To Surrender to a Rogue (28 page)

His fingers slipped and the conte darted away.

"Give it up," shouted Jack, kicking aside the wreckage. "I'm not going to let you get away."

"Va'all' infernor

Jack nearly laughed at the familiar curse. "I'll go to hell and back to see you brought to justice." He caught sight of Orrichetti running past an empty dray cart His gait was beginning to look a little labored.

Perhaps fear was catching up with the conte.

Let the dastard feel his heart pound and his pulse race. Let him taste the bitter tang of bile in his throat.

Spying a shortcut, Jack angled around a stack of broken crates and leaped over a tangle of fishing nets, slicing the distance between them in half.

Sensing the danger, Orrichetti suddenly swerved and bolted for the fence that separated the wharves from the warehouses. Stones skittered as he shoved a water barrel up to the iron stanchions and scrambled over the top. He landed awkwardly, knees scraping the ground. Jack heard a sharp rip, but the conte was on his feet in an instant, making for the nearest building, where a gleam of light was just visible through the half-open door.

Jack hit the ground running.

Orrichetti was no longer looking urbanely elegant His hair was a wind-snarled tangle of silver, his boots were coated with slime, and somewhere along the line he had thrown off his coat

"Here, now, we're locking up. You can't come in here!" A watchman tried to block the doorway, but the conte threw an elbow and knocked him down the front steps.

"Stop!" From his hands and knees, the man voiced a groggy protest

"Summon the magistrates," called Jack as he barreled by.

The inside of the building was unlit, save for the single lantern hanging in the entrance foyer. The smell of wood shavings and pine tar was thick in the air, and through an open set of double doors, Jack saw that the entire first floor was one cavernous space. A bank of windows let in enough moonlight to show rows of workbenches and a vast assortment of woodworking tools hung on the walls. In the middle of the room, the ribs of a dory were taking shape on a scaffolding.

A boatbuilding establishment.

Looking around, Jack saw a set of stairs leading up to a loft For a moment he hesitated, knowing both floors offered a means of escape. The workshop would have a number of sliding doors for the boats, while up top, there would be at least one large hatchway with pulley and ropes for hauling up supplies from the street

Damn.
He hadn't come this far to let the dastard slip through his fingers.

Shifting his knife from palm to palm, he suddenly picked up the lantern and peered down at the floor. A coating of sawdust covered planks. Hobnailed work boots left a distinctive pattern—one quite different from the smooth-soled tread of a gentleman's boot Moving the beam to the foot of the stairs, Jack saw the only mark there was a telltale scuff of fine leather.

Swiftly, silently, he took the steps two at a time.

It was darker than the main workspace. Deep, pooling shadows teased in and out of the tall storage lockers and stacked supplies, leaving the far end of the room black as midnight. Jack paused to let his eyes adjust to the gloom.

Strangely enough, there seemed to be an odd glow in the middle of the floor. After a moment, he saw it was a large opening in the planking, giving access to the main shop below.

The rattle of chains drew his gaze. The hatchway was wide open, the square door swinging back and forth in the breeze. Jack moved cautiously, aware that it could be a rase. After each step, he held his breath, listening for any sign of life.

A sudden shove toppled a row of nail kegs. One struck his shoulder, knocking him backward, but as Orrichetti charged, swinging a sledgehammer, Jack managed to parry the attack with his blade.

"You'll have to do better than that," he said calmly. "I'm not an elderly scholar or his trusting wife."

Orrichetti was breathing hard, and his movements were jerky as he danced back out of arm's reach. "You are a bloody nuisance, that's what you are." However, the show of bravado rang a little hollow.

"Why don't you put down your weapon before someone gets hurt," suggested Jack.

"So that you can march me to the gallows? I mink not."

"The proof is rather sketchy." Jack feinted right and spun to his left "You'll likely only get life imprisonment"

Orrichetti swung again, hitting only air.

"Reflexes getting a little slow? Fear does that to a man."

The conte retreated a step, and for several moments they circled warily in the slanting shadows of the storage shelves, silent save for the whisper of leather sliding over wood.

"Very well, you win." Orrichetti suddenly straightened and raised his hands in surrender. "Here." He tossed the heavy hammer at Jack's feet

Experience had taught Jack never to take his eyes off an enemy at close range. So despite the distraction he saw the blur of movement a split second before the conte grabbed a beaker full of lye and hurled it at his head.

Diving to the floor, Jack spun away in a tight roll as the glass shattered against the wall and the blinding liquid splattered harmlessly over the planking.

With a roar of rage, Orrichetti grabbed up a loose barrel stave and came at him, swinging it like a club.

Jack kicked out at the conte's knee, buckling his leg and sending him crashing into a cooper's bench.

Crawling clear of the debris, Orrichetti looked around wildly for another weapon. His shirt was torn and spattered with blood from a cut lip.

Jack was already on his feet, his knife retrieved from the floor. "Enough."

“No!
Never." In desperation, the conte grabbed one of the fallen nail kegs. Staggering to his feet, he lifted it over his head.

-Hell
Jack made a lunge, trying to catch hold of Orrichetti's shirttail.

But the weight had thrown the conte off-balance. He teetered for a heartbeat in midair before falling backward through the opening in the floor.

A plummeting scream was followed by a splash.

Si vos ago per mucro, vos must exsisto paratus morior per mucm,"
murmured Jack as he stared down into the huge vat of viscous pine tar. With a last sucking slurp, the ripples subsided and the surface smoothed to a flat black calm. "If you live by the sword, you must be prepared to die by the sword," he repeated.

Orrichetti had come full circle in wielding botanical extracts as a lethal substance. Perhaps Minerva, in her infinite wisdom, had meted out a certain poetic justice, he mused. The ancient gods often showed a diabolically dark sense of humor when it came to punishing human hubris.

