The sun burned down on my face with an intensity that made it very clear I was no longer in England, or anywhere near its shores. And what was I doing? Lying in a hammock, enjoying the warmth on my skin?

Not bloody likely!

‘Faster, Mr Linton! Haven’t you ever tied a stopper knot before?’

‘Much as it might surprise you, Sir,’ I grunted, tugging at my hand with all the force I could muster, trying desperately to free it from the tangle of rope around my fingers, ‘sailing knots are not considered an essential part of the education of an eligible young London lady!’

‘You don’t say.’

‘Will you just keep standing there annoying me, or are you going to bloody help?’

‘I thought I was going to just focus on the annoying. But since you evidently won’t get the work done alone…’

Letting his words trail off, he stepped forward and gripped the entangled knot of rope and fingers that held my hands captive. Strong, elegant, long fingers closed over mine. I wanted to shout a warning, wanted to threaten him with bodily harm if he accidentally ripped one of my fingers off - but before I could get a word out, the knotted rope fell apart and slipped to the ground.

I stared at my freed hands.

‘How did you do that?’

‘Practice, Mr Linton. Try again.’

‘Why do I have to? You have plenty of sailors on board.’

‘Yes. But if you know how to sail, I will have to pay one less crew member on our next voyage.’

I threw him a disgruntled look. ‘You really are the most abominably stingy skinflint in the history of mankind, aren’t you?’

If there had been such a thing as expressions on the stone face of Mr Rikkard Ambrose, one might almost have said he looked pleased.

‘Yes.’

‘That wasn’t a compliment!’

‘Indeed, Mr Linton?’

‘Indeed, Sir!’

‘Why haven’t you started tying knots yet, Mr Linton?’

Grumbling something I hoped was too low for him to hear, I grabbed the nearest rope.

That was how much of the days passed: during the day, I was on deck, drudging like a peasant under Louis XVI just before the Revolution, while during most of the night I had to work on deciphering the manuscript. The only difference was that, unlike Louis’s poor peasants, I wasn’t going to rebel. After a while, I found that I actually enjoyed working on the ship. I was doing something useful for a change, and learning things in the process. Mr Ambrose was right. London ladies should learn how to tie sailing knots. Not that I’d ever admit as much to his face, of course!

I was busy scrubbing the planks of the poop deck (which, thank God, didn’t really deserve its name) when I heard the shout of the lookout, far, far above me:

‘Ships ahoy!’

Jumping up, I whirled around, scanning the sea. The water was of such a bright blue here that it almost hurt my eyes to look at it. But with a bit of squinting I could just manage to look, and after a few moments, I saw them: three dark spots on the horizon. Slowly, my eyes became used to the light, and the vague shapes solidified into ships. One small boat, one two-master, and one sizeable three-master that moved just a little bit faster than the other two.

They all were heading straight towards us.

I whirled again and spotted Mr Ambrose standing a few dozen feet away, straight as a rod of iron, his hands clasped behind his back, looking out over the ocean. I started towards him, pointing to the ships that were closing in on us.

‘I thought you said there would be no pirates!’

‘Those?’ Mr Ambrose jerked his hand at the vessels dismissively. ‘Those aren’t pirates. Do you not see the flags, Mr Linton? Those are vessels of the Argentine Republic.’

‘Oh, thank God!’ I relaxed against the railing. ‘I thought we were in trouble! Thank God we’re sa-’

The thunderous boom of a cannon shot cut me short. Stumbling back, I was nearly hurled backwards onto the deck. Instead, I slammed into something hard - very hard. Two strong arms wrapped around me.

‘You do not have very good sea legs, Mr Linton, do you?’

‘Why the bloody hell are they firing at us?’

‘They aren’t firing at us.’

‘It damn well sounded like firing to me!’

‘Language, Mr Linton! That was just a warning shot. They want us to stop us, inspect our wares and collect tariffs.’

His arms were still around me, for some reason. I cleared my throat, feeling my ears start to heat. ‘Oh. If that’s all…’

‘They’re not going to start really firing until they figure out we aren’t going to stop.’

‘What?’

‘I do not like to repeat myself, Mr Linton.’

‘I don’t give a flying fig what you do or don’t like!’ Wrenching myself out of his grip, I whirled around, eyes blazing. He didn’t seem particularly impressed. He continued to look out over the ocean, ignoring me, so I planted myself right in his face to get his attention. ‘What the heck do you mean, we’re not going to stop? Do you mean to say you want to sell your goods without paying one penny of taxes?’

He didn’t even raise an eyebrow. ‘Did I forget to mention that detail before?’

‘Bloody hell, yes, you forgot to mention it!’

