Chapter 26

The hay wasn't one of the fastest horses in Anne's stable, but he jumped the split-rail pasture fence with ease. Ignoring the shouts behind her, Anne urged him on. They galloped through an open gate and turned onto the rutted path that led toward the river and Greensboro Hall on the far side.

Two field hands stopped digging holes for the new cow pasture fence to watch her ride by, but she paid them no mind. Then, a short distance ahead, where trees closed in on either side of the road, she saw John Clough and several of his companions.

"Stop right there!" The sheriff stepped into the center of the lane and tried to wave her down.

Anne reined the gelding in hard, turned his head left, and urged him through a meadow of freshly cut hay toward the river. She glanced back over her shoulder and saw that two men had mounted up and were following her on horseback.

"Get up! Go!" she yelled to the bay. She slapped the ends of the reins across his withers, and the animal flattened out into a dead run, leaping heaps of hay and splashing through low spots in the field. A covey of quail burst out of the grass, exploding into the air, but the gelding didn't falter.

They crashed through a stand of cattails, and the horse shied when he saw the river dead ahead. He tried to turn away, but she pulled hard on the reins and held him straight on course. The gelding half leaped, half slid into the tributary, went under, and came up swimming with Anne still in the saddle.

She was in midstream when a shot whistled over her head. She gasped in astonishment and pressed her face into the animal's mane. Seconds later, her mount lurched sideways as a second bullet plowed into his hindquarters.

The terrified horse threw his head back and whinnied in pain.

"No!" Anne cried. "Don't shoot!"

Assuming that the fire came from Clough's deputies, she twisted around to get a glimpse of them. In that instant, she caught sight of a black sloop, sail billowing, bearing down on her. The deck was crowded with grim-faced brigands. One terrifying figure standing in the bow held a smoking rifle.

Her gelding's shrill, agonized neighing deafened Anne as the animal thrashed wildly. Blood poured from the gaping wound, turning the water crimson around her. Anne struggled to kick free of her stirrups, but her wet skirts tangled around her legs, trapping her right foot.

Another bullet tore through the horse's neck. With a final gurgling scream, he twisted and went under in a frenzy of churning hooves.

Black terror seized Anne as bloody water closed over her head. The weight of the dying beast pulled her down. Unable to see, she held her breath, and tried frantically to loosen her right shoe.

She was beyond prayer, beyond reason. Her nails tore as she ripped at the laces. Her lungs burned. Then, abruptly, her foot came loose. Hope surged as she pushed away from the horse—and hit muddy bottom.

She knew that she had to reach the surface, had to get air. But blackness deeper than the river channel clouded her mind and weakened her determination.

An odd soothing voice told her that she didn't have to fight anymore. She could lay here, rocked by the current, with the cold water around her, safe, beyond fear and hurting, where nothing could harm her again.

She was bone tired... so tired.

And then Michael's image rose in her mind. What was it about Michael that troubled her... nagged at her complacency?

"I need you, Annie," he seemed to say in his deep, musical Irish voice.

The circle of darkness was closing, the brilliant amber-green aura of light growing smaller and smaller, flickering silver-gold and fading... fading.

"Annie." Michael's voice was insistent. "You must try."

Fiercely, she lashed out against the water, kicking, driving her weary body up toward the surface. Her head broke through, and she sucked in precious gulps of air. Coughing and gasping, she tried to swim with arms that held no strength, legs that would not obey.

And sank under again.

Sheer will drove her up one final time.

She took another breath, choked, and fought for the shore. But her reserves were gone, and the crimson water closed over her.

Something seized her hair and yanked her head back. Hard fingers dug into her shoulder. "Not gonna drown on us, gal. Not after we kilt that horse to stop ye."

Coarse hands tugged at her, dragging her over the side of a boat. Bay island voices jeered and a ruffian kicked her hip. She lay in the bottom of the sloop, retching, eyes clamped shut, unable to lift herself even to a sitting position.... Until a musket blasted over her head.

