Wicked at Heart (28 page)

Again Damon
reached out to cover the boy's hand.  "We opened the Black Hole to take
him out, and . . . he was gone.  I'm sorry, Toby."  He looked up helplessly
at Peter, who was still glaring at him from behind the boy.  "Really.  I
am."

Toby stared at
him.  Then something broke inside of him and his face crumpled, his shaggy
ginger head falling into his hands as his sobs burst forth.  Feeling the
anguish that emanated from him, Damon gently touched his shoulder.

The boy exploded
beneath him.

"Don't you
touch me, you wretched English bastard, you — you
murderer
!" he
cried, leaping to his feet and sending the chair toppling over backward. 
"If you hadn't put him in there, he wouldn't be dead!  If you hadn't
waited so long to free him, he'd be alive today!  It's all your fault, and I
hate you with all my heart!"

"Toby, I —"

"
Murderer
!"

Sobbing
bitterly, the boy raced from the cabin.  Damon gazed at the door, then raked
his hand through his hair and gave a weary sigh.  He looked up, only to find
Peter's condemning gaze leveled upon him.

"I hope
you're satisfied," the chaplain said quietly, and strode swiftly from the
cabin after the boy.

Damon, clenching
his fists, turned back toward the window.

And saw a boat
carrying Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms heading his way.

Chapter
17

Gwyneth was in a
fine temper by the time the fisherman — dramatically holding his nose and
making exaggerated choking, gasping noises — brought the boat up against HMS
Surrey
's
black and smoky hull.  Radley stood at the top of the rickety stairs, staring
down at her.  She got the feeling he'd been standing there for some time,
waiting.

"Fine day,
Lady Simms!"

"I have
come to see His Lordship."

Radley smiled
and taking off his hat, passed his wrist across his brow.  His hair was
thinning, and his oily scalp glistened between the sparse strands.  "Lord
Morninghall is not receiving any visitors to the ship, madam."

"Is he
aboard?"

"Aye."

"Is he
ill?"

"Nay."

"Is he
meeting with superiors, inferiors, or anyone else?"

"Don't
think so, ma'm."

"Then why
won't he receive visitors, Mr. Radley?"

"Specifically
put, ma'm, he doesn't wish to receive . . .
you
."

"Very well,
then."  She gave Radley her sweetest — most threatening — smile, then
turned her attention on the fisherman.  He had been watching this exchange with
high amusement; now something in Gwyneth's stare wiped the grin off his face,
though the helpless sparkle in his rheumy old eyes remained.  "Would you
mind rowing me to just beneath the captain's cabin?" she asked, her tone
poisonously sweet.

The grin came
back.  "Not a'tall, ma'm."

He took up the
oars, pushed off from the huge hull, and maneuvered the boat around.  No doubt
he was anticipating fireworks, and no doubt he was going to get them.

The boat moved
aft, toward the stern.  The blackened, peeling hull slid past on Gwyneth's
right like a giant wall, close enough to touch.  She kept her head up and her
gaze straight ahead, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see the faces
of the prisoners behind the barred gun ports just above.  A few started yelling
in French and broken English, and the sound caught hold until the whole ship
reverberated with the uproar.

The captain's
cabin was an outcropping of grimy windows and old woodwork that protruded at
the stern end of the ship.  There, just beneath those high, outthrust windows,
the fisherman brought the little craft to a halt and eased the dripping oars
out of the water.  Whirlpools twirled off like miniature cyclones across the
oily surface, as though fervently searching for the retrieved blades.

Gwyneth sat for
a moment, surveying her situation and tuning out the roar of the prisoners. 
The sea sucked and gurgled around the old ship's rudder, where moss and slime
grew several inches thick and the water was greenish black in the shadow cast
from the cabin above.  Slowly, thoughtfully, she tilted her head back,
scrutinizing the wooden scrollwork that decorated the man-of-war's windows. 
Once resplendent in gold, red and blue, the scrollwork was now charred and
smoky, chipped and faded with age.  The ship's name, once so proud, was now all
but illegible beneath a layer of grease and grime, and far above, her colors
fluttered weakly in the light breeze.

