27. Chapter 27
A fist slammed into Zane's jaw, jerking his head to the side and grinding his skull into the sand.
His advantage over the smuggler had been short lived, and now he couldn't help but wonder if he would be short-lived.
The burly fellow had managed to get a leg between them and flipped Zane onto his back with a bone-jarring thud then pounced and pummeled with the skill of a man accustomed to brawls.
Unlike Zane, whose only recent brawling experience was with a catboat mast. He'd lost that one, too.
He fought back as best he could, blocking blows with arms bent over his face and looking for an opening. Only . . . no opening came. Only blow after blow.
Until a gunshot cracked the night air.
"Get off my grandson, or the next bullet is goin' straight through your skull."
Grandpa Clem?
Grossman ceased punching and raised his hands. "Easy, old man. Your kid jumped me. I was just defendin' myself."
The moment the blows stopped, Zane scuttled backward across the sand like a soft-shell crab desperate to escape a snapping seagull.
Gaze still locked on the smuggler as he retreated, Zane caught the glance the man darted to the left.
A dark object lay in the white sand. Zane bounded to his feet and snatched up the gun.
"You all right, Zane?"
"Yep." He hurt all over, actually, but that didn't matter. Muriel was waging a war of her own, and he needed to finish here and find her.
"Good." Grandpa Clem stayed atop his horse, spouting orders like a general. "Go give your daddy a hand." He twisted his head toward their driver. "Eddie! Get in here and tie this feller up. I sent Max after the police. They'll be here soon."
At that news, Grossman pivoted toward the beach and started running.
Grandpa Clem nudged his horse into action and cut him off like a professional cowboy.
Assured Grossman would be no trouble, Zane aimed his pilfered weapon at the second fellow.
Grandpa Clem had taken him hunting and taught him to shoot, but he'd never aimed at a person before.
"Let him go!"
Neither man seemed to hear him. They were too busy fighting over something. As they tussled, Zane spotted the pistol clamped between them. His gut clenched. If it went off . . .
Zane lowered the hammer of his own revolver, tucked it into his belt, then hurried forward. He had to stop them somehow. Before someone ended up dead.
What could he do to stop the fight without endangering his father? The two were so embroiled, it was hard to tell where one stopped and the other started.
Help me.
A gust of wind kicked sand into Zane's face, making him jerk his head and rub at his watering eyes.
Not helpful, Lord.
Or was it?
Zane's pulse leapt as he dropped to the ground and scooped up a double handful of sand.
Then just as the two men rolled toward him, he flung the sand into both their faces.
They flinched and sputtered. Zane pounced.
He kicked the smuggler in the head and snatched the pistol from the two men's loosened grips.
The smuggler cursed and flailed, but Zane dodged easily.
The sand wouldn't blind him for long, though.
So as the man struggled to his feet, Zane circled behind him and felled him with a boot to the back of his knee.
He cried out as he tumbled forward, and Zane shoved his shoulders, ensuring he sprawled face-first in the sand.
Zane quickly straddled him and kept him pinned with a knee to his back.
"Eddie! I need a binding."
His driver hurried over, a strip of leather in his hand that looked like one of the horse's lead lines. Together, they wrestled the smuggler's hands behind his back and secured his wrists with a wrap job to rival any sailor's rigging.
"Water!" His father's cry brought Zane's head around. "My eyes are burning."
Grandpa Clem reached him before Zane could. "Here, son. Let me." He brushed away Horace's sand-covered hands that were likely making things worse, and gently rubbed the grains from his face with a handkerchief. "The tears God gave you will wash the sand away in a minute."
Zane left the two bound smugglers in Eddie's care and hobbled over to where his father crouched, wishing there was something he could do.
A shadowy movement to his right brought his head around, just in time to see Octavia Underhill dart close enough to grab something out of the sand.
The journal.
"Hey!" Zane shot to his feet.
Octavia bolted. But sand dunes weren't made for older women in long, fashionable skirts and impractical shoes. She'd barely run ten yards toward her carriage before her ankle twisted and she went down. Zane caught up to her with ease.
Taking hold of her elbow, he hoisted her to her feet.
"Let go of me, you fiend!"
He tightened his grip. "Not a chance. You have a date with the police."
Her white hair had come loose from its pins during her mad dash around the dunes, and it hung about her face in wild disarray.
Her hard eyes glittered as she jutted her chin.
"You pathetic whelp. You have nothing on me.
By the time I get done with the police, they'll be arresting your father and giving me a medal. "
"Not after they see this." Father limped over to them holding up the other journal. He turned it toward her and fanned the pages. Pages filled with ink. He grinned. "You grabbed the decoy, Octavia. I'll enjoy roasting you on your own spit. Extortion. Kidnapping. Attempted murder."
She shot daggers at him. "The only thing I'm guilty of is running a successful business. You extorted me, stole from me, and fabricated false charges against me."
Zane's jaw clenched. "They aren't false, and you know it. You abducted a ten-year-old boy and used him as a pawn to get what you wanted."
"I would never harm a child. The very idea is absurd."
Sickened by her callous deceit and self-serving twisting of the truth, Zane leaned his face close to hers and jabbed some untwisted words her way. "You brought us out here. You hired thugs to intimidate and likely kill us."
"I hired protection, nothing more sinister than that."
"You signaled the boat," Zane countered. "Everything was on your orders."
"That's preposterous! You have no proof of any of these outlandish claims!"