Anne's eyes flew open. She tried to push herself up, but a heavy boot slammed her against the deck.

"Keep yer head down, woman! You want it blown clear off?"

Two more guns roared from the far shore. Splinters flew from the single mast, showering Anne with bits of white oak. She covered her face with her hands as the marauders gave an answering volley.

When the shooting ceased, she peered up between her fingers at the ragged sailor kneeling beside her. Bearded, hair long and unkempt beneath a dirty, cocked hat, he whistled between broken, green-scummed teeth as he reloaded a flintlock musket. Behind him, a second pirate, head shaved but for a single braid that hung down over one ear, waved a Spanish cutlass and let out a high, almost girlish peal of laughter.

Then the stench of the men around her hit, and she clamped her eyes shut and curled into a ball, trying to keep from gagging. Her throat burned raw; her mouth tasted of death. She almost wished they'd let the river take her.

"On yer feet, trull!" a ruffian ordered. "Less you want old Tom to swive ye there in plain sight o' the rest." Anne scrambled to her feet as several of the other men jeered, offering lewd suggestions.

She looked around her, counting. There must be nine, ten—no, eleven raiders on the sloop. All wore various mixtures of ragged, filthy clothing that had lost all color and such newer garments as a plum silk vest and good leather boots.

The man who had spoken to her pointed to a pile of rope, and she sat on it and removed her single remaining shoe and soaking stockings. She crouched, trying to make herself small and invisible.

Then, her racing heart skipped a beat as she saw a big man in a blue coat near the bow. She knew that coat. Grace had sewn a button on it yesterday. It belonged to Michael. He had worn it this morning when he'd left for Swan's Nest.

Anne's stomach clenched and she grew light-headed. Hopelessly, she stared at the pirate. And then he turned away. Her lips moved in silent prayer as she saw the bullet hole in the back of the garment and knew that Michael was already dead.

Minutes later, Anne felt the sloop shudder as the keel scraped over the shallows. The pirates leaped over the side, splashing up the sandy bar and climbing the riverbank in the gathering dusk.

"You too," the bald man said. "Old Tom, he wants to keep you close."

"Why?" she demanded. Her voice sounded flat and emotionless to her ear. "Why are you here?" Why have you killed my husband, she wanted to ask, the only man I'll ever truly love. But she couldn't speak Michael's name to this scum... couldn't utter the words that would make him really dead.

"'Twere a bad thing to go t' Tom's island and burn his house," the raider answered, grabbing her around the waist and leaning close to hiss foul breath into her face. "Kilt one o' Tom's brothers, yer menfolk did. Got to teach you a lesson, Tom says. Stay offen our islands. Out of our marsh."

Anne hit the water, sank to her waist, and waded ashore. There, in the gathering dusk, other men waited with horses. The bearded man tied her hands together and threw her up on a dapple gray. Someone took the mount's reins, and the whole party started off toward the house and barns at a hard canter.

Ahead, she could hear shots and the sound of the alarm bell. The smell of smoke was strong in the air, and flames shot from the unfinished cow barn. They were all going to die, Anne thought. Mary, Kathleen and Conall, Gerda... Nora's Daniel. Michael was forever lost to her, and soon...

Not by hell, if she could help it. Cold fury burned away the total despair that had numbed her mind and body. If she was going to leave this earth, she'd take some of them with her.

Staying in the saddle with her wrists bound wasn't easy, but that was the least of her worries. She raised her hands and began to gnaw at the knotted rope with her teeth. She'd felt one loop loosen when the horse slowed to a trot as they clattered into the barnyard.

Everywhere was pandemonium. Men cursed and groaned as they fought hand to hand with knives and fists. Pistols cracked. Women shrieked. Here a frightened horse galloped by without a rider; there a pig ran squealing. A single chicken ran in circles amid the havoc.

