Wicked at Heart (14 page)

The door slammed
shut behind them.

"You can
stop yer strugglin', ma'm," the first guard said, still keeping his hand
over her mouth.  "We won't hurt ye."

"Aye, we
already knows what they all like, don't we, Ralph?"

"A little
kissin', to start with.  Look at me, girlie."  Ralph dug cruel fingers
into her jaw and spun her around, nearly snapping her neck and instantly
catching her around the waist before sealing her mouth up once more.  "Ye
fit me like a glove, ye do," he murmured huskily, brushing his lips over
her brow and leaving her choking in the stench of a breath that was as foul as
anything she had inhaled below.

"She'll fit
me better," the other whined, grabbing Gwyneth's other wrist and yanking
her away from Ralph.  "Come on, let's have a go."

"Take your
hands off me this instant, you wretched oafs!" Gwyneth cried, making a mad
lunge toward the door.  It was in vain.  Ralph, losing his patience, caught
her, flinging her toward a filthy gray mattress, his hands already going for
his trousers as he dove after her.  The mattress shot to the side as Gwyneth
fell; she hit the deck hard, her shoulders smashing into a wall, her teeth
nicking the inside of her lip.  The guard's sweating, stinking body landed just
inches from her own.  Then his hands were groping at her bodice, his massive
weight pinning her to the deck, his thick, sloppy lips dropping wet kisses on
her throat, her collarbone, her bosom, as she screamed and struggled and tried
to twist out from beneath him.

"Oh, Ralph,
ye're making her put on a fine show, tweak her nipples and she'll dance even
nicer for ye!"

"Get off of
me, you wretched
beast
!"

"Shut up,
bitch," Ralph snarled, and then her air was cut off as his huge hand
clamped around her throat and pushed downward, choking her.

Blind panic shot
through her.  Her fists flailed against his shoulder, and she sank her teeth
into her lip to keep from fainting.

"Like that,
don't ye?" the guard panted, his calloused fingers cruelly pinching one
nipple through her bodice, his great, moist lips buried in the hair at her
ear.  "Cry and wail for Ralphie here," he growled, his other hand
already going for her skirts.  "Thrash yerself about like the vixen yer
eyes tell me ye are.  Go ahead, twist and wriggle, oh yes, that's it,
sweetheart —"

Gwyneth let out
a gurgling scream, her nails ripping at the guard's neck in her panic.

He flung her
skirts up — and the door crashed open, a thunderclap from the gods.

"Bloody
hell!" the other guard screeched as Ralph, one handed fisted around
Gwyneth's skirts, the other still crushing her throat, raised his head and
sucked in his breath.

It was the
marquess.

There he stood,
tall, lethal, and silhouetted in the doorway.  He was holding a pistol, leveled
directly at Ralph.

In his eyes
Gwyneth saw only darkness and a total absence of soul.  In his eyes, Gwyneth
saw the devil incarnate.

Ralph, his hand
still on Gwyneth's throat, edged away from her, but the marquess' satanic gaze
never left him.  "Release the lady," he ordered in a dangerously soft
voice which sent chills the length of Gwyneth's spine.

Ralph sneered,
and his beefy hand pushed harder against Gwyneth's throat.  Panicking, she
coughed, choked, clawed upward, her bulging eyes staring at the marquess even
as her world began to go dark.  Through it, she heard Morninghall's sinister
command.

"Release
her or die. 
Now.
"

Ralph began to
laugh.

And the marquess
fired.

His hand never
lowered, his eyes never blinked as the pistol went off with a crashing bang.  Ralph
jerked, thrashed and went still.

The scent of
gunpowder filled the cabin as the guard's dead hand slid from Gwyneth's throat
with terrible slowness.  Her eyes fell shut and she felt a thick, numbing haze
stealing mercifully over her, enfolding her in an envelope of fuzziness. 
Through it came no thought, no feeling, no emotion.  Her hand went to her
bruised throat, and numbly she crawled away from the guard, huddling in a
corner and drawing her legs up beneath her as she coughed and wheezed and tried
to get her breath.

