A Secret Love by Stephanie Laurens
He howled and jerked his head back. Her nails scored his cheeks.
“Bitch!” His voice grated in her ear. “You’ll pay for that. For every last scratch.”
She could only be glad that, broad as he was, the corridor was too narrow for him to easily strike her. To do so, he’d have to risk letting her go.
Cursing freely, he half carried, half pushed her on before him. Alathea fought and twisted furiously, but did no more than slow him. His strength was overwhelming, suffocating; the notion of being trapped beneath him sent panic sheering through her.
Two yards from the open door, Crowley halted. Before she realized what he intended, he flung open another door concealed within the paneling and started to push her through.
Alathea saw the bed fixed against the wall.
She grabbed the door frame and redoubled her resistance, but inch by inch, Crowley forced her forward. Then he slammed his fist down on her fingers locked about the door frame.
With a yelp, she let go, and he thrust her across the threshold.
Footsteps pounded overhead. They froze, and looked up. Alathea sucked in a breath and screamed for all she was worth.
Crowley swore. He shoved her into the room.
She tripped on her skirts and fell, but immediately scrambled up. “Gabriel!”
Crowley slammed the door in her face.
Flinging herself against the panel, Alathea heard a key scrape, heard the lock fall home. She crouched and put her eye to the keyhole.
And saw the paneling on the corridor’s opposite wall. “Thank God!” Crowley had taken the key. She reached for a hairpin.
Outside the door, Crowley stared at the ladder. Footsteps moved over the deck above, checking one hatch after another.
“Gabriel?”
A smiling sneer curved his lips, then he laughed, turned, and strode for the open cabin.
Gabriel found the main hatch. He hauled on the heavy cross bolt and heard it grate. Swearing under his breath, he shot it fully back. Chillingworth appeared and helped him lift the hatch cover, easing it over. They looked down on a circle of lamplit corridor and the rungs of the ladder leading down.
Looking at Chillingworth, Gabriel shook out his hands, then signaled that he was going down. His face felt expressionless. He had no difficulty acting nerveless. His blood was ice-cold, his veins chilled. He’d never known fear like this—a cold cramping fist closed about his heart. He’d known Alathea forever but he’d only just found her. He couldn’t lose her now, not when he’d finally bitten the bullet and opened his heart—and she’d been poised to give him hers. No—he thrust the idea aside. It was unthinkable.
They were not going to lose each other.
He grasped the hatch’s rim and swung himself into the hole. Locating the rungs, he quickly descended. He was so tall, he reached the floor before the corridor came fully into view. Stepping onto the lower deck, he looked straight along its emptiness—directly into the maw of the pistol Crowley had pointed at his heart.
Gabriel heard the trigger click. He dove for the floor.
The corridor wall exploded outward. A door swung across, blocking Crowley’s shot. Alathea burst into the corridor. The door panel splintered beside her shoulder. She instinctively ducked.
The percussion of the shot boomed and echoed, the sound bouncing deafeningly around the corridor.
“Get down!” Gabriel roared.
Alathea looked at him, then at the door. They both heard Crowley curse, heard his pounding footsteps nearing. Alathea shrank back along the corridor wall.
Crowley slammed the door shut. He didn’t look at Alathea but at Gabriel, coming to his feet, the promise of death in his eyes.
Crowley turned and raced back to the main cabin.
“Wait!”
Alathea heard Gabriel’s bellow but she didn’t even look back as she raced straight after Crowley. He would need to reload. Gabriel was unarmed. She could at least slow Crowley down.
She rushed into the cabin, expecting to see Crowley at the desk or bed, frantically reloading. Instead, she saw him fling the pistol across the room as he strode past the desk. Reaching the wall, he grasped the hilt of one of the twin sabers hanging in crossed scabbards between two portholes.
The saber left its sheath with a deadly hiss.
Alathea didn’t pause—she flung herself at Crowley, trusting in her sex to keep her safe. It never occurred to her that Crowley might use the saber on her.
