impossible.
‘Come here, you little varmint!’ a man’s voice bellowed behind her, deep and gruff. A prickling sweat broke out over Emmeline’s skin. Heavy feet thudded behind her, covering the short distance between stern and bow with speed. She would not be caught by this trespasser, this lowly thief who would think nothing of slitting her throat from ear to ear! A hand touched her shoulder and then…
‘Merde!’ The man crashed to the ground behind her. Praise be to God that some ropes had been left lying about. In a twinkling, before her pursuer had time to rise, Emmeline swung herself over the side of the ship and jumped, feet first, into the freezing black sea.
As the water closed over her head, she praised her seafaring father for teaching her to swim from an early age. Kicking her feet out in a strong scissor motion, she pushed to the surface carefully, unwilling to give away her position. Dashing the stinging salt water from her eyes, she trod water, trying to gain her bearings. La Belle Saumur bobbed some fifteen feet beyond her right shoulder. But where was he? Emmeline swam gently into the lee of the ship, a shadowed place where the newly emerged moonlight wouldn’t touch her. The rowing boat must be further along: she needed to reach it and strike out for shore, away from that giant hulk of a man who would surely kill her! Her chest constricting with the coldness of the water, Emmeline worked her way along the dark hull, touching her fingers to the side of the ship every now and again as she swam. It was difficult to see clearly, so much so that she almost squeaked in surprise as her outstretched hand grazed the side of her rowing boat. Sighing with relief, aware that the cold water had started to affect the mobility of her limbs, she reached up to the oarlock with her fingers.
‘Got you!’ Large fingers fumbled against her own, seeking to take a firmer grip. Mother of Mary! Why hadn’t she seen her pursuer climb into the rowing boat? Panic flamed her mind; wrenching back violently, she struck away into a powerful backstroke. She heard a muffled curse, the creak of the iron ring as the rope was released. Realising she had to get out of sight, she tucked her body into a neat dive, wriggling her feet to shed her cumbersome water-filled boots. Her only option was to swim to shore; it was close enough for herto hear the waves crashing onto the beach and she was a strong swimmer. With Fortune, it would be difficult for him to see her, a small figure obscured by the darkness of the water, as long as she didn’t turn around so he could catch the paleness of her face.
Her legs kicked vigorously against the weight of the waves; the buoyancy of the water imbued her with a strength and agility she couldn’t hope to possess on land. Whenever she swam, she felt whole again, transported to an idyllic time before her marriage to Giffard, before her father’s death. Despite the stinging cold, she revelled in the sheer fluidity of her body. Fear that her pursuer might be directly behind her lent her speed, her supple arms drawing her slender frame silently through the water with a practised, streamlined stroke. The few lights of Barfleur drew her, fronted by the lace frill of waves nestling the shore that pulled at her, beckoned her. And then a sound, a sense of something dark and relentless looming up behind, and then a hand on her back, grasping, bunching the tunic into the curve of her spine. God in Heaven! He had caught her! Her feet flailed and thrashed uselessly at the water, trying to lever herself away from the punishing grip. Hot tears sprang beneath her lashes as, against her best efforts, she felt herself being hauled, slowly and inexorably, into the boat. The fight drained from her limbs, the adrenalin that had spurred her on now replaced by a debilitating exhaustion. Sodden and weak, Emmeline slumped face down on the bottom of the rowing boat, breathing heavily, refusing to open her eyes, refusing to
‘Come here, you little varmint!’ a man’s voice bellowed behind her, deep and gruff. A prickling sweat broke out over Emmeline’s skin. Heavy feet thudded behind her, covering the short distance between stern and bow with speed. She would not be caught by this trespasser, this lowly thief who would think nothing of slitting her throat from ear to ear! A hand touched her shoulder and then…
‘Merde!’ The man crashed to the ground behind her. Praise be to God that some ropes had been left lying about. In a twinkling, before her pursuer had time to rise, Emmeline swung herself over the side of the ship and jumped, feet first, into the freezing black sea.
As the water closed over her head, she praised her seafaring father for teaching her to swim from an early age. Kicking her feet out in a strong scissor motion, she pushed to the surface carefully, unwilling to give away her position. Dashing the stinging salt water from her eyes, she trod water, trying to gain her bearings. La Belle Saumur bobbed some fifteen feet beyond her right shoulder. But where was he? Emmeline swam gently into the lee of the ship, a shadowed place where the newly emerged moonlight wouldn’t touch her. The rowing boat must be further along: she needed to reach it and strike out for shore, away from that giant hulk of a man who would surely kill her! Her chest constricting with the coldness of the water, Emmeline worked her way along the dark hull, touching her fingers to the side of the ship every now and again as she swam. It was difficult to see clearly, so much so that she almost squeaked in surprise as her outstretched hand grazed the side of her rowing boat. Sighing with relief, aware that the cold water had started to affect the mobility of her limbs, she reached up to the oarlock with her fingers.
‘Got you!’ Large fingers fumbled against her own, seeking to take a firmer grip. Mother of Mary! Why hadn’t she seen her pursuer climb into the rowing boat? Panic flamed her mind; wrenching back violently, she struck away into a powerful backstroke. She heard a muffled curse, the creak of the iron ring as the rope was released. Realising she had to get out of sight, she tucked her body into a neat dive, wriggling her feet to shed her cumbersome water-filled boots. Her only option was to swim to shore; it was close enough for herto hear the waves crashing onto the beach and she was a strong swimmer. With Fortune, it would be difficult for him to see her, a small figure obscured by the darkness of the water, as long as she didn’t turn around so he could catch the paleness of her face.
Her legs kicked vigorously against the weight of the waves; the buoyancy of the water imbued her with a strength and agility she couldn’t hope to possess on land. Whenever she swam, she felt whole again, transported to an idyllic time before her marriage to Giffard, before her father’s death. Despite the stinging cold, she revelled in the sheer fluidity of her body. Fear that her pursuer might be directly behind her lent her speed, her supple arms drawing her slender frame silently through the water with a practised, streamlined stroke. The few lights of Barfleur drew her, fronted by the lace frill of waves nestling the shore that pulled at her, beckoned her. And then a sound, a sense of something dark and relentless looming up behind, and then a hand on her back, grasping, bunching the tunic into the curve of her spine. God in Heaven! He had caught her! Her feet flailed and thrashed uselessly at the water, trying to lever herself away from the punishing grip. Hot tears sprang beneath her lashes as, against her best efforts, she felt herself being hauled, slowly and inexorably, into the boat. The fight drained from her limbs, the adrenalin that had spurred her on now replaced by a debilitating exhaustion. Sodden and weak, Emmeline slumped face down on the bottom of the rowing boat, breathing heavily, refusing to open her eyes, refusing to
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