Rebel Dreams (47 page)

Alex handed the letter to Deirdre and walked out. A path
opened before him, but he was unaware of the deference and the sympathy that
opened it. Blindly, he found the study and reached for the decanter of brandy.

Deirdre read the letter but could make no more of it than a
demand for a packet of papers and a large sum of cash. The note was written as
if Evelyn had gone willingly and the writer meant only to notify her husband of
her whereabouts in exchange for payment. Obviously it had been written before
Evelyn was forcibly dragged off before witnesses.

She hurried after Alex and found him draining a glass of
brandy while staring morosely at the fire. When Deirdre dropped the letter on the
desk, Margaret snatched it up. Deirdre took the glass from Alex’s hand and
flung it at the fire.

“If you believe that letter, you’re a greater fool than I
ever dared conceive. Evelyn would not willingly leave without letting you know
where or why. She was
abducted.
What are you going to do about it?”

Awkwardly, Alex wrapped an arm around her shoulder to
comfort her. “I believe you, my lady. Evelyn is not the type to sneak away. If
she wished to disclaim me, she would do it to my face, with both barrels. No,
this is the work of a desperate snake who has hidden beneath rocks for too
long. I have no choice but to do what he says for now.”

He didn’t add that he didn’t believe Henderson’s promises to
release Evelyn. By now the bastard must realize he would be a hunted man. He
would need Evelyn to ensure his safety and his escape. What he would do with
her after he left the shores of England did not bear thought. Alex had to make
certain Henderson didn’t leave England.

Driving everyone out of the room, he began to write. Before
dawn, that stable of messengers he had promised Evelyn earlier were on their
way to every port in the kingdom. He had never asked a man for help in his
life. He was asking everyone he knew now.

***

By midmorning of the next day, Alex was still writing. He
hadn’t stopped to rest or change or shave. His dinner had gone untouched and
only his morning coffee showed any evidence of consumption. His once-immaculate
lace was ink-stained and gray at the wrist, and unfastened and disheveled at
the throat. The fire had died, but only the servants entering with his
breakfast noticed. The messengers running in and out were too terrified to see
anything but the ogre behind the desk.

Despite his need to strangle someone, for Evelyn’s sake, he
had used his brain instead of his fury and brawn. He’d written to every man in
every port that he knew across the country. Every Cranville ship crew would be
on the alert. Tavern keepers, customs officials, warehousemen, and all the
sailors they came in contact with would be on the lookout. Pride had at first
prevented asking help of the powerful men Alex dealt with here in London, but
by dawn pride had flown with the desolation of knowing he had not yet done
enough. He wanted Evelyn back regardless of the consequences.

He started on another series of letters. By noon, every carriage
driver in the city would be questioned and men would be on every road out of
London asking at coaching houses and inns. Men with Yankee accents weren’t so
prevalent as to escape notice, and Evelyn didn’t exactly blend in with the
woodwork. Someone had to have seen them. If the men Alex knew in London would
send out all available servants to notify others of the search, they could
cover England in a few days’ time.

Alex buried his face in his hands and groaned at the thought
of days of this hell. Evelyn in the hands of Henderson was a nightmare worse
than any he had ever encountered in a life pockmarked with nightmares. She
could be bound and gagged and suffocating in a trunk. Henderson could be
forcing her into his bed, and with the child to think of, Evelyn would be
powerless to fight. The humiliation would destroy his proud-and-proper Evelyn.
He couldn’t bear it.

Throwing back his chair and standing abruptly, Alex slammed
a stack of books to the floor and crossed the study in jerky strides. He had
done everything from here that he could conceive of. He had meant to wait for
the message dictating the terms of the delivery of the evidence packet, but he
couldn’t just sit here until he had word. He would go mad. There had to be
something else he could do, some stone yet unturned.

The noisy arrival of a carriage turned his frantic gaze to
the front hall. Perhaps Evelyn had escaped. Perhaps it was all a mistake. His strode
toward the opening door.

Alyson burst through in a flurry of flowing capes and loose
long black hair that made her appear the witch she had been accused of being more
than once. Her anxious pale gray eyes found Alex, and she flew down the marble
corridor toward him, Rory running close behind.

