Race to World's End (Rowan and Ella Book 3) Page 8

  “So, who exactly is Dirk? Is he the one holding your treasure? Does the pharmacist know of it? He looked very nervous.”

  “That is his manner,” Aldegonda said. “I knew him at university. Dirk, as well.”

  “Which university?”

  Aldegonda looked at him in surprise. “Harderwijk. Do you know it?”

  Sully shook his head. “I went to Strasbourg. Does that surprise you?”

  “That you are an educated man? No.”

  “You were going to South Africa when we met?” Sully smiled wryly at the connotation of the word met. To the man’s credit, he saw that Aldegonda smiled, too.

  “Yes,” he said. “Off to make my fortune. Or, in this case, to lose it.”

  “You have a wife?”

  “I do. Back in Amsterdam. Who waits for me.”

  “None of them waits too long.”

  “Arabella will wait.”

  “That is a beautiful name.”

  “It fits her, too.”

  “You’re a lucky man.”

  “That remains to be seen, Captain Sully.”

  “How did you find this treasure which will buy your life?”

  “Dirk and I discovered it together.”

  “Then why does he possess it?”

  “It was too dangerous to travel with. I needed to go back to Amsterdam to tell my father…to explain my new opportunities to my family.”

  “You went to boast that you were now rich.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now you are poor again.”

  Jan shrugged. “As long as I have my life, I am a wealthy man.”

  Sully frowned when he said that. How can the loss of a valuable treasure render anyone, by any stretch of the imagination, wealthy?

  It was then he knew the man was lying.

  “How many jewels are in this treasure?”

  “A number beyond counting.”

  “If it is a number, it can be counted.”

  “It is more valuable than jewels.”

  “Gold?”

  “It can buy you all the gold mines on earth and all the diamond mines in South Africa.”

  “Is a diamond mine why you were traveling to South Africa?”

  Suddenly a young boy ran over to their table and slapped a rough piece of paper down before bolting away. Sully was on his feet but he could see as the lad wormed his way out the crowd and into the street that he’d never catch him. When he turned back, Aldegonda had picked up the paper. Before he could read it, Sully snatched it away.

  “It…it is addressed to me,” Jan said, looking nervous for the first time since they left the ship. “And it’s written in Dutch.”

  Sully hesitated and then handed the note to him. “Read it to me.”

  Jan nodded and Sully saw him silently scanning the note before speaking. “My dearest friend, Jan. If you have come for the treasure at last, meet me at the crossroads on the first road going east from the city. I will meet you there. Dirk.” Jan looked up from the note and Sully reached over and took it from his fingers. He read the Dutch and then looked up.

  “You have left out a few words,” he said. “You failed to read the part…” Sully read the note out loud, “If you have come for the treasure and have come with the money, meet me at the crossroads.”

  Aldegonda was openly trembling now.

  “Your friend Dirk doesn’t seem to believe you own this treasure,” Sully said.

  “It is a misunderstanding.”

  “Or perhaps it is the opposite of a misunderstanding,” Sully said, tucking the note into his breast coat pocket. “Perhaps it is your intention that I rob your friend Dirk of his treasure and reward you for your deception with your life.”

  Aldegonda licked his lips again, his eyes flitting to Sully’s breast pocket where the note was.

  “So, friend Jan,” Sully said with a smile. “Must we hire horses for this little excursion or can we walk?”

  ***

  Five hours later, Sully staggered aboard the Die Hard. He had downed another three glasses of rum at an open-air opium den not two hundred yards from where his ship was anchored. His head swam as he made his way across the gangplank, his right hand clutching at the rope guardrail. Toad ordered the plank to be lifted the minute he touched the deck and then turned to him.

  “So it was a ruse? The bastard lied to us?”

  Sully lifted his hand to indicate he was indeed empty-handed. “I need a drink.”

  Toad followed him to the captain’s quarters, a cramped, ill-furnished but private space with a rudimentary bunk and a chest of personal affects. On the lone table in the room sat a bottle of whiskey and one glass.