Staring up at
that blank array of windows, Gwyneth cupped her hands to her mouth.  "Morninghall!"

Nothing.

She waited a
moment, then tried again, louder this time, in a militant tone that would've
done a general proud.

"
Morninghall!
"

The windows
remained shut, the reflection of the clouds above sliding over their grimy
surfaces.  She thought she saw movement behind one of them, but she wasn't
sure.  But the prisoners' yelling was getting louder, and just above them,
leaning over the railing that framed the poop deck, several guards had
gathered, elbowing each other and gazing down at her in amusement.

Damn him.
 
"MORNINGHALL!"

A ripple of
laughter passed through the guards, and she heard their whistles, calls, and
lewd comments over the uproar of the hundreds of prisoners contained behind the
barred-up gunports.

Her face
perfectly composed, Gwyneth turned to the smirking fisherman.  "Give me
your oar," she shouted over the rising din — and rose perilously to her
feet in the little boat.

Raising an eyebrow,
he passed the oar to her.

Then, without
further ado, Gwyneth drew back and hurled it, harpoon-like, straight through
Morninghall's window.  There was a crash and bits and pieces of glass and
woodwork rained down in the water about them.

"For God's
sake, lady!" the fisherman cried, shielding himself with an arm over his
head.

Gwyneth brushed
the glass from her seat, sat back down, and arranged her skirts with perfect
nonchalance, seemingly oblivious to the prisoners' cheering and yelling, the
whooping laughter of the guards above as she looked up at her handiwork.

She didn't have
long to wait.  Sure enough, there was movement behind the dark, jagged hole
where the oar had gone.  It was the marquess.  He casually flicked a spear of
broken glass aside and then, his face dangerously composed, leaned out the
window, directing the full effect of his below-freezing stare on Gwyneth.

"Well,
well.  If it isn't Lady Gwyneth Evans Simms.  I should have known."

"You
did
know.  You knew when you accepted my invitation and then failed to honor
it."

"Ah, so
that's what this is all about."  His smile was mocking, amused,
infuriatingly condescending.  Brushing aside broken glass, he propped his
elbows on the sill and thoughtfully rested his chin in the heel of his hand,
his gaze never leaving hers.  "Obviously I changed my mind.  Fancy little
tea parties are not my favored mode of entertainment, you understand."

"You
said
you would come, Morninghall."

"I guess you
cannot trust my word, then, can you?"

"Don't play
that game with me, you scoundrel.  You deliberately set out to make me angry,
no doubt hoping I'd return to my original opinion about how very awful you
are."

"Did
I?" he murmured faintly, even while his smile seemed to falter. 
"Really, my dear, you should count your blessings that I
didn't
show up.  How horrified your gently bred friends would've been to have Satan
himself darkening their charming affair!  But never mind that.  I'm more
intrigued by your calling card."  He faded into the gloom for a moment and
reappeared with the damp oar, which he casually handed down to the grinning
fisherman.  "Quite an unusual one for a — ahem —
lady
, is it
not?"

She fisted her
hands, the soft kid of the gloves threatening to split atop her knuckles. 
"Are you quite finished?"

The marquess
only laughed, one short, amused bark ending in a rumbling chuckle that sent
chills creeping up Gwyneth's spine.  "Ah, Lady Simms," he said
expansively, with a darkly charming smile.  "If you are so determined to
come aboard, then by all means, do so.  Either way, you lose."

"Do
I?" she purred.

"But of
course.  Leave now and we shall consider it my victory for having scared you
off.  Come aboard and confront me, and the whole ship will speculate about just
what sort of
transactions
will be going on inside my cabin."

"You're
despicable."

"I
know."

"And to
think I believe you have a smack of decency in you."

"You should
know by now I do not."  He smiled again, a gesture of courtly charm, but
behind it she saw lethal, predatory intent.  "Which shall it be,
dearest
?"

"Why
Morninghall, I shouldn't wish to disappoint you.  Have Radley await me on
deck.  I'm coming aboard."

