Samantha (Barrett 2)

A faint glint from the horizon prodded Sammy into scooping up the disheveled bundle of clothing she'd confiscated an hour ago from the washroom in the servants' quarters. The breeches and shirt, left hung to dry, were still a bit damp. But they were also small—obviously belonging to a slight man—and were therefore the only garments that came close to fitting her. So, damp or not, they would have to suffice.

Donning them rapidly, she went in search of the darkest pair of slippers she could find. To wear men's shoes would be absurd; she had miles to walk and refused to be hindered by ill-fitting footwear.

There. Done.

Last, she twisted her hair into a tight knot atop her head and yanked the cap she'd found—a gardener's cap, complete with mud and grass stains—over it, tugging the brim down almost to her eyes. She grinned at her reflection in the glass. All she needed was a shovel and shears and she could comfortably prune the hedges at Allonshire.

Sneaking out was infinitely easier than anticipated. But of course Aunt Gertie was deaf, the servants were sleeping, and Drake's perpetually protective eye was absent.

Drake.

Just the thought of her beloved brother being injured, or worse, made a lump form in her throat. No. She had to prevent it.

Purposefully, Sammy hastened down Abingdon Street and made her way to the Thames. She'd venture her two-mile journey to London's East End along the riverbank, safely away from the streets surrounding St. James . . . and the curious eyes of any last minute partygoers on their carriage rides home.

There was scarcely enough light to see, but she knew the route along the Thames almost as well as she knew the grounds of Allonshire. As a child, she'd spent countless hours following Drake to his ship, watching him depart, fervently wishing he wouldn't leave her behind.

Always he promised her he would return. And he kept his word—only to become restless and traverse the seas once more. Sammy hurt, not only for her own loneliness, but for the emptiness that drove Drake away, always searching, never finding.

Then, three years ago, everything changed. This time when Drake returned home he brought with him the most precious gift he'd ever given her, and himself. Alexandria.

Magically, Drake's restlessness vanished, replaced by an overwhelming joy and contentment that permeated Allonshire and made Drake whole.

Sammy intended to ensure he remained that way. The West End of London was predictably quiet, as the haul ton slept on, at least until noon. The faint sounds and smells of Covent Gardens drifted to her senses, strangely comforting, as they reminded her that others were up and about. Relief was short-lived, for the soothing sounds of the new day faded as Sammy hurried along the very dark, very deserted strand that led to London Bridge.

There, she rested, leaning her head against a wooden pier, wondering why her plan no longer seemed quite so brilliant as it had on the carriage ride home from Almack's. After all, if the Admiralty itself hadn't determined the cause of the ships' demises, what made her believe she could?

It was too late to turn back now. Just beyond that curve was London Dock. Perhaps the fates would smile down on her.

She approached

the wharf, slowing her step as she cautiously inched through the rows of warehouses, peeking around to watch the docks come to life.

Activity abounded, cargo being readied for boarding, cranes hoisting wooden crates onto waiting ships, workers calling out to each other as they scanned the skies to assess the day's sailing conditions. A normal daybreak at London Dock.

How precisely did one perceive an unusual occurrence? Sammy wondered, chewing her lip. Her heroines all seemed to possess innate instincts for sizing up danger. Why didn't she?

Evidently, she had to plunge right into the heart of things.

"Outta th'way, boy!" A craggy-faced sailor nearly knocked Sammy over, stifling her determined approach to the wharf. Giving her a thoroughly irritated look, he continued hauling his load to the pier's end. "If ye ain't workin', clear out! Ye're in th'way."

"Sorry," Sammy muttered in as deep a voice as she could muster. Pulling the cap lower on her face, she scampered off to find a more discreet spot to begin her covert observations. The warehouses afforded no access; the pier afforded no privacy.

Blend in. That's what she had to do.

Stooping over, Sammy retrieved an empty bottle of ale and a dried scrap of bread from the ground. Moving unsteadily about, she kept her full attention riveted on the bottle, periodically raising it to her lips for a fictitious swallow. Better, much better, she congratulated herself.

A scraggly dog slithered up to her and yanked her breeches with his teeth.

"No!" she hissed under her breath. She shook her leg free.

The dog sniffed her and barked.

Sammy was certain all eyes were upon her.

"Please," she whispered fiercely. "Go away."

The dog nipped at her foot and howled.