He released her hair and stood up, hands on hips. His satisfied smile turned her stomach. She should have lied.

Louise held her injured shoulder with her opposite hand to keep the bones from shifting against each other. Held immobile, it hurt a little less.

“That’s grand,” the man said. He stood above her another moment then lifted one foot and nudged her shoulder.

“Ah!” she cried. “Please don’t. It may be broken.” Or dislocated. Just as bad.

“No need to tie you down then, is there? You won’t be going anywhere.” He turned and trudged away from her toward the other man at the wheel.

“Please. Take me to the nearest dock,” she shouted after him. “I need to get back to my family.” She had to let them know she wasn’t dead. Had to find out what had happened to them and to Stephen, and how many men they’d lost in the explosion and fighting. “I’ll pay you anything you like. Anything!” she screamed at the red-haired man’s back.

He didn’t respond, although she was certain he’d heard her. The younger one turned and glanced once at her then gave a whoop and did a little jig at the wheel.

So . . . they considered her a prize.

What did they want her for? If these were Fenian raiders, they might easily have killed her by now. Did they intend to leave her body for the police to find—like those two unfortunate civil servants in the park? Or would they hold her for ransom? Both Parliament and her mother had pledged noncompliance with Fenian demands. Then again, what if they simply spirited her away as their prisoner of war, intending to keep her indefinitely, saying they would only release Her Royal Highness when Ireland ruled herself. Which would be never, if her mother had any say in the matter.

Either the foul water she’d swallowed, or the realization her life might well end within the next few minutes, sent a spurt of sour bile up into her throat. Louise closed her eyes and fought back her fear.

Fifty-four

Byrne lowered the binoculars. “She didn’t drown. They’ve got her.”

“Thank God,” Lorne said, grinning.

Only then did it occur to him that Lorne didn’t know who had pulled his wife out of the drink or what Rupert Clark was capable of. He made short work of an explanation, watching Lorne’s face transform from joy to utter despair.

“But what will they do with her?”

“I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. We have to catch up with them and take her back before they reach land.” Byrne tossed the binoculars back to the marquess and raced from the bow to the cockpit of the tug, with Lorne close behind.

“Why before? Wouldn’t it be easier at a dock, on dry land?”

“No. They’ll have arranged to meet their mates. We don’t know how many of them will be waiting, and there’s no way to alert the police.” Byrne glanced at the old man and his son, trying to gauge how much they’d be willing to risk for the life of a princess. “See that steamer up ahead, Cap?”

“The one just hauled that lady outta the drink?” The old man chuckled his approval. “He done a good job gettin’ her out alive, I’d say.”

“Those two men are the ones who blew up the bridge,” Byrne said. The captain’s brow rose as one piece above milky eyes. “And the woman he just beat us to is Princess Louise.”

“Gor’,” said the boy.

“ ’Tis a dark day on the river,” the captain said, shaking his head.

“It will be darker if we don’t stop that boat. Can you catch up with them?”

“Don’t know.” The captain frowned. “Them’s pretty sprightly boats them old ferries. Tugs’re built more for pushing and pulling than speed.”

“But your engine is powerful. You have a screw propeller, no paddle wheels—more thrust, right? Maybe up to more stress than theirs. If you had to run her hard, could you overtake them?”

Byrne saw decision flash in the old man’s eyes. “Mebbe.” He turned to the boy. “Johnny, get busy with that boiler. Give me all she’s got.” He looked back at Byrne. “I’ll bring you close to the bastard as I can. How you get aboard, I’ve no idea.”

Neither do I, Byrne thought, but that’s exactly what he’d have to do. Or Louise would be lost to him.

Fifty-five

Louise propped herself up on the wide, wooden planks of the deck and worried her bottom lip between her teeth. She breathed carefully, supporting herself with her uninjured arm as she looked around, unwilling to give up yet.

