Author's Note: I didn't actually intend to wait quite so long to upload this chapter, but I got sidetracked by another project. Sorry!
Enjoy, my friends. As always, my beta is awesome, and reviews are always welcomed.
SAMSON
As Samson watched the nightmare unfold before him, it felt like time slowed to a crawl. His vision tunneled, and the world beyond the ship disappeared.
Montford reached Jack at the same exact moment that Lena hit the gun out of Lilith's hands.
Movement exploded on the deck, and Samson felt his body flood with fire, seething beneath his skin, vicious and electric, urging him towards the ship, overwhelming him with the desire to move.
To fight.
To kill.
He backed up several steps.
"Stay here," he commanded, sending the Dubois family - Regina and Margot in particular - a stern frown.
Then he ran forward, covering the length of the dock in three great strides. When he reached the end of the dock, he jumped as high as he could, slamming in to the side of the ship with a grunt. His hands just barely managed to grab the bottom rung of the ship's railing. He pulled himself up and over, and straightened. Abby was leaning against the mast, furious but unharmed, cursing under her breath as she tried to loosen the bonds around her wrists.
Montford and Lilith's servant, whose name Samson could not recall, were locked in a fierce, violent struggle. Samson moved quickly across the deck, wrapped one hand around the servant's neck, and tossed him backwards, away from Montford. The servant landed on a pile of rope in an unconscious heap.
Satisfied that one threat was dealt with, Samson turned, just in time to see Lilith grab the gun from the deck.
Just in time to watch Helena run straight into Lilith and push her over the ship's railing.
A gunshot echoed across the water. Harsh. Stark. Visceral.
The sound of death.
He did not think. He did not hesitate. He crossed the deck in the space of one heartbeat and vaulted over the railing.
He hit the water just as Lena's body slipped beneath the inky black surface.
And he was back in the Bordeaux again, in harsh, bitterly cold rapids, watching her sink down into the darkness. Watching the sole source of life and beauty and color disappear from the world, leaving it empty and barren. Meaningless.
Without her, life was meaningless.
Panic gripped him, fierce and overwhelming, an iron fist squeezing his heart. He reached out for her, grabbing her bound wrists, pulling her up towards the surface.
Her skin was cold. Lifeless. He slid one arm around her waist and lifted her head out of the water. Her pale hair was plastered against her face and neck, and her skin was white.
No, he begged. Please, God. Do not take her from me.
"Open your eyes, Helena," he whispered, cupping her face with one hand. "Please, my love. Open your eyes."
His entire world was in the balance. His entire existence. Nothing mattered anymore.
They were surrounded by darkness, a hungry abyss that hunted them, stalking them from the shadows, watching for the perfect moment to strike. To take her from him. To destroy them both.
I will not let you go, he swore silently. I will never let you go.
He pulled her closer, until he could feel her breath fluttering against his cheek. Her heart beat a steady rhythm against his chest.
"Helena, ma cherie, reveille," he said quietly, touching his forehead to hers and brushing his thumb gently across her cheek. "S'il te plaît, reveille."
My darling, wake up. Please, wake up.
Her eyelids fluttered. She sucked in an unsteady breath. Her eyes slid open, and her lips curled in a weak, weary smile.
"Suis-je au paradis?" she wondered, tilting her head back to look at him. Am I in Heaven?
"No, my love, you are in the Thames," Samson replied with a shaky laugh.
"But my angel is here," she whispered, lifting her hands out of the water to touch his face. Her fingers were cool as they slid along his scars, brushing over his jawline, ghosting over his lips. Her touch calmed him down to his very soul, a soothing balm that healed the fierce, ragged panic that had consumed him for the past several hours. Her eyes widened, as the confusion brought on by her loss of consciousness began to fade. "You're really here," she said with a smile.
"I gave you my word," he replied, his voice rough with unshed tears. Nothing will keep me away from you tonight. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head slowly, peering up at him through the darkness.
"Thank God," he rasped, pulling her tight against him. He let himself relax, and the vice around his heart began to loosen. She was whole. She was safe.
She was his.
He kissed her, and he felt her smile against his lips. Heat flooded his body. Pleasure slid over his skin like silk. The world faded, the darkness faded, and for a brief moment, it was just the two of them.
They were the only people in the entire world. In the entire universe.
He lifted his head, and found her watching him with those pale, clever eyes.
"Samson?" she asked. He sucked in a sharp breath as desire seared him from head to toe. Hearing her voice… hearing her say his name… it was entrancing. Intoxicating.
