Page 103 of The Last Chance
“I’ve sailed the North Sea in the dead of winter,” the stout Scotsman mocked. “I think I can manage a barge on the Thames.”
The fellow snatched a rope from inside a barrel and secured Aaron’s hands behind his back. Then he pulled a knife from a sheath, threatened Mrs Lowry and told her to climb aboard.
“That’s not the plan,” she said, fear creeping into her voice. “I’m to wait in the house. I’ll not leave Lucia there alone.”
“Dinnae fret. They’ll bring the lass to the meeting place.”
Mrs Lowry would be dead once they reached their destination—as would the skipper. Natasha would dispose of the witnesses. It’s why Aaron had swallowed half the dose of laudanum, spitting some into his hand when pretending to cough, and wiping the excess on his trousers.
One thing troubled Aaron as he closed his eyes and listened to the skipper wrestle Mrs Lowry onto the boat. Joanna was right. He couldn’t kill a woman, not even a witch like Natasha. Which begged the question: how would he free himself from his captor and finish her for good?
“Keep yer mouth shut.” The skipper threw Mrs Lowry to the boards and told her to sit still. “Cause trouble, and I’ll toss ye overboard.”
Another man joined them, a muscled brute named Pike. He’d come to help row the boat but mentioned his friends couldn’t find Lucia.
“I left them searching the street,” he said, his accent as coarse as a Covent Garden hawker. “She can’t have gone far, not on foot.”
Mrs Lowry grinned, the news bringing a subtle sigh of relief.
“The girl’s nae our problem. We’ve got our orders and will only get paid if we stick to the plan.”
The skipper released the line and cast off, digging his pole into the bank and pushing the barge out onto the murky river. His friend sat beside him and they took up an oar each, both heaving with the force of each stroke.
Aaron peered through half-closed eyes. They were heading downriver, leaving St Peter’s and Westminster Hall behind them, moving towards the Palace of Whitehall and the Privy Gardens.
It would help to know their intended destination.
He recalled the snippet of information Mrs Lowry remembered.
A woman would destroy him where strong men failed.
It alluded to Aaron’s many fights.
Needing to remain alert as the drug draped his mind in a hazy mist, he trawled through the memory of every battle. The hundreds he’d won, those he’d lost as a boy, too naive to think a grown man wouldn’t hit him.
They passed beneath Waterloo Bridge, the men stopping for a brief rest before gripping the oars and propelling them through the water again.
Mrs Lowry tapped his arm and whispered, “Are you awake?”
Aaron met her gaze and nodded. “Hush.”
The men were talking as they rowed.
Any information might prove invaluable.
Pike complained about hunger pangs. “Mrs Boyd at The Anchor serves the best rabbit pie for miles around.”
“We’ll nae stay at The Anchor,” replied the Scotsman. “We’re to lie low for a while and cannae remain in London. I’ve a friend in Berkhamsted.”
There were five taverns named The Anchor along the Thames. One in Greenwich, a brief ride across the river to a place fighting men called the Dog Pit.
Aaron was fourteen the first time his father dragged him there. Beating four brutes wasn’t the problem. He was fast like lightning, they said, with knuckles of steel. But his last opponent was a woman, a skilled fighter with a face so pretty Aaron’s conscience stopped him from hitting her.
Did Natasha know he could not hit her, either?
Is that why she’d chosen his old battleground?
He’d know the answer soon. If the rowers kept their current pace, they would reach the Dog Pit in forty minutes, which explained why Natasha wanted him drugged.
