EscapeWithMe (22 page)

The air caught in her throat and she grabbed one of his
wrists, but she didn’t ask him to stop. He knew she was rubbing her sex and he
grunted with the effort of holding back his release.

A gasp was his only warning when her legs locked around his
thighs, holding him inside her. Deep pulsations cajoled carnal sounds from her,
but it was her breathy question that undid him.

“Can you feel me coming?”

His back arched and a harsh noise was wrenched from him as
he spilled inside her. She undulated against him, drawing out the pleasure and
mewling with satisfaction that she had finished him. He then crumpled onto the
bed and gulped for air. His entire body was a dull throb. His skin was hot and
his hair stuck to his neck and forehead.

Through bleary eyes, he saw her watching him. He wanted to
ask her if she loved him, but he feared another silence as when he had declared
his affections earlier. Worse, she might declare that he did not have her
heart. The notion preyed upon him.

His arms were as heavy as a ship’s anchor but he pulled her
down to his chest. She came willingly and rested her head upon his shoulder.

“Samantha.” His throat was tight. “I am quite certain when I
say that…you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.” She raised her head
to look at him. “There is no other person on this Earth like you. I lo—”

She covered his lips with her fingers. He watched some
struggle in her eyes, which filled with tears. He could hardly breathe.

“I love you too.”

Wherever his strength went, it came flooding back. He kissed
her, his heart leaping and his cock hardening. She made a happy sound against
his lips, then a surprised one as he rolled her beneath him.

He lifted his mouth and listened to her gasps as he rocked
against her. “I love you.” He said it over and over, rejoicing in the fact and
in the freedom to tell her.

As her legs wrapped around his hips, he hoped that Mary and
Oliver stayed at supper for a very long time.

* * * * *

It was still early when Sam woke the next morning. Past
dawn, but only barely. She raised her head from Ryder’s chest and winced at the
ache in her ear. Ryder slept deeply. He looked exhausted, and it was no wonder
after the many days of travel, an emotional evening and an impressive
demonstration of his sexual endurance. While they recovered, she recounted what
Webb had told her on the road. Ryder had remained silent, though his body
tensed when she mentioned the affair. She kept her parentage theory to herself,
but knew it was in his mind.

His hand was warm on her side. She was tempted to settle
against him and go back to sleep, but her throat was dry and she needed to
answer nature’s call.

She carefully lifted his hand from her waist. The bed
creaked softly as she eased away from him and slipped from the covers. She felt
very fragile when she stood, both her body and her heart. It had been difficult
to confess her love, not because she didn’t love him—she loved him so much it
hurt—but because she didn’t know what the locket had in store for her.

Would she be allowed to live in this time, or did she have
an expiration date? To admit she loved him and then to leave him, even if not
by choice, was a pain she didn’t want to put him through. If he was forced to
move on without her and she had never confessed any love for him, wouldn’t that
be easier, if only a little?

After doing her business, she went to the wash basin and
lifted the towel from the rim. Washing her hands and face made her feel better
and as she dried off with the towel, she saw the locket hanging from her neck.

It was too late to reject Ryder’s feelings and deny herself
the happiness he gave her. All she could do was hope for release from the
locket’s magic, but what if it was ripped from her again, the chain broken at a
link rather than popped from its clasp? What if Ryder was with her when it
happened and saw all the blood? What if he demanded she not wear it? What if
she was forced to lie? Or worse, forced to explain? She didn’t know the reasons
for hardly anything that had happened to her.

She set down the towel and held the locket up in the dim
light to study the cage etched onto the front with its diamond lock. The locket
was as much a cage as Mrs. Hayes’ brothel or the watch-house cell—or her old
life, clinging to the shadow of love while a criminal used her parents’ shop as
a front.

Weeks had gone by without a new clue, so it was out of habit
that she flipped the locket over to read the inscription.

She gasped at the new inscription.
Choose.
Some
external pressure squeezed her heart, bringing tears to her eyes. She opened
the note and read the new stanza.

Ride the wind west to the blood-colored sun,

Back to the time where the dove had begun.

A new chance awaits in a day undone.

Memory of you, the hawk will have none.

Sam suffered a repeat of that moment in the attic, a whole
lot of panting, heart-pounding, and a whispered mantra invoking her maker. She
braced her hand on the washstand and tried to calm down before dizziness
overcame her. The hammering in her chest was deafening and she marveled that it
didn’t wake up Ryder in the next room.