Anne slipped out of the stirrups, grabbed hold of the dapple gray's mane, and threw herself off the saddle and onto the ground. She fell to her knees and rolled, nearly being trampled by another horse in the process. But she reached the corner of the pound fence and scooted underneath.

The enclosure was empty. Anne got to her feet, worked the free end of the rope back to gain more slack, then wiggled out of her bonds. Behind the barn, in the flickering firelight, a wild-eyed stranger chased a calf with an ax. She ran the other way, across the pound, under the bottom rail, and toward the turkey pen.

She'd almost reached the safety of the next building when she tripped over a fallen body and fell flat. Stunned, breath knocked out of her, she used her hands to regain her balance. Her right hand hit something warm and sticky, and the fingers of her left closed on a hard object. Gritting her teeth to keep from crying out, Anne pulled back from the repulsive sensation gripping a length of steel that could only be the barrel of a pistol.

Shaking, clutching the weapon, she got to her feet in time to see a shadowy figure lunge at her from the darkness. She whirled, facing him, and leveled the pistol. Her finger tightened on the trigger.

The firing pin clicked dully on a spent load.

Her assailant sneered and grabbed her arm. Anne fought to wrench away, and she swung the heavy handgun at his head. She felt the clunk and heard him groan. His iron grip bit into her flesh, and hair rose on the back of her neck as she heard the hiss of a knife sliding out of a leather sheath. Screaming as loud as she could, she struck at him again and again with the pistol.

"Ye foul bitch! I'll cut ye bow from stern."

A rifle spit fire and lead, and the pirate dropped like a stone.

"Annie!"

She turned toward the voice. "Michael?"

"Anne! Anne!"

Then she was in his arms, burying her face in his chest, shutting out the blood and the clash of steel and the scent of death. "I thought you were dead!" She sobbed tears of joy. "You're not dead! You're not dead!"

"Come," he said urgently. "No time. I've got to get you somewhere safe." He took her hand and ran with her toward the back of the house. "Into the cellar! Kathleen's there, and your sister."

He banged on the cellar door and shouted to the women. "Open up! I've got Anne!"

"Don't go back!" she begged him, knowing she was asking the impossible. "Please! I don't care about anything else. I can't stand to lose you twice!"

"Praise be!" Nora said as she opened the cellarway hatch wide enough to let Anne in. "Quick, now!"

O'Ryan tore himself out of Anne's arms. "Next time use a loaded pistol," he said, thrusting his own into her hand. Then he shoved her down into Nora's arms and slammed the door. Anne heard the rasp of the iron lock as her husband snapped it shut.

"Go with God," she whispered.

Nora tugged at her hand, and Anne let Sean's wife lead her to the feeble circle of candlelight. Mary burst from the group of keening women and children and threw her arms around her.

"You're safe," Mary said, over and over. "We didn't know where you were. O'Ryan came to the house to warn us. But he couldn't find you. We thought—"

"I'm all right," Anne said. "Are you? You're not hurt. The baby—"

"It's dark and dirty down here. I think I have a spiderweb in my hair, but otherwise..." Mary shook her head. "I'm fine. Better than being up there." She pointed upstairs to the main house. Then she squeezed Anne again. "And I'm so glad you're safe. I was worried about you."

Anne heard a low whine and knelt to embrace Shannon. The gangly pup licked her face and bare arms. "Good girl," Anne said. "Good girl." She held the dog and looked around, seeing Kathleen and Conall, Blanche, Grace, and two Irish girls, and a black freeman's wife. Then she noticed taller shadows, near the foot of the stairs that led up into the hall chamber.

"My Sean," Nora said. "He has a shoulder wound. They were coming home with the bull when the pirates ambushed them. Michael and Sean got away, but Michael's horse was shot out from under him. He insisted my Sean stay here. Mr. George, too. He's guarding the—"

"Your children, Nora? Are your children here?" Anne searched the faces again. Some of the young ones had their heads buried in their mother's aprons. Others sat on the hard-packed dirt floor in frightened silence.

