RMS Aquitania
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 29, 1938
Jeffries, the steward, stood in the stateroom doorway holding a tray of late-night coffee. “I say, sir,” he said in his British accent. “You have but two more nights at sea. You should enjoy a beautiful evening of dining and dancing.”
“I’m on my honeymoon.” Peter grinned and took the tray. “Thanks to your attentive care, I’m able to spend every second basking in my bride’s presence.”
Jeffries gazed past Peter to Evelyn, who was writing at the little desk between the two beds. “Women enjoy such evenings.”
Evelyn sent the steward a mischievous smile. “I’m not most women.”
Indeed, she wasn’t, and Peter chuckled.
Jeffries released a deep sigh. “I’ll return in half an hour for the tray—at midnight.”
“Thank you.” Peter locked the door behind him and set the tray on the bureau.
For the past five days, Peter had almost been able to forget they were on the run. The stateroom was comfortable, and Jeffries brought everything they needed. He’d even brought the requested bottle of aspirin.
No need to worry Evelyn about the fever he’d felt rising all day. Peter popped two pills in his mouth, washed them down with coffee, and slipped the bottle in his trouser pocket.
Despite Evelyn’s nursing, the knife wound was infected.
Peter brought Evelyn her coffee. “How is the story coming?”
She took a sip. “I finished another ten pages today. I hate writing longhand, but it’ll do.”
“Good.” He sat on his bed with the book Jeffries had brought from the ship’s library.
They’d passed the days leisurely, sleeping late and staying up late. But they’d spent their days well, reading, playing cards, and discussing her story. Evelyn had decided to write it truthfully, including George’s role, then she’d edit it down for publication to avoid slander. She’d finished her feature-length article and was now working on a book.
Peter would have to wire half his savings account to Aubrey to pay for the first-class accommodations, but it was worth it to keep Evelyn safe and see the light return to her eyes.
His arm throbbed with heat. After he finished the chapter he was reading, he headed into the bathroom, where he rolled up his sleeve and unwound the bandage.
The redness this morning had concerned Evelyn. Now it was worse. But medical care had to wait until they passed customs in New York.
At the sink, Peter ran cold water over the wound and flinched from the pain.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Evelyn leaned against the doorjamb.
He should have shut the door. “Changing the bandage.”
“By yourself.”
“I can do it.”
“Let me see.” Evelyn leaned around him. “Oh dear. It’s so red.”
Peter patted his arm dry with a towel. “It’s fine. I must have exerted myself too much.”
“How? Turning the pages of your book too vigorously?” She took his arm and gasped. “You’re burning up.”
“It’s warm in here. It’ll pass.” As soon as the aspirin kicked in.
Evelyn pulled out a dry bandage and wound it around Peter’s arm. “It’s time to call the ship’s doctor.”
“We can’t. He’ll ask how it happened and why I didn’t seek care earlier. They’ll detain us on this side of customs, maybe send us back to France.”
“We won’t arrive in New York for two more days.” Her voice trembled as she secured the bandage with a pin. “If this spreads . . .”
Her meaning was clear. In two days, it might be too late. “I’ll be fine.”
“I thought you looked flushed.” She pressed an icy hand to his cheek. “Oh, darling, you’re burning up.”
Darling? Her voice, so tender. Her touch, so gentle.
Peter swallowed hard. “Maybe it’s the fever making me imagine things, but I thought I heard you call me darling.”
Her eyebrows jolted. Denial sparked in her eyes—then extinguished, replaced by a new fire, soft and content as a hearthside.
Could it be? Was she falling for him? After all this time? After he’d given up?
Evelyn dropped her hand and her gaze, and she rolled Peter’s sleeve back in place. “The last few weeks, we’ve been together constantly, day and night.” Her voice came out breathy.
Only one thing mattered—he needed to gather her in his arms right that moment.
A knock on the door.
“Oh!” Evelyn darted out of the bathroom. “That’s Jeffries, returning for the tray.”
Groaning, Peter clenched the rim of the sink, the fire now in his belly. Fever or no fever, as soon as Jeffries left, he’d tell Evelyn he loved her. Show her he loved her.
