Thump!
Morty cried out. “What is happening?” The pale woman gasped as the handle on the bulkhead door joggled. “Are we in danger?”
Constance’s anxiety increased as the would-be intruder began pounding on the sturdy cabin door. Thankfully, the bolt she’d placed over it during the night was holding fast. With a racing heart, she pushed against the hull for purchase when another loud explosion boomed overhead.
She took as deep a breath as her lungs would allow. Her uncle, Lord Simon Danbury, had assured her that merchant vessels were not typically targeted at sea, but it was possible that a French ship had gone rogue. Napoleon had recently proclaimed himself Emperor of France, and he’d enlisted the help of pirates to pillage foreign ships near its shores. France and Spain were allies now, too, making her journey to Spain even more treacherous. Of course, her uncle had informed her about this before she’d boarded the Octavia, but if Napoleon was sponsoring piracy . . .
Her chin quivered. She and Morty could be in mortal danger. The French were crueler than the Spaniards!
Please, God, spare us . . .
The Octavia had passed Quiberon and was headed deep into the heart of the Bay of Biscay. Corsairs plied their trade from Saint-Malo, to Cadiz, to Tripoli, so it was anybody’s guess when and where—and if—they would strike. But when they did, the poor souls aboard the unfortunate vessel were oftentimes ransomed for exorbitant sums, sold into slavery on the Barbary Coast, or worse.
Thump! Thump!
“Lady Constance!” Lieutenant Henry Guffald’s passionate shout filled her with dread. In the five days they’d been at sea, the lieutenant had never once sought to rouse them from their slumber. Something was terribly wrong.
Constance sat up and cast off her wool blanket, her legs shaking as her feet hit the deck. She had to find out what was going on, no matter the impropriety or the hour.
“Nay, Constance,” Morty said, reaching out to stop her. “You are not properly dressed.”
Constance looked down at her night rail and grimaced. Morty was right. She grabbed her robe, shoved her arms through the sleeves, and laced it at the neck just as another explosion rocked the vessel. Constance was thrown into the washstand. The porcelain bowl clanged to the ground, smashing into pieces, and the blow left a paralyzing sting against her mouth and jaw. She tasted blood and tested her teeth with her tongue; thankfully, they were still sound.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Dabbing her mouth with her fingers, she lunged for the door and lifted the bolt.
Lieutenant Guffald swept through the portal, pushing his way past her until he was inside the cabin. “Lady Constance! Pirates have drawn alongside us and plan to board.”
“Pirates?” The barely audible word rushed out of her mouth. Her horrifying nightmare had become reality.
“Yes,” he confirmed. “I fear the situation is grim. I have come to warn the two of you.” The lieutenant flicked a glance about the small cabin. “Stay here. Bolt the door, and admit no one until I return.”
Constance opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.
Lieutenant Guffald dragged his attention away from Constance and addressed Morty. “Mrs. Mortimer, I beg you, make sure no one enters this room but me.”
Morty nodded vigorously. “We will do as you say, sir.”
Another explosion rent the air, and the Octavia listed to port. Morty screamed, and Constance lost her balance. Lieutenant Guffald wrapped his arms about Constance to keep her from slipping to the floor. When the vessel stabilized, he immediately unhanded her and said, “I must go.”
Dazed and slightly unnerved by the accidental intimacy, Constance nodded. “Thank you, Lieutenant—” she paused “—for coming to warn us.”
“Aye,” Morty agreed. “You are most kind.”
Lieutenant Guffald’s lip curled to one side, and an odd light illuminated his cerulean-blue eyes from within as his gaze settled on Constance. “Do not leave this cabin.” He reached for her, squeezing her shoulders with his long, lean fingers. When he released her, he swept those fingers down to clasp her hand and brought it to his lips before retreating to the door. He turned and held her gaze longer than necessary. “I will return for you both.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Constance said, wondering if they would ever see him again. “Godspeed.”