"Await me
outside," she heard Morninghall say to the other guard, who cowered
against the door, whimpering.  Without a word the man fled, leaving Gwyneth at
the mercy of the devil himself — a devil who advanced on her with purpose and
magnificent rage, a devil whose footsteps echoed across the tiny room, a devil
who reached down and wordlessly caught her elbow.

His touch
penetrated the blessed numbness, obliterating it.

"Don't
touch me!" she cried, pushing herself further into the corner and kicking
savagely out at him.  Tears stung her eyes, began to spill down her cheeks, and
she covered her face with her hands, ashamed.  "Don't touch me.  I cannot
take anymore.  Please —"

She was no match
for his strength, no match for his determination, no match for this man who
pulled her to her feet only to gather her stiffly, protectively, to his hard
chest when her knees would have given out beneath her.

She sobbed into
her hands, feeling his heartbeat against her knuckles.  She looked up into his
chiseled, satanic face and saw, for the briefest moment, something hugely
tender and unguarded there, before he jerked his head up and stared unseeingly
at the grimy wall opposite him.

His heart was
thundering beneath her hands.

"You have
suffered much at the hands of others today," he said harshly.  With one
quick movement he swept her up and into his arms.  "Come.  I shall see you
home."

~~~~

"Switching
clothes with an imposter sentry?  It will never work."

"It
will
work."

The Reverend
Peter Milford slowly paced
Kestrel
's small cabin, his hands clasped
behind his back, his eyes worried, the lantern light painting crescents of gold
atop his fair curls.  He was restless tonight, and with good reason.  "It
will never work, I tell you, because the guards are wise to us, Connor.  You
said so yourself.  They'll notice a new sentry in their midst and be
suspicious."

His two
companions sat watching him.  A lantern swung gently above their heads,
sputtering and flaring in the moist, salty night breeze that wafted in through
the stern windows.  Outside, the sea hissed and sighed, a great, black vista
stretching away into the night.  Far, far in the distance, the lights of Portsmouth
lay like fireflies on the horizon, winking on and off as the schooner rose and
fell atop the waves.  But there was no chance that
Kestrel
herself was
equally visible.  She carried no lights on her deck, and with her head to the
wind, her crew of recently escaped prisoners standing watch in the rigging and
on the deck above, there was little likelihood of her being caught by surprise
by one of the Royal Navy frigates that patrolled the Channel.

"The guards
can be bribed," Connor protested, topping off his ale and carrying his mug
to the stern windows, where he leaned casually against the cushions.  "I
don't know what you're fussing about, Peter.  We've used this same ploy
before."

"Which is
precisely the reason why it should not be used again," the third man said,
speaking for the first time since the discussion had turned from the plight of
Merrick's cousins to the plan of getting them off the prison hulk.

The others
looked at him, Connor with deep distrust, the chaplain with something like
relief.  "See?" Peter said, as though these words had decided the
matter.  "I told you, Connor, it's too dangerous."

Connor
impatiently ran his hand through his chestnut hair, the strain of worry showing
clearly on his face.  He looked at the man who had spoken.  "Fine.  You're
now the brains behind this venture," he conceded, a bit heatedly. 
"What do you suggest?"

Ignoring
Connor's taunt, the man leaned forward and refilled his own mug.  At just over
six feet, he was a formidable presence, lean, hard-muscled, and powerful.  His
coat was perfectly tailored to his shoulders, his boots, crossed lazily at the
ankles, mirrored the lantern light.  That same golden glow carved planes and
shadows from his face, emphasized the bold cut of his nose and the firmness of
his mouth, and gleamed from eyes that burned with intelligence.  Even relaxed,
he exuded moody, predatory danger; even seated, he made the schooner's cabin
look ridiculously small.

"The
sentries aboard the prison hulk will be on the alert tonight," he said. 
"There was the incident with Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms this afternoon to
rouse them, and another hole was discovered in the ship's hull just aft of the
entry port, beneath the guards' scaffolding.  An unfortunate occurrence, I'm
afraid."

"Who
discovered the hole?" Connor demanded, setting down his ale and frowning.

