Undercover Cavaliere Page 13

  A poor test, but the only one she had.

  "You'd not be nursing anyone with them tied, would you?" A knife appeared from nowhere, exactly the same trick her male relatives were good at. For an instant she wondered what he'd do if she showed him just how fast she could draw hers.

  When her hands were free, he knelt to remove her hobbles.

  She rubbed her wrists, again grateful they'd used the soft cotton rope instead of the bristly hemp. "I gather my patient is in there."

  "Yes. Oh, one more thing."

  "Yes?"

  "The others? The young ladies? They can't know about him. So you'll have to disappear. As far as they know, we...disposed of you after you tried to escape."

  "No!" She could only imagine the girls' reactions.

  "Madam, it is necessary. This man is presumed dead, and he must remain so. Those who would have sold you and those young ladies into the vilest slavery must not learn he lives."

  Again she tried to read his thoughts. He and his cohorts might be no better than those who had first captured her. But they are, at least, reasonably polite. They have been kind. Have I a choice?

  Of course she did, but refusing to cooperate could mean the end of any hope that the girls would be set free.

  "Very well."

  "Good. Follow me." He led her to the other end, where head-high cabinets extended completely across the wall. At the third one from the right, he stretched high and fumbled with something on the top.

  She heard a click, and the last three cabinets slid forward as if on rails.

  Again he reached, but this time to the back. Another click and they swung to the side, leaving a gaping hole. He gestured her to enter.

  Wondering if it were like the opening to a medieval oubliette, she stepped through. And found herself in a narrow room, as long as the wall of cabinets, bout only about six feet deep. Again louvers were set in all four walls.

  "We'll provide food and whatever else you'll need. Enough to last you while we move the girls to a safer place." He looked around. "I'll see if I can find a table and chair, too."

  Feeling as if she'd fallen into a whole new nightmare, Regina could only nod.

  "We'll bring him in then." He stepped though the opening.

  The others brought the coffin through, followed by a dozen bundles and half that many open wooden crates.

  "Keep him in the coffin for now," the Englishman said. "He's less likely to thrash about." Without another word, he motioned his fellows out.

  "Wait!"

  "Madam, I have much to do. There is your patient."

  Before Regina could think of what to say, he'd pulled the door closed behind him. She was alone with a man who would have sold her into slavery. And his life might depend on her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Among the items piled against the wall beside the almost-invisible entry was a coal-oil lamp, its glass chimney cloudy with soot. A can of fuel sat next to it. I hope they remembered matches.

  Getting organized, she decided, must be her first order of business. She hurried with the sorting and categorizing of tinned food, medical supplies, and bedding. A barrel full of water made her wonder how long she would be immured in this place. Just a few days, he said. She hoped he hadn't lied.

  When she'd opened every box and bag and mentally inventoried their contents, she filled a basin with water, stacked what she thought she might need next to the coffin, and spread a tarpaulin across the dusty floor next to it. Only then did she open the coffin.

  "Oh, my God!"

  He was naked, save for a loincloth that barely covered his genitals and a loose hood concealing his face. His knee was grossly swollen, and deeply purple, as if it had been struck with something heavy and brutal. When she bent closer, she saw weeping splits in the abraded skin. She laid a careful hand on his deeply tanned thigh. It was mildly inflamed, but not dangerously hot.

  The poor man's leg had been rudely splinted with two slats of wood, held on with four turnings of soft cotton rope. The ones just above and below his knee pressed deeply into swollen flesh. His hands and feet were bound together, which struck her as strange. With that leg, he wasn't going anywhere.

  More than his leg was battered. He'd clearly been subjected to a brutal beating. Someone had cleaned him up, though, although there was fresh blood around the larger lacerations. His heartbeat was strong but slow, his breathing was shallow but regular. Given the severity of his injury, he must be in superb physical condition.

  First things first. She knocked softly on the hidden door until someone responded. "I need hot water," she said, leaning close to the wood so she wouldn't have to speak loudly. "Clean cloths if you have them. A pint or so of brandy or other spirits. And if you have coal tar ointment or carbolic acid, I want that too."