She could go back to her time. No doubt about it. She wasn’t
sure what it meant by “ride the wind west”, but if she caught the right moment
during a red sunrise or sunset, she could go home. There was no mistaking what
“a day undone” meant. She’d be going back well before Brian shot her and could
have him arrested.

It was the last line that put tears in her eyes. She’d never
see Ryder again. The thought of leaving him behind to return to a time where he
had been long dead was painful to contemplate. Would she have any warning in
order to say goodbye? Would it even matter since he wouldn’t remember her at
all?

The locket’s inscription said she had to make a choice,
which meant she didn’t have to go back, but if she remained, what then? Ryder
loved her but his life was a dangerous one and if he died then what would
become of her? She had virtually no rights in this time, and certainly no
delusions about surviving on her own.

The riot of questions conjured up a migraine. She brought
the damp towel to her face and wiped away her tears. She had no way of knowing
what was best or what regrets she’d end up carrying.

She returned to the bedroom. Ryder had shifted onto his side
and his hand lay on the empty space she had occupied. Comfort was all she
wanted and she decided to refrain from making a decision for now. She crawled
back into bed. Ryder woke for just a few seconds and gathered her against him
before falling back to sleep.

Sam lay awake for hours.

* * * * *

Ryder entered his father’s house with a cold knot in his
stomach. He knew he should not continue to hope for William West’s approval,
but now he hoped that the man who raised him until he was thirteen was not a
murderer, nor even his real father.

He spied Phillip in the downstairs drawing room. Seeing his
half-brother anew, he wondered if the old assumption that explained their
disparate looks—that Ryder had taken after his mother’s family rather than his
father’s side—was a false one. Would it turn out that he and Phillip shared no
common parent?

Phillip came into the front hallway. “I had thought not to
see you until the ship docked in France.”

They shook hands as Ryder replied. “Verily I intended as
much, but this could not wait. Thank you for coming.”

“I am curious why you wish to speak to Father together.”
Phillip then laughed. “Are you going to strangle him, once and for all?”

Ryder did not smile at his brother’s jest. “I might.”
Phillip’s grin faltered. “You are here as a witness to my conversation with
him.”

His brother nodded hastily. “O-of course.”

They ascended to the first floor. Ryder regretted the meal
he had taken before coming, for he felt certain he was near to vomiting.
Phillip knocked on their father’s bedroom door and Mrs. Johnson answered.

She invited them in. It seemed their father was in the
middle of a meal that Mrs. Johnson was administering. William West looked far
healthier than when Ryder had last visited more than three weeks ago. He had
regained some weight and his color had improved.

“You’re looking well, Father,” Phillip said.

William wiped his mouth with a fine linen napkin. “Just in
time, I believe. I may need to dig my business out of the ground you so firmly
buried it under.”

Mrs. Johnson lifted the tray from William’s lap. “Sir,
you’re still very ill. Working right now would only—”

“Shut up, woman, and leave us to talk.” His father smirked
at his caretaker’s affronted expression. She then flounced to the door.

“Die then,” she snapped. “I don’t care anymore.” The door
shut loudly as Mrs. Johnson took her leave. William didn’t acknowledge anything
was wrong.

“You’ve brought Ryder with you?” William frowned. “Is that
how it is? You rely on your younger brother, the
lesser
son, to fix your
mistakes and to shield you from my disappointment?”

Phillip clenched his hands. “And what mistakes are those,
Father? I know very well how you and my grandfather earned the family’s
wealth—”

“Wealth you squandered on gambling and whoring,” their
father interrupted.

His brother sneered at their father. “Yes, you worked very
hard to avoid the revenue officers. How am I to feel insulted or ashamed that I
am not as successful a criminal as you? What moral example did you provide that
I have so thoroughly tainted? How is Ryder any less a son to rescue his
scandalous family from Marshalsea?”

Ryder stepped forward at his father’s confounded silence.
“Yes, why am I the lesser son? A history exists between you and Mr. Webb…and
between him and my mother.” William reacted to that, a swift inhale through his
nose as he lifted his chin. “He claims he had an affair with my mother and that
you killed her because of it. Is this true?”

Phillip sat hard in the chair by the bed and whispered,
“Good God.”

“You are the lesser son,” William began, “because you killed
the woman I loved when she birthed you.” He nearly spat the words. “Yes, she
knew of Henry Webb from Poole, but I don’t believe she ever even spoke to him.
His was a one-sided love. Any affair between them was imagined. He and the revenue
station there had tried for years to stop the free trade your grandfather and I
conducted, and when I married the woman he desired, he fostered a sharp hatred
of me.”

