Author's Note: My beta helped me a LOT with the Cockney in this chapter, and then I went and undid some (not all!) of her hard work, because it bothered my OCD, and I've always hated reading those historical romance novels set in the Highlands, where you have to physically sound out every word the laird says because the author insists on constantly writing in his vernacular. Does that make sense? I dunno, I'm kind of drunk. I hope it does.
Anyway, ColeandPhoebeForever is awesome, and I hope she forgives me for re-editing some of the dialogue.
SAMSON
It had been a long time since Samson had been on a hunt. Now, as his body began to remember the call of instinct, his blood ran hot, and sparks flickered over his skin, tiny motes of light generated by the energy within him.
He was born of death and lightning. He was stronger and faster than most, if not all, men. He was sustained by the powerful, destructive forces that had brought him into this world. He could go for days without food or rest, and he would destroy anything that came between him and the woman he loved.
As he walked through the dark, narrow alleys of South London, memories flickered through his mind, brief and bright, like fireflies dancing over a meadow. Lena's smile in the darkness, the soft brush of her lips over his, the silken smoothness of her skin. The playful warmth in her voice. The way her pale green eyes glittered when she laughed.
He followed the large, dark shadow that was Zeus, and Samson knew that he moved the same way, silent and quick and determined. Like a hunter. Like a predator.
Occasionally, he would stop, and ahead of him, Zeus would stop. They would wait, still and tense, until the small lantern attached to the Dubois carriage came into view behind them. Gregoire would appear before the carriage, on horseback, and nod.
And then Samson would start moving again, and Zeus would do the same, and the silent pursuit would continue.
Samson had a keen sense of smell, but he could not distinguish the scent of Lena's kidnapper among the millions of other smells that permeated the streets of London. Zeus, however, could do just that. He led the way, through a maze of alleyways and side streets, down Bankton Avenue, around the circumference of Hyde Park twice, through Belgrave Square and then straight down Picadilly and left on Park Lane. They were back in the part of town where most of the aristocracy lived, where stately manors each claimed a quarter of a block. Most of the nobility kept small stables and elaborate gardens, not to mention guesthouses and carriage houses.
A deep howl arose from several blocks ahead. Samson sprinted towards the sound, and found Zeus baying at the corner of Brook Street and Avery Row. He was standing at the servant's entrance to a stately manor made of red brick. It was not as large as the Dubois residence, but it was still a good size. Probably belonged to a viscount or a baron.
"Zeus, au pied," Samson commanded. Heel.
Instantly, Zeus went quiet and trotted over to sit next to Samson. They waited together until Gregoire came into view, followed closely by the carriage that held the rest of the Dubois family. Montford moved around from behind the carriage and slid down from his saddle alongside Greg.
Greg walked up to stand beside Samson, and stared up at the side of the house with his hands on his hips.
"Bloody hell," he muttered, more to himself than to Samson and Montford.
"You know who lives here?" Samson asked, frowning.
Greg nodded. "The queen of harpies," he said with a sigh. "Baroness Bennington." He exchanged an unhappy glance with Montford.
"Bollocks," Montford muttered.
"What have you found?" Philippe demanded, jumping down from the carriage before the footman had a chance to lower the stairs.
"Zeus tracked the scent to Bennington House," Greg replied. "The servant entrance."
Philippe nodded, face grim. "That's how they would have brought Helena and Abigail inside," he said, scanning the door through narrowed eyes. "There are no lights in the house," he noted, glancing over to Samson. "Break down the door."
"Wait!"
All four men whirled around to see a young boy running down the alley towards them. His clothes dwarfed him, and they were ragged and stained with soot, but his shoes and coat were new, and his eyes were bright and big. He couldn't have been more than five.
At Samson's side, Zeus whined softly.
"Please, milord, come wif me!" the boy said to Samson, breathing heavily, as if he had just run a great distance.
Samson exchanged glances with Philippe.
"It could be a trap," the viscount said quietly.
"It could be, but I do not think it is," Samson said with a frown. "I'll go alone, just in case."
Greg shook his head. "No. I'm going with you."
Montford nodded. "As am I."
Samson sighed and stepped forward. The little boy glanced up at him, and took a step back, as if he'd suddenly realized just how big Samson was.
