“We do not want war. We do not want recriminations. This is Undoto’s doing, not ours.” Lashoria paused.
“We accept that is so,” Declan quietly said. “The paths of those who vanished all lead to Undoto.”
“Precisely!” Lashoria’s eyes lit with righteous fire. “If you already know that, then you know that he is at the root of this—that he is orchestrating it.” She leaned forward, her eyes wide and compelling. “And I have seen with my own eyes that he is meeting with bad men—men we do not talk about, not under any circumstances, so you must not ask. But I have seen Undoto consorting with these men. I have seen him laugh with them and take their coin.” Lashoria drew back and regarded them soberly. “I have seen that with my own eyes, and it is my belief that Undoto is acting with those bad men to spirit people away…because that is what those bad men do.”
She was speaking of slave traders; Declan knew the local populace feared saying their names. On that, he doubted Lashoria would bend. He cast about, then asked, “The bad men have so far taken only Europeans and have chosen to take men, young women, and children. Much of that is unusual. Do you have any idea—any suggestion or even vague notion—of what purpose these people have been taken for?”
Pursing her lips, Lashoria shook her head. “That I do not know. But I can tell you this—they are wanted for something they themselves can do, or why the careful picking of this one and not that one? So I believe those taken are still alive and being used to do…something, but as to what that something is, I cannot begin to guess.”
Her gaze grew distant. Although she remained in her chair, facing them, her gaze was fixed far away. Then, in a careful, definite voice, the priestess stated, “If you want to learn where your people have gone, ask Obo Undoto.”
* * *
They got nothing more of substance from Lashoria. Appearing to suddenly deflate and grow weary, she farewelled them and called the old woman to show them to the door.
The door through which the old woman waved them out was not the bright red one through which they’d entered but a nondescript door giving onto a narrow passage. Luckily, Declan’s sense of direction was well-nigh infallible. Gripping Edwina’s hand, simultaneously trying to calm the pricking of his instincts, he guided her back onto the path they’d walked in upon, joining it several houses down the hill from Lashoria’s distinctive door.
It was only early evening, yet night had fallen with black finality. He was conscious of his eyes—his every sense—cutting this way and that, on high alert. It wasn’t simply that there were even fewer people about than before but a tickling of presentiment he was far too experienced to ignore.
There could never be true silence in such a warren, with its seething mass of humanity confined in such a small space. But far from being comforting, the undercurrent of normal sounds—of voices, both murmuring and raised, of doors shutting, footsteps near and far, things scraping, pots clanking—made it impossible to hear any of the sounds that might alert them to an imminent attack.
Smells of foreign cooking—of spices, chilies, onions, meat, and fish—and of wood smoke tinged with occasional notes of sulfur and incense wafted around and past, another level of distraction.
His eyes had rapidly adjusted to the gloom; he scrutinized the way ahead, but saw nothing out of place. Despite all they’d learned, both private and mission-wise, neither he nor Edwina made any attempt to talk; from the tension in the fingers he gripped, she was as alert and on guard as he.
He readjusted his clasp about her right hand, shifting her so that she walked a half step behind him to his left—ensuring that his ability to draw his sword was unrestricted. He’d buckled on the scabbard as a matter of course. While many army and naval officers still wore dress swords when going about in society, there was nothing polite about his sword. It was a sharp, well-balanced, double-edged blade with a hilt designed for his hand—perfect for use in cramped surroundings, like on the deck of a ship or, worse, below decks.
Or in narrow, winding alleyways.
His palm started to itch, the need to close his hand about the sword’s hilt escalating until he felt it as tiny pinpricks.
To hell with it.
Surrendering to instinct, he reached across and slipped his fingers into the guard, let the hilt settle against his palm, and loosened the blade in the scabbard.
Simultaneously, he squeezed Edwina’s hand, whether reassuring her or himself, he wasn’t sure. They were most of the way down the hill, approaching the second but last of the cross-alleys. Perhaps he was overreacting, and they would make their way out of the warren unchallenged.
He slowed as they neared the tiny cross-alley, paused at the intersection long enough to check to left and right, but there were no hulking shapes lurking in the shadows. Releasing the breath he’d held, he strode on, keeping his pace definite, confident and sure.
The alley they were following narrowed even more as it zigged, then zagged between ramshackle houses. They’d gone around the zig and were approaching the zag when he heard what he’d been expecting—the stealthy rush of feet on the beaten earth behind them.
His heart leapt, then pounded. Three racing strides and they were around the zag, and he whirled, placing Edwina behind him as, his sword singing from its scabbard, he turned to confront the cutthroats who had hoped to catch them a few steps earlier—between the zig and zag, where he would have been even more cramped.
Two men rushed past the zag and pulled up, facing him.
Declan almost smiled as he realized there were only two. Two against one, the one being him, was no real challenge in his book—except that he had Edwina with him.
With the fingers of one hand clenched in the back of his coat, she hovered behind him.
The men’s gazes traveled over him, then moved on to her—what little they could see of her.
Then the man in the lead smiled, confident and assured.
Declan saw the man’s muscles tense for an attack.
