible without the use of both arms, even if she had been able to free herself of the wretched, water-soaked gown. She prayed a boat would come along and rescue her before she lost the last of her strength and slipped off her makeshift raft into the river to drown.

She might have lain there for two minutes or two hours, for she lost all sense of time. A guttural throbbing sound roused her from her semiconscious state. Clinging with her good arm to the door, she turned her head, trying not to move her shoulder or shift her torso and thereby anger her ribs.

A boat. Oh, Lord, yes—a boat.

It was moving swiftly toward her, propelled by twin paddle wheels, one on either side of the wide hull. She hoped the captain saw her because there was no way she could move out of his way. She was reassured when she saw a figure standing at the bow, waving to her. Never in her life had she seen a happier sight. She blinked, hoping she wasn't hallucinating.

The captain brought the steam-powered boat chugging up to meet her as gently as if he'd been docking the queen's yacht. Her heart swelled with gratitude.

Down came a rope and a shout from above. “Hold on a moment longer there, miss. We've got you. Never fear.”

Although Louise couldn't see her rescuer from water level, she heard his shouted instructions over the thump-thump-thump of the engine and understood he was telling her to slip the open loop around her body. The least pressure on her shoulder and chest caused her increased pain, but she struggled to obey, thinking only of resting safe and warm upon a dry deck. She gritted her teeth, eased her left arm and injured shoulder through the loop, then leaned over to guide the rope around her back and thrust in her good arm.

The man must have been watching closely. As soon as the rope was secure, he began pulling her up.

Louise swallowed a shriek of agony as the rope cinched tighter around her chest. Her weight, so much more due to the sodden gown, added to the pressure of the rope tightening around her. She fought to stay conscious. Now that her rescue was guaranteed, all she could think of was her family. She had ejected her sisters from the coach, along with Lorne and the duke. But had they survived the onslaught of attackers? From a distance she still heard shots being fired, the ring of bayonets on sabers, shouts of men, and terrified cries of horses.

But her thoughts were cut short when, with a final effort, two men in dark suits leaned down over the gunwales of their boat, grabbed her by the arms, and pulled her up and over the wooden rail then down with a careless thud onto the deck.

“Oh, please, gently!” she cried. “Sirs, I'm broken.”

Their rough hands released her. She looked up into the faces of two strangers.

One was older than the other, his coarse red hair whipped up by the wind, as he wore no cap. He observed her with dull-eyed marsupial interest, devoid of emotion. “Open her up, boy,” he growled at his companion. “Let's get out of here.”

“Yessir.” The younger one beamed at her then bolted away toward the drive house. His exuberance reminded her of a beagle on the scent.

Red hair turned back to her, his eyes fixing on her, flitting away then back again, as if in deep calculation. “Went fishin' and caught us a princess. That right, dearie?”

She was in too much pain to react to his rudeness. “You don't look like watermen,” she murmured. In fact, they didn't sound like it either. Their accents were wrong.
American?
She tried to at least straighten up to a more dignified sitting position from her sprawl on the teak planks. “But I thank you with all my heart. You've saved my life.”

The man leaned down and peered at her gown then still closer at her face. “Which one is you?”

If he was American, maybe he knew Byrne? She felt an immediate surge of hope at the thought of her lover. If Stephen had been down here instead of up on the bridge, he'd have swept her up in his arms, laid her on a cushion, and covered her shivering body with a toasty quilt.

“Do you suppose you might find me a blanket. Anything for warmth. I'm so terribly c—”

The stranger reached down and grabbed her hair by the roots. He wrenched her head back, forcing her to make eye contact with him. “I said, what's your name?”

To as much as touch a princess, if you were not her husband or a family member, was unimaginably rude, a breach of etiquette as well as the law. She was so shocked she could only stare at him and answer.

“I am Princess Louise, the marchioness of Lorne.” Since she didn't know whether it would help or hurt her cause to lie, it didn't seem worth pretending she was someone she was not.

He released her hair and stood up, hands on hips. His satisfied smile turned her stomach. She should have lied.