For the briefest
moment his face went blank, and Gwyneth felt a wave of triumph, a delicious
confidence that his rudeness was just what she suspected it to be:  carefully
crafted armor designed to keep her, and anyone else who ventured too close to
the
real
Lord Morninghall — well at bay.

She would
greatly enjoy piercing it.

~~~~

The prisoners'
cheering, yelling, and pleas for mercy all merged into one overwhelming uproar
as Gwyneth, her skirts in one hand, carefully climbed the stairs built into the
side of the hull.  With faint uneasiness she saw their grimy arms reaching
madly through the gun ports around and below her, even as the clamor they made
pushed all thought from her head.  Up she climbed, higher and higher, the
wooden banister beneath her hand vibrating with the sound of that awful,
maddening din.  She felt the prisoners' crazed hatred, rage, and excitement,
and she moved quickly, wanting only to reach the deck and escape those
thrusting, claw-like hands that stretched toward her.  These were dangerous
men, as all men were when caged, maltreated, and deprived of the most basic
human freedoms and dignity.  Fear rose in her, but it was nothing when compared
to what she felt at the thought of confronting that diabolical lord who waited
for her in his cabin.

Except he wasn't
waiting for her in his cabin:  he was waiting at the top of the stairs, a lean,
malevolent figure silhouetted against a lowering gray sky.

He reached out,
gallantly taking her gloved hand to steady her as she stepped onto the tiny
platform.  She could feel the heat of him right through the soft kid, and the
lethal strength in every long, well-bred finger that tightened around her hand.

"Lady
Simms."

"Lord
Morninghall."

"It will be
such a . . .
pleasure
to have you aboard."

Then, with a
mocking grin, he turned, presenting his elbow.

She glared at
him but had no choice but to take it.  Moments later they were in his cabin,
where at last she pulled free of him and moved a safe distance away.

Clutching her
parasol, she turned to face him.  He was leaning negligently against the edge
of his table, arms crossed over his chest, his unsettling gaze raking over her
with a slow, simmering heat.  She could see him perusing her attire, no doubt
stripping away every shred of it in his imagination.  She had donned a
long-sleeved, high-necked walking dress of rose muslin, totally devoid of
ruffles, lacing, and frills;  a gray cottage mantle clasped at the throat and a
smart straw hat with a round brim gave her what she'd hoped was a stern and
businesslike demeanor, but Morninghall's devil stare seemed to burn right
through the gray ribbon that tied just beneath her breasts, and already she
could feel her nipples beginning to tighten with response.

"You don't learn,
do you?" he said, softly.

Fear tingled
through her. 
Remember that flash of alarm in his eyes when you said you
were coming aboard.  Remember his compassion to the boy, no matter what he
called it.  Remember his magnificent rage in the contractor's office.  Remember
that lost look in his eyes out there in the darkness in front of the house.  He
is compassionate and vulnerable, and the idea that he is either is scaring him
half to death.

"Oh, I've
learned a lot," she returned, refusing to be cowed.

"Have
you?" he asked, tucking his chin between thumb and forefinger and rubbing
it slowly in a manner that made him seem all the more menacing, frightening, even
as his gaze never left hers.  He still leaned against the table, yet every
muscle in his body radiated power, every nuance and shadow that moved across
his eyes, danger.  "Why don't you be a good girl and tell me exactly what
it is you've learned?"

"Don't
patronize me.  Besides, you won't like any of it."

"Really? 
Try me, madam.  I might be quite receptive."

"Somehow, I
doubt that."

He merely
smiled.  The message that gesture conveyed was more effective, more awful, than
anything he might've said.

Steeling
herself, Gwyneth moved to his swivel chair and sat, her back unbending.  She
planted her parasol in front of her, its point stabbing the deck, and crossed
her hands atop the handle as she leaned forward and met that waiting stare. 
"I have learned, Morninghall, that you are a master of deception, and that
you are not as evil as you would have others believe."

"Oh, this
is rich," he murmured, but a cold, wary glitter came into his eyes and his
smile wasn't quite so self-assured.

"You never
had any intention of coming to our committee meeting, but accepted my
invitation so that your failure to show could only restore your reputation — at
least in
my
eyes — as a black-hearted scoundrel."