Blackhearts (Blackhearts, #1)(2)

she was upset or distressed. She needed to find something else

to cook for dinner, and quickly. With rows and rows of stalls,

it would not be too difficult to find a new butcher, but she

doubted she’d be able to find the same quality.

The church bell chimed the top of the hour, which meant

Anne needed to head back to the manor, but there was no

decent venison to be found. Desperate, Anne settled instead

upon a clean stall near the edge of the market and bought two

pheasants from a small, elderly woman with a hunched back

and frail shoulders.

The woman took the coins Anne handed her and slipped

them into her pocket, watching Anne intently the entire time.

Anne ignored it, used to the scrutiny by now, after years of

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prying glances. “Do you ever have venison?” Anne asked, the poultry safely tucked beneath her arm.

The old woman nodded. “Aye, but we sold out first thing

this morning.”

Just my luck.

“I’ll be back in the future,” Anne assured her, before heading

into the busy horde. From now on she would buy from the old

woman’s stall. Anne was the only one that Master Drummond

sent to the market. There was no need for him to discover where

Anne acquired his meals—she did not understand why he took

such an active interest in his purchases anyway.

Part of her hair escaped her thick braid and cap, and she

impatiently stuffed the stubborn black strands underneath,

thinking of all the work that had yet to be done. A party of six would be eating dinner that afternoon, and she needed to get the pheasants home as quickly as possible.

Her feet turned in the direction of the harbor. Shrimp was

a favorite treat of Master Drummond’s, and she had enough

money left over. Although it wouldn’t be a lot, it might be

enough to dampen his ire. If she could not secure the shrimp,

she feared he might send her back to the workhouse, where

she’d have to labor alongside the rest of the city’s penniless

inhabitants in exchange for handouts. The thought sent a shiver

running down her back.

As Anne approached the docks, the sound of seagulls

intensified and the bells on distant boats could be heard more

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clearly. Her father had sometimes brought her here very early in the morning or late at night, when not many people were about. He’d said that the presence of the sea gave the very skies a special quality, one that could not be duplicated.

There was freedom here. It flowed through the air and lifted

the sails of the vessels as they left. How often in the last five months had she been tempted to stow away, sail off, and leave this life behind? Her mother had filled her head with stories of the West Indies, and her father had always promised to take her to her mother’s island one day.

The familiar sights and sounds of the waterfront drew Anne

in. It was hard to take a breath without inhaling the scent of salt and fish, and no one could speak without having to raise their voice over the cries of the gulls. Anne managed a smile, her first one all week.

The fishmonger she usually bought from saw her coming

and straightened, returning her smile. “Good morning, Anne.

You’re a bit late this morning, aren’t you?”

She nodded regretfully. “Yes, indeed. I don’t have much

time, but I need some shrimp,” she said, referring to the small

barrel behind him, full of the plump, gray crustaceans. “Two

pounds should do.”

He flinched. “I’m truly sorry, but those have been purchased.”

Fear sharpened Anne’s voice. “What? The whole barrel?”

“Aye. Someone came in and bought the lot.”

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“But I must have two pounds. Surely you can spare some,”

she said.

“They’re not mine to spare. Though, you can ask him yourself, if you like,” the fishmonger said, pointing at someone over Anne’s shoulder.

She turned in time to see a large figure approaching. He was

at least a head taller than she, with a broad chest, and muscu—

lar legs clearly visible in the brown breeches he wore. A cutlass hung from his waist, beneath his short jacket. He was tanned, and the hair on his head and the beard on his face were as black as the thatched roofs surrounding the dock.

She took an involuntary step backward as he stopped beside

her. He gave her a cursory glance, his green eyes bright, before turning his attention to the fishmonger. His voice was smooth and low when he spoke. “Instead of taking them myself, I’d like

you to deliver—”

Desperation drove Anne to interrupt him. “Please, sir.

Might I have a word with you?”

Once again those green eyes turned in her direction. This

time he afforded her a more complete perusal, and she swallowed the distaste in her mouth. He was no gentleman. His

appearance suggested a simple sailor, someone who could not

possibly afford the entire barrel.

“Yes?” he asked.

“It’s about the shrimp. I was wondering if I could take two

pounds from the top and pay you for them.”