  “Take the glass,” Sully said as he fell heavily into a seated position on the bunk, his head sunk into his shoulders.

  “What happened?” Toad poured his own glass and handed the bottle to Sully.

  “We were to meet his man on the corner of town…”

  “I should never have left ye.”

  Sully shook his head. “The Dutchman was no threat. He just wanted to escape with his life.”

  “Did his man show?”

  “There was no man,” Sully said harshly, taking a long sloppy pull on the whisky bottle. “We waited for two hours and then the knave said he needed to empty his bowels.”

  “And he tried to run.”

  “Stupid git. He had a perfectly good horse yet he tries to escape on foot in the woods.”

  “The maggot.” Toad drank down his whiskey and slammed the glass down on the table. “I should have gutted him the minute I laid eyes on him. I knew he was lying.”

  “You knew when I didn’t?” Sully eyed his man in drunken agitation.

  “Ye shot him as he was squatting in the bushes?” Toad said, obviously attempting to distract Sully from what looked to be a decidedly deadly moment developing.

  Sully reached for the bottle again. “I couldn’t kill him enough. I left his body sprawled in a lily bush. The white petals turned crimson. And now we’ve lost precious time.”

  “The men have orders to lift anchor at dawn.”

  Sully nodded and waved Toad away. “Leave me,” he said as he slumped backward onto his bed.

  Toad paused and then left, shutting the door firmly behind him. Sully lay on his back for a moment and then gingerly touched his chest pocket and a smile began to inch its way across his lips. He tugged at the pocket and extricated a small velvet bag no bigger than five centimeters by twelve. He set it down carefully on the small table by his bedside.

  Who could imagine a treasure of such immense proportions in such a little bag?

  ***

  Early the next morning, before it was light, Rowan was roused from a half-conscious state by the realization the ship was moving. He looked around in the gloom and licked his lips. They were swollen and split and it had been hours since he’d had any water.

  “Jan? You back, mate?” he whispered hoarsely.

  Silence.

  Rowan worked a kink out of his neck and he felt the first flush of relief and hope since the pirates had taken him.

  Have faith.

  Jan is probably delivering my message to a Casablanca law office this very minute.

  7

  Casablanca 1825

  It wasn’t a hotel, but at least it wasn’t a public toilet either.

  Ella felt a sharp poke in her ribs and she struggled to focus her vision. She realized she’d been hearing voices for a few minutes now. She snapped her eyes open into the surprised and grubby face of a street urchin squatting down beside her.

  “Oy! She’s alive, David!”

  Ella’s hands automatically went to her waist where her valise had been.

  Nothing.

  The movement alerted the boy of her intentions and he pushed off the ground to his feet to flee, but even through the sluggish remnants of her trip, the nausea and head-pounding effects of what she had just done, she was faster.

  Maybe she was just more desper
ate.

  Her hand lashed out and grabbed his leg as he tried to run. Surprised at how light—and young—the child was, she hauled him back to her. His squeals of pain and fright only strengthened her fury.

  “Where’s my bag, you little sod?” she said, grabbing a handful of his hair with her other hand.

  “Ow! Ow! David, help! The hag’s got me, she has!”

  “The hag is going to chop your head off and eat it for tea, you little monster, if you don’t give me back my bag!”

  Ella didn’t know where the anger and the emotion were coming from. She only knew that the job she had to do would be nearly impossible without that bag.

  Getting back to Tater would be nearly impossible.

  “Give it ‘er! Give it ‘er, David!”

  Ella tightened her grip on the boy and craned her neck to see if David was indeed coming. She was sprawled on the damp cobblestones of a back alley between streets. She could hear horse traffic not far away. She pulled herself to her knees, a feeling of dread and hopelessness beginning to permeate her chest.

  Should she go running after this David? Could she do it and drag the kid with her? Should she try to find a cop?

