Band of Sisters (51 page)

As Curtis’s contacts watched the river, Joshua watched the only road into or out of the estate from the window of a couple all too willing to assist in the downfall of Mr. Belgadt, the pompous neighbor who’d sent his lackeys to coerce them into selling their farm. All the while, Joshua prayed for Maureen.

He started at the soft nudge against his arm.

“It’s after six, Mr. Keeton.” Mrs. Bramwell, the farmer’s wife, handed him a steaming mug of coffee.

“Ah, thanks, Mrs. Bramwell.” He stretched and sipped the bitter brew—strong enough to stand a spoon in and scalding. Keeping awake was no longer a challenge.

“Try this bit of sweet bread while you’re watching. I’ll fix a platter of eggs and sausages when Hiram comes in from the barn.”

Joshua smiled his thanks, his mouth watering at the prospect of a hot breakfast, and turned back to the window.

But Mrs. Bramwell didn’t move. She leaned into the windowpane, peering over Joshua’s shoulder, her breath near enough to tickle his ear. “What in the world?”

“What? What do you see?” Joshua adjusted his lens.

Mrs. Bramwell pointed to a distance far to the east. “Now, what do you suppose those girls are doing traipsing through the woods this time of the morning, so wet and bedraggled?”

Joshua aimed his binoculars in the direction she pointed. “Two girls—no, three—five . . . They’ve no coats!” He adjusted the lens for a closer view. “Nor shoes . . . I don’t like the looks of this.” He dropped the binoculars to the table behind him as he pulled on his coat. “Make the call, Mrs. Bramwell. This is it.”

A half mile into the cave, the tributary divided. Flynn and his men bore a hard right. Rounding two bends, they came to a makeshift dock and cast their lines ashore.

Flynn frowned, pulled the straps of his fishing boots over his shoulders, and hopped to the narrow ledge.
Water must be two feet above high tide.
He swallowed, realizing that the sandbags ahead could provide no match for the swollen river.

Gripping the damp rock, he made his way round another bend, expecting to glimpse at least the tops of the bags. But they’d disappeared beneath the current—he couldn’t tell how deep. The lapping, sloshing water covered not only the bags but the rock-hewn stairs above them and poured through the metal door, standing wide open.

They can’t be sending sixty women up through the cave!
Flynn grimaced. He didn’t fancy slogging or swimming through the freezing pool only to discover that Grimes and Mercer had already moved the inventory by land. He swore.
Belgadt will blame me if his cover is blown, no matter what those idiots do.

That was when he saw two women across the pool, struggling to help each other maintain precarious footing as they crept along the narrow ledge that led up into the hillside tunnel.

Before Flynn could determine his next move, another woman pushed through the doorway, then another.
This is foolishness! Where’s Grimes? If it’s that desperate, why aren’t they taking them up through the house?

Freezing or no, Flynn slipped into the water, gambling that the river would not fill his boots like cement blocks, and waded through the deep. Within earshot of the human chain, he bellowed, “Grimes! Mercer!”

His shouts initiated screams of recognition and terror from the women, but no familiar face emerged from the holding room. Flynn swore again and groped for the steps, shoving the woman in his path into the freezing water.

Joshua’s calls for Maureen grew desperate. He recognized four or five of the women from Belgadt’s nights of entertainment.
But where is Maureen? They couldn’t have escaped on their own.
He knew that Belgadt would not be sending them away on foot or unescorted. Most of all, he wagered this was just the kind of desperate and unexpected break Maureen might have initiated.

He pushed against the growing tide of terrified, river-sodden women as they poured from the copse of trees. He pitied them, would help them, but only after he found Maureen.

He called for her again and again, turning the shoulders of every raven- or flame-haired woman to search her face. Following the line, he reached at last the tunnel’s hidden entrance. A young woman, so weak she could barely stand and soaked to her skin, pulled captives one by one from the narrow pass.

“Maureen—have you seen Maureen O’Reilly or a woman called Mary Carmichael?” he begged her.

“Maureen?” The woman whitened.

“Please—have you seen her?”

“She’s . . . she’s unlocking the cages before the boat comes to take them away!”

“Cages?” But Joshua sensed there was no time to ask. “This tunnel—will it take me to her?”

“Yes.” The bedraggled young woman looked suddenly relieved. She grasped Joshua’s arm. “Help her—please, please help her!”

