The Seduction of Phaeton Black (22 page)
Read The Seduction of Phaeton Black Online
Authors: Jillian Stone
“I know what you were thinking, Mr. Moore.” America set a brisk pace along the pier. “Ah, here it is.”
The inspector peered over the edge to the narrow strip of landing built to moor launches. “Perhaps I should go first, in case you slip or fall?”
She eyed him suspiciously. Even decent men got ideas about a woman with lax morals. “Very well, Mr. Moore.”
The way down was slow. Twice, her foot slipped from the slick rungs and Moore held her until she regained her footing. When they reached the bottom, he did not remove his arms from around her waist. “Might you ever accept my attentions, Miss Jones?” He held her from behind, his voice just a whisper in her ear.
“Take your hands off me, Mr. Moore.”
He released her with obvious reluctance. “Why Phaeton Black and not me?”
She spun around. “How could you ask such a thing?” Her eyes filled with tears she could not control. Tears that welled up and poured down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry.” Moore hung his head. “I’m sorry, the man laid down his life in the line of duty”—he hesitated—“to protect you.”
America uttered an otherworldly shriek. “I am telling you he is not dead.”
She turned and walked to the end of the landing. “Phaeton Black. Do you hear me?” She repeated the cry over and over, until she became hoarse from tears and shouting. “I am here, Mr. Black, can you make your way toward me? Please, please, Mr. Black.”
Could he really be gone? Dear God, this could not be happening. A wave of guilt nearly leveled her to the ground. For his part, Dexter Moore at least had the decency to hang back and wait for her to collapse onto a column of coiled rope. She buried her head in her hands and sobbed and sobbed for what seemed like a very long time. Eventually, there were no more tears left, just a running nose, puffy eyes, and hiccups.
Moore moved up behind her and touched her shoulder. Tentatively, she reached back and placed her hand on his. Far off in the bay, she heard the lonely ring of a bell buoy and the bark of a harbor seal.
“Are you about ready, Miss Jones?”
Her heart broke under the pain in her chest. She sucked in air and exhaled a sigh. Rising slowly to her feet, she inched over to the landing’s edge. The basin sparkled periodically as hints of moonlight shone through wispy clouds. She could barely see the outline of ships, stark ebony silhouettes anchored far out in the bay.
As the fog drifted closer to shore, the lapping waves turned dull and dark. Fisting a hand on each hip, her gaze drifted out past the gloomy water. “Phaeton Black.” She hiccupped. “You find your way back to me this minute!”
Chapter Twenty-two
W
AS HE DEAD OR ALIVE
?
AS HE DEAD OR ALIVE
?
Alive, possibly. Phaeton was not entirely sure. He opened his mouth and belched out sea water. Lifting his head, he managed to look about. Hints of moonlight edged the undulating surface of the bay. He blinked to clear his vision and traced the narrow platform he lay on around the circumference of a bell buoy. A loud clang nearly sent him off his precarious perch.
Something ticklish snuffled over his neck and ears. Gingerly, he shifted onto his back, enough to meet the liquid brown eyes of a harbor seal who appeared to take a most startling interest in him. The creature rocked back and forth between flippers and sniffed farther down his body. The eyes of the animal glowed amber then shifted to gold. The musky smelling sea beast barked a jarring bellow.
“Edvar?” He hardly recognized the croaked query as his own voice. A bit groggy brained, Phaeton contemplated whether the annoying gargoyle was some kind of silkie, or could he be imagining things? The hovering harbor rat let loose a series of ear deafening barks.
“Mr. Black. Do you hear me?”
Stunned by the clarity of her voice, his heart beat an erratic pulse as he listened for more. Again, her call carried over the silent bay water. “I am here, Mr. Black.”
He lifted his head to rasp out a response, but his breath had no power. A deep inhale caused a spasm of coughs. Everything came back at once, a barrage of events. Pushed off the ship, he had plunged into the bay. Bullets had zipped through the water. He was trapped in darkness under the keel. He was dead, wasn’t he? So why was Miss Jones calling after him?
The dung of harbor sea lions and rotted fish drifted into his nostrils and caused an involuntary spasm of retching. Chilled to the bone, he tried moving a limb or two. Yes, there appeared to be legs and arms attached to his soggy torso.
Phaeton patted coat pockets inside heavy, waterlogged clothes. Every move he made took enormous effort, as if his body was only half alive. He felt around for the long metal cylinder. The battery powered torchlight. His hands shook as he removed the gadget. He toggled the switch. Nothing. Drenched, most likely. He banged the cylinder against his chest.
