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Chapter Eight

19 April 1721

Early Morning

Strait of Dover

Branwen wrapped the borrowed cloak around her snugger as she shifted her gaze between the white cliffs of Dover, England on the starboard, and France to the vessel’s port side. A brilliantly clear morning, the sun caused the Strait of Dover, as Bryston had called the waterway, to twinkle and sparkle as The Dolphin sailed the last stretch of their journey to Le Havre, France.

Deep cobalt in the middle of the channel, the tapestry of waters became gradually lighter shades of blue nearer to the shore due to the chalky cliffs shedding into the coastline.

The ship moved as gracefully as any dancer, neatly dividing the sea, her snapping sails proud and full as she unerringly carried them forward.

A dozen men moved about the deck of the sleek schooner in what Branwen had come to recognize as their morning routine. Everything aboard The Dolphin bespoke discipline and order, and the men’s loyalty and devotion to their captain was commendable.

Surprisingly, for a group of former privateers, given the superstitions she’d heard about women being bad luck aboard a vessel, the sailors had accepted her presence with little more than a raised bristly eyebrow, a calloused hand scrubbed across a stubbly chin, or a furrowed craggy forehead.

Evidently, their confidence in Bryston made her company acceptable, even if she was female. She suspected, however, he’d also spoken to them that first night, and though she had no notion what he might’ve said, there hadn’t been a single uncomfortable incident.

No scowls, glowers, mutters, cold shoulders—nothing.

Abbie had mistakenly assumed she was Bryston’s woman. Perhaps his crew had as well.

In truth, she wasn’t positive how that inaccurate assumption made her feel. Part of her thrilled at being his, and another part was appalled that people could so readily believe them a couple.

Face raised, Branwen inhaled the tangy air and smiled as several fulmars, their black-tipped wings stiff and outstretched, glided gracefully through the air. The seabirds didn’t make a sound as they dove and swooped above the frolicking waves.

She loved this.

Adored the morning as the day began on the ship. Loved the spray on her face, the feel of the wind in her hair, which she’d left down and now fluttered about her shoulders and back. The sounds, the smells, admiring the sunrise and sunset from the poop deck—all of it.

Except for the lack of a bathtub.

There wasn’t one aboard the ship, and Branwen longed for a good soak and to scrub her salt-laden hair. The daily wash with warm water from a bucket was welcome but nowhere near as satisfying as a real bath.

Her tummy hadn’t rebelled at the unaccustomed rising and dipping of the ocean as she’d expected, either. It did contract, however, and a sick sensation flopped about her middle every time she pondered how Keane and Marjorie had reacted upon receiving Bryston’s letter. Likely Bethea didn’t know what had happened yet, and that was one small thing for which Branwen was grateful.

She’d ask to write to them as soon as they landed in France.

Nevertheless, she couldn’t help but fret that Keane and Marjorie worried about her wellbeing, and they needn’t do so.

Once safe from the raving lunatic chasing Bryston, she’d been treated with the utmost courtesy. And though she ought to be wary of the former buccaneer crew, she was not.

In fact, she quite liked the motley array of seamen with their tattoos and piercings, colorful language, lilting accents, and often bizarre attire. They were a rough, uncouth, burly lot, and while Branwen wasn’t naive enough to believe them harmless—for each wore multiple weapons upon his scarred person—they fascinated her.

Oh, the glorious tales and wondrous adventures they’d shared with her this past week. Such grand escapades to so many exotic and thrilling places and animals. Naturally, they didn’t share the seedier side of being reformed privateers, but the stories they’d woven created such a grand tapestry in her mind. She could almost see the fascinating places they described.

Zhao was Bryston’s first mate and the fourth son of a Chinese nobleman who’d fled home at sixteen before being forced into an arranged marriage. Next to Bryston, he was the most serious of the lot. Bayu, only marginally less somber, was a Sumatran. He told her of his home and a delightful myth about the Tiger People of the forest.

Jabir, a hulking giant of a man from Morocco, had beautiful nut-brown skin, a deep, lyrical voice, and a contagious laugh that boomed across the ocean. Scags—surely not his real name—a tall, rickle-a-bones Scot, was a genuinely gifted fiddler, and Connolly, the ship’s medical officer, was a bespeckled, scholarly man with perhaps more affection for rum than was wise.

They were a rough and coarse conglomeration of cast-offs, but together, seemed more of an irregular family of misfits than mere crewmembers. And that they were delighted their captain sailed with them on this journey was as evident as the black leather patch over Scags’ right eye.

They revered, respected, and, aye, loved their captain.

As Branwen had observed him this past week, she’d come to know a Bryston McPherson she’d never had the privilege of knowing on land. If any man was born to captain a ship, it was him. He held his men in real affection, and his laugh rang out frequently as he jested and joked with them.

More than once—fine, several times—she’d covertly watched him at the helm, legs splayed, broad shoulders back, and face forward as he marked the ship’s progress. The lines of tension eased around the corners of his handsome face, and a sparkle shone in the depths of his eyes that was missing when he was on land.