Cormac watched as Marjorie and the last of the boys disappeared over the side, and then he turned his attention to Jack. He'd need to better the odds, which meant splitting the captain off from the rest of his men.
The captain's cabin would be aft. It'd be a small cell, small enough to accommodate only a few sailors at a time, minimizing the number of men Cormac would have to face at once. He flexed his fingers, anticipation heightening his senses. Despite what he'd told Ree about an aversion to confinement, he fought well in enclosed spaces.
“To your cabin,” Cormac said and then realized he should temper himself so as not to arouse suspicion. A man in Lord Brodie's position —
a wealthy noble dealing with smugglers, presumably for the first time —
would express
caution. He added, “You'll get the money when I'm not feeling so exposed.” Nodding, the smuggler led them to a small cabin at the rear of the ship.
As they crossed the deck, he studied Jack's back. Cormac was the taller man, but the captain wasn't exactly small. And the man had a sword, while Cormac had only his pistol. Which was a handy weapon indeed, if one had the time to load it, and time was something Cormac wouldn't have.
He rubbed his fingers together, deep in thought. He'd need to disarm Jack and muscle his way out. His elbow grazed the knob of wood and steel holstered at his side. A cold smile cocked the corner of his mouth. Pistols were capable of more than just firing bullets.
He'd have only one opportunity to act.
Smugglers or no, ships like these were run with clocklike precision.
Every moment he hesitated invited interruption.
Cormac didn't hesitate. Jack entered the dim cell. It was just as he'd imagined it: a narrow rectangle of a room featuring a bunk, a small table and bench, two portholes, and a lantern bearing an unlit candle.
Cormac stepped in right behind him, and then stepped even closer still, until he could smell the man's sweat and feel the heat of his body radiate to his chest.
Jack stopped, stiffened, began to turn. “What do you—”
Cormac slammed his pistol down onto the captain's temple. Jack grunted, and Cormac caught him before he toppled noisily to the ground. Hugging the man awkwardly to him, he kicked the door shut behind them, shuffling Jack forward and dropping him onto his cot.
He was back out the door at once, Jack's sword in his hand. Though he held the blade as low and as inconspicuously as possible, it was only a matter of time before some canny sailor recognized their captain's blade in this stranger's hand.
A few sailors looked at him, and he held their eyes, giving them a brazenly confident nod. It was apparendy an attitude they were comfortable with, because nobody raised any alarm.
He walked briskly to the side of the ship and had almost reached the ladder when he heard the old man's voice.
“Ho!”
Cormac picked up his pace, and the man shouted again, “You there!” He sensed the activity on deck come to a standstill. There was a loud thump behind him as a man jumped from the rigging, landing just behind his shoulder.
Cormac sprinted to the edge of the ship, looking over the side for Marjorie. The boys had congregated at the head of the dock, and she stood alone, staring up at him. The anguish on her face broke something in him. He hated bringing her pain, and he'd do his best to survive this. But if he didn't, he'd know he'd given his all, and all for her.
His years of killing, of watching the killing, all would be redeemed today, on this ship. All his terrible knowledge, his talents, would finally be put to a good end.
“Cormac,” she screamed. “Behind you!”
He tossed the coin purse down to her. “Go!”
She caught it, but then simply stood, paralyzed, on the quay.
Panic seized him. “Run, now!”
He hated leaving her alone. And then he remembered there was one person in Aberdeen, outside of her uncle's home and apart from her charity work, whom Marjorie could count on. “Run,” he shouted again. “To your maid, lass! Hide with your maid!”
As he watched her eyes flicker bright with understanding, he heard a footfall behind him. Raising his sword, he spun, blocking a young sailor's blade with a sharp clang, stopping it just above his collarbone.
Chapter 27
She raced up the quay, thoughts careening wildly in her head. She'd done it again. She'd made a dreadful decision, a deadly decision.
A low keening sound escaped from her lips, and she bit it back. The boys were waiting for her at the head of the dock, terrified. She needed to be strong for them. Cormac would want her to be strong.
A loud crack sounded at her back. She'd never heard gunfire before, but the menace and the power of it was unmistakable.
Her legs pumped faster. She reached them and, barely slowing her pace, snatched Davie's hand and another of the smaller boys.
“Marjry,” Davie cried, his tiny fist damp in hers. She clutched it even harder, terrified he might slip from her grasp. “You're hurtin' me, Marjry.”
