Harriet had been listening intently while observing the other men, but one of the words made her whip her head back to stare at Jonesy. “She? The smugglers were led by a woman?”
“Oh, aye, indeed.”
Harriet turned to Sheffield. “You, an honest merchantman, were consorting with smugglers.”
“My friend Tony had expressed interest in purchasing Wind Dancer from me,” Sheffield said. “As a gift.”
“For the lady smuggler,” Jonesy interjected.
Sheffield nodded. “Completely above-board transaction. I had no idea until we got there that Tony’s lady love was tired of the nonsense from the smuggling captain they’d been dealing with—that cur over there—and had decided to cut him out and take his ship to transport their goods themselves. Tony wanted to give her my ship so she wouldn’t steal one, but her gang had already taken over the Polly Ann by the time we arrived.”
Harriet let that sink in. How … romantic. “But you have your ship, and the other captain still has his, apparently.”
“They reconsidered. Gave back the ship. Sylvia and her gang make cheese now. We had some of it with dinner the other night. Much safer business. And Tony doesn’t have to worry about getting seasick.”
“Just lovesick,” Jonesy said. “Though that will probably ease off now they’re shackled.”
Harriet raised her brows in silent query.
“They got married in August,” Sheffield explained.
The tavern wench set three tankards of beer on the table and left. Sheffield and Jonesy took a long drink each, while Harriet lifted her tankard and sniffed, then took a cautious sip.
Blech. Second sip didn’t burn as much. Her throat was still dry so she took a deeper, longer drink.
Ruford and his companion briefly interrupted their heated discussion to signal for another round of drinks.
“We have to know what’s on that paper.” Harriet pushed back her chair. “As he might recognize either of you, it has to be me.” Before either man could object, she made her way through the crowd. Another advantage of being dressed as a lad soon became apparent, because she didn’t have to worry about any of the lecherous men she passed pinching her bottom, something the fathers and other male family members visiting the girls at Torquay Academy for Ladies had a troubling tendency to do.
She wended through the tables, ducked under a laden serving tray held aloft by a serving woman with bigger arm muscles than many men, and worked her way toward the bar. She casually walked behind Captain Ruford and his companion, slowing to peer over their shoulders. They were studying a navigational chart of the Iberian peninsula, and beside that was a smaller, familiar-looking map. She wanted to freeze in shock but forced herself to keep walking, keep breathing, winding through the crowd back to her seat at the table.
“You’ve gone all white. What is it?” Sheffield reached toward her forearm but rested his hand on the table, just shy of her arm.
“The map. It looks like mine, or the one my father sent me, but it was clearly drawn by a different hand.”
Jonesy swore. “There’s another copy of the bloody map?”
“I’ll hazard a guess that it’s my father’s version. The map he did not send to me.” Harriet heard Sheffield’s anger, though his face did not betray any strong emotion.
“The other paper is a navigational chart. I think it shows Spain and Portugal, down to the Strait of Gibraltar.”
“They’re going to head for Porto,” Jonesy said.
“We’ll just have to beat them to it.” Sheffield drained his mug and slammed it on the table, then dug into his purse and fished out coins of the proper currency and value. He caught the serving wench as she passed, dropped the gold pieces into her hand and curled her fingers around them. “Gracias, senorita,” he said.
She said something, too soft for Harriet to hear, but Sheffield shook his head, still smiling, and stepped toward the door. Harriet and Jonesy followed.
They were almost out when an angry shout halted them. “You!”
Sheffield looked back into the cantina, as did Harriet and Jonesy.
Ruford was marching toward them, shoving people out of his way. “You mangy cur! What the hell are you doing here?”
“And a good day to you too, sir.” Sheffield spun on his heel and went out the door, Ruford still shouting insults at him as he struggled to pass through the crowd. The tables, patrons, and servers unwittingly acted as an obstacle course.
They hurried out to the street and down the hill toward the harbor, Harriet practically running to keep up with Sheffield and Jonesy’s much longer strides, again thankful for the freedom of movement allowed by her dungarees.
They were still three hundred feet away from the ship when Sheffield put fingers to his mouth and gave a loud three-note whistle to catch the attention of the bos’n, who was supervising the loading of crates and barrels. Sheffield raised both hands high and made a gesture that must have indicated they were leaving in a hurry, as the bos’n called out orders and there was an immediate change in the activity of the crew, both on the ship and on the dock, with a new air of urgency.