"My… milord," he said quietly. Samson knelt in front of him, and bowed his head so that he was at eye level with the child. Up close, he could see the panic in the boy's eyes.
"I am no lord, child," Samson replied gently. "My name is Samson."
The boy nodded, and swallowed nervously. "Samson, sir, me Da sent me to find you. 'E's right bad off, but 'e won't let me go for the surgeon until 'e speaks wif you."
"With me?" Samson asked.
The boy nodded. "'E said, 'go to Avery Row an' bring me the giant man, Jackie.' 'At's what he said, sir." The boy glanced around Samson, watching Zeus warily. "Is that a monster?" he whispered.
Samson smiled. "No, he is just a dog. He won't hurt you."
The boy did not look convinced. "'E's a right giant, too, in't he?" Then he shook his head, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand. He reached out and grabbed Samson's hand, pulling him forward. "Please hurry, sir."
Samson glanced over his shoulder. "Zeus, à la maison," he commanded. Go home.
Zeus whined in protest, then hung his head, turned around, and padded off in the direction he had come.
Samson let the boy lead him down the alley. He could hear Greg and Montford behind him, following at a safer distance, in case he was ambushed.
Samson couldn't help but marvel at the little boy's fearlessness, but he struck out into the darkness without pause, turning corners without hesitation.
Perhaps it was panic that made him brave.
Soon, he let go of Samson's hand and started running. Samson's legs were much longer than the boy's, so he needed only to quicken his pace. After several blocks, Samson sighed. His skin felt twitchy, and his mind constantly counted the seconds as they passed. He felt like he was watching time pour through his fingers like grains of sand.
"Jack," he said. The boy stopped and turned. "I can run very quickly."
The boy looked up at him, eyes wide and serious. "I believe you, sir."
"Do you think you could give me the directions to your father's location?"
The boy frowned. "Die-rick-shuns?"
Samson sighed, and knelt, turning his back to the boy.
"Hop on," he said.
Jack's eyes went wide, and then he nodded. He ran over and scrambled up onto Samson's back, wrapping his thin arms around Samson's neck. He peeked over Samson's shoulder, tightened his grip with his right arm, and pointed with his left.
"Straight ahead, an' left at the 'At shop," Jack said. Samson had to work the phrase over in his mind before he realized that the boy meant "Hat Shop."
Samson nodded. "Hang on," he said, and he started running.
Greg and Montford kept pace as Jack navigated them through progressively darker and dirtier alleyways. Soon, they were in the slums, where smoke and fog hung heavy in the streets, and the ground was wet and strewn with trash. The streets were not terribly busy, but at this time of night, the people on them were dirty, thin, and mostly drunk. A group of rowdy sailors stepped out of a tavern on the street corner ahead.
Samson was not concerned. As soon as the men caught sight of him, they quieted, and moved hastily to get out of his path.
A pickpocket's knife glinted in the darkness around a corner.
As soon as Samson approached, the knife disappeared, and someone muttered a hasty curse and sprinted away.
He had that affect on people.
Finally, Jack called Samson to a halt in front of an old, nameless, rundown tavern. Samson set the boy down, and followed him to the door, gesturing for Greg and Montford to remain downstairs to avoid frightening Jack's father away.
The walls were thin, and Samson could hear everything that was going on inside the building. The main floor was a bar. Jack ran hastily up to the second floor, and down to the end of the hallway. He opened the door slowly, then glanced over at Samson and waved him over.
As Samson approached, he gave Jack a handful of coins. He could already smell the blood in the room. "Go get the surgeon," he whispered.
Jack turned and disappeared down the stairs.
Samson opened the door and stepped into the room.
The man sitting in the chair by the window was large, compared to most. Small, compared to Samson.
Samson caught movement from the corner of his eye. He glanced over, and saw two boys sitting quietly in the corner, eyes wide. Jack's brothers. They looked pale and frightened.
When Samson got closer to the man, he understood why.
He was covered in blood, his skin was ashen, and he had both hands pressed tight over his stomach. His eyes were half-closed, and glazed with pain. He had short black hair, and though his clothes were baggy, he had a solid frame. He had most likely been a mill worker, woodsman, or logger, before he came to London.
Samson knelt by the chair. "Who are you?" he asked softly.