“He claims Mother wrote him a letter after I was born that
asked him to see her. Does that sound as though she hardly knew him?”

“And where is this letter, hmm? Did he show it to you? Would
you have known if it was your mother’s hand? He feeds you lies, and you come
into my sickroom to accuse your own father of murder.”

Ryder doubted himself but continued. “What reason would he
have to lie?”

“It is no surprise he would assume me a murderer when he
regards my character with such jealous contempt. Why should he require any
other reason?” William sagged into his pillows. “Get out, both of you. You’ve
tired me with your libelous accusations.”

Ryder was far from satisfied but he had nothing left with
which to obligate a confession. He stormed from the room and downstairs. The
butler was fetching his coat when Phillip approached him.

“Good Lord, Ryder. To think that our father killed your
mother…”

“He’s lying—”

“I agree. He was scared when you said Webb believed he
murdered her.”

His brother’s support surprised Ryder. Phillip had always
cowed to their father’s wishes and opinions. He had always been the one in whom
William showed some modicum of pride, the one he had groomed to take over their
so-called free trade business.

Phillip gripped his shoulder and lowered his voice. “If such
a letter from your mother exists, I may find others in this house. With any
luck…”

Ryder nodded stiffly. “I would appreciate it, and thank you
for what you said.”

“Thank you, Ryder, for coming home. I’d be dead or in prison
if it weren’t for you.” Phillip embraced him, and Ryder realized it was for the
first time.

Whether William was his father or not, Ryder would always
consider Phillip his brother.

Chapter Fourteen

“Damn it.” Sam lamented the new ink stains on her fingers
while her other hand went fishing for a kerchief to wipe off what she could.
How difficult would it be to go to a craftsman and describe a ballpoint pen?

At least it was the last entry for their remaining
contraband. Two more weeks and two more smuggling runs had brought in a large
profit, though it could’ve been larger. Several tubs of brandy had been
confiscated just days ago not far from shore by revenue officers from
Christchurch. Ryder’s acquaintance Kelter told her the bad news when she
rendezvoused with him in Hounslow Heath to pick up more whole cloth.

Worse, Webb had been with the revenue officers who had
confiscated the brandy. The man was narrowing down on their landing site near
Highcliffe. Sam had suggested the obvious—to land elsewhere—but Ryder had axed
the idea as he wasn’t planning to be a free trader for much longer.

She looked up from the ledger. Ryder stood in the doorway of
the now-empty warehouse and the rolling crunch of a departing cart could be
heard beyond him. With a smile he tucked into his coat’s inner pocket a bank
draft for the last of the tea. Thank God because that tea was pungent with a
capital P. He shut the door and approached her at the empty barrel she was
using as a desk.

“With this,” he said as he patted his coat pocket, “the
entirety of Phillip’s debts will be settled.”

“And if he makes new debts?”

“One final voyage on the
Westerly Wind
should see my
father and brother through a few years if they live with economy—and if my
brother abstains from his vices.”

Ryder kept talking but Sam could only hear two words in her
mind,
Westerly Wind.

“Are you all right, my love?”

Sam pulled herself out of her mind. “What did you just say?”

Ryder’s eyes were crinkled with concern. “I asked if you are
all right. You seem distracted.”

“No, before that.”

“My father and brother can live on the profits of one last
run while we arrange legitimate import relations with American merchants. I
thought you might wish to return to New York.”

“You said ‘Westerly Wind’.”

He eased when it seemed that her distraction was mere
confusion. “Ah, forgive me. Have I never told you? The
Westerly Wind
is
my father’s ship.”

The line from the locket’s stanza came back to her and, this
time, made sense.
Ride the wind west.

“I’d like to come with you to Le Havre.” She didn’t mean to
sound desperate but it was there in her voice.

“Whatever for?”

A good question. Why not let this opportunity slip by? Why
not watch the ship leave London, knowing she’d never have a chance to go home?
Why not remain and be happy? The locket still had something to tell her though.
She still had a part to play.

That’s what she told herself at least.

“Is there a reason why not?” she asked.

Ryder wiggled his eyebrows. “I do look forward to our coming
together when I’ve been absent.” Her smile was wan but he didn’t seem to
notice. “In that case, I shall send word to Phillip to meet Kelter in
Christchurch. I tire of his seasickness.”

Sam couldn’t think of something to say so she closed the
ledger and put the stopper in her ink well. Her fingers were as clean as she
could get them without access to soap and water, so she stuffed her ink-stained
kerchief into her handbag.

