It was too late for the smuggling ship to turn back now; they were well out in the Channel, prey for the taking by French or British navy. Lewis tried to reassure himself with the knowledge that smugglers had plied the trade between the coasts of the two countries for hundreds of years. The brandy merchants weren't going to let such a paltry thing as a blockade interfere with their business. He hoped. He had to get into France. He didn't want this to take any more time than necessary. He was responsible for all these people's safety— Lord, where had that thought come from? He wound his fingers tightly around the ship's railing. Sailors moved like wraiths across the deck, only moonlight shone to light their path; rigging and timber creaked. The gypsies and their possessions were crowded into the hold, well out of everyone's way. The water was far from calm, but the choppiness was not unusual for the English Channel. There was nothing he could do; the crossing was out of his hands. He hated not being in control of every situation but tried to resign himself.
