sunshine and fresh air if you want to mend yourself proper.”
Phoebe didn’t protest that she wasn’t in need of mending, because she wasn’t entirely sure, given all that had happened to her since the night before. Besides, she felt a deep and elemental craving for the sea and the sky and the tropical breezes that roared and whispered between the two. She rose slowly, her gaze locked with Duncan’s for a long moment. Then, conquered in some subliminal and utterly delicious way, she lowered her eyes and turned to follow Old Woman out of the room.
After the women had gone, Duncan gathered up Phoebe’s uncanny possessions, one at a time, and tucked them back into the bag. All except for the likeness she had called a “photograph,” that is—he kept that, gazing into the masculine face and wondering if this was the man Phoebe loved.
In the deeper regions of his mind, of course, he was considering the evidence he’d seen with his own eyes, touched with his own fingers. He wanted to believe Phoebe’s story, despite the unsettling prediction of a war between the colonies themselves, because it meant the Continental Army would prevail. Despite the terrible odds, the deprivations, betrayals, and disappointments.
Tucking Phoebe’s bag into a deep drawer in his desk, Duncan turned and resolutely left the room. That night, he and Alex would ride to the opposite side of the island, where a watch was posted, in case the long-awaited signal of a ship’s approach should come from that direction. The vessel in question, christened the
India Queen
, was rumored to be all but sinking with the weight of its cargo: gunpowder, barrels of the stuff, along with crates of muskets and balls. General George Washington’s militia was in dire need of all the munitions that could be begged, borrowed, or stolen.
Now, there were plans to be laid. The British ship would, without question, be well defended, her course set for Boston Harbor. The task of intercepting the vessel and confiscating the weaponry required flawless timing, and the slightest mistake might well result in disaster for Duncan and every member of his crew. According to his information, the man at the helm of the
India Queen
was a seasoned captain, with an understanding of the sea and its ways that seemed imprinted on his spirit like some unseen tattoo. To get the better of such an adversary was not easy.
Duncan descended the main staircase and left the house by a side door, looking neither to left nor right but straight ahead, lest his gaze fall by accident on Mistress Turlow, who was surely somewhere nearby. He did not wish to be distracted from the business at hand—securing arms for General Washington’s army.
He walked through the gardens, lushly scented and flamboyant with color, even after the ravages of the recent storm, past Italian statues and marble ponds and elaborately carved stone benches. Van Ruben, the Dutch merchant and planter, had come to this island seeking solitude, but he had brought the beauty of the Old World with him, to savor in private moments.
Duncan passed through an opening in a hedge taller than he was, and descended a steep, pebble-strewn path snaking down the verdant hillside to the beach. The cove where his ship rode at anchor was down the shore, fairly wreathed by trees and foliage.
He was pleased to see members of his crew on deck,preparing the vessel for a swift journey. Apparently, he thought, he wasn’t the only one who expected the signal; Alex, as first mate, had already given orders that the
Francesca
was to be made ready for a voyage.
Seeing their captain standing on the beach, two of the men lowered a skiff to the water, fully rigged, and one climbed down a rope ladder to take up the oars.
Duncan waded out into the cove without troubling to remove his boots—they were of sturdy leather, after all, and expected to hold up under hard use. When the small boat drew near enough, he climbed deftly aboard, barely rocking her
Phoebe didn’t protest that she wasn’t in need of mending, because she wasn’t entirely sure, given all that had happened to her since the night before. Besides, she felt a deep and elemental craving for the sea and the sky and the tropical breezes that roared and whispered between the two. She rose slowly, her gaze locked with Duncan’s for a long moment. Then, conquered in some subliminal and utterly delicious way, she lowered her eyes and turned to follow Old Woman out of the room.
After the women had gone, Duncan gathered up Phoebe’s uncanny possessions, one at a time, and tucked them back into the bag. All except for the likeness she had called a “photograph,” that is—he kept that, gazing into the masculine face and wondering if this was the man Phoebe loved.
In the deeper regions of his mind, of course, he was considering the evidence he’d seen with his own eyes, touched with his own fingers. He wanted to believe Phoebe’s story, despite the unsettling prediction of a war between the colonies themselves, because it meant the Continental Army would prevail. Despite the terrible odds, the deprivations, betrayals, and disappointments.
Tucking Phoebe’s bag into a deep drawer in his desk, Duncan turned and resolutely left the room. That night, he and Alex would ride to the opposite side of the island, where a watch was posted, in case the long-awaited signal of a ship’s approach should come from that direction. The vessel in question, christened the
India Queen
, was rumored to be all but sinking with the weight of its cargo: gunpowder, barrels of the stuff, along with crates of muskets and balls. General George Washington’s militia was in dire need of all the munitions that could be begged, borrowed, or stolen.
Now, there were plans to be laid. The British ship would, without question, be well defended, her course set for Boston Harbor. The task of intercepting the vessel and confiscating the weaponry required flawless timing, and the slightest mistake might well result in disaster for Duncan and every member of his crew. According to his information, the man at the helm of the
India Queen
was a seasoned captain, with an understanding of the sea and its ways that seemed imprinted on his spirit like some unseen tattoo. To get the better of such an adversary was not easy.
Duncan descended the main staircase and left the house by a side door, looking neither to left nor right but straight ahead, lest his gaze fall by accident on Mistress Turlow, who was surely somewhere nearby. He did not wish to be distracted from the business at hand—securing arms for General Washington’s army.
He walked through the gardens, lushly scented and flamboyant with color, even after the ravages of the recent storm, past Italian statues and marble ponds and elaborately carved stone benches. Van Ruben, the Dutch merchant and planter, had come to this island seeking solitude, but he had brought the beauty of the Old World with him, to savor in private moments.
Duncan passed through an opening in a hedge taller than he was, and descended a steep, pebble-strewn path snaking down the verdant hillside to the beach. The cove where his ship rode at anchor was down the shore, fairly wreathed by trees and foliage.
He was pleased to see members of his crew on deck,preparing the vessel for a swift journey. Apparently, he thought, he wasn’t the only one who expected the signal; Alex, as first mate, had already given orders that the
Francesca
was to be made ready for a voyage.
Seeing their captain standing on the beach, two of the men lowered a skiff to the water, fully rigged, and one climbed down a rope ladder to take up the oars.
Duncan waded out into the cove without troubling to remove his boots—they were of sturdy leather, after all, and expected to hold up under hard use. When the small boat drew near enough, he climbed deftly aboard, barely rocking her
Similar Books