It did occur to Gabriel; he crossed the threshold just in time to see her grapple with Crowley, now brandishing a cavalry saber. One swing and he could cleave her in two—Gabriel died another death. He should have felt relieved when Crowley flung Alathea aside, much as an ox would swat a gnat. She fetched up hard against the wall, shocked, shaken, but essentially unharmed.
Gabriel saw it all in an instant—the instant before blind rage took possession of his senses. After that, all he saw was Crowley.
Crowley settled his weight evenly, taking a two-handed grip on the saber, his very stance declaring he’d never used one in battle.
Gabriel smiled a feral smile. Crowley shifted. Reaching out, Gabriel pushed a small table out of his way—it slammed against the wall. His eyes didn’t leave Crowley’s face. Slowly, he circled.
It was Crowley’s move; he was the one armed. Despite his pugnacious expression, his overweening belligerence, uncertainty flickered in his eyes. Gabriel saw it. He feinted to his left. Crowley raised the saber and slashed—
Gabriel was nowhere near the space the saber whistled through. From Crowley’s other side, he stepped inside his guard, left hand closing about Crowley’s fists on the saber hilt, right fist slamming into the man’s jaw. Crowley grunted. He tried to turn on Gabriel; Gabriel’s hold on his fists prevented that, but Crowley’s double-fisted grip also prevented Gabriel from gaining any hold on the hilt.
Crowley bunched his muscles to throw Gabriel off. Gabriel released him and spun away. Crowley slashed again and again, following Gabriel as he circled. Each slashing stroke threw Crowley off-balance. Gabriel feinted again; again Crowley fell for it. Gripping the saber hilt, Crowley’s fists and all, Gabriel landed a swinging left on Crowley’s jaw. Crowley roared and fought back. Wrenching the hilt free of Gabriel’s restraining hand, he slashed and found his mark.
Ignoring the stinging bite of the sabre along his left arm, Gabriel flung himself at Crowley, locking both hands on the saber’s pommel. Crowley was off-balance; Gabriel forced him back across the desk, pressing the saber closer and closer to his face.
Eyes locked on the blade inching nearer, Crowley gritted his teeth, gathered his strength, and shoved Gabriel and the blade to the side. Reading the move, Gabriel sprang back. The saber flew free, clattering on the floor.
Crowley reared upright—to be met by a solid punch to the gut. He bellowed and swung, starting after Gabriel, his clear intent to grapple with him.
Gabriel wasn’t about to give Crowley the satisfaction of breaking his ribs. The man was a bruiser, the sort who’d learned his science in tavern brawls. Given his size and lack of agility, he relied on his brawn to win. In any wrestling match, Crowley would triumph easily. Fisticuffs, however, was another game entirely, one at which Gabriel excelled.
He landed blow after blow, focusing on Crowley’s face and gut. Crowley laid not a finger on him. Crowley bellowed and raged, staggering into punch after punch. Gabriel concentrated on softening him up, on enraging him further. On finally beating him to the ground.
But the man’s skull felt like rock; knocking him unconscious was not going to be accomplished by one lucky blow.
Backed against the wall, Alathea watched, her heart in her mouth, her breath suspended. Even to her untutored eyes, the fight was a battle between steely reflexes governing strength honed and refined, pitted against sheer brawn and a blind belief in the power of weight. Gabriel was clearly winning, even though he was now risking more to step closer, well within Crowley’s reach, to where he could del
Crowley couldn’t possibly last much longer.
Crowley must have come to the same conclusion. The vicious kick came out of nowhere. Gabriel saw it, but only had time to swivel. It caught him high behind his left thigh. Crowley clumsily pivoted. Gabriel lost his footing and fell.
Alathea smothered a scream.
Gabriel’s head hit the desk’s edge with a dull thud. He slumped to the floor and lay still.
Massive chest heaving, Crowley stood over him, fists clenched, blinking his piggy black eyes, both bruised and half-closed. Then his teeth flashed in a vicious smile. He looked around, then swooped on the saber, scooping it up, hefting the blade as he took up a stance beside Gabriel’s twisted legs. Crowley shuffled his feet apart as he settled his hands about the saber’s hilt.
