Free Easton by Paul Butler Page B

the latter all along. He was not a rogue posing as a monarch; he was a monarch posing as a rogue. Knowing this earlier wouldn’t have saved them.
    As George sits on the side of his bed, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped at his lowered forehead, another sound reaches him through the multitudinous storm. It is a noise softer but no less urgent—the woman’s moaning again. Now it seems louder and more rapid. Is this the woman,
his
woman with the dark eyes and the soft, mellow voice? A thought flashes through his mind, an explanation as to why her cries might be more anguished than before. The word comes smouldering into his brain:
torture
.
    The sound is not like before—now seems more pain than sorrow. It is crying for help. Surely Easton has found out she has been talking to him, telling him the truth about Baxter, and now he is exacting punishment.
    George dresses quickly. He had been meaning to get to the admiral first and disclose to him everything he has discovered. But this is more urgent. His heart beats as he fastens his buckle. Incredibly, Easton has left both the admiral and himself with pistols. Perhaps this was not so surprising for one with such overpowering confidence. Perhaps it was rather like a tiger arming a mouse. But a bullet is a bullet and Easton is not indestructible. If it means saving the woman from torture George will do it and damn the consequences. George tucks the pistol now into his belt and marches outside into the storm.
    The spray hits him immediately and the wind almost slides him along the water-soaked deck. He grips onto a cabin rail and looks around. The wind howls mercilessly, yet the wiry crew are silently climbing ropes and securing leads and chains even now. As the spray and mist clear for a second George sees all the way through to the deck nearest the bow. There he beholds Easton himself spinning the wheel, standing firm and unthreatened, just a dark silhouette against the groaning, grey sky.
    Knowing this is his chance, George gropes along the cabin rail to the entrance to Easton’s cabin. He gains the vestibule and stands dripping and out of breath for a moment before pushing the inner door. The cabin is empty; as the ship tilts from side to side, the various silk hangings shiver like ripples in a pool. George creeps slowly toward the serving hatch. The painful moans of the woman seem to emanate from some way beyond that door. Suddenly, the cabin sways sharply to stern and George, still only halfway through the room, has to reach out and steady himself against a table. A dainty clock tinkles as the ship continues to pitch, and an ornamental sea shell tilts from side to side rapping its knuckles on a polished surface. The vessel steadies for the moment and George continues. At last he reaches the serving hatch. He pushes, his heart pounding. It opens easily into darkness and George scoots through. The door closes behind him. Here the moaning is louder and more painful sounding, though he sees only a small space with two bunks, one on either side. This tiny room is illuminated at the far end by flickering light which comes up through a gap in the floor. He approaches to find a laddered stairway descending into the light. The woman’s moaning is much louder now; he imagines he can almost feel her breath like moist rain as he steps onto the ladder and begins to climb down.
    His boots clunk with each step and he knows that whoever is below must have heard him by now even through their own gasps and moans. She has probably seen him too as he is at a disadvantage; the ladder has him facing the flickering wall so the room into which he descends is behind him. He stops, fancying he can hear a subtle change in the rhythm of the moans. There is another very soft voice too, it seems, the gentlest of whispers accompanying the first. He drops one more rung then turns his head.
    There are two women. One lies prostrate on a long, plain wooden table. There are leather straps near, but