Wherever You Are (31 page)

Quickly he rolled onto his hands and knees, but that made the dizziness worse. He hung his head waiting for it to pass.

When he looked up, John was standing in front of him.

“You bastard.” Morgan lunged and shoved John against the wall, his forearm across the man’s neck. John pulled on Morgan’s arms as his face went red, then white and his lips turned blue.

“I should kill you right now.” He pushed harder. “Right here.” John’s eyes widened. “Where’s Juliana?”

The man gurgled and Morgan eased the pressure. “Barun took her to his cabin.”

Morgan stepped back and noticed the door to his prison was open.

“I brought your dagger and a cutlass.” John pointed to the weapons lying on the floor. “She couldn’t… I couldn’t…” John swallowed. “She screamed.” His eyes were haunted. Scared, but determined. “I can’t do it anymore. He has her. He has her and—”

“And you need to help us.” Morgan interrupted. “Take me to her.”

Barun’s hand slid up Juliana’s skirt and touched her thigh. She closed her eyes, fought the bile clogging her throat and clutched the bedpost behind her. A whimper bubbled up, threatened to escape but she swallowed it.

He reached the juncture of her thighs and her eyes snapped open. Barun was all but panting now, his eyes glazed and unfocused. It was the first time she’d ever seen him without the tight control he usually exhibited and she knew this was her moment. Maybe the only moment she would get. She looked around the room, trying to find any sort of weapon.

And then she saw it. The Holy Lance lying in the middle of the bed, thrown there by Barun and all but forgotten by him. She glanced back as he dipped his head and kissed the tip of her breast.

With all of her strength she shoved him away. He stumbled back, his hands ripped from beneath her gown, his lips wet. He looked confused. She reached behind her, grabbed the lance and raised it high.

He had no time to duck, no time to even lift his arms in self-defense. She thrust it down and the lance sank into his shoulder, hitting bone and muscle with a sickening crunch that made her shudder. Blood spurted from the cut but she closed her mind to it and continued to plunge the lance into him until she didn’t have the strength to push any more.

Barun opened his mouth, his hands scrambling for the hilt. She pushed him away and watched, a part of her horrified at what she was seeing and what she’d done but a larger part satisfied. He made strange gurgling sounds, his fingers slipping on the bloody hilt. He fell back, his fingers still fumbling. Their gazes locked. She refused to look away. All of her disgust, the horror and terror and fury rose to the surface and she let it show in her face. He saw it. His eyes widened. Blood was pouring out of his shoulder, coating his arm, running onto the floor, the coppery scent of it overpowering, but still she refused to look away.

There was no regret, no sorrow, no remorse for what she’d done. In fact, she wished she hit a main artery. Or his shriveled heart. If he even had one.

She wanted to say something to let him know how relieved she was that she might have killed him but there were no words to convey her feelings so she watched. And waited for him to die.

Except he wasn’t dying. He was looking at her with an odd blankness, but he wasn’t dying.

“Damn you,” she whispered. “Die, you bastard.”

He smiled, an evil, horrendous smile that turned her blood cold.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Morgan shoved his shoulder into the door of the cabin. It crashed against the wall, a leather hinge breaking under the force.

His mind conjured up picture after picture of Barun and Juliana together, one more horrible than the last. What he hadn’t expected was Juliana standing in the middle of the room, her bodice ripped and blood on her face and hands.

He followed her gaze to the floor where Barun was lying, his chest covered in blood, the lance sticking out of his shoulder.

“He won’t die,” she whispered, looking at him with blank eyes.

Barun’s hand lifted. His fingers curled around the hilt of the lance and he pulled. His gaze was locked on Morgan’s and there was a slight tilt to his lips, as if he were laughing at them.

All the anger, the terror, the helplessness and horror came together inside Morgan. He fell to his knees and plunged his fist into the man’s face over and over again. Blood spurted as he rained down punch after punch. All those months in a prison cell, all those beatings he took, the starvation, the abuse, everything Barun had done to him and to Juliana, all of it came to the surface and Morgan vented his rage.

He won’t die.
Juliana’s words kept repeating inside his head. He wouldn’t die. The bastard wouldn’t die.