"Do you like it?" he murmured.
She narrowed her eyes, and tilted her head. "Hmm. Samson," she said thoughtfully. A chill slid down his spine, and he closed his eyes. She leaned closer and placed a quick, playful kiss on his lips. "My Samson," she whispered.
He growled softly, and his arms tightened around her.
Voices carried to them over the water, invading the silent reunion, shouting and cursing in both French and English, their words mingling together in an incomprehensible jumble. Samson sighed and glanced up, to see Abby silhouetted against the light of the ship.
"Est-elle vivante?!" Abby demanded, her voice cutting through the storm of words coming from the dock. Is she alive?
"Elle est vivante et bien," Samson replied. She is alive and well.
Abigail disappeared, and shouted something back to the crowd. Samson lifted Lena higher in his arms so that the gentle waves would not wash over her head as he swam around the prow of the ship. As soon as they came within sight, a cheer rose up from the small group on the dock. Gregoire and his father hurried down the stairs that led to the water's edge, and jumped into the shallows, wading towards Samson and Lena.
Samson gained his footing in the rocky sand of the riverbank about twenty feet out and stood, lifting Lena into his arms, one arm beneath her knees, and one behind her shoulders. She was silent as she hooked her arms, still bound by rope, around his neck. Her eyes were open, and she did not appear to be disoriented. Her gaze did not waver from him once.
"Helena, ma fille chérie," Philippe said, his voice breaking as he reached out and brushed wet hair from his daughter's pale forehead. "Dieu merci, tu es en sécurité."
My darling daughter, thank God you're safe.
"She wasn't hit?" Gregoire demanded, reaching out and pulling Lena's hands from around Samson's neck, pressing his fingers to her wrist to check her pulse. Samson allowed this; he could see how shaken Greg was, and he could hear it in the young man's voice. "Are you sure she wasn't hit?"
"I am sure of it, my lord," Samson said calmly. There was no blood on her. He would have smelled it.
"Good. Excellent. Well, then, let's get these ropes off you," Greg muttered, pulling a small knife from his pocket and carefully severing the ropes that bound Lena's wrists. Then he took Lena's hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. In the darkness, only Samson could see the tears on Greg's cheeks, just as he was the only one who could see them glittering in the Viscount's eyes. Both men were standing very close, closer than anyone had ever been to him, other than Lena. Yet he did not feel caged in or cornered. He felt… supported.
Strengthened.
"Thank God for you, Samson," Greg said, reaching up and putting a hand on Samson's shoulder. He paused, and then added, "but don't you ever call me 'my lord' again, brother."
Lena laughed softly. All three men looked at her, and all three smiled.
"Told you he was real," she whispered.
Greg grinned, then turned away abruptly and coughed, rubbing at his eyes.
"Get out of that water immediately, all of you!" Regina commanded from above them. "And bring me my daughter!"
Samson glanced up at the dock just as Abigail stepped off the gangplank. She was instantly swept up into Montford's arms. Regina and Margot stood side-by-side with identical postures, arms on their hips, backs straight and shoulders squared as they waited for Regina's orders to be followed. Samson smiled and followed Greg and the Viscount to the stairs.
His clothes were ruined, but he just couldn't find it in himself to be upset about that.
"I'm perfectly capable of walking, you know," Lena said, her voice soft and playful.
Samson's grip on her tightened instinctively, and he raised his eyebrows.
"I'll be the judge of that." He wasn't ready to give her up yet.
He would never willingly give her up again.
Regina met them at the top of the stairs, calm and collected, giving Lena a cursory once over to check for wounds. When she was satisfied that her daughter was unhurt, she placed a gentle kiss on Lena's forehead.
"My baby girl," she whispered, touching her nose to Lena's. Samson's heart cried out at the quiet pain he saw in Regina's eyes. "Don't you ever scare me like that again."
"I will do my best, Maman," Lena replied with a smile.
"My lord!" someone called from the dock. Philippe turned and one of the Dubois footmen came running down off the ship, "I think you'll want to see this."
Philippe exchanged glances with Greg, and they both turned and started for the ship. Montford reluctantly released Abby from his arms and followed them up the gangplank. Abby walked over to stand next to Regina with a bright smile on her face.
