Merline Lovelace (19 page)

The intelligence Zach had gathered during his earlier scouting expedition had pinpointed Davenport as their most likely target. Formerly warden of Newgate Prison, the man had lost that post amid some sort of scandal. He’d accepted what was apparently a demotion, had left a wife and twelve children behind in England, and arrived in Bermuda a scant six weeks ago. Judging by his watery eyes and the steady drip at the end of his brick-red nose, he had yet to acclimate to the Atlantic winds that swept across the island in winter.

“Good afternoon, Miss Chamberlain.” Sniffling, the warden rounded his desk and bowed over her hand. “Have I been informed correctly? This is your second visit to Bermuda on behalf of your brother?”

A drop hung suspended from his left nostril for long seconds before splatting onto Barbara’s thumb. She slid her hand free of his.

“Yes,” she replied, surreptitiously swiping her thumb against her coat skirts, “it is.”

“Such sisterly devotion. I’m quite impressed.” His glance shifted to Zach. “And this time you bring a barrister with you.”

Making a show of it, Davenport produced Zach’s card from an inside uniform pocket. The twenty-pound note was still wrapped around it.

The warden tapped the card against his palm. “Do you know the penalty for attempting to bribe a prison official, Mr. Morgan?”

“That,” Zach replied with a careless shrug, “is merely a token of our appreciation that you agreed to see us on such short notice.”

“Indeed?”

“If I were to offer you a bribe, it would be considerably more substantial.”

Another drip fell from Davenport’s nose. His glance slid to the closed door. His voice dropped to a mere whisper.

“How substantial?”

Barbara’s heart thumped against her stays. They were treading dangerous ground here. In an effort to control the corruption so prevalent in the British penal system, the Crown set spies to watch the gaolers who in turn watched the prisoners. The guard in the outer office might well have his ear to the door.

Zach understood the dangers as well as she did.
With the skill of a fencer dodging a thrust, he refused to let Davenport lure him into making the first offer.

“You must tell me,” he murmured. “What would it take for you to assign a certain prisoner quarry duty on Somerset Island tomorrow morning?”

Scrubbing his nose with his sleeve, Davenport darted another look at the door. He was dithering, Barbara realized. Or trying to calculate how much he could squeeze out of them. She didn’t need Zach’s sardonic glance to know it was time she slipped into her assigned role.

“It’s rather warm in here.” She lifted a casual hand to the buttons at her throat. “Do you mind if I remove my wrap?”

“Not at all. Allow me to assist you.”

“Thank you.”

Turning, she let the warden lift the coat from her shoulders. She heard his breath catch, and a disgusting dribble landed on her bare shoulder. Hiding a grimace, she angled her head to give him ample view of her half-naked breasts.

When they emerged from the superintendent’s office some time later, Barbara’s skin crawled where the man had dripped on it. But she clutched a signed authorization to visit her brother and her head whirled with the details of a whispered agreement.

They were to take rooms at the Somerset Arms on the neighboring island. A note would be delivered
later tonight specifying a hidey-hole. Zach would stash three thousand pounds in that place before midnight.

Tomorrow, prisoner number one thousand twenty-six would march out with the quarry detail. The normal three-man squad guarding that gang would be one short. Zach would deal with the remaining guards when the detail rattled across the wooden drawbridge.

It sounded so simple. So dangerous.

“How can we trust Davenport?” Barbara murmured as she and Zach waited in the same fetid visitors’ chamber where she’d last seen Harry.

“We can’t.”

The careless reply scratched on nerves strung as tight as piano wire. He was so cool about this whole venture, she thought with a mix of admiration and resentment. So damn deliberate.

That was the soldier in him, she supposed. He’d scouted the enemy stronghold, selected the weakest point in their defenses, laid out his plan of attack. Gripping her gloved hands in her lap, Barbara tried not to think of everything that could go wrong between the planning and the execution of that attack.

The clank of shackles spun her around. The door opened, and a scarecrow in canvas work pants and a ragged coat stumbled inside.

They’d fetched the wrong prisoner, she thought in dismay. Surely this cadaverous, hollow-eyed wretch with the festering sores couldn’t be her brother.
Doubt riddled her until the scarecrow let loose with a whoop of joy.

“Babs!”

Shackles clanking, he stumbled across the stones and swept her into a fierce embrace.

“Oh, Harry!”

His stench almost gagged her. His debonair, desperate grin when he gripped her arms and held her away broke her heart.

“I
knew
you wouldn’t fail me.”

Tears blurred her eyes. She barely heard the jangle of the guard’s keys, the scrape of the door closing behind him.

