26. Chapter 26
Octavia smiled as the two Erickson men approached.
Her stomach had lurched slightly when she'd first identified Horace Erickson's features from several yards away in the dying light.
Dealing with an inexperienced pup would've been far easier than scrapping with a full-grown bulldog with all his teeth and a battle-tested stubbornness.
But the fact that Horace was here told her something very important—he cared more about his son than about keeping her ledger.
So what if he'd bested her once before? She outnumbered the Ericksons three to two, and both of her accomplices carried weapons.
Horace didn't strike her as the type to be proficient with guns.
Money and position were his weapons of choice.
Neither of which would do him much good out here on the dunes.
"Horace," she purred. "I'm surprised to see you. My business is with your son."
The man raised a brow. "Your business became my business the moment you planted that female imposter in my son's life and attempted to turn him against me.
I told you what you had to do to earn your precious journal back, yet you insisted on playing games.
You gambled and lost, my dear. Time to end the charade. "
The jackal. Depict her as the villain, would he? Well, two could paint with that brush.
Narrowing her gaze, she took a step forward.
"I find it quite ironic that you accuse me of playing games, sir, when we both know that you are the master of cheating the system.
You come to my house under false pretenses, lie to me about paying off your wife's account, bribe my butler into betraying me, then steal my belongings.
You are the one who set this series of events in motion, Horace.
Until you interfered, I was simply a businesswoman using my social connections to form advantageous marriages. "
The younger Erickson winced a bit at her recounting. So he didn't know the full story. Well, she was happy to expose his father's duplicity. She'd already recognized cracks in their relationship. Creating a few more could only help her cause.
"Let's not whitewash your business practices, Octavia. You deal in blackmail, pure and simple."
"Nonsense." She turned to Zane. "Men like your father are too small-minded to admit that a woman can possess just as much business acumen as any of the gents hobnobbing at the Lodge.
If a man operates in the gray areas of what is legal and ethical, he's considered shrewd.
A woman, however, is considered a schemer.
Just look at your father." She gestured to Horace with a flourish.
"He actively manipulates the cotton market, making himself and his cronies richer while stealing money from hardworking farmers.
" The edge of Zane's mouth tightened. Excellent.
She batted her eyes with manufactured innocence.
"Wasn't your grandfather a cotton farmer?
I can't imagine he'd be too happy to learn of his son's machinations.
And just think of your poor mother's shame if the story made it into the papers.
The Erickson name is so respected in these parts. "
Oh, the boy was riled. Just look at the tension radiating through him. He'd gone utterly rigid at the news of his father's unethical dealings. How delightful. Octavia swallowed a cackle.
Dirk Grossman, one of the men she'd hired for this evening's work, cleared his throat. "Night's a-fallin', ma'am. Best be gettin' on with your business."
Instead of snapping at the underling for interrupting her, as he deserved, Octavia pasted a smile on her face and waved her hands as if to clear the air.
"Quite right, Mr. Grossman. As much as I'm enjoying our little tête-à-tête, we have a transaction to conduct." She held her palm out to Horace. "My journal, Mr. Erickson."
Zane stepped forward, jostling her hand. "Not until Fletcher Doherty is returned to us. Have him brought ashore. We won't return the journal until we see that he is unharmed."
The pup had teeth after all.
Well, so did she. "You're in no position to make demands." She gave him her most disdainful glare. "Is he, boys?"
On cue, two pistols cocked. Such a lovely sound. The sound of power. So nice that her hirelings' reputations for being adept at coercion had not been exaggerated.
Horace raised his hands. "Hold on, now," he said. "No need for violence."
The coward.
A laugh escaped her. She couldn't help it. "There is if it speeds your compliance." She scoured all amusement from her voice. "Now hand over my journal."
Motion to her left drew her gaze to Zane as he reached for his coat pocket. "I'll retrieve it if you tell your men to hold their fire."
