THE next morning they landed in the cove where HMS Mermaid had foundered over a hundred years ago. The Cutter had been nail-sick—leaking badly. The nails had rusted out and every nail had to be removed and replaced before the ship could safely sail on. During their enforced stay the crew had carved the ship’s name and date on one of the distinctive native boab trees that must have been large then, but was vast now.
The cove was beautiful, the weird bottle-shaped Australian boabs were spectacular—and Finn couldn’t get close to Rachel.
She was surrounded by elderly ladies. She’d greeted him easily at breakfast, but otherwise he was just another passenger and she had friends all around her.
Not including him.
After they’d seen their fill of boabs, the passengers split. Jason was leading a strenuous cliff climb, and Esme was leading a gentler cliff walk.
Jason assumed Finn would be on his team, and seeing Rachel join the cluster of little old ladies around Esme, Finn thought joining them would be too obvious.
Why was Rachel with the old ladies? Was it because her hip hurt or because she was avoiding him?
That was his ego talking, he told himself, and it didn’t matter. It was good, in fact. He wasn’t interested.
But he glanced behind as Jason led the way up the track—and caught Rachel doing the same.
Their gazes met—and then Rachel deliberately looked away.
Liar. He was interested.
* * *
At lunch Finn sat with a honeymoon couple and a farming couple from Queensland. The farmer and his wife were great company. The honeymoon couple were playing footsies under the table.
Finn was trying to be good company, but he couldn’t stop being...interested...in a slip of a girl two tables away.
The average age of Rachel’s table must be ninety, yet she didn’t seem to notice the age disparity. Her table erupted in laughter over and over, and he thought, here’s a woman coping with tragedy but there’s no way she’s letting it interfere with the happiness of those around her.
How much of the bubble of laughter was an act?
He didn’t know.
He shouldn’t be interested.
* * *
After lunch, as instructed, he headed for the deck where Scrabble was promised.
If his mates at the boat-building yard could see him now...
He grinned, and then he thought of one of his fellow apprentices. Sean had been spotted through the window of his girlfriend’s house, and she’d been using his hands to help her spool wool. Pink wool.
Sean had been given heaps, but he hadn’t minded nearly as much as Finn thought he would.
‘I’m keeping her happy,’ he’d said serenely. ‘She’s worth any amount of pink wool. She’s a good ’un.’
Was that where Finn was now? Doing what it took to make a woman happy?
No. Friends. Not interested.
He pushed open the lounge door and stopped short.
‘Come in.’ Rachel beamed a welcome. ‘We’re ready. Isn’t it lovely; we’ve found more players. The Miss Taggerts play, too. We’ve decided five’s too many for a satisfactory game so we’ve split. I’m playing Maud and Miss Veronica, and you’re playing Miss Margaret.’
‘Call me Margaret,’ his elderly opponent said, beaming her pleasure at having Finn all to herself. ‘Next you can play Veronica. If we’re fast you can get round all four of us.’
* * *
He played two excellent games of Scrabble, one with each of the Miss Taggerts. They played well, and he almost found himself enjoying it—except he wasn’t playing Rachel.
She was watching him, approving, he thought, as he concentrated fiercely on not being beaten. But approval suddenly wasn’t enough.
Was he nuts? What had changed? Why was this woman becoming so important to him?
He’d made a vow about fellow passengers.
He was close to making a vow about women in general.
So much for vows. Her laughter had him intrigued, wanting more.
‘Another match tomorrow?’ Maud demanded as they finished the second game and the intercom announced the next expedition.
‘Fine,’ he said weakly.
‘Rachel’s booked a radio phone call to her sister tomorrow,’ Maud said. ‘So that leaves just the four of us. What say we play two against two?’
And Rachel’s lips quirked—and he saw laughter and mischief in her lovely brown eyes
‘You’re doing okay,’ she said softly as she passed him on the way out. ‘For a scoundrel.’
* * *
Two more days. Shore excursions, laughter, Scrabble—nothing more.
Finn was starting to go nuts.
Waiting was hard.
He was waiting for the crew to slip up, waiting to see if he could prove his suspicions. But he was also waiting for the cruise to end—so he could decide whether he could think about maybe...