“Tell me, did you fleece that half-breed squaw of her entire fortune?”

“No.”

“Whyever not?”

Zach chose that moment to make his presence known. Pushing away from the wall, he strolled across the chamber.

“The pigeon wasn’t as ripe for the plucking as you thought she’d be, Chamberlain.”

With a rattle of his chains, Harry whirled around. His burning gaze raked the stranger from his top hat to his Hessians.

“Who the devil are you?”

“Zachariah Morgan.”

The two men’s eyes locked. Zach’s were filled with contempt, Harry’s with speculation.

“Morgan? Are you kin to…?”

“The half-breed squaw? I am.”

The slow drawl lifted the hairs on the back of Barbara’s neck. The air between the two men seemed to crackle. She rushed to intervene before one or the other of them set a spark to it.

“Lieutenant Morgan is Louise Chartier’s son by her second marriage.”

“A lieutenant, is he?”

“And a barrister.”

At that, Harry gave a bark of laughter. For the first time since clanking into the visitors’ chamber, he looked and sounded like the brother she’d adored and depended on all her life.

“Hell and damnation, Babs. You’ve made a royal mess of this one, haven’t you?”

N
ervous as a cat, Barbara paced her cozy sitting room at the Somerset Arms.

The inn was situated on a high bluff overlooking Somerset Village, the principal township on the island of the same name. The hostelry boasted weathered cedar timbers, walls plastered in crushed oyster shell mixed with lime and a kitchen reputed to be one of the finest in the colony. When the innkeeper had shown Barbara and Zach to their rooms earlier, leaded-glass windows had provided spectacular views of the gray-green Atlantic. Now, the small square panes showed only blackest night.

Barbara found it hard to believe a mere six hours had passed since she’d seen Harry. Five, since Zach had strolled into the largest bank in Hamilton Township and presented a draft drawn on the Second Bank of the United States.

Barbara’s worries that a Bermudan financial institution wouldn’t honor such a large draft had proved groundless. As Zach explained, foreign investors—including a number of the same men who backed the Bank of Britain—held a majority of the stock in the U.S. bank.

After that, she and Zach had taken rooms at the Somerset Arms. Every minute had dragged until an ebony-skinned lad of eight or nine delivered an unsigned note. Buried in the note was an oblique reference to a burnt and blackened cedar tree not far from the inn. Zach had gone out to drop the bribe at the cedar tree an hour ago and had yet to return.

Like rats caught in a maze, a dozen different fears chased around and around in Barbara’s head. What if Zach had walked into a trap? What if Davenport had arranged for thugs to waylay him and steal the money? What if he’d found a platoon of guards or royal marines waiting at the cedar tree?

She should have insisted on accompanying him.

No! She should have insisted on finding the damn tree herself. Harry was
her
brother. She should have delivered the bribe and taken the consequences if, indeed, Davenport had sprung a trap.

Zach was an officer in the army of the United States. His president placed great trust in him. He would assume a captaincy in the mounted ranger unit he so loved upon his return. The knowledge she’d placed him at risk of losing his career and his
life heaped guilt on top of Barbara’s remorse and regret.

She and Harry had been alone for so long. She wasn’t used to worrying about anyone except herself and her brother. Had certainly never given anyone else the same degree of loyalty and devotion she felt for her brother. Zach was the first, the only, man to stir both passion and this aching sense of loss.

She still loved him desperately, despite the grievous hurt she’d done him. Alone in the dark of night, at this strange inn, pacing and worrying, Barbara could admit the feelings hidden deep in her heart.

It was two hours past midnight before she heard the clip-clop of horses’ hooves. Rushing to the window, she almost sobbed with relief when she saw a rider with Zach’s unmistakably broad shoulders steer his hired hack into the inn’s yard.

The moment his tread echoed on the stairs, she threw back the bolt and yanked open the door to her chambers.

“Are you all right?”

Her anxious gaze swept him from head to foot for powder burns or bloodstains.

“I’m fine.”

“Why were you gone so long?”

Nudging her inside, he shot the bolt behind them. “After I deposited the money in the cedar, I circled back, shinnied up another tree and waited to see who came to retrieve it.”

He’d shinnied up a tree! And roosted there for nigh onto four hours! She didn’t know whether to laugh at the absurdity of a man his size perched like a canary on a branch or to indulge in a healthy bout of hysterics.

She did neither. Instead, she dogged his heels as he crossed the room, withdrew a pistol from the pocket of his greatcoat and placed it on a draped table. Her toe tapped impatiently while he poured a measure of brandy from the bottle he’d ordered up earlier in the evening.

