“Several hours.” “The boy?” Melvyrn asked. “He’ll be all right?” He looked down at her, but with his cap pulled low, Rosalind could not read his expression. “Go up front,” Tolly growled. “I’ve got the lad.” Melvyrn didn’t move. “At some point, I’d like to talk to the lad.” “Don’t need to,” Tolly answered gruffly. “You got the Frenchman now.” The two men stared at each other for several tense moments before Melvyrn said, “Aye, Captain.” Then he turned on his heel and made his way toward the bow. Hours later, when Tolly called out for Cleggs and Finley to look alive, Rosalind knew when they were close to the coastline. Rousing herself, she found a woolen blanket around her and instinctively knew Tolly had draped it over her. She took her time folding it as the sound of the surf became louder and the dark mass made up of the cliffs loomed ahead. When the moon slid out from behind the clouds, the fury of Tolly’s curse startled her.
