Whisper of Magic (34 page)

He’d worry about how he’d board a ship on the river and
fight an army of sailors once he got there—
nobility
be damned
.

Justice obviously required leadership—or a good healthy
shove off a cliff.

***

“Miss Rochester, where the devil are you? Where are the
d—, bl—” Ashford swore under his breath, swung his
stick at a hall tree, and finally finished bellowing—“Servants?”

Wearing her riding apparel and tying on a cloak, Celeste
breathlessly ran down the stairs to the tune of this tirade. “I do apologize,
my lord,” she called, as she rushed toward the front door.

The marquess stood commandingly in the arched doorway of the
formal parlor. He stuck his walking stick across the hall to halt her. Behind
him milled an assortment of gentlemen following their conversation with
interest. She assumed they would observe anything the marquess did at this
point. Watching a blind man taking his place in Parliament would be much akin
to watching monkeys in a cage.

The fate of all Britain might rest on Ashford’s shoulders.
And still she could not abandon Jamar. Perhaps her newly developed backbone was
in the wrong place.

“Where are you going?” the marquess demanded.

“Lansdowne’s bullies have stolen Jamar,” she said furiously,
pulling on her riding gloves and shoving aside his stick. “They will claim he
is part of the estate and
sell
him.
It is not to be borne. You may tell your friends that slavery is inhumane
.
Who do they think they are, allowing
human beings to be sold away from their families? The Roman Caesars and their
armies are deservedly dead
.
Britain
should not court their fate.”

“I do not need a lecture, Miss Rochester,” the marquess
retorted. “I asked where you are
going.
Do you need the carriage?”

She tried not to gape in astonishment. “I believe a horse
will be quicker, my lord. Trevor has gone to fetch some.” She was terrified.
She had never done anything like this in her life. But if she had any spine at
all, it was because Jamar had showed her how to grow one.

And Lord Erran had given her the support to use it.

“And just what precisely do you hope to achieve by going
alone? One assumes you are not carrying pistol or sword.”

She had no idea what she hoped to achieve. A riot, perhaps.
“I will not let Jamar believe he’s been abandoned. I have my sewing money. I
will find some way—”

“You have wits to let, Miss Rochester.” The marquess turned
back into the room. “You have your phaeton, George?”

***

By the time Erran reached the dock, a mob had formed.
Carriages and wagons filled the cobblestoned roadway and the pier was milling
with laborers.

His blood thundered in panic. He prayed Celeste had stayed
home and not ventured into this crude sailor’s hurly-burly.

But even as he thought it, he heard her crystalline angel’s
voice carry over the rumbles of the rough and disorderly crowd. “It is that
ship right out there, the
Jolly Wench
.
We cannot let it sail!”

Oh hell and damnation
—did
the woman not remember how a London riot deteriorated into violence?

Erran swung off his horse and hauled down the urchin who had
directed him here. “My thanks, lad.” He pressed a gold coin into the boy’s
palm. “We may need your help rescuing the lady, if you wish to hang about a
bit.”

Gazing at the coin in astonishment, the tough tested the
metal with his teeth. “I can look after your horse for you.”

Not looking back, Erran shoved his way into the mob, keeping
his eye out for the blasted female doing her best to get herself killed. Or
worse. The docks were no place for a woman alone.

He discovered Celeste standing on a pylon on the pier,
balancing her tall, slender frame with delicate grace above the rough men with
whom she pleaded.

One small shove—and she’d be dragged down into the tide,
into the filthy sewer of a disease-ridden river. The mob was too close. One
shove was inevitable with the fury she was raising.

He
could hear her
fear and fury. The mob heard only her command. Seamen were already leaping into
skiffs and setting sails as if she were their general. She was damned well
sending them to war!

Her hood had fallen back from her mahogany hair, revealing
the full beauty of her brilliant eyes and slashing cheekbones. Half the men
here were probably spell-bound by her captivating looks alone. Erran elbowed a
filthy sailor out of his way in his rush to reach her.

“We must stop this piracy!” she called in a soaring voice
that carried over the dock and probably the water. “A man should not be taken
in chains and forced to abandon his home!”

