Page 55 of Bedding the Marquess
The relief when he finally saw Oliver’s broad-shouldered frame was nearly his undoing. “It’s about bloody time,” Gideon rasped, attempting to mask his emotion with humor.
“You’re the one who allowed himself to be shut away on a ship bound for Calais,” Oliver quipped as he sliced through Gideon’s bindings. “Any broken bones? Can you walk?”
“I think just a few ribs and fingers.” He rubbed the raw welts on his wrists and rotated his ankles to restore the circulation. His knee still bothered him, but, as Oliver helped pull him to stand, he thought it was manageable.
“Christ, you look like hell,” muttered Oliver as a sliver of light from the deck above sliced across Gideon’s face.
“I appreciate the sentiment. I shall keep it in mind the next timeyouare kidnapped, tied to a chair, and beaten for sport.”
Oliver at least had the good grace to wince in sympathy. “Here,” he said, handing over a blade and a pistol, primed and ready. “Took it off our friends after I boarded.”
“Are you certain you are a spy and not a pirate?” Gideon jested, unable to help himself as his body began to sing with anticipation. Freedom was within his sights. As long as they could make it to shore, Gideon was confident he’d see Caro again.
“Not a pirate,” Oliver said drolly. “A man with a knack for blending into the shadows and a few friends with rowboats.” He paused, then added, “Men are poised to take the ship as soon as we escape. We weren’t confident that they wouldn’t immediately kill you once they realized the ship was being detained, so I volunteered to retrieve you first.”
“Well, for that, I am supremely grateful. Now…let’s get off this sodding ship. I’ve a terrible urge to see my wife. The women are well, are they not? Unharmed?” He knew in his heart that they were, but he had to hear the words.
“They are in a safe place,” Oliver replied. Was it a trick of the light, or was there something evasive in Oliver’s eyes? There was no time to analyze it, though.
Limping slightly, Gideon followed as Oliver led him through the hold and over the bodies of the men he’d dispatched on his way below deck. Peering at the rapidly moving legs darting from port to starboard, it was clear to Oliver and Gideon that no one had yet realized they’d been boarded and their prisoner was in the process of escaping. Ropes were hauled and coiled, last-minute crates like the ones with which Oliver had snuck aboard were secured for the short trip across the Channel, and men shouted instructions to one another, not sounding the least bit alarmed. Gideon filled his lungs with as much air as his ribs would allow. The hold had been thick and stifling, and, while the stench was little improved, at least the air was fresher on deck.
The plan was to climb to the small captain’s deck at the stern and drop down to the rowboat tied there for transporting men and goods to and from shore. Gideon did not know how they would do so unseen, but he chose to buy into Oliver’s optimism that the misty predawn gloom would help disguise them. It was nearly four o’clock, and high tide was fast approaching.
Oliver waited with preternatural stillness for the proper moment. When he finally moved, Gideon followed suit. All wasgoing well until Gideon, still barefoot and vision compromised, tripped over an unseen coil of rope. He caught himself, but the lurching motion was enough to catch one man’s eye and unleash a flurry of alarm.
Both he and Oliver cursed as they cast aside their caution and bolted toward the captain’s deck. Oliver ushered Gideon up first and turned to face the men rushing toward them, brandishing knives and pistols. The ladder to the deck was only four rungs, so Gideon mounted it quickly and shouted at Oliver to move his arse. He turned just in time to watch him deliver a swift kick to the chest of the first man who reached him and a flashing blade to the arm of the next.
Oliver spun to climb up to Gideon, but he was wrenched back down again with a furious shout and the thuds of bodies colliding. Gideon rushed to help, but he was immediately thrown back by a man who’d stepped over Oliver to reach the captain’s deck. Fists flew as Gideon leaned into his muscle memory from his years of pugilism and wrestling. One man dropped back like an anchor after Gideon’s fist connected with his chin. Another was doubled over by a flurry of fists to his gut. Maneuvering closer to the edge of the deck, he saw Oliver had dispatched several men of his own; a spray of crimson blood was painted across his face like warpaint. Gideon realized with sinking dread that, while Oliver handled himself with impressive speed, agility, and ferocity, there were simply too many men.
One man charged across the deck toward Oliver’s back, his vicious blade raised high, and Gideon took his chance. He pulled the pistol from the waistband of his breeches, took aim, and fired. Oliver’s head whipped around at the weapon’s bang and flash, then turned to watch the attacker fall backward to the deck in a rapidly spreading puddle of blood. The glance Oliver shot Gideon could only be viewed as grateful. That quickly dissolved into one of panic as he shouted Gideon’s name. “Turn!”
Gideon did so just in time to evade the slashing blade of Thin Mustache. “You are like a cat—so many lives,” he snarled as he lunged again and again. The blade caught in Gideon’s billowing shirt and prevented him from retreating just enough that the next swipe sliced across his abdomen. His shirt instantly bloomed with splotches of red. “Tonight, you have used your final one.”
Gideon misjudged his next step and his injured knee gave out. He dropped to the deck with a roar of pain and frustration as his stiletto skittered away. He stared defiantly up at the other man, glaring at him as the blade was raised higher.
“My superiors will be disappointed that they did not have an opportunity to make you suffer, but they will have to make do with your corpse.”
The knife began to descend, but Gideon saw only the curve of Caroline’s smile, the cinnamon freckles on her cheeks, the way her hair glistened in the candlelight when they lay together, the way her hands danced across her rounded belly as if she were communicating with their child in a secret language of touch. Those were the images he chose to hold onto as he was welcomed into death’s embrace.
Then, there was a flash of silver followed by a wet thud. Thin Moustache froze. A knife handle protruded from the left side of his chest.
His body collapsed like a ragdoll, and he moved no more.
Gideon turned to find Oliver had ascended the ladder and was holding his hand out to him. “Thank you,” Gideon breathed, his heart daring to beat once more.
“I owed you,” he replied and hauled Gideon to his feet. “Now go!”
Together, they rushed to the back of the deck and peered over the stern. Just as Oliver had said, there was a rowboat tied and waiting. They descended and dropped into the precariouslyrocking boat. Gideon landed awkwardly and grunted in pain. Oliver never stopped moving, untying them and shoving off with a series of sharp, loud whistles that echoed off the nearby hulls and lapping water.
Immediately, the French boat was overrun by men dressed in black. They clambered up the hull like deadly spiders and boarded it with shouted commands in both English and French.
Oliver rowed them away toward shore with sure, powerful strokes. Gideon couldn’t help it; he collapsed back into the rowboat and turned his head up to the sky. The midnight-blue expanse was dotted with diamond stars, oddly peaceful and grounding in contrast to what he’d just endured.
“Are you alive?” Oliver grunted.
“Barely,” Gideon groaned dramatically.
“Good. I promised to return you home; I’m just glad I made no promises regarding your condition.”
