by Aileen Adams
And it had worked. For four nauseating days full of the rising and falling of the ship as it crossed the sea. Days full of the smell of her own waste as it collected in another corner of the hold, where she would venture only to relieve herself before scurrying back to her hiding place like the rats who called the ship home.
More than once, she’d asked herself what she thought she was doing. How insane, thinking she could survive on a ship. With only the few bits of food she’d managed to purchase from a market stall in the harbor to keep her alive. Hunger had gnawed at her by the end of the third day and became nearly unbearable by the start of the fourth.
That was just this morning.
Perhaps it was for the best that her journey had come to an early finish.
So long as she managed to get away from the angry, jeering sailors. Considering the grip they both had on her arms, the odds did not appear to be in her favor.
A crowd had begun to gather, all of them thinking it amusing that a young woman dressed in boy’s clothing had been captured.
Margery’s cheeks burned hot enough to hurt, feeling their eyes on her as their laughter assaulted her ears. Tears pricked behind her eyes, stinging, but she didn’t dare allow them to fall. It would be the height of humiliation.
“What’d ya think you were doin’ there, lass?” One of the leering, stinking sailors leaned in closer, the stench of his breath making her nose wrinkle without her thinking about it.
She didn’t wish to offend him, especially since her life was in his hands, but she couldn’t help it. He was repulsive.
And it seemed as though he wanted an explanation.
“I—I wanted to get to the Thames River,” she explained, her voice shaking. “I want to get to London.”
“London?” He blinked, his face going slack.
A moment later, he broke out in hysterical laughter which turned into a fit of coughing. The other sailors, the one holding her other arm and the one behind her, joined in.
“What?” she asked, looking this way and that. The only person not in on the joke, her heart sinking fast with every passing second.
“Lass, this ship isn’t going to London,” the first of them to stop laughing explained, wiping tears of mirth from his cheeks, where they cut a path through the dirt caked on his skin. “It departed from Silloth and traveled north, around the northernmost tip of Scotland. You wanted to go south.”
“I…” Her voice seemed to disappear as the weight of the truth settled on her chest, nearly crushing her. She was in Scotland. No longer even in England. “Where am I now?”
“Kirkcaldy,” one of them announced. “Just about as far from London as one could hope to get, I’d expect.”
Another chorus of laughter, jibes, and general nastiness. Her soul shrank, just as she wanted to shrink and curl into a ball and fade into nothingness. They were laughing at her. They thought she was a fool.
Perhaps she was.
No, you’re not. It was Beatrice’s voice in her head, strong and clear. You’re brave and resourceful. You made it this far. They’re only angry with themselves for not having noticed you before now. They want to know how a silly little girl made a fool out of them. Don’t allow them to hurt you.
Her spine straightened, her chin rising in defiance. “Take your hands off me. All of you.” Her voice was as strong and loud as it would be if she weren’t afraid at all.
It was enough to silence them, at least, the three sailors gaping at her in surprise.
The crowd had begun to thin, too, the novelty having worn off. Only a few villagers remained. One of them—a tall, broad-shouldered man with thick arms crossed over an equally thick chest—watched with keen interest.
No matter how strong her voice sounded, however, it wasn’t enough.
The grip on her arms tightened painfully, one of the sailors pulling her to him until her body was flat against his.
She tried to recoil, to push herself away from him, but another of them pressed himself to her back until she was trapped between the pair. It was enough to make her skin crawl, their stench choking her.
“Enough of this!” The voice was as sharp as the crack of a whip, and all involved turned to the source.
Much to Margery’s surprise, it came from the same thick-armed man.
Even with space between them, it was clear that his eyes burned with rage as he watched what unfolded before him.
It was enough to send a shiver through her, in spite of the disgusting position she found herself in. She could almost forget her repulsion.
“Who do you think you are?”
Her left arm was mercifully released, numb from the rough treatment, and hanging useless at her side, as one of her captors approached the much-larger man.
“Hugh McInnis, owner of McInnis Shipping. Extremely well-acquainted with nearly every shipping company in England, Scotland, and France.” Large, strong hands moved to his hips, framing his trim waist. “Do you enjoy being employed? If not, I’m certain that something could be done to remedy your situation.” His sharp, fiery eyes shifted in the direction of the other sailors. “All of your situations.”
Just like that, Margery was free. She nearly sank to the wood planks of the dock on which she stood, she was so weak with hunger and relief. It had been a very long journey, indeed.
The sailors cast doleful looks her way, cursing and spitting near their feet before returning to the ship.
She would gladly never see them again. Or smell them. The strong, nauseating odor seemed to hang all around her even after they were nowhere near and the breeze coming from the sea swept over her.
The makeshift pack she’d been carrying since leaving home was lying near her feet, and she bent to retrieve it. On standing, a wave of dizziness nearly overtook her, and she felt herself swooning. The noisy activity all along the harbor went silent in her head as darkness began to overtake her.
