His Wicked Kiss (62 page)

Your devoted son,

D.

Post-Script: Would be dead if not for that quick-thinking chap, Lord Griffith. Capital fellow. Fancies Georgie, I think. Don’t they all?

The half-drowned fellow’s pleadings roused Arthur from his own fatherly woes.

“I beg you, Captain, will you not help me save my child? Both she and Lord Jack are in grave danger. Let your men row me to shore so I can go to the Pulteney Hotel and warn Jack he must protect Eden! O’Keefe is here and he’s coming after both of them. He is dangerous,” he whispered. “Unstable. He must be stopped!”

Lord Arthur lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes in fascination. “Would you by chance be Dr. Farraday?”

“Yes! How ever did you know?” He looked amazed.

“Long story. I’ll tell you on the way. Come with me. Lower a boat!” he bellowed at his eavesdropping men.

“Aye, Captain!”

The sailors leaped to attention and scrambled to obey.

The two seasoned gentlemen rushed to the Pulteney Motel with all due haste.

When they arrived and located Jack’s suite, they banged on the door, but it was locked and there was no answer. Lord Arthur took charge.

“Stand aside, my good fellow!” he commanded.

Farraday, still sopping wet, got out of the way. He went and fetched a candle from the wall sconce in the corridor while Arthur kicked the door in with a few repeated blows.

When it finally banged open and the light from the candle poured in, both men gasped to find the room littered with the bodies of four dead men.

It was a scene of pure destruction.

There was blood on the carpet, blood on the furniture. Even a splash of it up on the ceiling.

“Good God,” the naturalist whispered.

Speechless, he and Farraday walked in.

Then one of the corpses showed a flicker of movement and let out a groan.

“Jack!”

Lord Arthur spotted his nephew sprawled facedown on the ground, over by the French doors.

The other three swarthy chaps were dead.

Farraday rushed to Jack’s side and touched him, feeling his pulse. “He’s alive.”

Somehow Arthur wasn’t surprised, but he had never been gladder to have a doctor in the house. Now it was Victor’s turn to give orders. He told Arthur to fetch cold water and find some clean cloths to use as bandages while he turned Jack over and checked the extent of his injuries.

Fury boiled in Arthur’s veins when he saw the injuries done to his proud nephew. His face was swollen and bloodied. He had been stabbed in several places, and they had even tried to cut his throat, but t
hank
God, they had only managed to nick it.

His color was terrible and his skin was covered in a clammy sweat after his savage battle, but he was alive. Arthur marveled at his nephew’s bloody victory. He must have fought like a lion.

After a few minutes, their efforts managed to revive him.

“There, lad.” Accepting a drink of water from his uncle, Jack finally found his voice. “Eden,” he rasped. “O’Keefe—set me up.”

“Then that means he may already have her,” Farraday whispered.

Jack’s stare homed in on his father-in-law’s face. His aqua-blue eyes were feverish with pure savagery.

Even Arthur had never seen Jack like this before.

Slowly, Jack dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, and then rolled forward, resting his weight on his hands. With a sudden, painful heave of effort, he began climbing to his feet.

Arthur stared at him. Magnificent to behold—a beaten, battered man, pulling himself up from the brink of death and despair, like a half-dead gladiator dragging himself up from the sands of the Colosseum to fight again.

Jack was on his feet, though his balance was off. He wove a bit after too many blows to the head, but he stopped the motion by a visible clamping down of his will. His jaw was clenched.

His chest rose as he steadied himself with a deep, noisy inhalation, his nostrils flaring. Rage burned in his eyes.

“Where is he?” he ground out.

Farraday took a step backward, equally awed. “I will show you.”

It was hard to say how much time passed in her lightless cage. An hour? Maybe two? Eden refused to believe that Jack was dead. Quite reversing herself, she now prayed he was on his way to South America to complete his mission. But with every moment she grew more frantic. She could not figure out what to do. The cabin door was hopelessly sealed and banging on it only brought threats of being bound and gagged, so she left off, knowing that would only make her chances of escape even slimmer.

She had pulled over the three-legged stool that went with the writing desk and stood on it, trying to squeeze herself through the porthole, but the opening was little bigger than a supper plate. It was no use.

Peering out of the small round window, though, Eden noticed that there was no flicker of ship’s lamps reflecting on the water, nor did she hear any sound of orders given, or sailors’ calls coming from the deck above. The frigate cut through the water in darkness and silence, predatorlike: She realized Connor meant to slip away by stealth.

Accustomed as he was to the inky nights in the deep jungle, she knew he could see very well without the light. She did not know how long it would be before they reached the ocean. But she knew if she didn’t get away from this madman soon, her hope was doomed. Connor might take her anywhere, and if he managed to drag her back to the Orinoco, she was as good as lost to the outer world—and to Jack.

Holding back terror, Eden felt her way blindly through the cabin, seeking anything that might help her plight. It was too dark to make sense of most of the objects her hands discovered, but then, in a drawer of the writing desk, she unearthed a small stump of candle with a tinderbox built into the bottom of its pewter holder.

She struck the flint without success time after time, losing patience with her shaking hands, and then cursing with frustration when she scraped the knuckle of her thumb with the flint’s sharp corner. She gripped it harder, focused entirely on the simple task, when, all of a sudden, a deep, reverberant sound reached her from the dark distance.

Tra-la!

She lifted her head and turned slightly toward the sound, holding her breath.

Again:
Tra-la
!

A flicker of memory stirred. She had heard that sound before…

The deep echo of the ship’s horn blew across miles of river.

