Wicked at Heart (18 page)

"But why
does he want to see
me
?"

They were
beneath the shadow of the poop deck now, and the captain's door loomed ahead
like the door to a mausoleum.

"Damned if
I know."  Clayton knocked on the door, once, twice, and then, hauling it
open with an ominous creak of its hinges, seized Toby's arm and shoved him
inside.

The door shut
behind him with a crash like a coffin being sealed.

Alone, Toby
stumbled to his feet, sealing his arms protectively over his chest to contain
his pounding heart.  He curled his toes into the rug beneath his bare and grimy
feet, afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid, even, to look up.

"Sit
down," a deep-timbred, cultured voice ordered.  "I do not bite."

Slowly, Toby
dragged his head up and looked about him.  The cabin was dim, shadowed, lit by only
a wedge of gray light through the partly opened curtains at the stern windows. 
That light touched the rich maroon leather of a swivel chair, the gleaming
surface of a table set with a bottle of port and a single placement of china.

It did not touch
the figure that stood in the shadows, leaning negligently against the edge of
the window seat.

"Come
forward, so I might see you."  This time the voice was a shade gentler, as
though its owner had sensed Toby's terror and was sparked by pity and
compassion.

Slowly Tony
crept forward, into that wedge of light.  He felt hideously dirty and malodorous. 
He hung his head, ashamed.

"What has
become of your clothes?"

"They got
torn," Toby mumbled, still staring at his toes.

"Look at me
when I'm talking to you."

Toby raised his
head.  He shoved his cracked spectacles up the bridge of his nose and peered
through the grime that hazed them.  The figure was still in the shadows, unmoving,
but the gloom made it impossible to discern any details of the face.

"I said,
sir, they got torn."

"I am a
marquess.  You do not address me as 'sir.'  You address me as
my lord
."

Such an
imperious command was enough to infuse Toby with some of the Yankee spirit he
thought he'd lost.  He stiffened his spine and, raising his chin, regarded that
shadowy figure.  "And I am an American.  You are no lord of mine, and I
will address you the same as I would any other man."

Slowly, like
some deadly panther uncoiling itself after a nap, the marquess straightened
up.  He was tall, taller than Toby's father, taller than his Uncle Brendan, taller
even than Connor.  He came melting out of the shadows as though he had been
born to them, lethal, leonine power in his every movement, malice wreathing the
air that dared to surround him.  A glass of spirits dangled from one elegant,
relaxed hand, and rich whorls of dark hair framed a flawlessly chiseled face of
stone.  The mouth was hard, the nose as bold as the blade of a knife.  Only the
eyes gave the impression of any warmth — the satanic variety, Toby thought
fearfully — and these were fierce and glittering with a cunning intelligence
that made Toby's blood run cold.

"You have
spirit," the marquess said, softly.

With the wine
glass hanging loosely from his hand, he walked a slow circle around Toby, taking
in his greasy hair, his grimy face, his tattered clothes, his raw and ulcered
feet.  Toby swallowed hard.  At last the man stopped, looking at him the way he
might regard a dead rat.

"Your
condition is appalling."

The anger in
those four sharp words only fueled Toby's indignation.  "My condition is
not something I have control over . . .
sir
."

They stared at
each other for a long tense moment, the boy in rags, the aristocrat in all his
lordly splendor.  At last Morninghall turned away, head high and nostrils
flaring, as though he could not bear the sight — or smell — of him.

Toby relaxed,
sinking down on his heels.

Without warning,
the marquess turned, his hand lashing out to seize Toby's jaw.  He forced
Toby's chin up, scrutinizing the bloody scrape on its underside, his eyes
hardening like ice.  Toby fought, tried to jerk away.

"Hold
still, damn it!"

His jaw caught
in that iron grip, Toby obeyed, eyeing his tormenter with mulish pride even as
the marquess inspected the cut.  Tears of shame pooled behind his lashes.

"Who did
this to you?"

"I
fell."

Morninghall
released him.  "I hear that those damned Frenchmen have been abusing you. 
Is it true?"

"Who told
you that?"

"Answer the
bloody question."