“Alyson, dammit! You’ll terrify the household! Wait . . .”
Rory’s words halted as he caught sight of Alex’s drawn visage.

“Alex, she’s on a ship! There’s a great gray wall around the
harbor, and a hideous stone fort on a hill. I see two rivers coming together.
She’s terrified, Alex. You have to find her!”

Alex took his fey cousin in his arms and hugged her while he
raised his gaze to meet Rory’s over her head. Her description of Evelyn’s
whereabouts sent gooseflesh creeping down his arms. He knew at once where she
meant. With Alyson, it was better not to ask how she knew.

Rory’s Scots burr was heavy as he replied to Alex’s unasked questions.
“She made us turn around and sail right back. It was either risk the babe and
her health on the sea or lock her in the tower. She’s right, isn’t she?”

“Evelyn was abducted yesterday morning. Alys just described
Plymouth. That would be the most likely place for a Boston-bound ship to leave.”

Rory nodded curtly. “I’ll trust Alyson’s vision. Want me to
go for you?”

“I want you to go
with
me. Now.” Alex released Alyson into Deirdre’s comforting arms and began
shouting commands. Whether Alyson’s quirky second sight was true or not, he
couldn’t wait to find out. A mad flight to Plymouth suited his needs.

He agreed to a change of clothes and a hasty meal, but they
were on the road within the half-hour, the miles disappearing beneath the
thunder of the horse’s hooves. With the icy wind whistling through his hair and
numbing his fingers and toes, he could freeze all thought and pour all energy
into action. He needed that, or he would be forced to face the images of Evelyn
being tormented by her captors, and all because of him. He had made the wrong
decisions, acted too slowly, not taken all the possibilities into account. If
he had only done . . .

Alex froze his thoughts again, concentrating only on keeping
his mount safely in the center of the road, where the ruts and holes and
patches of ice weren’t so perilous. He was aware of Rory racing close behind,
but they had left the army of grooms and stablehands far in the distance. At
such short notice, it had been difficult to find enough men who could ride.

Finding good horses at posting houses proved nigh on to
impossible, but Alex’s title opened up the doors of stables elsewhere. Friends
he hadn’t known he possessed offered their best mounts, and his army of
followers swelled and improved in quality. Word spread rapidly of the Earl of Cranville’s
desperate flight, and by the time they reached Devonshire, Alex didn’t even
have to ask for horses.

His followers wouldn’t let him cross the moors by night.
Half-frozen, half-mad, Alex allowed Rory to drag him from his horse and into
the noble halls of some marquess who had ridden out to greet them. He didn’t
make it to a bed, but fell asleep in the chair they pushed under him when he
stopped pacing long enough to sit. By dawn Alex was grabbing handfuls of
provisions from the breakfast table and starting out the door before the rest
of the company had stirred.

Rory forgot breakfast and ran out after him, notifying the
servants of their departure. Behind him, grooms and stablehands and members of
the aristocracy groaned and hurried for their mounts. Plymouth was only a
morning’s ride away.

Alyson’s vision hadn’t specified which ship held Evelyn, but
lack of this information did not deter Alex’s rage. The gray, spitting snow of
the previous day had changed to a balmier southern wind by the time he rode
into Plymouth, and his thoughts were rapidly defrosting also. Fire burned
through his veins as he approached the harbor. He no longer considered the
possibility that Evelyn might not be here. He intended to dismantle the harbor
until he found her.

On a day like this, the docks teemed with life. The fishing
boats and their crews had sailed away at daybreak, but there were still ships
in dry dock crawling with sailors and workmen, men mending nets, vendors
hawking their wares, passengers crowding around waiting their turn to board,
goods being loaded and unloaded with the accompanying cacophony of carts and
curses.

Undisturbed by this familiar milieu, Alex strode without
hesitation in the direction of his majesty’s coast patrol. Rory, on the other
hand, went directly to a weathered ship manned by a rough-looking crew.

Between them they covered both the legal and the illegal
levels of Plymouth and came up with the same piece of information. The schooner
bobbing out in the harbor was a Yankee ship. It had docked briefly yesterday to
allow passengers to board. One of those passengers had been heavily cloaked,
hooded, and carried on board. Alex’s jaw drew so tight at reporting this news
that his listeners backed away as if they had seen a specter of death.

