Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(99)

Her fingers, rubbed raw by the constant scraping against the rough limestone, suddenly encountered empty air. The wall had ended. Confused, she groped for the edge of it and felt a deep corner. The shape of the tunnel had changed. Breathing fast in anxiety, she explored her surroundings and found that the path split in two. Aug had not told her this would happen—she didn’t know which direction to choose. Her sore hands clenched into fists.

“Which way?” she said out loud. Her voice resounded in the cave. Leaning against the wall, she began to cry and said all the foulest words she had ever heard Justin utter. She was startled by a teeth-jarring detonation that sounded as if it came from right overhead. A few pebbles shook loose from the ceiling.

Galvanized into action, Celia decided to follow the path on her left. The tunnel twisted sharply. She sensed a difference in the air, a tinge of smoke. She heard a muted scream that was too high-pitched to belong to a man. Drawing closer to the noise, Celia discovered a sharp upward rise in the floor and an opening overhead that glowed red-orange. She heard the dull roar of fire. Hesitating, she stared at the gaping hole. There was another scream.

Rushing forward, she clambered up the incline and pulled herself through the opening into the burning shambles of a room. There were dislodged planks beneath her feet, planks that must have concealed the entrance to the underground tunnel until someone had pulled them loose to escape. Two of the walls were ablaze, and yellow-white tongues of fire streaked along the partially collapsed ceiling. Two women crouched a few feet away, frantically clawing at a timber that had fallen over the leg of a mulatto girl. As she glanced at her surroundings, Celia realized she was in the island brothel.

The two prostitutes were squawking, swearing, and coughing. They were free to escape on their own, but they had stayed to help the injured girl. Impulsively Celia darted forward and seized the trapped girl under the shoulders and arms. The others looked at her in surprise. “Lift the timber,” she shouted, tears sliding from her eyes as a puff of smoke wafted into her face. Gasping and choking, they strained to raise the heavy wooden beam the necessary inches, and Celia pulled at the mulatto girl’s shoulders with wrenching tugs. The girl stared up at Celia in terror and struggled to pull her leg from beneath the timber. One of the burning walls swayed, dangerously close to collapsing. Frantically Celia dragged the injured girl free.

Together they all carried the girl to the opening in the floor. Celia clambered through it first and held out her arms while they pushed the mulatto girl toward her. All four of them skidded down the short incline. One of the prostitutes, a plump brunette with a dirt-smudged face, grasped Celia’s arm. “Thank you,” the woman gasped hoarsely. “Thank you.”

“Do you know the way out of here?” Celia asked, and coughed harshly. Even the brief exposure to the smoke had made her lungs feel as if they were filled with soot.

The prostitute gave a wheezing laugh. “If you was aiming to go above ground, precious, you took the wrong turn. Aye, I know the way out. It’s not far at—”

The ear-splitting blast of a shell came from overhead, and the tunnel collapsed with a fulminating crash. They screamed and huddled together as the earth crumbled around them. In a split-second Celia knew she was going to die. Her mind emptied of all thought. Her ears were filled with a roaring noise, and then she was submerged in an abrupt quietness. Everything around her was still and cool and gray.

In a while she stirred a little, half-dreaming, half-awake. Her eyes and nose and lungs were stinging. The air was warm and pungent. Coughing, she managed to sit up and wipe her eyes. The brunette woman was gingerly touching a bruise on her own head and swearing, while the mulatto girl was crying. “What happened?” Celia asked huskily.

“Cave-in,” the brunette said curtly, pointing to the tunnel, which was completely blocked by rubble. “Now we can’t…get out that way.” She gave a hacking cough. “And since the blasted jack-tars above have set the stinking island on fire, we’re trapped here. Cozy little oven…won’t be long till we’re done like f-four roasted pigeons.”

“No,” Celia said, crawling slowly to the pile of debris. She pulled a chunk of limestone from the top. “The heat and smoke will rise, it won’t collect down here. We’ll be safe for a while…but still, we have to…” She paused as a spasm of coughing shook her body. “…dig ourselves out,” she finished. None of them moved to help her. She clawed at the rocks with her bare hands.

Then the brunette dragged herself up beside her. “Plucky little pincase, ain’t you?” She grasped the side of a rock and helped Celia dislodge it.

The tavern was an awe-inspiring sight as it burned, giving off heat and light that rivaled the rising sun. Crawling through the flurry of shot from the navy schooners, Justin and Aug made their way to the partial shelter offered by one of the fort’s two large parapets. A lone, bloody figure staggered out from the doorway. Justin tensed, recognizing the man. “Duffy!” He stood and caught the wounded man as he stumbled, bearing him gently to the ground.

Duffy held his hands against a stab wound in the center of his torso, blood flowing through his fingers. He looked up at Justin with glassy eyes. “Legare,” he gasped. “I fought ’im, but I couldn’t…I tried…”

“It’s all right, don’t talk,” Justin murmured, throwing Aug a bleak glance. Duffy was a gallant, foolhardy man—no match for someone as cunning and skilled as Legare. Tearing off the tatters that had once been his shirt, Justin wadded up the shredded cloth and pressed it over the gushing wound. It was a useless effort, but he had to do something. Duffy shuddered and gasped, his head falling to the side.