One of the men grabbed Nash from behind and held him in a viselike grip. She gasped, her eyes locked on the tableau unwinding before her. The man who seemed to be the ringleader stood so close to Nash that their noses were inches apart. But Nash didn’t move. He seemed to have no reaction at all. Even from where she hid, Maxey saw his creased forehead and tight lips.
She hitched another breath. This was indeed very real. How could she help him if she didn’t have a weapon? Perhaps she could find a board or rope, or something else that might assist him. But she couldn’t tear herself away from the scene to go look.
She shook her head. Why did she even want to help a murder suspect in the first place? Her heart told her she must.
The harsh expressions on the other men’s faces weren’t feigned. Nash might be in serious trouble. The man in front of Nash shouted angrily, then stepped back and ran his fingers through his red hair, appearing greatly irritated. Another man walked up and slammed his fist into Nash’s jaw.
Maxey jumped and covered her mouth to keep the scream of fright from carrying through the air. She remained behind the barrel as panic raced up her spine. What could she do? She could not fight off a half-dozen men even if she wanted to.
Her mind churned in agitation. Obviously, these men planned to do Nash serious harm. His stance did not waver, which seemed to make the man who had hit him angrier. Both of his hands formed into fists, and he hit Nash again, then again, striking his stomach. Nash gasped and doubled over. The man holding Nash from behind did not let him drop.
Pain gathered in Maxey’s chest. She couldn’t stay here and watch Nash get beaten, but what could she do?
Had his story been true after all? Was henotthe murderer, as he had been telling her? Why was the family’s ring in his trunk? She felt confused, and tears slid down her face. Obviously, she had not been a good investigator at all. Perhaps she shouldn’t have believed that she could do anything else of importance. She was a governess first and foremost.
A trickle of blood spilled from Nash’s mouth. Maxey held her breath. He proudly rose to his full height again, meeting his opponent with a fierce gleam in his eyes. Fear clutched at her chest. Curse his pride. It was going to get him killed.
The man laughed over Nash’s stubbornness and punched him again in the stomach. Nash doubled over and coughed, then righted himself, slower this time.
Where was his revolver? Had Mr. Summers not been able to arrive in time to give it to Nash?
He spoke in bold tones to the man, which caused the other men to chuckle. Whatever he said made the man behind him release his hold and step away. The others circled Nash, leaving him and the first man alone to fight.
Perhaps Nash had attacked their sense of honor. From what she had seen, men seemed to hold their honor high. Would it be enough? She had to do something to help.
Nash raised his fists, and Maxey’s fear raced out of control. When the fight began, it surprised her to see how well he defended himself. Although he had gone to war, she didn’t figure him to be a fighter. Just a lover who broke women’s hearts.
Nash connected with his opponent’s face, while dodging the blows being thrown at him. He had skills she’d not yet been privileged to see. Nash was beating the other man to a bloody pulp. She doubted the man’s friends would accept this outcome and let Nash leave unharmed. He needed help. She must go fetch the captain immediately.
She prepared to leave, but halted as Nash’s opponent fell to the ground. Suddenly the other men surrounded Nash and jumped on him. A cry of alarm escaped her, and she quickly covered her mouth again. Luckily, nobody heard.
Again, she prepared to leave her hiding spot to search for help as the men beat upon Nash, punching and kicking him mercilessly. Would his uncle allow this? What kind of uncle wanted his nephew dead, even if a title and lands were involved?
From behind her, a group of heavy footsteps clamored on the deck, and she glanced over her shoulder to see Mr. Summers and Captain Bushwell lead a group of men. Someone had come to Nash’s rescue after all. Surely the captain would stop the fight.
Captain Bushwell aimed his revolver in the air and shot. The pile of men on top of Nash quickly stood and withdrew their weapons, backing away from him. Within seconds, the two groups faced off until fighting ensued between them both. Knives flashed, adding a more dangerous element to the brawl.
Maxey wrung her hands. Fear gnawed at the pit of her stomach. Bleeding from his nose and mouth, Nash fought with the man who had held him prisoner before. The stockiness of his opponent prevented Nash from knocking the man down, yet Nash struck him over and over, not allowing the man to get in a punch. Finally, the large man wrapped his hands around Nash’s throat. Maxey let out a scream, ignored by the fighting men.
Nash struggled, trying to peel the man’s hands away. Failing at that, he dragged the man down with him as he reached for his boot, withdrawing his revolver. Nash aimed into the man’s belly and fired.
This was no game.
Men were dying now.
Maxey screamed again and stood. She was uncertain whether to flee back to her room or stay and watch this horror unfold. Nash and the captain would settle this. At least, she hoped they would. She was certain Nash would live. She could berate him later for frightening her so.
As she turned, she ran into a human form. The small light from the moon barely registered on the man’s face.
“Raúl.” She clung to his arm. “Thank the Lord you are here. You must help Nash.”
“Yes,señorita, I am helping.” He took her arms and pinned them behind her, making her cry out in pain.
“What are you doing?”
“I am helping my men, Maxey.”
“Your men? Who are your men?”
