Jennifer Wilde Read online

  Scowling, he climbed out and helped me down. The wind caught my cloak immediately and sent it swooping back from my shoulders like madly fluttering blue and turquoise wings. Derek slammed the door of the carriage and started to step around to speak the driver. He had taken only three or four steps when the driver clicked the reins savagely, yelling at the horses. The carriage moved off at a frightening speed. My cloak came unfastened, lifted in the air, disappeared into the fog. I barely noticed. A cold hand seemed to clutch my heart.

  "Derek!" I whispered hoarsely.

  "Keep calm!" he ordered.

  "It's a trap. That driver—he—he must have been in on it. The ship isn't leaving. There are no people. They set it up. They bribed the captain to tell you the ship was—"

  "Shut up!"

  Several moments passed. I was numb with terror. The fog lifted, parted, swirled like ghostly veils. I could hear water slapping against wood and wood groaning, and these noises somehow intensified the eerie silence that hung over the docks at this hour. The lanterns swayed, pouring dim yellow light over the crates, over the coils of rope. The gigantic old ship with its flaking blue hull rocked gently on the water, knocking against the dock, and it did indeed resemble a tired blue elephant. Through the fog I could discern several other ships moored nearby, cloaked in darkness like The Blue Elephant, tall masts a skeletal forest in the fog.

  There was a loud clatter, a tinkling crash. One of the lanterns went out. Someone had thrown a rock at it. Pistol in hand, Derek motioned me to move behind him. Several more moments passed, the heavy silence broken only by sounds of water slapping, wood creaking. They were out there, lurking behind the boxes or crouching behind the bales of cotton, watching us, waiting. Another rock was thrown. Another lantern went out. There were just two wavering pools of light remaining, shadows intensified, the fog drifting, breaking, moving in a ghostly dance around us.

  "What are we going to do?" I whispered.

  "We're leaving," Derek said. His voice was frighteningly calm. "Stay behind me, Marietta."

  He started moving away from The Blue Elephant, keeping close to the edge of the pier, near the water, skirting the stacks of wooden crates, the bales of cotton, and I followed, my heart pounding, my knees so weak I thought I would stumble and fall at any moment. Ten yards, twenty, and we passed under one of the remaining lanterns, dim yellow-orange light pouring down. Thirty yards, and The Blue Elephant was behind us, and it was dark, so dark, nests of shadows on every side, water slapping, sloshing, fog swirling, the smell of salt and tar and damp wood assailing our nostrils. There was another pool of light up ahead, at least fifty yards away, and we moved slowly toward it.

  Both of us heard the footsteps, scuffling footsteps that echoed and seemed to come from all around. Were they ahead of us? Behind us? Following us on our left, darting from cover to cover? It was impossible to tell. Derek held up his arm, motioning me to stop, and we stood very still in the darkness, listening. They stopped, too. Where were they? From a distance came the sound of raucous laughter and music, muted, barely audible. The waterfront bars were not too far away. If we could reach them, there would be lights, hundreds of people, safety, and I knew that was what Derek had in mind. My terror was so intense it had gone beyond feeling, and a curious numbness had come over me now, a numbness almost like calm.

  A brisk wind blew over the water, tearing at the fog, lifting it, driving it away, and suddenly strong rays of moonlight streamed down, illuminating the area with a clear silver light that sharpened details and darkened shadows. I saw the ships on our right, enormous black monsters crouching low on the water, and I saw the boxes, the bales, piled in awkward pyramids on our left, deep, blue-black shadows around them. I saw Derek's face, skin taut, mouth tight, his eyes alert. I saw the pistol in his hand, long, black, lethal. He knew how to use it. He was an expert. They didn't have a gun, I told myself. If they'd had a gun they would have fired earlier, when we were standing in the light just after the carriage drove away. Perhaps there was hope. Perhaps there was still hope.

  I shivered, folding my arms in front of my waist, the wind tearing my hair, lifting my skirts. There were tears in my eyes, I hadn't been aware of them until Derek reached over to brush them away with his finger. Holding the pistol in his right hand, he wrapped his left arm around me, pulled me to him and kissed me on the lips, tenderly, so tenderly, telling me without words that everything was going to be all right, that he loved me. The kiss was all too brief. I clung to him for a moment, and then he gently withdrew, stepping back, turning around to watch the shadows. The moonlight wavered, washing the pier with silver, wisps of fog still floating, and Derek nodded, indicating that we should move on.

