Page 2 of A Sea Captain and A Stowaway (Gentleman Scholars #7)

The garden gate creaked as she pushed it open, and she froze, listening for any sign that the sound had been noticed.

When no alarm was raised, she slipped through and latched it carefully behind her.

The road stretched before her, a pale ribbon in the moonlight, leading to the village and, beyond that, to the port.

She was relieved Uncle Hugo hadn’t made her go somewhere else, or perhaps, if he had, she would have been fine, so that might be a foolish relief.

In any case, they were near the port. Docila would be able to find an escape.

She stuck to the shadows, having memorized all the roads to the port in early childhood, dashing down to the dockyards to await her father every day when she wasn’t with him.

The memory of those joyful reunions gave her courage now.

Her father, sun-browned and smiling, lifting her high in the air as she squealed with delight.

The exotic scents of spices and foreign lands that clung to his clothing.

The tales he would tell her of distant shores and strange customs. Perhaps she could find such a place for herself, a new beginning far from Uncle Hugo’s machinations.

The village was quiet as she passed through, most windows dark, the tavern the only establishment still showing signs of life.

Raucous laughter spilled out into the street, and Docila quickened her pace, keeping her head down.

A lady alone at night would draw attention, and attention was the last thing she needed.

A dog barked somewhere nearby, and she startled, nearly losing her grip on her bundle. Calm yourself , she admonished silently. Panic will only lead to mistakes. She took a deep breath and continued on, more carefully now.

The smell of salt and tar grew stronger as she neared the harbour, and the sound of water lapping against wooden pilings reached her ears.

The port was never truly quiet, even at this late hour.

Sailors coming and going, night watchmen patrolling, the occasional shout or burst of laughter.

Docila felt both exposed and invisible as she made her way toward the docks.

Hugo would know to look for her here, she was sure, so she needed a big enough ship and one that appeared to be leaving shortly. But how could she tell? And how could she gain access without being denied?

She knew all the superstitions — none of the sailors would want a woman aboard. Never mind, she admonished herself; they would have to put up with her presence because it meant her life.

She scanned the harbour, her gaze passing over fishing boats and small trading vessels until it settled on a larger ship, its three masts rising high against the night sky.

Men moved about on its deck, loading cargo, their voices carrying over the water.

It was preparing to sail with the morning tide, she was certain of it.

Docila straightened her shoulders, summoning the courage that had carried her this far. She was no longer the dutiful niece, the obedient ward. She was a woman claiming her own destiny, making her own choices for the first time in her life. The thought was both terrifying and exhilarating.

The Seraphim floated before her. Good. She had heard of it. Captain Peters was reputed to be fair and honest. She had never met the man, but she was going to have to take a chance.

“Perfect,” she thought.

Under cover of darkness, with only a skeleton watch on deck, Docila made her way along the dock to where mooring lines secured the Seraphim.

She carefully climbed one of the thick ropes, her small size and desperate determination allowing her to pull herself up the ship’s side.

At the rail, she waited until the night watchman’s patrol took him to the far end of the deck, then slipped over and found the nearest hatch.

The darkness enveloped her as she descended into the belly of the ship, the smell of rope and salt and wood filling her nostrils.

She crouched in the shadows, listening to the creaking of the timbers and the distant voices of the crew above.

For the first time since she’d overheard her uncle’s plans, Docila allowed herself a small smile.

She was free.

But freedom, she knew, came with its own perils. She had no idea where this ship was bound, or what awaited her at its destination. She had no plan beyond escape, no protection beyond her own wits.

And when she was discovered, as she inevitably would be, what then?

Docila clutched her bundle tighter to her chest, feeling the hard outline of the framed portrait within.

What would her parents say if they could see her now?

Her mother, always proper and refined, would be scandalized.

But her father... Docila liked to think he would understand.

He had always encouraged her spirit, her curiosity about the world beyond their small corner of England.

“Sometimes, Doci,” he had told her once, using the pet name only he was allowed, “a person must make difficult choices to secure their own happiness. The world may not understand, but that doesn’t make the choice wrong.”

She hoped he was right. Because there was no turning back now. The ship’s timbers groaned as it shifted in the water, and somewhere above, a bell rang out. The Seraphim was preparing to sail, carrying Docila Archer to an unknown fate that awaited her beyond the horizon.