CONTENTS
Cover Page
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
End Game
BOOK I: The Price of a Woman’s Life
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
BOOK II: The Price of a Man’s Life
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Epilogue
Author’s Notes
Also by Mary Jo Putney
Preview for A Kiss of Fate
“Another in the long line of wonderfully entertaining…”
Copyright Page
To Tehila, Daphne, and Maytal—
Welcome to the clan!
Acknowledgments
For help with the Indonesian section of the book, my thanks go to Mandy L. M. Lee and her friend Rodney M. W. Lai.
Laurel Watson, Esq. and Susan Broadwater Chen lent their expertise to help me sort out the alarming complexities of the nineteenth-century British legal system.
Also, many thanks to my mayhem consultant, Laura Leone Resnick, for her explanations of the art of pentjak silat.
End Game
The Tower of London,
Autumn 1835
THE STONES of the Tower radiated anguish and despair. How many prisoners had paced these rooms, praying for escape?
As a nearby church bell tolled seven times, Gavin Elliott lay on his narrow bed, eyes closed. Soon he must rise and prepare for the trial that would begin today, but he preferred to hang on to the rags of a pleasant dream as long as possible. Transparent aquamarine water, white sand, Alexandra laughing with the vitality that made all other women pale by comparison.
Alex. The dream splintered and fell away. Wearily he sat up and swung his legs from the bed. The stone floor had the chill of death. Two warders were always posted in the room with him, ubiquitous as the stony chamber’s cold drafts. He’d lived shoulder to shoulder with other men when he first went to sea as a common sailor, but he’d spent too many years as the captain, the owner, the taipan, to enjoy this return to constant scrutiny.
The door opened, closed again. “Your breakfast has arrived, sir.” The warders were scrupulously polite. Not their fault the tea was prepared so far away that it was tepid by the time it reached the prisoner in the Bloody Tower.
Moving to the washstand, Gavin splashed cold water on his face to clear his mind, then shaved with extra care. It wouldn’t do to look like a murderous villain today. The face in the mirror didn’t inspire him with confidence, though. Grief, strain, and weeks of imprisonment shadowed his eyes, and years of sun and sea had left him with a weathered, tan complexion that Britons considered ungentlemanly.
The coat and trousers he donned were black for mourning. He wondered if his judges would consider that hypocritical.
The door opened again. The taller of the warders, Ridley, mumbled a protest. The reply was much clearer. “I have permission.”
Recognizing the voice, Gavin turned to greet the Earl of Wrexham. They’d come a long way since that first meeting in India seven years before. Kyle Renbourne had been Lord Maxwell then, a restless heir running away from his staid English life. Gavin had been in dire straits, a string of disasters having driven his trading company, Elliott House, to the brink of collapse.
After a night of talking and drinking they struck a deal on a handshake, and became friends as well as partners. That bond held even now that Kyle had inherited his father’s honors, while Gavin was the scandal of London.
Kyle crossed the room, his long coat darkened with rain. “I thought I’d accompany you to your trial.”
And in doing so, he’d make a public display of support. “Good of you,” Gavin said gruffly, “but there’s no point in tarnishing your reputation.”
His friend gave a faint smile. “An advantage of being a lord is that it doesn’t much matter what people think about me.”
“It matters when one is assumed to be a murderer.”
With a gesture, Kyle cleared the room of warders. When they were alone, he said, “The investigator has a couple of leads that might prove who tried to make you look guilty. Pierce or your damned cousin are capable of doing it.”
Gavin shrugged into his coat. “It’s easier to believe that I’m a murderer than that I’m the target of a vast, complicated conspiracy.”
“You’re no murderer.”
“I didn’t kill Alex, but there are other lives on my conscience. Maybe divine justice is catching up with me.”
“Defending your life and protecting others isn’t murder. The so-called evidence that you were responsible for Alexandra’s death is absurd.”
“It’s strong enough to hang an upstart Scottish-American merchant.” Especially a merchant who had angered powerful men. “Given the circumstances, it’s not hard to build a case for me wanting to rid myself of an inconvenient wife.”
“No one who saw you look at Alex would believe that.”
Gavin’s throat tightened. His friend was perceptive. “Even if I’m acquitted, it won’t bring her back.”
“Don’t give up on me, damn it!” Kyle snapped. “There’s no point in hanging for a crime you didn’t commit.”
The door opened and the warders returned, accompanied by four guards who’d come to take the prisoner to his place of trial. Surrounded, Gavin descended the tower stairs and walked out in the rain to reach a waiting carriage. Kyle stayed with him, his silent presence a comfort. In a world gone mad, at least one man believed in Gavin’s innocence.
As the carriage left the Tower precincts, a group of onlookers shouted, “Wife killer!” and “Hang the bluidy bastard!” Stones rattled off the sides of the vehicle.