The man jumped, and his eyes snapped open. He took a shaky breath, gritting his teeth against the pain. "Me name is 'Enry," he said, his voice weak and hoarse. "I was 'ired by a man called Jack to help 'im kidnap the ladies." He groaned, and his head dropped back against the chair. "Bloody bastard shot Alfred dead an' then came at me wif a knife." He lifted his hands from his stomach.
Samson glanced down and saw the wound, a deep gash in the center of his torso that wept dark, thick blood.
He did not have to be a surgeon to know that the wound was fatal.
When he looked back up at Henry, he found the man's eyes steady and calm, looking right at him. "I know what I did was wrong," he whispered, as silent tears slipped down his cheeks, leaving tracks in the grime on his face. "I know that. An' I know that 'elping you now don't absolve me of nothing. But I had to try, once I realized." He closed his eyes, and took several shallow, quick breaths. "Sam!"
The older boy stood from the corner of the room and walked over, watching Samson with empty, tired eyes.
"Tell 'im, Sam," Henry ordered. "Tell 'im 'bout the lady."
Sam reached into the pocket of his jacket, a surprisingly well-made coat that was several sizes too big for him, and pulled a small white rectangle from it, which had been dented and worn from constant use. He handed it over to Samson with a trembling hand.
Samson took the card gently from the child and flipped it over, and then he nearly dropped it when he realized what it was.
In elegantly curling letters, embossed on thick, smooth vellum, was a name:
Lady Helena Dubois.
"Mon Dieu," Samson whispered. His heart was being squeezed by an iron fist, a vicious pain that would not abate until he had her in his arms again.
"Tell 'im, Sam!" Henry repeated, his voice growing desperate.
The boy, Sam, who looked to be about eight or nine years old, jumped. "Yes, sir," he said, and he turned to Samson. "It were… how long, Da?"
"Four months," Henry murmured.
"Right, it were four months ago, an' this dog, it stole Mickey's meat pie, and so we chased it, we did. And then the lady saw us, and she made us leave 'im alone, and she gave us her purse, wif enough money to buy food for weeks, enough even to buy us new shoes and coats. She were right lovely, as pretty as an angel. Da could 'ardly believe it when we told 'im, thought we'd pinched the money; he made us show 'im the card what was in the lady's purse." Sam nodded towards the calling card. "Da said it were a blessing."
Henry nodded, drawing Samson's gaze back to him. His skin was growing paler, and his face glistened with sweat. "It's been a tough time, since the boys' mum died. I been out of work since winter, an' came to London hoping to get a job in a mill, but I couldn't find anyfing, and my boys was starving. That lady saved them, I know it." He paused, and took a shuddering breath. "An' then, 'bout a fortnight ago, this man, Jack, 'e comes to me an' offers me two pounds - two pounds sterling! - to help 'im out! Just some 'eavy lifting, he said. I swear to you, sir, I did not know what the dirty bastard were plannin'." He closed his eyes, and his voice dropped down to a whisper. "When I found out who it was 'e was takin' - you see, I don't read, but I had a friend of mine tell me the name on that card, there - and when I realized who she was..." his words were cut off when he started coughing, suddenly, and violently. Samson frowned when he saw specks of blood on Henry's lips.
"Sam, take Mickey outside," Henry ordered, his voice choked and ragged.
The boy glanced between them, and slowly turned and gestured for his brother to join him in the hallway. When the door closed, Samson turned back to Henry.
"Relax," Samson said gently. "The surgeon is on his way."
Henry shook his head, and then he laughed, weakly and humorlessly. "Ain't nothin' no surgeon can fix," he whispered. "I'm done for."
Samson opened his mouth to protest, and was silenced by a wave of Henry's hand.
"I got to set this right," he said, and though his voice was ragged and his face was white, he was determined. "They took the ladies to Temple Gardens, to the pier. I heard 'im talking 'bout a ship."
Samson nodded, and a part of him breathed a deep, heavy sigh of relief. He knew where to go. Finally, he would be able to do something. "Thank you," he said quietly.
Henry reached out with one bloodstained hand and grabbed a fistful of Samson's shirt. "Please," he whispered brokenly, tears pouring from his eyes. "Please take care of my boys. Please, milord." He sobbed. "Don't let them end up like me."
