Page 49

The small fishing boat was cold, wet, and dark, and Will regretted that nobody was there to witness the scowl he wore openly on his face.

He despised boats.

“Far cry from a Viking,” he muttered. He sat on the floor of the hull, his back against the hard bench. The position did much to conceal him from view, but it did naught to soothe the ache from his bones.

The militia held Massey on a modest, twelve-oar birlinn. They’d boarded and would surely launch soon, and Will wondered just what was taking Ormonde so long.

The wait was interminable, and unfortunately it was giving him way too much time to think. Already his mind drifted to the future. Will kept reminding himself that anything less than total focus on the task at hand was dangerous, but thoughts of Felicity were irresistible.

Because he was going to find her.

Now that the notion had taken root, he was a man determined.

As unlikely as it seemed, he would see her again.

He adjusted his sporran in the darkness, thinking of the tattered star chart he still carried there.

He’d return to the maze, go through himself, and he didn’t care if it killed him in the effort.

Because if he couldn’t be with Felicity, he’d rather be dead.

Will had once thought it’d be the errand he ran for the Sealed Knot men that would kill him. But his father’s words resonated. Go to her. And the possibility would have to keep him alive, through just one more intrigue.

He wondered where she was. Wondered if he’d be successful, and where, or when, he would land. Would she have had their baby? Would he come upon her moments after she’d traveled back, or would he discover Felicity as an old woman?

He cared not. He simply wanted her .

Which meant he needed to survive the night.

And, curse it, Ormonde had convinced him of the damned boat. The Gloucester militia was shorthanded, and so transported their captive to the Parliamentary soldiers by water. A rescue by boat only made sense.

Which is why he found himself bobbing like some dour, godforsaken seabird in the waters just beyond Sharpness Dock.

Ormonde was ashore, where Rollo wished he were. The plan, for his friend to create a diversion, drawing the militiamen from the water. Will would’ve liked to join him on land, but the choice of roles was clear.

If they chase me, I can run. Ormonde’s words echoed in his head. His friend was fleet of foot, and without the aid of a horse, Will wasn’t fleet of anything.

His friend had spoken the words, then sensing the gaffe, had played it off. Said he’d taken the part of a crazed monk in their last outing, and now it was Will’s turn to have the more distasteful of jobs.

But Will knew. Though he could create a diversion, he was a cripple. The militia would run him to ground as surely as hounds did a fox.

And it redoubled his purpose. Although he reminded himself he needed to stay safe, as ever before he felt the need, like a primal urge in the recesses of his psyche, to prove himself.

A shot fired. He was roused and ready, a kick of nervous energy making his body hot despite the brisk breeze off the river.

It was time.

Another loud crack sounded, followed by flashes of signal fire in the distance. Ormonde had set numerous flares, each using a variation of the delayed saltpeter and paper fuse that had worked for them before. The effect was that a dozen men approached, instead of Ormonde’s one.

Men shouted from the deck of the militia birlinn. Will heard distant splashes as they left their boat to investigate. The night was clear and cold, and the sound was vivid, carrying to him over the water.

There were more shouts, this time from the dock.

The diversion was working. They were abandoning their prisoner, for the moment. Will hoped they hadn’t left more than one man to guard him.

Will pulled himself up onto the bench. The chill had locked his muscles, and the movement sent shards of glass shattering from his calves up his spine. Grimacing, he flexed, inhaled deeply, and exhaled, trying to breathe out the shock of pain.

He eased his oars into the water and began to row. Boats. He glowered. Despise them.

He pulled ashore not ten yards from the birlinn. Holding onto the side of his boat, Will clambered over, using his arms to ease into water up to his thighs. He had to let go for the final drop, and stumbled when his feet hit the soft silt of the river bottom.

A spike of rage hit him, more visceral than any icy water. He gathered himself, grateful none were there to witness the clownish lack of dignity.

He heard a distant gunshot. Ormonde, doing his job. Time for Will to do his.

Bracing himself, he waded to the birlinn. He carried an old cane, carved of oak, the strongest of Scottish wood. It was more a staff than a mere cane, with a hefty crook for a handle. It would be his ticket onboard.

He stood in the shadow of the birlinn. The smooth, low hull blocked the night’s chill wind, but it also blocked the moon from his line of sight. Will waited, letting his eyes adjust, opening his ears to the activity on deck.

It was silent, but for the sounds men made. A clearing throat, a low cough. One guard then, he estimated. Two wouldn’t be able to resist talking.