The stateroom door clicked open. Evelyn cried out—short and gulping.
“Shut up!” a man said. The door banged shut.
No! Peter dashed out of the bathroom. His gun—it was in his jacket—hanging by the stateroom door.
In the doorway, George Norwood held a gun to Evelyn’s head.
Lord, no! Peter stopped short. “Put it down! Get your hands off her!”
George scowled at him. “Raise your voice again, and I’ll put a bullet through her brain and gladly. Put your hands where I can see them.”
Peter’s breath raced, but he raised his hands to waist level. How had he let his guard down? How could he get his gun?
Evelyn stared at him, wide-eyed and pale, but her chin jutted forward. She wouldn’t fall apart.
George looked ruffled. An overcoat draped over his raised elbow, and his homburg sat at an awkward angle. “The three of us will take a stroll on the deck, and you’ll give me the list.”
Peter had to delay him, think of a plan. “List? What are you talking about?”
“Don’t play innocent. You know what I mean.”
Peter’s mind whirled, trying to outthink his former friend. Why did George want to go up on the deck? If Peter gave him the list, George would have to shoot them both to keep them quiet. If Peter refused, George would also have to shoot them. A gunshot in the cabin would rouse other passengers, and George would be apprehended. But the deck would be empty at midnight. George could kill them, throw their bodies overboard, and never be caught.
Swallowing hard, Peter spread his hands wide. “What list?”
“Otto told me all about it. You betrayed them. They trusted you with the list, trusted you to bring those people together for the good of America.”
Every option Peter could think of ended in death, but he kept his voice calm. “I do plan to do what’s best for America.”
“You betrayed us.” George’s voice went hard. “I won’t let you give that list to the FBI. My father’s name is on that list.”
Peter raised a little shrug. “He has nothing to fear if he hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“He hasn’t. He just wants to put the communists and Jews in their place, bring back prosperity. But you—you want to drag my family’s name through the mud, destroy the family company, make my father lose his seat in the House. I won’t let you do that. You’ll give me that list, and I’ll use it for its intended purpose. I’ll be the one to organize and lead, to do what’s right.”
“Don’t give it to him,” Evelyn said, her fists clenched at her sides.
He didn’t intend to, but he needed time to think. That meant pacifying George.
“Let’s go.” George backed Evelyn away from the doorway, scooted the gun barrel down to her ribs, and jiggled his arm until the overcoat slid down to conceal the weapon. “Open the door, Lang. You’ll walk in front. If you make any sudden moves or signal anyone, I’ll shoot her, then you.”
Peter eased forward, hands raised. His jacket hung on a hook by the door, but reaching for it would be a sudden move.
“Peter?” Evelyn said. “It’s cold outside. Don’t forget your jacket.”
Just the excuse he needed, and he reached for it.
“Don’t,” George said with a growl.
Peter’s hand hovered over the jacket. “Do you want the list or not?”
“It’s in your jacket?”
It was still in his shoe. “Do you want it or not?”
“Give me the jacket.”
No. No, he couldn’t. His fingers agitated, yearning for the wool, the steel, their only chance. “It might be in there. It might not. I might be handing you the jacket to burden you or distract you and gain the advantage. Want to take that chance?”
“Fine. Put it on. But remember the gun is pointed at your wife’s heart.” His voice twisted around the word wife.
Peter’s hand coiled like claws into his jacket. If only he could put a fist through George’s face.
He stepped out into the empty passageway. Even if he saw someone, how could he signal without alerting George?
“We’re right behind you,” George said. “Remember—”
“I remember.” Peter spat out the words, walked down the passageway, and pulled on his jacket. He slipped his hand into the inside pocket, to the cold steel over his heart. But by the time he could release the safety, turn, and aim, Evelyn would be dead.
“Hands by your side,” George said.
Peter obeyed.
“Say, Georgie,” Evelyn said in a taunting voice. “Too bad you don’t have a silencer. You could have taken care of this whole nasty business in our nice toasty cabin.”
