Virginia Henley (13 page)

He held out his hand. “Would you like to come with me?”

She placed her hand in his and with downcast eyes allowed him to lead her through a beaded curtain. Sean’s
glance traveled around the alcove, taking in the low divan, wide enough for two. The half-clad female fell to her knees, kept her lashes on her cheeks, and murmured, “What do you desire, master?”

“You’ll do anything I ask?”

“Yes, master,” she whispered.

“Then I want you to drop the act and talk with me.”

The girl’s startled glance met his as she raised her lashes and looked into silver eyes brimming with laughter. She began to giggle. “Coo, what a larf this place is!”

Sean stretched out on the divan and indicated that she join him. “Come and tell me about it.” He grinned with delight as she jumped onto the low bed, her breasts bouncing impertinently.

“You look like a sportin’ gent to me, not like the usual customers we get. Gor blind me, the old bleeders can’t get it up unless they play master and slave girl. We ‘ave to lick their bleedin’ feet and other disgustin’ parts, and even then it usually takes a whipping before they can stand at attention.”

“Why do you work here?”

“The money’s good. I earn a hundred bleedin’ piasters a night.”

“That’s only one pound,” Sean said, showing his knowledge of foreign currency.

“Well, none of the other knocking shops pay their girls that well, and there’s always the chance that one of the nobs will take you for ‘is mistress.”

“What’s your name?”

“Turkish Delight,” she said, almost choking with laughter. “My real name’s Nellie Carter. You don’t really want to just talk, do you?” She slid her hand beneath his djellaba and up his powerful thigh. As he hardened in her hand she said, “Christ, the only thing that would make the old farts who come here that hard, would be embalming fluid!”

Sean laughed. “You
are
a Delight; the name thoroughly suits you. Why don’t we enjoy a good old-fashioned fuck, then indulge in something exotic to smoke?”

“Ooo, yes please. We have Turkish tobacco, hashish, hemp, or opium; name your poison.”

    
B
y the time they were ready to leave the Divan Club, all save Johnny were showing the effects of their debauch. Jack and William Montague had a skinful; the former was unsteady on his feet, and the latter’s temper was considerably the worse for wear.

Sean could feel the effects of the hash he had smoked, which were not altogether unpleasant, but Joseph needed his aid to remain upright. Sean wondered what the hell had been in the pipe besides water to make his brother so rubber legged.

By the time they arrived back on the deck of the
Defense
, the walk seemed to have restored Joseph somewhat, so Sean withdrew his support and stepped over to the rails, gazing out at what was reputed to be the greatest city in the world. Lights from ships’ lanterns blinked in the darkness, and beyond, the city seemed bathed in a halo that glowed in the dark sky.

Behind him Sean heard someone mutter “Irish scum,” followed by words that sounded like “I’ll teach you a lesson for taking another man’s wife.”

A scuffle broke out between Jack Raymond and Joseph, while William Montague stood to one side shouting to his crew. Without a moment’s hesitation Sean reached for a heavy wooden belaying pin and joined the fray. “English bastards,” he swore as he smashed three or four crew members’ skulls in an effort to reach Joseph’s side.

Montague roared, “String them up by the thumbs!” Sean was grabbed by four sailors from the
Defense
, who rendered him totally immobile. Snarling with fury, trying to kick
every groin in sight, he watched helplessly as Joseph, too, was held fast. He saw a look of horror cross Johnny Montague’s face just before everything went black.

    
W
hen Sean slowly regained consciousness, his first thought was that the hash he had smoked was producing a nightmarish reaction. It was as if he had no hands at all, but his shoulders were in agony. He shook his head to clear it and felt his whole body swing slowly through the air. The pain in his arms and shoulders increased steadily, but still he had no hands. He came fully awake and stared into the darkness. He relived the minutes before he lost consciousness and realized he had been strung up like a bloody flitch of bacon!

