“If he’s up there, he’ll see us coming,” Cyrus said.
Charles cocked his head and hoped there was a longshoreman about Duffy’s size. “There’s one of us he won’t recognize. And as for us two, we’ll just have to find another way on the ship.”
Cassie pulled the edges of her pelisse tight, but it did little to keep the damp wind whipping about the deck from invading. She shivered. She was almost cold enough to ask if they could go below deck to their cabin, but freezing to death was preferable to being alone with Lincoln. And then dying in some much more unsavory way at his hands.
They sat on a row of crates along with some other passengers who preferred the fresh air, cold as it was, to the dank stillness of the air below decks. A mother held a child not yet two years of age on her lap, rocking him gently, while a girl a bit older was buried beneath her father’s abandoned coat and slept nestled up against her side.
A group of men also awaiting their journey joked loudly with each other at the front of the ship, a couple of bottles of whiskey passing between them. They weren’t feeling the cold.
A stevedore swayed up to them, a large barrel resting on one of his even larger shoulders, and dropped his load down at Lincoln’s toes.
“Watch it.” Lincoln’s hand at her waist tightened, and he pulled her closer. It might have looked like a protective gesture to anyone watching, but Lincoln knew she would take any opportunity to try to escape.
She gazed at the closest railing. She would never make it to the gangplank. Lincoln had made sure they’d sat as far from it as possible. But she could throw herself over the side of the ship. She could swim. A little. And the water couldn’t be much colder than the air, she hoped.
“Sorry,” the dockworker said, not sounding sorry at all. “This is where I’m stacking the water before it goes down to the holds.” The man tipped his cap back and shot her a wink.
Cassie hesitated. It hadn’t seemed flirtatious. She examined the worker more closely, but she’d never seen him before. And when he left with a whistle to go retrieve another barrel, she figured she must have imagined any deeper meaning.
She glanced at the railing again. “Why don’t we go stand over there, get out of the way of the workers?”
He pulled a watch from his pocket and flicked it open. “Three hours ‘til we sail,” he muttered. He snapped the watch closed and put it away. “Fine. We’ll stand. But,” he whispered, jerking her close, “if you try to jump over the rail, I’ll shoot you. Yes, I’ve seen you eyeing it like Lord Wiltshire does his next conquest.” His nose brushed the rim of her ear, and her stomach threatened to revolt. “And if by chance you happen to make it, I’ll shoot one of these children in your stead.”
Her veins iced. He would do it, too. Not only was he mad, but he was petty and vindictive. “I understand,” she said dully. There would be no escape attempts for her. She’d sealed her fate when she’d thrown over every good sense trying to get revenge. Hadn’t Charles said vengeance destroyed both the person taking it along with the person receiving it? She just hadn’t thought it would be quite so literally.
She started to rise when a dark form slithered over the back rail and dropped to the deck. Her tired mind saw a sea monster, emerging from the depths. Facing a sea monster didn’t sound too bad right now. She nudged Lincoln to the side rail. “You know, the captain will find it quite strange if you leave dock with a wife and she disappears before you disembark. How will you explain it?”
“That’s not something you need concern yourself over.” He slid his hand into his coat pocket. The tip of something hard butted against her hip. “There are many ways a woman can die at sea.”
Another eel-like creature wriggled over the back rail and disappeared behind some crates.
Lincoln turned. “What—?”
Cassie flung herself at the rail, hanging her head over the side. “Oh, I’m going to be sick.”
Lincoln muttered an oath. “We’re still docked. You can’t be feeling sick yet.”
She groaned. “Why doesn’t it stop bobbing?”
“Oi,” a voice said behind them.
Cassie peered past her skirts.
The dockworker from before dropped another barrel by the first and stomped over to them. “I know just the thing if your missus isn’t feeling well. My pa’s tried and true method for curing seasickness.”
“She’s not seasick.” Lincoln dug the barrel of his gun more firmly into her side. “We aren’t yet at sea.”
“True ‘nough,” the worker said. He planted his hands on his hips. “Jus’ think how bad she’ll be when you get underway.”
Drips of water pattered against the wood planks of the deck right at the edge of the crates stacked closest to them. Cassie slowly straightened.
“It’s easy enough.” The worker strode forwards and took ahold of her wrist. “See, you stand on one foot first, right? Then you squeeze the vein”—he lifted her hand, palm up and pointed—“see the one right here and—”
A crate flew in their direction. With a jerk on her wrist, the worker threw her to the deck, his large body crashing down on top of her, covering her completely.
Lincoln cried out. There was a curse. A crash. A scuffle. Then nothing but the steady sound of a fist meeting flesh, over and over.
She reached back, scratching at the man’s head. “Can’t. Breathe.”