Eminently foul word
.
Erran elbowed faster. She was describing the British system of punishment—chain
up the thieves, heave them on a boat to the penal colonies, and forget about
them.

The rumbles around him were that of agreement. These men
lived with that threat every day. They didn’t care about Jamar, probably didn’t
even know he was African or Jamaican. Prison ships, they understood. She was
brilliant.

And her
magic
was
terrifying. But it couldn’t save her from the river. Her layers of petticoats
alone would drown her.

He’d told her she was weak. He should have realized she was
insane! Or maybe
he
was, for saying
any such thing. Gut-wrenching horror had him elbowing a filthy deckhand larger
than he was as he shoved closer to the pier.

More men leapt into boats. A flotilla formed on the filthy
waters of the Thames. The tide depth was against the larger ship, but the
little ones navigated this stream all day.

Erran wanted to tear his hair and bellow for everyone to go
home, but he couldn’t. He had to respect that the fool woman was doing
precisely what was necessary for the occasion—even if she risked her own life
in doing so. He was the inexperienced one in the Realm of the Wyrd.

But he damned well wasn’t letting the brilliant, reckless
female stand up there alone and unguarded. Keeping his hand on his pistol, he
bullied his way to a space near her feet. Legs braced apart, arms crossed, he
defied anyone to come close. He wasn’t certain she saw him. She was concentrating
hard on the right commands and not the pushing and shoving men milling at her
feet.

To Erran’s relief, Trevor eased up to his side, his hand on
the grip of his sword. The boy had good instincts.

“Bring back the prisoner!” Celeste cried, gesturing dramatically
with her cloaked arm, pointing at the ship.

More men poured into boats. A few leapt into the muddy
freezing water and began stroking toward the middle where the
Jolly Wench
bobbed. Erran had to catch
Trevor’s shoulder to prevent the boy from leaping to this command.

“She’s inciting a riot! Stop her, men!” a male voice
abruptly bellowed from the cobblestones.

Celeste’s eyes widened. Erran turned to see a phalanx of
uniformed men marching through the crowd. These weren’t bobbies, but hired
forces.

He recognized the commander—
Lansdowne
.

In an attempt to retreat from the soldiers, the mob panicked
and surged toward the river. Crushed between the edge of the pier and the
crowd, Erran and Trevor stood shoulder to shoulder, attempting to stand strong
against the wave of humanity, giving Celeste time to climb down.

She teetered helplessly, looking for footing as the crowd
surged.

With a mighty bellow, Erran grabbed for her. Before he could
clasp even her cloak, she lost her balance and toppled—
into the foulness of the Thames
. She would drown in that
debris-strewn tide.

Watching such brilliance vanish beneath the murk was akin to
seeing the sun explode and the heavens crash. Erran roared his anguish.

Caution be damned.
He could not let her die. Bellowing for ropes and buoys, uncaring that objects
leaped off the pier without human intervention, he tugged off his coat
containing the valuable documents and shoved it at Trevor. Without noticing
that his entire audience madly jumped into the water around him, Erran dived
after his sunshine.

Water as thick as pea soup closed over her head.
Petticoats, cloak, and riding boots dragged her down through the murk. Celeste
held her breath until she thought her lungs might burst and she started seeing
stars. Frantically, she kicked, but fabric wrapped her legs, trapping her more
surely than a river of seaweed. Something filthy bobbed beneath her nose. She
fought to avoid it, and a rotted timber slammed into her arm. Panicking, she
grabbed at it, but the board dipped from her hand and bobbed away. And she kept
sinking. Her struggle against the current got her nowhere.

She sensed her parents in the water and air around her,
frantically urging her to safety. She longed to reach out to them . . .

Abruptly, a barrage of large objects plunged into the water
around her in a confusion of colors and bubbles.

Unable to hold her breath longer, she gulped for air. At the
same time, her braid caught on an invisible hook. She almost screamed, except
she couldn’t. Choking, blacking out, she was barely aware of being hauled
upward. Her cloak was ripped from her throat, and she felt immeasurably
lighter. An arm grabbed her waist—

The muscular solidity was as familiar to her as her own
frailty, jarring her back to consciousness. Why was he here? He was supposed to
be in court, saving her family home. Was he dead, like her parents?

