Read Ripples in the Sand (The Sea Witch Voyages) for Free Online

have suspicion but no proof, and I respect the person who sent me the information. He has never been wrong before.”
    “Huh! One of your damned spies, I assume. Duped him to work for you, did you? Like you duped me?”
    “As it happens, aye, a very good spy. The best there is, in fact.” Jennings paused, as if choosing his words, then said quickly before he changed his mind, “Out of interest, does the name Dynam mean anything to you, Jesamiah?”
    “No. Nor do I want it to mean anything.” Dismissing the subject Jesamiah returned to the chart he had left out. This business smacked of things he did not want to become involved in.
    Jennings then fired the verbal equivalent of a broadside. “What about Chesham? Remember that name? Francis Chesham?”
    Jesamiah looked up sharply. Aye, he knew Chesham!
    Very quietly, very intently, Henry Jennings added, “He is the one who sent word about a traitor.”
    For a full minute Jesamiah sat motionless. He had never expected to hear that name again; had last seen Chesham on Hispaniola. “I reported that Chesham was dead.”
    Jennings set his glass on to the table. “You were mistaken. He is not. Because of this imperative information, Francis Chesham, for matters of convenience, decided to return from the grave.”
    Almost as carefully, Jesamiah set his glass next to Jennings’ empty one. Said slowly, looking directly at his friend with a neutral expression, “Did he now?”
    “Chesham has always been invaluable to us. We are pleased to have him resurrected.”
    Leaning back in his chair, Jesamiah crossed his legs. “Even though you have never met him? Have no idea what he looks like?”
    Jennings chortled, amused. “My dear boy, if the identity of most spies was common knowledge, they would not be very good spies would they?”
    Nodding consent, Jesamiah stretched, linked his hands behind his head. Henry Jennings, then, seemed to have no idea that his precious informer spy was a she not a he . Franc es , not Franc is . Jesamiah knew that as fact. He had made love to her a few hours before they had parted company, and she had sworn him to secrecy regarding her identity.
    Everyone else knew her as Señor a Francesca Ramon Escudero, the English ex-actress and recent widow of a Spanish Don. Jesamiah remembered her as red-haired, green-eyed and extremely beautiful.
     

Five

    Tiola never broke a promise or deliberately told a falsehood. I will keep out of the way. She stood in the relative shelter beneath the overhang of the quarterdeck, heard someone call out that the coastline was ahead, and suddenly she wanted to see the land, even if it was a distant, hazed blur beneath a storm-laden sky. Once on solid land this intense draining of her energy would go and she could replenish her fading life force. Maybe , she thought, even sight of land will help. And by going for’ard she would not be breaking her word.
    Sea Witch was battling through a heavy sea, the wind strong on the larboard quarter, the sails filled and straining. With each lift of her bow over a white-capped, curling roller, spray fountained over her fo’c’sle, hissing as it seared the deck.
    “Watch your step, ma’am,” one of the several Africans advised as her foot slipped on the wet planking. He shot out a hand to steady her, held her elbow while she regained balance and reached for the rail. Sea Witch plunged again through a great wave, her stern higher than her bow, then began to rise, the water frothing and churning as it rushed along the deck gullies.
    Breathless, for she had almost fallen, Tiola smiled her gratitude. “Thank you, I am obliged.”
    “No problem, ma’am. Best you take care out here. It be breezy.”
    Tiola broadened her smile. Breezy? This was almost a gale!
    One hand clutching the varnished, salt-rimed and ice-sparkled rail, Tiola walked carefully. Aware her legs were as unstable as sand washed by a running tide, she made her way forward slowly. At the beakhead, she huddled into