The cabin door closed with finality, sealing them in, and the scraping of the bolt as Morty helped Constance put it in place stripped her fraught nerves. Cannon explosions deafened her ears, and she fought hard to quell her rising panic. The ship’s timbers vibrated. Something hollow seemed to collide with the hull. Voices of berserkers rose in the night. Footsteps pounded above their heads; gunshots, sharp orders, and screams rang out. Constance held Morty close as the sounds of murder and mayhem multiplied, filling her imagination with horror.
Morty shivered and then pulled away. “Quickly, Constance. You must change into your clothes!”
“We are under attack, Morty, yet all you can think about is—”
The Octavia heaved again. Her timber objected, and a combination of sulfur and other indelicate odors penetrated her nostrils. Good heavens, what if the ship caught fire?
Constance snatched at Morty’s arms, fighting back the terror coursing through her as her memories vied for control: Hiding behind her mother’s skirts. Pirates cackling. Her mother begging. The gentle voice that had soothed all Constance’s childish woes pleading—no, arguing—for the life of her child . . .
“No!” she cried, letting go of Morty. She grasped her head, willing the nightmarish memories to fade.
What if they killed Morty? Constance couldn’t watch another woman she loved die, especially not because of her.
Constance studied the bolt barring the cabin door, knowing the wood wouldn’t hold for long. If the men meant to break down the bulkhead, they would. That door was also their one and only escape from the cabin. She grabbed a handful of her hair and tried to calm her mind as men screamed out in anger or agony, she knew not which.
What was happening? Were the crew being slaughtered, or were they successfully fighting off the horde? In either case, nothing good could come from it. She had to find a way to get them out of this alive, for Morty’s sake and for Papa’s. She would fight, just as her mother had, and if these attackers were corsairs, perhaps she could persuade them to ransom the two of them, just as her mother had tried to do for herself and Constance.
Her shoulders sagged in defeat. What difference would that make? Papa couldn’t provide the funds. Aunt Lydia had the means, but Constance had no way to know if her letter even had reached her aunt, let alone if she would agree to help Papa.
“You must dress, Constance,” Morty insisted once more, holding up a gown.
“This is no time for vanity,” Constance said. “We need a weapon.”
Morty began weeping. “Do you intend to make it easy for them to ravage you?”
“Zounds!” Constance stiffened and cut a worried glance at Morty. It was up to Constance to be the voice of reason now.
“We will not be ravaged, not if I have anything to do with it. Come. Fear cripples the mind and prevents a person from making sound decisions. We must prepare. Help me find a something we can use to protect ourselves.” Her heart beat loudly in her ears. Her chest felt as if it were full of gunpowder and one breath would ignite a spark, making it explode. If they died, they wouldn’t reach Spain. If they didn’t reach Spain, she couldn’t help Papa. If she couldn’t help Papa—
“We do not have any weapons,” Morty said. “Oh, what’s to become of us?”
Constance stopped rummaging through a tapestry bag and glanced up. “I do not know. But if we do not make it to Spain, I fear what will become of him.”
Morty sniveled as she dazedly glanced around the cabin, clutching the gown to her breast. “Who, child?”
“Papa, of course!”
“The lieutenant said he would not allow any harm to come to us. We must
believe him.” Morty wasn’t a good liar. “As long as you are still alive, you will find a way to help your father. I know what you’re capable of, Constance. If a way can be found, you will find it, and I will be beside you when you do.”
The four walls of the cabin felt oppressive, as if they were closing in on them, making it harder and harder for Constance to breathe. “Do you think I’m being punished for trying to prevent my marriage to Lord Burton?”
“Punished? Fate does not rule in weights and balances,” Morty scolded. Casting aside the gown, she lifted a green pelisse off the deck. “Here. Put this on. If you will not allow me to help you with a gown, this will brace the chill and provide some degree of modesty at least.” She held out the long coat.
Constance peered at the beams overhead as an eerie silence fell. Trembling, she began to thread one of her arms through one of the sleeves. Had Lieutenant Guffald and Captain Collins won?
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