“Help! Someone please! She’s not breathing!” the dowager cried.

Emma heard a curse from outside the door, the guard’s key inserting into the lock. Heart pounding, she stood at the ready, arms raised, behind the door.

It opened, and the guard rushed in. “What the bleedin’—”

Stepping out behind him, Emma brought the stool down with all her might. The heavy wood cracked against the back of his skull. With a groan, he toppled to the ground.

She set down her weapon and crouched next to him.

“Did I ... is he dead?” she said, her voice trembling.

Squatting on the other side of the fallen figure, Lady Patrice shook her head. “He’s breathing. He won’t be out for long.”

With hands that shook, Emma searched the guard’s body, removing a pistol and a vial of clear liquid, which she passed to the dowager. Just as she was reaching for the rope on the man’s belt—she planned to truss him up—a beefy hand gripped her wrist. She jerked, her gaze flying to the guard’s face. His eyes were open, and he bolted upright, his expression menacing.

A scream rose in her throat—

A small hand with a red ring slapped fabric against the brute’s face. He let out a moan and fell backward, his head whacking against the floor. This time he didn’t move.

“See how you like a taste of your own medicine,” the dowager said.

Emma saw that Lady Patrice had dumped the contents of the vial onto the hem of her petticoat, using it to subdue the cutthroat.

Emma’s brows rose. “Your Grace, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I may be a duchess, but I am Scottish,” the other replied tartly. “Now how are we getting out of here?”

Emma clasped the pistol. “We’ll locate the lifeboat. If we can escape before Alaric arrives, he needn’t bargain with that monster.”

“An excellent plan.”

Emma led the way out of the cabin and into the dark and narrow corridor. Listening to the pattern of footsteps overhead, she headed in the direction away from the activity. Minutes later, she saw steps up ahead, light filtering in from a trapdoor at the top.

Emma crept up the steps and carefully pushed the trapdoor open, just enough for her to peer out. Daylight shocked her pupils, momentarily blinding her. When the dots cleared, she could see that they were below the quarterdeck. She spotted a pyramid of barrels just paces away—possible cover. Boots suddenly crossed her line of vision; she let the trapdoor fall immediately, her heart thumping like a rabbit’s.

A minute or so passed. She cracked open the door once more.

The way looked clear.

“I’ll have to go out and look for the lifeboat,” she whispered. “Wait here, Your Grace.”

The dowager nodded.

Inhaling for courage, Emma pushed the door open and scrambled out, making a dash for the barrels. Pulse racing, her back against the curved containers, she waited for a bark of discovery. None came. Scouting the environs, she estimated about a half-dozen yards to the side of the vessel, where a lifeboat might be located. Her muscles readied to make the sprint.

Mercer’s voice in the distance made her freeze.

“Welcome aboard, Strathaven,” said the earl in snide tones. “I have been expecting you.”

* * *

Alaric took quick stock of the situation.

Mercer and six cutthroats, plus the other two bringing the trunks up from the barge.

Nine villains in all—not the best of odds, especially since Alaric’s hands were bound and he was flanked by a pair of brutes. Yet if he bought some time—distracted Mercer—Will and the others might yet arrive. He didn’t dare scan the surrounding water to see if Johnno’s barges had managed to follow the cutthroats’ snaking path to the present ship. If Will and Kent had lost the trail, finding Mercer’s ship amidst the flotilla of vessels in the harbor would be akin to searching for a needle in a haystack.

He couldn’t worry about that now.

You have to trust Will and Kent. Stay focused. Be on the lookout for Emma and Patrice.

Coolly, he said, “This wasn’t our agreement, Mercer.”

The earl gave a harsh laugh. “There is no agreement, Your Grace. In case you haven’t noticed, I hold all the cards. You’ll do as I say.”

“I brought the money,” Alaric said evenly. “Count it, if you wish. But you must honor your word as a gentleman and release Miss Kent and the dowager duchess.”

Mercer stepped forward and backhanded him. Alaric’s head snapped to the side.

“You’ve ruined me. Thanks to you, I’m not welcomed in Society any longer.” The earl’s urbane face contorted with rage. “You’ve destroyed everything!”

“You did that to yourself. Or perhaps you needed help even for that,” Alaric said in tones designed to goad. “Perhaps Webb came up with the stock scheme, and you were merely his lackey, following his orders.”