"Come, let's get you in the carriage," Regina said to Lena, glancing up at Samson with a nod. Margot sent Samson a huge smile over her shoulder and fell into step beside her mother. He followed them up the dock, across the lawn, and a short distance down a wide path that cut through the gardens. Two footmen waited by the carriage, and both jumped to attention and moved forward to help Regina, Margot, and Abby inside. When one of the men stepped up to take Lena from Samson's arms, he gave the man a chilling stare. The footman immediately backed away with a murmured apology.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, stop trying to intimidate Robert for a moment and put me down," Lena said with a weak laugh. "I'll be fine."
Samson looked down at her and clenched his jaw. "I don't want to let you go," he said quietly.
Lena opened her mouth to speak, and then paused, and smiled. She slid one hand up to gently cup his cheek.
"I know," she said quietly. "But it will just be for a little while."
Still, he hesitated.
"Don't worry, Samson," Margot said from the carriage. "It's just a few minutes' ride home."
"Yes, we will see you back at Dubois house shortly," Regina added.
Samson felt a smile tug at his lips. "Very well."
He set Lena down, and offered his hand to help her up into the carriage.
When she put her hand in his, she sent him a warm smile, full of unspoken promises. She stepped inside the carriage and hesitated, as if unwilling to break that small physical contact.
He knew exactly how she felt.
"I should see if your father needs assistance," Samson said mournfully. Every instinct screamed at him to not let Lena out of his sight.
Lena sighed and released his hand. "You should," she agreed.
"I will have Eleanor prepare a guest room for you," Regina said, giving Samson a regal nod. "We have much to discuss."
Samson blinked at her. Then he smiled, and nodded, and stepped back so that the footman could close the door and vault up onto the bench and grab the reins.
He watched the carriage roll out of sight, and turned back to the dock. Two more Dubois footmen were standing by the gangplank, talking between themselves. Samson nodded to them.
"Keep a sharp eye out," he said in a low voice. "She may have survived."
"Aye, sir," the eldest footman, Peter, replied with a nod. Then he hesitated, and cleared his throat. "What you did, jumping in after Lady Helena, that was good of you, sir."
"I would suffer much worse than that, for her," Samson replied.
Peter grinned, and the younger footman next to him chuckled.
Samson made his way up the gangplank, glancing over at the man who had held Abby captive. He was bound, hand and foot, and sat calmly on a wooden crate, watching Samson with keen, pale eyes.
Eyes that reflected luminescent green in the torchlight.
Samson sighed, and followed the steps down into the belly of the ship. He would deal with Lilith's henchman later.
He followed the sound of the Viscount's voice to a large storage room near the bow, and found the Viscount and his son standing in the doorway.
"Ah, there you are," Greg said when Samson came into view. "Have a look; it would appear that the baroness intended to take all of her worldly treasures with her."
He was right. The entire room was filled with fine furniture, jewels, swaths of rich silk, trunks of clothing, and several lockboxes full of banknotes. Samson glanced around, eyebrows raised. It was a treasure trove, enough wealth to support someone in great comfort for the rest of their days.
"Impressive," he noted.
"I'm sure Lord Bennington will be pleased to see this fortune returned to him," Philippe said with a smirk.
Montford appeared at the other end of the hallway. "I think he's more pleased to be alive, at the moment." He pointed towards the room he'd just stepped out of, and a short, balding man appeared in the doorway, rubbing his wrists. "I found him bound and gagged in a service closet. He believes his wife intended to shoot him and dump his body in the Channel."
The baron nodded to each man in turn, eyes hollow and weary. "I understand I have the four of you to thank for saving my life," he said in a quiet voice. He seemed… beaten. Haunted.
Samson imagined that was probably due to the fact that he'd been living with a psychotic murderer for a number of years.
"Samson found the ship," Greg said with a shrug. "Samson saved Helena and Abigail." He grinned up at Samson. "I'd say you're the hero of the hour, my friend."
Baron Bennington bowed politely to Samson. "Thank you, sir."
Samson nodded. Hero or not, he was still uncomfortable being seen by others.
Bennington turned his gaze to Philippe. "Now, what's this you said about a fortune, Dubois?"
Philippe stepped aside and gestured for the baron to view the contents of the storage room. The baron edged forward, glanced about the room, and stepped back with a disgusted sigh.
"All hers," he said with a curl of his lip. "I'll have none of it."
Greg blinked at him. "You don't want… any of it?"
The baron shook his head. His expression was dark, and his eyes narrow. "She tormented me from the moment we were wed. She made my life hell. She was going to kill me. I want nothing more to do with that bitch."
The Dubois men exchanged glances, but no one seemed very surprised.
"Donate it to charity," Montford suggested.
