Elizabeth Powell (25 page)

Amanda held her head and struggled to sit up, wracked with pain as her abused body protested even the slightest movement. What had happened? She remembered nothing after that. She should be dead—shouldn’t she?

A grunt and several thuds distracted her. She turned groggily toward the source of the noise. Two figures were grappled with each other, not far from her. Amanda’s eyes watered from the acrid smoke. Garrett—one of the men was Garrett. And the man fighting him was … Her heart skipped a beat as she recognized the golden hair that gleamed above the navy captain’s uniform.

“Jack!” The name emerged from her tortured throat as the merest whisper of sound.

A crash reverberated from the vicinity of the stairs, and Amanda realized that the stairway had collapsed, or at least a portion of it. The two men heard the noise, as well; Garrett grinned at Everly and bolted for the stairs. Everly snarled and gave chase, catching up with the traitor in a few long strides. He leaped upon the smaller man, and the two of them fell hard to the floor.

Amanda heard the floorboards snap beneath them.

“Jack, look out!” Her warning was nothing more than a hoarse croak.

Everly didn’t hear her, didn’t move out of the way in time. Amanda watched, horrified, as the boards buckled and gave way. The traitor shrieked as both men disappeared through the floor. Flames shot up into the breach.

“No!”

Tears scalded Amanda’s eyes. She had lost him, just like that. Lost him without telling him that she loved him.

“Jack …” Amanda laid her head on the floor and wept.

“Bloody … hell!”

Amanda’s head jerked up. Through the veil of her tears, she spied a figure struggling up through the broken boards. Everly’s golden hair was singed, his jacket smoked, his face twisted in pain and exertion—but he was alive.

“Jack!” she cried.

But only for a moment. Everly faltered; his eyes went wide. Despite his efforts, he was slipping backward, back into the flames.

She wouldn’t let him die! Amanda crawled and stumbled over to where Everly clung, then grabbed hold of his smoking sleeve. She braced herself and began to pull. Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, Everly began to emerge from the fiery pit. Sweat poured down Amanda’s face, down the collar of her dress. Hair got in her eyes and in her mouth. Her muscles shrieked, but she refused to let go.

Once Everly’s torso was free, he kicked his feet over the edge and levered himself up onto the floor. His coattails were on fire; Amanda ripped off her cloak and threw it over him to smother the flames. Everly moaned and rolled onto his back, then opened his eyes.

“Amanda?” Everly stared at her as though he’d seen a ghost.

“I’m here,” she croaked.

“Dear God.” He sat up and reached for her, drawing her tightly against him. Amanda felt him shake. “I thought you were dead.”

Amanda closed her eyes and laid her head on his broad chest, not daring to speak for fear she’d break the spell. So close—she had come so close to losing him. Tears slipped out from beneath her lashes.

The floorboards groaned an ominous warning. Both Everly and Amanda jumped.

“We need to get out of here.” Everly released her and
looked toward the stairs. Amanda followed his gaze and saw nothing but a wall of flame. So much for that route.

“I have an idea,” she rasped, and struggled to her feet.

Everly tried to rise, but his right leg buckled beneath him. He cried out and clutched his hip.

“Take my arm.” Amanda helped him to his feet, then drew his arm over her shoulders and led him to the shattered window. Below them, two stories down, roiled the murky waters of the Thames.

The singed remainders of Everly’s brows drew together in a frown of concentration. “Can you swim?”

Amanda’s knees began to quake. “At this point, it hardly matters.”

Everly did not seem to have heard her. He shrugged out of his coat, wrapped the material around his arm and used it to sweep away the shards of shattered glass that remained in the window frame.

“Up you go.” Everly lifted Amanda to the casement.

She stared down at the water, her face ashen.

“Go on, Amanda,” Everly urged. “I’ll be right behind you. Jump!”

Amanda took deep breath and leaped from the window. The world turned into a gray blur as she plummeted down toward the water. She seemed to fall so far, and so fast; the fear in her belly clawed its way out her throat as a hoarse, choking scream.

She hit the surface with a titanic splash, and her scream ended abruptly as the cold, dark water closed over her head. She tried to kick for the surface, but her heavy skirts wrapped themselves around her legs and pulled her further under. Unbearable weight pressed against her chest. Air—she needed air! She flailed desperately upward, but the cold water sapped what strength she had left. As she tried to call Everly’s name, nothing but a trail of silvery bubbles escaped her lips.

