‘Indeed,’ the lad said in clear, crisp, surprisingly educated tones. ‘Besides, you have no idea of this fellow’s identity. He might be some bigwig.’
‘Good Lord,’ Sam said, before silencing himself. Even in the dim light, the lad’s silhouette had a delicacy of feature that was not masculine and the wet shirt definitely showed a femininity of form.
Perhaps this was, indeed, an illusion or nightmare too bizarre for reality. Was he to believe that he and this female had been captured by pirates? Was this some elaborate ruse? A practical joke or crazy wager? A hallucination after too many brandies?
The clear calm reasoned voice spoke again. ‘It makes no sense for you to hurt us. You were happy enough to accept my services.’
‘That was before you started bringing strange, unknown folk to my ship,’ the Captain said, turning back to his captives.
‘I did not bring anyone to your ship. I did not want to be on your ship. I wanted to collect the merchandise and return to shore.’
‘Leaving him as a witness.’
‘He was out cold.’
‘He was throwing up his guts in your bilge.’
‘Either way, he certainly did not seem capable of witnessing much,’ the woman said.
The Captain held up the lantern and Sam could feel his scrutiny. Shrewd eyes glinted, deep set within leathery, pockmarked skin. He lowered the lantern. ‘He looks capable enough now. And I cannot see any other solution. Killing ’im seems the best policy.’
‘Not unless you want every Bow Street Runner investigating the situation,’ Sam said, collecting his thoughts and forcing the words out. Even if this was a bizarre hallucination, he refused to be the snivelling coward in it.
There was a silence interrupted only by the regular squelch of the older sailor’s tobacco.
‘When I want the opinion of a toffee-nosed Brit on my own ship, I will ask for it,’ the Captain said. ‘And I wouldn’t mind adding an aristocrat to the minnow population.’
He chuckled at his own joke. Sam swallowed. He wished his thoughts would clear. Everything was a blur of disjointed images: his sister, the baby, dinner. How could he argue for his life when he had no idea why he was here or how?
‘But that’s just it,’ the girl said in her clear tones. ‘I know him. He is a gentleman. From London.’
Sam startled. Good God, she was right. But how did she know him? Had they met? Had she attended dinner with his sister? He had no recollection of her and she certainly was not dressed for it.
‘I am Mr Garrett,’ he said. It was an effort to say the words, as though their enunciation required conscious thought and labour. He felt less that he was providing information and more that he was clinging on to a fact, as one might a life ring.
‘There, you see!’ the girl said with some energy. ‘As posh as they come. He is quite rich and might well be worth more to you alive than dead.’
The words hung in the air.
Millie held her breath. Despite the storm, the wind had dropped so that even nature seemed to be waiting. A variety of expressions flickered across the Captain’s face. He was not smart, but she detected a natural cunning.
‘What’s your meaning?’
‘Likely, he has a family that would pay for his return.’ She made her voice calm despite her nervousness. She knew nothing of Mr Garrett’s family. Indeed, even her belated recognition felt as though it had come from a force external to her, an image dropped into her mind from a lifetime previous. Later she would be fully conscious of the oddness of this coincidence—finding themselves together on a smugglers’ ship off the Cornish coast—and would feel a stunned disbelief.
Right now, she felt nothing.
‘It would put me and the company at risk. And I do not like loose ends,’ the Captain said.
She swallowed, biting her lip. Sal’s husband had warned her. Smuggling was different now. The war with France was over and the coast rife with excise men. Fear and risk had grown exponentially and, with it, a harder, crueller breed of smugglers. They would forgive no mistakes and demonstrate little humanity or mercy.
The Captain nodded to the sailor who again raised the pistol.
She saw the glint of metal. She saw the movement of his finger on the trigger. Instinctively, she held her breath, squeezing her eyes tight shut, ludicrously bracing herself for impact as though taut muscles might deflect steel.
The shot did not come. Instead, peering through her lashes, she saw the Captain’s gaze had turned towards the rocks and then seawards. The ship had drifted too close to shore.
‘Luck’s with you fer now.’ He turned away. ‘Wind is dropping. Best to git out.’
‘What do I do with ’em?’ the sailor asked.
‘Tie ’em up and git ’em below decks. I’ll decide what to do with ’em later.’
Millie exhaled, limbs wobbly like so much blancmange. The Captain strode towards the foredeck, already bellowing orders. The old man stopped chewing tobacco long enough to emit a piercing whistle, producing two younger sailors.
With rough efficiency, they pulled her arms behind her. Coarse rope was twisted tightly around her wrists as they did the same with Garrett before jerking them upright.
‘Git!’ the old sailor said, spitting out his tobacco.
She walked unsteadily across the wet, slippery planking, stumbling with the ship’s continued movement. To either side, she saw figures and heard the rustle as huge sails were hoisted.
Beyond the ship, hidden in the dark, was her home...more remote than the moon, stars or any constellation. She hadn’t told her family about the plan. She’d expected to do this quickly, efficiently, under the cover of darkness. She’d be in and out and back for breakfast.
In an evening’s work, or a few evenings, she’d ensure that her mother did not have to go to debtors’ prison and her sister need not marry a lecherous, middle-aged man.
Instead, her absence would be noted, her reputation ruined so that even Mr Edmunds would not want to marry her. Granted she did not
