Read Online A Falcon Flies by Wilbur Smith - Free Book Online

her belly was almost flat with just an interesting little bulge below the navel. Now here was definitely sinful ground – of this there was no doubt. But still she could not deny the temptation to let her gaze linger a moment. She understood fully the technical purpose and the physical workings of all her body’s highly complicated machinery, both visible and concealed. It was only the feelings and emotions which sprang from this source which both confused and worried her, for they had taught her none of this at St Matthew’s. She passed on hurriedly to safer ground, lifting her arms to pile the tresses of her hair on to the top of her head and hold them in place with a soft cloth cap.
    Her breasts were round and neat as ripening apples, so firm as hardly to change their shape as she moved her arms. Their resemblance to fruit pleased her and she spent a few moments longer than was necessary in adjusting the cloth cap upon her head looking down at them. But there was a limit to self-indulgence, and she swept the flannel shirt over her head, pulled the tails down around her waist, stepped into the breeches – how good they felt again after so long in those hobbling skirts – and then, sitting upon the bunk, she pulled on the half-boots and buckled the ankle straps of the breeches under the arch of her foot, before standing to clinch the belt at her waist.
    She opened her black valise, took out the roll of surgical instruments and selected one of the sturdier scalpels, folded out the blade and tested it with her thumb. It was stingingly sharp. She closed the blade and slipped it into her hip pocket. It was the only weapon available to her.
    She was ready now, and she closed the shutter on the bull’s-eye lantern, darkening the cabin completely before climbing, fully dressed, into her bunk, pulling the rough woollen blanket to her chin and settling down to wait. The laughter from the saloon became more abandoned, and she imagined that the brandy bottle was being cruelly punished by the men. A long while later she heard her brother’s heavy, uneven footsteps on the companionway past her cabin and then there was only the creak and pop of the ship’s timbers as she heeled to the wind, and far away the regular tapping of some loose piece of equipment.
    She was so keyed, with both fear and anticipation, that there was never any danger of her falling asleep. However, the time passed with wearying slowness. Each time that she opened the shutter of the lantern to check her pocketwatch, the hands seemed hardly to have moved. Then, somehow, it was two o’clock in the morning, the hour when the human body and spirit are at their lowest ebb.
    She rose quietly from her bunk, picked up the darkened lantern and went to the door of her cabin. The locking bolt clattered like a volley of musketry, but then it was open and she slipped through.
    In the saloon a single oil-lamp still burned smokily, throwing agitated shadows against the wooden bulkheads, while the empty brandy bottle had fallen to the deck, and rolled back and forth with the ship’s motion. Robyn squatted to pull off her boots and, leaving them at the entrance, she went forward on bare feet, crossed the saloon and stepped into the passageway that led to the stern quarters.
    Her breath was short, as though she had run far, and she paused to lift the shutter of the bull’s-eye lantern and flash a narrow beam of light into the darkness ahead. The door to Mungo St John’s cabin was closed.
    She crept towards it, guiding herself with one hand on the bulkhead and at last her fingers closed over the brass doorhandle.
    â€˜Please God,’ she whispered, and achingly slowly twisted the handle. It turned easily, and then the door slid open an inch along its track, enough for her to peep through into the cabin beyond.
    There was just light to see, for the deck above was pierced for a repeating compass so that even while in his bunk the master