“Samantha.” Ryder appeared in front of her and tipped up her
chin. She felt guilty, though she didn’t want to contemplate why. “Something
has upset you.”

How had he become so good at reading her? “I’m fine.”

“Is it…something you can’t talk about?”

This was how they had avoided the topic of her origins
lately. He would feel the edges of the boundary around the things she refused
to discuss and not cross it.

“Not yet.” Those two words had come out of her mouth a lot
in the past two weeks. She never intended to tell him, but the vague promise of
doing so one day eased the conversation.

Still, it hurt him every time. She rose on her toes and he
came to her without question, bringing their lips together and wrapping an arm
around her. Her heart leapt when his hand groped at her skirt in search of the
hem.

It would be a little while before they left the warehouse.

* * * * *

“Oliver is here with the coach, sir,” Mary called from
downstairs.

“Very well,” Ryder called back. “We shall be there
momentarily.”

“Assuming I can get this thing to sit right.” Dressed in a
chocolate-brown redingote, Sam was nearly ready for the postal packet to Le
Havre. The last detail was affixing her hat to her hair—much harder than it
looked. She sighed as it slipped from where she had pinned it and wondered if
she should just go without it.

Ryder pressed a kiss to her cheek before he scooped up her
bag and took it downstairs. She heard him say something to Mary and a moment
later, Mary came upstairs and into the bedroom. “Here, let me help you.”

Sam gratefully handed the hat to her. “Did Ryder say that I
was making a mess of my hair?”

Mary smiled. “He wouldn’t say that.” She tucked a few stray
layers of hair into place and then gently set the hat on top. “I won’t know
what to do with myself after you leave.”

“You could visit Mrs. Hayes,” she said with sarcasm.

“That’s not funny,” Mary said despite laughing. She gently
pushed the first pin through Sam’s hair. “I admit, knowing she’s rotting away
in prison makes me very content. I hope Mr. Hull gets the same.”

“Well, you’ll be shocked how quickly you find something to
occupy yourself. I’m sure you’d like to visit Peter too. Anyhow, I’ll be back
before you know it.”

Mary’s voice was soft. “No, you won’t.” Sam was almost
surprised that Mary knew, but only almost. “Mr. West won’t need me anymore, but
that’s all right.”

“How did you know? Did it tell you?” Mary nodded and
inserted another pin.

The locket was powerful and damn near omniscient. Did it
already know Sam would choose to go back to her own time?

“What did it say?” Sam asked.

“Only that the way was open for you to go home.”

So it didn’t know what she would choose to do, or if it did,
it didn’t tell Mary.

Tears gathered in Mary’s eyes as she pushed in the last pin.
“I’m so happy I met you, Sam.”

As if it were contagious, Sam’s eyes welled with tears. “Oh
Mary, you have no idea how much you’ve done for me.”

“Samantha, are you ready? We must depart soon,” Ryder
called.

How could she now be running out of time? “I have something
for you.” She went to a cabinet and brought back a spare silk handbag. Inside
was her share of the smuggling profits—enough for Mary and Peter to live on for
the rest of their lives if they were careful with it.

“I won’t need this where I’m going. I want you to have it.”

“S-Sam, I
cannot
take this,” Mary whispered
frantically.

“You will. I insist.” She closed Mary’s fingers around the
silk strings and then gave her one last quick hug. “I won’t forget you.”

Mary’s response was nearly inaudible. “Me too.”

* * * * *

Webb could hear only the thundering of his heart as his left
hand compulsively affirmed and reaffirmed that the letter he had intercepted
was still in his coat pocket. His right hand gripped his pistol.

That he still had the gun was a shock and he was grateful
for the distraction of remembrance while he waited in the darkness before dawn
for his target to emerge. He had woken at the side of the road, his horse tied
up and a dirty kerchief covering the discharged pistol sitting on his leg.
Someone had cleaned his face of mud, and it certainly wasn’t the foul-mouthed
driver.

A lovely red-haired creature with dark knowledge in her
eyes. That she was involved in Ryder’s schemes was a painful realization, for
he had so foolishly assumed that whatever information she had of his operation
was superficial, gleaned only as a kept woman with nothing more to do than
spend money and lie on her back. He recounted their conversations and how
deftly she deflected his questions, exploited his assumptions. She had been
intimately involved in her lover’s smuggling and he had been far too gentle
with her.

The letter proved it.

The door of the house opened and Webb took a deep breath. He
hastened across the street. His target stepped out, right on time. He pulled
out his pistol.

“Change of plans.” He pressed the gun against Phillip’s
chest.

