Page 3 of His Unforgettable Bride (Bride Ships: New Voyages #4)

Three

Beware of such vulgar interpolations as “You know,”

“You see,” “I’ll tell you what.”

“Y ou know, a dead prince is worth far less than a live one,” a gruff voice said.

Henry was not dead yet, but he had no intention of correcting the man’s assumption that his last breaths were not imminent. Lying on the cold floor, perhaps of a steamboat, if the steady rumble of an engine was any indication. He kept his eyes shut and his body still. His head throbbed. The scent of blood, most likely his own, mixed with hay and the ripe stench of manure. He fought the urge to shiver from the cold.

On cue, a cow mooed. Was he stuck down with the animals on the lower deck of the steamer going…where?

When he strained to recall his attack, his head threatened to explode. He’d been struck. In the side of the head hard with the gun, but that did not account for the throbbing at the back of his skull. Had he smacked against a rock when he fell unconscious?

He drew in a steadying breath. How was Dobbin? Was he on the ship somewhere?

Henry prayed his friend had not been captured, too. Even worse, he hoped Dobbin had not been left dead on the beach.

Dead. Like Sutton.

Henry flinched, hoping his captors failed to notice. The anguish of losing his brother washed over him anew. If only he had done more to amend their differences. But now it was too late…

If only he had done more to fix the problems with his father, too. But they had parted ways on unfavorable terms, especially after Henry’s last escapade before leaving on his voyage.

He had donned a disguise and entered a horserace, betting a large sum on himself as the winner. But his horse drew up lame, Henry lost, and the King learned about the stunt. During his reprimand, his father threatened to cancel Henry’s trip. But Mother intervened, believing time apart was best. She hoped Henry would soon realize his actions impacted the entire family.

Guilt pressed against him again. What would it take to turn his life around? Indeed, Sutton’s death and the kidnapping were strong contenders.

Of course, he disliked upsetting his parents, who must have been consumed with grief over losing their firstborn. His four younger sisters—Amanda, Charlotte, Nora, and Maureen—were undoubtedly mourning Sutton’s loss, too. The girls adored their older brothers, and the feelings were mutual. If Henry failed to survive his unfolding ordeal, he would shatter their tender hearts even more.

He had to fix his predicament, but how?

“I tell you what, the prince should have awoken by now, you’d think,” came a slurred voice—probably the toothless one. “There’s a doctor in Everly. Suppose we get off there, have him give the prince a once-over, and then we catch a later boat.”

How long had he been unconscious? Was it still the same night as his attack? The next day? Or longer yet?

“Don’t be an idiot,” replied the gruff voice, belonging to the man who had carried the gun. “The last thing we want, you see, is someone to catch us with royalty. Use your head. We’re going straight to Hope, like the boss said. That’s final.”

Was Hope a city, a secret hideaway where criminals plotted underhanded deeds? Or did his imagination run wild? Perchance, both possibilities rang true.

“What do you suppose is the going rate for a prince these days?” the toothless man asked.

“Hard telling, but I wager it’ll be hefty.”

Moments later, one of them released an obnoxiously loud yawn. “Must be past midday. Gonna go stretch my legs.”

“While at it,” said the gruff voice, “check how long until we dock.”

The toothless man mumbled as hay rustled and the floor creaked. Soon, footsteps sounded and faded.

With only one foe guarding him, should he attempt to escape?

Henry slit his eyes to examine his surroundings. It was broad daylight, and cloudy blue skies floated past above the deck railing. If it was past midday, then he had been unconscious since at least last evening.

His elbow itched, and he glanced at his arm. Dried blood stained his sleeve. Why did he only wear ripped undergarments? No wonder he was cold. Was his clothing removed to deter him from fleeing? If so, his captors had judged him incorrectly, for nothing would stop him other than a bullet.