Toby rubbed his
jaw with his palm, trying to wipe away the enemy touch.  "Aye, it's
true," he said, sullenly, "but I can take care of myself.  You don't
concern yourself with anyone else on this reeking tub, there ain't no need to
concern yourself with
me
."

"I am
concerned about your brother, and he was the one who told me."

Toby froze. 
Morninghall stalked silently away from him, moving into the bar of light and
extinguishing it in a slow and eerie eclipse.

"M-my
brother?"

Slowly, the
marquess turned his head and looked at Toby from over his shoulder.  "You
do have one, do you not?"

"Aye — he's
in the Black Hole."  Toby drew himself up.  "If you're so 'concerned'
about him, then why's he still in there?"

"He tried
to escape.  He must be punished.  If punishment were not meted out to those who
try to escape, then chaos would run rampant on this ship, would it not?"

Toby balled his
fists.  "Have you ever
been
in the Black Hole —
sir
?"

The marquess put
his goblet on the table very carefully.  "No, Mr. Ashton.  I confess, I
have not."

"Then I
guess you can't know what it's like then, can you?"

Morninghall
stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, then picked up the bottle on
the table and topped up his glass.  "You are wise beyond your years, young
man.  How old are you?"

"Thirteen,"
Toby said, sullenly.

A slow, studied
nod of the marquess' head was his only answer.  Strange shadows flickered
across his eyes and he looked briefly preoccupied.  Human.

Almost.

Toby crossed his
hands over his chest, humiliatingly aware of the raw, nauseating stench of
himself.  "You . . . you talked to my brother, sir?"

Morninghall
seemed to come back to himself.  "I did."

"Is he —"

"He is
well.  As well as one can be given his present predicament."

"Will you
shorten his time in the Hole, sir?"

"I
cannot."

"But —"

"I
cannot
,"
the marquess repeated firmly.  As Toby stared imploringly into that stark and
unfeeling face, he saw something like compassion there before the ice moved
back in to veil what had surely been only an illusion, anyhow.

It was too
much.  Toby, feeling the tears springing up, pivoted on his heel and turned to
go before he could disgrace himself — and his country.

"I have not
dismissed you."

Something in
that low, authoritative voice stopped him dead in his tracks.  Swallowing hard
and fiercely blinking back the tears, he turned around.  Morninghall had not
moved.

"I called
you up here, young man, to offer you a job," he said, quietly.  He flicked
an aristocratic hand.  "Something to get you away from those damned
Frenchman and out of the unhealthy fumes belowdecks."

"What,
burying dead bodies?" Toby challenged, wiping his nose with the back of
his wrist.

Morninghall
seemed oblivious to his tears, the disgrace he was making of himself.  "No. 
I need someone to clean my cabin and bring me my meals."  He frowned,
gazing into his glass, a hint of a smile playing across his mouth.  "My
last servant was sent to another ship.  Complained to the admiral about me,
said I was too much of a bastard to work for."

He raised an eyebrow
and shot Toby a sidelong look, as though daring him to dispute the fact.

Or, accept the
offer.

Toby stood,
confused.  He didn't know whether to be enraged, insulted, or grateful that he,
of all people, had been plucked from the flames below by the devil himself.  Yet
there was something about the nobleman's display of  kindness when just about
everyone below treated him no better than they did the rats, that was vastly
appealing.  He bit his lip, sucked it between his teeth, and kicked at the rug
upon which he stood.  It was a tough choice:  continue suffering the abuse
below or work for his English enemy.

Morninghall put
down his glass and lifted his hand, idly studying his thumbnail.  He looked
askance at Toby.  "The job is not without pay."

"I don't
want it," Toby muttered, sniffling.

"You shall
eat the same meals I do."

"No,"
Toby repeated, less forcefully than before.

"You will
have regular baths, decent clothing, and — given your good behavior, of course —
the chance to escort me ashore when duty and pleasure take me there."

The chance to
escort me ashore . . .

Toby's head came
up.  He blinked away the tears and gaped at the marquess, disbelieving what
he'd just heard.  God and country forgive him, he had no wish to work for this
English aristocrat and he could care less about the money, but decent, warm
food in his belly was a far cry from maggots, and if he had the chance to leave
the ship, perhaps he could pass information on to Connor.  His heart leaped as
the idea took hold.  Connor, who everyone knew was the Black Wolf anyway, would
find a way to rescue him and Nat!

