Free The Queen's Exiles by Barbara Kyle Page A

working alongside Thornleigh at trimming the sails and handling the tacks. In the freshening breeze they had made the Odette fairly fly, her bow wave singing under her foredeck, a rainbow sparkling in its mist. On land, the difference in rank between her and Thornleigh was as wide as an ocean, but on the boat they were equals.
    Sailing up-Channel they had bisected the shipping roads and passed ships flying the flags of Spain, France, England, Scotland, Norway, Sweden. Big galleons, carracks, caravels, and bilanders, smaller cogs and yawls and pinnaces—none paid attention to the little fishing smack, unaware that the notorious English “pirate baron” was at her helm. Still, when the Odette passed astern of a big twenty-gun Spanish carrack Fenella kept an anxious eye on the carrack until her flags dropped below the horizon.
    Fenella and Thornleigh took turns at the night watches, Johan asleep in the cabin, and their final night was one that she would never forget. She had come up from the cabin, rubbing sleep from her eyes, ready to relieve Thornleigh at the helm. The night was clear, with a fresh breeze, the sea sheened with moonlight, the air unusually warm for spring in the North Sea, almost sultry. Thornleigh greeted her with a faint smile. “We’ll make landfall before sunrise.”
    “At Vlissingen,” she said, returning the smile, though she wished the voyage with him would never end. From Vlissingen at the mouth of the Scheldt estuary it was only a short sail into Antwerp.
    She sat down beside him in the peaceful hush, taking in the conditions of sea and sail to be ready to helm the boat, her senses alive to the murmur of the bow wave and the salt-tanged air. That’s when it happened. Thornleigh had spoken his heart to her. Maybe it was because of the hours he’d spent alone in the soul-soothing darkness, or maybe it was the bond they had forged after three days of working together, being at one with their vessel. Whatever was prompting him to confide in her, she drank in his words, sitting next to him under the vault of stars and scarcely moving a muscle lest it break the spell. His manner was as calm as the night, his voice low, his gaze ranging over the sails with an unconscious expertise that matched his relaxed hand on the helm. But an edge in his voice belied his outward calm.
    “My children, that’s what I’m going for. I know you’ve wondered.” He glanced at her, then back up at the sail. “My wife left England with them three years ago, our son and daughter. Took them away in secret.”
    Fenella’s breath caught. His wife had stolen his children? How cold his voice was when he spoke of her. And no wonder. It sent a thrill through Fenella: He does not love his wife . But how had such a breach in his marriage come to pass? How could any woman leave such a fine man? She longed to ask, but something told her to be still. He would say only what he wanted to say. She murmured, “How awful. You must sorely miss them.”
    “I tracked her first to Ireland, then lost the scent. I’ve had agents scouring Europe ever since.” He eased the helm to starboard in a gust. “Two months ago one reported seeing her. Seems she was in Spain for a time, then moved north.”
    Fenella guessed the rest. “To Brussels.” The capital, a day’s ride from Antwerp. He nodded grimly. It gave Fenella a chill. Brussels was the Duke of Alba’s seat—Alba, who had set a price on Thornleigh’s head. How did Thornleigh dare enter a city so perilous for him? But he knew the dangers. In the silence, the waves murmured past the hull. “Are they safe?” she asked. “Your children?”
    “I pray God they are.” His eyes were on the luff of the sail. “Frances may have the black heart of a traitor, but she would not harm the children.”
    “Traitor?” Astounded, Fenella could not squelch her curiosity. “What did she do?”
    “Conspired to assassinate the Queen. In our own house. Frances and her cursed brother, may he