Marjorie began to tiptoe aft, praying the men were still shackled there. But the boy grunted and grabbed her arm. Again he nodded to the bow. Had Jack moved the prisoners?
Shrugging, she headed where he directed, thinking it just as well. Though she hated placing the guard at her back, it was probably best to put some distance between them.
Strange, hulking shapes loomed on deck, and she slunk along in their shadows, grateful for the general creaking of timber that concealed her approach. Finally, the sound of voices came to her from below. She slowed her step.
She recognized Jack's voice and scowled. He'd apparendy survived whatever damage Cormac had done to him.
And then she heard it. A word cut through the night, so peculiar and out of place, it stood out from the conversation. And yet it was absolutely familiar to her ears. Botanicals.
She swayed, catching herself before she collapsed. It was her uncle Humphrey speaking. Her heart began to kick again, her chest sore from the fitful pounding. Terrified, she edged closer.
More words filtered up to her, odd words. Soil… propagate… the cane…
They'd captured her uncle. The bailie had been at his house earlier. Had he taken him captive? But why? Surely not for his knowledge of gardening? She crept closer, keeping to the darkest areas in the center of the deck.
Jack's voice rang out again, posing sharp questions to the old man. Anger erupted in her like hot lava, searing all impulse away and then solidifying, leaving Marjorie's will hardened and nerves stilled. Humphrey was the only family member left to her — she wouldn't stand idly by as somebody harmed him. Hands fisted in her skirts, she strode to the forecastle.
But she halted abruptly. She'd be a fool to go any farther empty-handed. Her eyes skittered along the deck, making sense of details in the darkness. There were pulleys and poles, and a variety of wooden trunks — but nothing that would serve as a weapon. She eyed mysterious metal prongs and cleats, but they were all bolted down. There were also ropes, so many ropes, skeins of it all around. It draped overhead, lay coiled on deck, and dangled from the railing in heavy loops.
She remembered an intricate ship's model Humphrey had once constructed. Humphrey. Her heart clenched, and she willed herself to be brave for him. Her eyes went to the railing, and the wooden pins around which the rope was looped. Belaying pins, her uncle had told her. They rested like pegs in holes along the rail. Holding her breath, she grabbed one, jiggled, and pulled it free.
It was smooth and solid, the length of her forearm, like a rolling pin from the kitchen. Although she'd likely prove worthless at wielding the thing, it was sound enough for a weapon, and the heft of it gave her confidence.
Mindful of her step, she tiptoed to the forecastle entry, which was no more than a dark archway near the bow.
She ducked in, stopping on a shallow landing, where a ladder led down a narrow shaft to the deck below.
Men's voices echoed up to her, and she could clearly discern distinct words and speakers now. “Cormac MacAlpin,” a strange man growled. “Or is it Lord Brodie? Why are you here?” She drew in a sharp breath. Cormac?
Was he below? Why would he be with the smugglers? Was he a party to their misdeeds? But surely not — it was Cormac. She had to believe that, no matter what had come to pass, she knew him. She knew Cormac's goodness.
“The question is, why are you here?” Cormac retorted, his voice hostile and ragged.
Cormac. He was there. There was a tingling rush through her chest, like the blood returning to her veins. She'd never heard a sweeter sound than the angry words he'd just spoken.
She wasn't alone. Even now, he was there and trying to save Humphrey. Cormac had told her he wouldn't help her, yet there he was, doing his all for her and her family.
He'd lied to her when he said he wouldn't help. The blasted man had simply been trying to protect her.
Well, blast the blasted man, she'd help him. Tucking the wooden pin in her skirts, she squatted down, gingerly venturing onto the top rung of the ladder. She wasn't such a fool to think she could drop into a meeting of smugglers and kidnappers and save the day, so breathing as shallowly as she could, she carefully stepped down a few rungs and then waited, utterly still, listening to the drama unfold below. When the time was right, she'd offer Cormac whatever assistance she could.
“'Tis best not to ask why. The MacAlpin is an unexpected boon, but a welcome one. ” Jack was laughing, and from the sound of it, he stood just by the base of the ladder. Marjorie wanted to spit down at him. “Yet another strapping man to add to the cargo. ”
A sharp ache cut like glass in her throat. They were discussing the prisoners, and it seemed Cormac was now one of them.
The ship lurched. “Heaven help us,” she breathed, gripping the rungs.
Footsteps pounded like erratic drumbeats overhead. She stepped down another couple of rungs, hunched so as not to be seen from above or below.
Someone shouted an order, and it was shouted again, repeated over and over, in a cascade down the deck, until it diminished from hearing. There was another lurch, and the sound of clanging and snapping.
They were leaving the dock. She clenched the ladder so tighdy the blood left her fingers.
She was in it now. But she was in it with Cormac. Her breathing grew gradually more measured. She had faith that somehow, together, they'd set all to rights.
“What's the meaning of this?” Humphrey shouted.
“Easy, old man,” Jack said. “I told the men if I dallied here too long, to get us under way. Looks as though you'll have a chance to demonstrate your vast expertise in situ — isn't that what you'd called it, you pompous blow-hard? What say you, Aidan?” The familiar name added to the frantic alarm already trilling in the back of Marjorie's mind. “You spent years in the Indies. Shall we give these louts a taste of plantation life?”