“Si,” she whispered. “Cuando?”
“Hey, what are you two jabbering on about?” Malcolm growled.
Carlos took a breath. “Ahora.”
He grabbed her hand and they ran for the waterline. That was the opposite of what the gang expected, and it gave Carlos and Poppy a few precious seconds to reach one of the rowboats pulled up on the beach.
“Jump in the boat,” he told her.
“What?”
“Poppy, now!” He didn’t wait for her to follow his order. He simply grabbed her by the waist and swung her over the side. She landed in a heap, her gown soaking up the seawater that had pooled in the bottom.
A gunshot rang out, and Carlos ducked as he shoved the rowboat off the pebble beach. His feet splashed into the water until he jumped in, clambering onto the only bench, where he grabbed the oars and started rowing. He used one arm to circle around with the left oar, but the moment the bow was facing the sea, he heaved hard with both. The little boat shot forward through the surf.
Poppy clung to the wooden edge of the boat as Carlos moved them out beyond the shore. More gunshots rang out, causing them both to duck again.
“Look behind,” he ordered. “Are there more men coming out of the cave? Anyone going for the other boat? And keep your head low!”
Poppy twisted around, bracing herself with a hand on each side of the bow. Keeping her head slightly above the wooden edge, she surveyed the beach with narrowed eyes.
“Seven…no, eight men. Only three with guns. I don’t recognize them…not that that means much. The bald one, and the one they called Malcolm. And the next man’s shooting arm is all blue!”
“Tattoos,” Carlos grunted. “Good. Keep watching.”
“They’re reloading! Duck!” she said, just as the bald man raised his arm to aim and shoot once more.
Carlos hunched over, giving one strong stroke at the left oar to change the boat’s direction.
Poppy gasped as something whipped past them. Wood splintered behind her. She looked at Carlos, who merely raised an eyebrow.
“He missed. Sorry.”
“Just row,” she muttered.
He rounded the curve of land, and knew the instant Poppy saw the ship anchored there. “Oh, no. Is that another smugglers’ ship?”
“Not exactly. It’s the Agustina.”
“Your ship? What’s it doing here? I thought it was in the harbor at Treversey.”
“I told my first mate to follow Spargo’s gang if he could. I’ll explain later,” he said, slightly out of breath.
The swells had grown higher the moment the boat left the relatively sheltered bay, and Carlos had to strain to keep rowing at the right angle to meet the ship. Water had splashed up, soaking his right side. The fabric of his shirt now clung to his shoulders and arms.
He caught Poppy looking at him, and suddenly forgot all the discomfort he was going through. “Enjoying yourself?” he asked.
She quickly looked away, and he bit back a smile.
When they reached the ship, one of the sailors leaned over, and called down, “¿Quién anda ahí?”
Carlos sighed. Did the man really not recognize his own captain? He yelled up, “De tal palo, tal astilla.” The code phrase was known to all the men on the ship.
The sailor on deck top called back a welcome, and a rope ladder tumbled down the hull of the ship.
“Up the ladder,” Carlos said, grabbing the bottom rung and holding it steady. “Quickly, before we die of exposure.”
“Hold a moment.” Poppy bent down and grabbed the hem of her skirts, tying a knot in the middle, turning the skirt into impromptu trousers. She seized a rung and clambered up the ladder as if she’d done it a hundred times before.
