The Wedding Escape (13 page)

“It's time we headed out,” Jack interrupted brusquely. “Lord Philmore and your brother have probably figured out by now that we didn't go to the river, and are looking for us elsewhere.”

Amelia bit her lip. “But what if they're still there?”

“Dinna worry, lass—I can turn this old carriage around and slip ye into the shadows quick as a whip,” Oliver assured her. “Did I nae just tuck ye nice an' safe into this alley?”

“You did.” Amelia smiled. “That was very clever of you, Oliver.”

“Why, thank ye, lass,” he said, beaming. “When we reach Inverness, I'll show ye how ye can slip away from trouble with trouble nae the wiser. 'Tis a skill I'm fairly good at, if I do say so myself. Who do ye suppose taught the lad here about wearin' such a fine disguise?”

“It was thoroughly convincing,” Amelia told him. “When Jack took my hand and started to dance, I thought one of Lord Wilkinson's servants had gone completely mad!”

“She won't be going anywhere where she needs to slip away,” Jack said firmly.

Oliver scratched his head. “Well, that's fine then. But if the lass learns a trick or two from me, where's the harm in that?” He winked conspiratorially at Amelia, then snapped the reins, setting the carriage in motion before Jack could answer.

 

T
HE THAMES RIVER WAS A BROAD BLACK RIBBON OF
choppy cold water, its edges littered with ships groaning and straining against thick, brine-soaked ropes that tethered them to the docks. The river was a forbidding abyss of dark secrets, a churning reservoir of murky water and sea life fighting to survive amidst the fetid flow of the sewers that leeched the filth of London's population through a decaying maze of rotting brick and clogged drains. Several of Amelia's suitors had treated her to carriage rides along the Thames on bright afternoons, where the sun had glinted upon its smoky blue waters like a golden shower. She had thought it beautiful then. Tonight she found it ominous and forbidding, its brackish stench filling her nose and throat until she thought she would gag with revulsion.

“Here we are, then,” said Oliver, easing the carriage to a halt. “Nae amiss—only the dredgers at work.” He indicated a small, battered boat bobbing slowly across the rough surface of the water. Two men stood at the back of the craft, feeding a trawling net into the inky depths.

Jack leapt down from the carriage and raked the darkness with his gaze. Huddled about the docks between massive walls of barrels and crates were the sleeping, snoring men, women, and children who had not secured shelter in one of the city's thousands of common lodging houses, or “padding-kens.” The night was warm, which made sleeping in the open with the relatively fresh air of the docks preferable to being crammed into a squalid room of thirty or more unwashed bodies. There one paid for the privilege of sharing a vermin-infested bed with as many strangers as could be squeezed in it, or collapsing onto a “shakedown,” a greasy, bug-ridden bundle of rags on the floor crammed into the narrow spaces between the beds. In each room there was a single rusted tub overflowing with an unspeakably foul sludge of urine, vomit and feces in which the nightly tenants relieved themselves.

During the long years Jack had lived upon the streets of Inveraray, the lodging houses of Devil's Den had been much the same. He had always elected to sleep outside during the summer—unless he could find shelter in a stable or shed. The smell of animal manure was preferable to the appalling stenches that a filthy, cloistered assemblage of human beings created when trapped in one small room.

“Why are those men fishing at this late hour?” Amelia wondered.

Jack glanced at the men dropping their net into the river. “They aren't fishing. They're dredging.”

“Dredging?”

“Dragging the riverbed.”

Amelia frowned, confused. “What are they looking for?”

“Anythin' that might be unlucky enough to be down there,” supplied Oliver, climbing awkwardly down from his driver's seat.

“What could they possibly be hoping to pull up from the river?”

“Corpses, mostly,” Oliver answered cheerfully. “Some nights the river is fair burstin' with them.”

Amelia's eyes widened. “Do people just fall in?”

“If they're stewed enough, they do,” Oliver replied, untroubled. “ 'Course some poor souls jump in of their own accord, while others are given a wee push. The dredgers pull them up and see if there's a reward to be paid for findin' the poor buggers. There's always pockets to be emptied first. They believe there's nae wrong with takin' what's left on a dead man—especially seein' as how the police will only do the same, given the chance.”

