Patrica Rice Page 21

  Had he time to reach London, twist Gavin’s arm, blackmail Anglesey, and turn everyone’s lives upside-down until he had their promises of help, Michael would have gladly done so rather than contemplate what he did now. But bad food, unsanitary conditions, and the cruelty of prison guards shortened the prisoners’ lives, even without the threat of hanging. It didn’t matter whether the inmates were guilty or innocent. They died either way.

  Standing in the brilliant June sun, a brisk breeze tugging at his frock coat and hat, contemplating the most dangerous endeavor of his life, Michael confronted what he was and what he must become.

  He would make this his last adventure. Somehow, he must find practical employment, a permanent home, a steady life. He couldn’t replace a ducal estate. But he couldn’t help Blanche raise a child while continuing to risk his damned neck.

  With a sigh, Michael gave the prison one last look, noted the position of the guards, then turned back to the inn where he’d left his clothes. It had taken time to accumulate what he needed. Officers in the British army did not relinquish their pretty uniforms readily.

  * * *

  A week from the time Fiona had told Blanche of her family’s plight, the pair stared up at the imposing gray walls of Dublin prison.

  “This will take a while,” Blanche murmured.

  “How do you mean to go about it?” Fiona whispered anxiously.

  They had discussed this. Fiona didn’t know as much as Blanche would have liked, and the complications of Ireland’s politics didn’t help. Between Irish Protestants and English Protestants and the always rebellious Catholics, there seemed any number of webs she must traverse to find the source of power. It seemed somehow simpler to just walk up to a guard and offer him a purse of gold.

  Just the thought of approaching that stern-faced man made her stomach queasy. Blanche watched the approach of a British soldier down the narrow, winding street. The cheerful red coat seemed incongruous amidst the gray walls.

  Something about the soldier’s athletic stride arrested her attention. Since the war with France had ended, most of the officers she knew had resigned their positions. She couldn’t think of anyone who wore this particular uniform. Actually, she’d never seen such a combination of red coat, black trousers, and regimental facings. Of course, she couldn’t know all the regiments. But the grace and assurance with which he carried himself was familiar.

  “Let’s go.” Fiona tugged at Blanche’s shawl. “I have no wish to run into a redcoat.”

  “No, wait. Perhaps we can learn something. It might help knowing an officer who can come and go freely.” Blanche boldly approached the officer as if she were some other woman besides herself.

  And discovered the reason soon enough. Wearing a Guardsman’s black shako and a foot soldier’s red coat, Michael stared back at her as if she had just walked through stone walls like a ghostly apparition.

  Blanche’s heart pounded. Even in that disreputable uniform, he was more handsome than sin. He looked more tanned and handsome than she could remember. Drat the wretched man.

  She peered at his hat. “I know the uniform matches better that way, but it does seem a trifle peculiar. Are you a foot soldier or a guard?”

  His infamous grin tumbled her stomach to her feet.

  “I’m a regiment of my own, one of the Regent’s exclusive Guards, of course. Do you really think an Irish sentry will care?”

  She sent the stern-faced man in question a dubious look. “He looks pretty imposing to me. I’ve been wondering if he would respond to a few gold coins.”

  The grin disappeared. “In your case, he would respond for a smile, and you’re not going anywhere near him.” He looked over her shoulder and muttered an imprecation at sight of Fiona. “The both of you best go back where you belong. I may need your coins to bail me out if this doesn’t work, but I’ll not have you near the place meanwhile.”

  That added starch to Blanche’s backbone. “No, it’s just fine if you are thrown in prison and left for dead, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter what happens to me or your child or Gavin or anyone else should you die, does it? The fact that we’ll worry ourselves ill or ruin ourselves trying to free you means nothing at all. You care for no one. I should hand you directly over to them and let you hang!”

  The utter shock on Michael’s face snapped Blanche’s mouth shut, but it was too late.

  She’d spilled those things uppermost on her mind on the street, like a common shrew. With a bitter cry, she swung around to walk away.