"Zane, no." An actual wobble modulated Horace's tone.
He was afraid. Afraid that if his son gave up their leverage, Dirk and Gunther would rid her of the evidence of this encounter.
Which they would. Couldn't have them carrying tales back to town, after all.
That little guttersnipe Muriel might make a stink, but a few rumors of a gold-digging young woman seeking revenge after being rejected by the man she'd targeted should blacken her name sufficiently.
Octavia could even arrange for the police to find the murder weapon in the young lady's home. It would be easy enough to plant.
Zane ignored his father, however. Kept his gaze locked on Octavia as he worked his jaw and waited.
"Very well," she said. "Hold your fire, gentlemen. Let him retrieve my property."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the journal. Octavia's pulse leapt at the sight of the familiar brown leather.
"What are you doing?" Horace rasped.
"She's won, Pops," Zane said. "This game of horseshoes is over. We got close, but she scored the ringer."
She had won. And they'd soon learn there'd be no second place.
"I'm not letting you forfeit just yet." Horace pulled something from inside his coat. Another journal.
Wait. Octavia looked from one to the other. Which one was the right one? The poor lighting made it impossible to tell.
She edged toward Horace. Logic dictated he'd have the real one.
"Now!" Zane yelled the word, and all at once, both journals flew through the air.
Octavia gasped and moved to chase the book Horace threw. Horace lunged forward and tackled her directly into Gunther.
She screamed and flailed until Gunther tossed her aside. That's when she spotted Dirk writhing in the sand with Zane Erickson atop him throwing a punch to the smuggler's jaw.
Dirk roared and bucked. He'd make quick work of the pup, she had no doubt, but she had bigger things to worry about at the moment.
"Signal the boat," she cried, not caring which man carried out her order. "Signal the boat!"
All she'd done so far was ask a man to return her personal property. She could talk her way out of that. Dirk and Gunther would sail away with the tide, leaving nothing beyond the Ericksons' word that any abduction had taken place. No proof. As long as the boy was gone.
She crawled through the sand and beach grasses as the men fought behind her.
Gunther had dropped both his gun and his lantern when Horace felled him.
Seizing the lantern, Octavia pushed to her feet and climbed to the top of the dune nearest her.
A dull thumping sound had her glancing over her shoulder.
A third man on a horse approached. The sand beneath her feet shifted as if it were falling through a nearly empty hourglass.
Turning back toward the sea, she held the lantern aloft and slid back the metal shutter to expose the light.
Moving the shutter back and forth, she flashed the prearranged signal.
Boat in sight, Muriel pushed through the last few yards of water to reach the hull.
She pressed her palm against the wooden planks at the waterline, and relief coursed through her.
She'd made it! But getting here was only half the battle.
Her muscles ached from the exertion, but energy thrummed through her as her attention immediately shifted to the next stage—getting onboard without being seen.
Gentle waves slapped against the hull. Rigging creaked. Edges of the canvas sail not fully secured flapped lightly in the breeze. All sounds that could mask her arrival.
Feeling along the edge of the boat, she made her way to the rear. The crew would be looking for a signal from shore, so they would likely be in the bow of the boat. No one should be prowling the stern.
Recalling all the times as a child when she'd swum around her da's work skiff and climbed in using the rudder as a stepstool, she grabbed hold of the vertical sternpost that served as the backbone of the schooner and sunk her legs down into the water to feel for the rudder.
The schooner was a good deal larger than her da's skiff, but she was a good deal taller now than she'd been as a young sprite.
She found the upper curve of the rudder blade with one foot and shifted until she secured a steady position.
After bringing in her second foot, she pushed upward slowly, so as not to make a splash.
Her shoulders rose out of the water, and her hands adjusted to a higher position on the sternpost. Keeping her weight inward, she clung to the hull as she straightened.
Her hips and waist hit the night air, sending shivers through her as the water released its grip.
She reached for the rail edge and peeked into the boat before straightening to her full height.
