Although Louise couldn’t see her rescuer from water level, she heard his shouted instructions over the thump-thump-thump of the engine and understood he was telling her to slip the open loop around her body. The least pressure on her shoulder and chest caused her increased pain, but she struggled to obey, thinking only of resting safe and warm upon a dry deck. She gritted her teeth, eased her left arm and injured shoulder through the loop, then leaned over to guide the rope around her back and thrust in her good arm.
The man must have been watching closely. As soon as the rope was secure, he began pulling her up.
Louise swallowed a shriek of agony as the rope cinched tighter around her chest. Her weight, so much more due to the sodden gown, added to the pressure of the rope tightening around her. She fought to stay conscious. Now that her rescue was guaranteed, all she could think of was her family. She had ejected her sisters from the coach, along with Lorne and the duke. But had they survived the onslaught of attackers? From a distance she still heard shots being fired, the ring of bayonets on sabers, shouts of men, and terrified cries of horses.
But her thoughts were cut short when, with a final effort, two men in dark suits leaned down over the gunwales of their boat, grabbed her by the arms, and pulled her up and over the wooden rail then down with a careless thud onto the deck.
“Oh, please, gently!” she cried. “Sirs, I’m broken.”
Their rough hands released her. She looked up into the faces of two strangers.
One was older than the other, his coarse red hair whipped up by the wind, as he wore no cap. He observed her with dull-eyed marsupial interest, devoid of emotion. “Open her up, boy,” he growled at his companion. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Yessir.” The younger one beamed at her then bolted away toward the drive house. His exuberance reminded her of a beagle on the scent.
Red hair turned back to her, his eyes fixing on her, flitting away then back again, as if in deep calculation. “Went fishin’ and caught us a princess. That right, dearie?”
She was in too much pain to react to his rudeness. “You don’t look like watermen,” she murmured. In fact, they didn’t sound like it either. Their accents were wrong. American? She tried to at least straighten up to a more dignified sitting position from her sprawl on the teak planks. “But I thank you with all my heart. You’ve saved my life.”
The man leaned down and peered at her gown then still closer at her face. “Which one is you?”
If he was American, maybe he knew Byrne? She felt an immediate surge of hope at the thought of her lover. If Stephen had been down here instead of up on the bridge, he’d have swept her up in his arms, laid her on a cushion, and covered her shivering body with a toasty quilt.
“Do you suppose you might find me a blanket. Anything for warmth. I’m so terribly c—”
The stranger reached down and grabbed her hair by the roots. He wrenched her head back, forcing her to make eye contact with him. “I said, what’s your name?”
To as much as touch a princess, if you were not her husband or a family member, was unimaginably rude, a breach of etiquette as well as the law. She was so shocked she could only stare at him and answer.
“I am Princess Louise, the marchioness of Lorne.” Since she didn’t know whether it would help or hurt her cause to lie, it didn’t seem worth pretending she was someone she was not.
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.