It was very near morning, the sky lightening. She knew only that the Providence was farther downriver, and so she moved north, slipping in and out of the lanes that radiated off the docks. From a window overhead a baby's cry sounded to her like a trumpet blast; her breasts throbbed with it. She dashed away her tears with an impatient hand and concentrated on the river.

More men were in the lanes, many of them carpenters and workmen headed toward a large boatworks, their tools hung about them. Someone must know where the Providence docked. Elizabeth pulled her cloak closer around herself and the hood lower over her face. In French she asked once, and then again and again; but there were too many ships in port at this time of year and all she got was curious glances, shrugs, grins. One of them offered her some of his breakfast, another asked a rough question she did not really understand. But what did she care for the laughter of these men, or what they thought of her? Her children were gone and she must get them back.

When the waterfront was crowded with laborers and seamen she moved out in the open. A merchant in a fine linen coat that might well have been cut in Paris or London turned away from her when she tried to speak to him, would not listen to her in French or English.

A young boy was at her heels; he had been there for some time before she realized. She stopped and turned to him. He stared back at her.

"Do you know of a ship called the Providence?"

He blinked.

Elizabeth swallowed down her desperation. "An American captain who whittles birds from wood?"

A spark of recognition: did she imagine it? She repeated herself in French.

"Oui," said the boy, and thrust out his hand.

She took a coin from the sack still tied around her waist and pressed it into his palm; gold. But what difference did it make now?

He ran like the river. It took all of the last of her energy to keep up with him as he wound in and out of warehouse yards, through alleys where pigs rooted in filth, past row houses where women were hanging out steaming wash. "Is it far?" she asked him again and again. But he didn't hear her, or didn't care to answer. There was a brand on his cheek. He had limp blond hair and her children would never look anything like him, and still his dirty neck above a frayed blanket coat made her want to scream.

Another alley, closer to the waterfront again and reeking of tarpots and rotting fish. She could just see the masts of a single ship at the dock, and the sight made her heart leap into her throat.

At the last second she saw the man from the corner of her eye, the shape of him darting out of the doorway; she ducked too late. He had her by the cloak, spun her around to him. And she fell, still, tangled in her skirts, aware as she went of the jolt to her arm and hip and of the man himself: Mac Stoker. Of course, she thought, as consciousness flickered and threatened to vanish. What else?

She said, "If you try to stop me now I will kill you."

One black brow shot up high. "Sure and you're in no position to be making threats, Mrs. Bonner."

She struggled, but he held her where she was with little effort. The truth was, she had no weapons but money and her wits; she would try the latter first.

"Let me go now, Stoker. I have no time for your games."

He ignored her and spoke to the boy, who had pressed himself against the wall to watch, his eyes alight with excitement. "Away wit' ye, boyo, you've done your job."

Elizabeth's gorge rose in her throat in a blazing rush: she had walked into this without thought. I am most certainly the stupidest creature Providence ever put on this earth.

Stoker got a better hold on her to haul her to her feet. "I did warn you, did I not, that there's more than one kind of pirate on the St. Lawrence? And now your babbies are gone. Don't worry yerself, I'm not after yer virtue or your coin. There's a better profit in it if I deliver you safe and sound."

Elizabeth jerked around to him. "Deliver me? Where? To whom? The governor?"

Stoker's laugh had an edge. "Sure and you must have noted that I'm not overeager to do business wit' the Crown, or I might well have turned you in two days ago for the reward. No, we're off to the Jackdaw, me darlin'. My ship turns out to be of some use after all, it seems. Or so think your menfolk."

PART II

The Lass in Green

Love is swift of foot

Love's a man of war

And can shoot,

And can hit from far.

--George Herbert, 1633

15

Just after sunrise Moncrieff came to tell Hannah what she had already figured out for herself. In tones meant to soothe and deceive he spoke of troops searching every ship, confusion on the docks, and a reunion in Scotland. He never used the word captive, but he didn't need to. Hannah knew her people: they would shed blood before they saw their children sail off to a strange land alone. Perhaps they had.

And still Moncrieff stood in the middle of the stateroom and met her eye. He had to raise his voice above the twins' shrieking. It unnerved him, and Hannah was glad, although she let him see none of it, not her anger or the many questions that she would not ask without giving him an advantage over her. Moncrieff talked and talked, but Hannah barely heard him, preoccupied as she was with a simple, bone-deep fear. She held it as she would hold any wild, clawed animal: tightly bound and close, lest it tear free and draw her blood.

When Moncrieff had run out of promises Hannah simply picked up her brother and sister, one on each hip, and waited for him to step aside so she could pass through the door.

"You needna go. You're welcome to keep the use o' these cabins," he said. "I'll send for Mrs. Freeman, as well."