Thief of Hearts (21 page)

"And for another, it's too risky now. Your government turned a blind eye at first; but now they're so afraid of antagonizing the Union, we can't trust them to stay out of our… private business arrangements anymore. So I expect we won't be seeing each other again, Mr. Balfour."

Brodie stepped forward. "Then I'll say goodbye." They shook hands, and he was struck again by the captain's ill-concealed antipathy. "You don't like me much, do you?"

Greeley raised thin brows. "Not much," he admitted after a moment's pause.

"Mind if I ask why?"

"Not at all. Let's say I've got a natural aversion to thieves."

"Thieves?" he repeated quietly. "But you're getting good value for your money, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes. But I wonder how much of the profits you'll end up sharing with your friend at Jourdaine Shipbuilding. I wouldn't put it past a man like you to cheat him, too."

A muscle jumped in Brodie's jaw as irrational anger spurted through him. It was only the mention of his "friend" that sobered him. If only he could ask, "Who?
Who
at Jourdaine was in this with Nick?" That was the other thing O'Dunne wanted him to find out. But he was damned if he could see a way to do it without giving himself away. So all he said was, "No honor among crooks, eh?" and went past Greeley to the door.

When he turned back, the captain was peering at him with the same look of faint puzzlement as before. "What are you going to call her?" he asked, his hand on the door handle.

"What's that?"

"The
Morning Star
. What's her new name?"

"Oh. The
Atlanta
."

Brodie smiled grimly. "Of course." He jerked open the door and went out.

His hurrying footsteps rang hollow on the wooden dock, and just for a moment he thought he heard others, behind him. He paused, listened. Nothing now. He hastened on, squinting through the worsening fog for a glimpse of Billy or O'Dunne. He stopped again. This time he heard them, footsteps that stopped a second after his did. He turned slowly, silently, one hand stealing to the money bag he'd put inside his shirt. He could see clearly for about twenty feet; after that it was all mist. Everything was quiet except for the rhythmic splash of waves against the pilings and, somewhere in the distance, the muffled pealing of a bell. Then, beyond the clear space, in the thick of the fog ahead of him, he heard a click. Recognition spun him around and let him get one step away before the shot fired and the bullet tore a scorching path between his arm and the wall of his chest. He staggered.

"Jack!"

It was Flowers' voice, in front of him. "Billy!" he shouted, running now. The huge cockney lurched out of the fog like a spouting whale, pistols in both hands. O'Dunne loomed up behind him. Shots exploded from everywhere. Brodie flexed his knees and dove head-first at a pile of hogsheads stacked in a doorway to his right. The mist closed in. Crouching, panting, he listened to the shooting and waited for the pain in his side to diminish. Then everything went still. The fog broke, and in the brief clarity he saw two bodies in front of him on the wet wharf. One moved, one lay still. He sprang up and went to the groaning man. Just as he reached him, it was O'Dunne, a bullet shrilled past his ear. He ducked, then scooped the lawyer up in his arms and dashed back into his doorway as the mist rolled in again.

When Brodie released him, O'Dunne's shoulders struck the door with a heavy thud. It opened. "Jesus God," prayed Brodie, and dragged the lawyer by the armpits over the threshold. They were in some kind of warehouse. "Where are you hit?"

"Leg." He held the hole in his thigh with both hands to stop the bleeding.

"Give me your gun," said Brodie.

"Why?"

"Billy."

"He's dead."

"You don't know! Give it to me."

O'Dunne started to hand over his pistol, but the violent crash of falling barrels outside flattened them both to the floor. There was a blinding blue flash from the doorway and Brodie heard wood splinter behind his head. He tried to dive behind some dark box to his left, but his legs were tangled up with O'Dunne's and he couldn't get free. His body jerked when another shot fired, this one closer, beside him, in his ear. This blue flash lit O'Dunne's wild-eyed face for an instant. Somebody in the doorway grunted, pitched forward, and fell.

Brodie scrambled up. "Are you hit again?"

"No," O'Dunne answered on a groan.

Kicking the lifeless body in the door out of his way, Brodie stumbled outside. Billy lay where he'd left him. His eyes were wide open; there was a black hole in his throat. Brodie reached for his wrist anyway. He dropped it and started up when a man ran past him, out of the fog and into it again, escaping. He stood, helpless, holding his side, and let him get away.

O'Dunne dragged himself out of the doorway, his wounded leg scraping behind. "See if Flowers has got anything on him that says who he is."

"Why?"

"Because we're leaving him."

Brodie stood still. "What?"

The lawyer lay on one hip, propping himself up with an elbow. "Listen. We can't take a dead man with us, and we can't leave him here to be identified. None of this is happening. Understand? We're not here, Billy's not here. There's no cruiser in the harbor called the
Morning Star
. Get his belongings off his body now, Brodie, and then help me into the coach. Do it!"

Brodie went closer and stood over him. "You're a cold son of a bitch, O'Dunne."

The lawyer passed a hand over his sweating face and slid onto his back. "Do it anyway," he said, staring up at the invisible sky.