Declan struck first.
The man’s smile vanished, but his short blade had already been in his hand. He managed to parry Declan’s thrust, but Declan didn’t retreat, and the man fell back defensively, swearing as he struggled to meet Declan’s blade.
At the corner of his vision, Declan saw the second man, who had hung back in the shadows, slide out and to the side.
Whether the man intended to make a grab for Edwina or come at him from the side, Declan didn’t wait to find out; in the middle of a flurry of exchanges with the first man, the clang of steel on steel ringing in their ears, he sent a flashing slash at the second man, slicing his forearm and forcing him to leap back.
The second man snarled. Declan ignored him and concentrated on dealing with the first man, who seemed to be the swordsman of the pair.
But then the second man pulled a knife; from the corner of his eye, Declan saw the blade flash. This is getting serious. He needed to finish with the first man—
The second man edged around, clearly angling to come at Declan from the side.
This is going to get messy. And his wife—his pregnant wife—was too close. The carriage was only a short distance down the winding alley.
The second man, still snarling like a rabid cur, raised his knife.
“Edwina—run!”
“No!”
He had no idea if she was yelling at him or the second man.
Before either he or the man could decide, she darted forward.
The second man—heavy and beefy and at least three of Edwina—saw her fully for the first time. Distracted, he paused and leered as she rushed at him.
Heartened, the first man redoubled his efforts. Declan inwardly swore. He had to keep his attention on the first man’s sword. Pushed by desperate fear to end the clash, he delivered a rapid succession of blows, then with a twist of his wrist, disengaged and slashed.
With a cry, the first man dropped his sword and clutched his belly.
Declan didn’t wait to see him fall
but immediately turned to deal with the second man—
Who was half doubled over, whimpering, with his hands clapped over his face. He’d dropped his knife and was blindly stumbling backward…
Declan glanced at Edwina, saw the battle fury in her face and glimpsed something small, thin, and shiny in her hand. He hadn’t seen what she’d done, but now was not the time to discuss it. He grabbed her free hand, pulled her around, and took off down the alley.
They didn’t have much farther to go, but the fight hadn’t been quiet, and who knew how the local populace would react to what they would no doubt consider violent intruders in their patch?
The prospect of mob justice hovered in his mind as he drew Edwina on as fast as she could manage. She hadn’t said a word—had made not a peep after that emphatic “No”; neither had he.
They neared the intersection with the last side-alley they had to cross.
Just before they reached it, two more heavily built cutthroats stepped into their path.
Declan didn’t break stride. He released Edwina’s hand, hefted his blade, and using the momentum of their downhill rush, went straight through the first man with a thrust to the gut that cut him down where he stood; the man had expected Declan to pull up and hadn’t got his blade up in time.
Again, Declan whirled to engage the second man; again, Edwina had struck and more or less disabled the villain. Stumbling back against the nearest wall, the man was clutching his face and howling.
The sound was banshee-like and would certainly bring people out to see.
Declan swung the fist wrapped about his sword’s hilt at the man’s head and sent him crashing to the ground. Silenced.
With a quick look up the alley, he grabbed Edwina’s hand. “Come on!”
They turned and sprinted for the end of the alley.
Five paces on, they cleared the last curve and saw the dusty clearing lying beyond the alley’s mouth. All seemed quiet, with no sign of anyone lurking. They couldn’t see the carriage, but Declan knew it would be there. He rapidly scanned right and left as they raced on, then he pulled Edwina forward so she ran ahead of him and slipped his fingers from hers. “Go. Straight to the carriage—don’t stop. I’ll be right behind you.”
“You’d better be,” she flung over her shoulder. Then she grabbed up her skirts and put on a burst of speed.
He listened for sounds of pursuit, straining his ears as he followed at her heels.
Then she burst into the clearing, and he followed. The carriage stood on the other side of the bare expanse, facing toward the town.
Billings had been lounging against the side. He straightened as he saw them. Eyes going wide as they raced toward him, he swung open the carriage door.
Edwina reached it. Declan caught her about her waist and hoisted her up.
To Billings, he yelled, “Get up!”
Gripping the doorframe, he yelled to Dench, “Get going! Fast as you can back to the house.”
Declan hauled himself into the carriage. It lurched as he flung himself on the seat beside Edwina. As the carriage picked up speed, he leaned out, caught the door, and slammed it shut.
He slumped against the seat. His heart was pounding as if it would hammer its way out of his chest. He’d fought in countless battles, fights, and skirmishes—had been in situations where his life had hung on the edge of his blade—yet never had it felt this intense. Never had his every sense seemed heightened to this degree—abraded by a fear far greater than his normal, natural fear of dying.
For long moments, they sat in the dark, the only sounds the dull clump of the horses’ hooves, the rattles as the carriage bounced over ruts and through potholes—and their harried breathing.
Like any good commander, he replayed the recent action in his mind, assessing and analyzing. The attack had been well planned; he and Edwina should have been taken.
If she’d obeyed his command to flee, they would have been. She would have run straight into the arms of the two men waiting at the last intersection, and no matter the outcome of his fight with the first pair, that would have been that.
