Wicked at Heart (25 page)

Absurd, of
course.  She hated him.

Annoyed at the
ridiculous wanderings of his mind, he caught his hands behind his back so that
he couldn't touch her.

"Good
night, Lady Simms."

The smile
faltered.  "Good night, Lord Morninghall."

He turned
abruptly and stalked off into the darkness, painfully alone, a shadow that
cleaved itself to the night and was soon gone.  He never knew that she stood
out there in the quiet street for a long time, the lonely breeze ruffling her
skirts, her heart aching with longing as she stared into the darkness after
him.

And he never
knew he had misinterpreted the hopeful tilt of her cheek, after all.

Her heart heavy,
Gwyneth picked up her skirts and went into the house.

Chapter
15

"Nathan
Ashton.  It has to be Nathan next, no question about it."

The three men
and the woman disguised as a man sat in a corner of the Thirsty Whale Tavern,
well away from the massive stone fireplace around which most of the
hard-drinking sailors, soldiers, and other rowdies were carousing.  It was
quieter here, less smoky, and although the sort who frequented the Whale were
not officers — and thus were less likely to care about the four who kept to
themselves in the corner — it was still best to practice caution, especially
where Connor Merrick was concerned.  Recognition could be fatal for him.

A lantern, its
glass globe hazed with grease and smoke, stood on the table before them,
glowing orange against their faces.  An ale sat before the Reverend Peter
Milford; Connor Merrick and Orla O'Shaughnessy were both drinking rum; and a
glass of very expensive port — or what was left of it, that is — was beside the
wrist of their leader, subtly resplendent in a loose white shirt tucked into
snug fitting breeches.  At the moment his fingers were drumming an agitated tattoo
on the table.  The decision that Nathan had to be the next one out was
unanimous, but how the rescue would be performed was the cause of much debate.

"I don't
know, man, the idea sounds awfully damned bold," Connor was saying,
shaking his head and pouring more rum into his mug.  I still think we ought to
smuggle him out in a water cask."

"I
agree," Peter said stubbornly.  "It's far safer."

Orla shot a
glance to their leader, who was unconvinced.

"Safe?  We're
talking about life or death rescues." He leaned forward, nailing each of
them in turn with his gaze.  "None of this is
safe
."

Silence followed,
despite the noisy din across the room.  Peter was troubled, reluctant to try
anything so unorthodox.  Orla, frowning, obviously needed more convincing. 
Only Connor, possessed of a recklessness that knew no limits, was willing to
hear the plan out.  He pulled his felt hat down low to conceal his chestnut
curls and leaned over the table.  "All right then, I'm all ears."

"Peter?"

The chaplain was
shooting discreet glances at Orla and needed to be jarred back to attention. 
"Yes, yes, do go on.  I'm listening, too."

"Orla?"

She pretended to
adjust her chair, unobtrusively moving it a few inches closer to the
chaplain's.  "Aye.  I'm game for anything."

"Right." 
Their leader sipped his port and, casting a quick glance over his shoulder,
leaned forward over the table, looking to each person in turn.  His companions
leaned close, as well.  "Here are the details," he murmured, and
briefly outlined the rescue plan.  A few bribed guards, a short talk with the
prisoner, a bit of deception, and, as he told them, it couldn't fail.

"I think
it's brilliant," Connor said, his eyes gleaming.

"I think it
might work," Orla added, looking to the chaplain.

"I think
it'd be cruel to the boy."

"Oh for
God's sake, Peter!"

"This'll
kill him.  I cannot condone this, I'm sorry."

Their leader,
frustrated, shot another glance over his shoulder and leaned low over the
table, his face dark and intent.  "That boy won't leave the hulk until his
brother is either dead or escaped, and we can't risk letting him in on the plan
until Nathan is safely away.  Do you have a better idea?"

Peter swallowed
hard, but his jaw was stubbornly set.  He looked away, struggling with his
conscience.

A tense silence
ensued.  Finally, Orla reached out and tentatively laid her fingers over the
chaplain's hand.  He turned his face to hers, his eyes filled with pain,
indecision, and — as he glanced down at that fine hand — the beginnings of
gentle love.

