Regina spoke little that evening. She had purged the memory of killing a man from her memory as best she could. Sometimes it returned in a dream, but she'd become practiced at banishing those upon awakening.
No longer. It was all there, in the front of her mind. The dreadful excitement of waiting to see what the bad men would do. The pride when Gabe had stepped out of the cabin, holding the new rifle her Pa had given Uncle William for Christmas. The feel of the trigger as she had pulled it, knowing her shot would be true.
And later, the sight and smell of three dead men lying on the dusty ground in front of the King cabin.
Playing adventurous games was one thing, because the pretend-dead enemy got up laughing, and walked home with you. Killing someone was forever.
Now she had to wonder if she'd only been half alive for twenty years. Had she denied her heart because of that one day, when she'd done what was necessary? And would have again, if her family had been in danger.
She'd been ready to stab Peter with the corkscrew. She would have knifed the harsh-voiced Frenchman if he'd given her the smallest opportunity.
If the man who had tried to crush Gabe's knee were standing her in front of her, she would kill him without hesitation.
And if Gabe ever again asked her to marry him, she would say yes.
* * * *
Peter will be here today, she told herself when she woke on the fourth day, shortly after dawn. She dipped a scant cup of water from the nearly empty barrel to make soup for Gabe. For herself, she cleaned her teeth with a moistened finger, swallowed instead of spat. She could be thirsty for a day or two, but he should not.
After they ate a slice of dry, stale bread each, she went to the louvers to watch the river. Each boat, each barge that appeared from downriver gave her hope. Hope that died when they steamed on past.
Sometime after noon, they ate half of the remaining bread, but neither of them could choke down the sausage, which now reeked. She drank half a cup of water when he insisted, and made sure he drained the other half. Afterward she dozed, for the room had become so stifling that every movement was an effort.
She heard the sound, just as Gabe must have. The screech of the big doors that opened onto the dock. Paralyzed, she waited, expecting--hoping--that she'd hear Peter's British accent.
Instead she heard a harsh voice speaking in French. One she'd heard before.
Gabe gripped her wrist with a crushing strength. She looked at him in time to see his lips move. It took no imagination to know that he'd commanded her to be still and silent.
For an eternity they waited, listening to heavy footfalls, the scrape of crates and barrels being moved as someone--several someones--searched the nearly empty warehouse. She knew that only luck would reveal the entrance to their hiding place. Luck, or careful measurement.
Using the noise from below to cover her movement, she went to the louvers between their hidey-hole and the warehouse. Although she could see nothing, she could hear. If only she could understand even half of what she heard. Why on earth I thought Latin would be useful, I'll never know.
Finally the noise ceased. She heard voices again, at least three different ones, but their words were garbled by the echoes in the mostly empty warehouse. One might have belonged to the cultured sounding fellow who'd seemed to be the head flesh-merchant. She couldn't be sure, but he did seem to be giving orders.
The man with the harsh voice laughed. A nasty, hateful sound.
More footsteps, fading voices. The big doors screeched as they were pushed shut. She turned to smile reassurance at Gabe.
He was frowning. When he saw her looking at him, he held a finger to his lips, then motioned her to him with the other hand.
Setting her feet carefully, she crept toward him, knelt beside him.
"Is there a way out?" he breathed.
"Yes, but--"
"Where?"
"There. Where I poured water." She pointed to the end wall. "But you can't--"
He raised up on one elbow, grimacing in pain as he did. "Smell."
She sniffed. Faintly but unmistakably, the biting odor of coal oil came to her nose. Oh my God!
Gabe pulled her down so he could speak directly into her ear. "Is there any way we can get out without being seen? They're probably hoping to smoke us out.
"Or burn us to death."
"Peter said... It's a chute. Straight down. Into the river. Gabe--" He'd never learned to swim. He was injured. Weak. "No. We can't."
"Pack what you can." He gripped her wrist. "Gina, it's up to you to take what we'll need. I'll have all I can do to get myself to that hole."
She stared into his eyes and knew what that admission had cost him.
Damn! If I could only think! Gabe held her wrist, feeling the fine tremor there. Thanking his lucky stars that Gina was here. He could depend on her.
"Go," he said, knowing he might not be able to pull himself the eight feet or so to the corner in time.
"Yes, but--"
They both heard the first crackle of fire. "Do it," he said.
