Page 77 of This Earl of Mine

Seb stood, tried to brush the dust and debris from his coat, then gave up with an expression of acute irritation. “That’s another coat ruined!” he yelled across to them. “It was a Weston too. You can damn well buy me a new one, Wylde!”

Benedict gave an amused chuckle. “Fair enough,” he shouted back.

Georgie scanned the rest of the dock and saw Alex and Jem huddled together a safe distance away, on the street near the coffee tavern. With a breathy prayer of thanks, she turned away from the confusion and grabbed the tiller. They still had work to do.

She steered them through the water gate—the wooden boards were slimy and green with algae as they slid past—and the river caught them in its flow.

Chapter 41.

Georgie bit her lip in concentration and maneuvered them into the center of the river, grateful there were so few other vessels around at this hour of the night. The muddy, earthy smell of the Thames surrounded them and she shuddered as rank, rotting things probably best left unidentified swirled past in the eddying current.

It was choppier out here. The hull rocked with the slap of waves on the side, and strange clanking, slurping noises echoed from belowdecks. The wind raised goose bumps on her arms, and she found she was shivering both from the chill and delayed reaction.

Benedict thrust his head down into the hull and came up frowning. “Looks like we’re taking on a lot of water. How far to Woolwich?”

“About six miles.”

“It’s going to be a close-run thing.”

They gained speed with the current. The warehouse fire was soon just a distant glow as they followed the curve of the river past the huge hulking shapes of warehousesand wharves. The moon provided just enough light to see.

As they slid around the sharpest bend, where the Thames doubled back on itself, the banks became more sparsely populated. Soon, they reached the near-uninhabited, marshy, windswept spit of land known as Blackwall Point, on the Isle of Dogs. Georgie shuddered as she caught sight of the gibbet—and the iron cage swinging eerily from its wooden gallows-like frame. The dark shape of a body slumped within the bars.

She’d seen this sight before, one summer when Father had taken her down the Thames all the way to Dartford and the sea. Any sailor entering London would pass this point, which made it the ideal spot to display a deterrent to any would-be pirates. For over four centuries, convicts had been hanged at Execution Dock in Wapping, their bodies coated in tar and then displayed on these gallows for the length of three tides before being cut down. Her eight-year-old self had shivered in delight at the gruesome story. Father had said it was a warning to always be honest in her business dealings.

Georgie gazed over the brackish pools, and her chest contracted painfully. The gibbet was a stark reminder of how close she’d come to losing the man she loved. He’d been shot, hadn’t he? He’d said it wasn’t serious, but what if the wound became infected? Men had died from less. Oh, God.

She should tell him how she felt.

She clapped her hand over her mouth to prevent a shaky sob, but it slipped out anyway.

Benedict glanced over, then stepped behind her and wrapped his arms around her, tugging her tight against his chest in an embrace that left her right arm free to steer. His soaking clothes wet her own immediately, but she didn’t care. The sensation was grounding. She meltedback against him, took strength from the warmth of him seeping through the fabric, as if he were transferring some of his bravery, his vitality to her.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “It’s all right. It’s over now. Breathe.”

Georgie let out a slowwhooshof breath, then sucked air in, loving the feel of his strong arms around her. Her shivers calmed. She wished they could stay like this forever, just keep on sailing, down the river, across the sea. But the little ship was sinking lower and lower with every passing minute. They’d be lucky to make it to Woolwich, let alone anywhere farther afield.

She glanced down at the water; she didnotwant to go in there. It looked dark and terrifying, the current too strong to withstand. Pieter had taught her how to swim, but the still, flat waters of the lake at home bore no resemblance to this choppy, angrily swirling tide.

After a few more minutes the buildings returned, and they reached Blackwall dockyards. This part of the river was more familiar. Georgie made out the dark rectangle of the Caversteed warehouse among the bobbing forest of masts. A rogue wave splashed over the deck.

“Is there a bucket to bail?” she asked.

“No.” Benedict glanced mournfully down at his wet footwear. “I could use my boots, I suppose.” He sighed, as if in pain. “Hoby made these, you know. They cost two pounds and sixpence. They were just getting comfortable.”

“I’ll buy you another pair.”

They navigated one final twist of the river, and she angled them closer to the southern bank. “We should be nearly there.” She squinted into the darkness and pointed. “There! That must be it. The naval dockyards.”

A lone sentry was guarding a series of wooden barriers, behind which a cluster of large ships bobbed at anchor. Hewas slumped half-asleep on a stool by the small hut, but he jolted awake and snapped to attention when Benedict hailed him.

“Ahoy there! Open the gate. Admiral Cockburn’s expecting us!”

The guard sent their vessel—of which only a few feet was now visible above the waves—a curious look but did as he was told. They slid into the calmer waters of the dock pool and pulled up to the side in the shadowy space between two huge navy frigates. Benedict leapt ashore and secured the mooring rope, then grabbed Georgie’s raised arms and hauled her up to stand beside him on the dock.

“Dry land. Thank God!” He laughed, and to Georgie’s complete astonishment, he dropped his head back and let out a shout of pure elation, like a lunatic, a wild “Wahooo!” of victory. An answering smile curved her mouth as a ball of joy and relief filled her chest.

He turned to her, breathing hard. “We did it, Georgie girl!”

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