Ambrose jerked his chin, and Johnno helped the little girl onto the pier. She clutched her doll in one hand, the lamp in the other. The glow illuminated her face.
"Primrose,my angel. Have you missed me? Come to me, sweet flower."
Though the shadowy dusk obscured Coyner's expression, Ambrose heard the fevered passion in the bastard's voice, and his hold tightened instinctively on Primrose's shoulder.
Have to let her go. Just for a few moments.
"We'll release them together, Coyner," he forced himself to call out. "They walk at the same time."
Swearing, Coyner hissed an order to one of his lackeys. The man untied the rope that bound Marianne's ankles, but did not free her arms or remove her gag. She was shaking her head, her voice desperate and muffled. Coyner kept a pistol trained on her back.
"Move forward," he barked.
With a quick prayer, Ambrose let go of Primrose—the hardest thing he'd ever done.
"I'm right behind you," he whispered. "Don't forget that, poppet."
She nodded and started forward. Ambrose's gut wrenched as step by step the girl moved beyond his reach. As he'd instructed her, she matched her pace to Marianne's. His muscles coiled in readiness as the two came closer and closer, nearing the middle of the pier. Then Primrose stopped, directly next to Marianne.
Now, little one. Do it now.
As if hearing his thoughts, Primrose brought her doll closer to her chest. Though her movement was subtle, Ambrose saw that she had positioned the doll over the lamp she held in her other hand.
And set the hidden fuse beneath the doll's skirt into the flame.
The next second, Primrose flung the doll toward Coyner. Ambrose heard her cry out, "Jump, Mama!" and the sound of splashes before Harry's firecrackers exploded into the night. Coyner gave a cry of alarm, but Ambrose was already racing forward, firing his pistol through the screen of smoke and chaotic explosions. He heard footsteps pounding behind him, more shots fired. Hunt and Harteford—who'd been hiding in the smuggling boat's false bottom—had joined his offensive.
Going low, he could only spare a glance to ensure that Primrose and Marianne were safe in the shallow water next to the pier. He reached for the fresh pistols at his belt, continuing to fire into the haze of smoke. He heard cries of pain, and then the other two caught up to him.
"Bloody hell, Kent, leave some for me," Hunt said.
The smoke cleared, revealing the bodies upon the planks. Ambrose spotted Coyner and two others scrambling toward the cutter. His gaze returned to the water; Johnno had arrived and was helping Marianne and Primrose into the rowboat.
"We're fine, Ambrose," Marianne shouted up at him. "Get Coyner!"
"Stay with them," Ambrose said to Harteford, who jerked his chin in assent. "Hunt, let's get that bastard."
A feral smile crossed Hunt's face.
They raced forward, dodging bullets and returning the fire. With his last shot, Ambrose took aim, and the brute at the helm of the cutter gave a cry as he crumpled, bleeding from the chest. Two enemies left to go. Hunt jumped on board first, tackling Smythe with a roar. Coyner stood by the mainsail, struggling to reload his pistol. Ambrose dove for him, wrestling the bastard onto the deck. They grappled, then Coyner kneed him in the solar plexus. In that instant, Ambrose lost the upper hand, and a blade materialized in Coyner's grip, swinging down in a vicious arc.
Ambrose rolled to evade it, but the blade caught him, fire lancing through his arm. With a maddened howl, Coyner pinned him, and the knife swiped downward again. Ambrose caught Coyner's weapon arm with his good hand, his muscles straining to keep the glinting steel tip from sinking into his throat.
"Primrose is mine!" Coyner screamed. "I'm going to kill you then get her bitch of a mother!"
Like hell you will.
With a surge of power, Ambrose brought his injured arm into play. Just as Coyner bore down with murderous intent, Ambrose gripped his opponent's wrist with both hands. He snapped it upward, reversing the momentum of the knife. Coyner cried out in pain, and Ambrose took that instant to roll free. On his feet in the next breath, he stood ready to finish the fight.
Coyner remained lying face down on the deck.
After a few heartbeats, Ambrose nudged the man with his foot. His boot came away stained with a dark liquid. Skin prickling, he rolled his foe over. The hilt of the blade protruded from Coyner's chest, crimson blossoming from the fatal wound.
Blood gurgled from Coyner's lips. "My sweet flower..." he gasped. Then the crazed light faded from his eyes, and his head fell to the side.
Seconds later, Hunt arrived and peered down at the still body. "Done?"
Ambrose's gaze honed in on Marianne and Primrose upon the pier. They sat huddled beneath blankets, sodden and no doubt exhausted. But they were safe.
