His hand closed around the pistol under his coat, his glance sought out any danger that might be lying in wait in the shadows. Under his arm was a length of rare exotic silk safely packaged in a satchel made from sailcloth. The silk was a gift for Charlotte Honeyman, from which she could fashion herself a wedding gown. It was a fairly quiet night for the quayside town of Poole, except for the faint hum of voices coming from the taverns, the occasional spill of light and noise when a door opened and spat out a drunk or two. A pair of cats exchanged insults in an alley. The summer air was as cool and soft as a whisper of satin against his face, the dewed stillness of it broken only by the impatient slap of the rigging against the masts, the creak and squeak of timber against timber and the lap and splash of water against the hull of the Samarand. Square-rigged and with a sharp rake to her stern Samarand averaged only twelve knots in the right conditions. She’d been built eight years previously but would be lucky if she lasted till she was fifteen, when she was due to be sold for scrap.
