She was still taking on too much water, limping against a headwind. The rain didn’t help. It lashed down on the deck, hammering at the timber planks as if intent on robbing Madoc of his prize. Nothing was visible. The solid sheets of rain swallowed the tops of the masts and veiled all land from sight, so that The White Pearl floated in stifling isolation, alone and disconnected. Trapped in her own private world. ‘What do you think?’ Madoc leaned against the rail alongside Flight Lieutenant Blake. The man was huddled in mustard-yellow oilskins, his gaze turned outwards to the water, a closed expression on his face. Even so, he was a good-looking bastard. A bit too eager to please for Madoc’s liking, but that was no bad thing. It might yet work in Madoc’s favour. He noticed the blond pilot was munching on a biscuit – they were in short supply now, along with fresh water. He’d bet his boots that the feral little native girl had smuggled it to him.