Their attackers hadn’t underestimated him. They’d underestimated her.
Hardly surprising. He’d done the same.
The realization…took the wind from the sails of any righteous reaction; upbraiding her for not following his orders but instead acting on her own clearly capable initiative would be gross hypocrisy.
Still…coming to grips with what his wife really was—that she was nowhere near as helpless, delicate, and fragile as she appeared, that while he had grounds for the intense protectiveness she evoked, he would be foolish to use his sometimes overblown fears as reason to hold her back—clearly wasn’t a change of tack he was going to accomplish in a day.
Or even a week.
That she was now carrying their child wasn’t going to help.
The ship of marriage—theirs, at least—was patently going to take time, effort, and shared understanding to find untrammeled winds and an even keel.
They reached better—less potholed—streets, and their breathing evened and slowed.
He felt Edwina’s fingers slip into his hand.
He gripped them tightly.
She gripped back.
After a moment, she murmured, “It seems we might have learned something someone doesn’t want us knowing.”
He considered that, then said, “Did they follow us? Or were they watching the priestess’s house?”
Neither of them had an answer.
Eventually, she drew her hand from his. Immediately missing the contact, the anchoring effect, he glanced across to see her hunting in her reticule, which throughout the evening had swung from her wrist. She drew out a handkerchief, easy to see even in the dim light, then lifted something from her lap and with careful strokes, wiped it clean…
He frowned. “What is that?” He reached for it.
She allowed him to take it. “It’s a hatpin.” While he raised it and, turning it this way and that in the poor light, examined it, she amended, “A modified hatpin.”
With a decorative gold head, the tiny weapon—for that was most certainly what it was—possessed a very narrow spike about four inches long. Not a blade—there was no cutting edge—but when he tested its strength, Declan felt the resistance he associated with the very finest tempered steel.
“Julian gave it to me. He gave each of us—Millie, Cassie, and me—a set of six on our sixteenth birthdays.” Edwina paused, then added, “He said that as he wasn’t able to be there to protect us, then he could at least give us some weapons with which to protect ourselves.”
Declan made a mental note to thank his brother-in-law when next he saw him.
Edwina shrugged. “As you saw, they work very well, especially as men never imagine that ladies like us would have such things, much less be inclined to use them.”
He had, indeed, seen how open the men had left themselves to her attack.
She reclaimed the pin. After swiping it several more times through the handkerchief, she pulled the wide lapel of her carriage dress forward and slipped the pin into place.
He realized she had a matching pin in the other lapel. “I thought they were hatpins?”
“Hats, hair, scarves, shawls, lapels—they’re easy to conceal.” Through the shadows, she glanced at him. “When I’m out of the house, I almost always have at least two to hand.”
He closed his hand about hers, then slowly, he grinned, raised her hand to his lips, and bussed her knuckles. “Good to know.”
The knowledge would never truly ease his mind, but knowing she wasn’t helpless—that she possessed real weapons beyond her wits and tongue, and would react to a threat and use them, and not freeze instead—certainly didn’t hurt.
As the carriage reached the more civilized areas and the jostling eased, they sat side by side in the shadows and thought of all they’d learned.
CHAPTER 12
“We can’t leave yet.” Edwina paced ba
ck and forth, wearing a track in the drawing room rug.
“Wolverstone’s orders were unequivocal. The instant I met with any resistance, any reaction whatsoever, I was to leave.” Declan sat in one of the armchairs. Experience dictated that he remain outwardly calm for the sake of his crew and Edwina, yet it took effort not to join her. “Having not one but four men attack us constitutes a definite reaction.”
She merely humphed and continued pacing.
He studied the set of her chin, the concentration in her features; agitated she might be, but it was an agitation born not of panic but of furious determination. “Wolverstone knows what he’s doing.” And he was still trying to absorb the more personal aspect of the priestess’s revelations. In a quieter voice, he said, “They’ve already lost three men on this hunt.”
And he wasn’t going to risk losing her.
“Precisely! I’m not going to argue that we need to go any further or probe any deeper. That we were attacked suggests we’ve already stumbled on a vital clue. More, we’ve clearly established that whatever’s going on is serious, that people are being kidnapped, not just wandering off.” She made a scoffing sound. A second later, she halted and met his gaze. “I agree that we need to take what we know back to London. But is what we have to report solid enough to give Wolverstone and Melville what they need to push on and get the situation here—whatever it is—addressed? Is it enough for them to be able to get those people back?”
Before he could answer, she went on, “Consider what we’ve learned. We’ve established that a curious assortment of people have gone missing over recent months. They haven’t wandered off. Someone has taken them. However, there’s nothing to suggest those missing are dead—most likely they’re alive and being held somewhere. We’ve been told that all the missing adults attended Undoto’s church—but that could be deemed coincidence. And if Holbrook is asked for his opinion, that’s precisely what he will say. The only evidence we have that Undoto himself is involved, much less slave traders, is the verbal testimony of a vodun priestess. Wolverstone might accept that, but Melville won’t, and no one else in the political hierarchy will either.”