Authors: Hayley Ann Solomon
By Way Of A Wager (17 page)
Regrets were useless. The thing that was critical was the here and now. Painfully, Frances made the effort to speak. His voice was little more than a whisper, but he was fighting for more than just his own life. He was responsible for his sister's well-being, and the knowledge brought with it a surge of unexpected energy.
He eyed the distance to the bridge critically. There was always the chance that Jake would disappear once more, leaving them free to creep across the deck and climb ashore. The only alternative would be to dive overboard, but he could not altogether rely on his strength to keep him afloat. Too risky for Cassandra, too. The North Sea was icy. There was no telling that they'd be able to slip past the sloop and make it back to the dock. Jake sported a nasty-looking blunderbuss. If he shot it would be to kill.
The winds were fast subsiding. By Frances's estimation it would not be long before the seaman deemed it safe to leave the shelter of the bay. It was imperative that their escape be complete by the time this happened. On consideration, the pair decided that a half hour wait on the off chance that Jake would leave the sloop was warranted. After that, it would have to be a deep, cold dive into the rolling gray ocean.
Cassandra tried to steel herself to the thought. The boat lunged. A flicker of emotion crossed Frances's face before he was goaded to action like a highly sprung pistol. Pushing Cassandra under the sacking, he threw himself over her body and covered himself as best he could with the remaining burlap. Her disheveled form was visibly trembling beneath him, her breathing uneven and ragged. Instinctively, Frances reached out to stop her mouth, fearful of every sound. The stress of the ordeal overcame him and he was suddenly very afraid. Afraid for her, for himself, for the whole impossible predicament.
His instincts had been correct. The familiar thud of Jake's boots on the planks resounded in their ears. The sloop veered to port slightly. Cassandra stirred beneath her brother's frame. In response, he grasped her hand in a silent vise. Now was not the time to make the smallest movement, the slightest flutter. Every tiny stirring could spell out death and discovery.
Instinctively, Frances felt Jake's eye upon him. His flesh shivered as he sensed the penetrating gaze. He dared not breathe. He willed Cassandra to remain still. From the corner of his eye he could see one of the ropes that had bound him, lying in a telltale pile on the floor. He prayed that Jake would not do the same.
“Well now, me hearty.” Jake's voice sounded, to Cassandra's petrified ear, much like a cackle. She kept telling herself that this could not be true. She could not truly be lying in a bundle under her lost brother's body, afraid for her very life. That sort of thing simply did not happen!
The voice obtruded into her thoughts, an unwelcome menace. Her finely tuned ears could just discern the splash of an empty bottle tossed to sea. “Reckon we can heave ho right quickly, me mate. Wind seems to have let up a bit.”
The cutthroat pulled yet another bottle out from his coat pocket. The glass flashed brown in the daylight. He took a swig. Frances could hear the gulp as it slithered down his throat.
“Not bad stout them Frenchies brew. I'll say one thing for them, they know how to make yer proper drunk.” Jake teetered slightly. He wiped his lips on his sleeves, then laughed a little foolishly.
“Must sail. Won't do to be anchored here all day, ye ken. Got precious cargo aboard.” He looked at the tangled form of his prisoner. “Not you.” He broke into a mirthless snigger. “The contraband! On second thoughts ye might have some snoopy relatives for all I know. Can't have them pokin' about, now, can we?”
Another hideous guffaw. Frances remained silent. Disappointed, the cutthroat saw fit to kick at the sacking. “Cat got your tongue or somefing?” Receiving no response, he bent down closer. The smell of hock was overpowering. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Not long now, I reckon. Ye'll be shark bait before I can say Blarney stone. Now what have ye to say to that? Huh?” Once more the mocking chortle. Cassandra was sickened.
The assassin turned to go. Frances could almost feel himself breathing again. The boots stepped. Then stumbled. Frances's heart sank. The rope! The stupid fool had tripped over the rope! Panic seized his gut. Unless a miracle happened, they both were doomed.
