Swept Away (The Swept Away Saga, Book One)

Chapter Forty-Six

"Don't be frightened," he said, wrapping his fingers around mine. "We're going to be fine."

"Tell me the plan again," I stated, hoping to keep my mind occupied.

"We'll row in with the longboats," he replied, the instructions sounding rehearsed. "As part of the scouting group, we must take out any watchmen and find out what is happening. The man of war will sail in after us, once the signal has been given. Do ye remember the signal?"

"A fire, lit on the far end of the island, facing the sea."

"Very good," he said soothingly. "When the rest of the knights arrive in the ship, we attack. Thomas won't know what happened until it's over."

"I'm scared," I said suddenly, clamping my eyes shut. "The last time I was here, well . . ."

"I've got ye, Samantha," he uttered seriously. "Ye won't be going anywhere without me, in this time or yer own."

Nodding again, I turned my attention back in the direction of the island. It couldn't be seen from this far out, tucked up inside the bay, but I knew it was there. While we were scouting everything out, the ship would sail closer, completely hidden in the dark, like a ghost vessel in the mist. Uninvited, all of the island stories of being cursed and haunted filled my mind, causing me to shiver with discomfort.

"Steady, lass," Tristan murmured, tightening his hold on my hand.

"To the boats." It was said in a normal tone and volume, but because of the silence on board it seemed like a mighty cry, cracking through the night and revealing us to our opposition.

Steadily, we moved forward, climbing into the boats and waiting to be lowered down, each move as quiet as the grave. My heart galloped within my chest as we crossed the water, each thundering beat ringing in my ears, Mother Agnetha's words repeating themselves over and over again.

Eight is a magic number, eight is a magic number, eight is a magic number . . .

Smooth as glass, we glided over the surface, the three boats making less noise than a bird landing in a tree. John bobbed his head at me as he took up an oar, dipping it into the water, Bell matching the movement beside him. Stealthily, we traveled on with the other two sets of scouts, Oak Isle coming into view at last.

Lights moved around on the shore and I breathed in sharply, eyes wide.

"I've seen lights out there," the old man had said to me at the supermarket. "Bouncing around every which way, like torches carried around to see with. However, there was nothing out there. Just the trees."

Watching those same lights now, knowing that they were attached to someone alive at the moment, I wondered if I was seeing the event that would lead the old man to believe the island was haunted. If that were the case, it most certainly was haunted by the men who would die here tonight.

Reaching the pre-determined point where our three groups would part ways, the other two boats moved to sail around and look at the other side. As for us, we quickly came ashore in Pirate's Cove, jumping out and pulling the boat up enough that it wouldn't slip away without us.

Nodding in the direction of the trees, Tristan led us, all of our swords drawn as we snuck up the beach. A man was standing just in sight, his back to us, humming to himself.

"Guard," Tristan mouthed to me, signaling for us to stop.

Halting behind him, we watched as he slunk forward, surprising the lone man and slitting his throat before he could utter another sound. Tristan then glanced around, staying low as he helped the body fall, and then motioned for us to join him.

"You two go that way," he told John and Bell, pointing to the right. "Samantha, come with me."

Gulping down one last terrified breath, I agreed, following after him into the dark. We traveled quickly, but quietly, Tristan catching two more guards as we advanced deeper into the island. Watchmen moved around us, but no one caught us, a miracle I readily sent a prayer of thanks for.

"Move faster!" Thomas Randall's voice suddenly rang out through the trees and we both fell to our stomachs, inching toward the sound.

As the plants thinned out, I felt a pang of memory, the Treasure Pit sitting in the middle of the clearing. There was a large oak towering over it now, which the men were using to help pull the dirt up and out of their project, and no scaffolding, but other than that it looked the same as it always had.

"How much deeper is it?" Thomas was growling at a figure kneeling before the fire they'd built.

"I don't know," James Abby's voice responded, trembling in terror. "I've told ye everything I know, I swear!"

"Everything except where the treasure is," Randall snarled, backhanding him across the face.

A small gasp escaped me as James's countenance came into the light of the fire and Tristan's hand shot out, grabbing mine painfully, a warning to stay silent. Our friend's face was black and blue from being beaten, thick cuts still weeping blood. One eye was swollen shut and it looked as if his hair had been ripped out in several places.

"What else did O'Rourke tell you," Randall spat, kicking him in the stomach.

Doubling over, James heaved, spittle hanging from his split lip. "Nothing," he coughed, struggling to get upright with his hands tied behind him. "I don't know anything else, I promise. He didn't even mean to tell me where the vault was. It was an accident, when he was relaying a message he'd received from our contact here. It had the number of paces from the shore, that's all, I swear!" He was sobbing, begging, a beaten man who wanted no more of it.

"Filth." Actually hawking on him this time, Randall left him be, walking back to the edge of the pit.

"We found it!" a faint voice cried from inside.

"About time. Get out of the way," Randall ordered, shoving a man to the side of their ladder, climbing onto it himself. "Abby! You're coming with me. If O'Rourke booby-trapped this place, I won't be the one getting caught. Bring that case with you." He started descending, not even looking to see if James was coming.

Gingerly, rubbing his wrists after they were untied, James stood, staggering slightly as he took the container that was shoved at him. It was Tristan's chest, the box that held the vase.

"Come on," Tristan whispered, pulling me away from the scene. "We need to get in there, right now."

"But what about the signal fire?" I asked, slipping away beside him, our presence still undetected.

"We'll just have to hope someone else lightsit," he answered roughly. "We have to get to the vault before Thomas."