Claimed by the Rogue (38 page)

At Robert’s direction, they waited until full dark, and then he, Anthony and Caleb rowed out in a dinghy. It had required several assurances that the decision had naught to do with his age or gout, but Lord Tremont was finally persuaded to stay behind and “guard” their boat.
 

The plan in place, no one spoke, the tension within the small boat as thick as the soupy mist. Caleb’s hands stayed fixed on the oars. Drawing up beside the frigate, they heard the raucous sounds of revelry filtering down from the lower deck. The noise neatly masked the splash Robert made when he eased himself over the side of the craft into the water. Surfacing, he dragged wet hair from his eyes and grabbed hold of the side.
 

“Good luck,” Anthony whispered, breaking their communal silence.

Robert divided his gaze between his brother-in-law and Caleb. “Thanks, I’ll need it.” He gave Anthony the agreed upon signal.

“Man overboard!” Montrose shouted in his best army command voice.

Robert released his grip, swam toward the frigate and made a show of flailing.

On board, chaos ensued. Lanterns were directed out onto the water. A rope and ladder were cast out. Robert grabbed hold and let himself be reeled in.

Like a hooked fish, he flopped upon the deck. A half dozen pairs of feet rushed up to him. Light blinded him. A booted toe poked his side. The odor of unbathed bodies mingled with that of rum and rotting teeth. Once Robert would have found himself fighting the urge to wretch, but by now he was well-accustomed to such stenches.
 

“Ho, ’e’s not one o’ ours,” someone in the crowd called out.

Prepared, Robert pulled himself upright. “No, I’m not.” Gaining his feet, he cast a quick confirming glance beyond them before adding, “And neither are they.”

Anthony and Caleb had gained the deck behind him. Flintlocks drawn, they strode up to the crew’s rear. Unlike Robert, Montrose was scarcely damp. “Couldn’t risk wetting the gunpowder,” he said with a smile. Addressing himself to the others, he shouted, “Hands in the air!”

“Why should we?” one man called out. “C’mon lads, we outnumber them.”

A few others balked—and then Caleb came forward. Gazes rounded. Smiles fell. Slouched postures straightened. Arms shot skyward—and stayed there. Looking pleased with himself, the Arab stopped at each man, patted him down and relieved him of his weaponry. By the time he’d finished, an impressive pile of knives, razors, brass knuckles and even a cutlass or two was amassed on deck.

Robert picked the gold-toothed man out from the outskirts of the pack. “You.” He advanced on him.

Showing his coward’s stripes, the villain began backing up. “Twas nothin’ personal, mate. I was only ’ryin’ ter make ends meet.
Thee
see ’ow i’ is.”

Robert rounded on him. “Oh, indeed I do.”
 

He hauled back—and let his fist fly. The blow struck the henchman squarely in the mouth, sending blood spurting. “That’s for cutting my cinch.”
 

Grabbing him by the hair, he lobbed another blow, this one to the nose. The crunch of cartilage beneath his knuckles was an immensely satisfying sensation. “And that was for ambushing us and beating my friend at Billingsgate Market.”

The man tried throwing up his arms to shield his face, but it was no use. “And this is for burning that warehouse and destroying my property. Correct me if I’m mistaken, but I’m thinking that was you as well.” Robert seized the opportunity to land another blow, this one to the gut. “Oh, and I believe I owe you one more—for kidnapping my lady. By the by, where the hell is she?”

“She be in…one of the cabins below.” Air whistled through the gap where his gold teeth had been.

Robert grabbed him by the collar and hauled him to his feet. “Which cabin specifically?”
 

“The…the quartermaster’s, I think ’tis.”

“Think?”

“Nay, ’tis the quartermaster’s for sure.”

Robert released him and he staggered back. Reaching down, Robert scooped up the bloodied gold teeth from the deck and flung them toward him. “You’d best hold onto these. Count on bed and board at Newgate Gaol costing you dearly—mate.”