Everly watched Amanda plummet, hair streaming behind her, and splash into the river. Behind him, more of the loft fell inward as the fire consumed it. The captain
swallowed heavily, said a quick prayer, and launched himself from the casement.

He hit the water hard; pain ricocheted through his body. His leg radiated sheer agony. Everly forced himself to concentrate on swimming. He broke the surface and gasped for breath. After the infernal heat of the warehouse, the cold of the river shocked his body, penetrating his skin with a thousand icy needles.

“Amanda?” He flipped the wet hair from his eyes and looked around. The perpetual cascade of rain ruffled the surface of the water and made it difficult to spot anything on the surface. Everly squinted against the downpour. Where was she? A knot of panic formed in his throat. He took several strokes toward where he thought she’d gone in. “Amanda!”

He glimpsed movement at the periphery of his vision: a flailing arm, a dark head, a feeble splash. Everly swam toward their source as quickly as his exhausted body could manage, but Amanda had disappeared into the black depths of the river.

With a shout, Everly dived beneath the surface. Silt and muck clouded the water and made it difficult to see. The cold current pulled him down into its insidious grip. His lungs began to burn. He groped about like a blind man, his vision turning gray, then red for want of air. His blood pounded in his ears like the crashing of the surf, then he emerged at last. He gasped and drank the air in great gulps. He heard another feeble splash; Amanda bobbed to the surface, not far from him.

Galvanized, he swam forward and seized Amanda just as she went under again. Ignoring the throbbing of his burned fingers, he hauled her to him.

She lay limp in his arms. He rolled onto his back to keep her head above water.

“Breathe,” he commanded as he pushed the seaweed strands of her hair away from her nose and mouth.

No response.

He slapped her. “Breathe!” he shouted. He hadn’t found her only to let her slip away again.

There was little else he could do here in the middle
of the river. Despair had begun to overwhelm him when Amanda suddenly coughed. Her body spasmed. She spat out river water. “Ugh.”

Hope flooded through him. “Thank God,” he said hoarsely. “You should have told me you couldn’t swim!”

“It … wasn’t important.” Her eyelids fluttered. “So … tired.”

“Amanda, wake up. You have to stay awake.” He shook her, and she made a vague protest. Damnation. He had to get them out of the water. Rain pelted them in a merciless torrent; both of them were chilled to the bone.

Determination injected energy into his limbs; he swam for the nearby dock, shouting MacAllister’s name as he went, hoping that someone would hear him over the combined din of rain and fire.

Never had the shore seemed so distant, so unattainable. His limbs had turned to lead. Everly struggled to the dock just as his reserves of strength began to ebb; any longer in the water, and they would both be in grave danger.

“Captain!”

Someone thrust a hand down to them. Everly, his eyes narrowed against the rain, stared up into the youthful face of Mr. Bingham. Grayson MacAllister appeared over Bingham’s shoulder and added his hand in support.

The agents pulled Amanda, then Everly from the water and onto the dock, where they lay like a fisherman’s catch. MacAllister bawled at his men to grab some blankets from the carriage. Everly crawled closer to Amanda. His leg was numb, his ribs ached, his hands were red and blistered—dammit, his whole body hurt, but none of that mattered at the moment. Amanda was safe.
His
Amanda.

She moaned and lifted a fluttering hand to her neck. Everly’s eyes widened. Dear God. A hideous purple bruise encircled her throat like a grotesque necklace. Everly suddenly remembered his attacker’s open shirtfront. The bastard had used his neckcloth to strangle her. That
she was still alive was a miracle in itself. All this, and she had pulled him from the clutches of the roaring flames.

“Stubborn minx,” he murmured, and winced. Even the smallest hint of a smile sent pain lancing through his face. No matter. He pulled Amanda toward him, wanting nothing more than to hold her. Her skin was so cold; her lips were tinged with blue.

Then he saw the blood on her side. His hand came away red where he touched her. Upon closer examination, he spotted two bullet holes in her dress—one an entry, the other an exit. He blinked. Dear God, she’d been shot! She was so pale. Fear constricted around Everly’s heart.

“Amanda?” Water ran in rivulets down his face, dripping from his nose and chin, streaming into his eyes, but he felt none of it.

