The sand along the shore of the bay was firm, beaten solid by the squall. The heavy thunderheads that threatened earlier had now blanked the sun, bringing new rain that swept along the darkened shore in hard strokes. Ahead through the gloom he could make out the outlines of his seamen, kegs of water balanced precariously on their shoulders, in an extended line from the thatched-roof warehouse by the careenage at the river mouth down to a longboat bobbing in the surf. After the raid on the Oistins breastwork, he had ordered them directly back to Bridgetown to finish lading. A streak of white cut across the sky, and in its shimmering light he could just make out the Defiance, safely anchored in the shallows, canvas furled, nodding with the swell.
Joan. She had said nothing when he asked her to go up and help Katherine. She'd merely glared her disapproval, while ordering the girls to bring her cloak. Joan was saving her thoughts for later, he knew. There'd be more on the subject of Katherine.
The only sounds now were the pounding of rain along the shore and the occasional distant rumble of thunder. He was so busy watching the men he failed to notice the figure in white emerge from the darkness and move toward his path.
When the form reached out for him, he whirled and dropped his hand to a pistol.
"Senhor, desculpe. "
The rain-mantled shadow curtsied, Portuguese style.
He realized it was a woman. Briggs' mulata. The one Joan seemed so fond of. Before he could reply, she seized his arm.
"Faga o favor, senhor, will you help us? I beg you." There was an icy urgency in her touch.
"What are you doing here?" He studied her, still startled. Her long black hair was coiled across her face in tangled strands, and there were dark new splotches down the front of her white shift.
"I'm afraid he'll die, senhor. And if he's captured . . ."