Chapter Seventeen #3
She snorted and followed Josephine out to the main deck, rain slashing against her face.
The wind had followed them to Mobile like a shadow that would not relent.
Even in the relative shelter of the harbor, the Siren pitched at her moorings.
Samantha’s crew worked with grim determination, securing lines and checking sails.
She startled when Samantha dropped from the rigging above with a thud. Soaked to the bone, hair plastered to her face, and hat long gone, she looked every bit the pirate she claimed to be. Tension tightened in Abigail’s chest. “Will you be safe out here?”
Her friend hugged her. “Don’t worry, the Siren is sound. She’ll weather the storm just fine.”
Mr. Moreau strode over, water dripping down his face. “We need to hurry, before the surge gets worse.” His hand found her elbow, and together they crossed to the rail. Below, the longboat tossed and rolled in the churning current, waiting like a restless animal.
“I’ll go first.” Mr. Moreau swung himself over the rail, muscles taut, and began his careful descent down the swaying ladder.
With a deep breath, she followed. Panic flared, but she gritted her teeth, and forced herself to steady before continuing. Halfway down, the wind shifted, sending the ladder swaying. Her grip faltered, and she slid, fingers scrabbling against the wet rope.
“Careful.” Firm hands closed around her waist, the touch sending a shiver through her. He guided her down, rung by rung, until her feet hit the slick wooden deck. His hands lingered for a heartbeat, bracing her, and his voice dropped low in her ear. “Easy now.”
She swallowed, heart hammering, as he settled her in the center of the boat, holding it steady while a group of his men joined them.
They seized the oars and began rowing against the surging current.
A wave splashed over the bow, drenching her.
Her teeth clenched against the cold, and she gripped her bench as the longboat lurched through the swells.
By the time they reached the dock, water streamed from her hair, drenching her face and soaking through the folds of her skirts, and her shoes squelched with every step on the thick planks.
They pressed through the driving rain into town.
Between the buildings, the gusts eased, and she let out a shuddering breath.
Here, at least, the wind no longer threatened to throw her off her feet.
“There’s an inn farther back.” Mr. Moreau had to shout above the gust howling along the street. “It sits higher up than those by the water. It should be the safest spot for us to ride out the storm. Many times, it’s the flooding that’s more dangerous than the wind.”
They slogged up the street, waterlogged and shivering, toward a low building with a wooden sign swinging above the door.
The door closed with a solid thump behind them, shutting out the wind and rain.
Warmth hit her like a balm, carrying the scent of smoke and baking bread.
Patrons murmured quietly over mugs of steaming liquid, eyes lifting briefly to acknowledge the sodden newcomers before returning to their conversation.
They crossed over to the bar, a wide wooden counter scarred from decades of use. Behind it stood a stout man in a worn waistcoat, polishing a mug with a rag, his eyes lifting as they approached.
“Bonsoir, monsieur.” Mr. Moreau’s voice carried easily across the room. “We’ll need rooms for the night.”
The man eyed their soaked state. “I’ve only got two left.”
“That’s perfect. I’ll take both. One for my men and one for my wife and myself.”
Abigail’s head snapped toward him, but his hand closed over hers. He gave her a cautioning look. Her stomach knotted, but she bit back the protest rising in her throat.
The innkeeper handed him a lantern and keys. “If you want warm food, hurry back down. We’re about to close early because of the weather.”
At the base of the stairs, she jerked her hand from his arm. “Why did you tell that man we’re married?”
“Listen, I’m not letting you out of my sight. Not with the storm and most certainly not with Thorne still out there somewhere. It was the easiest way to keep questions to a minimum.”
“By lying?”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “What would you have had me say? I need a room for myself and my unmarried lady companion?”
Heat rose to her cheeks and her chin lifted despite it. “It would have been the truth.”
His jaw tightened. “Truth doesn’t always open doors, Miss Ross. Could have just as easily ended us back out on the street.”
She glanced away, suddenly aware of how soaked and disheveled she must look. “I suppose… I see your point.”
They climbed the narrow stairs, each step groaning under their weight, the lantern casting quivering shadows across the walls. At the end of the hall, they stepped into the room. Light illuminated the sparsely furnished space, and her eyes settled on the bed.
The one bed.
“Perhaps you should have asked him about the rooms before agreeing to take them.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers.” The ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “Don’t worry, I’ll take the floor.”