A light beam appeared then faltered. “Drat it all.” He shook the torch again and once more a brief flash drilled into the darkness. Phaeton continued to shake and toggle until the torch flew out of his trembling hands into the drink.
He craned his neck. “Fetch, Edvar.” The pesky seal slid off the platform and slipped into dark waters.
Another spasm of coughs racked his chest and there was a sensation of choking. Perhaps he wasn’t dead yet, but his body felt like it wanted to be. He coughed up more sea water and strained to hear the sound of her voice once more. He rested his head on the platform. Another spasm of chills ravaged through his body, then faded. Eyelids heavy. Less painful now.
“Phaeton Black. Give me a sign this minute!”
The sea lion emerged from the water, torchlight in mouth. A sputtering beam of light bobbed about in the blackness. Phaeton drifted into unconsciousness.
America peered deep into the blackness of the bay. “Look, a flash just above tidewater.” She pointed. “There it is again.”
Dexter Moore squinted. “Ah yes, I see it now.”
“It’s him. I know it.” America lowered herself into a crew boat tied to the landing.
“Miss Jones. We don’t know if it’s Phaeton. Could be more of those pirates—some jumped ship—Yanky Willem among them.” He untied the mooring line but held on.
“Inspector Moore, climb aboard or I shall push off without you.” She lowered both oars into the water.
Dexter Moore climbed in, mouth drawn into a thin, unhappy line.
“Coil that rope and sit yourself down.” She adjusted oars.
“Are you going to row?” His look couldn’t be more incredulous.
She snorted. “I learned as a young girl, Mr. Moore. Think you can best me?” She angled the skiff away from the landing and pushed off. “I’d rather get us there quick and silent-like, just in case you happen to be right about those pirates.”
America dipped the oars into the bay and leaned back. The small boat skimmed over calm water. After a few strokes, Dexter’s shoulders dropped a bit. “I say, rather deft of you, Miss Jones.” He removed a pistol from inside his jacket and retrieved a handful of bullets from a woolen waistcoat pocket.
He loaded the weapon and spun the cylinder.
During the gun battle, Moore had shot and wounded several of Willem’s men aboard ship. “You appear to know your way around a gun, Inspector Moore.”
He pocketed the weapon. “Four years with Her Majesty’s Scot’s Greys.”
“Are you a sharp shooter?”
The barest semblance of a grin. “I hit the target, more often than not.”
The bell sounded close by. At Moore’s gesture, she stroked an oar in a starboard direction and headed for the buoy.
A grey nose, covered in whiskers, popped up alongside and tossed an object into the boat. Moore jumped slightly, rocking the skiff. America grinned. “A harbor seal, Mr. Moore. Harmless enough.”
“Sorry.” He felt around the boat bottom and retrieved a metal cylinder.
“I believe Phaeton was the last one with the torchlight.” She read his face, as he did hers. Grim at the thought he might be at the bottom of the bay, hopeful he still could be stranded somehow, somewhere. And alive.
America pulled in the oars. The buoy emerged from a wisp of fog. Her gaze traveled over the looming structure. Nothing.
The seal honked and swam to the other side of the floating metal tower. America dropped an oar down and skimmed the surface, turning the rowboat slowly around the buoy.
Dexter squinted through the rusty metal beams. “There on the ledge.”
The lonely form of a still body. No movement.
“Mr. Black, is that you?” She nodded to Moore.
Dexter stood up in the boat and set his feet apart. He leaned portside and grabbed ahold of the narrow ledge, then the body. He tugged on the damp, bulky clothing until he managed to tilt the lifeless torso toward them.
America gasped. It was Phaeton all right, but was he dead or alive? “Quickly Mr. Moore, lower him down. It took all of Moore’s strength and balance to get the bulk of Phaeton onboard. They laid him down and stretched him across the center seat.
“Facedown, Mr. Moore, angle his mid-chest across the bench.”
America’s own pulse soared when she found a heartbeat in his neck. It was thready, but he was alive. “On my signal, you will press on his back with all your weight, Mr. Moore.” America took hold of Phaeton’s arms like they were oars and leaned back. She pulled them forward, over his head, and then signaled Moore to press on his back.
“The prone pressure method. Very scientific.” She pulled on his arms. “Onboard ship, we put a man over a barrel and roll it back and forth.”
With each pull and press, seawater shot out of Phaeton’s nose and mouth, until a sputtered cough gave up nothing more. With an involuntary jerk, he came to life and began to shiver. Her own body ached under the fatigue of tension. A deep exhale released hours of emotional strain and tautly held muscle. She looked up and returned Moore’s smile.
