in such trouble,” she shot back. “Do you know who my fiancé is?”
“Besides a horse’s ass?”
She made a sound of disdain. “He is from one of the first families of the city. He is heir to a publishing empire with ties to New York City. When he and my father find me, he will publish this account in every newspaper in the country.”
“If he finds you, there won’t be enough of him left to swab the decks with.” Tom shook his head. “Believe me, having my description published in the papers won’t cause me to lose any sleep.”
She stared at him inquisitively.
“What?” he asked, irritated.
“You have a strange manner of speaking,” she remarked. “It’s a combination of backwoods ignorance and educated formality. Why is that?”
“Quit prying and go below,” he ordered. He didn’t want her to know a damned thing about him. “And pray your father buys your freedom soon.”
She bristled imperiously. “Or else?”
“Or else you’re in for a long, cold winter.”
She twisted a diamond ring off her finger. “That’s worth a fortune. You may have it. Just take me ashore.”
He pocketed the ring without looking at it. “No.”
“You can’t hold me aboard this boat all winter,” she objected.
“You’re right about that,” he said, then grasped the ladder leading to the pilothouse. “We’d best get a move on.”
“You won’t get away with this,” she yelled.
He slowly turned to face her. “Don’t you get it, Princess? I already have.”
Chapter Seven
Deborah felt sick with the motion of the boat, but she willed back the waves of nausea. Shivering, chilled to the bone in her damp dress, she waited until Tom Silver disappeared into the pilothouse. The little French Indian called Lightning Jack spoke to him briefly. They seemed to be arguing about something. Then both men bent over a slanted table strewn with charts.
Good. They were paying her no heed at all. They probably assumed she would slink below to fling herself on a bunk and weep hysterically until exhaustion claimed her.
Which was exactly what she wanted to do.
But she refused to allow it, even though every instinct urged her to crumble in defeat. She tried to think what to do. Kathleen would take action. She was never one to sit still. Lucy would confront these men with righteous indignation and rail at them about the injustice of their crime. Phoebe would attempt to endear herself to them, and sweet-talk her way out of trouble.
Deborah came to a decision, the only possible course of action she could think of. Before she could change her mind, she set down the shaggy little dog and moved to the stern. She had watched covertly while Silver had hoisted the dinghy, and she thought she could figure out how to lower it again.
The eerie light from the city was bright enough to burn through the smoke and fog. But the farther they steamed away from Chicago, the fainter the light. She would have to work fast.
She found the mechanism that would release the winch and unhooked it. The chains made a terrible noise, reeling out with a metallic grating sound. The small rowboat smacked the water with a splash, then swirled in the wake of the steamer. The big boat was traveling a lot faster than she had imagined it would.
Glancing over her shoulder, she ascertained that the men in the pilothouse had not heard. She spared a thought for the dog, shivering in a corner of the deck, but it was all she could do to save herself. Then she stepped up on the transom, holding on to the ladder.
Deborah searched her soul for guidance and wisdom. She wished she could find just one measly drop of courage. She felt nothing but icy, breath-stealing terror. Before she could change her mind, she flung herself over the back and scrambled down the ladder as far as she could go. Cold mist, churned up by the propellers, showered her, nearly blinding her as she climbed into the dinghy. Wrestling with the knots, she managed to untether the small craft.
Within seconds, she was adrift on the gale-swept lake as the trawler steamed northward. She could scarcely believe it. She had escaped.
Cold waves slapped up and over the sides of the small wooden craft. Water sloshed in the hull. Letting loose with a laugh of elation, she fitted the oars into the oarlocks and began to row. The wild man had made it look easy, but the water felt as heavy as mud.
Still, her escape might have worked had she not made one critical error. She should have brought the dog.
The little beast put its forepaws on the side of the trawler and yapped piercingly into the night. She hoped the noise of the steamer would drown out the barking. She held her breath, praying the kidnapers would ignore the racket. But she saw the trawler circle back, chugging like the Loch Ness monster toward her.
On deck, a large figure rose with a grappling hook in hand.
Damp and fog shrouded the boat and the lake surrounding it. The cramped quarters where Deborah awakened had a very small portal, and a narrow louvered vent for fresh air. It wasn’t a proper stateroom and could not even be called quarters, but a storage room with a pile of blankets. She groped in the half light, finding coils of rope, a box of tools whose use she couldn’t fathom, a moldering shirt and two things that puzzled her—a child’s shoe and a copy of Les Misérables in the original French. She encountered an empty bottle, an illustrated Farmers’ Almanac, a jar of shiny, opaque green stones and a chamberpot.
Moving slowly and painfully, she availed herself of the primitive facilities, then put on her dress. At some point, which she could not remember, she had peeled it off to collapse in exhaustion. Her fingers worked clumsily over the buttons, but she managed to do herself up. She found her way on deck with difficulty. Where was she? She looked out at the lake. Nothing but fog. Chicago—indeed the shore—was nowhere in sight.
She ached in every joint and limb. She felt seasick, but there was nothing in her stomach to surrender. The little dog she had dubbed Smokey cavorted in friendly fashion around her feet, but she could not even summon the strength to pat his head. Traitor, she thought.
Tom Silver stood in the wheelhouse, steering the trawler through the impenetrable fog, ignoring her. Lightning Jack emerged from the galley holding a thick china mug. “Tea,” he said, holding it out. “It’s medicinal. Helps with the mal de mer.”
She felt too defeated to argue, and so she took the mug, wrapping her chilly fingers around its warmth.
“How does he know where to go in this fog?” she asked. Her voice rang hollow in the thick, hazy air.
“He follows my instructions,” Lightning Jack explained. “This is my boat.” He jerked his silver-streaked head toward the surface of the water. “The way is posted by buoys and channel markers. Fear not. You are safe aboard the Suzette.”
Safe. She did not even know the meaning of the word anymore.
The water appeared considerably calmer and