Unperturbed, Rory clapped a hand on Alex’s shoulder. “You
didn’t think Evelyn would willingly walk that plank, did you? She’s probably
given them royal hell ever since they snatched her. They ought to be ready to
give her up by now.”

“She’s carrying my child, Maclean,” Alex responded. “She’ll
not do anything to harm the child. The bastards would not have got this far
with her if not for that.”

That put a different face on the matter, and Rory stared
stonily out to sea in the same manner as Alex, his hand gripping the hilt of
the sword. This southern port wasn’t the MacLean’s Scottish homeland, but between
them, there had to be a way to breach the castle walls, or the ship’s bulwark,
as the case might be.

By this time their entourage had caught up with them. Alex
grimly studied the motley army of inexperienced sailors at his command. He
turned to Rory and in low tones discussed the only plan that came to mind. Rory
nodded once or twice, made a suggestion or two, and soon the ill-assorted band
of men dispersed on various assignments.

Shortly after noon, a heavily armed sloop slipped from the
harbor bearing twice the number of ruffians it had entered with. Not long after
that, a navy vessel followed in pursuit. The only oddity to these departures
was that they occurred in the broad light of day, not the dark of night.

A smattering of fishing boats, private yachts, and any other
boat that could lift sail followed in the wake of the larger ships.

Alex had not been raised to be a warrior. He had learned the
techniques of shooting and sword fighting at gentlemanly schools for the
pleasure of possessing the skills. Other than an absurd marksmanship at bagging
game, he had never used those skills in combat. That was Rory’s career, not
his. But he stood on the navy vessel with loaded pistols in hand and a sword at
his side now. Never before had he kept his boiling anger curbed with such
control. Never before had he been so ready to commit murder.

Apparently recognizing Alex’s fury, the navy captain stayed
at his side. With a marquess, an earl, and an assortment of viscounts and
baronets aboard, the beleaguered captain had reason to fear a battle. Alex had
no such concerns.

A woman’s screams galvanized the ships into action.

The sloop bumped along the starboard of the Yankee schooner
while the navy vessel took to the port side. Now that they were closer to the
screams, Alex’s grim look turned to one of triumph.

Unlike everyone else, he recognized those screams. They
weren’t ones of pain or fear. They were the screams of a woman hell-bent on
ripping a man to shreds. A smile turned up the corners of his lips at the
shocking feminine curses echoing over the bridge. The termagant had learned one
or two things from him, after all.

***

Evelyn felt the odd jarring motion of the ship, but she concentrated
her full attention on the no-longer-obsequious lawyer in the cabin with her. He
had ordered her unbound and the gag removed, but whatever his reasons had been,
they’d been thwarted by Evelyn’s lack of gratefulness.

“Lay one more hand on me and I’ll rip your eyes out,
Henderson! Are you really fool enough to think you’ll get away with this? Alex
will hunt you down for the rest of your life.” She wielded a heavy ceramic
water pitcher, just waiting for the right moment.

“Don’t be too damn certain of that,” Henderson sneered. “These
lofty British peers have strange notions. Spoiled Yankee wives are easily
dispensable. By the time we reach Boston you may even be bearing my brat. Do
you think your noble husband will want you back then?”

Thomas grabbed for the pitcher, and Evelyn shrieked again,
pumping all her fury into her voice in the hopes she might be heard. She didn’t
intend to go quietly or politely.

She swung the pitcher with all her might, but days of being
bound by ropes had sapped her strength. Thomas easily blocked the blow, and the
pitcher bounced off his arm to crash into pieces upon the floor.

He caught her wrist, and she went after him tooth and nail.
The wooden pattens she had worn to protect her shoes when she set out for the
bakery days ago connected resoundingly with a shin that should already be
bruised. Henderson’s wince of pain brought satisfaction and renewed effort.
Screeching curses, Evelyn clawed his face with her free hand and battered
mercilessly at his legs as he shoved her toward the bunk. Her screams pierced
the air, nearly covering the onslaught of booted feet on the deck above.