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“Let’s get a drink before the French arrive. It will help us.”
They were leaving… for now. She jerked her head fast, bringing a jolt of agony. She had to find Roddy. She could barely see in the dim space filled with stacked boxes. She had to free her hands, find Roddy, and escape before the men returned. The sound of rats scurrying sent a chill through her trembling body.
Hyperalert to every sound—lapping water, caw of seagulls, the scuffle of feet, and distant shouts—she waited for anything to help get her bearing. The ship wasn’t sailing yet, which made their chances of escaping better. But how long before they voyaged away from London and away from Dash? She had no doubt he was searching right now. He would be raging as was his way when he was frightened and alone. Anger was always his first form of protection, learning early to fight back against his drunken father.
A surge of energy shot through her; she wasn’t going to allow these men to hurt Dash or Roddy. Both men would be devastated if anything happened to her. She finally had a future with Dash, and nothing would stop her from escaping.
Her heartbeat sped, her muscles tightened, and her mind focused. Was Roddy being held in a different area of the cargo hold? As her eyes adjusted to the light, she pushed herself from the mat on the floor to stand. The men had been stupid not to tie her feet which could be used as lethal weapons. Of course, they didn’t consider she had any chance of escaping from a ship. And most likely, they had men standing watch on the dock. She and Roddy were strong swimmers and wouldn’t be deterred by the filthy river water if it meant evading rape and death.
She wobbled but was upright as another wave of dizziness struck. She took two steps to test her balance. She had to find a sharp edge to cut the ropes that were thick and tightly bound. It wouldn’t be a quick job. The men’s voices had drifted farther away from the porthole. How much time did she have before they returned with Fouche’s men?
She moved quickly along the long rows of stacked wooden crates. Her eyes darted back and forth between the rows, alert to any sound of the return of her captors. She had to find a tool to cut the ropes, but so far, all she had found were stacks and stacks of closed crates, and the only other occupants were skittering rats. She was almost halfway across the expansive space when she found him.
Roddy lay on a mat a few feet from the wooden ladder that led out of the hold. He wasn’t bound. His stillness disturbed her. She cautiously approached him, listening and looking for any sign of a guard. No one watched him probably because he was unconscious.
“Roddy,” she whispered as she knelt next to him. “It’s Dita. Dearest, wake up.”
He didn’t stir. A sob escaped before she covered her mouth with her forearm to stop the crashing grief at the sight of Roddy bruised and beaten. His blond curls were matted with blood, his face misshapen, and his mouth hung open with blood dried on his lips. His eyes were swollen shut. Blood dripped from a long slash across his cheek.
Terror crushed her ability to draw air. Had the men already killed her brother? She watched Roddy’s chest, her heart lodged in the throat waiting for a sign of life. After what felt like an eternity, relief surged through her at the sight of his slow breath.
She leaned closer to whisper in his ear. “Roddy, you must wake up.”
Roddy didn’t respond, so she nudged his arm with her bound hands. “It’s Dita. You must try to open your eyes. I know you’re in pain…” She swallowed the whimper. “Please, Roddy, open your eyes for me.”
“Are you real?” His rusty voice was barely audible.
“Dearest, I’m real. And we’re leaving this ship. I need to find something to cut my ropes. We must go before the men come back.”
“Leave me. I can’t make it.” He shook his head. “Dash has always loved you. Marry him.”
“You’re an arse to think I’d leave you. We’ve been in sticky situations before.” She tried for a humorous tone before she wept aloud.
“I’m sorry, Dita. So sorry that I got you into this.”
“When this is over, you can apologize. I need something sharp. You rest, and once I have my hands free, we’re leaving.”
“Axes and hammers are hanging on the far side of the wall near the lamps and coal bucket. I haven’t been able to make it there. But I’ve been planning…”
She followed Roddy’s directions, moving swiftly. She could use all the tools as weapons once she got her hands free to fight. How many men guarded Roddy, and where were his jailors right now? She didn’t know how long she had been unconscious to know the time of day. By the darkening light, it was sunset. What agony Dash must be suffering with her missing for so long.
She found the area that Roddy described. She debated whether to knock off the large, serrated knife hanging by its handle on the wall. The heavy working blade would make a loud sound when it fell and possibly alert the guards. But what other choice did she have? She had to have her hands free to fight back. Using her bound hands, she whacked the serrated knife to the floor and then waited in endless silence to be found.
Dropping to the ground, she maneuvered the knife between her legs, then began to push the rope back and forth on the knife. The tension on the rope burned her wrists. It felt like it took an eternity to break through the rope, with her heart speeding and an anxious awareness of every sound, waiting for her captors.
She shook her hands to bring the blood flow back once the rope unraveled. She gathered an ax, two knives, and a hammer to arm her and Roddy. She was tucking a knife into her petticoats when she heard voices. Two distinct voices. She waited, listening for any others. Darn, darn. She hadn’t time to concoct the plan to escape. Her mind focused on how to take on the two men in the hold without alerting anyone else.
Quickly she ran through possible scenarios before coming to what might work.Mightbeing the operative word. She slashed her skirt with the sharp knife, tearing away most of her favorite flowered muslin, leaving only the bodice intact. She needed her legs to be free to defend herself. The skirt hung in tatters. Her undergarment didn’t provide any manner of propriety and didn’t conceal the knife. Desperate times warranted desperate actions. Then she prayed that her disheveled state and revealing appearance would be a distraction.
She held the ax and the hammer behind her back, placing the second knife on the floor. She staggered out from behind the stacks and whispered in a stage voice, “Help me. Please can someone help me?”