Coils of rope sat on the decking nearby, along with a barrel and a pile of rigging she couldn't identify.
She spied no sailors, however. Praise the Lord.
Muriel stretched to her full height, looped her right arm over the railing then strained to hook her leg over as well.
Gritting her teeth, she leveraged her hips upward until she rolled over the side and onto the deck.
She lay atop the coiled rope she'd fallen upon for several seconds, listening intently for any clue that she'd been spotted.
A pair of male voices echoed from the front of the ship, about fifty feet away.
She prayed no others were wandering about.
Darting glances from side-to-side, she bent into a low crouch and used the aft deckhouse cabin as cover while she picked her way on silent feet to the middle of the ship, searching for Fletcher.
Deep shadows covered the schooner, hiding her, but also hiding her nephew.
"Fletcher," she whispered. "Where are ye?"
A muffled sound accompanied by the scrape of what could be a shoe on wood echoed a few feet ahead.
Feeling exposed, she scurried forward and darted behind the main mast near the center of the schooner.
When she peeked around the large beam, familiar wide eyes stared back at her above a dark-colored gag.
Fletcher!
After casting a quick glance ahead to ensure she'd drawn no one's notice, she rounded the mast, held a finger to her lips, then tugged the gag down past Fletcher's chin.
"Muriel? Ye gotta help me. They mean to throw me overboard while I'm trussed like a chicken." He sat on the deck, his back against the mast, his wrists bound in front of him, and a rope binding his ankles.
To ensure he couldn't swim. The vile pirates!
"I'll not let anythin' happen to ye. I promise." But she needed to find something sharp to cut his ropes. "I saw a hatchet hangin' from a peg on the cabin wall. I'll go fetch it."
Thank heaven for sailors needing to be ready to cut fouled rigging.
She snatched the small axe from the wall and made her way back to Fletcher.
She couldn't afford to draw attention with the loud thump brought on by a chop, and his ankles were too close together anyway.
So she knelt in front of her nephew, stretched his feet an inch or two apart, and started sawing through the hemp.
"Did you see that?" One of the men from the front of the boat had turned, his voice carrying in their direction.
Muriel froze, her heart pounding.
"I'm gonna check on the boy."
"Wait," the second man said. "I think I see something on shore. Is that the signal?"
Muriel sawed with a frenzy. "If I can't get ye free in time, remember to float." She glanced up and met Fletcher's gaze. "Don't panic when ye hit the water. Just be still and float. I'll get to ye. I promise."
Fletcher pressed his lips together and nodded.
"Yep. That's the signal. I'll fetch the boy."
Muriel jumped to her feet and held the hatchet up. "Spread yer feet," she urged.
The frayed rope created slack, and Fletcher pulled a couple inches. Muriel bent down and chopped through the rope. His legs sprang apart.
"Hey!" Thundering footsteps.
Muriel yanked the hatchet from the decking and looked desperately for another rope to chop. Fletcher's hands were tied in front of him. She couldn't get to that rope without injuring him. Her only chance was to sever the leash tied around the mast above his head.
The deck vibrated as the smuggler bore down on them.
She swung at the rope where it was lashed to the mast. The hemp snapped. Fletcher scrambled to his feet.
His hands were still bound, but they had no time.
"Jump!" she yelled as she yanked the hatchet free.
She turned and threw it at the advancing smuggler then ran for the side of the ship.
The sound of the hatchet clanking harmlessly to the ground echoed behind her.
Fletcher struggled to get over the railing, so she hoisted him by the elbow and tossed him over.
She moved to follow him, but a meaty hand grabbed her ankle.
"Not so fa—"
Desperate to get to Fletcher before he drowned, she acted on instinct.
Twisting to face her attacker and ignoring the resulting pain in her knee, she used the railing for leverage and smashed her other foot into his face.
The instant his fingers loosened, she flipped backward over the side of the boat to be swallowed by the sea.