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but she had no hope of outdistancing three
strong men while running in clogs and long skirts. Hard arms grabbed her from
behind. She kicked and struck out with her reticule, but no amount of struggle
could free her from three pairs of sturdy arms. Her screams brought no reply.
    They covered her face with a heavy, sweet-smelling rag that
made her gag. Fighting to breathe, she was helpless to prevent them from
binding her arms. Darkness prevented any other thought.
    ***
    The man holding the plump pigeon’s waist chuckled and slid
his other hand beneath her cloak to explore her pleasing curves. The girl
moaned and moved restlessly. With a predatory hunger, he glanced to his
companions, who were busily tying her wrists and ankles and recovering the
heavy purse she had used to strike at them.
    “’E didn’ give no time we’re to bring ’er, did ’e?” her captor
asked.
    Opening the reticule and ignoring this question, his
companions whistled. “We’re rich, yer bastids! Rich! Blimey, just look at this!”
    Hauling their burden into a doorway, they emptied the coins
into their own pockets, arguing as to who should get the greater share. But
even with this wealth to worship, more primitive hunger called. The one who’d
first caught her gestured toward their sleeping burden.
    “We’ve got more bloody gold than ’e offered us. What if ’e
finds out we emptied her pockets? She’s got a mouth on ’er. She’ll tell.”
    That produced a sudden silence as they recalled their
employer’s unpleasant temper.
    The thin, sharp-faced one spoke up. “She’s a prime piece.
Molly would let us live like gents for a week if we brung ’er somethin’ this
fine. Maybe even let us break ’er in to the trade, if you catches my meanin’.”
    The sturdier man looked interested. “Yeah, then arter we
gots what we could, we could tip off the gent that we hunted high and low and knows
where to find ’er, and maybe ’e’d pay to ’ave ’er back. ’E wouldn’t ’ave to
know we was the ones to roll ’er.”
    The third and oldest man shook his head. “’E’ll kill us fer
not bringin’ ’er directly back. ’E’ll know she’s gone. It won’t do.”
    The argument continued until someone appeared at the alley
entrance to see what the noise was about, and they decided to make their
decision in a safer place.
    They carried their prize with her arms wrapped about their
necks like a drunken doxy. Arguing and singing, they weaved their way back to
their favorite inn in a shabby waterfront district near London Bridge, just off
Bishopsgate, easily within walking distance of their posh surroundings.

6
    Rory Douglas Maclean stood on the wharf staring over the
jungle of rigging and masts that filled this point of the Thames. His ship had
returned and was now anchored on the edge of the current, ready for sailing at
a moment’s notice. More than ready. He scowled and contemplated the fog rising into
the rigging. His fool crew hadn’t completed their run, and the casks filling
the false bottom made the ship lie low in the water, a certain signal for the
customs officers.
    He cursed silently. The fog would hide the ship for now, but
it would also prevent its sailing. He couldn’t afford to forfeit his entire
livelihood to the customs agents.
    The seaman who had brought the message said the revenue
cutters had been waiting for them. That meant they were out there now searching
for the Sea Witch. It had been a bold maneuver to sail straight up the
Thames—bold but foolish.
    There was no time left. That villain Cranville hadn’t been
at his lodgings when Rory’s seconds went around to call on him. There had been
creditors enough on the doorstep willing to report his comings and goings, but
they hadn’t seen him in days. The coward evidently had no intention of
returning until he had his hands on Alyson’s money.
    Rory couldn’t leave the girl with a predator like that
hovering around her. What in hell had he gotten himself