He had to act fast. Until he was onboard, he’d be unacceptably vulnerable to attack from above. Reaching his cane up, Will hooked the thick crook over the lip of the vessel. He dried his palms one last time on the shoulders of his coat, and climbed fist-over-fist up the length of oak.

As silently as he could, he gripped one hand then another on the lip of the birlinn. The guard caught sight of Will just as he was shimmying over.

By the time he fell hard onto the floor of the hull, the guard was on him, pistol cocked.

“Damn,” Will muttered. He hadn’t bargained on a loaded gun. He rolled to the side. Gunpowder might trump steel, but no aim compared to a dagger’s. Rollo had his sgian dubh pulled from his sock in an instant, and he lashed, slicing just above the man’s heel.

Will felt as much as heard the hideous pop as the tendon snapped in two, and the man shrieked, crumpling to the ground.

It was quick work from there, Will driven to haste by the need to silence the man’s hysterical cries.

“Very impressive.” It was Massey’s voice, speaking in a hush from the rear of the vessel. There was a rustling, then he added, “If you’d be so kind, I have been trussed and tethered like a sheep for the shearing.”

“A moment,” Will gritted out, pulling himself to standing. He unhooked the cane from the boat, grateful that, even after all the commotion, the thing still hung there.

“Ah,” Massey exclaimed, his voice a bright little pop of sound. “You’re the cripple.”

Will hissed a response, cleaning his blade on the dead man’s sleeve.

“Rollo, is it?”

“Aye.”

“You seem quite deft with that stave of yours. I’ve heard of your exploits.” He squinted, trying to study Will’s legs in the darkness. “Good on you, to make the best of your infirmities.”

He shuffled toward Massey, his legs unsteady on the gently pitching deck. Boats. Will glowered. Loathe them.

“They say you’ve got quite the knack for cavalry fighting,” Massey continued, shaking his head in awe. “But how you manage to seat your horse. It’s a marvel.”

Will grunted, slicing through the man’s bonds, and decided to let tense silence be his response. He needed to listen for the militiamen’s return. But mostly he was finding Massey irksome.

“Well,” Massey said, rubbing his freed wrists. “I thank you—”

“ Ist ,” Will hushed him with an iron grip on his shoulder. He’d heard a faraway shot. “They return. We must make haste now.”

“But of course,” Massey replied in a stage whisper. “It puts me in mind of the time I escaped from the Tower. Wriggled my way up the fireplace like a damned chimney boy.” Chuckling, he followed Will up and over the side of the boat.

“Oh Lord help us,” Massey exclaimed, “this is bitter cold.” He waded behind Will in an ungainly return to the fishing boat. “The only flaw in a tidy plan, I say. I hear you’ve also helped a man escape from the Tower. Our Ormonde, in fact.”

“Our Ormonde is out there”—Rollo nodded into the night—“risking his hide for you . So I’ll ask again that you hold . . . your . . . tongue.” His tone brooked no response.

The men clambered into the small boat. It bobbed and rocked with the weight. Finally it settled, the only sound the dull slap of water against the hull.

The coast was ragged, and the plan was to shelter in a nearby cove, keeping out of the moonlight, waiting for Ormonde to return overland. Will rowed in silence, with Massey watching him all the while, a tidy, peevish smile curving his lips.

Just when Will began to wonder where Ormonde was, there was the crack of multiple gunshots. They exploded in rapid succession—too rapid to all be his friend.

Massey studied the spit of land edging the cove. “We should—” he began, then flicked his eyes to Will’s legs. It was the briefest of glances, but it didn’t go unnoticed. “I should investigate,” he amended. “Something’s amiss.”

“Go,” Will told him through clenched teeth. If Massey thought he was incapable of saving Ormonde, let him. Will would beat him to it, doubling back by boat.

His oars were in the water before Massey had even gotten his footing on land. Will pulled hard, putting his back and aching legs into it, his face grimacing with the effort.

Jamie was dead, and yet still he felt this maddening need to prove something.

With only one man’s weight on board, it was a quick return to the other side of the river.

He opened his ears to the night, trying to hear beyond the heavy slap of water on the hull and the rhythmic splish of his rowing.

Sensing activity on the riverbank, Will dragged his oars, slowing his boat to a stop.

A shout rose from near the dock. Then Ormonde’s voice pealed above the din, theatrically loud. “You three vagabonds, you’ll not stop me, even though I’m bound .”