Chapter Twenty-Three
Gideon woke slowly and regretted every second of it.
His head pounded so badly that his ears rang.
His face felt sticky with congealing blood, and his nose and mouth burned from the dust and dirt coating the inside of the burlap sack that had been shoved over his head.
He’d been propped against a curved wall and it took him several minutes to realize it was not just his head spinning…
the floor was unsteady because he was on a ship.
It couldn’t have been a very large one because the slight rocking of the water was still noticeable, but it was large enough that he’d been stored below deck like chattel; there was no light filtering through the weave of the fabric covering his head, nor was there a breeze to speak of, but a salt-and-pitch odor permeating the air confirmed his dawning realization.
Attempting to shove himself into a more comfortable position, he realized his boots were missing and he’d been stripped of everything save his shirt and breeches.
Judging from the untucked state of his shirt, he’d been more thoroughly searched for weapons this time around. They were taking no more chances.
Gradually, Gideon managed to work the sack from his head. Shapeless forms filled the space around him and he realized he’d been tucked into a cargo hold. His hands were bound behind his back and his ankles had been tied together. His body ached in ways he hadn’t known were possible.
Boots thudded overhead as men crossed the deck.
He caught snippets of French and English words, none of them good.
The ship grew louder with shouts and bangs as it came to life with sailing preparations.
If they intended to take him to France as they’d indicated, then he’d be delivered there in a matter of only a few hours if the weather was right.
Refusing to dwell on that, Gideon relaxed his aching neck and allowed his head to thud against the hull—an action he regretted immediately as the unforgiving surface connected with a knot on his scalp.
Gideon closed his good eye and reminded himself to take solace in the fact that Caroline and the baby were safe.
Oliver had kept true to his promise and brought the women to safety—they had been the priority.
Now, buried in the bowels of the ship as he was, he didn’t dare hope that Oliver or anyone else would return and locate him in time.
He’d known this was a possibility when he’d agreed to play decoy to allow Oliver the opportunity to spirit the women to freedom, but that did not lessen the pain in his chest. He also hadn’t believed just how much Oliver was hated by his enemies—and now he had the wounds to prove it.
He’d woken that morning longing to see and hold Caroline; now, the need struck him so fiercely that it made his eyes sting.
Even if he could not see her again, he would hold her image in his mind and allow it to bring him comfort during whatever lay ahead.
He was too exhausted, too battered to fight back.
All he could do was gather the shreds of his strength and cling to them as long as possible.
One sound, incongruous with the din above his head, caught his attention and he opened his good eye. A muffled grunt and a thud. He frowned into the darkness.
Another choked grunt.
Another thud.
What the Devil—
“Gideon,” hissed a voice barely loud enough to be classified as such. He sat up straighter, ignoring his muscles’ protestations. His heart leaped into his throat when he heard it again.
Oliver.
He attempted to whistle, but his lips were cracked and parched. Licking them, he tried again. It wasn’t perfect, but it was at least similar to the tune Oliver had taught him before this hellish mission.
“Again,” hissed the voice as Oliver grew nearer, attempting to locate him in the hold. Gideon did.
The relief when he finally saw Oliver’s broad-shouldered frame was nearly his undoing. “It’s about bloody time,” Gideon rasped, attempting to mask his emotion with humor.
“You’re the one who allowed himself to be shut away on a ship bound for Calais,” Oliver quipped as he sliced through Gideon’s bindings. “Any broken bones? Can you walk?”
“I think just a few ribs and fingers.” He rubbed the raw welts on his wrists and rotated his ankles to restore the circulation. His knee still bothered him, but, as Oliver helped pull him to stand, he thought it was manageable.
“Christ, you look like hell,” muttered Oliver as a sliver of light from the deck above sliced across Gideon’s face.
“I appreciate the sentiment. I shall keep it in mind the next time you are kidnapped, tied to a chair, and beaten for sport.”
Oliver at least had the good grace to wince in sympathy. “Here,” he said, handing over a blade and a pistol, primed and ready. “Took it off our friends after I boarded.”
“Are you certain you are a spy and not a pirate?” Gideon jested, unable to help himself as his body began to sing with anticipation. Freedom was within his sights. As long as they could make it to shore, Gideon was confident he’d see Caro again.
“Not a pirate,” Oliver said drolly. “A man with a knack for blending into the shadows and a few friends with rowboats.” He paused, then added, “Men are poised to take the ship as soon as we escape. We weren’t confident that they wouldn’t immediately kill you once they realized the ship was being detained, so I volunteered to retrieve you first.”
“Well, for that, I am supremely grateful. Now…let’s get off this sodding ship. I’ve a terrible urge to see my wife. The women are well, are they not? Unharmed?” He knew in his heart that they were, but he had to hear the words.
“They are in a safe place,” Oliver replied. Was it a trick of the light, or was there something evasive in Oliver’s eyes? There was no time to analyze it, though.
Limping slightly, Gideon followed as Oliver led him through the hold and over the bodies of the men he’d dispatched on his way below deck.