“They steal from dead bodies?” Amelia found the idea atrocious.

“They dinna see it as stealin',” Oliver explained, trying to help her understand. “ 'Tis more like a fee, for findin' them and bringin' them to the attention of the authorities. An' since the poor sods themselves won't be needin' what the dredgers find on 'em, they see nae harm in helpin' themselves. 'Tis a business, an' they expect to be paid for their work.”

“Watch your step.” Jack extended his hand to Amelia to help her down from the carriage. He wanted to get her safely onto his ship and inside a cabin before the dredgers pulled up a body, should they be fortunate enough to find one.

“Is this your ship?” Amelia stared in bewilderment at the dilapidated steam cargo ship tethered at the end of the wharf. Paint was peeling in fist-sized clumps off its rusting hull, and a black plume of oily smoke was belching erratically from its single battered smokestack. “It looks terribly old.”

“The
Liberty
has taken cargo to and from Singapore, Hong Kong, India, and the West Indies,” Jack informed her crisply. “She may not be what you're accustomed to traveling on, Miss Belford, but she will have to suffice.” He strode toward the ship, leaving Amelia behind.

“Forgive me—I meant no insult,” Amelia swiftly apologized, realizing she had offended him. “I'm sure she's a fine vessel,” she added lamely as she struggled to keep up with him.

“She seems to be throwin' off an awful lot of smoke.” Oliver frowned at the acrid haze spewing in ever-thicker plumes from the ship.

Jack did not slow down as he studied the sooty shroud building against the star-pricked sky. “She's not due to sail until the day after tomorrow. The trip to Inverness will interrupt her loading, but after she drops us off she can head back to—”

An explosive ball of fire suddenly tore from the ship, lighting the darkness in a fiery storm of copper and gold. The intense heat from the blast hit the threesome in a scorching blow. Jack grabbed Amelia and threw himself to the ground, shielding her from the searing explosion with his body.

“Get down!”
he roared at Oliver.

Oliver collapsed against the dock and buried his head beneath his hands as another blast ripped from the
Liberty,
then another. A glorious shower of glittering sparks filled the sky before raining onto the ebony ripples of the river below.

“Sweet Saint Columba,” swore Oliver, hazarding a peek.

Amelia lay with her face buried against the hard wall of Jack's chest. She was acutely aware of everything around her, from the acrid sting of the smoke-laden air to the rough graze of Jack's cheap woolen coat against her cheek. He was lying sprawled atop her, his legs entwined with hers, his powerful arms and chest pinning her to the ground. For a long moment she lay frozen, feeling his heart pound against her chest and the steady gust of his breath in her hair.

“Are you all right?” Jack raised himself onto his elbows, lifting his weight off of Amelia, but still shielding her in case there was another blast.

“I'm fine, lad,” said Oliver, awkwardly pulling himself to his feet. “Dinna worry about me.”

“I'm fine, too.” Amelia's voice trembled slightly.

Jack studied her a moment, as if he did not quite believe her. Her hair was scattered in golden strands against the rough planks of the dock, her breasts falling softly back from the neckline of her gown. She made no attempt to break free from his embrace, even though his leg was pressing intimately between her thighs and his hands were clutching the satin of her shoulders. Shadows and light were playing against her creamy skin, illuminating it in flickers of amber and coral. The
Liberty
was ablaze, Jack realized, not bothering to turn and look at it. His ship was destroyed, yet that realization seemed strangely distant against the extraordinary sensations coursing through him. All he could think of was how small and soft Amelia was as she lay so trustingly beneath him, her slender body pressing into the hard edges of him, filling him, caressing him, stirring his blood and heating his flesh until he wanted nothing more than to taste her lips while his hands roamed the sweet lushness of her.

Appalled, he rolled off her and sprang to his feet. His crew. He began to run toward his burning ship.

“Here now, lass, let me help ye,” said Oliver, offering his hand to Amelia.

“Oh, no,” she gasped. “Look!”

Some two dozen men were pouring onto the deck of the
Liberty
from the levels below. They stared at the blaze uncertainly, wondering if they should try to put it out.

