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Nell Wingfield came in, cursing volubly as her ragged red skirt caught on a splinter. Her garish presence seemed to fill the tiny space.
    "Is this the only one not taken?" she demanded, indicating the single empty bunk. When no one responded, she looked about. "Well, it ain't to my liking. I prefer this one, beneath the lantern beam." She stood, arms akimbo, before the mousy girl who occupied the bunk. The girl resignedly began to gather up her things.
    "Leave Amy be, Nell Wingfield," one of the older ladies said.
    "Shut up, you," Nell snapped. She turned again to Amy. "And you—get your arse up."
    Genevieve felt herself grow tense. The women would have to live in these close quarters for weeks, and it wouldn't do to have Nell placing herself at the top of the pecking order right at the start. She jumped up, undaunted by Nell Wingfield's brashness, outraged by her bullying.
    "You've no right to that bunk," she stated angrily.
    "And who have we here?" Nell purred, falsely congenial. "Ah, the conspirator from above decks… A pretty little piece, and feisty, too." She frowned suddenly and shoved Genevieve away. "One side, wench. I'll sleep where I please."
    Cheeks flaming with anger, Genevieve grabbed Nell by the sleeve and, with a great push, flung her on the empty bunk.
    "Sleep there, and don't be bothering Amy again."
    Nell was upon her instantly, hissing and scratching like a great buxom cat. Emitting foul curses, she took Genevieve's breath away with a fist to the stomach.
    Genevieve was no stranger to brawling. Half her childhood, it seemed, had been spent defending herself against bullies. Guided by the wisdom of the East End streets, she wrestled Nell to the planks, finally subduing her by straddling her and pinning her hands beneath her knees.
    Nell cursed and thrashed, but Genevieve held fast, her wiry, compact strength well able to best Nell's larger size. "For the last time, Nell, you're to leave all the others alone."
    "You damned little chit," Nell ground out. But she ceased her struggling, and Genevieve knew she'd surrendered—for the moment. Genevieve walked calmly to her bunk, acknowledging Amy's tremulous smile of gratitude with a nod. For the second time in her life she'd made a friend. Behind her, Nell cursed again.
    She'd also made an enemy.

    Genevieve witnessed the
Blessing's
departure from a tiny skylight above the bunks. The women had been instructed to stay below, out of the way of the busy crewmen. She heard the tattoo of running feet above decks, the squealing of chains and pulleys, as the tide swept in and wind swelled the sails.
    Some of the women worried and prayed, clutching white-knuckled at the beams as the
Blessing
lurched away from shore. Genevieve felt strangely calm. It occurred to her that she was leaving behind everything she'd ever known. Something inside her quivered at the thought. She was being offered a new chance in life, a chance to become whatever person she chose to be, a person unhindered by the past, unlimited by the future.
    Without quite realizing it, Genevieve found herself thinking, Thank you, Roarke Adair. Just as quickly she reeled in that thought, retracting her misplaced gratitude. He may have landed her where she was now, but he'd never hear a word of thanks from her.
    After some time, Genevieve realized the
Blessing
was picking up speed, pushing smoothly out to sea. She left the women's quarters, garnering a glare from Nell, and went above decks.
    The sight of the
Blessing's
sails, puffed out like the breasts of giant birds, was breathtaking. Genevieve leaned against the rail, looking out at the misty, flat horizon. Behind were the gray-brown cliffs of England and dark waters with ominous jutting rocks. Ahead lay Start Point and Land's End, and beyond that, the endless expanse of the open sea.
    She tasted salt on her lips and felt moist air on her cheeks. The unpleasantness with Nell ebbed away, and a slight smile curved her lips.
    Moments later it disappeared.