Through the thick haze of his fury he heard Juliana calling his name. She was sobbing and pulling on his shoulder.

“Stop, please,” she begged.
 

Morgan’s arm fell to his side. Barun looked like a stomped grape, various shades of purple and blue, his face cracked and bleeding. Blood was everywhere.

Slowly, as if he were under water, he turned to her. Tears ran down her cheeks, her bloody hands were on his arm, pulling.

“Morgan, please, stop. He’s dead. He’s dead.”

He stood and pulled her tightly against him for a brief moment, savoring the feel of his wife in his arms. Safe but not unharmed. He closed his eyes, wishing he could kill the bastard all over again.

“He’s dead,” she said quietly. “Thank God.”

Morgan pulled away, stripped out of his tattered shirt and yanked it over Juliana’s shoulders as John rushed in, a lighted torch held high in one hand, a cloth sack in another.

He stared at Barun for several moments. “Good,” he said almost to himself. He looked up at Morgan and Juliana. “A fire started in the kitchen and is spreading.” He shoved the bag at Morgan. “Hurry, you don’t have much time.”

Morgan grabbed Juliana’s hand and tugged. “Come on.”

She took a step toward John. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for helping us.”

“Go,” he tried to push her out the door but she wouldn’t move.

“Come with us,” she said. “We’ll help you find your brother.”

He shook his head. “There’s more I have to do here. You better hurry.”

Morgan pulled her through the door and down the maze of corridors, searching for the steps leading to the deck. Smoke billowed behind them as if pushing them forward. He thought of the
Molly Victoria
and the lives lost. He found the stairs and raced up them, Juliana at his heels. When they reached the top, they stopped and blinked against the bright sunlight.

Men were lowering the tenders, other were jumping into the water as smoke drifted through the cracks in the deck. Below the trapped animals in the manger bellowed. Morgan turned starboard and grabbed the closest available tender.

“Stop them!”

Barun limped up the steps. Clutching his bloody shoulder with one hand, he pointed to Morgan and Juliana with the other.

“Get in.” Morgan lifted Juliana up and over the side, heard her land in the bottom with an, “Oomph,” and threw the cloth bag in after her.

He grabbed the davit and began to lower the small boat to the water. Juliana scrambled to her feet and reached for him. “What are you doing?”

He ignored the look of panic on her face, ignored the hands reaching for him. “Morgan! Don’t do this! Come with me.”

“It ends here,” he said between clenched teeth.

She grabbed onto the rope. “No. Not like this. Please, Morgan!”

“Stop that man!” Barun shouted.

He was advancing. Limping, but advancing. And his men were beginning to notice although most of them were making their way to the remaining tenders. The fire was spreading quickly. Morgan unwound the crane’s winch faster but no matter how fast he went it wouldn’t be quick enough. He pulled his cutlass from its sheath and locked eyes with Juliana. “Don’t do this,” she whispered.

“I love you.” He cut the ropes. They raced through the pulley system and flew free. Juliana grabbed onto the sides of the tender and screamed his name as the boat fell to the water with a loud splash.

When Morgan turned, Barun was behind him, the Holy Lance raised to strike. Morgan blocked the blow, the clash of metal on metal ringing in his ears as the force of the blow traveled up his arm. In the short time it took to lower the tender, the fire had advanced until the smoke was now black and licking at Barun’s boot heels.

What a pair they made—Barun with his injured arm and pummeled face and Morgan with his waning strength and healing bruises. Evenly matched, he would say.

Fire crackled close by as Barun struck again and Morgan blocked, then parried. At times, the smoke blinded him and he found himself striking out blindly. At one point, he couldn’t see anything and he stood perfectly still, listening to his own labored breaths. He lunged. His cutlass made contact and he heard Barun grunt, but the man moved and Morgan only nicked him.

Frustrated he turned in circles, listening for movement. It was difficult to hear one man when dozens were running about, yelling and jumping over the sides.

Morgan chanced a look toward the water but couldn’t pinpoint Juliana’s tender in the haze of smoke. A lone woman on the ocean with desperate men needing tenders to save their lives wasn’t safe. Yet, he wouldn’t leave, not until this was finished with Barun.