  We proceeded slowly, cautiously, Derek keeping a sharp watch, gripping the pistol firmly, ready to fire. The music and laughter seemed nearer now, and in the distance I could see clusters of light. The moonlight began to fade, growing dimmer, dimmer, disappearing as a cloud passed over the moon. The darkness was total, a solid black shroud cloaking

  everything. I watched the shadows and saw one of them move, a dark, bulky shadow disengaging itself from the others, moving stealthily toward us. I screamed. Derek whirled around and saw the shadow and shoved me roughly aside, so roughly that I reeled, tottering backward, finally falling.

  Derek raised the pistol to shoot, but before he could get a shot off the shadow lunged, falling on him, knocking the pistol out of his hand. I could see the two of them grappling, hugging each other, it seemed, locked in a deadly embrace, and I got to my knees, out of breath, my heart pounding again, hair spilling over my face. The cloud that had hidden the moon drifted past. Moonlight streamed down again, and I could see them clearly, the heavyset man in the bulky navy blue coat gripping Derek savagely around the waist, trapping his arms, Derek kicking his shin, breaking free, swinging his fist back to pound it into the man's stomach, cracking him across the jaw as the man bent over double in pain. The second blow sent him sprawling, landing on the wooden planks with a heavy thud, and Derek leaped upon him, seizing his throat. The man thrashed, kicked, struggled, toppling Derek over, rolling on top of him.

  I saw the pistol. It had skidded across the pier. It was only a few feet away from where I kneeled. Bruised, still out of breath, I doubted I could get to my feet, but I knew I had to get the pistol. I began to crawl toward it, and then someone shoved me viciously and I fell flat, lifting my head in time to see Will Hart reach down and pick up the pistol. He was dressed exactly as he had been before, in brown boots and plum-colored breeches and coarsely woven white shirt, the full gathered sleeves billowing, the leather jerkin shiny in the moonlight. He stood with his legs apart, watching the fierce combat, a smile playing on his lips.

  I groaned, getting to my hands and knees. Hart turned and looked at me, the smile spreading into a leer. He stepped over to me, seized my hair, and jerked savagely, pulling me up. I couldn't restrain a scream of pain. He slung an arm around my throat, hard muscles tightening, cutting off the scream. Swooping black wings closed over my brain. I almost blacked out.

  "I've been waitin' for this," he whispered, his lips at my ear. "I've been waitin' a long time."

  I tried to speak. I couldn't. Hart tightened his grip, his arm curling, squeezing, and the blood rushed to my head. I closed my eyes and knew I was going to die, knew my throat was going to be crushed any second now. The pain was unbelievable. Orange and red lights seemed to whirl on my eyelids and I was in a black void, struggling to breathe, struggling to live. Hart loosened his hold, chuckling, and I gulped air, gasping, coughing. He continued to chuckle, delighted to have me in his power, savoring my pain.

  "Be a good wench, now," he said in a crooning voice. "You be good and I'll let ya watch Bert cut your toff's 'eart out. 'E 'as a knife, Bert does, bloody fool 'adn't pulled it out yet, shoulda 'ad it in 'is 'and before 'e leaped on your toff."

  Derek and the man in the navy blue coat were both on their knees now some ten yards from where we stood. Both were dazed
, struggling to their feet, and Bert fumbled with the tail of his coat and pulled a knife out of a scabbard at his thigh. It glittered in the moonlight, long, sharp, hideous. He lunged at Derek, and Derek moved aside just in time to avoid the deadly blade that passed not a fraction of an inch from his side. He whirled, caught Bert's wrist, and twisted violently. Bert yelled and dropped the knife. Hart made an exasperated noise.

  "Bloody fool," he said, "bloody bumblin' fool. Looks like I'll 'ave to settle your toff's stew myself. Nice he was carryin' this pistol."

  Derek had Bert's arm wrenched up between his shoulder blades, and Bert was yelling, trying to break free. He reared forward, throwing an arm back, catching Derek's head in an awkward grip. They fell crashing to the planks, both of them losing their holds. Bert tried to get up. Derek caught his legs, jerking him back down. Bert's head banged loudly. Derek stood up, stunned, weaving and shaking his head to clear it. Bert groaned, reaching for the knife that was almost within his grasp. Derek kicked the knife and sent it skidding into the water.

