Ransom (27 page)
Pray God he would be all right.
~
Archer wiggled his fingers slightly, then rubbed them together, and was rewarded when the tingling in the fingertips diminished. Good. As long as he kept moving his hands, they didn’t go to sleep. And his arms were all right. If only the rope were just a bit longer, he might be able to untie it. But it was a single length, run through a couple of eyelets screwed into the bulkhead—moving a hand in one direction pulled the other hand out of reach.
Eight bells had sounded at least 20 minutes ago. Midnight. In just a little over half an hour, William was going to be out on that rigging, expecting that Archer would have done his part.
He had done nothing; Adrian was lying draped half across him, deep asleep. Too much brandy. The bastard had an unerring ability to do the worst possible thing, under every circumstance—such a nap would have been a godsend at any other time, Adrian asleep being infinitely preferable to awake.
I wonder what would happen if I just kicked him off the bunk.
Tempting, but not practical
. The way my luck’s been running, he’d break his damned neck—that would be all right—but I’d be lying here like this when Will comes back with the Captain.
There truly were situations worse than death, and they would certainly include being found by one’s commanding officer trussed up like the leavings from a Roman orgy. And even though William knew what had been going on, just telling him about it had been humiliating enough. To be seen by him, like this—
A single bell sounded on the quarterdeck above. Well, whatever he was going to do, he’d better do it now. Will would be sitting in the cell, ready to go, counting the minutes. In an hour, he’d expect the deck to be cleared of the guards, and knowing William he would try something even if they were still there. And what Adrian would do to him if this attempt were to fail—
No. It is not going to fail. Not on my account
. If he had to crawl, then, damn it, he’d crawl. He could scrub the filth off later. And why worry? There probably wasn’t going to be a “later.” Not for him.
Into the muck, then. He took a deep breath. “Captain—” He had not used that title before, nor any other respectful address. It had been the only way he could retaliate for the utter absence of respect with which he’d been treated. He nudged Adrian with his knee. “Captain?”
Adrian’s eyes opened. Archer could tell by his expression that he’d noted the formality. “Yes, laddie, what is it?”
Archer licked his lips. “Could—could we try something else now, please? My hands have gone numb.” It sounded horribly contrived... but that was Adrian’s style.
He took the bait, too, with a self-satisfied smirk. “You want more, do you? I expected you would come around. You are very like... someone I once knew. Stubborn, but malleable.” He sat up and trailed a hand along Archer’s arm to the rope, letting his fingers linger on the knots. “Very well. What would you like? I’ll untie this... as soon as you tell me.”
Archer’s mind went blank for a moment as he tried to find the least objectionable possibility. Or the quickest. “The... the French thing from the second night?”
“Frottage? Rather tame, don’t you think? And you were really very dull that evening.”
“I’d... never done anything like that before. I really wasn’t sure what to do.” Archer realized he was speaking in fragments, still dancing around an actual lie, trying to hold out in that last stronghold.
Adrian laughed. “I’ll wager you’ve never done most of what you’ve done this past week. But since you ask...” He started to undo the knot, then turned those pale eyes on Archer’s, like a hound catching a scent, holding the look with a knowing smile. “If you can ask politely.” His other hand stroked up the inside of Archer’s thigh. “Is that what you want, laddie? Say it.”
You son of a bitch.
Averting his eyes, Archer made his face as bland and ingenuous as he could; he couldn’t simulate desire to save his life—or even William’s. But he could lie. “Yes. Please?”
“That wasn’t so difficult, was it? Keep still, now—There.” The rope came free, sliding through the eyelets, and Archer let out the breath he’d been holding, relief making him nearly oblivious to Adrian’s hand on his body. “I do expect you to be a little more... active... this time.”
“Of—of course.” He rubbed his wrists, loosening the rope still fastened to the left. “What would you like me to do, sir?” That last was an effort, but he was past pride, now, and even past fear. This was war.
“That’s more what I want to hear. What would I like you to do? Let me consider that most excellent question—” He reached lazily for the brandy he’d left on the little bedside table.