The light in Amanda’s eyes faded. Everly’s arms convulsed around her and he shouted for MacAllister. After so many narrow escapes, after all that they’d been through together, he wouldn’t surrender her now—not even to death. Not his Amanda.

“Amanda!” He turned her head and forced her to look at him. “Stay awake, love. Please stay with me.”

“Jack …” she whispered. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she lay still.

F
ire.

Gunshots.

Pain.

Blood.

Terror.

“Jack!”

Amanda awoke on the hoarse scream, her heart a frantic flutter in her breast. Her wild eyes stared at the pleated damask canopy above her. Where was she? Where was Jack? She tried to sit up, and pain exploded through her body. Her head, her throat, her side—all radiated agony. She uttered a little mew of pain.

Hands restrained her; Amanda looked up into a man’s stern, unfamiliar face. Memories of cruel-eyed ruffians loomed in her mind. Panic surged. She shrieked.

“Amanda! Dearest, I am here!”

Her grandmother appeared at the other side of the bed. She grabbed Amanda’s flailing hands and stilled them.

“You are all right, Amanda. You are safe.” The older woman’s face was lined with worry, her hair disheveled, her dove gray dress wrinkled and creased.

Amanda took several deep breaths. Her heartbeat slowed. “Grandmama? Where … where are we?” Amanda’s throat throbbed with each guttural-sounding word.

Mrs. Tremayne seated herself on the edge of the bed, one of Amanda’s hands gripped tightly in her own. Amanda saw the glint of tears in her grandmother’s eyes.

“We are guests of Admiral Lord St. Vincent,
Amanda,” Mrs. Tremayne said, her voice quavering. “This is Dr. Harrington.”

Amanda scrutinized the stoop-shouldered man at her bedside and wondered how she could have mistaken him for one of Garrett’s ruffians. The physician wore a wig in the style of the previous century, doubtless the fashion of his youth. His dark coat and breeches likewise reflected an earlier age. Kind gray eyes shone from his lined face and belied the gruffness of his demeanor.

“He has been looking after you,” Mrs. Tremayne explained. “You have been unconscious for almost two days, dearest.”

“Two … two days?” As guests of St. Vincent? Amanda stared at her grandmother in disbelief. After the way he had treated her earlier, this development was nothing short of miraculous.

“Indeed,” said the physician, his brow furrowed. “Your condition was most serious. I do not see many cases like this one. To have a patient be shot, nearly asphyxiated, and drowned all in one day is astonishing. Your were very fortunate not to develop pneumonia, an infection, or worse as a result. How do you feel now?”

“Terrible,” Amanda wheezed. Her face felt lopsided; she fingered her swollen and tender right cheek.

The doctor arched a bushy eyebrow. “Something more specific, if you please.”

Amanda thought a moment. “My face aches, and so does my side, but not too much. My neck hurts most of all.”

Dr. Harrington peered down at her neck. “Hmmm. The bruising seems to have reached its peak. It should start to subside in a few days.”

“And my voice?” Amanda cringed at the guttural sounds coming from her throat.

The physician cast her a knowing glance. “Your voice will recover if you do not overuse it.”

“I was so afraid I would lose you, dearest,” whispered Mrs. Tremayne.

Amanda gave her grandmother’s fingers a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“Come now, madam, no need for tears,” Dr. Harrington said curtly. He took Amanda’s free hand and measured the pulse at her wrist. “Your granddaughter has an excellent constitution. The bullet merely grazed her. Her lungs are clear, and her wounds are healing well. She will be fine, given a week’s rest. Be sure to keep her calm. No excitement, mind you.”

“I assure you, Doctor,” croaked Amanda. “I have had as much excitement lately as I could ever want in my life.”

The doctor harrumphed and rummaged through his bag. “I have done all I can for now. I must visit another patient this afternoon, but I will leave you a vial of laudanum for the pain. Twenty drops every four hours. No more than that, mind you.” He placed a small, dark container on the bedside table.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Mrs. Tremayne said with a tear-edged smile. “You have been very kind.”

“I am a physician, madam,” replied Harrington, as if that explained everything. “I will be back tomorrow to check on the young lady.”

Once the doctor was gone, Amanda turned to her grandmother, dread knotted in her stomach. Memory trickled back, and she was full of questions to which she wasn’t sure she wanted the answers.