Read Online Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) by Helen Hollick - Free Book Online Page B

he?”
    “I says the same as did I a’vore. They’ve gone up Exeter doin’ a task for Squire Benson. In the rain an’ snow they bain’t be ‘ome t’night.” Pegget jerked her arm and broke the man’s grip. “You let I alone, Lieutenant, or I’ll complain t’ thy Major. He knows I keeps a goodly inn.”
    The lieutenant released her, but sneered contemptuously. “Aye, the Major knows what this place is, a rat’s nest for thieves and smugglers.” He looked around, his gaze wavering from one man to another, flickered over Jesamiah, stopped. “Thieves, smugglers and pirates.”
    Jesamiah lifted his rum glass and took a sip. Eyes slightly narrowed he said to no one in particular, “Better keep your hand on your money pouches, my friends. We appear to not be in very good company.”
    The locals understood his meaning – that the militia were not to be trusted – and a roar of laughter burst out. The tension broken, someone produced a fiddle and began to play; feet began to stamp a rhythm, hands to tap on the tables. Another man raised his voice in song, a bright melody which steadily developed into crude lyrics.
    Pegget disappeared into her kitchen, the door banging firmly behind her.
    “What was all that about?” Rue asked in a lowered tone.
    “Sounds as though some Free Trade gentlemen got caught red-handed,” Jesamiah remarked quietly. “Our stuff is well stowed ain’t it?”
    Rue grinned. “ Naturellement .”
    A boy took Pegget’s place fetching cider and ale, rum, brandy, clearing away the empty tankards, plates and bowls. To an outsider the inn appeared convivial, a fug of warmth curling through the smoke of candles and pipe tobacco. Men sharing the companionship of a drink, a bite to eat, enjoying the pleasure of a few rousing songs, but the unease was there, crawling outward from the table where the redcoated militiamen sat in disagreeable silence.
    Something is wrong.
    Jesamiah looked up, startled, Tiola’s voice sounding clear in his mind in the special, secret, way they had of communicating with each other.
    Sweetheart? Do you feel worse? Do you want me to come up?
    No. Outside. Someone is in trouble.
    Raindrops patterned the square glass panes of the windows, the lower ones misted with the heat of indoors contrasting with the cold. Jesamiah wiped away some of the condensation. Apart from that one pale lantern, it was dark out there.
    ~ There’s no one out there, lass. ~
    The boy came from the kitchen, steam gushing from the central vent in a meat pie he carried. He set Rue’s dinner down on the table, the Frenchman’s grin almost as wide as the dish. Jesamiah returned to savouring his rum.
    He is hurt.
    Who? I saw no one.
    The boy glanced at the window. He started, his eyes widening, mouth dropping open. Discreetly nodding towards the militiamen to his left he mouthed, “No!”
    Jesamiah looked quickly again at the window, caught a glimpse of a man’s bloodied face peering anxiously in.
    “I’ll vetch ‘ee more cider, sir.” The boy lifted Rue’s almost empty tankard of ale, turned and tripped, sluicing the remaining contents over the lieutenant’s fine red jacket and white breeches.
    As a deliberate distraction it worked well.
    Enraged, the officer leapt up, cursing and wiping at his wet attire. He grasped the boy’s hair and yanked his head back, calling him every foul name under the sun as he rattled him like a terrier shakes a caught rat. One of the men handed him a riding crop, and bending the boy over the table he lifted his arm intent on giving a thrashing of a lifetime.
    Only he found a man’s hand gripping his upraised wrist.
    “The fault be mine, Lieutenant.” Jesamiah lied. “I had my feet protruding. I tripped the boy up. ‘Tis no clumsiness of his own doing.”
    A sour look swept over the lieutenant’s features as he stared suspiciously at Jesamiah, his nose wrinkling, lip curling in distaste. “And who are you?”
    Jesamiah swept him a deep, courteous bow.