By Elaine Lowe
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He exhaled a great puff of smoke and Marcus restrained the urge to cough. “Do not test me, Drake. ” Drake shook his head. “Then it is most fortunate for you that the place where I need to send you is the place you feel driven to go to. ” Marcus furrowed his brow, unable to fathom what the hell Drake was spouting off about this time. ” “Oh ho! Back to duty then so quickly! Yes, yes, it is fated to be, I see. ” Drake heaved yet another eloquent sigh. “There be a bit of all of England on that fair little Isle, from the white cliffs to the needled peaks.
I know my duty. ” The door slammed open and a no-nonsense serving woman entered, oblivious to the tension within. With that hard face, no doubt she’d seen much worse than this. “Ale. ” She slammed the tray on the table. As she turned to leave, Drake gave her bottom a swat. Marcus prepared for the blow to fall but instead the woman smiled a toothless grin and sauntered out, her ample rear swaying to and fro. Drake sat back down and pulled out a pipe from the pouch at his side. Marcus stared with impatience as he stuffed and lit that damnable pipe.
But Sir Frances Drake had summoned him and when Drake called trouble was usually sure to follow. Marcus remembered the fire and flames of Drake’s daring attacks on Cadiz and La Coruña last year. The Spanish had been bearded in their dens but Marcus knew they were coming. England was not safe, no matter if Her Majesty, Elizabeth Regina was their loyalty and their luck. He closed his eyes and blew out a harsh breath, then inhaled the scent of land, of home, England. Opening his eyes once again, he took off the dark spectacles covering his eyes and looked toward Portsmouth.
Command the Wind by Elaine Lowe