Paxton and the Gypsy Blade (6 page)

“Go around the back!” one of the men was shouting as the carriage rocked violently.

Another was coming straight at her, the third would cut her off from the rear. Desperate, she hauled herself upright on the rear wheel, stepped on one spoke, the rim, the windowsill, and finally hauled herself onto the roof.

“See here, now. What's all this about?” Awkwardly, bundled up as he was, the coachman half-rose and twisted as he struggled to cock a horse pistol.

Adriana sat, held on to the luggage rack, and kicked. One foot caught the portly driver in the chest, the other in the shoulder. Thrown off balance, he tottered and, arms flailing, shouted in alarm as he somersaulted through the air and landed with a bone-jarring impact, inadvertently discharging his gun.

The men who poured out of the Cub and Calf were too late to help. Already frightened, the team was off and running at the sound of the shot, leaving Bliss, his companions, the outraged coachman, and a dozen would-be assistants behind. Adriana's cap was whipped from her head. Tears froze on her cheeks. She crawled forward and fell into the driver's seat where she could grab the reins before they were jerked loose by the panicked team.

She'd never handled a four-horse team, much less one that was bolting. The carriage bounced crazily across one ice-rutted intersection, flashed through a second, and almost collided with a dray. Adriana braced her feet against the footboard, hauled on the reins with all her might, and somehow forced the horses into a turn at the fourth intersection.

Iron-rimmed wheels struck sparks from bare patches of cobblestone. A blizzard of ice chips and blowing snow churned into the air in the carriage's wake. The horses swerved to avoid an oncoming coach, whose cursing driver was forced to pull his team onto the walk. Adriana clung to her perch and managed to stretch one leg toward the brake and jam the wooden lever forward. The carriage slued to the left and slowed the horses. The sharp edges of the wheels bit into the ice and stopped suddenly, tipping the carriage and throwing Adriana free. The carriage hit with an earsplitting crash; Adriana landed in a cushioning snowdrift, rolled, and smacked into a wood picket fence.

Snow had been forced up her sleeves, down the back of her neck, and into her ears and nose. The pain in her elbow was excruciating. The world spun, and only gradually slowed to a stop and righted itself. Adriana hauled herself to her feet and stared at the panting, wild-eyed horses and the coach that lay, wheels spinning, on its side. The accident was attracting a crowd. Sailors and their wenches spilled out of nearby taverns and, ignoring the cold, surrounded the overturned coach. “Anyone inside?” one called.

“I'll look. Gimme a 'and, there, Freddie. Well, I'll be damned, the bloody thing's empty—and on fire! Bring some buckets, lads! Let's 'ave some—” He stopped in mid-sentence and pointed at Adriana. “Wot's this? Hey, lad, were you drivin' this 'ere—Hey! Come back!”

Oblivious of the crowd's calls, and hoping the onlookers would be preoccupied by the fire and the still-terrified horses, Adriana darted down the street and into the nearest alley. A moment later, with no sign of pursuit, she emerged on the docks and slumped out of breath in the recessed doorway of a warehouse. Melting snow dribbled down her back. Her hands were freezing, her whole body ached. She had failed: Bliss lived. Worse, she'd been recognized, and Bliss would see to it that she was hounded until brought to justice. To remain in London meant arrest and incarceration, not only for her but for Uncle Paolo and anyone else who had extended a hand to her in friendship. She couldn't even rejoin the tribe in their winter quarters, for surely she would be sought there as well. Her only choice was to leave England.

I failed you, Giuseppe. Failed you, failed myself. What am I to do?

Never, not even on the night Giuseppe had died, had she felt so lost or alone. She'd had her anger then, and a purpose. Now there was only her failure and a sense of complete helplessness. She clenched her fists and tried to stop her tears. There was no time for weakness; there was only time for escape. Escape and survival until she could somehow, some way, find Bliss again.

You'll freeze. Keep moving. You can't give up. Not now, not ever
.

Willing herself to her feet, Adriana stumbled into the open and started down the dock. To her right, black ships rode at anchor. Masts like spires jutted into the black night sky.

Spires … churches … sanctuary
…
escape
…

She stopped, shook her head, and tried to remember.

