Scandal in Scotland by Karen Hawkins Page B

handles and she had to grit her teeth against the pain.
    Still, she never stopped. Each time she approached the line, she would glance up at the ship, wondering where William might be and noting that the smoke was lessening bit by bit. It was working! She wanted to jump for joy, but the call for more water was ceaseless.
    Once again, she grasped the rough rope handle, blinking as her eyes watered from the pain. We’re winning. If we can just keep this up a little longer, the ship might be saved .
    Suddenly the man at the end of the water line held up his hand. “Wait, miss.”
    She set down her bucket and followed his gaze.
    Men were pouring off the ship. Blackened by soot, they hurried down the gangplank, the row of water handlers following them. Smoke bellowed and obscured the gangplank as the last few men left the ship; soon it was empty and the dock packed even fuller.
    She blinked in the thick smoke, seeing one last figure appearing through the gloom. Her heart quickened. Was it William? But no. The man was short and stocky. He came down the gangplank, ordering the men from the dock, his thick Scottish bellow clear over the loud hum of voices.
    The man beside Marcail shook his head. “I wonder why he’s orderin’ th’ men to th’ shore? Shouldn’t they be fightin’ th’ fire?”
    “I should think so,” Marcail said, noting that the burly Scotsman had succeeded in clearing the end of the dock nearest the ship. “I wish we knew what was goin’ on. Why did they send away all of—”
    BOOM! A terrific blast shook the dock and fire blew into the air in a huge ball, roaring over the quay. The air was rent with screams and the sound of pounding feet as everyone on the dock surged toward land.
    Marcail had to fight her way to one side to keep from being carried away, her heart slamming against her chest as she stared at the ship in horror. Fire bellowed from the deck and crackled furiously, the flames now devouring the ship as if they’d been starved for this one, delicious second.
    Where is William? Was he onboard? The question echoed numbly through her stilled brain. Please God, no . She tried to think clearly, but her heart was beating too furiously to allow her such a luxury. She found herself walking toward the ship, against the flow of people, her gaze locked on the shooting flames. She had to know. She had to go, to see—What?
    Her mind refused to answer. She walked closer and closer to the burning hulk, men frantically chopping at the ropes that moored the ship to the dock. The heat was so great that her face felt burned, and she instinctively held up her hands to shield herself.
    With a heaving cry, a bare-chested man near her slammed his hatchet through a thick rope and, with an almost human groan, the ship listed away from the dock. Then she slowly began to drift toward the sea, crackling loudly.
    The voices on the dock grew quieter as the crowd of crew and townsmen watched the ship.
    Marcail couldn’t look away. Somewhere on that ship, dead or near it, was William. She knew it. Knew it for all she was worth. How had this happened? How could a ship just explode, and not once, but multiple times?
    She turned to a sailor who stood nearby, his soot-blackened face a mask of sadness. “Sir?”
    He looked at her, obviously surprised to be addressed. “Aye, miss?”
    “What made it blow up like that?”
    His face tightened in anger. “We was sabotaged, miss. Someone set gunpowder upon the deck and lit it. Thank God the cap’n figured it out or we’d all be dead.”
    “Captain Hurst? He knew?”
    “Aye. That’s why we all came runnin’ off the deck just afore she went.”
    Had William made it? She had to clear her throat to continue. “Do you … do you know if the captain made it off the ship, too?”
    The seaman blinked. “Why, o’ course he did. He came running off like the devil hisself was chasin’ him.”
    Relief shattered through her, as brilliant as any light, and in the space of one