“Well done, Miss Jones.” Moore took off his coat and covered the trembling body splayed across the bottom of the dinghy. Phaeton’s moan came from the depths of hell, but it sounded like heaven to her.
“Seems you’ve got more lives than a cat.”
Reluctantly, Phaeton shifted his gaze away from America to the man speaking. Dexter Moore stood at the foot of his bed holding his hat. After a change into dry clothes and two pots of hot tea, he almost felt himself again. Except for the bruised ribs, the sore jaw, and the swollen eye. A sharp pain shot up his side as he spoke. “Bugger off.”
Moore checked his watch. “As a matter of fact, I’m off to town. Yanky Willem will likely reemerge somewhere east of the Tower, where he has yet another of your ships in dry dock, Miss Jones.”
America sat bedside and closed the book in her lap. “A few alterations and a fresh coat of paint to disguise appearances, perhaps?”
“Awfully bold of Willem.” Phaeton pressed for details. “What are your plans, Dex?”
“Contact London Port Authority. Between Scotland Yard and Thames patrol, we should be able to cast a net from the Isle of Dogs to Limehouse.”
She grabbed her bottom lip with upper teeth and slowly released. He loved that adorable nervous twitch of hers. Perhaps too much.
Dexter rattled on. “Not to worry, Miss Jones, a man on the run makes mistakes.”
She managed a smile. “Let us hope so, Mr. Moore.”
Dexter cast a longing gaze her way. Phaeton didn’t much care for that look of his. “Well, I’m off then.” Fingering his bowler, the man backed away from the bed. “Don’t want to miss my train.”
America rose to see him out of the hotel suite. Phaeton listened absently to snippets of conversation. “We’ll be following along behind you, Inspector Moore, as soon as Mr. Black takes his rest.”
She stood at the bedroom door with her hands on her hips. “Phaeton, you really must try not to glower at Inspector Moore.” She sat on the edge of his bed and swept a palm over his forehead. “He quite bravely defended me from the pirates and stayed on when I would not give up on you.”
“Ah, there you see.” Phaeton hissed a bit when she pressed gently on his taped ribs. “Sorry.” She withdrew her hand only have it caught up in his. He pressed his lips to her knuckles. “It was you, Miss Jones, who insisted on staying behind. The rest of them would have left me out in the drink to rot like a bit of leftover sea lion dinner.”
“Indeed, you may well have expired, Mr. Black, for I do not believe the harbor seals have any experience with artificial respiration.”
Phaeton grinned. “Speaking of which, I believe my buoy companion to be none other than Edvar the Sneaky.”
“Aha!” Her smile warmed his entire body. “More proof I am right about your powerful little ally.”
“These proofs of yours.” He tut-tutted. “Proofs of piracy, proofs of Edvar, proofs of... love?” He pulled her close, kissed her softly, and pressed for more.
She broke off the kiss to stare for a moment. “I was so afraid I had lost you.”
Heavy-lidded, liquid brown eyes crinkled. “And I you, Miss Jones.”
She climbed on his bed and readily returned his affection.
America opened her eyes. The pale walls of the room glowed a rosy hue. She estimated the time close to sunset. They had slept the entire day away. She smiled, listening to Phaeton snore peacefully beside her.
Her affection for him had grown tenfold during the few weeks they had known each other. A disturbing thought, given Phaeton Black was completely unsuitable. Suitable as a lover, perhaps, but not as a suitor.
She pushed a few stray hairs off his forehead, and he pulled her close. Could she possibly be in love with this man? She trembled at the very thought. He would break her heart if she allowed any further emotional attachment. Inwardly, she steeled herself for the days ahead. With two of her ships returned to her, she could begin to build a new life for herself. There would be no time for a man whose happiest pastime was bed sport.
No, the theft of the fleet, her father’s death, and the loss of the warehouse had taught her a painful lesson. Count on no one. Only that simple notion wasn’t exactly true. There had been one man.
A soft tapping at the parlor door launched her up off the bed. A hotel page stood in the hallway holding two telegrams addressed to Mr. Black. She asked for a bath to be readied and ordered a huge, hearty breakfast.
While Phaeton read the wires, she removed a package of perfumed bath salts from her toiletry case and swished the fragrant powder into the steaming tub.
“Seems Dex wasted no time briefing Zander Farrell on my presence in Portsmouth.”
She sat down on the edge of his bed. “Undo me?”
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