own body. Now and again, she turned to look at the great, brooding sides of La Belle Saumur lumbering out of the gloom behind her, assessing her direction.
The rowing boat bumped gently against the side of the ship, and Emmeline grabbed at the frayed end of the rope ladder that dangled over the side to pull herself in. Securing her boat to an iron ring, corroded and flaky with orange rust and boltedto the ship’s side, she drew in the heavy oars and laid them securely in the bottom of the boat. Above her, the curved hull loomed. The rope ladder, manufactured from the finest Irish flax, slapped encouragingly against the side, urging her on. Chest pounding, jaw locked with steadfast determination, she launched herself at the ladder. Through the leather of her boots, the flexible rungs bit into the tender arches of her feet as she hauled her slender frame up with difficulty, rolling over the wooden guard-rail to drop quietly on to the deck.
Emmeline stopped, hot from the exertion. Since her foot had been damaged, she often had to work far harder to be able to do anything physical. Curse Giffard! Curse that man who had been her husband! Her rapid breathing boomed in her ears, blocking out all other sound. Her heart pounded and she grasped the guard-rail to steady herself, to catch her breath. She rubbed at the soft worn wood under her fingers. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to concentrate on the imperceptible rocking of the ship, the slight creaking of the timbers as the vessel moved against the swell. She opened her eyes to look around the once-familiar details of the ship, a ship that before her father’s death had been like a second home to her. How she had missed this! The curl and slap of the waves against the keel; the lowered main mast laid across the deck with the canvas sails furled neatly and tied up to the crossbar; the faint smell of wine spilt long ago in the hold. Here she had come as a child, helping her father or his captain and crew coil the ropes into neat piles, or listen to her father talk with the captain over his meticulous, hand-drawn charts about the weather, or the sea state, or of magical lands far away. Lost in memories, she fingered the amulet at her neck.
A tiny noise, a scratching, caught her attention, almost imperceptible against the familiar background sound, but definitely there. Hesitating, fear holding her to the spot, Emmelinescanned the deck, eyes scouring in panic for clues to its origin. The stark moonlight highlighted the depths of every corner, every shadow, making it easy to see. The noise came again—a small click, then a muffled curse and the sound of something falling. Emmeline’s hands flew to her mouth, effectively subduing the bubbling scream that threatened to emerge. Nausea punched like a fist into her stomach, a spill of dread snaking through her limbs, unbalancing her, unnerving her. The tales that Captain Lecherche continually plied her with, tales of thieves and robbers plundering ships along this coastline, suddenly seemed horribly real. Evil men with no thought on their minds but to steal lucrative cargo; human life would hold no meaning for them. But surely Captain Lecherche would have made certain that all the cargo had been unloaded? It was unusual for him to have left anything of value on board.
Emmeline could see now that the hatch, in the middle of the ship, stood open. Someone moved about down below, and now approached the wooden ladder to come up on deck! Without conscious thought, adrenalin firing her steps, she staggered across and kicked the slatted doorway shut with her good foot, scarcely aware of the smothered oath below as she moved lopsidedly back along the deck, stepping instinctively between the lines of ropes. The hatch door crashed open behind her, just as the moon moved behind a cloud to throw the ship into dim shadow. Her heart lurched as she searched frantically for the top of the rope ladder, but the sudden darkness made the task almost
The rowing boat bumped gently against the side of the ship, and Emmeline grabbed at the frayed end of the rope ladder that dangled over the side to pull herself in. Securing her boat to an iron ring, corroded and flaky with orange rust and boltedto the ship’s side, she drew in the heavy oars and laid them securely in the bottom of the boat. Above her, the curved hull loomed. The rope ladder, manufactured from the finest Irish flax, slapped encouragingly against the side, urging her on. Chest pounding, jaw locked with steadfast determination, she launched herself at the ladder. Through the leather of her boots, the flexible rungs bit into the tender arches of her feet as she hauled her slender frame up with difficulty, rolling over the wooden guard-rail to drop quietly on to the deck.
Emmeline stopped, hot from the exertion. Since her foot had been damaged, she often had to work far harder to be able to do anything physical. Curse Giffard! Curse that man who had been her husband! Her rapid breathing boomed in her ears, blocking out all other sound. Her heart pounded and she grasped the guard-rail to steady herself, to catch her breath. She rubbed at the soft worn wood under her fingers. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to concentrate on the imperceptible rocking of the ship, the slight creaking of the timbers as the vessel moved against the swell. She opened her eyes to look around the once-familiar details of the ship, a ship that before her father’s death had been like a second home to her. How she had missed this! The curl and slap of the waves against the keel; the lowered main mast laid across the deck with the canvas sails furled neatly and tied up to the crossbar; the faint smell of wine spilt long ago in the hold. Here she had come as a child, helping her father or his captain and crew coil the ropes into neat piles, or listen to her father talk with the captain over his meticulous, hand-drawn charts about the weather, or the sea state, or of magical lands far away. Lost in memories, she fingered the amulet at her neck.
A tiny noise, a scratching, caught her attention, almost imperceptible against the familiar background sound, but definitely there. Hesitating, fear holding her to the spot, Emmelinescanned the deck, eyes scouring in panic for clues to its origin. The stark moonlight highlighted the depths of every corner, every shadow, making it easy to see. The noise came again—a small click, then a muffled curse and the sound of something falling. Emmeline’s hands flew to her mouth, effectively subduing the bubbling scream that threatened to emerge. Nausea punched like a fist into her stomach, a spill of dread snaking through her limbs, unbalancing her, unnerving her. The tales that Captain Lecherche continually plied her with, tales of thieves and robbers plundering ships along this coastline, suddenly seemed horribly real. Evil men with no thought on their minds but to steal lucrative cargo; human life would hold no meaning for them. But surely Captain Lecherche would have made certain that all the cargo had been unloaded? It was unusual for him to have left anything of value on board.
Emmeline could see now that the hatch, in the middle of the ship, stood open. Someone moved about down below, and now approached the wooden ladder to come up on deck! Without conscious thought, adrenalin firing her steps, she staggered across and kicked the slatted doorway shut with her good foot, scarcely aware of the smothered oath below as she moved lopsidedly back along the deck, stepping instinctively between the lines of ropes. The hatch door crashed open behind her, just as the moon moved behind a cloud to throw the ship into dim shadow. Her heart lurched as she searched frantically for the top of the rope ladder, but the sudden darkness made the task almost
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