Gabriel groaned. His eyes were closed, his shoulders flat to the floor, his spine twisted. He lifted his head slightly, struggling up onto his elbows, frowning, blinking dazedly, shaking his head as if to clear it.
Crowley’s gloating expression filled his face. His eyes glittered. He smiled as he slowly raised the saber.
Alathea inched along the wall, unable to breathe, barely able to think through the flood of emotions swamping her. But fear and fury were the strongest; she knew what she had to do. Setting her teeth, she passed behind Crowley, creeping silently further along the wall.
Crowley stretched upward, raising the saber high above his head, tensing for the downward stroke—
Alathea leaped the last feet, grabbed the second saber, and yanked it from its sheath. The angry hiss filled the room.
Crowley’s head snapped around. Teetering, he took an instant to regain his balance. He started to shift his bulk, to realign his saber, turning to swing at her—
The weight of the saber flying out of its sheath swung Alathea away from Crowley. With a gasp, she hauled on the heavy sword and sent it arcing back toward him—
Shoulders and torso still turning, Crowley raised his saber—
Gabriel finally refocused—what he saw stopped his heart. Hauling up his legs, he kicked at Crowley, catching him high on the thigh.
Crowley stumbled. His weight shifted. He staggered helplessly sideways toward Alathea, into the arc of her wildly swinging saber.
Powered by its own weight, the saber flashed in, burying itself in Crowley’s side. Alathea gasped and released the hilt. The saber remained, its glistening tip barely disturbing the front of Crowley’s coat, the hilt quivering behind his back.
Crowley’s face leached of all color; shock overlaid all expression. He regained his balance, both feet settling square, the other saber held tight between his fists. Slowly, he looked down, then, equally slowly, turned his head and looked over his shoulder at the saber sticking out from his back. His expression said he didn’t comprehend . . .
He shuffled his feet, turning to Alathea, still holding the other saber—
In a rush of footsteps, Chillingworth appeared in the doorway. He took one glance, raised his arm, and shot Crowley.
Eyes wide, Alathea made no sound as Crowley jerked. The ball had found its mark in the left of his huge chest. Slowly, he turned his head to stare uncomprehendingly at Chillingworth. Then his features blanked, his eyes closed, and he pitched forward.
Gabriel pulled his legs clear and struggled to sit up. Still dizzy, his head ringing, he leaned his shoulders against the side of the desk.
Chillingworth stepped into the room, frowning as he took in the saber sticking up from Crowley’s back. “Oh. You’d already taken care of it.” Then he looked at Gabriel, back at Crowley, then back to Gabriel, frowning even more. “How the devil did you manage that?”
Gabriel looked at Alathea’s white face. “It was a joint effort.”
Chillingworth followed his gaze to Alathea, still pressed back against the wall, her stunned gaze locked on Crowley’s body.
Footsteps approached; Charlie looked in. “I heard a shot.” Eyes growing round, he peered around Chillingworth. “I say—is he dead?”
Gabriel smothered a crazed laugh. “Very.” His grim expression only tangentially due to the pain in his head, he studied Alathea, then softly asked, “Are you all right?”
She blinked, then she lifted her head and looked at him. “Of course I’m all right.” Her gaze traveled over him. Wild concern flared in her eyes. Picking up her skirts, she leaped over Crowley’s body. “Good God—the bastard cut you! Here—let me see.”
Gabriel had forgotten about the cut on his arm. Now he looked and discovered his coat ruined, blood pouring afresh thanks to Alathea’s probing. Crouched beside him, she was tweaking the slashed material, trying to see . . .
“Can you stand?” She looked into his eyes, then grimaced. “No, of course, you can’t. Here.” She waved Chillingworth closer as she wriggled a shoulder under his. “Help me get him up.”
Frowning, Chillingworth lent his aid.
“Just watch out for that damned dress.” Hauled to his feet, Gabriel settled against the desk.
Alathea pressed close, pushing his hair out of his eyes to peer into them. “Are you all right?”