"The boy
will be fine," she murmured, squeezing his hand and giving an encouraging
little smile.  "We'll tell him of the deception as soon as we've rescued
him as well, and it's therefore safe to do so.  Right, Con?"

The captain
grinned.  "Right."

~~~~

On the second
week of his employment for the Marquess of Morninghall, Toby entered his cabin
to clear his breakfast away and was stopped by the nobleman's cold words before
he could even begin the task.

"Sit
down."

Instantly
suspicious, Toby did so, gazing warily across the table at his superior and
keeping his hands steepled between his knees.

"Have some
toast, Toby."

"I'm not
hungry, sir."

"Have it
anyhow."

"I don't
want any.  Besides, I don't see
you
eating it."

The marquess
thinned his mouth and shot him an irate glare, but said no more on the
subject.  He had been tense and in a visibly savage mood ever since going
ashore with Lady Simms, and Bolton's visit had not helped matters one bit. 
Somewhat nervously, Toby sat down.

The marquess
shoved his unfinished plate away, the eggs cold in their thin, buttery juice,
the fried pork hacked to uneaten shreds, only the toast and marmalade sampled
and the latter, Toby noted, quite generously at that.  The pot of orange
preserves had been full when he'd brought it in with the breakfast tray a half hour
ago; now it was nearly empty, and Toby wondered idly if Morninghall had just
dipped his spoon into the stuff and eaten it like candy.

He didn't have
time to wonder any longer, for the marquess cleared his throat and got straight
down to business.

"I have
decided to . . . relax your brother's incarceration in the Black Hole," he
announced flatly, his tone inviting neither curiosity nor gratitude.  A note
had come for him earlier, which Toby had brought in with his breakfast, and it
lay folded beside his right hand.  Morninghall looked at it as he might a
spider that had crawled across his plate, then picked it up and began to tap it
with faint agitation against the table linen before finally tossing it aside
and impaling Toby with his devil's stare.  "You will not say a word about
this to the other prisoners, lest they see this as an example of laxity and I
am paid for my generosity with a damned mutiny.  Is that understood?"

Toby was still
reeling from the marquess's words.  He leaned forward, his hands pressed
between his knees, afraid even to hope.  "But — you mean — you're actually
going to let Nathan out of the Hole?"

"I am.  You
may visit him this afternoon, immediately following his release.  After that
time he will be sent to the hospital ship, as his condition will no doubt
require medical attention."

Confused, and
ignoring the warning in those flat, soulless eyes, Toby blurted, "Why are
you doing this?"

"Because it
pleases me."

"But —"

"I
said
,
'Because it pleases me.'  Hold your tongue lest I change my mind."

Tony shrank back
behind the vase of purple lilacs he'd brought in with breakfast and bowed his
head.  He squirmed and fidgeted, so excited he couldn't keep still.

"You're
kinder than your reputation allows, sir."

"A
pity," the marquess said acidly, "because kindness has nothing to do
with it."  He watched Toby for a moment from beneath hooded lids, the
silent, unnerving scrutiny making Toby feel like a sapling stripped of its
bark.  Then, wordlessly, Morninghall got to his feet, moved in that fluid,
sinister grace of his across his cabin, and pulling out a desk drawer, produced
a small leather bag.  He tossed it to the table.

"Your wages
for the week."

Toby picked up
the bag and held it tightly against his chest, thinking only of how it might
aid Nathan.  "Thanks," he murmured, his eyes downcast.

"Don't
thank me, you bloody well earned it.  Now go, and take these damned plates with
you.  My appetite is shot to hell this morning."

Grateful to
escape the marquess' moody presence, Toby swiftly gathered up the plates, the
condiments, the silverware, piling each one onto the tray with a faint
clatter.  But when he reached for the vase of flowers Radley had told him he
must always bring to the captain, Morninghall's hand struck like a cobra's,
seizing Toby's wrist in a hard grip.

Toby froze.

"Leave
them," the marquess said, tightly — and released him.

Toby stared up
at him.  Then, rubbing his wrist, he grabbed the tray and rushed from the room.

Damon sank back
into his chair with a pent-up sigh, his heart pounding in his ears, his nerves
buzzing.  He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the lilacs, sitting
innocently in the vase within striking distance of his fist.  Then, like the
workings of some great piece of machinery that has finally called it quits for
the day, he felt the endless churning inside of him come grinding to a halt.

Silence.

Deep, throbbing,
silence.

Nothing but him —
and the flowers.

He swallowed
hard and stared at the fragile little blossoms, each one an individual, each
one exquisitely formed, each one wreathed in scent.  He stared at the soft,
cloudy masses of color.  He stared at the crisp, waxy leaves.

He waited for
the rage to come, that blind, overwhelming rage that hated beauty and loathed
fragility, that frenzied rage that would make him smash the flowers beneath his
fist until he'd obliterated them into a sad pile of crushed nothingness.

But the rage
didn't come.

Nothing came,
except this — this — sudden overwhelming
emotion
, this sense of raw
sentiment expanding in his breast, shattering the paralysis there until he
thought his heart would burst with the intensity of it.

Christ, what was
happening to him?  Confused and shaken, the wicked, diabolical Marquess of
Morninghall put his head in his hands and, for the first time since he was a
child locked in a bedchamber that terrified him, wept — without knowing why.

