Wicked at Heart (41 page)

Damon grinned
sheepishly.  "Don't tell me you're actually as surprised as you
sound?"

"My friend,
if you could've seen yourself as I did, as others did . . . you were not
expected to survive.  The fact that you're standing here before me is nothing
short of a miracle.  But, as grave as your condition was, both the admiral and
I knew that if anyone could save you, it was Lady Simms."  He shut the
door, shaking his head.  "I do hope you've shown her suitable gratitude
for her efforts!"

"If making
her my marchioness displays suitable gratitude, then yes, I have paid my
debts."

"You
didn't!"

"I damn
well did," Damon said, proudly as Peter's jaw fell open in stunned
disbelief.  "In fact, Lady Morninghall is here in Portsmouth with me, and
you may even ask her yourself."

"Tell me
you did it for love," Peter said, frowning, "or I shall never forgive
you, Damon!"

"What sort
of man do you think I am?  Of course I did it for love.  Surely, you don't
think I did it merely out of a sense of gratitude for saving my worthless life,
do you?  The way I'd been feeling, I would've thanked her more if she'd simply
stuck a knife in my heart and expedited my end!"

Such a
declaration did much to set Peter's mind at rest.  Shaking his head, he folded
his arms and fell grinning into a chair.  "Forgive me, Damon.  This is all
a bit of a shock, you must realize.  Though I must say marriage agrees with
you.  You seem remarkably changed.  Calm.  Happy.  Relaxed."

"I feel
it," Damon said, moving to the wine cupboard and retrieving a bottle of
port.  He uncorked the bottle and poured them each a glass, handing the first
to the chaplain.  "I know it sounds addled, but she's changed my life,
Peter.  I've been separated from her for only an hour and already I miss
her."

The chaplain
regarded his glass, a little smirk playing about his mouth.  "Ah, but do
you miss your
Peterson's
as well?"

"Sorry?"

"Your
Peterson's
. 
It's still on the table there.  You mean you haven't been lost without
it?"

Damon turned to
stare at the big book, which he had once consulted as regularly as Peter did
his Bible.  "Actually, come to think about it, I haven't.  Perhaps being
so close to death robs you of the fear of it.  Especially when you realize that
such fear is wasted when you're as healthy as I suspect I've probably been all
along.  Though I did wonder about those heart attacks . . ."

"Nerves,
Damon.  Nerves.  How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"Yes."
 He gave a cryptic smile.  "I suppose you were right."

A long moment
passed between them.  From beyond the door and bulkheads came the sounds of the
prison ship, the "all's well" of the guards, the cry of a gull
outside.

At length, Peter
said, "I have some news too."  He took another sip of port and
stretched his feet out before him, a little smile playing across his mouth as
he studied his shoes.  "You're not the only one to, uh, deserve
congratulations.  I asked Orla O'Shaughnessy to become my wife."

"Orla
O'Shaughnessy?  A former
pirate
?"  Damon laughed and reached over
to refill Peter's glass.  "Well, what did she say, man?"

The chaplain
slanted him a sideways grin.  "She agreed."

"Congratulations,"
Damon said, warmly, and shook Peter's hand.  "She'll make you a wonderful
bride, though your gain will certainly be Connor's loss!"

Peter sobered. 
"That reminds me, Damon.  About our . . . activities.  I think they should
stop.  Radley has become suspicious, and I fear he may have planted spies among
the guards on this ship."

"Radley has
always been suspicious."  Damon lifted his glass and studied the depths of
his wine.  "And I agree with you wholeheartedly, Peter, the activities
must stop, but there is still young Toby Ashton to consider.  I assume he's
still aboard?"

"Yes, but
his health is fragile, Damon.  Connor tried to get him off, but . . ."

"But
what?"

"He
failed.  Foyle spotted the airhole we'd cut in the barrel for Toby to breathe
through as it was being lifted off the ship.  Connor barely escaped with his
life."

Damon, alarmed,
put his glass down.  "Is the boy all right?"

"For the
moment.  He's developed a cough and cannot maintain a decent weight.  I'm
worried about him, Damon.  Clayton's been keeping him out of the way, but if
Radley or Foyle finds out the boy's getting special treatment, they'll not go
easy on either of them."