"Well?"

Morninghall's
patience was running out.

"Aye, I'll
take it," Toby said, looking down at his grimy toes and trying not to
sound too eager.  Then he glanced up, mutinously.  "But that don't mean I
gotta like it."

The marquess
smiled thinly.  "No, I expect you won't.  But then, I cannot imagine that
most of us
do
enjoy our jobs, do we?" he added cryptically and,
turning away from Toby, pulled the curtains aside to stare out the window.

Toby waited.

"You may go
now," Morninghall murmured, still gazing out that grimy window.  "I
shall expect you first thing tomorrow morning."

~~~~

The feathery
clouds had given way to low, steel-bellied leviathans marching across a harsh
field of gray by the time dusk arrived, and with darkness came a light,
chilling mist which snaked  beneath one's clothing and right into the very
marrow of the bones.

It was a
dreadful night to have a candlelight service, but the Black Wolf couldn't have
ordered a finer one.

Of similar
opinion, the Reverend Peter Milford stood on the wet and open deck of the
prison ship garbed in a tarpaulin coat, his hat pulled low over his brow, his
Bible in his hand.  A raw breeze drove over the water, heavy with the scent of
salt and rain, and he turned his back to it, trying to shield the old book from
the cold drizzle.

Above, wet
clothing flapped on the clothesline, a lonely sound in the night.  Peter rocked
back on his heels, waiting as a sailor moved around the circle of guards,
silently lighting the taper each man carried with all the solemnity the
occasion warranted.  Peter was nervous, as he always was when a rescue was to
take place; nevertheless, he managed to adopt an expression of appropriate
gravity as he watched the quiet, flickering flame travel to each cold taper of
wax, until at last an array of orange tongues tickled the darkness around him,
lighting the faces of those who held them.

Behind the
guards, mere shadows in the drizzly darkness, several prisoners stood,
relatives and friends of the men who had perished in this last week alone. 
Peter tightened his fingers around his Bible.  Morninghall had not allowed the
poor souls to have candles, fearing they might use them to set something on
fire and start an uprising, but at least he had shown
some
compassion by
allowing them to attend and grieve for their loved ones.

The sailor had
come to the last mourner and was lighting his taper.  The flame sputtered and
flared to life, swaying drunkenly in the damp breeze, and the scent of burning
wax cut through the rainy darkness.  It was almost time to begin, and Peter
felt the tightening of his nerves, the faint sense of inadequacy that always
plagued him before beginning a memorial service.

The sailor
handed him the candle; then Peter cleared his throat and looked around him. 
The guards huddled miserably in their damp clothing, shielding their flames
against the wind with their broad hands.  Light flickered against their shiny,
wet faces, infusing their eyes with a heightened sense of life and feeling,
throwing their individual features into sharp relief.  Some of them looked
distant, weary, perhaps even sad.  Some looked bored and miserable in the wet. 
Some were restless, while a few stood solemnly at attention.  Yet Peter knew
that to a man, each and every one of them was glad for the respite from their
tedious duties, and were not above the pretense of mourning a colleague that
most of them had disliked — and prisoners they thought of as animals.

The candles
flickered in the darkness.  The men looked amongst themselves, waiting.  A
heavy raindrop tumbled out of the night sky and extinguished one of the tiny
flames; the man who held the candle turned to his mate beside him and relit the
fizzing wick.

Peter opened the
Bible, feeling the reassuring weight of its heavy, worn spine against his
palm.  It did much to calm his apprehension.  He said a quiet prayer for the
Black Wolf's success and safety.  He prayed his friend would start carrying out
these daring rescues for the right reasons instead of the wrong ones, and that
God would open his eyes to the truth.  He thought of the woman who would assist
the Wolf tonight, the lovely Orla with the soft Irish brogue and prayed for her
safety, too.  Then, content that his prayers were safely delivered to God, he
looked at his watch.  The night wasn't going to get any darker, and it was
nearly eleven o'clock.