Louise held her injured shoulder with her opposite hand to keep the bones from shifting against each other. Held immobile, it hurt a little less.

“That's grand,” the man said. He stood above her another moment then lifted one foot and nudged her shoulder.

“Ah!” she cried. “Please don't. It may be broken.” Or dislocated. Just as bad.

“No need to tie you down then, is there? You won't be going anywhere.” He turned and trudged away from her toward the other man at the wheel.

“Please. Take me to the nearest dock,” she shouted after him. “I need to get back to my family.” She had to let them know she wasn't dead. Had to find out what had happened to them and to Stephen, and how many men they'd lost in the explosion and fighting. “I'll pay you anything you like. Anything!” she screamed at the red-haired man's back.

He didn't respond, although she was certain he'd heard her. The younger one turned and glanced once at her then gave a whoop and did a little jig at the wheel.

So . . . they considered her a prize.

What did they want her for? If these were Fenian raiders, they might easily have killed her by now. Did they intend to leave her body for the police to find—like those two unfortunate civil servants in the park? Or would they hold her for ransom? Both Parliament and her mother had pledged noncompliance with Fenian demands. Then again, what if they simply spirited her away as their prisoner of war, intending to keep her indefinitely, saying they would only release Her Royal Highness when Ireland ruled herself. Which would be never, if her mother had any say in the matter.

Either the foul water she'd swallowed, or the realization her life might well end within the next few minutes, sent a spurt of sour bile up into her throat. Louise closed her eyes and fought back her fear.

Fifty-four

Byrne lowered the binoculars. “She didn't drown. They've got her.”

“Thank God,” Lorne said, grinning.

Only then did it occur to him that Lorne didn't know who had pulled his wife out of the drink or what Rupert Clark was capable of. He made short work of an explanation, watching Lorne's face transform from joy to utter despair.

“But what will they
do
with her?”

“I don't know. Doesn't matter. We have to catch up with them and take her back before they reach land.” Byrne tossed the binoculars back to the marquess and raced from the bow to the cockpit of the tug, with Lorne close behind.

“Why before? Wouldn't it be easier at a dock, on dry land?”

“No. They'll have arranged to meet their mates. We don't know how many of them will be waiting, and there's no way to alert the police.” Byrne glanced at the old man and his son, trying to gauge how much they'd be willing to risk for the life of a princess. “See that steamer up ahead, Cap?”

“The one just hauled that lady outta the drink?” The old man chuckled his approval. “He done a good job gettin' her out alive, I'd say.”

“Those two men are the ones who blew up the bridge,” Byrne said. The captain's brow rose as one piece above milky eyes. “And the woman he just beat us to is Princess Louise.”

“Gor',” said the boy.

“ 'Tis a dark day on the river,” the captain said, shaking his head.

“It will be darker if we don't stop that boat. Can you catch up with them?”

“Don't know.” The captain frowned. “Them's pretty sprightly boats them old ferries. Tugs're built more for pushing and pulling than speed.”

“But your engine is powerful. You have a screw propeller, no paddle wheels—more thrust, right? Maybe up to more stress than theirs. If you had to run her hard, could you overtake them?”

Byrne saw decision flash in the old man's eyes. “Mebbe.” He turned to the boy. “Johnny, get busy with that boiler. Give me all she's got.” He looked back at Byrne. “I'll bring you close to the bastard as I can. How you get aboard, I've no idea.”

Neither do I,
Byrne thought, but that's exactly what he'd have to do. Or Louise would be lost to him.

Fifty-five

Louise propped herself up on the wide, wooden planks of the deck and worried her bottom lip between her teeth. She breathed carefully, supporting herself with her uninjured arm as she looked around, unwilling to give up yet.

A dingy canvas canopy, shelter against sun or rain, rose above her head. The men who'd taken her were fifteen feet away, tending to the boiler and wheel. She was ten or fewer feet from the rail. If she got to her feet, or even crawled to the side of the boat before they noticed, she could throw herself overboard. But jumping back into the river, in her damaged condition, she'd likely drown before anyone else came along. Her captors likely knew this. Even if the boat had been running much closer to shore she wasn't capable of swimming with just one good arm.