No miracle was handy. Jake was too much of a professional to let a little drink cloud his judgment. It took not two seconds before he'd drawn a knife and approached the sacks with caution. Two more and the Beaumarises were miserably exposed. Frances stood up, defiant. Cassandra did the same. She shot her brother a warning glance, and in an instant he understood. The cutthroat would never know it was a woman he'd murdered onboard the sloop.
SIXTEEN
Jake approached the sacks with cunning. If his victim had extricated himself from the ropes, then he was more game than he'd imagined. He drew his long, deadly knife and advanced with caution. Frances and Cassandra could only look miserably at one another and pray for a miracle. Although they could not actually see a weapon, they were pretty certain that struggle would be useless.
It was worth a try, though. Anything was better than being at the mercy of a villain like Jake. Cassandra could feel Frances tense, his muscles flexed and ready to spring. As Jake whipped off the sacking, Frances dived for Jake's ankles. Cassandra jumped up and searched wildly for something with which to stun their captor. Frances yelled at her to escape. She ignored him, running for the heavy metal grid that covered the cod nets. If she could use it she would.
Frances forced Jake back, utilizing every vestige of his remaining strength. For an instant he was on top, trying desperately to wrest the knife from Jake's grasp. Cassandra started screaming, her cries echoing in the wind. The grid was obstinate, refusing to be dislodged.
She gave it up and ran to the struggling pair. Jake was gaining the advantage and his knife was coming perilously close to slashing Frances's cheeks. Without thinking, the Honorable Miss Beaumaris struck out her foot and delivered an almighty blow. Thank heavens for the topboots! The force of the kick sent the knife flying from Jake's grip. He was momentarily diverted, but not for long. Before she knew what she was about, she'd been drawn into the fray, screaming and kicking with all her being.
Jake was incensed as he shook off Frances and dealt Cassandra a backhand that sent her sprawling across the deck. As she made to recover, he turned on the young earl and struck him with a final, unequivocal blow that left him dazed. For Jake the danger was over. He towered over his captives as the snide amiability slowly returned to his features. Frances and Cassandra involuntarily shivered, their eyes never once straying from their captor's face. The game was up and they knew it.
The cutthroat's voice was menacing, his wits about him. There was no trace of the drunkenness that had absorbed him a few moments before.
“We have a visitor, I see.”
Cassandra stood up, her heart pounding wildly. His tone had not been pleasant. Shaking off fear, she made a bow. Frances could only marvel at her flourish.
“Yes. Andrew Marshall. A friend.” Her voice was crisp and clear, a far cry from the wobbly blancmange she felt inside. Chin up, she cast her enemy an appraising glance.
The boatman seemed amused. “And how, Mr. Marshall, do ye come to be tarryin' on me sloop?”
“Your sloop?” Cassandra feigned ignorance. “Oh, Lord Beaumaris's sloop, you mean?”
Frances gasped at her temerity. Once started, Cassandra was not to be halted. He knew this of old. Where the baiting would lead them, though, he could not guess. There'd be nothing stopping her now that she'd got a grip on her initial fear.
The cutthroat laughed. The sound was dry and nasal. “Sense of 'umor, I see. It be a pity I 'ave to nabble yer so soon. Yer might 'ave done for a spot o' company. No relation of this 'ere earl, I take it?”
“Earl?”
Jake scanned her face carefully. Mr. Marshall passed the test. He seemed ignorant enough of Beaumaris's identity. The villain's tone relaxed and became conversational. “Yes, he be a earl orll right, but not for long, I reckon.”
The teeth flashed white. “ 'Ands be'ind yer back. Both of yer.” He stooped to grab the rope. Frances saw his chance. He lunged toward the criminal, but to no avail. Jake was not one to be caught twice. In less than a twinkling the cutthroat's boot had made excruciating contact with his face. Frances fell back, blood oozing from his left eye.
“I've 'ad just about enough of yer.” Jake's face darkened ominously. He turned to Cassandra, finger extended. “Don't yer try any fancy tricks now me mate. I've got me knife. One scream from yer and yer friend is dead. Dead, dead, dead. Got that?”
Cassandra nodded miserably.
“Now get down onto that floor next to 'im. Ready?”
Cassandra edged herself down, her eyes glued to the weapon.