As he half-turned something clicked in Archer’s mind, like a pistol’s hammer being drawn back. He lunged, reacting almost before he consciously recognized his chance. His world narrowed into immediate focus: the scrape of beard against the inside of his elbow, the startling splash of brandy on the side of his face as Adrian flung it backwards—a crash as the glass broke somewhere—the tremendous resistance of shoulder muscles as Adrian struggled to dislodge him.
But he had the angle right, the chin up and back, and a slight advantage of leverage since his adversary was on the wooden edge of the berth. Archer locked his right arm with his left, counting the seconds.
Pain shot up his arm; Adrian was digging his fingers into the muscle, raking with nails, desperate now. Archer closed his eyes and hung on, ignoring his right arm, holding tight with the left. In a little while Adrian was still. Sixty seconds—70—80... It was too easy; it must be a trick.
Archer glanced up, and past Adrian’s shoulder he could see a reflection in the mirror bolted to the wall opposite the bed. His own face was a mask of rage, ugly and frightening... and Adrian’s lips were blue above the neatly trimmed beard.
No trick.
He let go apprehensively, nonetheless, and was wholly astonished when his erstwhile tormenter slithered to the floor like a loose halyard. He stared in disbelief, but his body was already moving, tugging the end of rope from his own wrist, freeing his feet, heaving Adrian back up, tying the bastard—still breathing—just as he’d been tied himself minutes earlier.
It was not until he had the rope secure, and Adrian gagged with his own silk cravat, that he allowed himself a deep breath and noticed that his foot was wet. Blood? The broken glass on the carpet. Superficial cuts; he hardly felt them. He rolled up the little carpet and put it beneath the chest of drawers.
The mirror caught his eye once more, and he realized why Will had been so appalled the other day. The bruises were several days old now, and turning colors; he looked like Jonah’s whale had swallowed him, chewed awhile, and spat him back out.
How could Will have wanted me, looking like this?
It hadn’t felt like pity... No, he’d forgotten. It had been dark. William must have forgotten how horrible his body looked. Thank God.
Two bells sounded overhead. William was on his way. Archer surveyed the cabin. Weapons. He needed to find where Adrian kept weapons. Before doing that, though, he took a few seconds to pull on his breeches. He would have dearly loved to don the rest of his uniform, but he had no time—and he could not be fully dressed when he called in the guards.
Weapons. None in the drawers under the berth—though some of the things he recognized there made him glad he was leaving. He went through the chest of drawers, glancing at Adrian every few seconds to be sure he was still unconscious. In the third drawer, under some shirts, was a case containing a brace of pistols, complete with shot and powder. Archer charged the pistols and stuck them into his waistband. Now it looked like foresight—of course he’d had to put his breeches on, where else would he keep the pistols?
He found another pair of guns in one of the sea chests, and he loaded them, too. They weighed down the back of his waistband. Boarding party, indeed. But he could not go to the door arrayed like this—
His eye fell on Adrian’s dressing gown, black silk with some sort of China dragons picked out in gold. Yes, that would serve, it would look as though he’d snatched up the first thing that came to hand—but it could wait. He found his shirt and tied it around his waist, in case of a hasty exit. He wanted no part of that bastard’s clothing, but he had to cover the damage, hide it from the Captain’s eyes, and William’s, until he had time to heal.
Time? Adrian’s watch said 1:21 a.m. William might be at the rail even now, though he wasn’t due for another nine minutes. A furious sound from behind made him jump—Adrian, awake and glaring.
Archer felt a small, spiteful surge of triumph. “What’s the matter, Captain? Aren’t you
enjoying
yourself?” He pulled out one of the pistols; Adrian’s eyes took on a new look.
Fear.
It occurred to Archer that he probably ought to take some pleasure in this moment, but it only disgusted him. He reversed the gun and rapped Adrian sharply on the skull, managing to use just enough force to knock him unconscious. That should keep the bastard out for a little while. He wouldn’t need long.
His arm throbbed dully, and he dabbed at the gouges. They were bleeding a bit, but the dressing gown was dark enough that it wouldn’t show, and the brightly-lit cabin would dazzle the eyes of men coming in from the night.