  Michael caught her arm and held her. “Don’t, or you’ll give me away. I’m supposed to be on official business. I cannot take a lady inside the prison while escorting prisoners. Take Fiona and find some clean clothes for her brother and uncle. I’ve a ship waiting in the harbor, the Sea Lion. Meet us there. Now kiss me as if we’re betrothed, and be on your way.”

  Wide-eyed, Blanche allowed him to plant a quick peck on her cheek before marching off. As she watched, he presented papers to the guard at the door of the prison and disappeared inside without a backward look.

  When the heavy doors clanged shut behind him, she fought a wave of nausea and ran for Fiona.

  Twenty-eight

  Blood racing, Michael presented his papers at the prison door. Blanche’s little cannonball had thrown him off course.

  A child! Talking his way into Dublin prison was as easy as lying in comparison to verification that in a few short months Blanche would present him with a kicking, screaming infant of his own.

  The guard glanced at the official-looking papers and waved him in. Michael entered the great stone dungeon, and the door clanged shut, leaving him in near darkness. He halted, allowing his eyes to adjust. His breath caught at the stench. His duty was to get in and out of here as quickly as humanly possible. He must return to Blanche and straighten out their insane arrangement.

  The next guard looked at his papers with a little more care. “What does his Royal Highness want with a pair of ne’er-do-wells like that? It’s best we just hang them and rid the world of their pestilence.”

  With an authoritative scowl, Michael whipped the papers from the man’s hands. “His Highness needn’t reveal state secrets to the likes of you.”

  “State secrets, huh?” The guard grunted and started down a long corridor. “The only state secrets those two know involve cheating the government of their rightful due and associating with known traitors, not to mention flapping their gobs once too many times.”

  “Perhaps they didn’t flap their tongues to the right people,” Michael answered stiffly, praying his towering shako wouldn’t tilt and fall off. Its precarious slant across his forehead hid half his face, and he could barely see from under it.

  “If they know anything of importance to His Highness, I’ll eat my boot,” the other man complained. “They’re rabble, no more, no less.”

  “They’re family of an earl,” Michael warned. “I wouldn’t speak too loudly if I were you.”

  “An earl, huh? First I heard of it.” A lock rattled, a door opened, and still another guard appeared.

  This one looked slightly more intelligent than the first two and studied Michael’s forged papers more carefully. “Why these two?” he demanded. “They’ve been tried and judged guilty. They’re to hang at the beginning of next week.”

  “I don’t question royal orders,” Michael said stiffly.

  “You damned well ought to. They don’t look right to me. Where’s the rest of your people? One man can’t transport two.”

  “Seasick,” Michael said with disgust. “And you really don’t think I’ll have trouble with puling cowards in chains, do you?”

  Scowling, the guard rattled the papers and retreated to consult with still another official.

  Despite the damp chill of the windowless walls, Michael began to sweat beneath the heavy furred hat. He’d counted on few in prison positions having familiarity with the royal seal or the signatures of anyone in the Home Office. He’d duplicated them as be
st as he could from memory. But he couldn’t duplicate a seal easily and in such short time. He’d just done what he could and hoped it would pass.

  A fourth man appeared carrying the papers, gave Michael a suspicious look, noted his epaulets and captain’s insignia, and nodded. “These look in order, but they make no sense. The men are sentenced to hang. We need a writ to stay the execution.”

  “These orders were written before the sentence,” Michael responded with cool authority. “Correspondence would have crossed in travel. It makes no difference. These men possess information of import concerning a plot against the government. I must transport them immediately. The hanging will have to wait.”

  “A plot against the government, is it now?” The fourth man scratched his head dubiously. “And when will they be returnin’ for their sentence?”

  “I’m just a messenger,” Michael answered with impatience. “I’ve already told you more than I should. It’s not as if I’m taking bread out of your mouth to relieve you of these two miscreants. I have a boat waiting to meet the tide. If I must delay, I will need a good reason to give His Highness.”