A white bird
… a
swan
…

A snowflake brushed her cheek, then another and another, until the air was thick with great silent fleecy flakes that obscured her vision.

River Street … day after tomorrow.… Dear God, but it's tomorrow morning now!

She trudged eight long blocks before she found River Street, then searched a half-hour before she located what she sought. At last, reeling from exhaustion and exposure, and hidden from prying eyes by the thickly falling snow, she stumbled up the gangplank and fell, half-senseless, aboard the
Swan of Yorkshire
.

CHAPTER III

Tom Gunn Paxton knelt on one knee. Slowly, he reached out to place a colorful bouquet of azalea and mountain laurel on the well-tended grave before him, then lowered his head and gathered Jenny in his memory.

An imposing rough-hewn slab of native South Carolina granite at the south end of the small cemetery proclaimed the family name: Paxton. Smaller headstones marked the individual resting spots of the tightly knit family, and it was in front of the newest of these that Tom Gunn knelt.

JENNIFER LOUISE

WIFE OF THOMAS GUNN

B. APRIL 18, 1788

D. APRIL 22, 1810

She had been twenty-two, just twenty-two, and had been gone six months. More than anything in the world, Tom Gunn Paxton longed to hear her laughter, to watch her face radiant in the morning light, to live again in the beauty of their lovemaking. The earth was warm to the touch, but not as warm as it had been when she was aglow with life. Six months. It seemed years since the fever, the pneumonia that was the old man's friend and the young man's bane, had stolen her from him. It had seemed impossible—she had been so young and vital and alive.

It was the second Sunday in October, and a heavy, moist heat shackled the day despite the early hour and cold weather of two nights earlier. So small was the secluded island glade where the Paxtons laid their own to rest that the sun had yet to penetrate the heavy foliage surrounding it. On all sides, swamp water lay smooth as brown glass. Nearby a towering cypress stood sentinel-like without a single leaf moving. On the western edge of the high ground, moss hung like fog from three ancient giant oaks. Nothing stirred; not even the faintest breeze. The only indication of the teeming life beyond the boundaries of the cemetery was the incessant humming and buzzing of insects and an occasional splash as a rotted twig fell or a small creature made its way through the dim and dangerous world where, sooner or later, all small creatures were eaten.

Sweat ran down Tom's face and plastered his shirt to his sides. Sighing, he cleared away a blade of grass that had grown over Jenny's headstone, and stood. As always, the few minutes of meditation had helped calm the deep anger that ate away at him. Jenny and he had been married just a few months short of four years, and there were too many good things, too many happy memories, for him to permit anger to rule his life. Softly, as on every Sunday, he whispered goodbye to his Jenny, and turned and walked down the narrow causeway that separated the cemetery island from the rest of the world.

Tom Gunn Paxton was a tall and rangy man of twenty-seven years, with a face that had known punishment. A black patch covered his blinded left eye. Thick black hair that he tied back when there was heavy work to be done hung to his shoulders. His forehead was high and broad over his one penetrating light blue-gray eye. His mouth was wide, and he smiled easily, somewhat softening his otherwise harsh features. His shoulders, back, and chest were smoothly muscled and deeply tanned from hours of hard work in the sun, and his hands, though broad and obviously strong, somehow gave the impression of a softness of touch that didn't match the rest of him.

The narrow trail threaded its way north before joining the main path that led inland to Solitary. A wrought-iron fence, more decorative than necessary, stretched across the end of the narrow path. Brushing the dirt from his twill trousers, Tom strode through, latched the gate, and untethered his horse. It was time to return to Solitary, say good morning to the twins, and get to work.

Reaching the main road wasn't easy, even if the path he had come along an hour earlier was the only way back. The nagivation required to prevent one from going astray—more a gut feeling for swamps than anything else—was no mean feat. If a person did lose his way, he could run in circles until he dropped and died of exhaustion if the snakes or the heat or the insects didn't get him first. Having a swamp-wise horse helped considerably. All Tom had to do was prod the clay-colored mare into motion, point her nose back along the path she'd negotiated for six months of Sundays, and sit back and relax. And, of course, swat mosquitoes, brush away low-hanging moss and fresh cobwebs, and keep an eye out for snakes that could spook even his swamp-wise horse.