  As she wrenched the child around to shake him until his brains rattled, a sudden shadow passed over the opening of the alley, followed by the hard impact of her valise as it crashed into her head. She released the boy and grabbed at her bag. The pain in her head was exploding from her temple to her jaw and she could taste blood on her lip where it had smashed against her teeth.

  She listened to the sounds of two pairs of bare feet running away down the alley, cursing her as they went. Her fingers felt for the lock on the valise and she felt that it hadn’t been jimmied open.

  If she’d awakened even thirty seconds later, it would have been too late.

  With a groan of pain and a prayer of thanks, Ella pulled herself to her feet and tried to take stock. Her dress was dirty but not irreparable. A lump was forming on her temple and her lip was split. The netting of the snood was hanging loose and draped around her shoulders. She fashioned it back on her head the best she could under the circumstances. Getting out of the alley was probably the first thing to do before any more denizens of the lower order tried to take a crack at her.

  As she hobbled to the opening of the alley to peer out onto the street, there was one thing she was absolutely sure of.

  She was so totally not in Kansas anymore.

  The electric streetlights were gone, replaced by gaslights, the road in front of her was more mud than rock, and the smell of the horse-drawn vehicles was pungent and pervasive.

  She’d done it. She’d gone back in time. Now, please God, make it be when Rowan was.

  As she stood looking at the street before her, a young man stopped and ran over to her.

  “Good God, Mademoiselle! Have you been assaulted?”

  Ella licked her lips and allowed the man—clearly English and quite good-looking she couldn’t help but notice—to take her elbow and lead her out onto the street. As soon as he touched her, she realized that a little physical support was actually quite helpful. She must have looked like she was about to collapse.

  “Yes,” Ella said, hoarsely. “Hooligans attempted to steal my bag.”

  Did they have the word hooligans in 1825?

  “Where are you staying? I’ll escort you there and fetch the gendarmes at once.”

  “Thank you…Monsieur,” Ella said. Where was she staying? Her pre-Google research with Halima had turned up the Salim Hotel. She could only pray that was correct.

  “The Salim?” she said.

  “As am I,” he said, slowly guiding her along the walkway bordering the busy street. “You are not French??

  Crap. Being English, he’ll spot my fake accent in a flash. Change of plans, Halima.

  “No, I’m American.”

  “I say! We don’t get many Americans in Casablanca. What in the world are you doing here?”

  Okay. Probably should have thought this out a little more.

  “My head hurts so terribly, Mister…?”

  “Forgive me! I am Lawrence Bingham, Esquire. At your service. Missus…?”

  “I’m Ella,” she said, massaging her temple and smiling weakly. “Miss Ella Pierce.”

  “Miss? You are not possibly traveling alone? Are you here with your parents?”

  Dear God, is he serious?

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Bingham. Do you mind? My injuries…”

  “Of course, Miss Pierce. I beg your pardon. Let’s get you inside at once.” He reached over and took Ella’s valise from her hand and it was all she could do not to snatch it back. Instead, she took a long breath and focused on where they were going.

  In front of them loomed a large six-story building festooned with balconies and ornate balustrades. A sign over a broad set of three double doors read, The Salim Hotel.

  That bath and beer were nearly in sight.

  Ella lay on the small hotel bed, her chest heaving, trying to gather her thoughts. Neither the bath nor the beer had been possible in the end. But she was safe behind a locked door where she could rest and think and plan. She’d assured Bingham that she didn’t need to report the near-theft and that she just needed to rest in her room. It hadn’t been easy to turn him off but she’d insisted. She had dinner sent up to her room rather than sit alone in the hotel dining room, which would only serve as a big red flag that she was weird—something she did not want the other patrons to know.

  She was exhausted, her arms and legs literally trembling with the fatigue and exertion of the day’s experiences. If she could, she’d start tonight. Probably she should start tonight. It was only nine o’clock. There was plenty of time for her to slip out and head down to the wharf and the pubs. But she knew if she did, she’d make a mistake. She was just too tired to pull it off.