Maybe going somewhere he’d never gone before?
Unknown territory. Uncharted waters.
And then the ship stopped.
* * *
He wasn’t asleep this time. Finn wasn’t a guy who needed lots of sleep and he had enough on his mind to keep him awake into the small hours. He’d been tracking the ship’s course on GPS, comparing it to the maps he’d packed. He knew, therefore, that the Temptress was off course and he wanted to know why.
As the engines slowed, he slipped out into the night. Not to the top deck. Rear mid deck, he thought. If his suspicions were correct... If there was anything to be transferred it’d be easiest from the lowest level, and the mid deck overlooked the lower.
He was wearing dark chinos and a black T-shirt. He should blacken his face, he thought ruefully—but then, a passenger wandering the decks at night was normal. A passenger with a blackened face? Not so much.
But nobody saw him. It was easy to slip through the darkened passenger quarters, easy to find himself a shadowed nook overlooking the rear, easy to settle with his phone camera—and wait and see what his crew was using his ship to do.
* * *
The ship had stopped.
Had they reached their destination? The crew usually used the passengers’ need for sleep to transport them from one wonderful spot to another. Rachel had looked at the map last night and thought they’d be travelling all night.
They must have made good time if they were there already.
The wind was getting up a little and the sea was choppy. She lay in her luxurious bunk—okay, bed—and wondered where they were.
She wondered all sorts of things. She’d been wondering for hours.
Sleep was a luxury that had been destroyed the night her baby had died. She slept in patches now, in between dreams.
If she was at home she’d get up and watch something inane on the telly. Anything was better than lying here and thinking of her baby—and thinking of Finn Kinnard.
She wouldn’t mind another spa, she thought, but Esme had taken her aside and given her a solid talking-to. ‘Please don’t go out onto the decks after midnight. The ship rolls. Even though it looks stable, the top deck gets quite a list when the sea’s choppy. I know the spa’s lovely but we wouldn’t want you or Mr Kinnard to be lost overboard.’
But Finn had said—solidly—that they had the right to be there. The decks were well railed and she was sensible.
She really wanted to see where they were—and she’d had enough of staring at nothing.
She wouldn’t go near the top deck again, she conceded. Spas in the moonlight... Okay, been there, done that. Finn could have them on his own. But if she went to the rear lower deck she could watch the moonlight on the water. Get some perspective.
Think about...nothing?
She wouldn’t think about Finn Kinnard. She’d think about nothing.
And no swimming costume this time.
She wasn’t planning to stay out there. She had no intention of running into Finn again. Not in the dark. No way. She’d slip out and take a look and then retreat.
She’d only be out for a moment... Just for a look... There was no chance she’d bump into Finn again. She wouldn’t even have to get changed.
Decision made, she tugged on a jacket over her nightdress and headed for the deck.
* * *
There was no way the ship should be here.
Deviating from the prescribed route was itself a cause for huge concern, Finn thought grimly. These waters were littered with uncharted rocky outcrops. The route for the Kimberley Temptress was carefully planned to avoid them; to ensure there was no risk to the passengers, who were Finn’s sole responsibility.
But his GPS told him they were miles north of their chosen route, and the ship seemed to be drifting.
Why were they here?
The ship was almost in darkness and that was another cause for concern. There should be lights along the rails. The bridge was still lit, but faintly, and the back of the deck was in darkness.
Finn edged to the rail, staying in shadows. People were moving below him on the aft deck. Shadowy figures. Two? Three?
They were at the rail, looking out to sea.
And then, so quietly that if he hadn’t been straining to hear, he could have missed it, came the sound of oars. An expert rower, moving fast but with stealth. There was barely a splash.
The people below him opened the guard rails, allowing access to the open sea. The rowing boat was right there, tossing a rope to be caught, tugged to lie alongside. Flashlights flicked on. One of the crew...Esme, he thought, recognising her slight figure...knelt and received something from someone in the boat, handing it back to those waiting behind her.
‘We should have got it all last time,’ Esme hissed furiously, as Finn strained to hear. ‘Next run, one drop. No matter what we pay, the Captain’s getting edgy.’