"Certainly," the baron replied with a shrug. "Or burn it. Or toss it in the Thames. I don't care. Do with it what you will. Now, if you will excuse me, I have some personal matters to attend to. Good evening, gentlemen." And with that, he turned and made his way up the stairs to the deck. His boots thumped over their heads and down the gangplank.
"Poor chap," Greg muttered.
"I'll have my secretary collect and inventory everything," Philippe said with a nod. "Shall we?"
Together, the four men returned to the deck of the ship. Lilith's henchman was still sitting where they had left him, watching Samson with those unusual eyes. Philippe and Montford stepped down off the ship, but Samson held back.
"That is the man named Jack?" he asked Greg.
Greg paused, and nodded. "I sent for a carriage to take him to Millbank, it should be here within the hour."
"I would like to speak with him, if you don't mind," Samson said quietly. Greg raised one eyebrow, and then shrugged.
"Go right ahead." He turned and made his way down the gangplank, leaving Samson alone with Jack.
They watched each other for a long moment in tense silence.
"You shot Viscount Stanford dead?" Samson demanded.
Jack nodded.
"You shot a man named Alfred dead?"
Jack nodded.
"But you did not kill Henry outright."
Jack blinked, and then he nodded.
"Why?"
Jack stared at him, silent and unmoving, head slightly tilted.
After a minute or two, he glanced over at his jacket, which lay across the wooden railing. "Left pocket," he said, his voice soft.
Samson walked over and picked up the jacket, sifting through the folds of fabric until he found the pocket Jack spoke of.
He pulled out a small paper bag, unfolded it, and dumped its contents into his palm.
A handful of small white balls rolled into his hand. They were perfectly formed, and smooth. Samson picked one of them up, and crushed it easily between his forefinger and thumb.
"Wax," he murmured, surprised.
"Lilith's gun was loaded with a blank," Jack said tonelessly.
Samson tensed, and his gaze shot up to meet Jack's. "So she is still alive."
Jack nodded, his eyes solemn. "Most likely, yes."
"Why?" Samson demanded.
Jack's eyes glinted in the light, and his jaw clenched. "She created me," he said in a flat, toneless voice. "She brought me to life. She was my God. I have done so many things for her…" he trailed off, and then sighed. "Horrible things. But always… and only… to horrible people." He stood from the rope pile, and met Samson's gaze steadily. "I could not do this. I could not let her kill an innocent woman."
He stood. He was taller than most men, but not as tall as Samson.
"If she is still alive, she will go to the place where she is most comfortable," Jack said. "She will go to the forest. Hyde Park."
"Thank you," Samson said with a nod.
"In return, I ask only that you do not try to stop me," Jack said gently, lifting his bound hands up, to his face. Something glittered in the dim light. Something sharp. "I am done with this life," he murmured.
He slid the razor blade across his neck. Blood gushed from the wound, pouring down over his hands, soaking into his shirt.
Samson started to take a step forward, reaching for him. And then he paused, and stepped back.
Jack nodded, just once, in silent thanks. He fell to his knees. His eyes slid closed.
His body slumped backwards to the floor, silent and unmoving.
Samson leaned down and placed a small ha'penny over each of Jack's closed eyes.
"I do not know if the Ferryman will take our kind across the river," Samson said, his voice soft, "but if he does, I hope you find peace there, brother."
Then he stood, and lifted his gaze to the eastern horizon, where the pale, ghostly light of dawn crept slowly across the sky.
He turned, and stepped down off the ship, crossing the dock and making his way towards the path where Greg and Montford waited in their saddles. The viscount stood beside his horse, watching Samson approach.
"Jack?" Greg asked.
"Dead," Samson replied hesitantly. "He had a blade hidden in his sleeve."
They did not seem surprised. Samson frowned, confused.
"It's a common tactic among spies," Greg explained. "Often, they… do not wish to be taken alive."
Samson nodded, and turned to Philippe. "If she survived, I know where she will be," Samson said quietly. "I will go alone."
Philippe opened his mouth to protest, but Samson held up a hand.
"Please, my lord," he said. "This is something I must do."
Silence descended over the small group. All three men watched the viscount, to see what he would say.
Philippe sighed. "Very well," he said. He turned, and swung up into his saddle, glancing down at Samson with a frown. "But do me a favor, and take care of yourself; my daughter will skin me alive if you come to any harm."
Samson felt a smile tug at his lips. He nodded, and the three noblemen turned their horses and disappeared down the path that would take them through the gardens and out into London.
When they were completely out of sight, Samson turned and started running.