“Well?” she bit out. “Do you intend to tell me or not? Who came to retrieve the money?”

“Mr. Red Nose himself.”

Grinning, he tossed back the brandy.

“He scuttled by right beneath me, tucked the money under his arm and scurried off again like the wharf rat he is. I was tempted to drop down onto his back and scare the piss out of him for the sheer fun of it.”

“For the fun of it?” she echoed incredulously.

“I might have done it, too, if I hadn’t feared he would drip all over me, as he did you.”

He made it sound as though he’d been off on a lark. Some schoolboy prank. She’d stewed and fretted and near worn a hole in the carpet with her pacing, and he’d been off having a grand adventure!

She didn’t so much as consider laughing this time. Or giving way to hysterics. With one of the wild swings of emotion that seemed to have afflicted her
of late, she snatched up the brandy bottle and threw it at his head.

“What the devil…!”

He dodged it just in time. The heavy glass decanter sprayed an aromatic arc before it clattered to the floor.

Infuriated that her aim was off, Barbara groped for another missile. She didn’t realize she’d wrapped her hand around the pistol butt until Zach leaped forward. Cursing, he wrenched the weapon away with one hand and jerked her arm behind her back with the other.

She slammed against his chest. Near snarling now, she put all the hurt, all the shame of the past weeks into a solid kick to his shins.

“You little hellcat!” He tightened his hold, pinning her against his length. “Stop this nonsense before you hurt yourself.”

She already had. She’d near broken her toes with that whack. The pain brought tears to her eyes and a torrent of angry curses to her lips.

“Damn you, Zachariah! Damn you to hell and back! I wish you
had
dropped out that tree and broken your neck. I wish Davenport
had
pissed and dripped all over you! I wish… Oh, God, I wish…”

He buried his hand in her hair, yanked her head back. As angry now as she was, he snarled down at her.

“What, Barbara? What do you wish?”

A new emotion sliced through her fury. As fierce and sharp as a dagger thrust to the heart, it made a mockery of all else. She had only to look at him, feel the strength and hardness of him, to know the truth. It spilled from her lips before she could stop it.

“I wish you would kiss me.”

His jaw clamped shut. His eyes narrowed with instant suspicion. He stared down at her for what felt like an hour, then muttered a derisive “Why not?”

The kiss was meant to punish, and it did. Hard and bruising, his mouth savaged hers. Barbara withstood the assault, accepted the humiliation. She deserved this, she knew. More than deserved it.

Widening his stance, Zach fisted his hand in her hair and thrust his tongue past her teeth. She could taste the brandy on him, the anger in him.

The memory of another night and another man drunk on brandy flickered through her. Sternly, Barbara banished it. This was Zach. He might despise her. He might feel nothing but disgust for her lies and betrayals. But he wouldn’t hurt her. Not the way she’d hurt him. Following her instincts, she opened her mouth under his.

Zach felt the shudder just before she surrendered. It shamed him enough to ease the brutal pressure of his mouth, but not enough to release her.

The touch of her inflamed him. The taste of her was like a knife to his gut. He had to have her, had to feel her under him one last time.

She didn’t protest when he took her to the bed. Didn’t resist when he raised her skirts and found the slit in her drawers. The feel of her slick, damp flesh set his blood to pulsing and his groin to aching so fiercely he could barely work the buttons on his trouser flap.

He wanted to drive into her. Had every intention of leaving his mark on her. He kneed her legs apart and positioned himself between her thighs.

Her breath caught. Her body tensed. But she didn’t try to deny him.

Cursing himself for a fool, Zach entered her with a slow, easy thrust.

They didn’t speak afterward.

Exhausted by the journey, the bouts of sickness and the tension that had held her in its maw for months, Barbara sank into a deep, dreamless sleep. Zach swaddled her in the heavy coverlet and held her against him while the wind off the Atlantic rattled the windows.

Would he ever understand this woman? Ever stop wanting her? She had the face of an angel and the wild, untamed spirit of a mountain cat. She’d lied to him with every breath, yet could still tie him in knots with a toss of her head or a flash of those turquoise eyes.

He should hate her. The Lord knew he’d come close to it in Washington. It had been hard to maintain his fury those weeks at sea, though, with Barbara
so damn wretched. Harder still tonight, when she’d all but demanded he kiss her. Whatever else had passed between them, the heat still flared bright and hot.