"That's where you're wrong." Zane smiled.
"We have the boy." Her eyes widened ever so slightly.
"Did you not wonder why Muriel sent me to hand over the journal?
" Octavia swallowed, her gaze darting from Zane to his father and back again.
"She's a swimmer. A world-class swimmer.
One who could reach a boat anchored offshore with no one ever noticing.
By now, she's rescued her nephew and is rendezvousing with her father.
We've got proof, Mrs. Underhill. Enough to keep you locked up for years. "
"That's . . . that's impossible." She tossed her hair back as if to show her unconcern, but her face glowed pale in the twilight.
"Time will tell." Zane released his hold on her and turned his face toward the sea, praying his bold words proved true.
"Where'd they go? Do you see 'em?"
"They went over the port side."
Muriel ignored the calls of the sailors above, her focus locked on a struggling Fletcher kicking in the water about ten feet from her.
I told ye to float, Fletcher, not swim.
But the boy was terrified. Of course he'd try to get away. He swam on his back, his bound arms on his chest as his legs kicked. He remained afloat for the moment, but he'd tire quickly, especially with his shoes and wet clothes adding weight. Even now, his face bobbed barely above the surface.
"There! I see the boy."
"What about the girl?"
"Don't matter. Our job was the boy. I'm taking a shot."
Muriel immediately did a surface dive, but instead of folding cleanly into the water, she angled her body to slap against the surface and kicked her legs to spray water into the boat.
She prayed the commotion would distract the smugglers and perhaps even draw their fire.
She'd be a harder target to hit. Once under water, she stroked long and hard, determined to get to her nephew.
A muffled clap sounded behind her, and the water shuddered with the impact of a bullet.
Something stung her calf, making her flinch and draw her knees to her chest. But only for a heartbeat. Fletcher was sinking.
Uncoiling, Muriel stroked and lunged through the water to get to Fletcher.
Another shot echoed from above, more muted, as if from a greater distance.
And this time, no pressure-filled vibrations punched the water around her.
Kicking toward the surface, she came up beneath her nephew, and at the last minute, rolled over so that his back bumped against her chest. Hugging him to her with one arm, she propelled them toward the surface with the other.
As their heads broke through, they both sucked in air.
"I got ye, Fletcher. Rest easy, lad."
Tension drained from his body as he relaxed against her. Until another shot cracked through the night air. He flinched. As did Muriel.
"'Tis all right," she murmured. "It came from behind us." Turning them in the water, she spotted a bright light aimed at the smuggler's ship. "Someone's helpin' us."
"Revenue cutters!" One of the smugglers shouted.
"Weigh anchor!" the other answered. "If they stop to help the boy, we can outrun 'em. Make sail!"
Thanking the Lord that the smugglers were no longer shooting, she swam Fletcher toward the light as the ship behind them groaned and clanked with the retrieval of the anchor.
A beam of light from a reflector lantern swept the sea slowly.
Then she heard it. Her name. In Da's deep bellow. Praise the Lord!
"Here!" She stopped swimming and waved her free arm above the waves. "We're here!"
The light panned over, making her squint against the brightness.
Fletcher added his shouts to hers.
Oars slapped water as Liam's voice called out, "I'm comin', Fletcher. Hold on, son."
"Da!" Fletcher's voice choked on a relieved sob, and Muriel's heart throbbed in response.
Minutes later, Da had the rowboat positioned alongside them. Liam hauled his son out of the water and hugged the boy to his chest.
"Praise be. I thought I'd lost ye."
"Muriel saved me, Da. She saved me." Tears from both Fletcher and Liam overtook his explanation.
Muriel held onto the side of the boat with one hand as she watched the reunion, her soul so overflowing with gratitude, she couldn't think past that moment.
"Give me yer hand, dear heart."
Da. Muriel turned her attention away from Fletcher to find her father leaning toward her, arm extended.
His eyes glistened with moisture and his white hair glowed in the moonlight.
Her own guardian angel. She reached for him.
He clasped her arm and drew her from the water and straight into his arms.
"Ye're safe now." His arms encircled her, forming a cocoon against the night air as the heat from his body warmed her skin. He cupped her head to his chest and leaned his jaw against her wet hair. The comforting beat of his heart echoed in her ear. "Thank the Lord Almighty. Ye both are safe."
"Muriel, yer bleedin'!" Fletcher pointed at Muriel's leg.
"Am I?" She leaned away from her da and examined her left calf. A stream of blood trickled down her leg. And because she was looking at it, the ornery thing decided to start stingin' again. She winced. "Ah. One of the bullets nicked me. It's not deep. I'll be fine."
"What ye'll be is wrapped in that blanket and sittin' down so I can row ye to shore and have a doctor tend ye." Da gave a look that forbade her to argue, not that she planned to do so. His plan suited her just fine. Except for one part.
"Aye. But I need to see Zane before the doctor, Da." Liam draped a blanket over her shoulders from behind, and she clasped it closed around her as shivers set her to trembling. "I need to know he's all right."
"Fine, but ye'll bandage that leg and put on a proper dress first."
Muriel smiled at his gruffness. "Yes, Da."
After setting aside the rifle he'd used to scare off the smugglers, he resumed his seat at the oars, turned the Whitehall toward shore, and rowed for home. His gaze returned to her again and again, as if to reassure himself that she was indeed whole and well.
Her own gaze darted to the shore, her heart longing for the same reassurance regarding the fate of another man she loved.