The smoke cleared. He glimpsed Barun a few feet from him before the gray haze obscured him again. He was like a ghost floating in and out of walls. Morgan attacked with the cutlass, hit nothing but air. He pulled back and waited with breath held.

The fire inched closer. Red sparks singed his skin. The heat was nearly unbearable.

From the darkness the lance struck out and nicked Morgan in the arm before he had a chance to pull away. Quickly, Morgan retaliated, connected and drove his cutlass as far as he could. Barun cried out. The deck groaned, heaved and suddenly gave way.

Morgan was airborn, falling through what had once been the upper gun deck.

Barun screamed and Morgan landed, bounced, rolled. Dazed he lay on his back and looked up through the hole he’d fallen through. Smoke billowed up, fire licked the ceiling. For a moment, he didn’t move. The breath had been knocked out of him and he feared he might have broken something. But slowly feeling returned and he glanced around. He’d landed in the magazine—where all the gunpowder was stored.

The fire would soon reach this area and when it did, the ship would blow.

Morgan scrambled to his feet, wincing at his wounded knee. Where the hell was Barun? The bastard could have landed anywhere. Could even have fallen farther down. For a moment—a wild, insane moment—Morgan thought of searching for him. One look at the barrels of gunpowder had sanity returning. He scrambled over barrels in search of the companionway, found it and climbed down, toward the heat, the fire, the smoke. He was coughing and his eyes were watering so badly he could hardly see.

With a terrible shrieking, the companionway above him collapsed. Morgan ducked, jumped onto the lower deck and watched as the wooden stairs crumbled. He was trapped, one level above the magazines and on the deck with the thirty-two pound cannons and cannon balls the size of coconuts. Helplessly he looked about and spotted the cannons sitting quietly by themselves. If he moved one, he might be able to squeeze out of the gun port and dive into the ocean.

The thirty-two-pounders were the granddaddies of the cannons, weighing in at about one-and-a-half tons. They were on wheels and while most of the time it took several men to move them into place, Morgan didn’t have a helping hand. He untied the ropes lashing the cannon in place and pushed it back. It moved a bit on well-oiled wheels. For once he was grateful Barun ran a tight ship. He put all his weight into it and pushed more, straining to move the massive cannon. It slid a few inches but not enough for Morgan to squeeze through the gun port.

The fire was close, the heat scorching his back. The angry roar of it consumed everything in its path. The screams of the men had died and except for the voice of the flames and the creaks and groans of a ship in pain, it was eerily silent of human voices.

He put his weight to the cannon and pushed, using every bit of his strength and more. Whether God was looking down on him or it was just plain dumb luck, the ship rocked and the cannon rolled. Quickly Morgan climbed through the gun port. He glanced back, spared one last thought to Barun, then jumped.

He pushed to the surfaced and turned in a circle ignoring the pain in his knee. There were others in the water, but they were farther away and those who were in boats helped those who weren’t.

He spotted a solitary tender off to the side and recognized it as the one he’d thrown Juliana into by the fresh wood where it had been mended. With sure strokes, he swam to it and when he reached its side, grasped on.

“Juliana?”

“Morgan?” Her sooty face appeared over the side, red eyes swollen. She was a beautiful sight to his tired eyes.

“Morgan!” She reached over and helped pull him in. He landed at the bottom, then scrambled to the oars.

“Grab an oar,” he commanded. “Row.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No more than usual.”

“Is it over?”

He looked at the tenders fleeing the burning ship like roaches. Flames leapt from the portholes of the
Bhaya
. Was Barun still on the ship? Had he reached safety?

The fire made its way to the magazines and the ship blew. A fantastic ball of fire that transformed into a mushroom cloud of debris, men and sailing paraphernalia. Morgan tackled Juliana to the bottom of the tender and tucked her beneath him, covering their heads with his arms as pieces of the
Bhaya
rained down on them. In the concussion, the waves battered the small boat and the tender heaved.

When Morgan pulled Juliana up, the
Bhaya
was nothing but a huge ball of fire, the skeleton engulfed in flames. If Barun were on the ship, he was surely dead.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s over.”

He began to row, maneuvering their little boat to head in the opposite direction of the burning ship.