“Get off the ship!” roared Jack, standing on the wharf below them. “Now!”

The men ran toward the stern of the ship, where the gangplank joined the
Liberty
to the dock. A scorching wall of fire and smoke blocked their path.

“Jump into the water!” he shouted, realizing they could never get through the blaze.

The blasts had awakened the men, women, and children who had been sleeping peacefully on the docks moments earlier. They raced toward the burning ship, anxious to help. The dredgers had also abandoned their miserable work and were rowing toward the ship, anxious to pull live bodies from the river instead of dead ones.

The crew aboard the
Liberty
began clambering over the railing at the front of the vessel, hesitating barely a second before hurling themselves into the frigid black water below. The drop would be bruising, Jack realized, but not deadly.

“Throw them something to hold onto!” he commanded, directing the ragged men, women, and children who had come to offer assistance. “Rope, barrels, crates—whatever you can find!”

Everyone immediately set to work hauling heavy lengths of rope and barrels and hoisting them off the dock into the water. Amelia and Oliver struggled to turn a barrel on its side before rolling it over the wharf's edge. One thrashing sailor swam over to it and grabbed hold, while others reached for the secured ropes that were being tossed down to them.

“You two, come with me.” Jack motioned to a couple of strong-looking young men. “We'll take that skiff and pull them out of the water.”

“Jack—look!” cried Amelia, pointing.

A young boy of about thirteen stood alone upon the deck of the
Liberty,
desperately trying to summon the courage to throw himself off the ship.

“Jump!” Jack ran to the edge of the wharf so the boy could see him. “Don't think about it—just jump!”

The boy hesitantly climbed over the railing, then stared in terror at the rough waves below.

“Let go, Charlie!” yelled one of the sailors from the water, trying to encourage him.

“It ain't that far!” shouted another.

“We'll grab you the moment you hit the water!” added a third.

Whimpering, the boy closed his eyes.

Another explosion suddenly tore from the ship, violently rocking the vessel. The boy screamed as he fell forward, his legs kicking wildly as he fought to regain his hold. One hand still gripped the railing. With colossal effort he pulled himself up and scrambled back onto the deck.

“I can't swim!” His voice was terrified.

“It doesn't matter!” Jack told him. “We'll pull you from the water—I promise!”

Charlie stared at the churning depths below, then shook his head. “I can't,” he sobbed.

“Oh, God.” Amelia's heart clenched with fear.

“The lad's got to jump,” Oliver said grimly. “If he doesna, he'll burn to death.”

“Row that skiff over and start pulling men from the water,” Jack ordered the two men he had chosen as he loosened his neck cloth. “I'll be back in a minute.”

Amelia watched as Jack swiftly wrapped his neck cloth around his nose and mouth. “What are you doing?”

“I'm going to get that boy.”

“Surely you're not thinking of trying to run through the fire!”

“If I don't get him, he'll die,” he said simply.

He sprinted up the gangplank and onto the deck of his burning ship, tearing off his jacket. A terrible heat seared his lungs as he approached the smoky inferno at the center of the
Liberty.
He studied the fire a few seconds, trying to determine where there might be a gap in the flames, or at least a place where it was burning with less ferocity. Inhaling a gasp of hot, heavy air, he raised the thin shield of his jacket to protect his face, then charged blindly into the smoke and flames.

“He's bleedin' mad,” said a man standing on the dock, watching.

“He won't make it,” predicted another. “If the fire doesn't get him, the smoke surely will.”

Amelia stood with her hands fisted at her sides, waiting for Jack to emerge. Her heart was ramming painfully against her chest and her breath was trapped, making it impossible to speak, or cry, or do anything except watch with agonizing dread as huge pillars of flame wavered with grotesque beauty upon the ship.

And then, just when she was certain that Jack was dead, he burst through the valley of fire.

Throwing down his burning jacket, Jack doubled over and coughed heavily, trying to expel the smoke and heat from his lungs. He tore his neck cloth from his face and inhaled a few marginally cooler breaths. Then he ran toward the boy huddled upon the deck at the bow of the ship.