Darkness blanketed the windows when Zach eased his arm from under her head. He let her sleep while he went down to the taproom and roused the boy dozing beside the hearth. The boy summoned the innkeeper, whose wife was already in the kitchen setting loaves beside the ovens to rise. She soon served up a hearty breakfast of ale, fried shark and hot honey cakes.

Instructing the innkeeper to have a carriage brought around, Zach requested a tray and a pitcher of hot water be carried up to Barbara, then settled the bill. The innkeeper didn’t question the early rising or departure. Ships and the sea were Bermuda’s lifeblood. His patrons came and went with the tides.

Barbara was still asleep when Zach lifted the latch and let himself into her room. He stood beside the bed for long moments before brushing back the tangle of gold hair spread across her face.

“Barbara.”

Her eyes flew open. She blinked at him in confusion. “What is it?”

“We’ve but an hour until dawn.”

She swallowed. Her face looked paper white against the sheets. To ease the fear that pooled in her eyes, Zach grinned and gave her hair a tug.

“It’s almost over.”

He kept his tone just as light some time later, when he passed her a small bundle.

“I withdrew some extra funds from the bank, in case you should need them. Tuck them away, with this.”

The small, bone-handled knife would hardly protect her from Throckmorton or his crew should Zach not return from his dawn foray. He was counting on the stack of bills to do that.

The darkness to the east was beginning to pearl when the carriage rattled over the wooden drawbridge connecting Somerset and Ireland Islands. The Royal Naval Base and Dockyards lay a mile and a half ahead. To the left, a thick stand of mangrove fringed a wide, restless bay. To the right was the Great Sound, with the lamps of Hamilton Township beginning to wink in the distance.

A thump on the roof signaled the driver to stop. If he thought it strange his passengers would alight on this uninhabited stretch of road, the coins Zach passed him killed his curiosity and kindled his delight. He backed up the carriage, brought it around and drove off whistling.

Barbara stood gazing through the dim gray light at the narrow bridge. Zach joined her, imprinting yet again on his mind the wooden span, the restless wa
ters on either side of it, the thick brush and spiky palmettos fringing the waters.

“Are you sure the quarry detail will pass this way?” she asked in a small, tight voice.

“It must, if the convicts are to work the limestone caves on Somerset Island.”

His plan was simple enough. The drawbridge worked on a pulley mechanism operated by massive concrete weights. A single fisherman wanting to take his boat from the sound to the bay could haul on the rope dangling on the bridge’s side, raise the ramps, row or walk his boat through the narrow opening, then lower the ramps again by tugging on the rope on the far side.

Zach intended to crouch beneath the bridge. When the lead elements of the quarry detail had tromped over the boards, he’d slice the pulley rope and send the heavy concrete weight splashing into the channel. The wooden ramps would shoot upward and divide the work detail. In the resulting confusion, Zach would disable the rear guard, use the man’s keys to unlock Harry’s shackles and make for the
Chesapeake.

Where Barbara would be stowed safely aboard.

He’d left strict orders with Throckmorton. If anything should go wrong, if there was so much as a hint of trouble, the captain was to lay on all sail and depart Bermuda immediately. Barbara would not birth her child in a rotting prison hulk.

He let his glance roam over her a last time. In the gray light, her face looked pale and worried and so beautiful he could almost forget the conniving self-interest behind it.

“It’s coming on to dawn,” he said, taking her arm. “We’d better find the
Chesapeake.
”

Jiggs Throckmorton had anchored the sloop exactly where Zach had instructed, in a small cove at the north end of the bay. The strange trees that gave the area its name almost shielded the boat from sight. The mangroves rose from great humps of roots that looked like islands floating in the silvery water.

Throckmorton’s rum-running days had made the captain cautious. Despite the secluded location and early hour, he’d kept a watch posted. Zach whistled softly to alert the sailor. Moments later, the captain and his mate climbed into the sloop’s dinghy and rowed it to the muddy spit of land where their passengers waited.

“Take Lady Barbara aboard,” Zach told the captain, “and be prepared to depart as soon as I return. If all goes as I’ve planned, I’ll be back within the hour.”

The captain pursed his lips. “Don’t you be want-in’ some help with this plan of yours, Morgan?”

“It depends on surprise and speed, not strength of numbers.”

Standing off the side of the dinghy, Barbara caught
the look Zach aimed at the captain. She understood well enough the message behind it. Throckmorton and his crew were to remain poised for flight and wait.

Zach didn’t know it, but Barbara was done with waiting, done with wringing her hands and standing by while he went about the business of saving her brother. She’d drawn him into this dangerous scheme. She’d not leave him to carry it off alone.