Eye of the Storm by Lee Rowan Page A

know that he left by the last week of November.”
    “Jacques Colbert could be delayed by nearly anything,” she said. “A good conversation, a sick child, a two-headed calf…but I do not think he would delay if he knew that you would be waiting for him. He is not a thoughtless man.”
    “Except for the military, travel is slow,” her son said. “At least, that is what we hear. I hope he has not had trouble leaving the city.”
    Madame Beauchene made a noise that Marshall would, from someone less ladylike, have called a snort. “Politics. We must hope he has not had political trouble. If those fools decide to refuse him permission to leave because his daughter married an Englishman—”
    “Is that likely, do you think?” Marshall asked. Sir Percy said Colbert had left Paris, but would he know if the doctor had been arrested in secret?
    “It is possible,” Beauchene said. “Almost anything is possible. But there have been so many English traveling to France…” He gave what Marshall had to call a Gallic shrug. “If every French family with an English connection were denied permission to travel, no one would go anywhere. We ourselves have relatives in Devonshire.”
    The tea arrived, and Marshall did what courtesy required, though he was becoming restless. If Colbert was not here, he should get back to his ship as quickly as possible. As soon as he reasonably could, Marshall said, “I apologize again for disturbing you, and I must ask your advice. What would you suggest I do? We should not stay too nearby if we mean to avoid creating distress, but I would not wish the doctor to be stranded here.”
    The Beauchenes exchanged a peculiar look. “Captain,” Beauchene said, “I am afraid the only thing I can suggest is that you stay here, where you are most welcome, and wait for Dr. Colbert.”
    “Thank you, that is very generous,” Marshall said, “but I must return to—”
    “You cannot leave, Captain.”
    Marshall started up in alarm, the dog in Madame Beauchene’s lap yipped, and Etienne Beauchene hastily raised both hands. “No, no, I do not threaten you, sir. You are no prisoner. You cannot leave because you have no ship.”
    His blood went cold. “What do you mean?”
    “Jean-Claude was watching when you came ashore. He told me that you had not yet reached our gates when your ship’s sails fell open, and—” he flicked his hand. “Like the wind, she was gone.”
     
     
    There was one thing to be said for running full-out—it left no time to brood. And the Mermaid could run like a thoroughbred. With all canvas spread and a hull clean as a razor, she cut smoothly through the grey water at an amazing speed. Archer had taken the helm under other conditions, but this—this! If only Will had been aboard, he’d have asked for nothing better.
    He called up to the lookout, and got the answer he wanted—no sign of the other ship, and no surprise, given their speed.
    Barrow, standing a few feet away, caught Archer’s eye. “Even if they saw us, sir, they’d never catch her.” He touched the wooden rail as he said it—no sense tempting luck—but he was as proud of the schooner as if she were his own.
    Archer nodded with a smile. The nagging question of whether it had been necessary to run was something to be considered later. What he needed to decide now was his next move. They were sailing west-northwest, heading across the Bay of the Seine and moving toward the point of Bonfleur. They could sail around the Point—assuming they met no other ships—or they could simply turn north, and head out into the Channel toward England.
    If the unknown ship was a French vessel cruising along the shore, patrolling for foreign traffic, they’d be out of sight so long as they maintained at least sixteen miles’ distance—that being approximately what Archer calculated as the distance necessary to keep the curve of the earth between the two ships. He knew Will would calculate the figure to the second