  Hart chuckled again and curled his arm tightly around my throat again and lifted his free arm. I saw the pistol in his hand and saw him pull the trigger. I heard the explosion and saw a violent orange flash and a puff of smoke and saw Derek clutching himself and reeling backward, stumbling, tripping on the edge of the pier, falling. I heard a loud splash, and I screamed again, the sound welling up in my bruised throat and splitting the air. The world seemed to spin, revolving faster and faster, and I fell into a merciful void of blackness.

  "Th' ring, goddammit! Th' bloody ring. He ain't gonna give us tuppence if we don't give 'im th' bloody ring!"

  The words seemed to come from a long way off. They were muffled, indistinct, part of a terrible dream. I opened my eyes and everything was blurred, black and silver and blue. It was several moments before I could focus, before I realized where I was. I was in a sitting position, leaning against a bale of cotton, and Hart and his colleague were standing a few feet away. Bert's face was bruised, contorted now with anger, and Hart wore a smug, mocking expression.

  "You almost mucked it up, mate," he said. "If I 'adn't got 'is pistol 'e'd a kicked your feeble brains out."

  "You mucked it up!" Bert growled. "You shot 'im, yeah, and he fell into th' water and 'e's got th' bloody ring on Ms finger. Now one of us is gonna have ta dive down there and find 'im and cut th' ring off 'is finger if 'e ain't already floated out to sea!"

  "Don't get yourself in such an uproar, mate. I got it right 'ere. The wench 'ad it on 'er finger. I pulled it off. No one's gonna 'ave ta get wet tonight."

  "Give it to me!" Bert ordered.

  "I got it in my pocket. It's safe where it is."

  "We're gonna 'ave ta kill th' wench, too," Bert said.

  Hart shook his head. "I got plans for 'er," he said. "Big plans."

  "We gotta kill 'er," Bert insisted. "She can identify botha us."

  "She ain't gonna 'ave a chance ta identify us," Hart told him.

  "You plan on keepin' 'er for yourself?"

  "I plan on 'avin' a bit of sport, yeah, and when I get through with 'er I'm gonna turn a nice profit. Red Nick'll pay a fortune for a wench like 'er, pay double 'is usual price."

  I heard the words clearly, but they didn't really register. They weren't real. None of this was real. I wasn't alive. I couldn't be alive, I knew I was dead, and I was glad, for there was no reason to live. I was dead. I had to be dead. I couldn't live. My throat hurt terribly and my shoulders ached, but I didn't feel the pain. I was incapable of feeling anything. I stared at the two men and listened to their voices, but none of it was real. I wondered if I was in hell.

  " 'Ey," Bert said, "I didn't thinka that."

  "No, mate, you didn't."

  " 'E'll pay top price! We're gonna 'ave us a bloody fortune!"

  "Not us, Bert," Hart said quietly.

  "Hunh? Whatda you mean?"

  Hart smiled and licked his lips and leveled the pistol at Bert's chest. "I got the ring, Bert. I got,the wench. Why should I share with you?"

  "Will! You ain't gonna do this! You ain't gonna double-cross me! Not me, not your mate!"

  " 'Fraid I am, Bert."

  "I'm th' one set this 'ole thing up! I made th' deal with 'im in London! I'm th' one who arranged everything, paid th' captain a bloomin' fortune to tell 'awke 'e 'ad passage and tell 'im th' ship was leavin' at midnight. I brought you in! I brought you in 'cause we was mates and I needed 'elp and I wanted my mate to 'ave a share!"

  "Yeah," Hart agreed. "Looks like you made a mistake, Bert."

  He pulled the trigger. Bert yelled, a look of amazement in his eyes as he grabbed his chest and blood spurted through his fingers. He fell to his knees, shaking his head, unable to believe what had happened. He continued to shake his head for several moments, moaning, blood spurting, and then his eyes glazed over and he fell face forward, his arms flailing out in front of him. Hart moved back, blew on the barrel of the pistol, and chuckled again.

  I was in hell, yes, and the man in the leather jerkin was Satan, but where was his pitchfork, where were the flames? I caught hold of the bale of cotton and pulled myself up. I was standing, but my legs were numb. My whole body was numb. I couldn't feel anything. That was perfectly natural, I told myself. I was dead and in hell and I couldn't feel anything. The man in the leather jerkin looked at me, leering. He wedged the pistol into his waistband and started toward me, and I watched him quite calmly, not at all afraid. Why should I be afraid if I was already dead? He stopped in front of me and grinned, his dark eyes gleaming.