The pain in his arms and shoulders was unbearable. He tried to separate himself from it as he stretched his neck backward to look up at his shackles. No wonder he could not feel his hands, he had been tethered by the thumbs and the circulation was gone, rendering them numb. A filthy epithet fell from his lips as he lowered his head and gazed about trying to penetrate the darkness.
Christ, no!
his mind cried out, for across the deck he could make out another slowly swinging body. Joseph, it could only be Joseph!

“Joe, Joe,” he called out, but when there was no reply, he decided his brother was better off unconscious than suffering agonizing pain. Sean’s mind groped about for answers. He no longer had any doubt that Montague knew Joseph had cuckolded him. The son of a whore must have planned this revenge. He had invited them to the brothel with a purpose, knowing the evening would incapacitate them, and like lambs to the slaughter, they had accepted and indulged.
Christ, no wonder the fucking English call the Irish thick!
he thought, disgusted with himself.

The pain racking his body was excruciating. When he could no longer keep it at bay he lapsed into merciful unconsciousness.
When Sean came to again, gray daylight had just dawned. Joseph’s head hung on his chest, and to Sean’s horror he saw blood dripping onto the deck from a wound in his belly.

Sean’s arms as well as his hands were now numb, but he still had his voice. He began to bellow and shout loud enough to make the mainmast tremble. A handful of uniformed sailors drew about in a wide circle, but none dared to release him without Montague’s order. Finally, Jack Raymond approached the brothers. He examined Joseph, gave Sean a grim glance, and went off to rouse his uncle.

When Jack opened the captain’s door, Montague was struggling into his Admiralty uniform. “Who’s making that caterwaul?” he demanded.

“Sean O’Toole … Joseph’s dead,” he blurted, white faced.

Triumph flared in Montague’s eyes for one brief moment, before the consequences of their assault occurred to him. “Christ, what will we do?”

Jack saw his vulnerability and took immediate advantage. “Sean O’Toole killed his brother, of course, in coldblooded murder.”

“That’s brilliant, Jack,” Montague said with relief. He did not need to add that he was in Jack’s debt; his nephew was quite aware of it.

Montague strode out on deck. “Cut them down,” he ordered.

Jack cut Joseph down first and lowered his stiffening body to the deck of the
Defense.

Sean stared in horror as he realized the fate of his brother.

Jack gave as wide a berth as possible as he cut through the leather thongs that bound Sean by the thumbs, but he needn’t have worried. Sean had no feeling in his hands or arms and fell to the deck like a rag doll the minute he was cut down.

Using his elbows and knees, Sean crawled to his brother’s side, then knelt helplessly beside Joseph’s corpse. It was the worst moment of his life; on his knees before the English who had stuck his brother like a pig. “Joseph’s dead!” he accused, not wanting to believe what his eyes told him was the truth.

“Yes, and you murdered him,” Montague charged. “A curse upon your black soul, you depraved English degenerate!”

“Men, put him in chains!” Montague shouted. It took four of them to carry out his orders.

“Either you or your bootlicker, Jack, stabbed him—you both wore fucking daggers from the brothel—all because he gave Amber the only pleasure she ever had!”

“Hold him tight,” Montague directed, then he kicked the chained man in the groin. Montague looked about him at the faces of the gathered crew. “I have plenty of witnesses for what happened on the
Defense
last night.” William saw his son. “John, speak up, you saw them fighting.”

Johnny opened his mouth three times before he could get out the words “I was drunk, Father.”

Sean’s pewter gaze stabbed into him. “Tell the truth, Johnny!” When all he saw in the boy’s face was a haunted look of fear, his hopes plummeted. As the men dragged him belowdecks, Sean’s eyes fastened on Joseph’s body and a heart-scalding grief engulfed him.

When the circulation returned to his arms, the pain was sharp. He welcomed it, hoping it would blot out the torment inside him. As he lay chained in the hold, his body became fevered. He began to shiver with chills as guilt washed over him. “Joseph, Joseph, I swore an oath to Granddad I would keep ye safe!” Sean sank into devastation, then began to ramble as his thumbs turned black and swelled out of all recognition.