Suddenly, she was suspended above the dock, never touching the rough wooden planks though her legs were no longer beneath her.
She forced her eyes open, the lids fluttering, and found herself looking into eyes which no longer burned, but were just as brilliant as they stared into hers.
The arms which had been crossed over his broad chest were around her, her body pressed to his unyielding muscles.
The man who had saved her was saving her again.
4
Perhaps it was the memory of what he’d seen before. The lass from the ship whose name he’d never learned, who had lived merely one day past the day they’d met before her nearly lifeless form disappeared over the ship’s railing. Never to be seen again.
He told himself this wasn’t the same girl. This one had fire and spirit, had lifted her head and all but bared her teeth at her captors. She had the nerve to stow away aboard a ship, even if it was the wrong ship entirely.
That might not have been nerve, however. It might have been plain stupidity.
Her body was warm and soft in his hands, almost welcoming. So easy to press her to him, so pliable. Another few seconds and he might begin to entertain thoughts which weren’t entirely devoted to the lass’s welfare.
Her eyes opened, searching his. A bright, frank blue which reminded him of the sea on a clear day. They brought him to his senses.
“Are you all right, lass?” He helped her straighten up, careful not to entirely release her until he was certain she could stay on her feet. She bent slightly, hands on her knees. The long, flaxen braid she’d tucked into her tunic fell from inside and hung over her shoulder.
“I’ll be all right now, thank you,” she murmured, sounding markedly less determined than she did when she was being so roughly handled.
It had all been an act, naturally. The poor thing had been more frightened than a rabbit in a snare—and in just as much danger, whether she’d known it or not.
Broc caught his eye, watching the scene from several feet away. His expression was unreadable. What did he think of this development?
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Derek turned his attention back to the girl, who was taking great gulps of air as if to clear her head. “You’re safe from them now,” he offered.
“Thanks to you.” She offered him a weak smile.
“Do you…” He was at a loss. It seemed unthinkable to leave her alone, vulnerable. She weighed less than nothing and looked as though she hadn’t enjoyed a proper meal in a fortnight. Her skin was sickly pale, her breathing heavier than it should’ve been considering she wasn’t stressing herself in any way. “Do you know where you’re going now?”
Her teeth sank into her lower lip. Even teeth, all present, clean enough. She was well cared for prior to stowing away. Not a homeless wretch. Well-spoken, too. Learned. Not a gentlewoman perhaps, but a step above poverty.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. Was it his imagination, or did her chin quiver ever so slightly when she admitted this? “I didn’t intend to disembark in…”
“Kirkcaldy,” he confirmed. “The lowlands of Scotland.”
“Do you…” She pressed her lips together in a show of utter dismay. “Do you know how far I am from London?” She sounded like a lost child, terrified to the point of tears.
He shook his head, sorrowful. “Quite far, however. That much, I can tell you with certainty. At least the better part of another week over the sea.”
“And much, much longer over land,” she murmured, staring off into the distance as though considering making the trip.
He was beginning to wonder whether she was touched in the head. Who would consider such an outlandish journey? A woman, traveling alone to boot?
“Indeed. Months, perhaps.”
Her face fell. “I was afraid of that.”
“Why is this of such importance to you?” It was a rude question, without a doubt, but one he couldn’t help asking nonetheless.
She seemed determined enough, recklessly so. She had to have a strong motive for putting herself in such danger.
“I have my reasons,” she assured him, tucking her gray tunic more firmly under the length of rope cinched tight about her waist. She wore stockings beneath that, with leather sewn to the soles which took the place of shoes. Reaching into her pack, lumpy with an assortment of goods, she withdrew a hat which she jammed firmly onto her head.
As though that would hide her being a woman. Did she think she had anyone fooled? Her shapely legs were a giveaway under their dark hose, and even a bulky tunic many sizes too large for her couldn’t hide the curves of her bosom and hips.
She actually believed she could go about her journey, disguised convincingly, and survive. If it wasn’t all so dire, he might have laughed.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, stepping in front of her before he could stop himself.
What was he thinking, getting in the girl’s way? What business was it of his?
Broc snickered under his breath—but not silently enough to escape Derek’s hearing.
“I’m going to do what I need to do. Whatever that is.” She looked up at him, her jaw set firm. “Unless you can help me in some way, I suggest you step aside now.”
“But…”
Her expression softened, and she sighed. “Forgive me, sir. You were of great service to me earlier, and I owe you my freedom.”
She owed him much more than that, but it was likely better for her if she didn’t know the particulars of what a band of sailors could do to an innocent young woman.
“However,” she continued, “I feel it is best that we part ways at this time. I’m certain you have duties of your own, as do I. I will not require your assistance any longer.”
His mouth fell open at her formal turn of phrase—and before he knew it, a barking laugh escaped his throat.