That left the only other possibility she could imagine. She must find a weapon with which to defend herself. If she made it difficult enough for these two to do whatever they had in mind, she might buy enough time for someone on shore or from among the royal party to realize she was in trouble and send help. Though, from the ominous clatter and gunfire still coming from the direction of the bridge, she guessed the queen's guard had their hands full. It might be a while before they took a head count to see who was missing.

She scanned the deck, hopeful of finding something sharp, heavy, or pointed. Anything at all she could jab, throw, or swing in self-defense.

The only possibility she saw was a long-handled boat hook with a metal prong on one end. They'd used it to help haul her onboard. But the red-haired man had taken it with him and leaned it against the wooden housing beside him, as if to have it handy for his own use . . . or because he'd foreseen her desperation and wanted it out of her reach.

There was nothing else. Nothing at all she could put her hands on.

Heartsick, she watched the younger man take up his shovel again and stoke the boiler with four more shovelfuls of shiny black anthracite coal from an iron tinderbox. The frame on the container was sloped lower on the side facing him, making it easier for him to thrust the blade of the shovel into the mound of coal and come out in one continuous swinging motion to toss his load into the roaring flames.

Steam engines
. She dragged from her brain every last little thing she had learned about the new inventions. It wasn't much. Their fuel was coal. Without the coal the pressure would drop and the engine would stop.

But how long would that take? She had no idea.

However, she did know one thing. She didn't want to put any more distance between her and the scene of the explosion. The farther away they took her, the less likely she'd be found.

She slid a little closer to the tinderbox. It was made of heavy, sooty black iron, almost indistinguishable in color from the coal itself except for rusty patches. On the back side of the box, facing her, was a door about a foot wide and equally high. The latch, if lifted, would allow the little panel to swing open. She guessed it was for the purpose of cleaning out the box when the coal dust at the bottom became too thick and might create a fire hazard. The engineer could either sweep it out or flush it with a hose. In fact, she could see a darkened patch on the wood boards running between the door and the side of the boat where the dust had been swept or drained over the side.

How much coal,
she wondered,
could she toss overboard before her captors realized what she was doing?

The constant rumble of the engine and whoosh of the paddle wheels cloaked her awkward, crablike scramble to the back of the box. She half expected coal to come clattering out through the door, instantly alerting the men to her pitiful plan, but when she lifted the latch and, holding her breath, slowly opened the clean-out door, nothing at all happened.

Her heart sank.

Just inside the door, the chunks of coal were jammed together, the weight of the load above holding them in place. She sat for an instant, staring in disgust at the stuck rocks then shook her head.
In for a penny.

Using both hands, Louise clawed out chunks of coal and started throwing them as far out into the water as she could. She worked blindly, keeping her eyes on the backs of the two men. To her amazement neither the sound of her scuffling hands nor the soft plunk-plunk of coal hitting the water, drew their attention . . . until the pieces she'd already ditched in the water left enough space at the bottom of the box that the whole load shifted and, with a loud clatter, more than half of what remained shot out through the door and scooted across the deck with a choking puff of black dust.

The red-haired man spun around with a startled expression. She didn't hesitate. Ignoring the pain in her shoulder and chest, she flung herself down on the deck. Using both arms she swept as much of the coal as possible off the side of the boat and into the river.

“Bitch!” he roared and came at her, arm raised.

He struck her once on the side of the head, ringing her ears. Louise squeezed her eyes shut, gasping at the sting of his hand against her jaw and cheek. She kicked her wet skirt around and managed to send another shovelful of coal over the side. He came at her again, cursing, this time aiming a kick at her shoulder.

“Rupert. No, hey, no!” The younger man rushed to him, holding him back from striking her again. “She ain't no good to us dead. The Lieutenant, he'll want her in good shape. The better to bargain with.”

Louise lay still, pressing her face to the coal-blackened boards, one arm over her head as her only protection. She barely had the strength to breathe. She hurt everywhere. Maybe, after all, she should have thrown herself in instead of the coal.

