Scandalous Desires (Maiden Lane #3)(28)

Mick hunched down in the stern of the boat, watching as the massive hulk of the Fairweather drew near. She was a fully rigged ship, not more than five years old and a beauty. He’d always had a certain fascination for the tall ships that docked in London harbor. They were like living giants, slumbering on the dirty waters of the Thames.

The wherry made the side of the ship and the rope ladder already waiting there. The water sloshed against the hull as Mick swarmed up, leading his men. He climbed over the rail and saw the two guards, huddled together.

“Good evenin,’ gentlemen,” Mick murmured as he straightened. “Only ye two aboard?”

“Aye,” the elder of the two, a bantam fellow of thirty or so, nodded nervously. “Jus’ like ye said.”

“Good.” Mick casually tossed a small bag to the men. It clinked as the elder man caught it. “Ye’ll have the rest when me and me men depart.”

Mick waved a hand to his crew.

Immediately, his men spread out over the ship, swiftly climbing below where the cargo lay.

Mick sauntered to the poop deck and ducked inside the door there. The captain’s cabin usually lay at the stern of the ship and the Fairweather was no different. Mick grunted with satisfaction when he found a solid oak door that was finer than the rest in the corridor. Of course it was locked, but a few quick shoves with his dagger against the wood near the lock opened the door very nicely. He prowled inside.

The captain of the Fairweather obviously liked to take his luxuries with him when he sailed. An enameled snuffbox lay on a table next to a brass inkwell and stand. Mick glanced at them and turned to a small chest near the bed. This was locked, as well, but he opened it easily. Inside were a few gold coins, a fine brass sextant, and some maps. Mick rifled through the contents until his hand found a rectangular object wrapped in oilcloth at the bottom of the chest. He drew it out and sat back on his heels to unwrap it.

The oilcloth fell away in his hands to reveal a slim volume, the leather dark with age, gilt decorating the cover, but no title. Mick turned the book over in his hands before opening it. Within were finely written pages—in a language he could not decipher. He turned a couple of pages and came upon a tiny, exquisite illustration.

Mick’s eyebrows arched and he smiled.

He rewrapped the little book carefully and stuck it into an inner pocket in his coat. Then he continued looking about the room.

Ten minutes later he’d found nothing more interesting than an amazing array of clay pipes. Mick left the captain’s quarters and went up on deck. He’d taught his men to be swift when they went raiding and he wasn’t disappointed now: Bran stood overseeing the removal of several barrels into the waiting boats.

“Almost done?” Mick asked as he came up to Bran.

“Aye.” The boy turned to grin. “We got nearly all the tobacco.”

“Good.” The Fairweather’s captain would pay a steep price for his greed. Mick tossed another small bag to the waiting guards. They looked none too bright, but if they had any sense they’d be gone by the time the captain came on board tomorrow. “Then let’s away.”

Bran nodded and was over the side and down the ladder in two blinks. Mick followed, feeling the boat dip under his weight as he stepped in. He gestured and the wherrymen shoved away from the Fairweather.

The puny moon shed little light on the water and they rowed in near darkness, the only sound the dip of the oars into the river. Still, as Mick neared the dock, something made him peer intently into the gloom. All looked the same as when they’d left it only a half hour before—a few barrels squatted together in the shadows, a tumbling-down warehouse looming behind. There was nothing to alarm him, yet he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

Then something moved behind one of the barrels.

“Ambush!” Mick roared as he drew one of his pistols.

His shot coincided with one from the dock and the wherryman in front of him slumped over the oars, blood pouring from a hole in his head. Suddenly the night was lit with the sparks of gunfire. Mick fired his other pistol, then took the dead man by the arm and threw his body out of the boat.

He shoved one of his own men into position. “Row for shore, hard as ye can!”

A shout and a splash as one of his pirates went into the Thames. God willing, the man was already dead, for most of Mick’s men couldn’t swim—and drowning was a hard way to go. Mick growled and drew one of his daggers, sticking it between his teeth. Then he threw off his boots and coat and slipped over the side of the wherry like an eel.

The water was as icy as a dead woman’s kiss and smelled of the sewers that emptied into the river. No matter—he’d swum the Thames before and tasted her foul brew. Mick glided through the water, only his eyes breaking the surface, his face going numb. He made the wharf before the boats and could see now clearly their attackers. One man crouched near the water’s edge, firing from two long guns, another loading for him.

The gunman was the first to go into the river.

There was a splash and a gurgle and then the man was lost below the fetid surface. His mate stared as Mick swarmed the dock.

“Fuck,” the gun loader cried. “It’s Charmin’ Mickey ’imself!”

“How de do?” Mick grinned and stuck his knife between the man’s ribs.

The gun loader’s eyes widened a moment, but Mick hadn’t time to watch. He shoved the man—dead or alive—into the Thames’s cold embrace. When he turned back, his boats were almost at the dock, some of his men still shooting. The attackers fled into the dark.