‘The weather was too clear and there was a yacht too close for safety.’
‘It’s our call whether it’s safe or not.’
‘We’re not putting our necks on the line.’
‘If you’re going to be a coward...’
But whoever was in the rowing boat didn’t like having his courage slighted. There was an oath, and the next package was hurled rather than passed. Esme tried to catch it and missed.
The package hit the deck with a thump, revealing silver paper, ripping as it landed. Finn caught a glimpse of something white spilling out.
‘Have you guys caught something? Can I see?’
And, from where he stood, Finn recognised Rachel’s voice and froze. No!
Bad had suddenly become a whole lot worse.
Esme whirled and her flashlight lit the newcomer. Its beam hit Rachel—who was looking absurdly cute in nightdress and jacket, but she also looked confused.
She must have come down the outside steps to see what was happening, Finn thought. She’d think this was a bit of night-time fishing. The silver package would have looked like a fish thumping on the deck. A couple of the old guys on board fished here during the day.
Normal.
Bu there was nothing normal about this. The beam from Esme’s flashlight hit her in the face and she flinched.
One of the men flicked his flashlight at the split package.
It definitely wasn’t a fish.
‘Turn that off,’ Esme snapped, but it was too late. Rachel would have seen—as Finn had seen—the parcel, its white powder spilling onto the deck.
And Rachel’s face changed.
‘I’m sorry. I...I’m intruding. I’ll go back to bed,’ she managed and stepped backward but Esme moved faster, gripping her arm with a force that wrenched her forward.
‘Let me go.’
‘Don’t hurt her, boss,’ the engineer said, sounding appalled. ‘She’s a passenger.’
‘She’s seen.’ Esme’s voice was a vicious hiss. ‘Hell. We have no choice. I won’t let this mess us up.’ This. She was speaking as if Rachel was a thing rather than a person. A thing that had got in the way. ‘She goes overboard—now.’
Another man was behind her, shoving her closer to the rail.
Three against one. Martial arts training was never going to help Rachel here. They were pushing her, hard.
Bad had turned to appalling. Bad had turned to do something now!
The smart thing would be to go for help—smart for him, but not for Rachel. He could raise the ship but it’d take minutes and meanwhile Rachel was being dragged inexorably to the open gate.
He had seconds. There was no choice.
‘Leave her be.’ He stepped out of the shadows, yelling, his voice booming across the stillness of the night. ‘Let her go, now!’ He headed down the stairs three at a time, out onto the deck—where three of his crew were suddenly holding guns.
He hadn’t anticipated guns.
He hadn’t anticipated anything.
Wrong. He’d guessed drug running could explain the constant delays. He just hadn’t anticipated it could be so...deadly.
The thought of his crew drug running made him feel ill—but what was making him feel worse was the sight of two guns aimed straight at him, and one aimed at Rachel. And Rachel was already far too close to the open gate.
‘Get with her,’ Esme snapped at him and shoved Rachel further toward the gate. She stepped back. Rachel managed to grab the side rail but only just. Esme motioned the gun at Finn. ‘Now. And one more word out of you and I’ll shoot.’
Guns were pointing straight at him. Leaving was not an option. Neither was shouting.
Somebody might already have heard.
Nobody was coming.
‘You can’t shoot them.’ The engineer sounded and looked appalled. ‘Hell, Es, we’ll have the country on our heads.’
‘There’s rough weather ahead,’ Esme snarled. ‘If they fall in some time before dawn, what fault is it of ours? These two have already been reported as carousing on the top deck. We’ll toss a couple of champagne bottles around, make it look like it was a party. The crocs will get them—but we’ll make sure first.’
And, with no hesitation at all, she raised her gun and she aimed at Rachel.
And Finn dived straight at Rachel, and knocked her overboard.
* * *
She could swim, and she didn’t panic.
He learned that about her in the first seconds after they hit the water. He grabbed her hand as they fell, and held. Instead of flailing for the surface, she twisted toward him underwater and he felt her make the decision to stay with him. He tugged her down, and she came, diving back beneath the ship and sideways.