Exasperated, Gabriel opened his mouth to tersely inform her it would take rather more than a severe blow on the head and a shallow cut on his arm to incapacitate him. Then he caught a glimpse of the arrested expression on Charlie’s face, and substituted, “Of course not.” He gestured to the blood darkening his sleeve. “See if you can stop the bleeding. Just be sure you don’t damage that gown.”
The gown was a fantasy he had every intention of peeling from her, inch by sweet inch.
“Crowley must have some linen stored here somewhere.” Alathea glanced at her brother. “Charlie—look around.”
By the time Charlie returned, Alathea had eased Gabriel’s coat off and laid bare the wound. It was a shallow but wide cut, lifting inches of skin but nowhere deep enough to be dangerous. It had, however, bled copiously and continued to do so.
“Here.” Charlie handed Alathea a pile of clean shirts. He glanced at Crowley. “He won’t need them anymore.”
Alathea didn’t spare a single glance for Crowley as she picked up a shirt and started ripping.
Straightening from examining the body, Chillingworth stepped around it. He glanced at Gabriel’s wound, and stilled. Alathea bustled to the sideboard in search of water or wine. Chillingworth watched her go, then sent a disgusted glance at Gabriel.
Who met it with a bland if not challenging stare.
Chillingworth raised his eyes to the skies. Alathea returned, a bowl of water in her hands. Chillingworth surveyed the room. “While you’re having your strength restored, perhaps Charlie and I should search.”
“Good idea,” Gabriel concurred.
“So what are we looking for?” Chillingworth rounded the desk.
“The promissory notes?’ Alathea paused in her dabbing. “Would they be here?” She looked at Gabriel.
He nodded. “I think so. Presumably, the reason Crowley is here tonight and not in Egerton Gardens is because he got the wind up when he learned of our investigations.” His expression grew grim and he glanced at Alathea. “I assume Struthers’s activities kicked up too much dust. Did Crowley say?”
Alathea’s eyes dimmed. “He killed the captain. He said so.”
Chillingworth cast a dark glance at Crowley’s body. “Obviously destined for Hades.”
Gabriel caught Alathea’s wrist. “Are you sure the captain’s dead? Crowley didn’t just say it to frighten you?”
Alathea shook her head sadly. “I think he’s already thrown the body in the river.”
Gabriel caressed her inner wrist, then released her.
Chillingworth grimaced. “Nothing we can do for the captain now. The villain’s already savored his just deserts. The bes
“I expect so.” Gabriel looked around. “This is not a ship of any line—it’s a privateer, and a small one at that, built for speed—for fleeing. My guess is that Crowley moved his operations here, ready to depart at an instant’s notice. With Alathea and Struthers removed, he would plan on calling in the notes immediately, and leaving England as soon as he had his hands on the cash.”
Alathea started to bind his arm. “Crowley did say he’d call the notes in immediately.”
Chillingworth continued searching the desk. Charlie drifted off, saying he’d search the other rooms.
Just as Alathea was tying off her bandage, Charlie reappeared, dragging a small seaman’s chest. He brandished a document. “I think this is what we’re looking for.”
It was—a thick stack of promissory notes filled the chest. Alathea held the one Charlie had brought in, and started to shake. Gabriel slid an arm around her waist, drawing her closer until she rested against him. “Take it home, show your father, then burn it.”
Alathea glanced at him, then nodded. Folding the note, she handed it to Charlie with a strict injunction not to lose it.
Charlie shoved it in his pocket, then went back to reading the names on the handful of notes he’d extracted from the chest.
Chillingworth was doing the same. “He preyed on small fry, for the most part. From the addresses, some of these must be shopkeepers.” He pointed to another pile he’d laid aside. “Those are the peers, but most are not the sort who usually invest in such schemes. And the amounts pledged! He’d have turned half of England insolvent.”
Gabriel nodded. “Greedy and unscrupulous. That should be his epitath.”
“So.” Chillingworth restacked the notes. “What are we going to do? Burn these?”
“No.” Alathea was frowning. “If we do that, then the people involved will never know they’re free of the obligation. They might make decisions assuming they’re in debt to Crowley, when that debt will never be realized.”