Gavin’s gaze was caught by a group of three men, better dressed than the rest of the mob. The three who most wanted him dead. Barton Pierce, face weathered and expression like granite, who’d nursed his hatred for years. Philip Elliott, who had the most to gain if Gavin was hanged. Major Mark Colwell, who’d felt that only a soldier deserved Alexandra. Did any of them have triumph in their eyes? Impossible to tell in the rain—but all would dance on his grave when the time came.
He turned away from the window, expression grim. His life had begun spinning out of control the day he met Alexandra. Who could have guessed that his desire to help a woman in distress might lead him to the gallows?
BOOK I
The Price of a Woman’s Life
Chapter 1
The East Indies, Spring 1834
THE SILENCE woke her. No screaming wind, no groaning timbers, no pounding waves trying to crush the ribs of the ship.
Scarcely able to believe the Amstel had survived the storm, Alexandra Warren carefully detached herself from her sleeping eight-year-old daughter, untied the ropes she’d used to secure them in the bunk, and stood. Every inch of her body felt bruised from the battering
they’d endured. She had stayed awake for two days and a night, but finally fallen into exhausted sleep, cradling Katie protectively in her arms.
The porthole over the narrow bunk showed a lightening sky. Dawn must be close. The ship appeared to be anchored in a large, quiet bay surrounded by rugged hills. Eagerly she opened the porthole so fresh air could dispel the cabin’s staleness.
The warm, spice-scented breeze caressed her face like a blessing. Alex gave a prayer of thanksgiving for their survival. Though she’d hidden her fear from Katie, she’d believed the Amstel was doomed, and that she’d never see England again.
At twenty, she’d been eager to accept Major Edmund Warren’s proposal. Her father, stepfather, and grandfather had all been army officers, and as a child she’d followed the drum through the Peninsular Wars under the watchful eye of her mother. What could be more natural than to marry Edmund, both for himself and for the adventures she’d find as his wife?
Though Edmund had been a decent husband, the raw new land of Australia had offered more suffocating snobbery than adventures, and Alex had missed her home and family far more than she’d expected. Having a child had intensified that, for it saddened her that Katie had never met her grandparents, uncles, aunts, or cousins.
“Mama?”
Alex glanced down and saw a dark yawn open in the pale oval of her daughter’s face. “I’m here, Katybird.”
“The storm is over?”
“Yes. Would you like to look outside?”
Katie scrambled out from under the covers and stood on the bunk so she could see out the porthole. “Where are we?”
“I’m not sure. We were about two days southeast of Batavia when the typhoon hit.” She smoothed her daughter’s tangled blond hair, which had escaped from her braid as she slept. “There are thousands and thousands of islands in the East Indies—more than the stars in the sky. Some are civilized, some are filled with savages, some have never been visited by a European. But Captain Verhoeven will know where we are. He’s a fine sailor to have brought us through the storm without crashing into an island.”
At least, she hoped the captain would know where they were. He seemed a capable man. When the numbness from Edmund’s death from fever began to wear off, Alex had been so impatient to go home that she’d booked passage on the Dutch Amstel rather than wait indefinitely for a British vessel. The merchant ship was bound for Calcutta via Batavia and Singapore. In India it would be easy to find passage home to England. Though the crew was much smaller than the navy ship that had taken her and Edmund to New South Wales, Alex and Katie had been treated well and the journey had been pleasant, at least until the typhoon hit.
“I’m hungry,” Katie said wistfully. “Can we eat now?”
Alex was hungry, too. The galley fire had been extinguished as too hazardous during the storm. Even if food had been available, they had felt too queasy to eat. “I’ll see what I can find in the galley. The cook may already be up and preparing breakfast.”
Since Alex had slept in her clothing, she had only to slip on shoes before leaving the cabin. The ship was still, except for the constant creak of wood and rattle of lines. The captain must have decided to give his hard-pressed crew the rest of the night off before assessing the damage.
The island was becoming clearer, though the surface of the water was obscured by patches of low-lying mist. Near the helm she saw the dark silhouette of the officer of the watch. From his height and thinness, she guessed it was the young Dutch second mate. She raised one hand in salute and received a respectful bow in return.
As Alex headed to the galley, a muffled splash sounded not far from the ship. She frowned. A leaping fish?
The sound came again. She scrutinized the mist, catching her breath when shadows slowly became recognizable as two praus—the long, narrow boats used by natives of the islands. Several times praus had been paddled out to the Amstel when the ship sailed near an island, eager to offer fruit and fish and poultry to crew and passengers. Alex had bought a doll for Katie from one woman.
But she knew these were no friendly traders. Not this early, and taking such pains to be quiet. Knowing the islands were infested with pirates, she raced to the mate, praying that she was wrong. “Look!”
His gaze followed her pointing arm, and he uttered a guttural curse. Bellowing a warning, he galloped toward the main hatchway to raise the rest of the crew. In the lead prau, a hulking Malay reared up and hurled a spear. It streaked across the water to bury itself in the young mate’s throat. Alex gasped, paralyzed by the swiftness with which peace had turned into horror.