A dingy canvas canopy, shelter against sun or rain, rose above her head. The men who’d taken her were fifteen feet away, tending to the boiler and wheel. She was ten or fewer feet from the rail. If she got to her feet, or even crawled to the side of the boat before they noticed, she could throw herself overboard. But jumping back into the river, in her damaged condition, she’d likely drown before anyone else came along. Her captors likely knew this. Even if the boat had been running much closer to shore she wasn’t capable of swimming with just one good arm.

That left the only other possibility she could imagine. She must find a weapon with which to defend herself. If she made it difficult enough for these two to do whatever they had in mind, she might buy enough time for someone on shore or from among the royal party to realize she was in trouble and send help. Though, from the ominous clatter and gunfire still coming from the direction of the bridge, she guessed the queen’s guard had their hands full. It might be a while before they took a head count to see who was missing.

She scanned the deck, hopeful of finding something sharp, heavy, or pointed. Anything at all she could jab, throw, or swing in self-defense.

The only possibility she saw was a long-handled boat hook with a metal prong on one end. They’d used it to help haul her onboard. But the red-haired man had taken it with him and leaned it against the wooden housing beside him, as if to have it handy for his own use . . . or because he’d foreseen her desperation and wanted it out of her reach.

There was nothing else. Nothing at all she could put her hands on.

Heartsick, she watched the younger man take up his shovel again and stoke the boiler with four more shovelfuls of shiny black anthracite coal from an iron tinderbox. The frame on the container was sloped lower on the side facing him, making it easier for him to thrust the blade of the shovel into the mound of coal and come out in one continuous swinging motion to toss his load into the roaring flames.

Steam engines. She dragged from her brain every last little thing she had learned about the new inventions. It wasn’t much. Their fuel was coal. Without the coal the pressure would drop and the engine would stop.

But how long would that take? She had no idea.

However, she did know one thing. She didn’t want to put any more distance between her and the scene of the explosion. The farther away they took her, the less likely she’d be found.

She slid a little closer to the tinderbox. It was made of heavy, sooty black iron, almost indistinguishable in color from the coal itself except for rusty patches. On the back side of the box, facing her, was a door about a foot wide and equally high. The latch, if lifted, would allow the little panel to swing open. She guessed it was for the purpose of cleaning out the box when the coal dust at the bottom became too thick and might create a fire hazard. The engineer could either sweep it out or flush it with a hose. In fact, she could see a darkened patch on the wood boards running between the door and the side of the boat where the dust had been swept or drained over the side.

How much coal, she wondered, could she toss overboard before her captors realized what she was doing?

The constant rumble of the engine and whoosh of the paddle wheels cloaked her awkward, crablike scramble to the back of the box. She half expected coal to come clattering out through the door, instantly alerting the men to her pitiful plan, but when she lifted the latch and, holding her breath, slowly opened the clean-out door, nothing at all happened.

Her heart sank.

Just inside the door, the chunks of coal were jammed together, the weight of the load above holding them in place. She sat for an instant, staring in disgust at the stuck rocks then shook her head. In for a penny.

Using both hands, Louise clawed out chunks of coal and started throwing them as far out into the water as she could. She worked blindly, keeping her eyes on the backs of the two men. To her amazement neither the sound of her scuffling hands nor the soft plunk-plunk of coal hitting the water, drew their attention . . . until the pieces she’d already ditched in the water left enough space at the bottom of the box that the whole load shifted and, with a loud clatter, more than half of what remained shot out through the door and scooted across the deck with a choking puff of black dust.

The red-haired man spun around with a startled expression. She didn’t hesitate. Ignoring the pain in her shoulder and chest, she flung herself down on the deck. Using both arms she swept as much of the coal as possible off the side of the boat and into the river.

“Bitch!” he roared and came at her, arm raised.

He struck her once on the side of the head, ringing her ears. Louise squeezed her eyes shut, gasping at the sting of his hand against her jaw and cheek. She kicked her wet skirt around and managed to send another shovelful of coal over the side. He came at her again, cursing, this time aiming a kick at her shoulder.

“Rupert. No, hey, no!” The younger man rushed to him, holding him back from striking her again. “She ain’t no good to us dead. The Lieutenant, he’ll want her in good shape. The better to bargain with.”