“Fuck!” She recognized the younger man's voice.

“What?”

“Looky there.”

Louise had no idea what had caught their attention. She was just grateful something had distracted them from beating her. She peered up around her arm.

“He's following us. Coming up fast,” the one called Rupert said. He exploded in a fit of cursing. “Must've seen us pick her up.”

To Louise it seemed as if a lifetime had passed since they'd dragged her out of the river, but now she realized it had probably been only minutes.

The two men totally ignored her. They started throwing as much coal as they could retrieve from the deck, and the little left in the tinderbox, into the boiler. The boat had been traveling at a modest pace but suddenly, with the added fuel, it lurched forward at the younger man's prompt from the throttle.

Louise pushed herself up, sitting with her back pressed against the boat's low gunwales for support. Her dress clung to her thighs and calves—a muddy, snarled mess. She grasped handfuls of ruined satin faille and crepe de chine at her waist, tearing away layer after layer of fabric as she focused on the following boat. It looked like a workboat of sorts with its high, padded prow. Although it was gaining on them, she feared the boat she was on might reach a dock before they could catch up.

At first the following boat had been too far away for her to make out who might be on it. But now she saw two heads at the helm, and two more figures on the bow.

One wore a white shirt, blousing in the wind. The man's black hair streamed back from his face as the boat sped toward her. Tears came to her eyes.

Stephen
.

He'd braced his feet wide to keep himself from being thrown to the deck as the boat jounced and banged into the tidal waves. He was looking directly toward her. Stephen was coming for her. Tears filled her eyes.

Behind her, she could hear the two Fenians arguing. She looked over her shoulder. There was almost no coal left on the deck.

“Open her up, Will. Open the god-damn throttle!”

“No.” The younger man pushed his partner away from the boiler and jabbed a finger at the gauges. “You see that? Pressure's too high. Safety gauge has shut her down.”

Rupert grabbed the younger man by the front of his shirt and yelled in his face. “You let that engine stop, and I'll
kill
you, boy.”

As Louise held her breath and watched, Will looked at the fire, then at his partner. “All right. Dump the last of the coal in. I'll override the safety.” He removed the kerchief from around his throat and used it to tie down a lever on the face of the engine so that it couldn't move. “Old racing trick,” he mumbled, looking nervous.

Louise glanced back at Byrne's boat. It was lagging behind while the boat she was on thrust forward ever more powerfully. The hope she'd felt moments earlier died.

And then she heard a loud hissing noise.

She remembered Lorne telling her about a steam engine disaster on the Manchester train line. Trains and ships had the same problems with faulty pressure gauges, or with engineers who ignored them. When the pressure built too high, the engine could explode.

Louise heard someone shouting at her and looked up to see Stephen hanging off the bow of the trailing boat, waving and shouting at her. “Jump! Jump!”

She looked back at the two men. Rupert was reaching for the boat hook even as she pulled herself to standing at the cost of wrenching pain in her shoulder. Eyeing her with murderous intent, he lurched toward her. She hobbled to a spot as far behind the churning paddle wheels as she could, and threw herself over the side and into the river.

Byrne saw Louise go in . . . and under. She looked as weak as a baby bird spilling from its nest. He signaled the captain to cut his engines. Tying a line to his waist, he dove into the murky water, aiming for the place he'd seen her go down. Did she even know how to swim?

When he surfaced he bobbed in one place, treading water, looking around him for the slightest disturbance in the water's surface. But it was so full of floating garbage he despaired of finding her. Then he heard a sharp, high-pitched cry. He turned.

Louise was not twenty feet behind him, coughing and wheezing for air. He swam to her—pushing aside half of a balsa crate, a green glass bottle. His arms closed around her. She clung to him but didn't struggle as the drowning often did. She laid her head against his shoulder and opened her eyes wider at the sudden percussion of an explosion less than a hundred yards downriver.

“It's over,” he whispered in her ear. “I'm here. You're safe, my love.”