‘I see. Well, you seem to have deduced it on your own.’

Another thunderous cannon shot sounded in the distance. Another warning shot, but one that went by no means as wide as the first one. A fountain spewed up next to the Mammon, splattering us with saltwater. Something that felt like a small fish bounced off my head. I stumbled back, sputtering and cursing. Mr Ambrose didn’t move one inch, not seeming to notice the rivulets of water dripping from his top hat. I glared at him.

‘It’s not very hard to deduce at the moment, Sir!’

‘Correct.’

He still hadn’t deemed to look at me, but stood on deck, a wet and chiselled statue, his arms crossed and his face showing not a hint of worry or anxiety. I wondered if throttling the captain was acceptable nautical behaviour. Probably not.

Damn!

‘You can’t bloody sell goods without paying taxes!’

‘Why not, Mr Linton? It’s the preferable way of selling goods. It generates maximum profit.’

‘But that means we’re smuggling!’

‘No, Mr Linton. We are defending one of the inviolate rights of man: the principle of free trade.’

‘Which is?’

‘I can sell whatever I want, whenever I want, wherever I want.’

I took a moment to translate this from Ambrosian speech into normal language. ‘In other words: you smuggle.’

‘Of course not! There’s a vast difference between free trade and smuggling.’

‘Indeed, Sir?’

‘Indeed, Mr Linton. Brave defenders of free trade such as ourselves have the armed power of the British Empire behind them. Smugglers don’t.’

‘But… it’s still illegal.’

‘Technically not.’

‘Oh, really? Care to explain?’

He deemed to glance at me then. ‘The Argentinians closed their borders a few years ago. Now, trade is weighed down by heavy tariffs, and restricted to a few large ports controlled by the government. It is illegal to sell goods anywhere else on Argentinian soil.’

‘And?’

‘And we are not going to sell goods on Argentinian soil. With brand-new steam engines made in Britain, we can sail up Argentinian rivers, and sell our goods along the river. If the customers come aboard, they will in fact be on water, not on Argentinian soil. Therefore, our selling goods is not illegal.’

I stared at him.

‘Are you serious?’

He turned the full force of his cold, sea-coloured eyes on me. ‘Do I look like I am joking?’

‘That’s splitting hairs!’

‘Very profitable hairs. They are well worth splitting.’

‘And the Argentinians? Do you think they agree with your creative ideas on the legality of free trade?’

Mr Ambrose considered for a moment, gazing at the ships and smoking cannons in the distance, tapping his lip. A thunderclap ripped apart the air as a third, and probably final, warning shot sounded.

‘Probably not,’ he conceded.

I used a very colourful expression I had learned from Patsy, who, in turn, had gotten it from her father’s drunken old coach driver.

‘Language, Mr Linton!’

‘I’ll use any damn language I damn well want! We’re being shot at!’

‘I am aware of that fact, Mr Linton.’

‘Well, don’t you think we should bloody do something about that?’

‘Yes. It is time now.’

I sighed. Well, thank heavens! Finally, he had seen sense! We were going to stop and pay our taxes, and then we could go on our way like good little sailors.

‘Sahib!’ Karim came striding over to us, his beard flying like a flag in the sea breeze. ‘The Argentinians are signalling us! They want us to take in our sails and prepare to be boarded. What do you wish us to send in reply?’

Mr Ambrose took a step forward, clasping the railing with both hands. If possible, his face became even harder. Hard as bedrock.

‘A broadside.’

‘Yes, Sahib.’

For a few moments, I wasn’t sure I had heard correctly. Then, commands were being shouted across the deck, and the ship began to turn. I stared at Mr Rikkard Ambrose, wide-eyed.

‘You can’t mean to…Oh God! You’re going to attack the Navy of Argentina?’

‘No. I am not going to attack. They were the ones to fire the first shots.’

‘They were warning shots! You said so yourself! They were just threatening us!’

‘Indeed.’ For a moment, Mr Ambrose took his eyes off the sea, and met mine, sending an ice-cold shiver down my back. ‘I don’t take kindly to being threatened, Mr Linton.’

Oh dear…we were in trouble. Big trouble.

But not as big as the Argentinians were in.

The ship was nearly turned by now. Mr Ambrose marched along the deck, taking up a position at the centre of the ship, facing the Argentinians. They had slowed down. They obviously thought we were stopping to be boarded.

‘Ready?’ Mr Ambrose asked.

Karim glanced at the first mate, who nodded.

‘Ready, Sahib.’

Holy Mother of…! This can’t be happening! It simply can’t!

‘Fire!’

It can’t be happening! It can’t be happening! It ca-

BOOM!