  The two officials growled at each other, sifted through the heavy vellum once more, looked Michael over again, then finally coming to some agreement, handed the orders back to him. “Matthews will fetch them. Care to share a cup of tea while we wait?”

  The anticlimax of this acceptance practically drove the breath from his lungs. The last thing he wanted right now was a cup of tea. Nodding curtly, Michael accepted the offer and followed the man back to his office.

  Spinning gossip for the guards’ entertainment, Michael kept careful watch on the hall outside, until the arrival of the guard trailing two scrawny, ragged figures in chains. Michael stared at the younger of the two, searching for the resemblance everyone claimed, but the matted filth of his hair, the month’s growth of beard, and his emaciated form made it impossible. Both prisoners stared at him with suspicion dulled by resignation. If either recognized Michael’s likeness, they showed no sign of it.

  “MacDermot and O’Connor?” Michael snapped.

  “And what if we’re not?” the younger answered insolently.

  “Then we’ll send you to hang in their places,” Michael said without remorse. He blamed these two scoundrels for Fiona’s neglect, and he owed them no sympathy.

  If they blanched at this news, he couldn’t tell beneath their filth. He held out his hand for the key to their chains, pocketed it, and marched smartly down the corridor, barking at the prisoners to lift their feet and move.

  Impatient to escape the gloom of these cold walls and reach the sunshine again, Michael wished he could use the key and rip off the prisoners’ chains to speed the process, but he could not. His new friend the guard followed him, chattering of ballrooms and London’s tailors.

  At the door to the outside, the official signaled more of his men. “Escort the captain to the docks. I don’t expect their friends to know of the transfer, but we can’t be too careful.”

  Cursing vehemently to himself, Michael gave the officer a curt nod of appreciation, and prodding the prisoners with his musket, pushed into the light. O’Connor and MacDermot staggered under the assault to their eyeballs after weeks of darkness, but then their shoulders straightened and they looked around with interest.

  “You’ll not try escaping if you know what’s good for you,” Michael snapped for the benefit of his accompaniment, wishing he had some way of communicating to the two prisoners that freedom lay ahead.

  The older, shorter man turned and gave Michael a thoughtful gaze, then nodded his head in agreement before moving awkwardly toward the street, dragging his chains. The younger scowled and followed.

  The distance from the prison to the docks stretched at least a thousand miles, Michael decided. It surely would take them a week to traverse it.

  He sensed curious eyes watching from behind curtains and doors, saw the hatred in the stances of the men standing in alleys and outside taverns. He knew nothing about the musket he carried except that it contained no ammunition. Killing didn’t meet his scruples.

  The prisoners stumbled and slowed as they neared the docks. Michael figured they’d hoped for rescue and saw their last chance evaporating. He prodded them to keep them moving and kept an anxious eye on the barrels and crates on the dock.

  “Reckon you can handle it from here,” one of his escorts said, eying the bobbing ship ahead.

  Michael gladly dismissed them as he signaled for the dinghy.

  “Feeling confident,” the younger of the two prisoners said sarcastically. “You won’t feel so when our friends arrive.”

  “Your friends are on board that ship out there,” Michael replied in irritation. “For your own good, you’d best get yourselves on board and as far from these shores as you can go. If you try anything else, I’ll slit your throat personally. Fiona’s suffered enough.”

  That straightened both their backs. Before either could reply, a shout rang from the far end of the dock, and Michael swung around. A gang of ruffians raced down the street in their direction.

  The military escort had already disappeared. Slapping the chain key into the older man’s hand, Michael flung off the annoying shako and restricting coat while calculating the resources available between him and the rapidly approaching mob.

  “Fey-onah’s after waitin’ for ye out there,” Michael lapsed into dialect for the benefit of his companions. “The dinghy will take ye to her.”

  A bottle flew past their heads, and Michael rolled up his shirt sleeves in grim anticipation of the brawl to come. Behind him, the prisoners hastily unfastened their chains.

  “There’s the redcoat! Get him, men!” someone shouted.

  “Silly asses,” the younger prisoner muttered, lifting his chain as a weapon. “They’ll have the whole bloody army after them.”