They had to release hands to fight their way under the shelter of the hull, but he kept with her, just touching. Holding his breath as long as she did. Each moved instinctively away from the murderous thugs at the ship’s rear.
Thank God the boat had stopped. Thank God there were no propellers.
They surfaced towards the front of the ship, as close to the hull as they could get. They were shocked to numbness, but tucked right under the forward hull was the safest place for them. They couldn’t be seen unless someone walked along the rail, bending over with a flashlight. Searching. With a gun.
Maybe someone would.
‘I can scream,’ Rachel whispered, sounding stunningly composed. ‘My scream can wake the dead.’
He thought fast, and rejected it just as fast. ‘You heard them,’ he managed. ‘Even if someone’s already heard yelling... It’ll play to their story. We fell, they saw us, they saw a croc. Once they know we’re here, they’ll have no choice but to shoot.’
‘Then...’ Her composure faltered.
‘We need to swim,’ he whispered, his thoughts bleak as death but knowing it was their only chance. ‘They can’t search. If they put on floodlights they’ll wake the boat. Unless they’re sure they can kill us before anyone else reaches the deck, they can’t risk it. The water’s choppy. They won’t be able to see without searchlights. How well can you swim?’
‘As far as I must,’ she said, calm again, and if he was astounded already at her composure, he just grew more so.
But he didn’t have time to be astounded. There was only time for survival.
‘The tide’s going out. The current will take us north.’ He was thinking as he was whispering, holding her with one hand, touching the hull with the other to make sure they didn’t drift out from the ship to where they could be seen. ‘There’s an outcrop a few hundred yards to our north. That’s obvious—if they send out a tender to search they’ll find us—but there are smaller outcrops behind. Do you think...?’
‘Give me a minute.’
‘We don’t have...’
But she was fast. She was twisting herself out of her jacket, whirling it into a rope, knotting it round her waist. ‘Just making me streamlined,’ she explained. ‘Go.’
They went.
* * *
It was the swim of nightmares, but the nightmares had to be blocked out or tempered with reason.
The water was rough and ink-black, and behind them were people who wanted them dead. The guy in the rowing boat played in his mind. He’d have come from a bigger boat. If the Temptress left the area, he could use searchlights.
But the guy was angry with Esme, he thought. That might help. He wasn’t a crew member. He’d know neither Finn nor Rachel would be able to identify him—or the boat he came from. He may well refuse to search for someone who couldn’t necessarily incriminate him.
He decided to hold that thought and block out others.
Like reef sharks. Like crocodiles.
They were in the open sea. Crocs usually stayed close to land, sticking near estuaries and river mouths.
They did go further afield...
And reef sharks? Don’t go there, he told himself. It achieved nothing to know that any minute they might be a sea creature’s snack.
They. That was the word to keep nightmares at bay. Beside him was Rachel, swimming strongly and steadily alongside him.
He needed to rein back to keep beside her but that was no hardship. They swam so that at every second stroke their hands touched. They swam as if they were rowing, stroke for stroke, keeping solid, steady rhythm. Together.
The feeling grew, a solid, tangible comfort. Apart, there was nothing but the sea and the blackness and the fear, but together they could do this.
He was aware of her as he’d never been aware of a woman in his life.
They couldn’t stop except for occasional gasping pauses where he tugged her hand and stilled and checked the horizon until he found what he was looking for—a rocky crag lit faintly by the moonlight. Each time he signalled to her, adjusted their course, pressed her hand—that part seemed more and more important—and then kept right on going.
There was no room and no energy for talk. There was nothing but the sea and the blackness and each other.
This was no short swim. An hour? Who knew? Time couldn’t be measured. He wasn’t trying to measure. There was a crazy intimacy within this peril and, weirdly, he found himself thinking of the sensation.
He didn’t do intimacy.
Finn was the only child of a sickly, emotional woman whose life had been shattered by her loss of control. His grandmother had been even more emotional, disintegrating when her daughter died and never recovering. By the time she, too, had died, when Finn was fifteen, he and his grandfather had suffered enough emotion to last a lifetime. ‘You keep your feelings to yourself,’ the old man had told him, over and over. ‘You don’t inflict them on everyone else. It gets you nowhere.’