As planned, Anthony stood guard over the prisoners while Caleb went off to foul the ship’s guns.
 

Heart hammering, Robert headed below to search for Phoebe, a version of his erstwhile prayer drubbing his head with every step taken.

Dear God, let her be well.

Dear God, let it not be too late.

Not too late, not too late, not too late…

Pacing the cabin’s four corners, Pippin watching her from the place he’d claimed upon the straw pallet, Phoebe allowed that activity, even pointless activity, was preferable to sitting about brooding upon her unhappy fate. Now that Robert and she had made love, she couldn’t begin to imagine sharing that ultimate intimacy with anyone else. The threat of Trent’s touch sent her flesh crawling.

Footfalls outside her cabin had her sliding the letter opener free from her bodice. Standing behind the door, she braced herself to attack.
 

“Phoebe, are you within?”

“Robert?” Lowering the knife, she sagged against the cabin side.
 

“It is I, love. Are you able to open the door or are you bound?”

“I am unbound, but Aristide—Trent—has me locked within. To my knowledge, he has the only key.”

“Listen carefully. I need you to stand back from the door, as far away as you can manage.”

“I shall only hold for a moment. I have to get Pippin.” Quickly she picked up the dog, who had followed her over, and moved to the rear of the room. “We are ready,” she called out.

Outside it sounded as though a battering ram was at work, but she suspected it was nothing more substantial than her lover’s much abused body. Dear Lord, he meant to break down the door. More than meaning to, he
was
doing so. A dozen or so swift kicks saw the wood about the lock plate splintering. The door swung open and Robert stepped inside.

Phoebe set Pippin down and rushed to Robert. Reaching him, she wound her arms about his neck, hardly caring that he was still dripping seawater. “I thought I might never see you again.”

A crooked smile skated cross his mouth. He slid an arm about her waist. “I’m trying to be better about keeping my promises.” His gaze scoured her face. “He hasn’t harmed you, has he?”

“No, though that witch, Betty, kicked my dog.” She glanced over to Pippin, who’d climbed back onto the berth. “He’s a bit stiff-legged, but I’m hoping he’s only bruised.”

“Don’t despair. I’m going to get you both out of here.” Answering her unspoken question, he said, “Anthony and Caleb are with me, and your father as well. Anthony is standing guard over the crew.”

“You overcame them, then?”

“We did, all but Trent.” He hesitated and then admitted, “The rum helped.”

Pippin’s snarling sent them whipping about to the door. Trent stood on the threshold, a primed pistol in hand. “I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

Phoebe gasped. Robert tightened his hold on her. “I could say the same.”

Trent pointed the pistol at Phoebe. “I am offering you a choice—marry me or join your brash lover in Hell.”

Before she fathomed what he was about, Robert shoved her behind him, shielding her body with his. “Any bullet of yours will have to pass through me first.”

Trent smiled. “Fortunately I have no shortage.”

Heart pounding, Phoebe tried pushing herself forward, but with arms flung out to his sides and legs akimbo, Robert had made himself as impassable as a mountain. “Pull the trigger if you must. I would rather endure a thousand deaths than spend a single day married to a monster.”

Robert shot her a warning look over his shoulder. Dropping his voice, he pleaded, “Phoebe, please do not incite him. You must save yourself; otherwise I die in vain.”

Adamant, she shook her head. “And I live in vain without him whom I love with all my heart. I think not. I’ve known that life for six years, and I have no wish to repeat it in earnest.”

Trent shrugged. “So be it.” He raised the cocked pistol, his finger easing back on the trigger.

Boom!
 

The ship teetered, knocking them all to their knees. Seizing on the distraction, Robert righted himself and rushed the pirate. They crashed to the floor. The pistol skittered across the planks.
 

Phoebe ran to retrieve it. Hands shaking, she trained it on the two combatants rolling about. Firing at point-blank range, she was bound to strike someone, but would it be Trent or Robert? Pippin joined in the fight. The spaniel sprang off the bed, tore over to where the two men struggled, and sank his teeth into Trent’s calf. The pirate howled and rolled off Robert. Bounding to his feet, he pulled a razor from his boot and came at Robert at a crouch, slashing toward his torso.
 

