Our boat was no longer in his line of fire. I drove us straight at the larger craft, hugging its shadow as I turned to follow its hull.
I saw Desjardins and Armitage hurry along the rail as I made my way to the stern. There, I heaved myself up, grabbing the gunwale of the rocking sloop, and slithered over the side to the deck.
I hurt—devil take it, I hurt. I knew I’d never have the wherewithal to fight even if I could stand up, but I intended to do plenty of damage before they killed me.
The pilot in the stern gaped at me, and roaring, I charged him. He stepped determinedly from the wheel to fight me off, and I dodged around him, grabbed the wheel, and gave it a wild crank.
The ship jumped and spun hard to port, slamming straight into a rising wave. I grabbed a sheet, easily slipped its knot, and let it fly free. I did it to another line, and another, blessing those fishermen of my youth who’d taught me about ropes and sails.
Desjardins was cursing in French as he came at me, the pilot in English. Armitage, angrily silent, balanced the best he could on the rocking deck and aimed his gun at me.
I dropped into a hatch that led below as his shot echoed above me. They’d corner me down here, but I scarcely cared.
The berserker anger that had let me live after I’d been hung by my heels on a hot day in Spain, and again helped me kill a deserter who’d threatened the woman and children who’d rescued me, made me yank a chair from the floor and start breaking the windows that lined the hull. Water would flood in, and this pretty sloop and her be-damned yachtsmen would wash away.
Desjardins came below first, luckily for me. He flung aside his weapon to run at me and fight. I fended off his blows, landing a few of my own, but he was strong, and I was already flagging. My advantage was that Armitage, who more slowly descended the stairs, couldn’t shoot me without hitting Desjardins.
A deafening roar filled the cabin. Desjardins screamed and spat blood as he fell limply from my grasp.
I’d been wrong. Armitage had been prepared to shoot right through his friend to get to me. Desjardins collapsed to the floor, cursing and moaning, and Armitage calmly reloaded.
A startled shout from up top made him pause, and in that second I slammed into him, fighting for control of the gun. Armitage’s hands slipped on it, but he could afford to let it go, as its shot was already spent. I brought up the gun like a club, at the same time Armitage unsheathed a long knife.
I spun away from him, but what I saw out the window as I did made me stop in amazement. The shouting from the sailors outside increased, their cries now edged with panic.
Armitage saw what I did, and his eyes widened.
Another ship, squat and thick-bodied, charged at us across the waves. No sails propelled it, but thick black smoke poured out of a metal chimney poking high behind the pilot house. The last of the evening sun touched it with red-gold light, tinging the smoke a faint pink.
Steamboats were a new phenomenon of the last dozen years, and now a few plied up and down the Thames, carrying curious passengers from dock to dock. More boats, I’d heard, moved along the Clyde and across firths in Scotland. Some steam vessels worked in harbors as tugboats, pulling in larger ships to docks or shipyards.
This was a tug, I realized, as it came closer, an interesting meld of steam power, paddle wheels, and ingenuity.
It was also heading dead for us, no swerving. It was set to ram us.
Armitage bolted. He was above and at the side, yelling at the tug, calling them bloody fools, threatening them with the law. I chuckled with wry humor at the sight of a murderer claiming the law as his ally.
I grabbed the bleeding Desjardins and hauled him up the ladder to the deck. I fell there, Desjardins half on top of me, and watched in fascinated horror as the belching tug bore down upon us.
The yacht’s pilot had caught the wheel, desperately trying to turn us. The lines I’d loosened whipped overhead, and the sails, half unfurled, jerked hard at the mast. The yacht listed heavily to port, and in that moment, the tug rammed it.
Board hit board, the pleasure craft breaking open with a tearing screech. I pulled myself up and stared at the tug as I balanced on the gunwale, and at the sturdy body of Brewster at its bow. Behind him stood Colonel Brandon, a look of grim satisfaction on his face.
That was the last I saw before I dove sideways, overboard, away from the path of the giant wheel. The small boat, with Bickley still in it, had drifted off, and I swam hard for it.
I’d never make it. My arms and legs were cramped with exhaustion, my right arm stinging where Desjardins’ shot had scraped it. Bickley, eyes wide, watched me swim, feebly holding out a board for me to grab.
The beautiful face of Donata flashed through my mind, followed by that of Gabriella and then Anne. Then Peter’s grin that transformed his rather stern countenance into a lighthearted boy’s.
I wanted to be with them one more time.
Something splashed beside me. A rope, with a loop tied in it.
I looked up at the tall side of the tug, to see Brewster, his mouth moving as he shouted at me. I could hear nothing over the roar of the engine, the waves, and the shattering boards of the sloop.
Brandon leaned next to him, and beyond Brandon, Grenville hung on to the rail with both hands. Brave man, was Grenville, to come out here in that boat.
I caught the rope and dragged it around myself and under my arms. Immediately, it tightened, and I was pulled, like a large fish, to the aft hull of the tugboat.
