Swept Away (32 page)

“Are ye mad?” he asked, a pair of little piglet eyes popped wide in disbelief. “Comin’ in ‘ere bold as brass ballocks on a bear. Get up. Get up I say an’ get into the back room afore ye bring arf the bulls in London down on us! Whisht! Whisht, up wi’ ye!”

Using the hem of his leather apron for emphasis, he shooed them onto their feet and through a grimy curtain, herding them down a narrow hallway to a smaller room in back. The fact it was already occupied by a man and woman grappling together on a creaky cot made no impression on the innkeeper. He kicked the man’s naked buttocks with the stump of his wooden leg and ordered him out, then glared impatiently at the barmaid as she scrambled to push down her skirts and adjust the gaping laces of her bodice.

“I’ll want my ‘arf pence fer that,” he shouted, drawing the curtain closed behind them. “Been in ‘ere the whole blessit mornin’, they ‘ave, firkytoodlin’ like rabbits every time I turns me back,” he added in a grumble. “Now then, Cap’n,” he looked up sharply at Emory. “I suppose ye did that just to get me old heart pumpin’ double fast?”

“I’m, ah, not--”

“N’owt in yer right senses, aye. Ye got that right. We ‘eard tell the Frenchies ‘ad kill’t ye, but Seamus, now, he know’d better. Wagered me ye’d turn up sooner or later, like a bad rash on a one ‘oled flute.”

“And Seamus would be....?”

“Down at Peg Powter’s, o’ course. Only other place he figured ye’d be fool enough to show yer gob.” He tilted his head to see around Emory’s shoulder. “Who’s the lad?”

“The
Intrepid
. She’s been conferscated.”

“Confiscated?”

“Aye. An’ her crew be locked in the ‘old, waitin’ on enough gibbets to be built so’s the lot o’ them can ‘ave their ‘eads made into gallows apples.”

A telltale muscle in Emory’s cheek flickered and his eyes grew dark as inkwells. “What are the charges?”

“Treason. Piracy. Smugglin’. Pick yer poison. Their necks get stretched, one way or t’other. Seamus an’ a few o’ the lads managed to bash a few brains togither an’ slip over the side but most the rest are boxed.”

“What? Oh. Yes. Yes, I will.” His hand stayed at his temple, pressing against the side of his skull. “Can you take us to him?”

“Take ye to ‘im?” The innkeeper frowned. “I already told ye, he be at Peg’s.”

The heavy haversack dropped to the floor as Emory’s right hand joined his left in squeezing his temples. Anna touched his arm, then looked swiftly at the innkeeper.

“Aye.” The word came out as slowly as he took in Anna’s unshaven cheeks, the too slender shoulders, the supple shape of her mouth. The tiny piglet eyes nearly popped out of their creases when he noticed the hand resting on Emory’s sleeve. She had tried like the devil to remove the ring her aunt had given her, but it was stuck fast. The gloves she had worn since leaving Torquay had come off without a thought and, though the room was small and poorly lit, the facets of the diamond sparked like fiery beacons. “Aye,” he muttered. “Ale. I’ll fetch it directly.”

He was not fully through the curtain when Emory started to fall forward, a groan escaping between clenched teeth.

“It is all right,” she said. “It is all right, let it happen.”

The ship was a Spaniard, though she had kept her flags down until she had been in position to present her broadside. Seamus stood
beside him, the heat of his cheeks almost as red as the blaze of hair, as he shouted the order to fire. The full battery of heavy guns exploded simultaneously, the iron snouts bucking back in their carriages, the winching ropes screaming with the strain. A cloud of smoke and cinder creamed back over the deck rail, blasting the sweaty faces of the crew with heat while they worked to haul the guns back on board, ream, reload, and run them out again.

Seamus, the magnificent Irish bastard, leaped up on the rail and hung by one hand from the shrouds, using the other to direct the gunners aim. He shouted a warning, 'broadside coming in', and roared a stream of Celtic curses as shot exploded all around him, blowing through wooden rails, cutting through lines, shattering spars and sail into a burning hail of canvas and splinters. The gun beside Emory took a direct hit down the muzzle, causing it to buckle back against the wheels of the carriage. The tackling lines split like cotton threads and the huge iron barrel reared back, rolled to the side crushing one of the crew. Emory screamed and ran forward but it was too late. The boy was dead. He was nothing. He was there, shouting and cheering one minute, a slippery red stain on the planking the next
...

Emory opened his eyes. He was lying on his back, his cravat loosened, the ends trailing over the side of the cot. Anna had discarded her hat and the thick coil of her hair had unwound and was hanging over one shoulder. Her face was pale, her eyes wide and almost too blue to bear as she blotted his forehead with a dampened cloth. Standing behind her, his back pressed to the wall, his face nearly as white, was the innkeeper.

Anna moistened her lips and dipped the rag in the shallow bowl of water she held cradled on her lap. “I believe the word for it is
am
-nesia.”

“He is remembering things slowly,” Emory said, his gaze leaving Anna’s face with some reluctance to focus on the innkeeper. “Thomas. Thomas Fysh.”

Fysh’s brows shot upward. “Aye, that be my name.”

“You sailed on the
Intrepid
.”

“Aye. Till a surgeon fed me leg to a shark an’ gave me a fonder likin’ fer drawin’ ale than cannonballs.”

“You lost it the same time a boy was..was crushed under a gun carriage. He was dark skinned and--” Emory frowned as he traced a finger along his cheek-- “had a scar down the side of his face.”