  If only she could remember what it was her pa had used on her ma when her leg was so badly injured on the river crossing. He rarely spoke of it, and when he did, his voice usually shook. Regina had always believed her pa to be the bravest man in the world, but she knew he'd been scared to death when Ma had been so close to dying.

  I soaked it, morning noon and night, he'd said. When we stopped at the hot springs, I took her in the water. Thought we'd both be parboiled, but it did the job.

  Well, she didn't have a hot spring handy, but surely they could keep her supplied with hot water.

  Curious, she carefully pushed the hood up to his forehead.

  No! It can't be...

  His brows were drawn together, his lips were thin and downturned. Deep brackets around his mouth spoke of the pain he must feel, even in his drugged stupor. Regina touched his forehead again and breathed a sigh of relief when she found it no warmer than her fingers.

  He moved restlessly at her touch. She quickly withdrew her hand. The longer he could sleep undisturbed, the better. She was going to hurt him.

  The door opened. Without looking around, she said, "Cut these ropes. All of them."

  The Englishman knelt beside her and set a steaming basin on the floor. He pulled a knife from his boot. "They were to hold him in place," he said, almost apologetically.

  What kind of white slaver was he anyhow? She said nothing, just watched as he cut the ropes.

  He sheathed the knife before accepting what his silent companion handed him. "Here's whiskey. No carbolic acid, but we may be able to get some later."

  "Do what you can," she told him, without looking away from Gabe's face. "Just keep me well supplied with hot water."

  How had Gabe come to be with these men? Was he another captive? Had his adventures finally caught up with him?

  "We'll do what we can. There are...complications."

  He watched while she applied the first hot compress.

  Gabe's gasp of pain sliced her to the heart.

  "Keep him quiet," the Englishman said, before he slipped though the doorway and closed it behind him.

  She heard the lock snick, imprisoning them. It didn't matter, because she wasn't going to leave Gabe.

  Conscious of the minutes ticking away, she worked quickly, first bathing his injuries with a soapy cloth. Her task was awkward because of the coffin's shape. While she was working, someone came in and set another canister of steaming water beside her. She nodded her thanks.

  She emptied the basin into a slop jar and refilled it. Cleaning his knee took longer, because she took special care to be gentle. Once satisfied that it was as clean as she could get it under the circumstances, she went to the door again and knocked.

  No one answered. She counted to one hundred and knocked again.

  "Que voulez-vous?" came a muffled reply.

  "I need one of you to come in and hold him. I'm going to pour the spirits on his knee and he's going to react."

  The door opened abruptly, pushing her aside. "Bloody well likely," the Englishman said. "He'll yell too, if I know him." He knelt. "Too bad we don't have a pillow."

  The Frenchman followed him in. Without a word, he went to Gabe's feet and
straddled the coffin, taking a firm hold of Gabe's ankles.

  "Can you get his good leg out of the way at all?" She waited while The Frenchman stuffed a rolled garment between Gabe's ankles. It forced his knees a couple of inches apart. "That will have to do."

  The Englishman knelt inside the coffin, astraddle Gabe's waist, his knees wedged atop Gabe's forearms. "Give me one of those cloths." He folded it into a narrow strip and laid it across Gabe's mouth. "Do it." He flashed a grin at her. "And be ready to jump back very quickly."

  She held the bottle directly over Gabe's knee, but hesitated. Was this the right thing to do? She was a scientist, not a doctor. How should she know?

  It's the only choice I have.

  She poured.

  He screamed, and even muffled, the sound pierced her ears--and her heart. His legs jerked wildly, but the Frenchman kept his hold. The Englishman grunted as Gabe reared and nearly tossed him aside.

  The scream seemed to go on forever, but she knew it was only seconds before it turned to cursing, muffled by the cloth pad, but unmistakably lurid and graphic.

  "Gabe, be quiet."

  He continued to curse and to fight the restraints.

