Patrica Rice (27 page)

“Perhaps they didn’t flap their tongues to the right people,” Michael answered stiffly, praying his towering shako wouldn’t tilt and fall off. Its precarious slant across his forehead hid half his face, and he could barely see from under it.

“If they know anything of importance to His Highness, I’ll eat my boot,” the other man complained. “They’re rabble, no more, no less.”

“They’re family of an earl,” Michael warned. “I wouldn’t speak too loudly if I were you.”

“An earl, huh? First I heard of it.” A lock rattled, a door opened, and still another guard appeared.

This one looked slightly more intelligent than the first two and studied Michael’s forged papers more carefully. “Why these two?” he demanded. “They’ve been tried and judged guilty. They’re to hang at the beginning of next week.”

“I don’t question royal orders,” Michael said stiffly.

“You damned well ought to. They don’t look right to me. Where’s the rest of your people? One man can’t transport two.”

“Seasick,” Michael said with disgust. “And you really don’t think I’ll have trouble with puling cowards in chains, do you?”

Scowling, the guard rattled the papers and retreated to consult with still another official.

Despite the damp chill of the windowless walls, Michael began to sweat beneath the heavy furred hat. He’d counted on few in prison positions having familiarity with the royal seal or the signatures of anyone in the Home Office. He’d duplicated them as best as he could from memory. But he couldn’t duplicate a seal easily and in such short time. He’d just done what he could and hoped it would pass.

A fourth man appeared carrying the papers, gave Michael a suspicious look, noted his epaulets and captain’s insignia, and nodded. “These look in order, but they make no sense. The men are sentenced to hang. We need a writ to stay the execution.”

“These orders were written before the sentence,” Michael responded with cool authority. “Correspondence would have crossed in travel. It makes no difference. These men possess information of import concerning a plot against the government. I must transport them immediately. The hanging will have to wait.”

“A plot against the government, is it now?” The fourth man scratched his head dubiously. “And when will they be returnin’ for their sentence?”

“I’m just a messenger,” Michael answered with impatience. “I’ve already told you more than I should. It’s not as if I’m taking bread out of your mouth to relieve you of these two miscreants. I have a boat waiting to meet the tide. If I must delay, I will need a good reason to give His Highness.”

The two officials growled at each other, sifted through the heavy vellum once more, looked Michael over again, then finally coming to some agreement, handed the orders back to him. “Matthews will fetch them. Care to share a cup of tea while we wait?”

The anticlimax of this acceptance practically drove the breath from his lungs. The last thing he wanted right now was a cup of tea. Nodding curtly, Michael accepted the offer and followed the man back to his office.

Spinning gossip for the guards’ entertainment, Michael kept careful watch on the hall outside, until the arrival of the guard trailing two scrawny, ragged figures in chains. Michael stared at the younger of the two, searching for the resemblance everyone claimed, but the matted filth of his hair, the month’s growth of beard, and his emaciated form made it impossible. Both prisoners stared at him with suspicion dulled by resignation. If either recognized Michael’s likeness, they showed no sign of it.

“MacDermot and O’Connor?” Michael snapped.

“And what if we’re not?” the younger answered insolently.

“Then we’ll send you to hang in their places,” Michael said without remorse. He blamed these two scoundrels for Fiona’s neglect, and he owed them no sympathy.

If they blanched at this news, he couldn’t tell beneath their filth. He held out his hand for the key to their chains, pocketed it, and marched smartly down the corridor, barking at the prisoners to lift their feet and move.

Impatient to escape the gloom of these cold walls and reach the sunshine again, Michael wished he could use the key and rip off the prisoners’ chains to speed the process, but he could not. His new friend the guard followed him, chattering of ballrooms and London’s tailors.

At the door to the outside, the official signaled more of his men. “Escort the captain to the docks. I don’t expect their friends to know of the transfer, but we can’t be too careful.”

Cursing vehemently to himself, Michael gave the officer a curt nod of appreciation, and prodding the prisoners with his musket, pushed into the light. O’Connor and MacDermot staggered under the assault to their eyeballs after weeks of darkness, but then their shoulders straightened and they looked around with interest.