After one last look, Jack turned away, suddenly aware of every scrape and bruise to his body. From the street below rose shouts and the clatter of running feet. Brushing the tangle of hair from his brow, he slowly started down the stairs.

"Hail the conquering hero!"

Alessandra elbowed Marco in the ribs and then flung herself into Jack's arms. "If you don't murder my cousin, I will" she snuffled through her tears. "Oh, Lud, I was so frightened for you." She touched her fingertips to the scrapes on his chin and the purpling bruise on his cheek. "You're hurt."

"Naught but a few bumps and scratches." Jack gave a lopsided smile. "I may not be much to look at right now, but at least I got the job done."

"You are the most beautiful sight in the world," she whispered, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth. He tasted faintly of salt, of blood. Of something that defied description in words. Closing her eyes, she made a small, inarticulate sound in her throat

"Amore?
said Marco, exaggerating a soulful sigh.

"Ghiradelli..." Curling his fingers in the fall of her hair, Jack drew her closer.
"Va' all' inferno."

A bark of laughter rose above the gentle murmur of the waves. "Perhaps I'll just take a stroll to
Purgatorio—purga-torio
for my countryman, that is. The local magistrate has Bellazoni locked up in the harbormaster's office. In the morning I'll arrange for him to be taken to London, and from there he'll soon be sent to hell." Her cousin's sardonic expression softened into a smile. "The danger from him is over, Alessa."

She found herself shivering slightly, despite the enveloping warmth of Jack's arms. "For now."

""Forever," corrected Marco.

"There's no real proof of any serious crime," she replied. "Kidnapping, perhaps. But the threat to kill Isabella is my word against his. As for the plan to steal the artifact, even if we had concrete evidence, a judge won't send him to prison for more than a few years."

"He won't be standing trial before any English court of law. You forget that the Austrians are now King George's allies," said Marco. "Lord Lynsley has already said that he plans to pass over our prisoner to their representative in London. Bellazoni will face their justice—and the Austrians do not take kindly to the murder of their officials." He slanted a questioning look at Jack. "As for his cohort..."

"Onichetti has already answered for his sins," said Jack, and he added a terse explanation of what had happened. "It's poetic justice, when you think about it," he said after a solemn pause. "I saw by the letter that he killed your husband with hemlock, a botanical poison. Well, pine tar is derived from trees. A brazier beneath the vat kept it heated to a near boil, and you know how thick and viscous it is. By the time the night watchman returned with help and we were able to fish him out..." His words trailed off in a slight shrug.

She remained silent for a moment, letting the news sink in. "I should feel some pity, I suppose, over such a horrible death. And yet, I confess that my only sentiment is relief. Relief that he will no longer be able to hurt or manipulate any other person's life."

"No one will ever hurt you again, Alessandra." Jack cradled her face in his strong, sure hands. His palms were cracked and covered with grit And nothing in all the world had ever felt so exquisite against her skin.

Hard and soft.
Somehow in Jack it wasn't a contradiction.

Marco shoved his hands into his coat pockets and started whistling an aria from Mozart's "The Marriage of Figaro." "I dunk I shall take that walk now. And not hurry back."

As he sauntered away, Jack's silent laughter tickled against her ear. "That rascal is lucky he has some redeeming qualities. Else he'd be fishing his cods from the seaweed."

"Men can be so arrogant, so aggravating," she murmured.

"I trust those adjectives do not apply to me."

"No, for you I would say artistic..." Alessandra traced the line of his jaw, the chiseling of his chin. "And altruistic."

"Ah, for a moment I was afraid you were going to say 'arse.'" He teased a kiss to the hollow of her throat. "You called me some
very
bad names when we first met"

""Si grande new diavolo."

" 'Big black devil' was not the worst of them," he reminded her.

She wrapped her arms around him and held him close, feeling the steady beat of his heart fill her with a pulsing joy. "You frightened me. After fleeing Italy, I was determined to keep my distance from men. But you stirred feelings inside me, feelings I dared not admit, even to myself."

"What feelings, Alessandra?" His dark eyes were inscrutable in the dappling of starlight. "Shall we play another word game?"

She felt her lips quiver. "You wish for me to say it aloud?" It was still frightening—how much she had come to love him.

"Please," he said, his voice oddly tentative. "I would like to know if I have any hope of convincing you to give marriage another try. I know your recent experiences with men have made you wary. But I am different"

"Surely you must know how much I care for you."

"Care?" he repeated. "Somehow that feels damned with faint praise."

Alessandra swallowed hard. "Love," she amended. "Te
amo.
I love you, Jack. So much that it aches. But I—I doubt your father would approve of me. I am not a dewy-eyed virgin fresh from the schoolroom, but a widow with a child. A foreigner with odd notions on female independence and intellect."

"It's not the Duke of Ledyard who is asking you to marry him. It's me. James Jacquehart Pierson," he replied. "But perhaps it's you who should have practical reservations. I don't have a title, or very much money of my own."

"A tide is naught but a string of letters. It has nothing to do with the true worth of a man. And as for money, I am wealthy. Very wealthy."

"Yes, I know. It was, I admit, a compelling consideration"

Her insides gave a little lurch.

"But after thinking long and hard about it, I decided to offer my hand in spite of your fortune." Jack drew in a deep breath. "I am not asking you to marry me on account of money, Alessandra. I am asking you to marry me because I love the way your mind works, daring to challenge and change conventional thinking. I love the way your eyes spark in the sunlight, turning from deep emerald to the color of a spring leaf. I love the way you mother your daughter, caring so deeply that she grow up to be a thoughtful, compassionate woman."