And when he’d questioned the old man’s stony face at his grandmother’s funeral, his grandfather had turned on him.
‘You don’t need people,’ he’d snapped. ‘Look at your grandmother. Your mother died and she decided her life was over. She did nothing but weep for ten years until she died herself. That sort of emotion...it destroys people and you’re better without it.’ He’d stared down at his wife’s fresh grave and his face had grown grim. ‘Ten years of grief, followed by yet more grief,’ he’d muttered. ‘Learn from me, boy. You don’t need people.’
That was how he’d been raised. Right now, though, Finn needed Rachel.
She wasn’t as strong a swimmer as he was. Without her, he’d be closer to the island by now, but without her he’d also be alone in this appalling blackness—and alone was the way of madness.
Though...without Rachel, he wouldn’t be here. Without Rachel, he could have stayed in the shadows, learned what he needed to learn to place this whole mess in the hands of the police when they reached Broome. It was Rachel stepping innocently onto the aft deck who’d thrown them into such deadly peril.
But then... It wasn’t Rachel’s fault.
The dark and fear were making his thoughts convoluted, twisting backwards and forwards.
Rachel was a passenger on his ship. She was a passenger taking a night stroll and she’d walked into harm’s way because of the illegal activities of his crew.
He’d had his suspicions. He could have gone to the police in Darwin. They might not have taken his concerns seriously—what evidence did he have, other than delays and inconsistencies?—but he could have tried. Or he could have cancelled the whole cruise.
There was no use going down that road. Guilt achieved nothing.
In truth, there was no use thinking of anything. There was only the night, the sea and the touch of Rachel’s hand.
The further they went, the harder it grew to fight against the current, and the last hundred or so yards to reach the island was the worst. Rachel was hardly making progress. Another woman might panic, he thought—anyone could panic right now, himself included—but there was no choice.
Head down. Stroke after stroke. Touching hands. Always touching hands.
They were fighting through breakers now. The tidal currents were fighting each other, causing a surge of white water.
Stay in contact. Stroke, stroke...
And then, magically, there was a patch of calm, where the water stilled. He looked up and saw a platform of flat rock, just out of the water as the tidal currents surged back.
A landing place.
He gripped Rachel’s hand and she paused and looked up and saw what he was seeing.
Deep breath.
Head for the platform.
He reached it and hauled himself up on the rocky ledge, then turned to grasp her. They had to be together. For him to reach the ledge and lose her was unthinkable.
He had her. The current caught and tugged but he had her fast, lifting her as if she were a featherweight, up onto the rock-face and out of the sea.
He had her.
She sagged in his arms.
‘Not yet, sweetheart,’ he told her, harsh and loud into the night. ‘Not now. We need to climb.’
He didn’t say more. Exhausted or not, they had to move. Maybe she knew but, if she didn’t, he wasn’t telling her. Flat rock ledges on these islands were rare enough, and they were places crocodiles could use to rest or digest their kill. Or find something else to kill. A croc could launch itself at them here in an instant.
They had to get higher.
He tugged her to her feet and pulled.
‘No,’ she whispered.
‘Yes,’ he said inexorably. ‘Now.’
They stumbled in the dark—of course they did. Both were barefoot. The rocks were rough and sharp but he couldn’t allow her to pause. He kept the pressure on her hand and he could feel her limping. He knew her hip would be killing her, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was dragging her upward and she was doing her best to help.
And finally, finally, he found what he was looking for. A sheltered crag, high above sea level, out of the path of the wind, a ledge too far up for crocs to reach. It was dry and flat and sand covered, enough to make it softer than sheer rock.
A refuge. Safety.
The relief was almost overwhelming. He hauled her the last few steps and turned and took her into his arms. He dropped to his knees and she did the same. He held her hard against his chest and he let his chin drop onto her soaking curls.
Heartbeat to heartbeat, he simply held.
‘We’ve made it, sweetheart,’ he said at last, in a voice that was none too steady. ‘We’ve done it. We’ve made it to safety.’