Tom usually found a special beauty in the swamp, but this morning it was too oppressive and filled with death and decay, fueling his already dark mood. Only thirty-five years ago, the Paxtons had lived beyond the edge of the swamp near the Atlantic, where Jason Brand and the pirate Marie Ravenne, known as Raven, had landed a century earlier and taken the name of Paxton. Tom's grandfather, though, a careful man, had chosen to relocate farther inland during the War for Independence. In the years since, his grandfather and father, and now Tom himself, had built Solitary into one of the most impressive plantations in South Carolina.

There was no question but that the family had done well for itself. Tom had been running Solitary for the last two years. His father, Jason Behan Paxton, and mother, Cassandra-Colleen, who everyone called Colleen, had moved back to the family home in Brand-borough, where Jason reigned as the town patriarch. Benjamin, Tom's younger brother, had ventured west three years earlier and sent back occasional messages that a man who knew mules could make a fortune—which he was doing—and that he was having the time of his life. Hope Elaine, Tom's sister, was married to a horse breeder in Tennessee. Tom hadn't seen Hope Elaine for over two years, but her letters indicated that she was happy and more than satisfied with her lot in life. And as for himself?

Ah, Jenny, Jenny
.

Shadows washed over him in the hypnotic calm, the emerald twilight closeness of the swamp.

Jenny, Jenny. What did you say?

His mind reached back into the past to pick a memory out of a host of memories like a rose from a bouquet. He knew he would prick himself on the thorns, but didn't care.

Forever? The very word you used as we fled to London. Forever.…

Tom's visit to England in 1806 had begun as a business trip, but had turned into much more. Not only would he bring home a shipload of wool fabric and cutting tools and sundry other articles and goods to be sold and traded in Charleston, but a bride as well.

A heavy overcast had delayed the dawn. Inside the carriage house behind the Vincent country mansion, all was dark and still. Tom carefully felt his way through the building until all the doors were closed and the windows shuttered. Only then did he remove the hood from the lantern he'd brought and load his carpetbag and rifle into the small fast barouche he'd selected earlier. The next step was riskier because he knew he couldn't avoid making noise. Working quickly, he selected the tack he'd need for the barouche and carried the rest to the stable, where he hid it under a pile of hay.

A horse nickered, another beat a tattoo on a stall wall. Tom held his breath, but the groom, who slept in a small room off the stable, snored on contentedly. Tom coaxed his favorite pair of bay geldings out of their stalls and led them into the carriage house, where he hitched them quickly to the barouche. Finished, he paused and took a deep breath. Everything was ready, and the minute Jenny arrived they could leave her father's country estate and make for London, there to board the Paxton ship that waited to set sail for South Carolina.

The side door creaked. Tom shielded the lantern and ducked out of sight.

“Tom?” a voice whispered. “It's me.”

“Close the door.” He heard the door close, then opened the lantern and hurried to meet her and help carry her bags. “You have everything?”

“I think so.” Jennifer stretched up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. Dressed in a simple beige traveling gown, her pale, narrow shoulders hidden by a lined lace shawl, and a bonnet covering her long honey-blond hair, Jennifer Louise Vincent looked absolutely radiant. Only eighteen, five years younger than Tom, she retained a simple girlish innocence, yet was far from being a mere girl. The master artist, love, had blessed her with subtly blushing cheeks which complemented her classically high cheekbones, pert nose, and full rose-colored lips that were sensual and yet almost regally demure. Most striking, however, were her eyes. Amethyst, they were widely spaced, frank, open, and compassionate; they drew people to her, as they had certainly drawn Tom the moment he met her. “We'd better hurry,” she said, giving his arm a squeeze. “The servants will be up and about any minute. Someone may have heard or seen me as it is.”

“They'll be too late to stop us,” Tom assured her, leading her to the barouche. “I hid the tack, and I can't imagine your father riding bareback.” He loaded Jenny's bags and helped her into the backseat. “Up you go. I'll get the doors and we'll be on our way.”