“The plan was mine, damn you! I recruited Silas Webb, not the other way around. I saw United’s failing prospects and hired Webb to help topple it from the inside. The company’s demise was inevitable. A sure thing. But then you came along, ousted Webb, and turned the venture into a bloody success. I’ve lost everything because of you.”

“You lost everything because you made a bad investment—and compounded matters by having me poisoned and shot.”

“What poison?” Mercer snarled. “What are you—”

“Get away from him!”

Alaric’s gaze jerked in the direction of the clear, feminine tones. Relief exploded in his chest—replaced instantly by bone-deep fear. What the devil is she doing?

Emma came toward them like some avenging angel, her unbound hair sweeping past her shoulders and a pistol in her small hands. She aimed it at Mercer.

Mercer gave a nasty laugh. “You’re not going to shoot.”

“Aren’t I?” Emma said calmly. “Your henchman underestimated me as well. Now he’s below deck—and he’s no longer moving.”

At her declaration, the seasoned cutthroats exchanged uneasy looks, a few shaking their heads. Alaric interpreted the silent male message: Females—they’re an unpredictable lot.

“Untie Strathaven.” Emma’s finger tightened on the trigger; she was within several feet of Mercer now. “Or I’ll put a hole through your heart.”

After an instant, Mercer snapped, “Do as she says.”

The lackey next to Alaric untied his wrists. Before the rope hit the ground, Alaric swiveled, securing Mercer in a chokehold and simultaneously grabbing the pistol from the earl’s belt. He pressed the barrel to Mercer’s temple.

Emma hurried to his side, her gun now pointed at the band of ruffians.

“You can’t shoot all of us,” Mercer gasped. “Put down the gun, and I’ll spare you and the women.”

“Drop your weapons,” Alaric growled at the cutthroats.

Mercer’s henchmen looked at one another, their expressions uncertain. Then the dark-haired brute, the one who’d met Alaric at the quay, guffawed.

Stepping forward, he said, “I don’t think so.”

Alaric dug the gun in deeper, making Mercer wheeze with fear. “I’m serious. I will shoot.”

“So go ahead—kill ’im,” the leader said with a sneer. “With the bugger gone, that’ll mean more gold for me an’ my men. You’re just savin’ me the trouble o’ killin’ ’im meself, isn’t that right, boys?”

Assent rose from his crew, and they came to stand behind him with ominous solidarity.

Bloody Christ. A mutiny.

“What?” Mercer spat at his employee. “You infidel! You foul betrayer!”

“I’ve ’ad enough o’ you lordin’ it o’er me an’ the boys. You ’aven’t paid us ’alf what you promised, ye bloody skinflint, an’ I’m tired o’ waitin’,” the leader snarled, levying his own gun.

Acting on pure instinct, Alaric released Mercer and dove for Emma. He knocked her to the deck, covering her body with his as a blast tore through the air. Heart thundering, he looked into her pale face.

“You all right?” he rasped.

“Yes. You?” she said.

He jerked his chin, looked back and saw—

Mercer still standing, his expression stunned.

The cutthroat leader, his mien equally startled as he looked down at the scarlet blossoming over his chest. A second later, he crashed to the deck like a felled tree.

“Aboard, men!” came a guttural cry.

William.

More gunshots rang out. The ship shook as barges bumped it on all sides. Through the haze of gunfire, Alaric saw the guards jumping aboard, his brother leading the charge. A familiar lanky figure leapt onto the ship.

“Kent,” Alaric shouted. “Over here.”

The investigator ran over. “Emma?”

“I’m fine,” she assured her brother.

“Take care of her,” Alaric told the other man. “I’ve got to help Will.”

“Be careful, darling,” Emma called after him.

He entered the fray, which had turned into a vicious free-for-all. He spotted Will by the mast, wrestling with two burly brutes. The one behind Will had him by the throat; the one in front reached down and pulled a knife from his boot.

Alaric took aim and fired.

The blade-wielding villain jolted and collapsed to the ground. In the seconds that it took Alaric to run over, Will had already freed himself of the remaining ruffian. He sent his foe into oblivion with a powerful hook to the jaw. Alaric didn’t have time to compliment his brother’s technique for another pair of brutes advanced upon them, circling, blades flashing.

The brothers stood back to back.

“I’ll take the bigger one,” Will said.

“Like hell you will,” Alaric said.

