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No, he silently vowed. He would save Bea, and Wenna and her baby, too. As long as he lived, he would not give up hope. They would reach the ship and he would find them before the hull cracked and parted and the frigid water poured in to kill her.

Once more he shouted at the captain to bring his vessel as close as possible to the listing ship and ordered his archers to nock their arrows.

The captain made no protest. He’d never seen such ferocious determination as had been in the eyes of Sir Ranulf when he told him to catch that ship, and he called on every lesson, every technique, every trick he’d ever used or heard of, to coax some extra speed from his ship without having the sails torn asunder, the ribs cracked, or the rudder ripped away.

Ranulf kept his eyes on the smuggler’s barque, praying to God to keep it safe and in one piece until they could reach it and rescue his Bea, and Wenna and her baby, too. Closer they came, and closer and, mercifully, the ship stayed together.

Soon they were in range, and after his men assured him they saw no women on the deck, he ordered his archers to fire. A volley flew across the water, aided by the wind, and he heard screams as some hit their targets.

They drew nearer still and the captain shouted to Ranulf to get ready to board.

His heart pounding, Ranulf picked up a grappling hook with a long rope, one of several he’d had brought from the castle before they boarded the merchant’s ship.

Usually they were for scaling enemy walls, but they would do to get hold of the ship and bring the merchant’s larger vessel near enough to leap the distance between.

He would not fall between the ships and be crushed. No, nor Kiernan nor any of his men. Not if God was just.

As if God had heard his fervent prayers, or perhaps it was their proximity to the shore—for Ranulf was not schooled enough in the ways of wind and water to know—the fierce wind began to abate.

The waves grew smaller, although they were still enough to push the injured ship against the rocks and do more damage.

By now those aboard the merchant’s ship could see the smuggling crew on the deck of their wrecked vessel. They were armed and waiting, their faces and shouts fierce, their weapons raised. No doubt they would prefer a fast death from the blow of a sword to a watery grave or a hangman’s noose.

There was no sign of the women. They were likely locked inside a cabin or down in the hold, probably bound, maybe even chained. They would be the first to drown if they weren’t rescued before the ship broke apart.

Gritting his teeth, his jaw clenched, Ranulf threw his hook. But for once in his life, Ranulf had been impatient, and the hook landed in the sea. Quickly he hauled it back up and prepared to throw again. In the meantime, Kiernan let fly with his hook, and it caught on the ship’s rail at the stern.

“Let it go!” the captain of the merchant ship bellowed. “We don’t want to be at the stern, man!”

Kiernan dropped the rope, which lashed about like a whip, striking Ranulf hard in the face.

He ignored the pain as he waited for the captain to bring his ship in nearer before he threw his hook again.

“Now, sir!” the captain shouted. “Throw now!”

Ranulf did, with all his strength and skill and desperation. It fell on the deck and caught on the rail as he pulled it back. In the next moment, three more hooks went flying from the midship of Ranulf’s vessel. As some of the brigands rushed to cut the ropes, one hook fell into the water.

Ranulf cursed his wound that he couldn’t help pull their craft in closer. But others could and did, including Kiernan. Working with strength and unity, they brought the merchant ship alongside the wounded vessel.

Ranulf had no concern about the danger facing him on that wet and slippery deck; no fear hindered him as he prepared to leap onto the smugglers’ ship, and as soon as he could jump, he did.

Once on the ship, he scrambled to his feet and found himself surrounded by three savage, equally desperate and determined smugglers. They knew there could be no surrender. If they survived this, they would be hanged.

Even so, they didn’t stand a chance, for Ranulf was filled with burning, righteous rage.

He fought without care for his own life, the wound at his side, the blood dripping from his cheek, or his form and stance.

This was no place for finesse. This was a place where he must triumph, so he struck hard and fast, slicing through the shoulder of the first man, who staggered backward and fell.

The two others facing him jumped away as Kiernan and more men from Penterwell’s garrison leapt onto the ship beside him.

Ranulf lashed out again, and his two opponents moved farther from his reach. And then, as Ranulf’s attention was on the foes before him, another man rushed in at him from the side.

Unfortunately for the one-eyed man, he had never been trained by Sir Leonard de Brissy. Otherwise, he would have realized that the training Ranulf and his fellows had undergone ensured their instincts were as finely honed as it was possible to be.

Those instincts came to Ranulf’s aid now, and without conscious thought, he lunged at the blur of motion near him—and ran his sword through Pierre’s chest.

With a grunt, the smuggler stumbled forward. He hit the rail of his ship and, with a shriek, tumbled over it into the frothing sea. Ranulf saw his terrified face and one upraised hand desperately seeking something to grasp before a wave rolled over him and he disappeared.