She snatched a burlap bag from the floor, dumped the cheese and bread into it. Spreading the ragged blanket that had been her bed on the floor, she threw her dress, a pair of trousers, a couple of shirts, a wool jacket and the linen towel onto it. The tin cup and two sheathed knives followed. She rolled it like a bedroll and used one of the ropes to tie it. The other rope went around her waist.
Gabe, meanwhile, had pushed himself over onto to his belly, nearly passing out when his knee struck the floor. When the world stopped spinning, he realized he'd never get to the trapdoor without help.
Regina had the trapdoor open. Setting her burden down, she came back to him and took hold of the blanket on which he lay. Her unshod feet skidded on the rough-hewn wood flooring a few times, but eventually she had him at the bolthole. From the void below came a fecal, fishy stench. The Seine.
He shivered, hot as the room was. He wasn't afraid to die, but he was damned if he wanted to drown. Why didn't I learn to swim? he wondered, for the second time since he'd come to Paris.
"You'll have to go down first," he said. "I can pull myself inside, but you'll have to catch me." He swore. "I'm about as useful as a sunbonnet in a snowstorm, and if there's water at the bottom of that hole, I could drown before you can get to me." He let his mouth twist in self-disgust. "Not that it would be that big a loss."
What he didn't say was that he wanted to be sure she got out safely. The fire was closer. He could smell it, could hear it. And the floor was definitely hotter than it had been.
"No. I...you..."
"Gina, go! Please. Before it's too late."
She stared at him for suspiciously. "Yes, but if you don't follow me, I'll find a way to come back for you. Promise, Gabe? Promise you'll be right behind me?"
He touched her face. "Will you marry me if I do?"
"Yes." She slipped her arm under the knot of the blanket-wrapped bundle and inserted one foot into the black hole. "I'd already decided to. I love you, Gabe."
Her frown told him she was feeling for a foothold. God, I hope there is one.
She smiled, shaky, but still a smile. "Just like the ladder in the barn." A pause, while she stared into his eyes. "You will follow." It was not a question.
"I will."
He watched her descend, staring over the edge of the chute until her bright hair was only a pale spot in the dark. When it disappeared, he grabbed the edge of the hole and pulled himself around. The effort of getting his splinted leg inside the hole sent arrows of hot pain from toe to hip. As the leg swung free, the world turned red and he clung desperately to consciousness. When he could see again, he felt for and found the first rung with his good foot.
"Well, hell. Here I go." He took hold of the edges of the opening and held tight while he reached for the third rung. When he found it, he was able to grasp the top one. After that it was relatively easy to work his way down, taking most of his weight with his hands.
With each movement, his splinted knee screamed its objections, but he told it to wait its turn. The fire was eating its way closer. The wall the rungs were attached to was hot. He had the insane thought that maybe it wasn't water awaiting him at the bottom of this pit, but fire and brimstone.
Crazy notion. Got to hurry. Gina's waiting. He felt for another rung with his foot, but found only a stub on one side. Without the stability of something under his foot, made awkward by the splinted leg, he let go too soon. Or maybe the rung he'd just grabbed was weak. Whatever the cause, it broke under his hand and he fell into lightless, empty space.
He tumbled. His head hit the side of the chute, then his splinted leg. Before he could right himself, he plunged into black water that went up his nose, filled his mouth and slowed his every motion. He fought the water's hold until he was grabbed by the hair and pulled upward, into blessed air. Coughing, choking, he sought something to hold onto, found only insubstantial liquid.
"Stop." The word, spoken into his ear, meant nothing.
"Stop, damn it." This time the words were accompanied by a sharp blow to the side of his head. At the same time, he saw vertical shapes around him. Like trunks of trees.
"Gina?"
"Shhh! Be still, until you have something to hold onto."
She towed him a short distance, to where he could wrap one arm around a tree trunk. No, it had to be a piling. They were in the river.
"Stay there. I'm going to look for the boat."
"B-b-boat?" He shivered. The water wasn't cold, but he was, to the core. His splint was useless. One of the laths was entirely gone, another broken, with a splintered end that was stabbing him in the arse. God only knew what had become of the third narrow board.
"Just stay there, Gabe. I'll be back as soon as I can." She patted his arms where they encircled the piling. "Don't let go."
He heard faint splashes, and felt abandoned. What the hell is wrong with me? I'm acting like a frightened child.