The larger bastard made the decision for them, charging Alaric, who feinted left at the last moment, plowing his fist into his attacker’s belly. The brute bowled over, and Alaric wrenched the other’s arm, forcing the villain to drop the knife. He hauled his foe up and finished the job with a facer that sent the other sprawling.

A minute later, Will dispatched the other cutthroat.

Meeting his brother’s gaze, Alaric cocked an eyebrow. “What took you so long?”

“Always have to be the best, don’t you?” Will grumbled.

Alaric scanned the deck, counted the enemy subdued by his team. His nape went cold.

“Where the devil is Mercer?” he said.

“Bluidy weasel,” Will said. “We’ll search the ship. He can’t have gone far.”

They rounded up the free guards and split the search through the vessel. Accompanied by Cooper, Alaric went to the lowest deck. His shoulders brushed the walls of the narrow corridor, his muscles bunching at each creak and rattle of the aged ship. He and the guard searched each cabin along the way—no sign of Mercer.

Mid-ship, he heard a scuffling from below. He gestured to the trapdoor in front of them.

“He’s down in the hold,” Alaric mouthed to the guard.

Cooper nodded. Crouching, he yanked the door open by its iron ring.

The shot punched the guard against the wall. Blood spurted from his upper arm. With a curse, Alaric dragged Cooper out of harm’s way and ascertained the damage. Luckily, it appeared to be a flesh wound; he bound it quickly with his cravat.

“This’ll hold until the others get here,” he said.

“You should wait for them, Your Grace—”

Ignoring the guard, Alaric approached the trapdoor again. He stopped at a safe distance and unhooked his watch fob. Taking aim, he tossed it through the open hole, heard it skitter down the steps—

Another shot blasted from the hold.

The next second, Alaric launched himself through the trapdoor, landing in musty darkness. His gaze swung left and right, caught the limned outlines of crates, barrels, sacks—Mercer.

He lunged at the earl, who was fumbling to reload. He tackled the bastard, slamming his opponent’s body against a crate. The pistol clattered out of sight, yet Mercer fought back with feral desperation. The bastard landed a low blow, and stars streaked across Alaric’s vision.

His grasp loosened, and Mercer wrestled free. As Alaric sought to regain his breath, he saw something flash in his opponent’s hand right before Mercer charged at him, knocking him to the ground. He thrust his hands out, catching the earl’s arm, blocking the downward arc of the blade. The lethal point hovered inches above his throat; his muscles strained against the other’s maniacal strength.

“I’m going to slit your throat open, you ignorant Scot,” Mercer shouted.

Like bluidy hell you will.

Power surged through Alaric. Leveraging his lower body, he gave a mighty shove, rolling over and taking his enemy with him. Now with the upper hand, he grabbed the other’s wrist, gave it a sharp twist, and Mercer released the blade with a cry of pain. Bloodlust took over, and Alaric drove his fists into the other’s face, bone crunching against bone. He didn’t stop until the other lay bloodied and insensate.

Only then did Alaric rise, his chest heaving.

“Alaric!”

He turned to see his brother descending into the hold.

Pistol in hand, Will said tersely, “All you all right?”

“Aye,” Alaric said between breaths. “Everyone else?”

“Cooper’s getting bandaged by Miss Emma and the dowager.” Will paused. “I’m not surprised by Miss Emma’s fortitude, but apparently our aunt has got a spine of steel as well.”

“Patrice is stronger than she looks.” Alaric grimaced as he tested his knuckles.

“Must run in the bloodline. For a duke, you held your own.”

“For a little brother, you didn’t do so poorly yourself.”

A pause. They grinned at each other.

Alaric said, “Let’s get some rope and tie up—”

“Behind you!” Will shouted.

Alaric pivoted in time to see Mercer rushing toward him, face bloody and demented, hand raised and wielding a knife. On instinct, he went low, kicking out, and the earl flew forward, crashing headfirst into a tower of crates. One by one, the wooden boxes toppled onto him.

Alaric and Will approached, the latter with his pistol aimed at the prone figure. Cautiously, Alaric pushed the heavy containers off Mercer; with his boot, he rolled the earl over.

Mercer’s gaze was unseeing. Scarlet bloomed around the stem of steel in his chest.

The bastard had fallen on his own knife.

“A fitting end,” Will said.

“Aye.” Alaric exhaled. “It’s over.”

Together, the brothers left the bloody scene and went to join the others.