A body length away, the assailant with the gun resting in his lap casually leaned against a plank that perhaps shielded the animals from the chilly water’s spray. His legs stretched before him with ankles crossed. The brim of his hat rode low, covering much of his shadowy face. Regardless, Henry had no trouble identifying him—the assailant who had rendered him unconscious with his rifle.

Every muscle in Henry’s body tensed. He would sooner take a chance on fleeing than remain complacent. But what advantage did he have over a man with a weapon?

But then his guard released a snore, a deep-chested rattle—a positive development.

Any minute, the man’s partner might return. Therefore, Henry had to be clever, inconspicuous, and on his way. Silently, he rose, then paused to regain his bearings and combat his dizziness before tiptoeing around the cows, sheep, pigs, and a horse tethered to posts. Once he moved away from the livestock, he halted again to catch his bearings.

The rumble of an engine nearby and the steady slap of a paddlewheel told him that he was indeed on a steamboat. Ahead of the steamer to the east, the rocky shoreline and harbor surrounded by a small town seemed to beckon him. It could not be more than a quarter of a mile away. Was this the Everly his captors had mentioned?

Voices and footfalls drew near, and he ducked behind a mound of crates. Two deckhands passed by, perhaps getting ready to dock soon.

Should he search for the captain and report his kidnapping? His heartbeat thumped in his head, tapping a message to find a doctor. He touched the laceration at the back of his head from where he had hit something. It was still slick with blood. He winced, though he doubted the wound required stitches, and wiped his hand on his underclothing.

A steam whistle split the air with a long, slow bellow as if announcing the steamer’s ever-nearing proximity to the shore. At the noise, the pain in his temple sharpened. He braced his head until the throbbing subsided before rising and moving along the rail. Should he jump into the water and try to swim to shore? When in Bascandy, he swam the pond length at the palace daily, sometimes twice.

More than anything, he wished he was there now.

Was jumping over the side his best option? Or, in his weakened and injured condition, should he wait until the gangplank was lowered? It wouldn’t be long.

He kept to the shadows as the steamboat chugged into the harbor. With another whistle, this one with three shorter blasts, the vessel drew alongside a wharf. The deckhands began to secure the boat, and a few minutes later, Henry sidled toward the gangplank, now being lowered with chains and large iron hinges. He paused to watch, willing the escape route procedure to move along faster.

A few workers glanced sideways at him, and why not? Barefooted, filthy, and in his undergarments, who would not raise their eyebrows at his appearance?

“Hey!” The slurred voice belonged to his toothless captor. “Stop that man!”

Undoubtedly, that man was Henry.

Without glancing behind him, he hopped onto the gangplank, which had just barely touched the shore. His head and feet were pounding with each step. Charging forward, he perused the scene before him. A line of passengers was starting to board a steamboat pointed west—presumably toward Victoria.

Of course, its destination could be anywhere. But anywhere appealed more than his current position.

An idea formed around the edges of his mind. What if he raced on board, fooling his pursuers into thinking he intended to hide on the ship? Instead, he would leap into the strait. But only after he reached the front, putting distance between himself and everyone else, ensuring his pursuers failed to notice his escape.

Except he was a spectacle in his unmentionables. In theory, his plan could succeed. But then again, based on his injury, he may drown. Still, he had to take the risk, mainly because shouts from his kidnappers trailed behind him.

Henry charged down the wooden wharf, dodging passengers, livestock, and carts headed toward the departing steamer. He spun onto the crowded gangplank and jostled travelers as he maneuvered forward. “Apologies, apologies,” he repeated countless times.

A giant of a man in a coonskin cap elbowed Henry. “Watch where you’re going.”

“Please forgive me.” He hurried forward, aware he exhibited deplorable manners, yet plowed toward his goal. Otherwise, he may lose more than a footrace.

When Henry’s feet hit the slippery deck, he bolted forward yet maintained his balance. He veered to starboard, needing to disappear.

Ideally, his pursuers would search high and low for him. With any luck, the steamer would pull away with the kidnappers still aboard, offering Henry ample time to swim to safety. If he survived the next twenty-four hours, he may even book a passage back to Victoria as early as tomorrow morning.