Brodie did it.

Anna heard the
diligence
when it was still in the street, clattering over the wet cobblestones. It wasn't dawn yet, but she was wide awake and staring at the ceiling, thinking the baker's wagon was getting to market early this morning, when she heard it stop before the gates to the villa. Seconds later she heard the screech of iron as the gates opened. She sprang out of bed and ran to the window. Brodie! Leading the horses inside by the harness, and now running back to shut the gates. The front door was locked, she must hurry. She snatched up her robe and ran out, buttoning it on the way downstairs. A loud pounding started before she reached the bottom step. She dashed across the hall, jerked the bolt back, and dragged the door open.

"Hush! The servants…Aiden?" She smothered a scream as he fell forward in a dead faint, almost on top of her.

Brodie cursed and hauled him back up with one arm around his waist. "Help me, Annie, I can't lift him by myself."

Immediately she went to Aiden's other side and got his heavy arm around her neck. He muttered something, and she felt his body lose some of its limpness. He was already half-conscious and able to help himself a little. Somehow they got him up the stairs. "The sofa," she panted, and they stretched him out on the priceless gold brocade in his filthy, bloodstained clothes. "What happened? Is it his leg?" She knelt down and touched the lawyer's white, sweating forehead.

"Aye, his leg. He's not quite as bad as he looks. He's—"

"We must get a doctor."

"Well, he says—"

O'Dunne's eyelids flickered open. "No doctor," he croaked. "Don't need one."

"He's delirious. Rouse the stableman, tell him to fetch—"

"Listen to me." O'Dunne's hand on her wrist was like a strong claw. "Brodie took the bullet out, cleaned the wound. It's mending; I can feel it." Anna raised astonished eyes to Brodie, then looked back at Aiden. The lawyer's strident tone softened. "Anna, I'm sorry. Everything we were afraid of it's turned out to be the truth. All of it." He glanced up. "Show her."

Wasn't there a gentler way to tell her than this? But Brodie unbuttoned his shirt with one hand, awkwardly, pulled out the fat canvas bag, and dropped it on the floor. The string tie loosened; the contents scattered.

They could only see the top of her head as she stared down at the stacks of bank notes on the carpet beside her. One hand trailed over them with a skittish, dazed touch. The two men met each other's eyes in a quick exchange. Then Brodie went down on one knee beside her.

"Greeley's a Confederate captain," he said quietly. "They outfitted the
Morning Star
in Majorca, and now she's an armed and armored frigate called the
Atlanta
. Nick arranged it. There's someone else at Jourdaine in on it too, but I couldn't learn his name." Maybe O'Dunne's way, clean and fast, was kindest. He put his hand on her shoulder when she swayed, and left it there to finish his story. "Two men tried to shoot me as I was leaving the wharf. They got Aiden in the leg. Billy's dead."

Her hair was down, hiding her face. But tears splashed on the white-knuckled hands gripping each other in her lap. He stroked the back of her head softly, needing to comfort, wanting to cry with her. She never moved. Only when O'Dunne reached out and touched her arm did she look up and finally let them see her face. Then they had to look away.

Her voice came out thick and nasal from weeping. "I still think you need a doctor."

Brodie knew a coward's relief: she wasn't going to deal with it now. O'Dunne started to explain that all he needed was sleep, in a bed that wasn't rocking, and after that some hot food. Brodie wanted to stay; God knew, if he could've helped her with any of it, he would've stayed. But he suspected that his was the last face she cared to see right now. Then too, if he didn't lie down soon, he was going to pass out. He mumbled something about his room. Aiden's eyes were already closed;

Anna was busy taking off his shoes and stockings. Brodie walked out, and climbed the stairs to his room clutching the bannister, just as dawn broke.

Anna knocked softly, one ear pressed to the door panel.

"Come in!" called Brodie.

She strode in. "I thought you'd be sleeping."

"I was, then I—"

"Why didn't you tell me you were hurt?" She went to where he was sitting, in a chair beside a small table in the center of the room. Behind him the doors to a minuscule balcony over the courtyard stood open. In the bright afternoon sunlight, she could see him clearly. "I'd never have known if Aiden hadn't just told me. You look awful. When were you planning to mention it, right before you died? Or were you just going to leave a note?"

He grunted his amusement. "I'm not hurt bad, Annie. But I can't get my shirt off. Give me a hand, will you?"

She clucked her tongue, hiding worry and nerves behind irritation. She thought he meant he was too stiff to push his already-unbuttoned shirt over his shoulders; but when she started to do it for him, he let out a yelp and flinched away from her. She jumped and they both went white. "What? What—"

"It's stuck to my skin," he gritted through his teeth. "Here, and here." He straightened his left arm stiffly, revealing the bloody wounds in his bicep and side. "The bullet went straight through and out the front. It's just a graze, but when the blood dried, my Annie?"

"I'm fine." She'd dropped into the chair next to his and was supporting her wobbly head in one hand, elbow on the table. There was a light knock at the open door.