Joshua needed no encouragement. Pulling the next woman up and into the light, he squeezed into the pass and began the winding trek downward.

“Come—come.” Maureen pulled another woman from her cage as the water swirled about their waists. She pushed the lagging group toward the tunnel and door, now half-filled by the water rushing into the lower room.

A few empty cages had come loose from the floor and tipped, like barges unmoored, confounding the women. Maureen herded the group round them, for the women were too dazed and weak to reason and weakening faster in the frigid water.

“Go! Follow the ledge!” she cried and turned back to tackle more locks. The next door she pulled open, the woman was already dead, her eyes rolled back in her head, her limbs quickly stiffening in the cold water. Maureen wept and cursed because she’d wasted precious moments on the dead. She wept anew because the woman had not lived to taste freedom, all the while forcing her stiffening fingers to work the next lock.

But when she looked up, the human train had stopped again. Women stumbled backward, into the water, into the room.

“Go! To the ledge and the tunnel! You must move forward!” Maureen cried. “I promise I’ll help you!”

But the women continued to fall back, whimpering.

“Well, now, what have we here? We ought not promise things we can’t deliver; don’t you agree, sweet Miss O’Reilly?” From atop the rushing threshold, the too-familiar Irish brogue sneered.

Maureen’s veins froze.
Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in . . . God, help me. . . . Deliver me. . . . Breathe out . . . Deliver these women. . . . Breathe in . . .
The prayer gave her power, and she bluffed her way forward.

“Mr. Belgadt wants his inventory saved, and you’re late! They’ve got to go up through the tunnel or they’ll drown. Help me get them out,” she shouted above the swirling water’s roar and turned to the next lock.

“You’re working for Belgadt?” Flynn shouted, clearly not believing.

“I’m working to save these women, Mr. Flynn. Help me, or you’ll have Mr. Belgadt to answer to.” She pushed another woman through the door, calling, “Follow the ledge!”

He stepped round both women, blocking Maureen’s return to the cages. She tried to brush past him, but he caught her arm. “He doesn’t want all—only the fittest.”

She jerked free. “There’s no time for this—no way to know who’s fit and who’s not. Help or get out!”

“What I know, Miss O’Reilly, is that you’ll fetch a brighter penny than any of these used-up wretches.” He laughed and caught her tight in his grasp, but she pulled back, and the lunge forced her into the water. She went under and came up coughing, gasping for breath.

He reached for her again, but she jerked a cage door between them, ramming its corner against his face.

Disbelief, then fury, flashed through his eyes. He clasped a hand to his bleeding mouth and hurled the metal door aside.

Maureen scrambled for the open door, pushing her heavy skirts through waist-high water. She’d barely reached the threshold when he caught her by the legs, dragged her back, and thrust her down into the water.

She fought and kicked, but he was stronger. Even in her panic she knew she could not gain the upper hand. She twisted, turned, and bit his arm, sinking sharp teeth nearly to the bone.

He bellowed but grabbed her by the hair.

Maureen pulled his feet from under him and wrenched herself free, leaving the sopping black wig in his hand.

She’d gained the door, the mound of sandbags, the ledge, daring to believe she might outrun him, when he grabbed the hem of her skirt and caught her up, ripping the sleeve of her waist. She beat him with her fists, but he threw her over his shoulder and let her beat and kick away.

Flynn stumbled, hauling her over the bags, and shoved her in the water. Before she could gain her feet, he grabbed a fistful of hair and, dragging her through the water, beat and slapped, kicking her ribs until he’d forced her into a cage, jerking her petticoat beneath her.

Please, God,
she begged,
don’t let him. Don’t let him!

He slammed and locked the door, smirked as the water covered her shoulders. Dripping and triumphant, he ripped her petticoat, wrapping a strip round his bleeding arm.

“It’s sorry I am that I’ve no time to sample your feminine virtues, Miss O’Reilly,” he gloated. “But the tide waits for no man, not even Jaime Flynn.” He tipped her a salute and slogged through the water toward the flooding doorway.

Maureen grabbed the iron bars of her cage, jerking and pulling, pushing and pounding, but they did not budge. She shifted her weight from side to side, throwing her body against one corner and then another to maneuver her cage through the water, toward the door. But it was no use. An inch or three, and the incoming water swept her back, swelling round her neck. She shook with cold so terrible she could no longer feel her feet or legs or torso. The women screamed around her. And the water continued to rise.