Читать книгу A Wedding By Dawn - Alison DeLaine - Страница 15

CHAPTER EIGHT

THEY MANAGED FOR a day, and then another, and another, until India began to wonder if they might succeed at this after all. They’d known William was all right when he’d begun pounding on the door and shouting before the first night was through.

The carpenter had filed enough of a space beneath each door to slide plates of food and low-lipped trays filled with water, like one might give a cat.

“I’m worried that there’s been no sound from William’s cabin since this morning,” India said to Millie, as the setting sun spilled into the captain’s great cabin at the end of the third day.

“Did you expect him to pound at the door without ever giving up?”

“I don’t know what to expect.” India rubbed her arms and paced by the windows.

“We’ll make Sicily by tomorrow midday,” Millie said testily. Already the wind had softened, and they both knew they would be lucky to reach Sicily by nightfall tomorrow. “We’ll put them out, and they’ll be ashore in an hour or two. Nothing will happen to them.”

“I only wish I could say the same of us,” India snapped.

But by noon the next day, the wind had died completely overnight, and it showed no sign of returning.

India licked her finger and anxiously held it up, but the only sensation was the warm Mediterranean sunshine. “Nothing.”

“It will pick up,” Mille said, working her fingers absently around her wrist.

“Is that optimism I hear?”

“Pragmatism,” Millie snipped. “The wind has to blow sometime.”

But above them the sails hung limp while the ship floated calmly on a sea disturbed by the barest ripples. Below, the crew lolled about on deck with nothing to do but watch her and Millie stand helplessly on the upper deck and wait for a breeze to catch the sails.

India held William’s spyglass to her eye and studied the distant green ribbon that was Sicily.

“The crew is getting restless,” Millie said under her breath.

“I know that.” India cast a wary glance toward the bow, where fifty men controlled only by their desire to return to the Valletta taverns had stopped lolling and now milled about impatiently. She caught the boatswain’s eye and lifted her chin the way Katherine had always done, and was satisfied when the boatswain turned away.

India studied Sicily once more. “How far do you suppose it is really?”

“Too far. Putting them in the longboat here would be murder.”

“You’re right—the wind will pick up. It’s got to.” India said it mostly to reassure herself. “Perhaps I should order another keg opened.”

“A third keg? They’ll all be drunk.”

“But occupied.”

“Oh, yes. That’s the perfect—dear God.” Millie’s hand flew to her chest, and she gripped her wrist tightly. “India, look there.”

At the bow, the twenty-seven crew members had all gathered together in a huddle. Without the crash of waves and the snap of canvas, the voices carried easily to the upper deck in an increasing crescendo of discontent.

India touched her pistol. “If they mutiny...” There would be little she and Millie could do to stop them.

Millie watched the group through eyes that had grown fearful. “They could do no more in charge of this ship than we can—nobody can control the wind.”

India thought of the brawl in the tavern at Valletta and felt a chill despite the warm sunshine. It would take mere seconds for hell to break loose aboard this ship, and the crew could throw them overboard or simply kill them and be done with it. Or worse.

From somewhere below deck came the sound of a small explosion. India snapped her attention to Millie. “A pistol shot.”

“Who could be shooting?” Millie asked frantically.

And another.

Moments later—too soon to reload—another.

India counted heads rapidly. “All the men are on deck.” Which meant it had to be William...and Nicholas Warre. “Bloody hell—it’s them.”

Bang!

Fear surged through Millie’s voice. “We can’t let them escape. We can’t!” Her frantic eyes fixed on the deck below. “What’s happening now?”

The group broke up, and the entire horde of men was heading toward the upper deck.

Bang!

India judged the distance, but she would never get past them to the stairs to see who was shooting. And at what. But it was a good guess the target was the door. A loud pounding—louder than any fist could make—confirmed it.

India’s heart raced. Millie was absolutely right: they could not allow William to escape. India drew her pistol at the same time Millie drew the one she’d taken from William, and together they rushed to the stairs and aimed down at the men gathered on the quarterdeck below.

“What is the meaning of this?” India called down.

“Just want to talk about this wind,” the boatswain called, taking the first step with a dozen men behind him.

“Do not come any closer!” Millie aimed her pistol at the boatswain’s chest.