He removed Adrian’s gag, for appearances, and checked the watch. 1:25. If Will said three bells—1:30—he would be hanging on the shrouds just below the deck by now. The plan was working, so far. Time for the next step.
Archer pulled the dressing gown over his armamentarium, checking in the mirror to see that the pistols weren’t making any unnatural bulges. He had to draw the guards in, and anyone else he could get, and hold them while William found the Captain.
At least the indignity of his position would work in his favor. He shouldn’t seem much of a threat. He took a deep breath, then crossed to the door, counting down the minutes. Just as the watch rang three bells, he pounded on the door.
“Guard! Guard! Anyone out—”
The door swung open; one of the guards stood scowling, pistol ready. Archer held his hands up, away from his body—that also kept the dressing gown out and away from the hidden pistols. “Don’t shoot! Please come in, it’s the captain. He’s—he’s had some kind of fit, I think.”
He stood well back as the guard entered. A second man stayed in the doorway. “What the hell’s going on here?” the first demanded, seeing Adrian tied.
Archer didn’t have to try to look nervous. “He—I know this sounds mad, but he—he wanted me to tie him like that and—and he—started to flop around—” They’d had an epileptic midshipman on the
Calypso,
for a short time; Captain Smith had sent the boy home, but Archer knew what a fit looked like “—and then he went unconscious. He’d had a lot to drink,” he added as he realized the smell of brandy was heavy in the air. “I didn’t know what to do—” He backed away as far as he could, until he stood just beside the door.
“Oh, bugger,” the first guard growled. “The crazy bastard’s really done it this time. Get Brown down here.”
The prosaic reaction was reassuring. Adrian was clearly not beloved by his crew. The second guard took a couple of steps back and called out to someone up on the quarterdeck. Footsteps thumped across and down the stair, and another man came in, better dressed than the first two, hastily tying a mask over his face. “What am I supposed to—” He went over to Adrian’s bunk, followed by the second guard, and gave a variation on the first guard’s theme. “What the hell is this all about?”
Archer unshipped two of the pistols and aimed carefully. “It’s about time we parted company, gentlemen. If you’d be so good as to put your weapons down—”
He saw the third man gauging the distance. “You’re right,” he said, feeling in control of himself and the situation for the first time in ages. “I can only shoot two at a time, and there are three of you. That means I’d have to shoot to kill, and take my chances with the survivor. Who would like to be first?”
No one volunteered. “In all honesty,” Archer said, “I wouldn’t say the man’s worth dying for. All we want to do is leave. Put your guns on the deck, if you would, and push them over here.”
“You can’t get away,” the senior man said.
“Perhaps not, but it seems worth a try. Or you could consider the offer Captain Smith made when we first came on board. He might still be willing to negotiate.”
Was he imagining it, or did they look thoughtful? “Your guns,” Archer reminded.
The two guards turned to the other man, who shrugged, took a pistol out of his waistband, and placed it on the deck. The others followed suit.
“Kick them over here. One at a time. You first.” He pointed to the third man. That done, he repeated the process with knives. When they’d all been disarmed, he took a page from the guards who’d stopped them signaling the ship, and had the three men lie down with their hands in sight.
“Now what?” one of them asked.
“Now...” Archer tried to hear what he could from the deck. Nothing but the sea, and the quiet creak of the rigging. He closed the door. “Now, we wait.”
Marshall risked a peek over the railing. Starlight was assisted by a candle-lantern hung on the quarterdeck near the binnacle, and another beside the door of Adrian’s quarters. The guards were at their posts—but as three bells sounded, he heard a pounding, and Archer’s voice, high and excited. The guards went into Adrian’s cabin; someone called out a moment later, and a third man came down from the quarterdeck and went inside, as well. The door closed.
Bless you, Davy.
The deck was quiet again. Marshall saw no one moving—though there would in all likelihood still be a man at the helm. He eased himself over the rail, still watching the cabin door, and heard a gasp behind him.
Halfway across the deck, a sailor was just coming down off the forecastle. His head snapped around toward Marshall, then he whirled and ran down the nearest stairway into the hold.
Marshall started after him, but heard footsteps on the quarterdeck approaching the stair. He ducked back into the shadow of that stairway, pulling the iron bar out of his waistband.