India Black and the Gentleman Thief by Carol K. Carr

Author:Carol K. Carr
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Penguin Group US
Published: 2014-02-03T16:00:00+00:00

ELEVEN

We lay in a row, our hands and feet bound tightly with stiff rope. The ruffians had gagged us, stuffing rags into our mouths and binding our faces with strips of cloth. There wouldn’t have been much to talk about anyway. Our chances for escape seemed slim. I’d twisted and turned my wrists until they felt like raw meat and still hadn’t been able to loosen my bonds one whit. These fellows were professionals. I doubted there was a loose knot among the three of us. They’d dumped us in a heap at the foot of the cargo, in a narrow space between the stacks of crates and a bulkhead that partitioned the cargo hold. A thin strip of amber light leaked through the panels of the bulkhead. That pale thread of light represented a passage beyond and freedom, if only we could reach it.

I reckoned we’d set sail about two hours after we’d been captured. There’d been a flurry of activity on deck, with the sound of feet running overhead and the shriek of the capstan as the anchor was raised. The boiler had been fired and the engine began to grind slowly. The ship had shuddered as she gained leeway and wallowed awkwardly with the motion of the Thames. It had taken some time to travel the length of the river, and as we bumped and swayed my heart and my hopes sank. It would not take long until we reached the mouth of the river and the engine began to throb with a full head of steam, and soon after French, Vincent and I would be flotsam.

I’ll tell you candidly, I was frightened and by God, I was angry, too. Not at Philip, though I wasn’t best pleased with that chap. I thought he’d looked relieved when one of the thugs shoved the rags in my mouth, eliminating my last chance at laying claim to his friendship. You can’t blame a chap for being true to his nature, and I knew from firsthand experience that when things got sticky, the only sign of Philip would be the dust from his heels. No, I was angry at the Great Hairy Chess Player in the Sky. I ask you, is it fair to be told you’re an heiress one day and then have the rug pulled out from under you the next? And what of French? We’d yet to resolve all our differences, but I’d planned to bed the poncy bastard soon and now he’d never have the chance to experience that bliss. Well, the way matters stood now, I’d soon have my chance to rail at the Almighty in person, which, come to think of it, might not be the wisest course of action when He’s sitting in judgment of your mortal soul. I don’t know what French and Vincent were thinking of at the moment, but these matters theological had my full attention. There’s nothing like impending death to focus the mind.

The first I knew that something was up was when French rolled over and butted his head against mine.

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