captain would assume the light was a beacon and would be duped into sailing too near the rocky coast. A gang of shipwreckers would be lying in wait on the beach.
Plantagenet law provided that the cargo of a ship adjudged a wreck belonged to the inhabitants of the coast where the wreckage washed ashore. The law further decreed that if there were survivors, it would not be adjudged a lawful wreck. In effect, the law promoted murder. Rachael had no fear of fairtraders, but wreckers were a different breed altogether.
Her limbs trembled as she crept farther down the path for a better view of the sea. A square-rigged vessel drifted near the rocky shore and Rachael looked on in horror as the ship’s crew recognized the danger too late.
The ship bounced and eddied before it crashed into the rocks with a force that sent the dull crack of rending wood echoing in the night. The beach came alive with shouts of triumph as more than two dozen men suddenly converged on the beach, running into the foaming surf.
The thought that there might be survivors propelled her toward the beach, where Rachael knelt behind a large boulder and looked on with mounting horror at the chaotic scene. The gang was intent upon clean work with no witnesses, and she had to shove her fist into her mouth to hold back her screams as cries of terror and pleas for mercy were brutally silenced by intermittent flashes of steel in the moonlight.
The gang stripped the ship of her cargo and every item of value with practiced efficiency, including the timber forming the vessel, the ropes from her rigging, and the copper that sheathed her hull. They transferred their plunder into several waiting ships and then headed up the beach in her direction.
One man forged ahead of the others as they marched. Every nerve in Rachael’s body thrummed with the awareness of danger as the leader drew close to her and the murky light edged out the shadows hiding his face.
Victor Brightmore stood no more than fifteen feet from her. Rachael ducked, feeling her heartbeat quicken as a flush of coldness flowed over her. Why hadn’t she listened to Wyatt and remained at the cottage?
“Well done,” he said, praising the group. “A rewarding evening, as befits my return after so long an absence.”
Rachael shuddered at the sound of his voice, feeling as if she could not draw air for breath as the assembled men raised their weapons in salute and cheered. Victor sheathed his sword then continued up the beach.
Rachael abandoned her position behind the boulder and scrambled toward the cottage path, keeping to the shadows. Ascending the steep path, her heart pounded in her ears, and her limbs quaked.
The briar and bramble clutched at her and Rachael stifled an anguished sob. What had Victor done with James? Was her uncle merely occupying his time until he could be certain she was out of the way, or had he put his diabolical plan into action?
She heard the sound of a scuffle at the foot of the path and pressed her fist to her mouth again to hold back a scream. Two or more men had stumbled upon the hidden walkway, and an altercation was underway. Rachael sought to distance herself from it, but stopped short when she heard her name.
“Rachael!” The caller hissed, low and urgent, as if he also feared discovery. “Rachael, stop!”
She half turned in the direction of the voice and stumbled and lost her footing, sliding backward in the bramble. Hearing the renewed sounds of a struggle, and the audible grunt of fist meeting flesh as one opponent felled the other, she chewed her lip and clawed her way up the incline, sensing with blunt terror that the winner had turned his attention her way.
Rachael screamed and instinctively fought to defend herself when she was seized from behind and spun around. She met her attacker in a blind frenzy, biting, clawing, and kicking.
The attacker stunned her with a controlled slap to her cheek and enveloped her thrashing limbs in a crushing embrace,
Plantagenet law provided that the cargo of a ship adjudged a wreck belonged to the inhabitants of the coast where the wreckage washed ashore. The law further decreed that if there were survivors, it would not be adjudged a lawful wreck. In effect, the law promoted murder. Rachael had no fear of fairtraders, but wreckers were a different breed altogether.
Her limbs trembled as she crept farther down the path for a better view of the sea. A square-rigged vessel drifted near the rocky shore and Rachael looked on in horror as the ship’s crew recognized the danger too late.
The ship bounced and eddied before it crashed into the rocks with a force that sent the dull crack of rending wood echoing in the night. The beach came alive with shouts of triumph as more than two dozen men suddenly converged on the beach, running into the foaming surf.
The thought that there might be survivors propelled her toward the beach, where Rachael knelt behind a large boulder and looked on with mounting horror at the chaotic scene. The gang was intent upon clean work with no witnesses, and she had to shove her fist into her mouth to hold back her screams as cries of terror and pleas for mercy were brutally silenced by intermittent flashes of steel in the moonlight.
The gang stripped the ship of her cargo and every item of value with practiced efficiency, including the timber forming the vessel, the ropes from her rigging, and the copper that sheathed her hull. They transferred their plunder into several waiting ships and then headed up the beach in her direction.
One man forged ahead of the others as they marched. Every nerve in Rachael’s body thrummed with the awareness of danger as the leader drew close to her and the murky light edged out the shadows hiding his face.
Victor Brightmore stood no more than fifteen feet from her. Rachael ducked, feeling her heartbeat quicken as a flush of coldness flowed over her. Why hadn’t she listened to Wyatt and remained at the cottage?
“Well done,” he said, praising the group. “A rewarding evening, as befits my return after so long an absence.”
Rachael shuddered at the sound of his voice, feeling as if she could not draw air for breath as the assembled men raised their weapons in salute and cheered. Victor sheathed his sword then continued up the beach.
Rachael abandoned her position behind the boulder and scrambled toward the cottage path, keeping to the shadows. Ascending the steep path, her heart pounded in her ears, and her limbs quaked.
The briar and bramble clutched at her and Rachael stifled an anguished sob. What had Victor done with James? Was her uncle merely occupying his time until he could be certain she was out of the way, or had he put his diabolical plan into action?
She heard the sound of a scuffle at the foot of the path and pressed her fist to her mouth again to hold back a scream. Two or more men had stumbled upon the hidden walkway, and an altercation was underway. Rachael sought to distance herself from it, but stopped short when she heard her name.
“Rachael!” The caller hissed, low and urgent, as if he also feared discovery. “Rachael, stop!”
She half turned in the direction of the voice and stumbled and lost her footing, sliding backward in the bramble. Hearing the renewed sounds of a struggle, and the audible grunt of fist meeting flesh as one opponent felled the other, she chewed her lip and clawed her way up the incline, sensing with blunt terror that the winner had turned his attention her way.
Rachael screamed and instinctively fought to defend herself when she was seized from behind and spun around. She met her attacker in a blind frenzy, biting, clawing, and kicking.
The attacker stunned her with a controlled slap to her cheek and enveloped her thrashing limbs in a crushing embrace,
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