Gasping as if he were drowning, too, Ranulf turned back. The rest of the smugglers were either engaged in fighting with his men and Kiernan, or were already dead on the deck.

His side burning, the pain intense, Ranulf saw two men blocking a door as if they were on guard. Or protecting something precious.

Bellowing his war cry, Ranulf rushed forward. Kiernan joined him and the two smugglers stood no chance at all.

When they were dead, Ranulf ran to the door. “Bea! Bea!” he shouted, throwing his shoulder against it as the ship gave another great shudder and heaved upward before crashing down again.

He broke through that door, to find himself in a narrow passage with another door at the end.

“Ranulf! We’re here, Ranulf!” Bea cried from the other side of that door, banging on it with her fists.

Thank God, oh thank God!

Ranulf ran at the door and hit it with the full weight of his entire body.

It shattered.

And there was Bea, desperately pulling away the broken wood from the inside of the cabin. “You’re hurt!”

“It’s nothing,” he answered as he, too, started to make the hole large enough for her and Wenna to climb through.

Once more, the ship lurched before shuddering and settling against the rock.

Kiernan appeared and joined the effort, until Bea pushed her way through, regardless of any shattered wood still attached to the frame.

She threw herself into Ranulf’s arms, saying nothing, for her heart was too full to speak.

Nor did he, because he could find no words.

Yet they hugged for only a brief moment before he let go and gently pushed her toward Kiernan, who moved her along to Gareth, as if there were a fire and she a bucket full of water to put it out.

Meanwhile, Ranulf helped Wenna through the door, her baby in her arms. They, too, were passed along until they all stood at the side of the ship, Bea and Wenna trying not to look at the bodies on the blood-soaked deck.

Some of Ranulf’s men laid a plank from the smugglers’ barque to the merchant’s ship, and it was across that perilous bridge that they would have to make their way to safety.

“Crawl across, Bea,” Ranulf said. “Or lie on your belly and drag yourself.”

Crawling would be faster, she thought. But…

“Wenna or her child should go first,” she declared in a tone as commanding as Ranulf’s.

He wisely made no protest. “Gareth,” he ordered, “sit on the plank and I’ll hand you the baby. Then you turn and hand it over to one of the men on the merchant vessel.”

He ordered two of his soldiers to hold the plank, then shouted across the space to one of the archers watching on the deck. “Come onto the plank and sit down, and be ready to receive the child.”

Gareth made his way a short distance along the plank and sat with his legs dangling over the sides to keep his balance.

With trembling arms but hopeful eyes, Wenna held out her child to him.

He took it and, twisting, handed it back to the archer, who was seated facing the same direction.

Slowly, cradling the baby in one arm, using the other hand to push himself, the archer inched his way back to the merchant’s ship.

The smugglers’ ship groaned and the plank shifted. Bea gasped and Wenna cried out, but mercifully the plank didn’t fall.

Once he was close to the merchant’s ship, the archer turned and handed Gawan to one of the crew who was leaning down to take him.

“Oh, thank God!” Wenna fervently sighed when Gawan was safely on board, echoing Bea’s own thoughts and, she was sure, that of everyone else on the smugglers’ ship.

Gareth, meanwhile, came back to the smugglers’ ship, ready to help the women. “You next, my lady,” he said.

“Wenna,” she resolutely replied, reaching out to take Ranulf’s hand in hers.

Grasping her hand tightly, Ranulf nodded, so Gareth helped Wenna onto the plank. She chose to crawl, holding to the sides and going carefully toward the other ship, and her child.

“Your turn, Bea,” Ranulf said once Wenna was safely across and taking her baby from the seaman’s arms.

She didn’t refuse. Instead, she let go of his strong hand, took a deep breath and crawled as Wenna had, trying not to look at the turbulent water below, or think about the plank tipping, or the ship behind her breaking into pieces and sending all aboard into the sea.

Two men grabbed her arms and lifted her up until she was standing, shaky but alive, on the deck of the merchant’s vessel.

And then came the most terrible wait of all as the other men came off the smugglers’ ship.

Ranulf wouldn’t leave until all the others had made it safely across the narrow plank, including the men who’d been holding it steady.

She could expect no less, and yet she thought her heart would beat right out of her chest as he began to crawl across the plank the way she had.

She thought of his fear and prayed to God to give him courage.

She saw his bloody cheek and remembered the worse wound in his side, and prayed that he would have the strength to hold on.

His face pale as a corpse, his expression grimly resolute, he kept his gaze on either his hands, or her, the entire time. Never once did he look down.

Then—oh, and then!—he was on the deck and in her arms.

She held him tight for one glorious, relieved moment before she felt his body relax against her and realized he had fainted.