  The first of the rabble came within Michael’s reach. He spun the top barrel from a stack, heaving it like a bowling ball at the man’s feet. With a shout, the ruffian jumped aside, lost his balance on the wet planks, and fell screaming into the filthy water. The barrel rumbled onward, sending his comrades scrambling and scattering for escape.

  “Jump!” Michael told young Seamus, who wielded his chain like a mace. “I’ll not be able to get ye out a second time.”

  “Then we’ll all hang together.” Seamus grinned and lashed the chain, connecting with the burly torso of one who escaped the barrel.

  William cursed them both, and after ascertaining the musket had no shot, swung it like a shillelagh at a ruffian leaping at them from behind the barrels. The man screamed in pain, stumbling backward into the remaining barrels. The blow tumbled the entire stack, creating a wildly rolling barrier across the dock.

  “The dinghy!” Michael shouted, pointing at the shell of a boat and its lone sailor. “Let’s get out of here.”

  The mob had regrouped to rethink their strategy, puzzled by the realization that the prisoners they meant to free fought beside the British soldier. Some still yelled curses and wielded hastily assembled weapons as they climbed the crates, simply looking for a fight, but others hung back, watching in curiosity as the prisoners willingly scrambled down to the waiting boat rather than make the break for freedom.

  “They’ll have a warship after us once the soldiers hear of this,” William warned mournfully as the dinghy shoved off.

  Twenty-nine

  Wiping salt water from his face, Michael missed Fiona’s ecstatic expression as she rushed into her uncle’s arms. But he heard her cry of delight. The sense of satisfaction at a job well done was tempered by the knowledge that Seamus and William must flee the country.

  Instead, he shoved his hair from his eyes, and scanned the deck for Blanche. Sailors in the rigging unfurled the sails so the ship could catch the rapidly retreating tide. Perhaps she’d gone below?

  “Where is Lady Blanche?” Michael asked impatiently, catching Fiona between reunion hugs. The stricken look on the girl’
s face shot through Michael like a musket ball.

  “She’s still ashore,” she replied as the first sail dropped and cracked in the wind. “She said she had business to tend to. She’s to return shortly.”

  Michael cast a hasty glance at the sails, then back to the docks. They already seemed a mile apart. He saw no sign of Blanche signaling to come aboard. The riot would have delayed her.

  “We can’t risk waiting. The Navy will be after us shortly. Take your family to Effingham. Blanche and I will follow later.” Michael signaled for the dinghy. He would row himself back.

  Nervously glancing from Fiona to his uncle for reassurance, Seamus tugged on Michael’s shirt sleeve. “Do you speak of Lady Blanche Perceval, sir?”

  Already bouncing on his toes with eagerness to be off, Michael glanced at him impatiently. “I do. The one your cronies tried to blow up.”

  The lad held his ground. “Eamon had his orders. They came from high up. They’re to strike the lady’s mines next. The conditions are deplorable, I understand. I would not help her ilk, but for Fiona’s sake, I offer warning.”

  Summoning one of Gavin’s more vivid curses, Michael scrambled down the ladder to the dinghy. Right now, the whole bloody lot of MacDermots and O’Connors could go up in flame and he wouldn’t look back.

  The woman had the common sense of a maggot sometimes. Didn’t she realize she looked out for two now?

  Bubbling with rage and anxiety, Michael scarcely noticed the distance between boat and dock. His muscles ached from pulling against the tide, but it was an ache that brought him closer to Blanche.

  Concluding chaining her to stone walls in some abandoned castle in Scotland couldn’t even guarantee her safety, Michael swore again as he tied the dinghy to the dock. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the ship and the MacDermots sail toward the horizon, taking with them any chance of knowing his origins.

  * * *

  “It will be my pleasure to help you, my lady, but you’ll understand that a lot of the old titles have died out. This place had more chieftains and men who claimed spurious titles than there were peasants working the fields. Through the years, the Crown has organized the system a little more efficiently.”