The April night was cool and fresh, but the air inside was thick with the reek of pitch and turpentine. Brianna felt suffocated. She could almost feel the tiny molecules of resin floating in the air, sticking to her skin. The sudden illusion of being trapped in a block of solidifying amber was so oppressive that she moved suddenly forward, almost dragging Lord John with her.
The warehouse was nearly full, its vast space crowded with bulky shapes. Kegs of pitch bled sticky black in the farthest shadows, while wooden racks near the huge double doors at the front held piles of barrels; brandy and rum, ready to roll down the ramps and out onto the dock, to barges waiting in the river below.
Private Hodgepile’s shadow stretched and shrank by turns as he passed between the towering ranks of casks and boxes, his steps muffled by the thick layer of sawdust on the floor.
“…must be careful of fire…” His high, thin voice floated back to her, and she saw his puppet shadow wave an etiolated hand. “You will be careful where you set the lantern, won’t you? Though there should be no danger, no danger at all down below…”
The warehouse was built out over the river, to facilitate loading, and the front part of the floor was wood; the back half of the building was brick-floored. Brianna heard the echo of their footsteps change as they crossed the boundary. Hodgepile paused by a trapdoor set into the bricks.
“You won’t be long, my lord?”
“No longer than we can help,” Lord John replied tersely. He took the lantern and waited in silence as Hodgepile heaved up the door and propped it. Brianna’s heart was beating heavily; she could feel each separate thump, like a blow to the chest.
A flight of redbrick stairs ran down into darkness. Hodgepile took out his ring of keys and counted them over in the pool of lantern light, making sure of the right one before descending. He squinted dubiously at Brianna, then motioned them to follow him.
“It’s a good thing they made the stairs wide enough for rum casks,” she murmured to Lord John, holding on to his arm as she edged herself down, one step at a time.
She could see at once why Private Hodgepile wasn’t worried about fire down here; the air was so damp, she wouldn’t have been surprised to see mushrooms sprouting from the walls. There was a sound of dripping water somewhere, and the light of the lantern shone off wet brick. Cockroaches scattered in panic from the light, and the air smelled of mold and mildew.
She thought briefly of her mother’s penicillin farm, less briefly of her mother, and her throat closed tight. Then they were there, and she could no longer distract herself from the realization of what she was doing.
Hodgepile struggled with the key, and the panic she had been suppressing all day swept over her. She had no idea what to say, what to do. What was she doing here?
Lord John squeezed her arm in encouragement. She took a deep breath of the dank wet air, ducked her head, and stepped inside.
He sat on a bench at the far side of the cell, eyes fixed on the door. He’d clearly been expecting someone—he’d heard the footsteps outside—but it wasn’t her. He jerked in startlement, and his eyes flashed briefly green as the light swept over him.
She heard a faint metallic clink; of course, they’d said he was in chains. The thought gave her a little courage. She took the lantern from Hodgepile, and shut the door behind her.
She leaned against the wooden door, studying him in silence. He seemed smaller than she remembered. Perhaps it was only that she was now so much bigger.
“Do you know who I am?” It was a tiny cell, low-ceilinged, with no echo. Her voice sounded small, but clear.
He cocked his head to one side, considering. His eyes traveled slowly over her.
“I don’t think ye were after tellin’ me your name, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that!” The spurt of rage took her by surprise, and she choked it back, clenching her fists behind her. If she had come here to administer forgiveness, it wasn’t a good start.
He shrugged, good-natured but cool.
“As ye will. No, I don’t know who you are. I’ll know your face—and a few other things”—his teeth gleamed briefly in the blond stubble of his beard—“but not your name. I suppose you’ll mean to tell me, though?”
“You do recognize me?”
He drew in air and blew it out through pursed lips, looking her over carefully. He was a good bit the worse for wear, but it hadn’t impaired his assurance.
“Oh, indeed I do.” He seemed amused, and she wanted to cross the room and slap him, hard. Instead, she took a deep breath. That was a mistake—she could smell him.
Without warning, her gorge rose suddenly and violently. She hadn’t been sick before, but the stench of him brought up everything in her. She had barely time to turn away before the flood of bile and half-digested food came hurtling up, splattering the damp brick floor.
She leaned her forehead against the wall, waves of hot and cold running over her. Finally, she wiped her mouth and turned around.
He was still sitting there, watching her. She’d set the lantern on the floor. It threw a yellow flicker upward, carving his face from the shadows behind him. He might have a been a beast, chained in its den; only wariness showed in the pale green eyes.
“My name is Brianna Fraser.”
He nodded, repeating it.
“Brianna Fraser. A lovely name, sure.” He smiled briefly, lips together. “And?”
“My parents are James and Claire Fraser. They saved your life, and you robbed them.”
“Yes.”
He said it with complete matter-of-factness, and she stared at him. He stared back.
She felt a wild urge to laugh, as unexpected as the surge of nausea had been. What had she expected? Remorse? Excuses? From a man who took things because he wanted them?
“If ye’ve come in the hopes of getting back the jewels, I’m afraid you’ve left it too late,” he said pleasantly. “I sold the first to buy a ship, and the other two were stolen from me. Perhaps you’ll find that justice; I should think it cold comfort, myself.”
She swallowed, tasting bile.
“Stolen. When?”
Don’t trouble yourself over the man who’s got it, Roger had said. It’s odds-on he stole it from someone else.
Bonnet shifted on the wooden bench and shrugged.
“Some four months gone. Why?”
“No reason.” So Roger had made it; had got them—the gems that might have been safe transport for them both. Cold comfort.
“I recall there was a trinket, too—a ring, was it? But you got that back.” He smiled, showing his teeth this time.
“I paid for it.” One hand went unthinking to her belly, gone round and tight as a basketball under her cloak.
His gaze stayed on her face, mildly curious.
“Have we business still to do then, darlin’?”
She took a deep breath—through her mouth, this time.
“They told me you’re going to hang.”
“They told me the same thing.” He shifted again on the hard wooden bench. He stretched his head to one side, to ease the muscles of his neck, and peered up sidelong at her. “You’ll not have come from pity, though, I shouldn’t think.”
“No,” she said, watching him thoughtfully. “To be honest, I’ll rest a lot easier once you’re dead.”