"Then they
must not find out."  Damon got to his feet and moved silently to the
windows.  For a long moment he stood looking out over the gray harbor, watching
the swells parade beneath the rudder, the mists drifting over the water.  At
last, he turned and met Peter's gaze.  "That does it, then.  We will take
young Toby off tonight.  Send word to Connor."

"I beg of
you, Damon, don't.  It's too dangerous —"

"It has
always been dangerous, Peter.  If there are spies, I dare not bribe the guards,
and there is no other way.  Besides, I've had enough of this ship, enough of
this navy, and enough of trying to make my way in a system I was never meant to
inhabit.  Tomorrow I hand in my resignation to Bolton.  By teatime I shall be
on my way back home.  Therefore, it
must
be done tonight."

He looked at the
chaplain for a long moment, and there was an unspoken urgency in that direct,
intelligent gaze that articulated Peter's own thoughts.  Toby Ashton was dying,
and if the Black Wolf did not get him off the ship, his young life would end
here — in the stinking bowels of hell itself.

"So be it
then," the chaplain said quietly, and even as he murmured the words, he
sent up a silent prayer that God would watch over this final rescue.

For a sense of
doom was moving over his heart just as surely as the mists were darkening the
sea outside, and he had the awful feeling that this rescue was the one that
would go wrong.

Terribly,
horribly, wrong.

Chapter
26

Darkness had
begun to fall over Portsmouth, but in the thick, gray gloom that shrouded both
land and sea, it was impossible to discern at what hour day had ended and night
begun.  Gwyneth, who had spent the day packing up clothes and belongings with
Rhiannon and Sophie, terminating their lease, and dashing off notes to her
former brother-in-law, her friends, and various other contacts, never noticed
how much time had passed until she happened to look up from her desk and
realize that lamps were already lit in nearby windows and glowing upon the wet,
darkening street below.

A couple of
miles away Damon, attending to various matters of official business and
correspondence as he awaited Peter's return, heard the bell on the forecastle
announcing the evening meal and looked up in faint surprise before hurrying to
finish his final tasks as commander of a prison hulk.  And out in the Channel the
schooner
Kestrel
, cruising in the mists that wreathed the Isle of Wight,
was running with no lights and her captain was not about to call for any,
despite the fact that gloom had now settled over the wet, shining decks and it
was all he could do to pick out the ship's bowsprit as it cleaved the mists
some ninety feet out from where he stood at the helm.  Only Peter Milford, who
was with Connor, and young Toby Ashton, still aboard the prison hulk and
wrapped in a thin, moth-eaten wool blanket as damp as the night itself, were
keenly aware of the time.  Hiding in the shadows just outside the forward
garrison, the boy sat in total darkness, coughing and trying in vain to muffle
the hoarse and phlegmy barks against the blanket so that no one would hear him.

He had no watch,
but he knew what the hour was.  He'd been on the prison hulk long enough to
pinpoint the time just by noting the thickness of the smoke that came from the
galley pipe a stone's throw away, or by listening to the clatter of utensils
against plates as the guards ate and, later, the merrymaking in which they, and
even some of the prisoners, indulged after the meal to try to fool themselves
into thinking their lot was any better than it was.  But Toby wasn't fooled. 
His lot was bad and he knew it.  He was frail, he was sick, and he was dying. 
Now, with a defeat borne of illness, he doubted very much he'd make it off the
ship alive.

His gallant
cousin Connor, however, held an entirely different view on the matter.  Tonight
the Black Wolf was going to make a last attempt to get Toby off the ship.  Toby
coughed again and shivered violently, too sick even to contemplate how Connor
was going to do it.  But do it he would.  Reverend Milford had sent word
through Jack Clayton: 
Be ready at
eleven o'clock
.  Someone
will come for you.

That had been
two hours ago.  Now the ship was beginning to quiet down.  It was half past ten, by Toby's guess.  Again he coughed, unable to help himself, hoping no one
had heard him as he crouched shivering in the blanket, all the protection he
had against the cold drizzle.  Seven sentries paced the gallery that ran all
around the ship just above the waterline, and a few shadowy figures moved about
through the darkness.  If he was discovered, they'd haul him before Radley and
all would be lost.  Toby was past caring if he lived or died, but he didn't
want poor Connor to go through all the trouble of rescuing him and then coming
up empty-handed.