“Shut up.” George’s words ground out. “Not one more word.”
Thank goodness Evelyn wasn’t ruffled. Because Peter was.
He had to figure out a plan—but what? On the deck, George would ask for the list. If Peter refused, George would search his dead body—the list wouldn’t be hard to find. No matter what Peter did, in a matter of minutes, he and Evelyn would be dead and George would have the list.
His insides writhed, and his feet dragged. Maybe he should get it over with and make a sudden move in the passageway. The gunshots would bring people out from their rooms. Peter and Evelyn would die, but George would have to run. He wouldn’t get the list. He might get caught.
No. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t give up.
The ornate staircase neared, broad and open, with wrought-iron banisters.
“Up to the boat deck, to the badminton courts.”
Peter trudged up the stairs. Once again, someone he loved was under attack, and he was powerless. What good were muscles against a gun? Lord, show me what to do.
It couldn’t end this way. Not now. Evelyn had an important story to tell, a lifetime of stories. And Peter? Even though his life’s work was destroyed, he could still use his talents for good.
On the landing, he turned and climbed the next flight.
Evelyn stared up at him, and her expression sank into his soul. She believed in him, not as a damsel in distress awaiting rescue, but as a partner. She trusted him. She’d work with him. She’d follow his lead.
Peter shoved away his despondency, and he mirrored her look. He trusted her too. He’d fight for her. And he’d gladly follow her lead if she had any ideas.
Because he had none.
He continued to climb, and each time he turned, he met her gaze, each time stronger. Only the Lord had power. Only the Lord would decide who lived and who died.
A strange and determined peace settled into his soul.
“Here we are,” George said. “Open the door and go thirty paces down the center badminton court, then stop and face me.”
Peter let out a sharp laugh. “Like a duel? Hardly an even match when only one of us has a gun.”
“Too bad for you.”
Peter shoved open the door, itching for his gun, but with his poor eyesight and the darkness, he’d be as likely to hit Evelyn as George.
Icy air buffeted him, and he resisted the urge to cross his arms against the cold. No sudden moves. At least he had his jacket. Evelyn wore only a wool dress.
Lifeboats hung to the side of the badminton courts, and the rush of waves sounded below.
He strode down the center court toward the mast strung with lights, counting out loud, just to irk George. The air cooled his fevered cheeks, but then the chills came. As if he needed anything else to throw off his aim.
To get in a good shot, he’d need a distraction so he could draw his gun unnoticed, and he’d need Evelyn to get out of the way.
“Thirty.” Peter faced George, hands high. “Shoot.”
George stopped about fifteen feet away, and he shifted the gun up to Evelyn’s head. “Give me the list.”
“Don’t,” Evelyn said. “He’ll shoot us both.”
George glared at her. “Shut up.”
She’d distracted him, and Peter’s mind spun, a needle whirling, pointing to possibilities. Show me, Lord.
“Give it to me.” George jabbed the gun into Evelyn’s cheek.
Peter had implied the list was in his jacket. He could grab the gun, but he’d still need a distraction. “It’s in my jacket.” With his left hand raised, Peter eased his right hand inside his jacket, around the steel.
Evelyn’s eyes widened, and she shrank back from George. She knew what was in that pocket, knew how blind he was without his glasses—and fevered and shivering, to boot.
George yanked her back to his side. “Now, Peter! Give it to me.”
The list was in his right shoe, and the spinning stopped, the needle pointing down—to that shoe.
“That’s right,” Peter said as the plan coalesced. “I moved it to my shoe.”
“Your shoe?”
“Yes.” In one fluid move, Peter swiveled to his right and went down to his knee, drawing out his gun and sliding it down the side of his right leg to the outside of his foot, away from George.
“What are you doing? Get where I can see you.”
“I need light.” Peter tilted his head to the mast to his right. “I can barely see without glasses, and I have a knot in my shoelace.”
“Hurry up.”
With his left hand, he fiddled with his shoelaces to conceal his manipulation of the gun with his injured, shivering hand. The safety would make a click. He needed noise to cover it.
“Don’t give it to him,” Evelyn said, her voice sharp.
