Free Scandal in Scotland by Karen Hawkins Page A

me. They just said they wanted it and I had to give it to them—”
    “So you’ll return the box to me?”
    She almost nodded, but the image of her young sisters’ hopeful faces rose before Marcail’s eyes. Her shoulders slumped under the weight of so many difficult decisions. “Damn it, it’s not that easy. I want to return it to you, but I can’t.”
    He yanked his arm free. “I don’t have the time to discuss this. Poston!” he yelled up to his groom.
    A second later, the man stood by the door. “Yes, Cap’n?”
    William jerked his head toward Marcail. “She is not to leave the coach. Do what you must to keep her here.”
    The man eyed her up and down and, apparently satisfied that she would be no challenge, nodded. “Yes, sir.”
    A huge boom shook the air, the ground shaking as the ship rocked violently and then shuddered. Marcail gasped as wood and flames shot into the air and then landed in the water, hissing like snakes.
    She couldn’t look away, unable to take it all in: the ship burning brightly, the people running to and from the dock, the thick smoke billowing toward the sky, the cacophony of noise.
    And William’s broad back disappearing into the milling crowd on the dock.
    Marcail turned toward Poston, her chest aching from the pounding of her own heart. “You must stop him!”
    The square man shook his head regretfully. “There’s no stoppin’ the cap’n. The Agile Witch is his ship. He’ll fight that fire with his bare hands if he has to.”
    Good God, he’s going onboard! He can’t do that; he could get killed!
    Marcail gathered her skirts and started to jump down from the coach, but Poston was too fast. He set her firmly back onto the seat and shut the door.
    “We have to stop him!” she cried. “If he goes onto the ship—”
    “He’ll be fine, miss.”
    “But it exploded . He could be in danger right now as we argue!”
    Poston turned to look at the ship, the flames roaring into the sky, his expression increasingly dark.
    A sail caught fire, making a distinctive whoosh as the flames raced across it. “No mere fire caused that,” she pointed out. “What if there’s another explosion while the captain’s aboard ship?”
    His jaw firmed. “Ye’re right, miss. I need to see to him.”
    “I’ll come with you—”
    “Ye’ll stay here, miss.” The coachman pulled down the shutter and latched it, blocking sight of the burning ship and the mayhem about it.
    “Poston, no!” In reply she heard the sound of something being drawn through the shutter handles. “What are you doing?”
    She grabbed the door handle and tugged, but it was firmly tied in place. Heart sinking, she lunged across the coach for the other door but he got there first.
    Desperate, she placed her hands on the window ledge. “You can’t—” The shutters came whizzing down and she yanked her fingers out of the way just as they banged into place, leaving her in total darkness. “Poston, please don’t—”
    “I’m off to see to the cap’n. Ye’ll be fine if ye stay quiet as a mouse.”
    “I won’t keep quiet!”
    “Then don’t be surprised if’n ye attract some attention ye don’t like. I don’t know the people hereabouts, and I’ll wager ye don’t know ’em, either.”
    Blast it! She doubled her hands into fists and banged upon the door. “You can’t leave me here! I demand that you—”
    “Good-bye, miss.” And with that, he was gone.

A letter from Michael Hurst to his brother William, from the deck of a cange as it set sail down the Nile .

    After two false starts and endless paperwork, we’re finally under way. You would be amazed by the bribery system here; it makes the thieves in Parliament look like amateurs. I must reluctantly admit that my intrepid assistant, Miss Smythe-Haughton, proved to be worth her weight in gold today. When the port authorities began to question our harmless cargo—digging tools, sifters, pickaxes, and such—her basilisk stare cowed them into