“You’ll not try escaping if you know what’s good for you,” Michael snapped for the benefit of his accompaniment, wishing he had some way of communicating to the two prisoners that freedom lay ahead.

The older, shorter man turned and gave Michael a thoughtful gaze, then nodded his head in agreement before moving awkwardly toward the street, dragging his chains. The younger scowled and followed.

The distance from the prison to the docks stretched at least a thousand miles, Michael decided. It surely would take them a week to traverse it.

He sensed curious eyes watching from behind curtains and doors, saw the hatred in the stances of the men standing in alleys and outside taverns. He knew nothing about the musket he carried except that it contained no ammunition. Killing didn’t meet his scruples.

The prisoners stumbled and slowed as they neared the docks. Michael figured they’d hoped for rescue and saw their last chance evaporating. He prodded them to keep them moving and kept an anxious eye on the barrels and crates on the dock.

“Reckon you can handle it from here,” one of his escorts said, eying the bobbing ship ahead.

Michael gladly dismissed them as he signaled for the dinghy.

“Feeling confident,” the younger of the two prisoners said sarcastically. “You won’t feel so when our friends arrive.”

“Your friends are on board that ship out there,” Michael replied in irritation. “For your own good, you’d best get yourselves on board and as far from these shores as you can go. If you try anything else, I’ll slit your throat personally. Fiona’s suffered enough.”

That straightened both their backs. Before either could reply, a shout rang from the far end of the dock, and Michael swung around. A gang of ruffians raced down the street in their direction.

The military escort had already disappeared. Slapping the chain key into the older man’s hand, Michael flung off the annoying shako and restricting coat while calculating the resources available between him and the rapidly approaching mob.

“Fey-onah’s after waitin’ for ye out there,” Michael lapsed into dialect for the benefit of his companions. “The dinghy will take ye to her.”

A bottle flew past their heads, and Michael rolled up his shirt sleeves in grim anticipation of the brawl to come. Behind him, the prisoners hastily unfastened their chains.

“There’s the redcoat! Get him, men!” someone shouted.

“Silly asses,” the younger prisoner muttered, lifting his chain as a weapon. “They’ll have the whole bloody army after them.”

The first of the rabble came within Michael’s reach. He spun the top barrel from a stack, heaving it like a bowling ball at the man’s feet. With a shout, the ruffian jumped aside, lost his balance on the wet planks, and fell screaming into the filthy water. The barrel rumbled onward, sending his comrades scrambling and scattering for escape.

“Jump!” Michael told young Seamus, who wielded his chain like a mace. “I’ll not be able to get ye out a second time.”

“Then we’ll all hang together.” Seamus grinned and lashed the chain, connecting with the burly torso of one who escaped the barrel.

William cursed them both, and after ascertaining the musket had no shot, swung it like a shillelagh at a ruffian leaping at them from behind the barrels. The man screamed in pain, stumbling backward into the remaining barrels. The blow tumbled the entire stack, creating a wildly rolling barrier across the dock.

“The dinghy!” Michael shouted, pointing at the shell of a boat and its lone sailor. “Let’s get out of here.”

The mob had regrouped to rethink their strategy, puzzled by the realization that the prisoners they meant to free fought beside the British soldier. Some still yelled curses and wielded hastily assembled weapons as they climbed the crates, simply looking for a fight, but others hung back, watching in curiosity as the prisoners willingly scrambled down to the waiting boat rather than make the break for freedom.

“They’ll have a warship after us once the soldiers hear of this,” William warned mournfully as the dinghy shoved off.

Wiping salt water from his face, Michael missed Fiona’s ecstatic expression as she rushed into her uncle’s arms. But he heard her cry of delight. The sense of satisfaction at a job well done was tempered by the knowledge that Seamus and William must flee the country.

Instead, he shoved his hair from his eyes, and scanned the deck for Blanche. Sailors in the rigging unfurled the sails so the ship could catch the rapidly retreating tide. Perhaps she’d gone below?

“Where is Lady Blanche?” Michael asked impatiently, catching Fiona between reunion hugs. The stricken look on the girl’s face shot through Michael like a musket ball.