"All but Daniel," Nora replied. "He was with the sheep. We didn't have time to..," She broke off, overcome with emotion. "I should have gone after him. He's headstrong, my Daniel. I—"

"No," Anne said. "You did the right thing. Your girls are here, Nora. They need you. And your little ones. He'll be all right. Daniel's smart. He'll hide until this is over."

"They'll burn the house over our heads," Grace whimpered. "I want to go home. I want my mother."

More gunshots echoed from outside. Overhead, Anne heard running feet, and the sounds of breaking glass. She glanced back at her sister. Mary was visibly shaken, her face pale and strained.

"Here," Anne said, handing her the pistol Michael had given her. "Keep this. Use it if you have to." It was terrible that Mary had to go through this ordeal in her condition—unthinkable that any of them should.

Suddenly the hall door crashed open. Two pillagers spilled down the cellar steps. "Stop right there or I'll shoot!" Sean yelled.

"Get down!" Anne warned the women.

Mothers and children scattered in the far recesses of the multiroom cellar. Grace ducked through a door into a darkened chamber that held casks of wine and vinegar.

One of the intruders raised a pistol and fired. Sean and George shot back. The first man tumbled down the stairs. The second leaped over him at Sean, and Anne recognized him as the sailor with the shaven head and pigtail.

He landed on top of Sean. The two fell to the floor, rolling over and over in the darkness, locked in combat. George scrambled to the top of the steps and pulled the door shut.

Anne ran to the edge of the stairs. In the faint light, she could see the pirate, his butcher knife inches from the Irishman's face. She looked around and saw a stack of small lard crocks lined up against the wall. Grabbing the nearest stoneware container, she smashed it down on the raider's skull. He slumped on top of the Irishman, and Anne seized his arm and tried to drag him off.

She heard footsteps behind her and glanced over her shoulder to see George coming toward her. "Help me," she said. "He's heavy. I can't—"

Her brother-in-law stopped and aimed a flintlock pistol directly at her head. "A pity, Anne," he said. "You weren't meant to survive this—"

"No! You can't—" she began.

The pistol blast rocked her back. She threw herself facedown across Sean. Seconds passed. Anne took a breath and waited for the pain.

"Anne?" It was her sister's voice.

Was it possible that the bullet had missed her at this range? "Stay back, Mary," she warned.

"George isn't going to hurt anyone, not ever again."

Anne raised her head and saw her brother-in-law sprawled on the floor. For an instant she couldn't comprehend what had happened. Then she became aware of the smoking pistol in her sister's hand. "You—didn't..."

Mary dropped the heavy handgun and kicked it toward the fallen pirate. "Poor George is a hero, isn't he? He died defending us from those—those villains." She wiped her hands on her gown, and looked back over her shoulder.

As far as Anne could tell, there were no witnesses. Sean was still groaning on the floor, his assailant was unconscious or dead, and the others were hiding in the recesses of the dark cellar.

"You killed him," Anne said.

"Obviously someone had to."

"But he was your husband," Anne whispered. "You saved my life."

"You were always far too dramatic," Mary answered matter-of-factly. "Yes, he is—was my husband, but you are my only sister. A resourceful woman can always find another husband."

Anne stared at her in shock.

"Surely you didn't think that I would let George kill you." Mary shrugged. "I suppose I shall have to content myself with being a rich widow now."

Trembling, Anne knelt by George's side. "He may still be alive."

"I should hope not. Papa would be ashamed. He taught me to shoot, too."

Anne touched the nape of George's neck and found it warm. But when she rolled him onto his back, one look told her that there was no need to feel for a pulse. "He's gone."

"Good." Mary helped Anne to her feet. "Nothing, sister, not my hope of heaven or my fear of eternal damnation, would keep me from choosing your life over George's. Now, let's speak no more of it. We'll say the pirate killed him."