She shushed him, and panic made her voice stern. “Run! We must run!” Run. It was the last thing Cormac had told her to do. Would those final words echo forever in her mind, haunting her? Go… run. This time she couldn't stop the short, sharp cry that tore from her throat.
Cormac was the one who should've run — from the sight of her. He'd known it that day on the beach at Dunnottar.
He'd wanted nothing to do with her, but she'd forced herself back into his life. He'd been wary, skittish, as though only he had been able to see the clouds of tragedy looming over her shoulder, just on the horizon.
Cormac. A sharp cramp in her side stole her breath. She embraced it and ran harder. What pain was Cormac enduring even now, for her?
She'd impetuously demanded all the boys. They hadn't discussed it before. She was sure he would've done her bidding, had they only discussed it, planned for it. Instead, she'd made the decision for them rashly, and it was costing Cormac his life.
She could see no way out of his situation. She'd gotten away with the boys and the money. All the fighting talent in the world wouldn't save him from a shipload of furious smugglers.
He had no way out.
She stopped, leaned over, a hand on her knees. Gasping for air, she clutched at her belly, feeling like she might be sick right there in the street.
She felt a small hand stroking awkwardly at her hair. Davie. Wee Davie. She had to get him to safety. It wasn't about her now, nor Cormac. He'd known that; it was why he'd forsaken his life to save theirs.
Convulsively swallowing back the bile in her throat, she looked up. The boys were staring at her expectantly, alarm and confusion furrowing their poor, filthy faces.
She glanced around to get her bearings. The docks were far at their backs now, and in her panic, she'd led them down a warren of side streets. She needed to gather her wits, or it'd mean the death of all of them. Not wanting to invite too much attention, she forced herself to walk again.
Fiona. Cormac's last intention had been that she find her maid, Fiona, and that was exactly what she would do.
Pulling her shoulders back, she picked up her pace, but not so much as to raise suspicion. “Come now, boys.” One of the younger ones was crying silently. She gave a perfunctory pat to his head. “Steady on, lad. You're safe now,” she assured him, wishing she spoke the truth.
She racked her mind, trying to get her bearings and recall where exactly Fiona lived. How could it be that the maid had been in their employ for over a decade, and yet Marjorie had never once been to her house? She scolded herself. All her talk of the importance of charitable living, and here she'd never expressed enough of an interest in Fiona's life to pay her family a single visit.
She remembered the lass had once told her of life in the vennel, a narrow lane off Huckster Row and one of the poorer spots in Aberdeen. Marjorie girded herself, hoping Fiona still lived there. Braving the vennel was bad enough; she prayed it wouldn't be in vain.
They came to the head of the alley. Buildings hovered close together, casting the place in cold shadow. The boys edged away, outright panic on their faces.
“Come on,” she urged, tugging at Davie's hand.
One of the older boys came to a full stop, his arms crossed over his chest. “No, mum.” The pose reminded her of Cormac, and a needle of pure anguish pricked her chest. Marjorie pursed her lips. She had no time for boys' nonsense. They were in grave danger, and doubly so now that they were standing exposed and unprotected before who knew what manner of unsavory elements there were to be found in this neighborhood. “No, what?”
“I'll not go there.” His face took on a look of utter indifference, as if he had something better to do, and Marjorie were merely the pest keeping him from it.
“You listen to me.” Every ounce of fear and regret poured into her voice, sharpening her tone into something that'd tame even the most headstrong of Saint Machar lads. “I'm saving you, if you haven't noticed. You will do as I say, you little wretch, and right this instant. And what I'm saying is that you will” — she let go Davie's hand to tweak the older boy's ear — “follow” — she stepped into the lane, dragging him close behind — “me.” Marjorie herded them along, feeling more alone than ever. The vennel matched her despairing mood. Dilapidated houses crammed the alley cheek by jowl, each shoddier than the last, all listing walls and windows stuffed with rags. But it was the silence that struck her the most. The place was silent and menacing, as though people skulked behind closed doors hiding and scheming.
This was where the blushing Fiona lived? Marjorie shivered. It was a horrid place. She took in one appalling structure after another, wondering how she would ever find her.
A few of the boys apparently felt more secure, though, because they split off from the group, scuffling and running along the lane, shouting threats at each other.
Her face flushed hot with anger and fear. The boys were innocents who had no idea what they were dealing with.
