Scandal in Scotland by Karen Hawkins

one cache of gunpowder, there might be another. Someone wanted to sink the Witch . Perhaps they’ve done their damnedest already and perhaps they haven’t. I won’t risk the men.”
    “Shall I form a crew to search and—”
    “No. I’ll do it. Just get the men a safe distance away.”
    “But, Cap’n—”
    “Damn it, do it now !”
    Looking none too happy, MacDougal reluctantly turned away and began bellowing orders. With startled glances at one another, the men put down their axes and buckets and filed down the gangplank.
    “There’s the last one, Cap’n,” MacDougal announced. He joined William, who was already searching the ship. “Where do we start lookin’?”
    “ We don’t start anywhere. You’re going onshore to handle the crew.”
    “But, Cap’n—”
    “Go.”
    MacDougal grimaced but did as he was told, glancing over his shoulder the entire way.
    Soon William was alone on the smoldering deck, the acrid smell of smoke and burning tar making him cough. He pulled a kerchief from his pocket, dipped it in an abandoned water bucket, and held it over his mouth and nose as he continued his search.
    He didn’t know how he knew, but he was certain of what he would find.
    And find it, he did …
    Marcail ran down the slick wooden dock, her stockinged feet hidden by both the darkness and her long skirts. She paused at the end and looked up at the smoldering ship, hot winds lifting from the ashes to stir her hair and the clothing of every person crammed on the quay.
    Smoke boiled from the ship as if she were a chimney, her sails gone, her burning ropes swinging like long fuses in the hot breeze. The still burning mast fell into the ocean with a loud crack , landing on the ragged and burned sails.
    Along with the crackling roar of the fire, bellowed orders rang out over the commotion caused by the onlookers. Marcail covered her ears. No wonder no one had heard her beating on the side of the coach.
    She’d finally taken matters into her own hands and escaped on her own. Her fists bruised, she’d managed to light one of the lamps and examine her prison, looking at the box seats (solidly constructed), the back panel (flanked by thick boards), the floor (iron framing with heavy oak planks, none of which was the slightest bit loose).
    She had to find a way out; she couldn’t bear thinking of what William might be facing.
    Then her gaze had fallen on the door hinges.
    Within seconds, she’d dropped to her knees to examine them. They were very sturdy. The metal plates were joined by an iron pin hammered through metal hoops.
    She’d tried to loosen the pin with her hands, but it wouldn’t budge. She needed a tool of some sort to pound the pin free. Almost able to taste her freedom, she tossed aside the seat cushions and opened the seat boxes. Coach blankets, small pillows, a foot warmer … No tools. Not a single one.
    She’d rocked back on her heels, disappointed, but then the foot warmer caught her eye again. Noting the thick handle, she picked it up.
    Ten minutes later, the heavy iron pin had finally dropped to the floor. Marcail had braced herself against the seat box, placed her stockinged feet against the door, and given it a hard kick.
    It had immediately opened, hanging at a broken, tilted angle, and she’d jumped out.
    Now, she was free … and frightened by what she saw. It was madness here on the dock; people hurried here and there carrying buckets or just dashing about as if uncertain where to stand, while others stood staring up at the burning ship as if unable to believe the spectacle.
    Marcail followed the horrified gaze of a young girl who clutched her mother’s hand, seeing the smoldering mast and destroyed deck. William loved that ship. He must be heartsick . She turned her anxious gaze on the dock, but couldn’t see him. He must be here somewhere . She hurried forward, her attention flickering here and there, trying to take in the unfolding situation.
    She couldn’t shake the feeling