Page 54 of Bedding the Marquess
Oliver crept over the detritus and approached the man who was most assuredly not his half brother. His thick hands were coated in glistening blood as he futilely attempted to staunch the blood seeping from a wound in his abdomen. Oliver recognized the blade at the man’s side as one of his own. Gideon had been there. He’d been the one to do that damage. Oliver looked backat the man’s injury and knew without a doubt that it would be fatal. A blade in the gut like that would not kill instantly; death would come, but it would be a slow and excruciatingly painful process. The man groaned again.
Oliver crouched low and retrieved the discarded blade, wiping it on the sleeve of the dying man’s coat.
“Come back to finish me off, English pig?” the man spat in French, his lips and teeth stained pink from blood.
“Where have they gone?” Oliver demanded. The man remained tight-lipped, though he squirmed in discomfort. Oliver tilted the blade at him again, allowing the moonlight to gleam off the tip. “You are dying, but you are still alive right now, and I have plenty of time to have some fun. Should I flay your genitals? Make you a eunuch? Send you to hell with—”
“La Genevieve!” The man released a wet cough and growled like a wounded dog.
“A ship?The Genevieve?” Oliver twisted his fist in the front of the man’s damp shirt when he did not answer. “Where is it anchored?” he demanded and gave him a shake. The man’s eyes rolled back into his head as he lost consciousness. Oliver dropped him to the floor with a curse.
The London dockyards were filled with dozens upon dozens of ships and boats of all sizes and ports of origin. It could take hours to locate the proper one onto which Gideon had been loaded, and if they planned to ride the tide out, then time was running dangerously short.
Oliver pocketed his blade and bolted from the building. His usual calm was beginning to wear thin. It was a relief to know that Emily was safe and in the care of a man whom he trusted, but now Gideon, his half brother, could be lost to him forever. They’d just found one another and, though Oliver had been wary and still struggled with letting him into his life, he was not ready to give up on the opportunity to have more family than he’d everknown. He would not fail Gideon; he would not fail to bring Caroline her husband.
He took a sharp turn down an alley which would have appeared nondescript to most passersby, but Oliver was no regular man…and he had no regular connections. He located the door at the dead end and rapped thrice in quick succession, twice more slowly, then thrice quickly again. It creaked open to reveal a room in far better condition than the building’s exterior suggested it would be. What was once the kitchen and main living area of the flat had been converted into a safe meeting place for agents belonging to Ramsay’s Spy Society.
The man himself was seated at the head of a table and lifted his dark head from the papers he’d been reading. No less than six other pairs of eyes lifted at Oliver’s entrance.
“The women?” Ramsay asked, seeming not the least bit surprised at Oliver’s arrival.
“Safe. But Swanleigh has been taken. I need to locate a ship calledla Genevievebefore she sails.”
Ramsay nodded once and turned to the man on his left. “To the docks.”
The man, dressed in the salt-stained rough clothes of a sailor, donned his knit cap and gestured for others to follow him. Oliver and the group slipped out into the night, some peeling away to collect more men for their search, others locating contacts who might know of the ship’s whereabouts. If anyone could find the ship and Gideon before he was lost, then it was Ramsay and the complex web he’d woven over all of England.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Gideon woke slowlyand regretted every second of it. His head pounded so badly that his ears rang. His face felt sticky with congealing blood, and his nose and mouth burned from the dust and dirt coating the inside of the burlap sack that had been shoved over his head. He’d been propped against a curved wall and it took him several minutes to realize it was not just his head spinning…the floor was unsteady because he was on a ship. It couldn’t have been a very large one because the slight rocking of the water was still noticeable, but it was large enough that he’d been stored below deck like chattel; there was no light filtering through the weave of the fabric covering his head, nor was there a breeze to speak of, but a salt-and-pitch odor permeating the air confirmed his dawning realization.
Attempting to shove himself into a more comfortable position, he realized his boots were missing and he’d been stripped of everything save his shirt and breeches. Judging from the untucked state of his shirt, he’d been more thoroughly searched for weapons this time around. They were taking no more chances.
Gradually, Gideon managed to work the sack from his head. Shapeless forms filled the space around him and he realized he’d been tucked into a cargo hold. His hands were bound behind his back and his ankles had been tied together. His body ached in ways he hadn’t known were possible.
Boots thudded overhead as men crossed the deck. He caught snippets of French and English words, none of them good. The ship grew louder with shouts and bangs as it came to life with sailing preparations. If they intended to take him to France as they’d indicated, then he’d be delivered there in a matter of only a few hours if the weather was right.
Refusing to dwell on that, Gideon relaxed his aching neck and allowed his head to thud against the hull—an action he regretted immediately as the unforgiving surface connected with a knot on his scalp.
Gideon closed his good eye and reminded himself to take solace in the fact that Caroline and the baby were safe. Oliver had kept true to his promise and brought the women to safety—they had been the priority. Now, buried in the bowels of the ship as he was, he didn’t dare hope that Oliver or anyone else would return and locate him in time. He’d known this was a possibility when he’d agreed to play decoy to allow Oliver the opportunity to spirit the women to freedom, but that did not lessen the pain in his chest. He also hadn’t believed just how much Oliver was hated by his enemies—and now he had the wounds to prove it.
He’d woken that morning longing to see and hold Caroline; now, the need struck him so fiercely that it made his eyes sting. Even if he could not see her again, he would hold her image in his mind and allow it to bring him comfort during whatever lay ahead. He was too exhausted, too battered to fight back. All he could do was gather the shreds of his strength and cling to them as long as possible.
One sound, incongruous with the din above his head, caught his attention and he opened his good eye. A muffled grunt and a thud. He frowned into the darkness.
Another choked grunt.
Another thud.
What the Devil—
“Gideon,” hissed a voice barely loud enough to be classified as such. He sat up straighter, ignoring his muscles’ protestations. His heart leaped into his throat when he heard it again.
Oliver.
He attempted to whistle, but his lips were cracked and parched. Licking them, he tried again. It wasn’t perfect, but it was at least similar to the tune Oliver had taught him before this hellish mission.
“Again,” hissed the voice as Oliver grew nearer, attempting to locate him in the hold. Gideon did.