What a tale to relay to Dobbin upon his return…if Dobbin had survived. Hopefully, his friend was safe, sound, and at the hotel, though he would undoubtedly suffer physically from his assault and mentally with worry over Henry’s disappearance. Dobbin would blame himself for neglecting his duties and allowing his charge to vanish mysteriously. But the kidnapping was not his friend’s fault.

Henry reached the deck’s railing and glanced behind him. Finding nobody nearby, he climbed over and dropped into the icy water, praying he did not splash.

Or freeze to death.

The shock to his system nearly made him gasp, but he clamped his lips shut. The cold pierced his skin, and he struggled to focus as the blasted misery consumed his thoughts. With hard, swift strokes, he swam, forcing himself to remain underwater until his lungs threatened to burst.

If he surfaced, would he be seen? Had his captors fallen for his ruse? Did they now search for him on the second steamboat?

He raised his head enough from the clear water to gasp a deep breath and gauge his location. Thankfully, the afternoon tide barely hampered his progress. He slipped back under the surface, his feet numbing from the cold, and continued to swim underwater parallel to the shoreline, hoping to put a safe distance between himself and his captors.

When the town’s shoreline was no longer in sight, he fully rose to his feet, slipped out of the strait, and onto an empty, pebbly beach. Water dripped from his hair, chin, arms, and undergarments. Shaking and exhausted, Henry stumbled forward over twigs and rocks that poked at his tender skin until he reached a pine tree on the beach’s fringe.

He briefly paused behind it to catch his breath. Between the cold and his aching head, the swim had nearly ended his life, yet he had persevered. Rarely, if ever, had he given up on a challenge—not a horse race, chess match, or fistfight with his brother.

His current life-and-death nightmare was not the time to change his habits.

He peered around the prickly edge and tried to see down the shore toward the steamboat he had abandoned minutes ago. As far as he could tell, nobody was following him. But Henry needed another blessing—a safe, friendly place to warm up and stay out of sight. Who would help him in his current state? If not mistaken, he smelled like a dead fish and probably looked worse. And he had no money.

Should he venture back toward town and search for the help he needed? Or should he wait in the woods along the community’s edge until more confident his kidnappers no longer searched for him in the area?

A distant whistle blared a quick, powerful blast. Was the steamboat he had temporarily boarded preparing to leave the harbor? And were his kidnappers on board?

Merciful heavens, he hoped so.

Just in case they had decided to scout the town, Henry would be safest if he stayed hidden in the woodland for a while longer, preferably away from the shore.

Every muscle was stiff from the cold as he swerved around the impediments in his path—trees, stumps, a thorny hedge, and a canoe in the weeds. He crossed a muddy road and soon sneaked past the rear of a livery with penned horses.

Moving north, he climbed a hill and entered a more residential area to one side of him with dense timber on the other. When the hill crested, he paused to lean his hand against the trunk of a birch tree, winded.

Ahead, a sprawling lawn separated him from a stately house and outer buildings. Perhaps someone would step outside and, after a bit of coaxing, offer him dry clothing or a warm blanket. Or should he search for a church? Surely, he would find assistance there.

A gunshot echoed in the distance. His kidnappers or a hunter, perhaps?

Unsure and shaky, Henry spun and staggered into the woods. He listened for voices or footsteps but only heard a whooshing inside his head.

Another gunshot cracked the air, closer this time.

Was someone coming after him? Probably not. Why would his kidnappers be shooting? Even so, he could not take a chance and had to move farther from the town .

He wove deeper into the thick woods, pinecones and twigs stabbing his feet. With each step, the throbbing in his head roared louder until nausea rose inside him, and lights flashed at the backs of his eyes.

A wave of dizziness hit him while he stumbled over a root. He was falling but could not find the energy to brace for the impact. In the next instant, his body collided with the ground.