Frantic for his sake and for his child’s, her spirit clung
to this drowning body.

She wept and coughed as her head emerged from the water. She
still couldn’t breathe, but Erran’s frantic pleas for her to live reached her
through the veil separating her from life. She couldn’t speak to tell him she
was trying. Her voice was gone with her breath. She gagged desperately for air
as he swam to the pier.

She could hear shouts of rage and panic and . . .
concern? Maybe. She inhaled abruptly and couldn’t think while gasping for
breath and choking on water.

Hands hauled her upward until she sprawled along the pier
planks, spitting up her lungs, soaked, and miserable. She tried to shove
upright. She tried to shout Jamar’s name, remind them they must rescue Jamar . . .

Erran sat on her rump. “Shut up. Just shut up for once.
They’ve boarded the
Wench
. The mob is
furious and out of control and turning on Lansdowne’s thugs and will probably
light fire to warehouses soon. The earl and his men are being mauled and driven
back. You did a very good job of arousing ire. Just
stay down
!” He pushed her flat, then pounded and massaged her back
until she indecorously heaved up half the contents of the river.

“Trevor, your handkerchief,” Erran commanded when she had no
more to heave.

A clean white square was pressed to her mouth, and the heavy
weight lifted from her back. “You weigh twice of me,” she muttered, scrambling
to sit.

“And a good thing too,” he retorted. “I went down faster.”

“Like cannon shot,” Trevor said cheerfully, although his
voice hid terror.

She didn’t
want
to
hear other people’s fear. She had enough of her own to last a lifetime.
Shivering, she accepted someone’s coat and leaned into an equally soaked
Erran’s reassuring embrace. She couldn’t stop shaking. Or crying. She had to
do
something. She couldn’t let Jamar—

A roar of triumph echoed over the water. She barely had the
strength to lift her head and look.

She caught a glimpse of Jamar standing tall and proud on the
ship’s deck. Men swarmed over the
Wench
,
dismantling the sails, carrying out trunks.

“Wharf rats,” Erran commented, drawing her closer, holding
her as if he would never let her go again. “They’ll strip the ship clean now.
It’s blatant thievery, but I cannot condemn them if they demolish a slaver.”

Neither could Celeste. She watched with hope as, unshackled,
Jamar climbed down and into a waiting rowboat. At least one of the sailors
appeared to be an honest man. Rather than wait for riches, he began rowing
Jamar back to the dock.

“Justice takes a strange path,” Erran murmured above her
head. “I must condemn lawlessness, but if fighting among thieves brings
justice, who am I to argue?”

Pistol shots rang out near the warehouses. The mob still on
shore roared in rage and surged in several directions at once. She could hear
fistfights breaking out and shuddered. “I should stop them.”

“Take a look at yourself and say that again,” Erran said in
that disturbing tone she couldn’t quite define.

While she glanced down at her seaweed draped skirts and
soaked bodice—revealing everything they were meant to hide— he released her.
She hadn’t been fully aware that she’d been in his arms until she wasn’t—he
felt that much a part of her.

He was right. She couldn’t stand up looking like this.
People would merely see a madwoman. Wringing out her loosened braid, she
watched as Erran stood and took the perch she’d commanded earlier.

“He got his new shirt wet,” she said sadly, madly, admiring
the way his lordship’s finery plastered to his athletic build as he shouted at
a rioting mob.

“He’s lost his neckcloth,” Trevor said, “and his boots will
never be the same again. He encouraged a riot to save a nodcock
like you.”

For
her
. Not for the
marquess. Not for riches. For her. The elegant, intimidating aristocrat she’d
once regarded in awe had saved a pathetically useless wretch like her—as if she
might actually have some value. Even after she’d used the compulsion he
condemned.

As she watched Erran shouting in his commanding courtroom
voice, accepting his gift and conquering his fear of becoming his evil cousin,
she thrilled at the knowledge that he did this for her. Maybe, just maybe, he
hadn’t simply been being polite when he’d offered marriage. Was it possible a
gentleman of his many talents could actually
care
?