The Hostage

When she looked up at him, he noticed a smudge of soot on her cheekbone. Her hair had come loose, and there were large black-ringed holes burned in her damp dress. She kept stroking the dog with one small hand, over and over again.

He bent to the windlass at the bow and cranked in the anchor. He raised the dinghy and made it fast astern. Then he gave a whistle. The engines ground, the twin screw propellers churned and the trawler lurched forward.

The motion made Deborah Sinclair stagger back against the rail. “Where are you taking me?”

He didn’t answer.

“What is your intent?” she demanded, sounding loud and testy now. “I demand to know.”

Her shrill tone evaporated his sympathy. Seizing her had been an act of pure impulse. He had not looked ahead to moments like this, had not considered what it would mean to have a female aboard. They did female things. They had female needs. And this was not just any female. This one probably had a maid just to button her shoes for her. A servant to sprinkle sugar in her tea. A footman to open and close the carriage door for her.

“Well?” she asked. “Have you gone deaf or are you simply being rude?”

“Quarters are below,” he said. “Follow me.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort.”

He gave a snort. “Fine. Spend the night on deck. Makes no difference to me.”

She took two steps back and tilted up her head to look him in the eye. “I don’t plan on staying,” she said.

“Who was the tenderfoot with the horsewhip?” he asked, ignoring her statement.

“That was Philip Widener Ascot IV,” she said. Her voice was flat, her face expressionless. “He is my fiancé.”

Tom mimicked a limp-wristed parody of Ascot wielding the whip. “Charming fellow. You’re a lucky young lady.”

“You may be sure he will remember you from last night, and all the papers will be filled with a description of you.”

“Will he remember that you refused to go with him?”

“I did not refuse. There was no time—”

“You had time. You could have grabbed his hand and jumped into his coach.”

“You would have pursued me.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “Maybe not. You’ll never know, will you? Because you chose me.”

She recoiled. “I did nothing of the sort. Why would I choose you?”

“That’s a question you should be asking yourself. I sure as hell don’t know what’s in that head of yours.”

“And you are in such trouble,” she shot back. “Do you know who my fiancé is?”

“Besides a horse’s ass?”

She made a sound of disdain. “He is from one of the first families of the city. He is heir to a publishing empire with ties to New York City. When he and my father find me, he will publish this account in every newspaper in the country.”

“If he finds you, there won’t be enough of him left to swab the decks with.” Tom shook his head. “Believe me, having my description published in the papers won’t cause me to lose any sleep.”

She stared at him inquisitively.

“What?” he asked, irritated.

“You have a strange manner of speaking,” she remarked. “It’s a combination of backwoods ignorance and educated formality. Why is that?”

“Quit prying and go below,” he ordered. He didn’t want her to know a damned thing about him. “And pray your father buys your freedom soon.”

She bristled imperiously. “Or else?”

“Or else you’re in for a long, cold winter.”

She twisted a diamond ring off her finger. “That’s worth a fortune. You may have it. Just take me ashore.”

He pocketed the ring without looking at it. “No.”

“You can’t hold me aboard this boat all winter,” she objected.

“You’re right about that,” he said, then grasped the ladder leading to the pilothouse. “We’d best get a move on.”

“You won’t get away with this,” she yelled.

He slowly turned to face her. “Don’t you get it, Princess? I already have.”

Chapter Seven

Deborah felt sick with the motion of the boat, but she willed back the waves of nausea. Shivering, chilled to the bone in her damp dress, she waited until Tom Silver disappeared into the pilothouse. The little French Indian called Lightning Jack spoke to him briefly. They seemed to be arguing about something. Then both men bent over a slanted table strewn with charts.

Good. They were paying her no heed at all. They probably assumed she would slink below to fling herself on a bunk and weep hysterically until exhaustion claimed her.

Which was exactly what she wanted to do.

But she refused to allow it, even though every instinct urged her to crumble in defeat. She tried to think what to do. Kathleen would take action. She was never one to sit still. Lucy would confront these men with righteous indignation and rail at them about the injustice of their crime. Phoebe would attempt to endear herself to them, and sweet-talk her way out of trouble.

Deborah came to a decision, the only possible course of action she could think of. Before she could change her mind, she set down the shaggy little dog and moved to the stern. She had watched covertly while Silver had hoisted the dinghy, and she thought she could figure out how to lower it again.

The eerie light from the city was bright enough to burn through the smoke and fog. But the farther they steamed away from Chicago, the fainter the light. She would have to work fast.

She found the mechanism that would release the winch and unhooked it. The chains made a terrible noise, reeling out with a metallic grating sound. The small rowboat smacked the water with a splash, then swirled in the wake of the steamer. The big boat was traveling a lot faster than she had imagined it would.

Glancing over her shoulder, she ascertained that the men in the pilothouse had not heard. She spared a thought for the dog, shivering in a corner of the deck, but it was all she could do to save herself. Then she stepped up on the transom, holding on to the ladder.

Deborah searched her soul for guidance and wisdom. She wished she could find just one measly drop of courage. She felt nothing but icy, breath-stealing terror. Before she could change her mind, she flung herself over the back and scrambled down the ladder as far as she could go. Cold mist, churned up by the propellers, showered her, nearly blinding her as she climbed into the dinghy. Wrestling with the knots, she managed to untether the small craft.

Within seconds, she was adrift on the gale-swept lake as the trawler steamed northward. She could scarcely believe it. She had escaped.

Cold waves slapped up and over the sides of the small wooden craft. Water sloshed in the hull. Letting loose with a laugh of elation, she fitted the oars into the oarlocks and began to row. The wild man had made it look easy, but the water felt as heavy as mud.