"You don't feel any regret, do you?"

"Some, perhaps. But George brought this on himself with his greediness and his wicked plotting."

Mary pulled a folded parchment from the bosom of her gown. "This is your mortgage. And it's caused far too much upset." She marched deliberately to the single candle and slowly fed the contract to the flame until there was nothing left but drifting ashes.

Anne stood motionless, trembling, and unable to accept what had just happened until she heard Sean moan. The sound broke her from her trance. "Call Nora," she said to Mary. "Her husband's hurt. He needs her."

A dark stain covered one side of Sean's shirt. "I think he's bleeding again from his shoulder wound," Anne added.

She glanced over at the fallen pirate. He hadn't moved since she'd hit him with the crock. She was no better than Mary was, she thought. If she'd killed a man, surely she should feel some remorse. But she didn't. He would have gladly killed any of them, and she was beyond pity for his kind.

Instead, she took George's pistol and stepped back so that she had a good view of the stairs. Part of her wanted to go up into the house to try to find out if Michael was safe, but she knew she couldn't. She had to remain here and keep the women and children from harm.

"Dear God, please don't let him die," she whispered." Bring him back to me."

Nora and one of her friends came to Sean's side. Together, they helped him back into one of the windowless rooms. Grace brought a second candle and lit it so that they could see to tend his shoulder.

"Don't let the pirates get me," Grace begged Anne. "I don't want to die."

"You're not going to die," Anne assured her with more enthusiasm than she felt. There were no more loud noises from the house, but the sound of gunfire still came faintly from the yard. "I want you and the others to hide in the back, away from the stairs," she said. "You too, Mary."

Blanche nodded and shepherded the curious children away from the main section of the cellar. Anne carried the remaining candle to a shelf near the top of the steps, then retreated to the darkness below. Now if anyone tried to get down to them, she could see better than they could.

She waited, pistol in hand, trying not to think about the two bodies lying on the floor. Suddenly, behind her, she heard a faint scrape. "Who is it?" she demanded. "Who's there?"

Suddenly, something hot sliced down her arm. Instinctively, she raised the pistol and fired. There was a grunt, and the gun flew from her hand, propelled by a powerful male fist. Then she was flat on her back, fighting for her life with the pirate on top of her.

"Bloody cow!" he swore. "I'll kill you! I'll—"

His fingers closed on her throat. She struggled, gasping for breath, striking out with knees and fists, but he was too strong. Slowly, gradually, she could feel his hold tightening, and she knew that she had only seconds to live.

Then, without warning, the awful pressure was gone. His weight flew off her chest, and she caught a glimpse of a second man's legs as he smashed the thug against the brick wall.

Anne crawled to the bottom of the stairs and staggered to her feet. She heard a heavy thump and then the scraping of cloth on stone as one of the men slid down the wall to the floor.

"Anne!"

"Michael?" She tried to scream his name, but she could only whisper. "Michael. I thought you were dead before. I... saw your coat... the bullet hole—"

"It was hot, darling. I had my coat off, tied behind my saddle. They shot my horse, but I jumped free and made it into the woods. Sean and I came to warn—" He caught her as she fell, lifting her in his arms.

"I thought—I thought... I'd lost you... forever."

"Annie, Annie, my love," he murmured hoarsely. "It's all right, I have you. I have you safe. And I'll never let you go again—not on this green earth or the golden fields of heaven."

* * *

Later, the dead pirates were laid in rows in the barnyard. Anne's own dead and wounded people were carried into the house and made comfortable or decently prepared for their next of kin.

Six had died defending Gentleman's Folly: both of the sheriff's deputies, the Irishmen Owen Conway and Patty Gilmore, a free black fisherman named Johnny Thomson, and Anne's brother-in-law George. Sheriff Clough, Sean, and four more were wounded.