“Good. 'Ands be'ind yer back and make sharp!”
Cassandra did as she was told. There was no hope now. None at all.
She felt the man pull roughly on her skin and concentrated on not crying out. If she was going to die then she'd do it with dignity. She was a Beaumaris when she was born and she'd behave as such when she perished. Frances was looking anguished. Cassandra smiled at him and it seemed as though a great weight departed from his shoulders. Even in a situation like this she exuded an inner glow that brought comfort. It did not take long for Jake to gag the pair, secure their hands, and place Frances in full bonds once more.
The episode had unnerved Jake slightly, and now more than ever he was aware that the sloop ought to depart in haste. He stepped over the sacks and made his way to the fore. The duke was waiting.
The tussle out the back had not prepared Jake for an eventuality of this nature. Normally guarded, he'd let his watch slip in his concentration over the prisoners. The sleek footsteps of the duke of Wyndham had gone unnoticed above the screams of Mr. Marshall. The click of a pistol primed had not been heard above strong sea winds. Too late! The duke was advancing on him, and he had nothing but a knife. He moved forward. A shot rang out.
The bullet met the mast just inches from the cutthroat's head. Jake ducked. An icy laugh met his ears. The biting words of the implacable man before him sounded like a death knell. “Have the goodness to drop your weapon.” A moment's hesitation. Another shot. This time, the bullet grazed the silken hairs of his ear before nesting deeply, irretrievably, in the wood pylon. Jake dropped the knife, his eyes never leaving Miles's face.
“Thank you.” Miles inclined his head, arms still outstretched. His eyes did not waver, and Jake experienced the sobering, overwhelming sensation that he'd at last met his match.
“What can I be doin' for yer?”
Miles raked him up and down. “That is hardly to the point, my man. I rather think it is more a case of what I can do for you!”
Jake stared, uncomprehending.
“Look behind me.”
Jake looked.
“Look again. You will note that behind the tree there is a gentleman.” Jake nodded. “That gentleman's name is Lyndale. Viscount Lyndale. Understand?”
Jake nodded quietly, hardly noticing the sprightly young man who bestowed upon him an impudent wave. His attention was focused wholly on the duke.
“Behind the viscount there waits a brigade of excise men.” Miles waited for the words to sink in. Jake blanched. The duke nodded. “I thought so. I rather think they might be interested to see what lies beneath the cod. They may cast a blind eye to the smuggling, but there's a price on the head of the man who made away with the burgundy. I suppose you know that?”
Jake nodded dumbly.
“Good. Then I think we understand each other. You have on this sloop two passengers. A Mr. Marshall and the sixth earl of Surrey. Am I correct?”
Jake had ceased to be amazed at the omniscience of this unknown nemesis. He nodded.
“You will unhand them and you will divulge who paid you to bring about Beaumaris's death.” Jake's eyes held mutiny. Miles kept the pistol cocked and reached into the folds of his greatcoat. Drawing out a sheet of paper, he indicated that Jake review its contents. There was no need. Jake knew the looks of a warrant when he saw one.
“Enlighten me as to your employer and the viscount need never call upon his friends the excise men.”
Mile noted with satisfaction the glimmer in Jake's eye. He was interested. “Personally, I am not particularly concerned about the whereabouts of a few odd barrels of contraband. No doubt you will get your comeuppance in time. Had harm come to either the earl or Mr. Marshallâ” The duke stopped and swallowed hard. No, he would not dwell on that thought. His voice cleared. “Had anything happened to either of them, I'd have had you hanged, drawn, and quartered. As it is, you're lucky.”
Jake did his damnedest not to reflect on the bruising that must now be surfacing on Beaumaris's face. If this madman with a pistol were to see it, who knew where things would end? He tried to steer the conversation.
“If I tell yer what flash cull it was 'oo 'ired me, you'll let me go? Not set them dratted customs culls on me?”
Miles relaxed infinitesimally. “If you play your cards right, are careful not to cross my path in any way, and are prepared to sign testimony to your words. Moreover, if you repair back to London from whence you came, shut your mouth, and never breathe a word of this despicable little episode to anyone. Got that?”
Jake nodded. He got it.
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