  She leaned close to his head, hoping the Englishman had a good grip on his hands. "Gabriel Emmet King, you listen to me. I want you to be still and stop acting like a big baby. You hear?"

  The Englishman turned his head and stared at her.

  She didn't care. "Gabe. Lie still. Now!"

  He stopped fighting, but didn't relax. He was clearly tensed for action, but at least he was no longer fighting the hands that held him.

  "If we uncover your face and turn your hands and feet loose, will you lie quietly while we tell you what's going on?"

  The wordless sound from under the gag sounded like a yes. She nodded to the two men.

  Slowly they released him.

  Gabe stared at her.

  She stared back.

  "Do I know you?"

  Her heart broke.

  * * * *

  The laudanum was taking him away again, but he still watched the two men and the woman as they stood near the door arguing. He heard their words, but they merely passed through his mind, without import.

  "You have to get him a doctor," she said. "I haven't the skill, the knowledge, to care for his knee."

  "We can't. There's a... Something's come up. We've got to get away tonight." That was the Englishman, who seemed to be in charge.

  "No! This is something more than a bruise or a broken bone. There may be bleeding inside the joint. I don't know what to do. What if he developed gangrene? He could... He could die."

  They were talking about him. But they were wrong. He couldn't die. He had to find Gina again. Gina would keep him alive.

  Their words slid away, became unintelligible, until he heard the woman say, "Very well. I will stay here with him. Since you can't get him to a doctor, the next best thing is to keep him quiet and continue to apply compresses."

  "...change of plans...England...five days at least...You're a fool if you think he'll be safe here."

  "...better than in the house. Beignet didn't know about this place," The Frenchman said.

  "Leave me enough...a coal oil stove...hot water and clean bandages...laudanum...keep him alive until..."

  He'd bet on the woman winning this particular battle. Never heard anyone so stubborn since... Since when? He cursed his spotty memory as he drifted off again.

  Again, an eternity later. "...boat here in an hour...coffins until we get to...have to keep...drugged."

  "...for the best. Marcy would be steady, but I wouldn't give you two cents for Minerva..."

  "...sure you'll be..."

  "...have to be, won't I?" Even in his drugged state, he heard the false bravado in her voice. What was she afraid of?

  * * * *

  The others went away, but the Englishman, clearly their leader, stayed. He waited until the sound of their footsteps had faded before he spoke, just loud enough for her to hear. "What did you call him?"

  "His name. Gabriel King. I've known him all my life." Maybe she was putting herself in mortal danger, admitting she knew who Gabe was, but surely they'd keep her alive as long as she was willing to nurse him.

  He stared at her as he scratched his chin, made colorful by several days' growth of red beard. He seemed to be weighing and measuring her. For a shroud?

  No. Not yet anyhow. Gabe was important to them, and they needed her to take care of him.

  "Who are you?"

  She bit her lip, unsure whether being truthful was good or bad. Tell the truth. You never were good at telling fibs. "Regina Lachlan."

  His jaw dropped. "Lachlan?" His brows drew together in a frightening frown. "You're lying."

  "Oh, for pity's sake. Just because you're a liar and a white slaver and...and I don't know what else, doesn't mean everybody in the world is as bad as you. I am Regina Fione Lachlan. I was born in Idaho Territory in the United States. I am thirty years old and I teach natural science and chemistry." She came very close to adding So there, but managed to restrain herself. She did stamp her foot, having had about all she could take. It was that or burst into tears, and she'd die first.

  He continued to stare at her. Finally, as if he'd made up his mind, he said, "Any relation to Silas Dewitt?"

  How the dickens did this fellow know Silas? And should she admit her relationship? Silas was a rich man. Would they hold her for ransom?

  Well, if they did, at least she'd be alive, and perhaps she could persuade them that Silas would ransom the girls too. "He's my uncle."

  The Englishman's face relaxed into a smile, transforming him into a handsome fellow indeed. "Then you're Buff's sister? My God, woman, how the hell did you get yourself taken by Heureaux?"

  Her legs were suddenly weak and she sank to the floor, never mind how filthy it must be. "But you... I... Who is Heureaux?"