She flew to the porthole and stood on the stool again to peer out the little round window. Then she drew in her breath at the sight of the large vessel gliding slowly into view from around a great broad meander some distance behind them—it was difficult to judge how far, in the dark.

But Eden made out one detail that made her heart suddenly lift and begin to soar.

The ship’s huge whale-oil lamps illuminated the bold red mark on the mainsail proclaiming it the property of Knight Enterprises.

The Valiant!

Rescue was on the way! Connor had been right, then—Papa had escaped and gone for help! Her hope reborn, she found herself fiercely roused to action. She could not say if it was Lord Arthur alone come to rescue her, or Papa, as well, or Damien and the rest of the formidable Knight brothers; she only knew that, first off, she had to let them know where she was.

This time, when she struck the flint, she managed to capture the spark at once on the bit of linen rag, which she transferred at once to the candle wick. A small flame rose.

Why, if Connor thought that they were going to steal away under cover of darkness, then he was sorely mistaken. One paltry stump of candle, however, was not going to be enough to draw her rescuers’ attention, providing little more than a firefly’s glow.

Hurrying to search the contents of the jumbled, messy cabin, she held the candle up, trailing its flickering illumination slowly across the array of odds and ends the cabin offered. The small, light frigate did not have the luxury of the
Winds’
capacious cargo holds, but the wheels in her mind turned swiftly.

She saw fisherman’s netting.

Some extra wood planking in case of damage to the boat.

Black tar for sealing the deck.

Tra-la!

Her smile grew as a plan crystallized in her mind. Several minutes later, the stump of candle still burning nearby, she began trying to kick down the cabin door.

“Let me out of here, you blackguards!”

Each kick jarred all the way up to her hip, but with less than ten blows, she had the thing half off its hinges in her determination to get out.

When Connor sent one of his lackeys scurrying belowdecks to deal with her, she was ready for him, fisherman’s netting in hand.

“Scurvy wench, quiet down!” The moment the sailor yanked the mangled door open, Eden threw a wide length of fishing net over him and pushed him backward hard.

The sailor stumbled over his heels fighting the net and then fell back onto his rear end in the cramped passageway. Eden paused to light her makeshift torch of pitch and wood from the stump of candle, and then went dashing out of the cabin. Just as the sailor got free of the net, she bent with an apologetic look and set the passageway on fire, barring him from coming after her. Then, still carrying her torch, she strode up the companionway and burst out onto the deck.

As the crew’s shouts erupted, she set it all on fire, everything in arm’s reach—the rails, the helmsman’s wheel, and the shirt of a man who tried to grab her.

He dove overboard with a shriek to douse the flames that licked at his clothes.

“Eden!” Connor came marching toward her with wrath carved across his stony face.

She swung the torch in an arc at Connor to hold him at bay, but he grabbed her shoulder.

Transferring the torch to her other hand, she threw it as hard as she could, straight at the mainsail. The largest stretch of canvas on which the frigate relied burst into flames.

Now the Knights would know just where to find her!

There was only one small problem.

The next step of her plan was to dive overboard, but she could not get away, for Connor held her fast by her shoulders.

And this time, he was angry.

“There! What is that fire?” one of Arthur’s men cried, pointing.

Jack’s heart pounded as he stared through the folding telescope. His gaze swept the deck of the frigate, homing in on Eden just in time to see her throw her torch into the canvas.

Good girl
, he thought with surging pride in his little lioness. Then Connor O’Keefe grabbed her by her shoulders, and Jack tensed, starting forward at the sight of their struggle.

“Corne on, girl, shake him off. Get out of there,” he urged her under his breath. O’Keefe’s men were working fast to put out the fire. Jack did not intend to let them get away. “Send a ball across the bow,” he ordered. “That ought to get his attention.”

“Aye, sir!”

Jack joined the gunner beside the carronade on the fo’c‘sle, every inch of his body aching, but he ignored it. He adjusted the trajectory, and after the crew had loaded the cannonball, he took a torch and personally lit the fuse.

The warning shot went screaming through the night in a rain of fire, arcing across the frigate’s bow.

It plunged into the river, sending up a plume of water where it landed. Lifting the spyglass again, Jack watched the reaction on deck.

Confusion broke out. Taken off guard, O’Keefe half turned to see if the cannonball had hit his vessel, and Eden used the opportunity to wrench free of his hold.

A pirate smile curved Jack’s lips as his lady dashed to the rails, climbed up on them, as quick as a cat, and made a perfect dive into the deep river, leaping free of the ship.

Fearless.

God, I love her
. The river swallowed her into its blackness as O’Keefe ran to the rails, bellowing her name.

“Lower a longboat,” Jack commanded. “I’m going after her. Uncle?”

“Aye, Jack?”

“The minute she’s out of the way, you blow that bastard out of the water.”

“With pleasure, my lad.”

“Let me go with you!” Dr. Farraday implored him. “Jack, I can’t bear to lose her—”

“Neither can I.” He moved the scientist gently aside. “I will bring your daughter back.”

Farraday watched him in anguish as Jack descended into the longboat. In moments, he was rowing swiftly with the current, fighting the pull of the river as it tried to drag him toward the burning frigate. O’Keefe’s vessel had caught in earnest now, towering flames reaching toward the night sky.

Jack had to look continually over his shoulder as he rowed to make sure that he cleared the burning debris and fiery streamers of the sails falling from above as the frigate slowly disintegrated.

Smoke drifted across the scene, making it hard to see. Putting all of his muscle into the oars and pouring on the speed, he noted grimly that instead of muddy riverbanks, this section of the Thames had been contained by high smooth walls to stave off the tidal river’s occasional flooding.