During the next twenty-four hours he went in and out of
consciousness. Someone was with him, urging him to sip water, cooling his fever with a cold sponge, massaging his hands, murmuring his name. “It will be all right, Sean, it will be all right.” Sean was greatly comforted and settled his restless thrashing whenever Joseph spoke to him, but when he finally opened his eyes, he saw that it was Johnny Montague.

“I’m sorry, Sean, I’m sorry. Your thumb is gangrenous; the ship’s surgeon says it has to come off.”

Sean stared at the tears running down the lad’s face. “I just lost a brother, what the hell does a thumb matter?”

Johnny unfastened his chains and helped him to the surgeon’s cabin. It was none too clean, but then neither was the doctor. He poured Sean a jig of rum, but O’Toole refused it with contempt. The surgeon downed the rum, which was obviously not his first of the day. He placed Sean’s left hand on a heavy wooden block and picked up a meat cleaver. “This will hurt you more than me, mate.”

One quick chop severed the blackened thumb at the second joint. Sean almost severed his own tongue as he clamped his mouth shut to stop the scream in his throat from escaping. When the surgeon cauterized it with a red-hot poker, Sean fainted.

    
T
he Admiralty trial was swift;
the
evidence concocted. Sean O’Toole was accused of murdering his brother the same day they had signed on as crew for the
Defense.
His signature was produced, William Montague gave evidence, and Jack Raymond was the chief witness against him. All Sean’s protestations, struggles, and Irish curses were ignored by the Admiralty Board.

He was found guilty as charged. Within forty-eight hours of arriving in London, Sean FitzGerald O’Toole was condemned to a ten-year sentence aboard one of the prison ships known as the Woolwich hulks.

A
mber FitzGerald, for she no longer thought of herself as Montague, made her way on foot to Castle Lies. The purple bruises on her face were now fading to yellow around the edges. She could not simply walk up to the front door and ask for Joseph; there were too many servants who would ask too many questions. She concealed herself until dusk, then saw a man go into the gatehouse. Memories of Paddy Burke flooded back to her. She would know him anywhere, even after all these years.

When he opened the door to her timid knock, his heavy eyebrows drew together in a frown. “Jaysus and his Apostles, who did this to ye, lass?”

“Mr. Burke, I’m Amber FitzGerald. I must see Joseph!”

“Come in, ye look half dead. I didn’t recognize ye till ye spoke yer name.” He moved to pour her a restorative.

“Do you have milk, Mr. Burke? My stomach is empty as a drum.”

He sat her down before the turf fire and poured her a cup of milk. He looked at her keenly. “Did Montague do this?” She nodded.

Her next word told him why. “Joseph—”

“Mother of God, Joseph and Sean are away to London … guests of yer husband.” He saw the look of defeat on
her face change to fear for Joseph. “I’d better get Himself,” Paddy decided.

“Is my cousin Kathleen at home?”

Paddy hesitated. It had been a tragic day for Kathleen. Her father had died of his wounds in the bowels of Dublin Castle and she had brought his body to Greystones. Tomorrow they would bury the late Earl of Kildare at Maynooth. Then he remembered that Edward FitzGerald was Amber’s uncle. “We are in mourning here. Kathleen’s father, your uncle Edward, was captured by the English and died of his wounds.”

“Ah, no …” she wailed softly.

He put his great hand on her shoulder and though she gasped with the pain of it, there was comfort in the touch. “I’ll fetch Shamus,” Paddy said quietly.

    
I
n the big kitchen both Mary Malone and Kate Kennedy were dressed in black. “He died in the best of health,” Mary said, shaking her head and crossing herself at the same time.

“I knew he’d gone last night when I heard the banshee,” Kate murmured.

“Where’s Himself?” Paddy Burke inquired.

“He’s carried her up to bed in a state of exhaustion,” Kate replied. “An Irishwoman can face anything with strength and upright propriety, but all melts into helpless anguish when Death takes away a member of the family.”