But the island marauders had suffered far worse. Nine were dead, most of the fourteen prisoners wounded. And the shaven-head pirate that Michael had fought in the cellar breathed his last within two hours of the struggle.

Nora's young son Daniel was safe, as Anne had predicted. He'd seen the group of raiders on horseback and gone to Greensboro Hall for help. It was the combined force of Nate's followers and those of Swan's Nest Plantation that had turned the tide of battle.

"Not one of them got away," Nate said proudly. His face was smeared with black powder, and he bore a gash along his right cheekbone.

O'Ryan extended his arm and the two shook hands firmly. "Without your help—"

"You'd have done the same for me," Nate answered. He looked around the compound and shook his head. "You've a right mess to clean up, neighbor."

"Aye, that I do," Michael replied. "But I've all the time in the world to do it."

"Have you?" Anne asked, coming up behind him with her sister Mary. The knife wound on Anne's arm was a shallow one, but Mary had insisted on washing and bandaging it against infection. "Are you staying?" She waited, not daring to hope, but hoping just the same.

"Aye, wife." Michael blue eyes caressed her tenderly. "If you'll still have me after I've proved myself the total fool."

She nodded and reached for his hand. It was warm and strong, and the touch of him made her heart leap with joy. "I've always wanted you," she murmured. "From the first minute I laid eyes on you."

"'Tis natural, I suppose," he teased. "For a Shannon man's a rare thing on these colonial shores." He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, oblivious to the amused audience.

"I hate to be the one to add trouble to what you've suffered here today," Sheriff Clough said. "But I came to serve papers on you, Mr. O'Ryan, and nothing that's happened changes that. As much as I hate to do it, I've still got to take you back to Annapolis to—"

"Why?" Mary demanded. "What business have you with my brother-in-law?" She'd had a good cry brought on by belated sorrow for her George's passing, and looked the proper grieving widow.

"There's been a charge, ma'am—your... your late husband instigated charges that Mr. O'Ryan is really a suspect named Cormac Payne. He's wanted—"

"Ridiculous," Mary answered haughtily. "He can't be Cormac Payne."

"And why not?" Clough asked.

"Because he is," Anne said, pointing to the dead pirate who had nearly killed her.

"Yes, Miss Anne, I'm sure you want to protect your husband, but—"

"No," Mary said. "That is Payne. He once worked for my husband. I know his face well. How could you miss that shaven head?" She made a sound of disgust and covered her mouth with a lace handkerchief. "He's the one who killed my dear George."The sheriff looked doubtful. "Ma'am, I don't—"

"That's Payne, all right," Nate agreed. "I've had dealings with the rascal before. I caught him cheating at cards in Oxford."

"It is," chimed in Gerda. "It is Cormac Payne. I heard Master George call him by that name. And I vill go to court and svear to it."

"You're liars all," Clough answered. But he sighed heavily and shrugged. "You swear to the fact, each one of you? That dead man lying there is the accused, Cormac Payne?"

The verdict was unanimous. "Absolutely," Nate said. "My wife can attest to it. She was with me—"

"At Maudy's Inn while you were playing cards," Clough finished.

"Absolutely," Anne said. "I was there. So was Mrs. Brady and—"

"Enough," the sheriff said, shaking his head. "I know when I'm licked. I'll inform those that need to know that Payne's dead, killed while committing another heinous murder."

"Then it's over?" Anne said, holding tight to O'Ryan. "Michael's free?"

"As free as any married man," Clough answered.

Laughing, Anne turned in Michael's embrace and put her uninjured arm around his neck. "Welcome home, darling," she whispered.

He kissed her again. "Have I ever told you that I loved you?"

"Do you? Truly?"

"Aye, darling. I love you."

"Both of us?"

His blue eyes clouded with puzzlement.

She stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear.

"...a baby?" She nodded. "In late spring, I think." And his whoop of joy answered every question that lingered in the recesses of her heart.