  So she lay on her bed, hearing the sounds of men’s laughter on the streets outside and the occasional horse clop of a carriage or cart as it went by. And she thought of the fact that Tater didn’t exist in this timeline. There was no laughing baby boy or wise and loving Halima. Not in this lifetime. Neither had been born yet.

  But there was Rowan. He was here somewhere.

  She closed her eyes and tried to sense him or feel him somewhere in this world but all she felt was loss.

  Tomorrow she would take the first steps to bringing her little family—so far apart in every possible way—back together. And with that thought worming its way through the tide of grief that threatened to overcome her, Ella slept.

  The next morning, Ella dressed in her one 1825s dress—the one she’d crawled around in a dirty alley—and waited for night to come. In many ways, the day was harder than anything she anticipated doing tonight. She was used to staying busy and she always had projects simmering. Even in Cairo she had her artist’s salon to wander into if the day’s nonevents became too oppressive.

  Waiting. Doing nothing. Wasting time in a hotel room waiting for night was not Ella’s strong suit. She looked over her disguise for the evening but there was little she could do to further her preparations. She didn’t plan on carrying more than the cost of a few drinks tonight—that alone would blow her cover since she figured cabin boys didn’t carry a lot of cash.

  She went to the hotel desk at midday to ask that her dinner be sent up to her again and that she not be disturbed for the rest of the night for any reason, as she didn’t feel well. The desk clerk clearly didn’t approve of her—wealthy young American heiress or not. It was not proper for unmarried women to travel alone. The fact that she was American explained it somewhat, the general consensus seeming to be God knows what passes for proprietary in America.

  It couldn’t be helped. She would make herself as unobtrusive as possible and hope nobody looked in her direction too much.

  “I say, Miss Pierce! You’re looking much better. I looked for you at dinner last night. Are your parents with you?” Bingham appeared out of nowhere and began looking behin
d Ella as if attempting to locate her entourage of family.

  “Thank you, Mr. Bingham.”

  “It’s Lord Bingham, actually.”

  “Lord Bingham,” she amended. “I am not feeling well and am just going back to my room.”

  “Oh, I say, I am sorry to hear that. Of all the dashed luck. Will you be down for dinner tonight?”

  “I won’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Ella turned and hurried back up the long sweeping stairway to the overhead rooms.

  “Please, allow me to assist you to your rooms.”

  Is this guy for real?

  “That is not necessary, Mr. Bingham,” she said curtly over her shoulder. She didn’t want to be rude, but neither did she want to elongate their exchange in front of the nosy desk clerk.

  The rest of the afternoon was slow and painful. It was dark at a little past seven and Ella could wait no longer. She ran her fingers through her short hair and neatly hung her dress in the closet before bracing her breasts tight against her chest and climbing into the raggedy pants and long billowy shirt of her disguise. Her slippers were virtually invisible on her feet, but a close examination would show them to be made of quality, thick leather. She didn’t know where her evening sojourns would take her but she had to assume that quick getaways might be called for.

  She needed shoes she could run in.

  The valise, with her money, jewels, her mother’s locket and Rowan’s dog tags inside, was locked and stowed under the bed. She took one last look at the room and then went to the door, opened it a crack, and listened. When she was sure the hall was quiet, she slipped out, locking the door behind her and hiding the key on the doorjamb before padding quickly to the window at the hall’s end. She knew it opened up to the alleyway by the kitchen, which wasn’t ideal but would have to do.

  Within seconds she was out the window and climbing gingerly down the old tiled roof—thankfully not sloped—to land on her feet in the kitchen garbage. As soon as she hit the ground, she was moving into the shadows of the alley and the street, heading to the Casablanca Port.

  More than once, Ella noted that the dark and sinister backstreets of any big city are only dangerous to people with something to lose. She walked boldly past every kind of cutthroat and thief without catching a second glance. She didn’t look like a wealthy mark—or female—and so she was ignored.