He could hear the fire again. The warehouse must be an inferno by now. How long before the dock caught? He was pretty sure the tar-soaked piling he clung to was part of it. Tinder!
He had no idea how long it was before a small rowboat edged its way through the pilings. Gina clung to one gunwale, pushing it along. "Take hold," she said. "I'm not even going to try to get you aboard until we are a long way from here."
He tried. He really did. But the gunwale was slimy and slick and he could get no grip on it. "Go," he told her. "Leave me."
"Don't be ridiculous." She swam around to the stern and heaved herself aboard. Soon she was back, holding a length of rope. "You're not going to like this." She wrapped the rope around his chest twice, and tied it in back. "I'm going to hitch you to the back of the boat. It won't be comfortable, but it's the only way. I can't possibly lift you in."
He wouldn't have given a plugged nickel for their chances of going anywhere. She surprised him, though. As soon as she had him secured to the stern of the rowboat, she climbed in and picked up a pole. In short order she had the boat moving, with him floating along behind like a caboose. Keeping his face out of the water was a challenge, and protecting his no-longer splinted leg was impossible, but at least they were moving away from the burning warehouse.
As they crossed a narrow span of open water before pulling under the adjacent dock, he saw flaming debris fall through the inland edge of the dock. From somewhere a fire bell clanged. He could hear distant voices, but any meaning to their shouts was lost in the fire's crackle.
I hope those bastards get caught. He didn't doubt for a minute that Heureaux's gang had set the fire.
* * * *
Navigating among the close-spaced pilings was a challenge. Sometimes it was easier to lay the pole in the boat and shove her way along. After the narrow gap beside the dock they'd come from under, there were three docks with only small open spaces between them, to her great relief. The longer they could stay concealed, the better she would like it.
The afternoon sun would soon light up their shadowy refuge, so she had to find a place to land soon. Preferably one deep under cover, with a level area where Gabe could rest comfortably.
There was another open space, perhaps fifty feet wide, after the third dock. It was visible only from the water, thanks to a tall fence on the riverbank. She held the rowboat still while a tug pushed a barge upriver. When it had gone around the next bend, she gave the pole such a strong push that she almost capsized. Slow down, she told herself, and set the pole with more care. She was sure her hair stood on end every inch of the way across the open water, but they probably weren't visible for more than a couple of minutes before they floated into shadow again.
Once they were underneath, she poled closer to the riverbank. It was steep, as it had been under the other docks. The light grew dimmer as they slowly floated along, and soon she saw why. A stone wall, extending from the bank into the water for a good thirty feet, replaced the pilings. If they wanted to go any farther, she would have to take them out into the open river.
I can't do that. We'll have to stay here.
In the dim light, she nearly missed the narrow, shallow, cobbly beach. Poling closer, she inspected it. There was debris--a broken oar, a stove-in barrel, unidentifiable mounds that could have been anything from washed-up clothing to a dead body. I don't care. It's the best place I've found. She poled closer, stepped out into the foul water, and pulled the rowboat as far ashore as she could.
Once she had it secured, she went to unhitch Gabe.
He was unconscious. His skin was clammy.
The water was surprisingly cold, and he'd been inactive and immersed up to his neck for more than an hour. What with his recent injuries and probably some residual effects from the laudanum, it was no wonder he'd passed out.
As she dragged him out of the water, she saw a trail of blood on the cobbles. Sometime during his descent, he had lost the splint. There was a long, shallow gash in the calf of his injured leg, from just below the knee to his heel. Working quickly she unrolled the blanket and got him onto it. She didn't worry about hurting him, because the most important thing was getting him warm and stopping the sluggish flow of blood from his wound.
The wool blanket had protected its contents. The outer gunnysack was slightly damp, but the food and clothing were dry. She cut strips from one of the too-small jackets and used them to compress the edges of the gaping wound together, refusing to think about what terrible germs might have entered the cut.
Once she'd done what she could to make him comfortable, she sat back and inspected their surroundings. They were well concealed, but she had only a narrow view of the river. How am I going to watch for Peter and take care of you? She hoped Peter would have the sense to come looking for them when he saw the burned out warehouse.
She wiped Gabe dry and tucked the edges of the blanket around him. Shaking out her poor, bedraggled dress, she laid it over him. Then she lay down beside him and wrapped one arm around him.
"Two hours ago I wouldn't have expected to be glad it's a hot day," she whispered as she snuggled closer.
Oh, Peter, please get here soon.