Phillip raised his hands. “
What the devil?
Webb?” A
frightened older woman stood behind him.

“Heading to the packet, are you?”

“What gives you the right to—?”

“Your brother has different plans for you.” He pulled the
elder West son away from the door and put a few feet between Phillip and the
pistol.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re to meet a man named Kelter in Christchurch as Ryder
intends to take his whore to France in your place. I just want to make sure you
get there. Wouldn’t want Ryder to suspect anything went awry with the delivery
of his letter.”

“Is there anything criminal in his instructions, or have you
gone completely mad? This is kidnapping.”

“That’s what I intend to learn in Christchurch, Mr. West.”
He reached into his pocket and found the sealed letter he himself had penned
just hours ago. He then tossed it at the woman and it landed at her feet. “Give
that to your master.”

A coach pulled up, just as he had instructed. The driver’s
price had been steep, but it had been worth it. The man descended from his seat
to tie Phillip’s hands behind his back and then tossed him into the coach.

“Mr. West!” the woman cried.

“Send word to Ryder, Mrs. Johnson,” Phillip said.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.” Webb boarded and sat opposite
his hostage with the pistol resting on his leg. “I’ve sent a man aboard the
postal packet. Should Ryder learn of what has happened, he’ll kill him.”

“You bastard.”

The driver shut the door and ascended.

“Calm yourself, Mr. West. We have quite a journey ahead of
us.” He smiled at Phillip’s scowl and the horses set off.

* * * * *

Sam was no sailor. She wasn’t suffering seasickness but
sleeping was too difficult when one’s bed rolled and pitched like a mechanical
bull on a low setting. It also didn’t help that she couldn’t stop thinking
about the locket’s demand that she choose. She slept maybe an hour on the trip
to Le Havre and only a few hours while they waited for high tide in order to
return to England. Rougher seas on the journey back meant zero sleep, and when
they neared their landing site in the wee hours of the morning, she was never
more grateful.

That is, until Ryder spotted the deck lamps of a revenue
cruiser. A great deal of cursing from both MacKenzie and Ryder was followed by
a flurry of activity that turned their smuggling cutter back into open water.
The cruiser gave chase for nearly an hour before losing sight of them amidst
the dark waves, but it wasn’t for another hour that they turned around to
circle back. An hour after that, Sam stopped shaking from the adrenaline.

Ryder and MacKenzie had been in Ryder’s cabin for twenty
minutes, arguing about how and when to try another landfall. A several-hour
delay meant that they couldn’t be sure the scores of men and nearly a score of
carts would still be waiting. The potential payment the farmers and laborers
could expect for their assistance would be far greater than a day’s honest work
and they would probably wait as long as they could. However, the sun would be
over the horizon in almost an hour, meaning they would have to unload their
contraband in broad daylight, and the revenue cruiser was still out there.

Sam wondered what color the sunrise would be.

When she couldn’t stand her thoughts anymore, she pulled out
the ledger and went to the cargo hold to double-check the inventory. Finding
and counting the many bales of tobacco, ankers of brandy and casks of various
dried fruits wouldn’t be a pleasant or even necessary task—the cargo hold was a
powerful-smelling place—but it was at least a distraction. She hooked her
sturdy lantern to the ceiling and set the open ledger on a barrel piled with
others like it.

The ship creaked and the lantern moved with the tilt of the
vessel, but it was quiet and solitary as she went back and forth from the
ledger to the various goods efficiently packed, stacked and tied down. Halfway
down the list of entries were the bales of Lyons silk for which she had haggled
like a pro, and a portion of it had been repacked into the trunk that would
ride back to London with her.

The trunk was tied down around its sides, so she couldn’t
resist a quick peek and lifted the lid. Gently pushing aside the paper that
provided minimal protection, she ran her fingers across the light-blue brocade
that sat on top. Her parents’ shop hadn’t dealt with historical clothes very
much as they required extra care and were often difficult to acquire, but now
that she was wise to his secret, Sam wondered if Brian had been against
acquiring rare clothing because it wasn’t ideal for smuggling drugs.

She heard footsteps behind her and shut the lid.

“Do you like that one? We can keep it and substitute
another.” Ryder stopped at the ledger and stared at the page. The single source
of light cast deep shadows across his troubled expression. The revenue cruiser,
according to snippets she heard from Ryder, MacKenzie and the crew, was better
manned than some for how close it came to catching them.

“No, that’s all right.” She might not need any more dresses.
“So are we heading back to France?”

He took a few steps toward her. “I convinced MacKenzie to
try for the shore again.”