The innkeeper nodded. “Johnny Goodenough. Ye caught ‘im tryin’ to pick yer pocket in a bazaar in Tunisia. He were just ten years old, skinny as a stick o’ kindlin’, burned all over with sores an’ scarred across the back from whippin’s. Ye took ‘im on board the
Intrepid
an’ when ‘is master come lookin, ye beat the barstard to within an inch o’ ‘is life an’ left ‘im hangin’ on the dock by ‘is thumbs. Boy ‘ad some damned Ay-rabb name ye couldn’t say without jugglin’ a mouthful o’ weevils, so ye called ‘im Johnny Goodenough an’ promised ‘im ye would make ‘im a good enough sailor to captain ‘is own ship one day.”

“Apparently I failed to keep my promise,” Emory said with quiet grimness.

“He’d not have spit on ye for the lack. Ye kept ‘im by yer side for six years, put a few stone worth o’ muscle on ‘is chest an’ set a smile on ‘is face would’ve lit up the sun. Ye were like that, ye were. Always tryin’ to save every waif ye come across. Seamus said as ‘ow it would likely be the end o’ ye one day, bein’ so soft in the head.” He paused and glanced uncomfortably in Annaleah’s direction. “That was what Seamus said, any road.”

“I have to speak to him,” Emory said. “And we need a safe place to stay for a couple of days. Can you help us?”

Thomas Fysh flushed. “Since yer brain were near squirted out yer ears, I’ll not be holdin’ that against ye, but I’d not be here at all if ye hadn’t pulled my neck out o’ worse pinches than this. ‘Course I’ll help ye, Cap’n. Help ye an’ then some, if I can. Give me ‘ arf a mo’ to tell the wife what I’m about, an’ I’ll be back, quick as a blink.”

He caught her face between his hands before she could pull away and kissed her thoroughly enough to leave her breathless. When Fysh came back a minute later, he had to clear his throat to break them apart.

“We can go now, Cap’n, if ye’re up to it.”

“Oh, I am up to it,” Emory said, not looking away from Anna’s eyes. “Very much so.".

CHAPTER 19

Fysh led them through alleyways and along a twisted labyrinth of lanes that snaked through the crowded, narrow buildings. He had taken the weight of the haversack on his own stooped shoulder, and glanced back constantly, his eyes darting along the streets, up to the overhanging windows of the houses and taverns, looking for any sign they had been followed or were being watched.

Anna stumbled behind with Emory following in the rear. She could not recall a time when she had ever been so exhausted or so miserable. Her poor, battered feet were blistering inside the ill fitted shoes and she was certain her skin was one large infestation of hives.

Moreover, she was certain Fysh was leading them in circles. She was no Viking explorer, but she knew in which direction the sun rose and fell and twice now, they had taken turns that doubled back on the route they had just covered. He was likely trying to impress Emory with his conscientiousness, but she just wanted to smack him. Very hard.

When they had about reached the point where she was ready to simply sit down and cry, Fysh signalled them to stop and wait in the mouth of an alleyway. He hurried on ahead, crabbing sideways in his uneven gait as he checked his surroundings one last time before darting across the street and into a small recessed doorway. A sign, bearing a carved depiction of a blue sailing ship identified the establishment as
The Jolly Tar
.

Anna leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes. She could feel Emory’s presence beside her, but for once she did not care if he saw how weak or weary, or how very close to tears she was.

The door across the street opened and Emory tapped her on the arm. They crossed quickly, keeping their heads down and their eyes lowered, and because of this Anna’s first glimpse of Seamus Turnbull was of his feet. They were huge, encased in worn brown leather and splayed wide apart as if he was balancing himself on a rolling deck. A wide folded cuff was buckled to his calves and held a sheathed knife strapped for easy access. His breeches were black, molded to the tree trunks he called legs, disappearing beneath a long leather jerkin cut with a flared back and buckled cross straps in front. A brace of pistols were belted to his waist along with two more knives, the handles polished smooth from use.

His chest was as wide as the doorway. His shoulders sat like two boulders atop a granite cliff. Looking up...up... she saw a thatch of the wildest, reddest hair she had ever seen in her life, surrounding a face that was one large freckle broken by a pair of sea green eyes.

While she gaped, the eyes narrowed and the mouth opened over such a roar of pleasure she could see the flap at the back of his throat vibrating.

The roar sent Anna cringing to one side as he stomped past and flung his arms around Emory’s shoulders, lifting him half off the ground.

“Damme if you’re not a sight for sore eyes, boy-o,” he shouted, laughing and clapping him on the shoulder. “Pruner and the rest o’ the lads were sure that sheep-fucking Corsican had done ye in, but I said no. I said ye had too much of the devil in ye to kill. Stayed in port two days, though, looking for ye. Stayed until the blockade was damn near too tight to squeeze a turd through, and as it happens, it was. Even so, we might have made it through if the wind hadn’t played us foul. Sailed into a dead calm and a fog so thick you couldn’t see your prick to piss. By the time we hauled ourselves out of it, His Royal Bloody Majesty’s navy was on us, ports opened, flags up tellin’ us to surrender or say our last prayers.” He sobered a moment and scowled. “Fysh told ye what happened?”

Emory nodded. “He said the
Intrepid
had been seized.”

“Aye. Happened so damned fast we had no time to run out but one or two of our own guns. A couple, three of us managed to slip over the side before the shackles went on, but the rest o’ the lads were tossed in the hold and chained down like black ivory. But Fysh tells me ye’ve had trouble of yer own. What’s this about being thrown down a well?”

“Artemesia,” the innkeeper chirped in. “Aye. Knocked senseless ‘ee were, an’ if ye don’t believe me, just arsk the little lady ‘ere.”

“Lady?” The Irish giant turned and glared down at Anna, who was already melted as far back against the wall as was possible. “Ye were down a well with a lady?”