There was another pistol shot from below. More violent pounding. If they did not go below quickly, William and Nicholas Warre would soon come above.

“There’s nothing to discuss, as you well know,” India told the men. “We shall be underway as soon as we have a breeze.” Angry faces outnumbered them six to one. “Return to your posts at once, and as soon as we are underway there will be more rum for everyone!”

Bang! Another shot from below.

“Clear off,” India commanded. “Can’t you hear those shots? If I don’t go below immediately, you’ll all be strung from the yards for piracy when Captain Jaxbury escapes.” Oh, God. Oh, God. And she and Millie would be strung with them.

“T’aint us that locked up the captain,” someone called out.

They didn’t clear off. Instead they crowded up the stairs. Too late she realized she should have resorted to her pistol while they were still gathered below. “Do not cross me,” she shouted. “One of you will die—who will it be?” She only hoped it wouldn’t be her—her and Millie both, moments after she fired a shot. But if she waited...

Below, more pounding. And hacking.

The sound of ripping, splintering wood.

A burly sailor stepped forward, and she shifted her pistol toward him. “Are you volunteering to die for the others?”

The sailor stopped.

A warm bead of perspiration trickled from her temple to her jaw. Stalemate. The glassy sea shone behind the men as far as the eye could see. The ship made no sound.

Except for voices from below. Male voices.

And hard, solid footsteps.

“India...” Terror edged Millie’s voice.

“I know.”

“We’ve got to go over the side.”

“And then what?”

Suddenly the sailors’ attention shifted behind them, to the stairs—the quarterdeck. A shot fired, and all hell broke loose. Millie fired back. A man screamed, and the crew rushed them. For two heartbeats India had a dead bead on a man’s chest—Lorenzo’s chest. A voice in her head screamed, Murderer! In her hesitation, the moment was lost. Angry hands grabbed her, tore her pistol away, shoved her roughly toward the stairs. Above the voices she heard Millie scream.

And then— “Enough!” William’s deafening command rose above everything.

At first they ignored him in their frenzy. But he pushed onto the upper deck, bellowing at them to cease. Right behind him was Nicholas Warre—with a pistol.

Men were explaining, pushing her and Millie toward the front of the crowd, calling out “We got ’em, captain” and “Kill the pirates!”

A moment later they faced Nicholas Warre and a William she scarcely recognized as the lighthearted sailor she’d known for years. Fury had turned his eyes cold, his face expressionless. He barely spared them a glance before descending to the quarterdeck. He stalked to a massive coil of rope, took up the end and began winding.

Nicholas Warre stalked after him. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

Now the crew shoved and crowded down the stairs, dragging India and Millie with them. India lost sight of William, but not before she’d seen the noose taking shape in his hand.

An uproar went up among the crew—shouts of “Hang ’em!” and “Let ’er swing!”

The world constricted to a small red spot in her vision. Perspiration ran down her face. Hands—men’s hands—she barely noticed them.

Millie’s screams came to her through a muted fog.

“Have you gone mad?” Nicholas Warre demanded. “You can’t kill them.”

William ignored him and kept winding. His usually laughing mouth was grim, and she knew him well enough to recognize that he did not want to kill them.

Breathe. Breathe! She fought for control, to stand tall instead of dissolving into hysteria. But William could rightfully kill them, and he would, because it was the only way to prove his authority in front of the crew.

Nicholas Warre yanked India from the sailor’s grasp. “You will not murder my wife, Jaxbury.”

“I’m not—” The protest leaped to her tongue despite her fear.

He silenced her with a violent yank. “Quiet!” he hissed in her ear. “For once in your blasted life.” And then, “My wife is my responsibility,” he said fiercely. “I shall mete out the consequences for what she’s done.” He looked down at her with the most awful expression and added loudly, “And I assure you they will be severe.”

The fog of terror cleared just enough to realize what he was doing: he was trying to give William a way to change his mind.

He dragged her toward William amid cries of “Hang ’em!”

He jerked her even closer. “When I threaten him, beg him for your life,” he ground out under his breath. “And prepare yourself.”

For what?

Nicholas Warre raised his pistol and leveled it at William. “You will not touch my wife. I shall take her below and punish her as she deserves.”