Abandoning secrecy, the praus leaped forward under maximum rowing power, accompanied by the deep, terrifying boom of war gongs. As they neared the ship, they separated to box the Amstel in on both sides. Within a minute of Alex’s first sighting, heavy hulls banged against the merchant ship, grappling hooks flew over the railings, and pirates began swarming aboard. She estimated that there were forty or fifty men in each prau—far more than the crew of the Amstel.
Aroused by the mate’s shouts and the war gongs, sailors armed with cutlasses, pikes, and guns boiled up from the hatchway to defend the ship. The broad, powerful figure of Captain Verhoeven ran by Alex, pistols in each hand. “Below, now!” he roared in his heavily accented English. Without slowing, he fired one pistol. A tattooed pirate in a loincloth screamed and fell back over the railing.
Paralysis gone, Alex darted belowdecks. Halfway down the passage, Katie stood in the cabin doorway, her eyes enormous. “What’s happening, Mama?”
“A pirate attack, but the sailors are fighting back. The captain says to stay here until it’s safe to come out.” Praying the attack could be beaten off, Alex ushered her daughter into the cabin and bolted the door. Then, hands shaking, she pulled her trunk from under the bunk and felt under the clothing until she found the box containing Edmund’s pistol. Thank God she’d learned how to shoot as a girl. After loading the pistol, she perched on the edge of the bunk and put an arm around her daughter.
“What will happen to us?” Katie struggled to control a quaver in her voice.
There was no point to offering easy lies. “I don’t know, darling. We must be prepared for…anything.”
Menacing shots and screams sounded overhead, then a heavy splash. Alex stood to look out the porthole. One of the Amstel’s boats had been launched and crew members were frantically rowing toward the island. As she watched, another sailor dove into the water and began swimming clumsily toward the boat.
Appalled, she realized that the battle was lost. More interested in plunder than murder, the pirates probably wouldn’t bother pursuing the crewmen. But she and Katie were trapped in a cabin with a porthole too small for escape. The best they could hope for was to be taken captive and ransomed back to their own people. The worst—she glanced at Katie and shuddered—was unthinkable.
She sat by her daughter again. “Have I ever told you how lovely it is to walk through green British hills on a magical, misty morning?”
“Tell me again, Mama,” Katie whispered.
Alex recounted favorite memories until an impatient hand rattled the door, followed by a gruff Malay curse at the discovery that it was locked. More voices, then an improvised battering ram slammed into the door. As the planks shuddered under repeated blows, Alex cocked the pistol, aimed at the door, and tried to steady her breathing. “No matter what happens, Katybird, remember how much I love you.”
“I love you, too, Mama.” Katie pressed so close Alex could feel the child’s beating heart.
The door shattered, jagged pieces flying into the cabin. Ducking his turbaned head, a huge, half-naked Malay with a wild black beard stepped inside. He carried a wicked, wavy-bladed kris dagger, and elaborate tattoos covered most of his visible skin. From his bearing and the richness of his ornaments, she guessed he was the pirate chief.
“Keep away,” she ordered, trying to project authority.
“Drop gun,” he said in a thick, barely int
elligible accent.
Despairingly she acknowledged her helplessness, for one bullet wasn’t enough to save them.
The chief advanced a step, his men crowding in behind him. She raised the pistol, the barrel level with his heart. At this range, she couldn’t miss. “One more step and I’ll kill you.”
He smiled, revealing betel nut–stained teeth that had been filed to points. “Surrender—live. Shoot—both die.”
Alex’s pistol wavered. Her single bullet could be used to save Katie from assault or slavery. But dear God in heaven, she couldn’t kill her own child!
Taking advantage of her hesitation, the pirate wrenched the pistol away. Uncocking it with the ease of familiarity, he thrust it into the waistband of his sarong. His eyes narrowed as he studied his captives. He was a barbarian, but his dark eyes were shrewd. His gaze judged Alex’s face and figure like a farmer judging livestock.
She flinched back when one coarse hand caressed her cheek. While there was life, there was hope. She would demand they be ransomed. Her family was well connected, so she and Katie were far more valuable as hostages than as slaves.
The chieftain’s hand moved to Katie’s hair, golden in the early morning light. “Pretty.” He reached to lift the girl from the bunk.
“No!” Clutching her daughter with both arms, Alex kicked at her captor.
Swearing, he dodged and her foot struck only his thigh. A hand motion brought two men forward to pin Alex roughly to the bunk while the chieftain swept Katie from her mother’s arms. Panicky, Katie struck at him with her fists. “Mama! Mama!”
“Katie!” Frantically Alex tried to fight her way to her daughter. With contemptuous ease, the chieftain reversed his kris and struck her head with the hilt.
She was unconscious even before her screaming daughter was carried away.
Chapter 2
Maduri Harbor, East Indies, Autumn 1834