Samson's heart cried out, and his throat went tight. "I will take care of them," he said quietly. "I give you my word."
Henry took a deep, trembling breath, and his eyes slid closed.
His hand fell from Samson's shirt.
Samson stood, moving swiftly. In the distance, the church bells chimed the eleventh hour; he did not have much time.
He stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. The two boys, Sam and Mickey, stood at the end of the hallway, watching him silently.
"Your father is dead," he said gently.
Sam nodded, unsurprised. He had his hands over Mickey's ears.
Children grew up very quickly on the streets.
Samson sighed. "Stay out here until your brother arrives with the surgeon, and then take Jack and Mickey with you to Grosvenor Square, near Hyde Park. Wait for me there."
Sam stared at him with those hollow, haunted eyes. "Why should I trust you?" he asked in a toneless voice.
"You don't have to," Samson said honestly. "But I gave your father my word that I would look after you. And I do not break my promises."
He could not waste any more time. He had to go. He had to get to Helena. Every second that passed was like agony, like standing on hot coals, like being chained down, and caged in, when all he wanted to do was run.
He turned and hurried down the stairs, brushing past Gregoire and Montford and leading them through the loud, dimly lit bar and out into the dark, quiet street.
"They are at the Temple Garden Pier, several miles south of here," he said quickly. "I can get there in time, but only if I run."
Greg nodded. "Go," he said, "we will follow on horseback."
Samson turned and paused when Greg called his name. He glanced back at Lena's brother.
"Be careful."
Samson nodded.
Then he started running.
And this time, he didn't hold back.
The streets faded into a blur, as he finally unleashed the energy that had been burning through his body all evening. He ignored the cries and shouts from passersby. He ignored the eyes that followed him in the darkness, and the bodies that scurried to get out of his path. He was unstoppable, he was a force of nature, and he would not rest until he saw Lena safe and in his arms.
He scaled the wrought iron gate at the entrance of the Temple Gardens in a heartbeat, dropping into the grass and scanning the garden with bright, determined eyes. He was barely winded.
And he was making far too much noise.
He kicked off his boots and took off across the manicured lawns, dodging trees and fountains and statuaries, avoiding gravel and stone paths, as he moved more silently on the grass.
When he reached the edge of the park that bordered the river, he halted in the shadow of a large oak tree. The pier, like the rest of the garden, was closed, and appeared abandoned.
Except for the ship that was docked at the far end, dimly lit with a handful of lanterns and torches.
A set of stairs stretched from the edge of the gardens down to the pier, and then a second set of stairs branched off the side of the pier to lead directly down to the banks of the Thames. The tide was going out, but it was still rather high. There was no movement on either staircase.
The moon was out and full, and it lit the world around him as brightly as if it were midday. He had always been able to see unnaturally well in the dark.
He waited as long as he could, hoping he was giving the Dubois family enough time to get through the gate. His blood was pounding hard and fast through his body, and his hands twitched impatiently.
Finally, he took a deep breath and moved forward, silent and swift, padding across the grass and down the stone stairs. When his feet touched wood, he slowed his pace, careful not to step on any loose boards or raised nails.
So close, his mind screamed, as he got to the halfway point along the pier. So close to getting her back. So close to ending this nightmare!
Movement caught his eye. He froze. The ship was only fifteen or twenty feet away, bobbing lazily in the calm river current.
So when Lena stepped up on deck, he saw her instantly.
"Helena," he whispered. He felt the air rush from his lungs, and his throat went painfully tight. The sight of her alive and unharmed filled him with a joy so intense and powerful that he wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.
Then, someone else appeared on the deck. A young woman with dark hair and pale eyes. Samson recognized her from somewhere, but he could not immediately place the memory.
Lena was watching Samson with a sad, sweet smile on her face. Samson met her gaze, and was overwhelmed by the emotions that crashed through him, at the weakness and strength that battled for victory in his body, at the fire and ice that simultaneously raged through his blood.
I love you, Helena, he thought desperately. I love you more than life itself. I will go to the ends of the Earth for you. I will do anything for you.
I am yours.
Then the brunette stepped up behind Lena, wrapped one arm around his love's neck and casually pressed a gun to her temple.
Time stopped.
"Hello, my dear," the woman said, her voice soft, her pale eyes bright and wide. "We have been waiting for you."