"Toby?"

The whispered
voice came from the darkness several feet away.

Toby held his
breath, not daring to move.

"Toby, it's
me, Gerry Osley.  You know, Jack Clayton's friend.  You remember me, don't
you?  The Black Wolf sent me to come get you."

The night
pressed all around, ripe with the scents of wind and salt and rain.  A few
cold, heavy drops spattered Toby's shoulders, immediately soaking through the
thin blanket and chilling his skin.  Somewhere aft, in the officers' garrison,
laughter and revelry ensued, a lonely sound in the damp and drizzly night.  The
shadow moved, closer now.  Toby squinted and craned his neck, trying to see
through the inky gloom, but to no avail.  No one but Jack had ever come for
him.  He kept very still — and then it happened.

He coughed, the
violent spasm nearly imploding his tired ribs.

"Aha! 
There you are!"  The whispered voice was vaguely familiar, and now the
figure hurried forward, a stealthy shape in the darkness, borne on light, agile
feet.  Toby curled within the blanket, suddenly afraid.  A hand touched his
shoulder and he looked up.

The night was
dark, but he could see the young, friendly face with its dark eyes and lopsided
grin.  The guard was not much older than Toby himself, and yes, he
had
seen him talking to Jack Clayton lately.  If Gerry knew about the Black Wolf
and the fact that Toby was to be rescued tonight, then certainly Jack — or even
Peter Milford — must have sent him.  Toby decided the guard could be trusted.

He stood up, his
legs shaky and cramped, the movement making him feel dizzy and sick.  He balled
the blanket and pressed it against his mouth to still another bout of coughing.

"Hurry,"
Gerry said, steadying him.  "The Wolf is waiting."

They moved out
onto the open deck.  A heavy mist was falling, grainy bits of moisture that
dewed Toby's glasses and the shoulders of his blanket, and made his lank hair
cling sadly to his scalp.  He reached up and clutched the miniature at his
throat, shivering.

"You know
where I'm supposed to bring you?" Gerry whispered over his shoulder, his
face pale and round in the gloom.

"I thought
you're supposed to know that."

"They don't
tell me anything.  Take a guess, Toby.  You know if Radley finds us, my arse
will be tasting the cat!"

Toby stifled a
cough.  His knees were knocking with fatigue and cold and he just wanted to lie
down someplace and go to sleep.  "I was told somethin' about the
bow."

"The
bow?"

"Figurehead,
to be precise."

"Well,
then, let's go.  We sit out here in the open and we'll be in trouble for
sure."  Seizing Toby's elbow through the blanket, the young marine steered
him down through the decks and forward.  Toby ducked as they passed a sentry,
but the man pretended not to notice him and Toby suspected Connor had bribed
him too.  Once, Toby's bare feet slipped on the slimy deck, but Gerry jerked
him up before he could go down.  Presently they emerged out in the bows, as far
forward on the ship as they could go.

Above, the
superstructure of the soldiers' garrison blocked out the sky and shielded them
from the rain.  Beyond the damp, curving railing, Toby could hear the sea
moving, and he was suddenly afraid.

All was quiet up
there, and he figured the occupants of the garrison must be asleep.  But he
heard a strange, familiar click from someplace near, and the hair on the back
of his neck rose.

"Gerry, I
think someone's watchin' us."

"It's your
imagination.  Trust me, if anyone was watching us, you'd know it.  The Black Wolf's
already tried for you once, so it stands to reason he'll try again.  Anyone
sees you sneaking around in the dark, they'll automatically assume he's making
another attempt and the alarm will be raised sky-high."

"You sure,
Gerry?"

"Of course
I am.  Now be quiet or someone
will
discover us."

Toby swallowed
hard and drew the blanket more tightly around his shoulders.  The great
figurehead faced the night just before and below them.  The garrison above made
him feel closed in, trapped.  Far below, waves washed against the stem, the
bows, the hull.  Moisture dripped from the old wood above, trickling into his
hair.  He crouched down, miserable, wet, too sick and too uneasy to feel
excitement.