  "You an' me are gonna 'ave a real good time," he said.

  I looked at him with cool, level eyes, and I saw his wide, thin lips and his large, well-shaped nose. I saw the broad, flat cheekbones and gleaming eyes and the dark, arching brows that flared at the corners. His hair was blond and shaggy. Who would have thought that Satan had blond hair? I lifted my hand up as though to touch that heavy blond hair and watched quite objectively as my nails racked across his cheek, drawing blood. Satan yelled and jumped back and curled one huge hand into a fist. I saw the fist flying through the air toward me, and I felt something almost like pain, but I couldn't feel pain, of course, and I welcomed the blackness that swallowed me up, claiming me at last.

  It was dark, so very dark, layers of thick black darkness covering me, and I was swimming through the blackness, swimming slowly, layers falling away. I was swimming, but I couldn't move my arms, and that was strange indeed. Something was holding me back, something coarse and scratchy that bit tightly into my wrists and made swimming much more difficult, but I continued nevertheless, swimming upward, parting layers of blackness, and it tasted awful. It tasted like cotton, cotton crammed against the roof of my mouth and holding my tongue down. I tried to get rid of the awful cotton taste, but I couldn't. I tried to move my arms in graceful strokes, but I couldn't do that either, and if I didn't surface soon I was going to drown.

  I swam frantically now, plunging upward, black layers parting rapidly, growing lighter, grayish black now, now dark gray, no longer black, now misty gray stained with gold, yellow-gold flickering, growing brighter, hurting my eyelids. I opened my eyes and saw the candle flame across the room. I blinked and tried to sit up and couldn't. I was stretched out on a narrow bed. There was a gag in my mouth, and my wrists were tied to the bedposts. The room was small with a low, slanting roof, the tan walls stained with brownish circles caused by moisture. A hideous green carpet covered the floor, ragged with age, worn through in spots. Besides the bed, there was a crude wooden chair and a single table. The pewter candlestick stood on the table, a chipped porcelain chamber pot beside it.

  I struggled for only a moment, trying to pull my wrists free. The coarse hemp bit into my flesh, tightening savagely as I pulled. There was no hope of freeing myself, I realized that immediately. A wad of cotton cloth had been crammed into my mouth, a handkerchief tied tightly across my lips to hold it in place. The shock and numbness had worn off, but I didn't pa
nic. I knew what had happened. I could still feel the pain in my jaw. There was probably a bruise. Will Hart had knocked me out and brought me to this room and tied me securely, my left wrist bound to one bedpost, my right wrist to the other. He had gagged me so that I wouldn't scream and bring inquisitive neighbors up here. This was obviously an attic room, small, sordid, smelling of mildew and sweat and dirt.

  I didn't care what happened to me now. There was no reason to go on living. Hart would use me, and if he didn't kill me I intended to kill myself at the first opportunity. I couldn't go on living with this anguish inside of me, this terrible anguish that made every moment an unendurable agony. I wished fervently that they had killed me when they killed Derek. I fervently prayed that Hart would kill me when he returned, when he had finished using me to assuage his lust. I wondered where he was. I wondered how long I had been here. An hour? Two? Longer?

  It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. The candlelight flickered, burning low, washing the filthy walls with patterns of light and shadow. I could hear the wind blowing fiercely around the eaves, and from somewhere below came the sounds of raucous music, gruff, heavy voices, and shrill, feminine laughter, all muted, muffled, barely audible. Doors slammed, and there was a high-pitched yell and the sound of something breaking. I was in an attic room over one of the waterfront bars, or one of the brothels. It didn't matter where I was. It didn't matter at all.

  Time passed. Half an hour? An hour? Time had no meaning. The anguish was so intense that each moment seemed an eternity. The muted sounds continued, and the candle burned lower, guttering, the flame leaping in a frenzied dance, finally going out. I lay in darkness for a long time, bound, gagged, consumed with anguish that was constant torture. Eventually, I heard footsteps, two sets of footsteps moving up a flight of wooden stairs that seemed nearby. The sound grew louder, and then the door opened and a dim shaft of light spilled into the room. I saw two men enter.

  " 'Old on a minute," Hart said gruffly. "I'll light another candle, 'ave some right 'ere in the table drawer."