She drew herself up to her full height, lips pressed tightly together until they all but disappeared. “Do not laugh at me.” For such a small thing, she could lash out with her sharp tongue. “There is nothing amusing here. I have to find a way to exist, which I hardly consider a laughing matter.”
“My apologies, lass,” he offered, his hands held up with palms facing out. “I meant no insult, I assure you. I was taken aback by the way you have of expressing yourself, is all. It isn’t often a man is treated to such politeness. Especially a man accustomed to rather hard living.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the ships in the harbor.
“Oh. I see.” She fell back, only slightly. As though she was unsure whether or not to believe him.
He turned his attention to the rows of buildings which lined the other side of the road abutting the docks. There sat the tavern in which he’d enjoyed refreshment less than an hour earlier. His mind was made up.
“At least allow me to ensure you have a hot meal before we part ways,” he offered. “You look as though you could use one.”
She was sorely tempted, it was clear. He wondered how much money she could possibly carry on her person—considering how naïve she appeared, it seemed unlikely that she’d brought nearly enough to sustain herself.
Something about her captivated him. Why was she traveling alone, and under such circumstances? Why would she take such a risk? How did she intend to live until she reached her destination? Why London, of all places?
Who did she belong to, and why would they let her go on such a foolhardy journey?
Broc approached, standing by his elbow. “If I may…”
“Yes?” Derek asked, turning his head slightly.
“I thought we were going to find lodging for the night. Rest a bit before deciding what to do next.”
Derek held back a sigh, knowing his first mate was right. The girl was none of his concern. If only he wasn’t so certain that she would get herself killed before the day was out, he’d leave her to her own devices and go about his life.
“I highly doubt every room in the village will be filled during the short amount of time we’ll spend in the tavern,” he decided.
Broc went silent, his face falling once again into unreadable lines.
He turned to the girl, pointing across the road. “Come. We’ll go to the tavern. Hardly the sort of place a lady would normally choose to seek refreshment, but there aren’t many choices—and anyhow, you’re pretending to be a lad. Right?” He couldn’t help having a bit of fun with her.
Her eyes narrowed, as though she were carefully considering whether to lash out at him. Her better judgment won out, and she composed her face into normal lines. “You don’t have to do this. You’ve already done more than enough.”
“I insist. I went to a lot of trouble, getting you away from those three, and I don’t intend to allow you to starve to death now.”
She looked reluctant, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Which would win out? Her hunger or her considerable pride? He’d battled both within himself over the years and knew which of the two was inevitably the stronger, so it was no surprise when his new charge slung the pack over her shoulder and followed him and Broc.
“Do you have a name?” he called over his shoulder.
“I do.”
Broc chuckled at her reply.
Derek merely gritted his teeth and asked, “What would it be, then?”
“Margery.”
He knew he wasn’t imagining the saucy edge to her voice, as though she were teasing.
5
It would be a relief to sit in front of a fire again. A relief and a blessing. Margery offered silent thanks for this turn of events, confusing though they were.
Who was this dark-haired man who seemed to determined to protect her? And what would he expect in return? She had little money to offer, though she would gladly offer some in return for his valor. Would that be enough?
She had no experience with men, absolutely none. The only men she’d ever known in-person were the village deacon and old Cedric Miller, whose grain mill was the closest building to the farm on which she’d grown up.
Otherwise, there were passing acquaintances with merchants, farmers from whom she
’d purchased anything unavailable on the farm, and of course, fellow members of her parish who would undoubtedly think her daft for taking the chances she’d taken to this point.
That was it. The entire extent of her life, summed up neatly.
Depressingly so.
All she had were the stories and warnings of her mother, a woman who hadn’t risen from bed of her own volition in more than a decade before death had finally come, granting her the mercy she’d prayed for most fervently.
In the deepest corner of her heart, Margery knew she’d prayed for the same thing: for death to finally take her suffering mother.
She would never admit that to another living soul. Not even her sister, with whom she normally shared everything.
This village was unlike anything she’d ever seen before. Even Thrushwood on Market Day was nothing compared to the amount of activity she saw and heard on the short walk to the tavern alone.
Several men hurried past, bumping into her hard enough to nearly spin her in a circle. They kept going, unaware or uncaring—she wasn’t certain which. An old woman wheeled a chart in which she’d loaded apples and onions, struggling to keep the wheel within the ruts already driven into the drying mud.
A group of dirty, barefoot young boys ran past, three of them distracting her while another three grabbed for as many prizes from the cart as they could. She cursed them, called them wicked little devils as they fled.
“Watch out!” The tall man took her by the arm and pulled her to him, causing her to almost bounce off his unforgiving body.
Before she had the chance to cry out in anger, a bucket of slop was emptied out the window in front of which she had been standing only moments earlier, its carrier paying no attention to whom or what their waste might hit.
“Thank you again,” Margery gasped as she stepped away from him, nearly vomiting at the thought of what may have splashed all over her if it weren’t for him.