Phoebe screamed, “Robert, look out!”

He dodged, and the slashing stroke meant for his eye grazed his forearm instead. Even so, seeing the scarlet staining his shirtsleeve, Phoebe let out a sob. Sweat streaked down her back between her shoulder blades; her hands holding the pistol were damp. She’d never willfully harmed a living soul in the whole of her life and yet looking on, she could see Aristide—Arthur—had no intention of giving up until Robert was dead.
 

What phrase was it Chelsea was fond of saying?
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
The struggle playing out before her was desperate indeed. Praying that her aim would prove true, Phoebe laid her finger on the trigger and slowly pulled back.

Pistol fire ricocheted through the cabin. Trent went slack. He folded face-first to the floor, blood and brains gushing from the hole at the back of his head.
 

The
back
of his head?
 

Choking on smoke, Phoebe dropped her gaze to her weapon, as yet unfired, and then looked across to the cabin threshold. Betty stood in the open doorway, a pistol in either hand, one smoking and the other primed.
 

“You’ve ruined everything,” she said, shaking her head at Phoebe.

“Betty, please.”

Gaze fixed on Phoebe, she fired.
 

The bullet whizzed by Phoebe’s head, stirring the hair at her temple. Robert lunged, grabbing Betty’s arm before she could reload. “Never doubt that I will break it,” he threatened, and Phoebe fully believed that he meant it.
 

Arm locked about Betty, he forced the flintlock out of her hand and held it out for Phoebe to take.

Shaking, she approached. Taking the pistol and holding it at her side, she asked, “Why, Betty?”

The maid stared at her with cold hatred. “Why, what?”

Phoebe hesitated. “Why…any of it?”

Betty’s firmed jaw slackened. Her mouth trembled. Tears filled her eyes. “He promised to make a lady o’ me. Once we got hold of your fortune, he said we’d marry and go anywhere I fancied. And he might have too, if it wasn’t for you.”

“He was only using you, Betty,” Phoebe said, feeling almost sorry for her—almost.
 

“I think it’s time we rejoined the others,” Robert said. “Your father especially will want to know you’re safe.”

Despite Betty between them, Phoebe found her smile. “Yes, let’s go home.”

Robert dragged the maid on deck. Phoebe followed, Pippin in her arms. Now that the danger was past, she felt a bit shaky. That they were all safe, as well as finally and forever together, seemed almost too enormous a boon to accept as real. Despite all the odds weighted against them, their love had prevailed, not only hers and Roberts but that of their family and friends as well. Even dear little Pippin was out of danger. It seemed a happy ending was to be theirs after all.
 

Anthony and Caleb held pistols on the crew, most of who had subsided to sit cross-legged on deck. Looking up as they approached, Anthony said, “I heard shots. Where is Trent?”

Robert tugged Betty forward. “Leaking his brains onto the cabin floor, thanks to this one.”
 

“No honor among thieves, I suppose,” Anthony said with a wry smile.
 

“More a case of ‘hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’” Robert remarked, casting the maid a glance.

Holding a lantern aloft, Anthony glanced down at Robert’s sleeve. “You’re looking the worse for wear.” He shifted his gaze to Phoebe. “You, my dear girl, are braver than most commissioned officers I’ve known. How are you bearing up?”

“I could do with a bath and a nap,” she admitted, “but mostly I’m feeling enormously fortunate to have the males in my life come to my rescue. Thank you all,” she added, her grateful gaze encompassing Caleb. Holding back at the rail, he returned her smile.

Pippin spotted Caleb, or rather his turban, and let out a yip. Tail wagging, he sprang from her arms. Betty’s earlier kick had left him stiff-legged. Seeing him skid toward the rail, Phoebe’s pulse ratcheted. “Pippin, come back.”