“She’s still ashore,” she replied as the first sail dropped and cracked in the wind. “She said she had business to tend to. She’s to return shortly.”

Michael cast a hasty glance at the sails, then back to the docks. They already seemed a mile apart. He saw no sign of Blanche signaling to come aboard. The riot would have delayed her.

“We can’t risk waiting. The Navy will be after us shortly. Take your family to Effingham. Blanche and I will follow later.” Michael signaled for the dinghy. He would row himself back.

Nervously glancing from Fiona to his uncle for reassurance, Seamus tugged on Michael’s shirt sleeve. “Do you speak of Lady Blanche Perceval, sir?”

Already bouncing on his toes with eagerness to be off, Michael glanced at him impatiently. “I do. The one your cronies tried to blow up.”

The lad held his ground. “Eamon had his orders. They came from high up. They’re to strike the lady’s mines next. The conditions are deplorable, I understand. I would not help her ilk, but for Fiona’s sake, I offer warning.”

Summoning one of Gavin’s more vivid curses, Michael scrambled down the ladder to the dinghy. Right now, the whole bloody lot of MacDermots and O’Connors could go up in flame and he wouldn’t look back.

The woman had the common sense of a maggot sometimes. Didn’t she realize she looked out for two now?

Bubbling with rage and anxiety, Michael scarcely noticed the distance between boat and dock. His muscles ached from pulling against the tide, but it was an ache that brought him closer to Blanche.

Concluding chaining her to stone walls in some abandoned castle in Scotland couldn’t even guarantee her safety, Michael swore again as he tied the dinghy to the dock. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the ship and the MacDermots sail toward the horizon, taking with them any chance of knowing his origins.

* * *

“It will be my pleasure to help you, my lady, but you’ll understand that a lot of the old titles have died out. This place had more chieftains and men who claimed spurious titles than there were peasants working the fields. Through the years, the Crown has organized the system a little more efficiently.”

Blanche smiled sweetly at the government official behind the desk, held out her hand for his salute, and answered without a trace of the acid she felt. “I’m certain the Crown has been most efficient, but we cannot neglect true aristocracy, can we? I simply wish to see that my friends have not been unfairly treated.” The stack of pound notes she had left behind to aid the official in his search should ensure that.

Wishing she could do more, and knowing her time was limited, Blanche hurried out of the government office toward the dock. Her path took her past the hotel where she had registered before finding Michael. To her surprise, the street seemed inexplicably cluttered with soldiers. She slowed her pace, gauging the situation. Several glanced in her direction as she approached, and Blanche decided she had best remove herself from view.

Before she could act, a man leaning against the wall of a nearby alley stepped forward, grabbed her arm, and dragged her into the shadows.

She didn’t have time to scream before he warned, “Don’t! We’re getting out of here.”
Michael
. Blanche sighed in relief and gladly followed his path as he hurried down the alley.

“Drat,” Michael muttered when he glanced into the street beyond the alley’s end. Blanche couldn’t see over his shoulder, but she surmised more soldiers strolled about.

Perhaps the prison escapade hadn’t worked as well as he’d hoped. Dread roiling inside her, Blanche watched as he studied their surroundings and decided upon a door in the far wall.

He pried open the door and shoved her inside, bolted the latch, and they stood in utter darkness.

“I had every intention of wringing your neck,” he murmured angrily, but his hands when they slid into her hair were gentle.

“Michael, what is happening?” she asked before his mouth descended over hers and the question disappeared into his kiss.

Michael gratefully closed his fingers in the silkiness of Blanche’s hair while he drank deeply of her lips. It had been weeks... He needed this physical reassurance that nothing had changed between them.

Recovering from the first surprise of passion, she tried shoving him away, but her efforts were puny.

“We’re safe,” he murmured, busying himself with the buttons of her bodice. “It’s not us they’re after. Yet.”

He ignored her breathless questions as he single-mindedly went about his task. He needed to touch. He could feel the full swell of her breasts brushing against him, but he needed more.

The bodice opened and he slid his hands beneath the cloth. In seconds, he’d untied the ribbons of her chemise, and filled his palms with the heavy weight of her breasts. He gave a sigh of deep pleasure as he measured their new fullness.