His firebrand could create a distraction. “I have to, Evelyn. Don’t be dramatic. You’re always so dramatic.” He emphasized the word and shot her a signal of a glance. Would she receive it?
“Dramatic?” Her voice rose. “I have every right to be dramatic. You can’t give him the list. You just can’t.”
Smart, smart woman. Peter clicked off the safety.
“He’ll shoot us both,” she cried, wringing her hands. “He’ll do awful things with that list. I know it.”
“Shut up,” George said. “Be quiet.”
Peter slipped his finger into the trigger, but his right hand was weak from the injury, so he wrapped his left hand around the gun too.
“It’s all my fault,” Evelyn wailed. “Oh, Peter, you wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for me.”
“Shut up!” George gripped her harder, his gaze darting between Peter and Evelyn.
One more signal to send, and he prayed she’d receive it. He’d only get one shot before George turned the gun on him. And he needed to make sure he didn’t hit Evelyn.
“Calm down, Evelyn.” Peter made his voice disdainful, and he fixed a hard gaze on her. The more he sounded like a cad, the better. “Remember that time I slapped you? Remember why it happened? Because you didn’t listen to me. Because you didn’t do what I told you to do. I told you to calm down.”
Even in the dark, he saw the anger on her face—but also the questions.
“Calm down.” He jerked his head down in emphasis—signaling her to get down. “Calm down, Evelyn. Now!”
Her brows shot high in comprehension.
Down on one knee, Peter swung the gun toward George.
Evelyn dropped to the deck.
George yelled and turned the gun to Peter.
Shots rang out. Noise exploded in his ears. Light exploded in his eyes. Fire exploded in his right shoulder.
Peter fell to his right hip, his elbow, and fire snaked through his arm and chest. He’d been hit, and he cried out.
George! He was still on his feet, wobbling, clutching his side, raising the gun again.
“Peter!” Evelyn screamed, down on all fours.
He couldn’t move his arm, couldn’t feel his hand, the gun.
George aimed at him.
“No!” Evelyn swung her leg forward in an arc and knocked George’s foot out from under him.
He went down flat on his back, and the gun skittered across the deck.
“Get it!” Peter cried. “Get the gun, Evie.”
She scrambled after it on hands and knees, grabbed it, and pointed it at George.
“Shoot him!” Peter said.
Evelyn shook her head. She got to her feet and stood over George, who writhed on the deck, clutching his belly. Was he hit too?
“Help!” Evelyn screamed. She backed toward the door, the gun trained on George, and she flung the door open and called inside. “Help! We need help! My husband’s been shot! We need a doctor!”
Relief and pain swamped him in equal measures. Peter rolled down to the wooden deck and felt his shoulder—hot and wet—and he groaned.
“Peter?” Evelyn edged toward him, the gun pointed at George. “Peter? Oh no. You’re hit. How badly?”
“Just—my shoulder. I’m—fine. You—you’re all right?”
“Yes.” She swung her head back and forth between the two men. “My goodness. My goodness. My goodness.”
Peter stretched a smile up to her, wanting to soothe her and thank her. “You were incredible. You—you saved my life.”
Footsteps pounded over the deck.
“Over here!” Evelyn beckoned. “This man! He shot my husband. Take him into custody. And get a doctor.”
“Give me the gun, ma’am.”
“With pleasure. It’s his gun.” She kicked George’s foot.
“What happened here?” a man asked.
Evelyn rushed to Peter’s side, down to her knees. “I’ll tell you everything, but first, get a doctor. He’s been shot. And lock up that man.”
“This fellow needs a doctor too,” a second man said. “He’s shot in the gut. Looks bad.”
More footsteps, and men darted around above him, knelt by him, peeled away his jacket, his shirt.
All Peter could see was Evelyn’s beautiful face, leaning over him, murmuring her worries, calling him her darling, her hero, her love, kissing his forehead over and over.
Was she delirious? No, he was. That was the only explanation.
Was the delirium from the fever? The gunshot wound? The tension?
Peter didn’t care. Delirium was delicious.