Peering at the rapidly moving legs darting from port to starboard, it was clear to Oliver and Gideon that no one had yet realized they’d been boarded and their prisoner was in the process of escaping.
Ropes were hauled and coiled, last-minute crates like the ones with which Oliver had snuck aboard were secured for the short trip across the Channel, and men shouted instructions to one another, not sounding the least bit alarmed.
Gideon filled his lungs with as much air as his ribs would allow.
The hold had been thick and stifling, and, while the stench was little improved, at least the air was fresher on deck.
The plan was to climb to the small captain’s deck at the stern and drop down to the rowboat tied there for transporting men and goods to and from shore.
Gideon did not know how they would do so unseen, but he chose to buy into Oliver’s optimism that the misty predawn gloom would help disguise them.
It was nearly four o’clock, and high tide was fast approaching.
Oliver waited with preternatural stillness for the proper moment.
When he finally moved, Gideon followed suit.
All was going well until Gideon, still barefoot and vision compromised, tripped over an unseen coil of rope.
He caught himself, but the lurching motion was enough to catch one man’s eye and unleash a flurry of alarm.
Both he and Oliver cursed as they cast aside their caution and bolted toward the captain’s deck.
Oliver ushered Gideon up first and turned to face the men rushing toward them, brandishing knives and pistols.
The ladder to the deck was only four rungs, so Gideon mounted it quickly and shouted at Oliver to move his arse.
He turned just in time to watch him deliver a swift kick to the chest of the first man who reached him and a flashing blade to the arm of the next.
Oliver spun to climb up to Gideon, but he was wrenched back down again with a furious shout and the thuds of bodies colliding.
Gideon rushed to help, but he was immediately thrown back by a man who’d stepped over Oliver to reach the captain’s deck.
Fists flew as Gideon leaned into his muscle memory from his years of pugilism and wrestling.
One man dropped back like an anchor after Gideon’s fist connected with his chin.
Another was doubled over by a flurry of fists to his gut.
Maneuvering closer to the edge of the deck, he saw Oliver had dispatched several men of his own; a spray of crimson blood was painted across his face like warpaint.
Gideon realized with sinking dread that, while Oliver handled himself with impressive speed, agility, and ferocity, there were simply too many men.
One man charged across the deck toward Oliver’s back, his vicious blade raised high, and Gideon took his chance.
He pulled the pistol from the waistband of his breeches, took aim, and fired.
Oliver’s head whipped around at the weapon’s bang and flash, then turned to watch the attacker fall backward to the deck in a rapidly spreading puddle of blood.
The glance Oliver shot Gideon could only be viewed as grateful.
That quickly dissolved into one of panic as he shouted Gideon’s name. “Turn!”
Gideon did so just in time to evade the slashing blade of Thin Mustache.
“You are like a cat—so many lives,” he snarled as he lunged again and again.
The blade caught in Gideon’s billowing shirt and prevented him from retreating just enough that the next swipe sliced across his abdomen.
His shirt instantly bloomed with splotches of red.
“Tonight, you have used your final one.”
Gideon misjudged his next step and his injured knee gave out. He dropped to the deck with a roar of pain and frustration as his stiletto skittered away. He stared defiantly up at the other man, glaring at him as the blade was raised higher.
“My superiors will be disappointed that they did not have an opportunity to make you suffer, but they will have to make do with your corpse.”
The knife began to descend, but Gideon saw only the curve of Caroline’s smile, the cinnamon freckles on her cheeks, the way her hair glistened in the candlelight when they lay together, the way her hands danced across her rounded belly as if she were communicating with their child in a secret language of touch.
Those were the images he chose to hold onto as he was welcomed into death’s embrace.
Then, there was a flash of silver followed by a wet thud. Thin Moustache froze. A knife handle protruded from the left side of his chest.
His body collapsed like a ragdoll, and he moved no more.
Gideon turned to find Oliver had ascended the ladder and was holding his hand out to him. “Thank you,” Gideon breathed, his heart daring to beat once more.
“I owed you,” he replied and hauled Gideon to his feet. “Now go!”
Together, they rushed to the back of the deck and peered over the stern.
Just as Oliver had said, there was a rowboat tied and waiting.
They descended and dropped into the precariously rocking boat.
Gideon landed awkwardly and grunted in pain.
Oliver never stopped moving, untying them and shoving off with a series of sharp, loud whistles that echoed off the nearby hulls and lapping water.
Immediately, the French boat was overrun by men dressed in black. They clambered up the hull like deadly spiders and boarded it with shouted commands in both English and French.
Oliver rowed them away toward shore with sure, powerful strokes. Gideon couldn’t help it; he collapsed back into the rowboat and turned his head up to the sky. The midnight-blue expanse was dotted with diamond stars, oddly peaceful and grounding in contrast to what he’d just endured.
“Are you alive?” Oliver grunted.
“Barely,” Gideon groaned dramatically.
“Good. I promised to return you home; I’m just glad I made no promises regarding your condition.”
Gideon’s chuckle died with a sharp protest from his ribs. “You make me laugh again and I shall be forced to hurt you as well.”
That time, Oliver actually chuckled.