"Radley, of
course."

"Radley
must be dealt with."

"Radley
cannot be dealt with without arousing suspicion."

"Why
not?"

"Think,
man," their new leader murmured, gazing patiently at Connor. 
"There's been a rash of escapes from
Surrey
.  Should they continue,
there is bound to be a full investigation as to why security is not tighter
than it is.  There is also the possibility that a change in officers aboard the
hulk will be instituted, and that, we cannot afford.  Radley is fanatical in
his quest to root out would-be escapers, but he is a stupid man and easily made
to do my bidding.  We need him as an example of . . . authority, if nothing
else."

"And
Morninghall?" Connor drawled, raising one eyebrow.

"What about
him?"

Peter cleared
his throat and cast a hasty glance at their leader.  "Oh, he's far too
preoccupied with other matters to concern himself with prisoners who have no
wish but to escape."

"Poor
Morninghall," Connor said with false sympathy, affecting a great,
exaggerated sigh.  "A sad lot, his!  But we need him aboard that prison
ship.  Without him the Black Wolf would be all but helpless."

"Yes, well
. . . of course."  Their leader did not laugh.  "Tonight's rescue,
gentlemen.  It is off.  Tomorrow night, I think, would suit us better.  Peter,
as tomorrow is the Sabbath, I expect you can devise a moonlight service of some
sort?"

The chaplain
picked up his own mug, his eyes gleaming conspiratorially.  "Such as a candlelight
vigil for the souls of the recently departed prisoners?"

"That would
be appropriate.  And it will not arouse suspicion.  Include the guard that was
shot today, if you will."

"Good
thinking — his friends will want to attend the service.  The more that do, the more
scanty the watch shall be."

Connor watched
them over the top of his mug.  "Of course, Morninghall will have to give
them all leave to attend."

"He
will," their leader said.

"So,
tomorrow then?"

There was a
light knock on the cabin door.

"Yes?"
Connor called.

It opened and
Orla, her dark hair loose around her shoulders and her cheeks flushed from the
night wind, came in. She shut the door behind her, turned —

— and stopped.

There was a
crash.  All eyes turned to Peter, who had dropped his mug and was now staring
at the lovely woman whose blue eyes were locked with his.

Connor's grin
was wicked.  "Yes, Orla?"

His second in command
tore her gaze from the boyishly handsome chaplain, who was emitting hasty
apologies as he bent to wipe up the spill, his rounded cheeks bright with
color.  She looked at her captain.  "I thought you'd want to know that
Jenkins has spotted a vessel a league or so off to the north.  Probably a
frigate, by what we can see of her."

"Thank you,
Orla.  Our friends will want to be off shortly, then."

Orla, with a
shy, stolen glance at the discomfited chaplain, nodded and went out.

"You were
saying, Peter?" their leader murmured as the chaplain hastily set his mug
back on the table, only to knock it over again with his sleeve.

"Damn!  Oh —
Dear God —
damn
!"

His two friends
exchanged amused glances.  Then their leader got to his feet, pulling the poor
chaplain up with him.  Peter's face was scarlet, his hands fluttering
nervously.  "I'm so sorry, Connor," he twittered, shoving his curls
off his suddenly damp brow.  "What a mess I've made —"

Connor waved his
hand in airy dismissal, his mouth quivering with suppressed laughter.  "Never
mind, Peter."  He winked.  "Go now, and Orla and I
both
will see
you tomorrow."

As the chaplain
sputtered a protest, his companion dragged him to the door.  "Til
tomorrow, then, Merrick."  He paused, his hand on the latch, a faint smile
creeping over his stern mouth.  "In the meantime do take pains to guard
yourself well."

The American
regarded him quizzically.

"Rumor has
it that Admiral Falconer's wife is on a quest to get her ship back."  His
eyes gleamed.  "Your sister has a formidable reputation, you know."

"
Shit
,"
Connor said.

The door closed
behind them.

~~~~

"Really,
Gwyn, you have been dreadfully silent all day," Rhiannon said, as she sat
in a chair in the back garden, a novel open on her lap and Mattie snoozing in
the grass at her feet.  "In fact, you've not been yourself since you
returned from the prison ship yesterday afternoon."  Gwyneth, abnormally
quiet, was on her hands and knees pulling weeds out of the stones that framed
her bed of purple Aubrietia.  "It's Morninghall, isn't it?"

Gwyneth's head
dipped lower, the straw hat she wore shielding her face from Rhiannon's
inquisitive gaze.  "I don't want to talk about it."