  "He's a white slaver, among other things. Look, I'd like to know how you came to be here and who those three girls are, but we've got to get moving. I do admit I'm a lot easier leaving you here with Gabe, knowing you're Buff's sister." His face twisted into a grimace. "He'll kill me, though, if anything happens to you."

  "Never mind that. What are your plans?" Not sure her legs would support her, she remained on the floor. "And who are you, anyhow?"

  "I'm Peter. You don't need to know the rest. Look, Miss Lachlan, I believe that someone on our team is a traitor. That's the only reason Heureaux would have grabbed Gabe and tried to kill him. We had to go to the house in St. Cloud first, because it was the only place we had ready to receive you, but as soon as we could, we got out. Whoever the traitor is, he knows about that place. I'm hoping he doesn't know about this one. I don't think anyone but Alain and I have ever used it.

  "We sent the wagon, loaded with the barrels we transported you in, to meet the boat that we'd hired to take you to Boulogne. With luck they'll watch it. We don't think anyone followed us here, but--" He wiped a hand across his mouth, and Regina heard whiskers rasp. "No guarantees. You could be in danger, staying here."

  A shiver of dread fingered its way up her spine. Instead of admitting it aloud, she simply said, "Where are you going when you leave me here?" She was reasonably sure that these men were the same sort as Gabe, working on the side of the angels, but what if... No, she refused to entertain any possibilities other than that they were members of the same fellowship as Gabe. What had he called it? The Coalition? Dedicated to fighting the sorts of international criminals that any single nation had difficulty prosecuting.

  "I'd rather not say, except that we'll do our best to get the girls safely to England. Lord Bi-- The man in charge will see that their families get them back."

  Jonathon. Of course. Who else? "Poor man. He's going to have to deal with Minerva's family. We were supposed to meet them in Paris yesterday. Or the day before, perhaps. On the fifteenth, anyhow."

  "Two days ago, now. It's the seventeenth." He yawned, as i
f reminded that he'd been up all night. "Why would Lord...my superior be dealing with the girl's parents?"

  "Minerva's family is wealthy and her father made the arrangements for us to visit Heatherwood. Lord Bidens is the first person he could contact. Mr. Tomlinson would never hesitate to call in the biggest guns he available to help him find his daughter."

  "Bloody hell! That's all we need. An anxious father prattling all over the news about his missing daughter." He scratched at his chin again, clearly mulling his options.

  "Stay with Gabe. I'll be back in a bit."

  He locked her in again.

  Regina turned back to where Gabe lay as one dead, securely in his coffin. He's probably warmer in there, but I want him out.

  Gabe wasn't ready for a coffin. Not for many years yet.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Regina stood at the narrow louvered panel overlooking the dock and watched the only people who knew where she was carry three coffins onto the small river steamer. One by one they disappeared into the hold. A few minutes later, one man emerged and made his way amongst stacks of cargo piled on the deck to the bow. He looked up.

  She knew he couldn't see her, but she pulled back nonetheless. Not too far, though, for when he mouthed Good luck, she read his lips.

  When the hawsers were pulled aboard, she stepped down from the box on which she stood. If she hadn't, she would have given way to the terrible desolation she felt. Desolation and fear.

  What if Gabe got worse before Peter returned with help?

  What if the slavers found them?

  What if no one ever came back?

  "Don't be foolish. Of course they will come back. Four days, he said. Five at the most." Speaking it aloud made it more real, somehow. She returned to the louvers that provided the small room's only ventilation, stared after the rusty steamer. It was already near the next bend in the river.

  After a while she reminded herself of one of her ma's favorite sayings. "The Devil makes work for idle hands." Peter and his men had brought in another open crate, a trunk, and several canvas bags fat with mysterious lumps, but had simply piled them against the outer wall. They were supplies from the house in St. Cloud, where Peter his friends had been living for three months and had expected to remain through the winter. He hadn't said why, but she was sure it was some mysterious spy business. When she'd asked him what work he did, he'd simply said, "This and that."