~~~~

Toby held his
breath for as long as he could as he descended into the choking gloom
belowdecks.  Morninghall had forbidden him to say a word about Nathan's release
to the other prisoners, but he hadn't said he couldn't tell Nathan!  He managed
to hold his breath until he reached the orlop deck; there, it finally burst
from his lungs, and the subsequent inhalation of pungent fumes nearly made him vomit.

He steadied
himself, got his bearings, and, pressing a hand to his pocket to ensure that
his little bag of wages was still there, darted through the milling masses.

They spotted him
instantly.

"Ah, look,
if it isn't
le capitain
's favorite!  Run, run, little
garcon
,
before we spit on you!"

"We'll do
more than spit on him, eh?"

A fist flashed
toward his face, but he ducked and evaded the blow.  A chorus of cheers and
guffaws went up, and frightened, Toby made a mad lunge for the last hatch.  He
had nearly reached it when someone grabbed his shoulder and spun him brutally
around, ripping his new shirt.

He gasped and
looked up.  One of the Frenchmen stood there, arms crossed over his chest and
legs planted in a formidable stance.  He was dressed in nothing but his
trousers, and these were pasted with excrement, sweat, and pus that leaked from
a crusted knife wound across his sunken belly.  Shivering, feverish, and
skeletally thin, his eyes staring out of his skull like twin frenzied lights,
he grinned down at Toby.

Fear darted up
Toby's spine, and he looked desperately about for a familiar American face, but
only French ones looked back at him, grinning, shifting, and malicious, as they
began closing in around him.

"Where
from?" the bony one asked, letting his awful gaze rake over Toby's
cowering form.  It settled on his pocket, where the money bag was hidden.

Toby swallowed,
aware of the press of bodies closing in on him.  He tried to back up but came
against a hard, stinking stomach.  "Newburyport."

"Newburyport?"

"Near Boston."

"Ah!  Boston
fine town, very pretty!"  The Frenchman grinned and patted Toby's
shoulder, his arm, his pocket, his eyes lighting with a predatory gleam when he
felt the pouch there.  "General Washington,
très grand homme
! 
General Madison,
brave homme
!  You my friend, Toby!  Americans brave men
— fight like Frenchmen!"

"Like hell
they do," Toby said, proudly, despite his fear.

"Ah, you
brave lad, brave like Madison, no?  Americans very brave!  Very brave!"  The
Frenchman's grin then abruptly vanished and he struck like an adder, his hand
snaring Toby's wrist and nearly breaking it.  Toby planted his heels, but it
was no use.  The man hauled him through the cloying, crowded gloom, through the
masses of prisoners, all of whom were yelling abuse and taunts, until they came
to Armand Moret, who was sitting on a bench surrounded by his cohorts.  "Come,
show us how much you be my friend, Toby!  Friends go to dice table, eh,
Toby!"

"You're no
damned friend of mine," Toby protested, angrily trying to shake loose. 
"Let me go!"