Murder at Marble House(43)
“Emma!” His frantic whisper grazed my back, but I kept going. I had to learn as much as I could about these goings-on. That they were somehow connected to Winthrop Rutherfurd meant they could also be connected to Consuelo. Quickly, stooping low to keep myself small, I made my way closer to the waterline.
“Hurry it up, dammit. Stanford’s waiting. Said he’d dock our pay for every minute we delay.”
I stopped in the shadow of a clump of scrub pine and crouched. Stanford. I knew that name. Hope Stanford . . . Oh, but that was ridiculous. What would the temperance leader be doing consorting with midnight brigands? Stanford was a common enough name—
A presence at my back nearly forced a gasp from my lips, but I swallowed it down. Derrick had followed me and now he slipped a hand around my forearm and squeezed. He didn’t have to speak to convey his meaning. He wanted us gone from there. I turned back to the steamer, hoping to catch a glimpse of something that made sense before Derrick dragged me away.
“D’ya see that?”
“What? Where?”
“Up there! I think someone’s there.”
“Shit!”
More expletives followed, but Derrick and I didn’t wait around to hear them. Our feet were in motion taking us back the way we’d come, heedless now of how much racket we raised. Footsteps pounded behind us. Derrick’s hand clamped around my own and he pulled me along over the wall, then over rocks, dips, and hillocks. My feet protested inside Aunt Sadie’s boots, which pinched my toes. My cap flew off and bits of my hair came loose and flopped in my face. I gasped for breath and ran blindly, until Derrick’s arm went around me, scooped me off my feet, and I was tossed to the deck of our little boat.
The dinghy rocked with Derrick’s weight as he jumped in after me. Our pursuers reached the narrow beach, their strides sending pebbles skittering across the sand to ping against our oaken hull. Fear clawed at my throat and clouded my thinking. Just as groping hands reached out to catch hold of the boat, we shoved away from the shore.
Derrick rowed madly, grunting with the effort. And I . . . I could only sit and watch the island recede, with those men standing on the sand, their fists raised in our direction.
My breath of relief was drowned out by the chugging of a steam engine.
Like some hulking sea monster angry to be awakened from its slumber, the freighter rounded the island and headed straight for us. It cut through the water, gaining momentum, and within seconds Derrick and I both knew he could not out-paddle the larger craft. We knew, too, that it would not swerve away at the last minute.
I thought to lean out over the water and paddle with my hands, anything to help Derrick bring us to land faster. But each instant brought the freighter closer, the water it displaced sending a bulging wave beneath us that hindered our progress even more. Soon, the freighter was nearly upon us, and, heart surging to my throat, I glimpsed one of those men standing at the center of the prow, grinning fiendlike as he anticipated our demise.
“Emma, jump!”
Derrick’s shout filled me with terror. He dropped the oars, one hitting the deck, the other sliding ineffectually through its rowlock and into the water. Jump? I shook my head. But at the same time I realized there was no other way, no other hope.
“To your right! Go deep!” As if he didn’t trust me to understand, Derrick lunged to his feet, locked a hand around my shoulder, and shoved me even as he sprang over the side of the dinghy himself. Together we went in headfirst, and in the last instant before we hit the water I sucked in a breath.
Instinct took over; I kicked my feet and flapped my arms. I searched frantically for the surface, but Derrick tugged me lower and lower still. Boulders struck my sides and scraped my legs through my trousers. For a moment I fought him, but then I remembered his command and realized the sense in allowing him to tow me as deep as we dared for as long as our breath held out.
A sound like distant thunder boomed in my ears, eerily muffled but no less violent. A shock wave followed, pitching us sideways into the currents. Through the darkness, with my eyes shut tight against the brine, I rolled, spiraled, then thudded side-first into Derrick. His arms went around me briefly before falling away. In that instant I panicked. But his hand found mine and he held on as never to let me go.
My lungs shrieked for air, but I resisted the urge to surface. When cruel talons tore at my lungs and I thought I could stand it no longer, Derrick kicked away from the rocks we clung to and began our ascent—too slowly for my comfort, but I trusted him. We didn’t know what we’d find when we broke the surface. Would those awful men be waiting?
But it was the quiet night, disturbed only by the wistful tolling of a buoy bell, that greeted us. My mouth surged open and I dragged in precious oxygen, filling my lungs painfully but gratefully. The freighter was nowhere in sight, and any sound from its engine now merged with the tide, the breeze, and the other ordinary sounds carrying across the water. Perhaps they’d circled back around the island, or perhaps they’d sailed farther along the coastline to blend in with the other vessels moored in the harbor. Would Uncle William gaze out from The Valiant, glimpse the men who had almost killed us, and, with an aristocrat’s indifference to the commonplace, think nothing of them?