Blood racing, she turned down Bank Street, weaving around passersby and moving as fast as she could without drawing undue attention. She glanced over her shoulder to see if the man was still following her and…barreled into something large, solid, and warm.
“Oh my, forgive me, Sir!” She leapt back, only then noting the man wore the same black camlet suit as her pursuer,same lacy cuffs, same gold epaulets on his shoulders. His tricorn held a bright purple feather that waved in the salty breeze. An odd emblem pinned to his black cravat sparkled in the sunlight.
He said naught, only grinned as she attempted to move past him. His grip on her arm imprisoned her.
“I beg your pardon! Release me at once!” Pain etched up her arm.
The man who’d been following her appeared beside them.
“Good day to you,signorina.” The accent was strong yet unfamiliar. His clasp on her arm overpowering, resisting all her attempts to free herself.
“Allow me to be on my way, or I will scream for help.” She scanned the crowded street, wondering if anyone would come to her aid, for naught but pirates, sailors, slaves, and workers hastened about.
“Of course,signorina.” The man grinned and held out his hand. “As soon as you give me the Ring.”
Alarm buzzed through her. She dared to meet the man’s gaze.Pools of darkness bubbled in his gray eyes. Within them visions appeared, undulating in the thick black, apparitions of murder and chaos that turned her blood to ice. Her stomach soured. Her mind raced. And she knew one thing. This man must never possess the Ring of King Solomon.
“Ah, but where are my manners?” Removing his hat, he swept it before him in a flourish. “I amSignor Arturo Della Morte. You may address me as Father Morte if you wish.”
“You are no priest, Sir.” She spat back, wondering at her courage.Jesuits. These were the men Captain Keene said were after the Ring.
As if disgusted by the happenings below, dark clouds rolled in and gobbled up the sun. Wind whipped in from the sea, fluttering the feathers atop the two men’s hats.
Again the man called Della Morte held out his hand. “The Ring?”
Lord, help me!
Emeline shook her head. “I have no knowledge of any Ring, Signor Morte.” Her stomach clamped at the lie. “Now, if you please.” Quite an appropriate name for a man whose eyes held naught but death.
Those ghostly eyes scanned her from head to toe with such intensity she wondered whether he could see the Ring in her pocket. Then with a huff of impatience, he started on his way, gesturing to his friend to bring her along.
Panic curdled in her belly. She could not allow them to take her! Gathering her breath, she screamed with all her might. At that same moment, a deafening roar of thunder shook the skies, along with the ground beneath them, drowning out her appeal for help and stunning all the inhabitants of the small port town. Including the Jesuit villains.
Whispering a quick, “forgive me, Lord,”Emeline kicked the man in the groin. Immediately releasing her, he bent over in agony. And before Signor Morte could react, she grabbed her skirts and tore down the street, her shawl flying off behind her.
A torrent of pounding rain unleashed from the dark skies above. Large drops pelted her, stinging her skin and creating a gray curtain that obscured everything in sight. Including her, for when she dared to glance behind her, the Jesuits were gone.
People dashed for cover. Carriages sank in the mud as therap-tapof the rain on the cobblestones mimicked soldiers marching down the street.
Lightning flashed an eerie silver over the scene. Emeline blinked water from her lashes and turned down Bay Street toward Delphine’s. She had nowhere else to go and no one else to trust. She could only hope the Jesuits had no clue where she was staying.
Her rain-sodden gown dragged in the mud. Saturated curls dripped onto her shoulders, but thank the good Lord, no one followed her. Heaving a deep breath, she slowed, spotting Delphine’s up ahead.
Hefting her heavy skirts, she plodded toward the two-story home, trying to settle her nerves.
When strong hands gripped her shoulders and dragged her into the garden beside the house.
Chapter 11
T
he woman turned into a wild cat, clawing, scratching, and kicking. It took all of Blake’s strength to avoid getting mauled. Slamming her back against his chest—to avoid her deadly feet—he pinned her arms and leaned to whisper in her ear. “Shh, shh, little tiger. ’Tis I.”
She ceased her struggling. For but a second. Before she elbowed him in the gut.
Grunting, Blake loosened his grip. “’Tis me, Captain Keene,” he repeated, foolishly thinking his identity would calm her.
“Let me go, you fiend!” She attempted to kick him backward, but her legs became entangled in her sodden skirts.
