Chapter Two

Mombasa, Kenya

The small boat bobbed gently in the sea, the wooden hull creaking as it drifted toward the bustling port city of Mombasa. Spencer stood at the edge of the bow, his rough hands gripping a thick rope as he stared ahead, eyes fixed on the distant shore.

Alex's eyes remained closed as she rested her head on the wooden wheelhouse wall behind her. Personally, she was exhausted, as any normal person would be after spending the night reading into the wee hours, followed by an early morning boat ride.

Spencer hadn't gone to sleep after she'd read him the last letter, and she hadn't expected him to. He must be tired, but his energy never appeared to wane.

As the sun crawled its way into the sky, he'd flown into action, getting dressed and packing their things in record time. Once finished, he'd stood in the open doorway and told her he was going to find a friend that would take them to the mainland, that it could take a while to find him and for her to rest while she could. And then he was gone.

She'd fallen asleep fairly quickly, snuggling into the pillow Spencer's head had just vacated. It had seemed like minutes later that Spencer entered, announcing they were to leave. She'd been surprised to hear he'd been gone over an hour.

Her eyes opened when she felt his looming presence sit beside her, his right thigh touching her left. A wide-brimmed brown hat shaded his face, though it couldn't hide the weeks of scruff along his jaw, rough and unshaven.

She smiled, trailing her fingers across the wiry hairs. His blue eyes were piercing with his tan more prominent than a week ago. They had spent a lot of time under the African sun, especially on the island.

Spencer took her hand and kissed the palm, before resting their latched hands in his lap. His expression turned serious. "When we get to port, stay close," he said firmly.

Alex glanced at him, amused. "I came through Mombasa before. It was fine."

"You came through with a group, and your driver was waiting," Spencer reminded her. "We have neither. Stay close."

She gave a small nod of agreement, sensing the tension in his voice. She kissed him to rid him of his frown.

As the boat pulled into port, Spencer secured it to the dock with a practiced hand. Alex busied herself gathering their belongings, passing him his rifle, safely tucked in its leather pouch, before lifting their bags.

Spencer turned to the boatman with a nod of gratitude, handing over five African rupees.

It wasn't taken. "Last ride for a friend is free," the man said with an easy smile saved for trusted friends.

Spencer swung his army-green rucksack over his shoulder and waved farewell to his friend.

He turned back toward Alex, who had done exactly as he asked—stayed close. A little too close. He accidentally stepped on her foot.

She let out a small grunt. "You said stay close. Ow." Then she laughed, shaking her head.

Spencer smirked, grabbing her hand without another word and leading her off the dock.

The air clung thick and heavy, a mix of salt, spice, and the tang of fresh fish baking under the relentless sun.

Mombasa's port was alive with motion, a swirling mass of color and noise, merchants yelling in a language foreign to her ears. Fishermen sat by the docks, mending nets and stacking their traps, their voices blending with the rhythmic clang of ship bells and the distant beat of Swahili drums. Seagulls circled above, shrieking over the day's catch as they wove through the vibrant streets, hand in hand.

Spencer moved through the bustling streets with purpose, his boots kicking up dust, his rifle slung effortlessly across his back. The weight of his army-green canvas pack pulled at his shoulder, thick buckles securing the flap, two coiled ropes swinging at either side, a leather pouch jutting out from beneath the straps. He looked like he belonged in a place like this—rugged, sun-beaten, dust-streaked—his beige shirt undone at the collar, tan trousers tucked into worn leather boots

Alex noticed several stares directed at the two thick leather belts criss-crossing his waist, heavy with rifle cartridges and pouches, every piece of gear practical, well-worn, and necessary.

She didn't blame them for staring. They were a striking couple and, amidst the sea of dark-skinned locals dressed in bold colors, Spencer and Alex stood out. Their dusty, travel-worn, and muted tones contrast against the vivid life of Mombasa.

A soldier and a runaway. Two people on the edge of the world, stepping into the unknown.

Life was such an adventure with Spencer.

They pushed forward through the crowded, loud marketplace, bustling with vendors selling goods beneath red canopies. Yellow walls were lined with colorful wares, a palm-lined stretch of food stalls spilled into the streets, where vendors roasted maize and samosas over open flames. Shading stalls overflowing with goods—hanging fish, spices heaped in golden mounds, woven baskets dangling from wooden beams.

Just when she thought her senses would explode, they finally spotted a sign: Union-Castle Line.

Stepping inside the ticket office, Spencer adjusted the rifle slung over his shoulder. The clerk, a mustached man dressed in a crisp black-and-white suit with a bow tie, eyed them curiously. His nautical hat, adorned with a golden anchor, sat neatly atop his head.

"I need to book passage to America," Spencer stated.

The clerk arched a brow. "America? And how do you expect to do that?"

"You tell me," Spencer replied evenly.

The overdressed man scoffed, shaking his head. "We have no liners to the States. I can book you to London. You can arrange transport from there."

Spencer exhaled through his nose. "Then book me to London."

"Which class of travel?"

"The cheapest."

The clerk barely hid his disdain. "First class is forty pounds per passenger. Tourist class is thirty, but the lady will melt below deck, while you, sir, will war with the rats." He sent a meaningful look to Alex, "And I do not refer to rodents."

Spencer glanced at Alex, then back at the clerk. He wouldn't put her through that. "First class, then." Not for the first time, he wondered over the wisdom of his decision to bring her home.

The man nodded, flipping through his ledger. "How long is the journey?" Spencer asked.

"Depends on traffic at the Suez. A month, give or take…" The clerk ran a finger down the page before stopping. "Your vessel is the RMS Franconia. You will embark on… November the eleventh."

Spencer turned to Alex, lowering his voice. "That's three weeks. I can't wait three weeks."

"What's another option?" she asked, concern flickering across her face.

Spencer shook his head. "I don't know… We're gonna have to find out." Grabbing Alex's free hand, he turned for the exit.

"There are no other options, sir!" the clerk called out on their way out.

Spencer ignored him.

Once on the main road, he easily navigated the way toward a familiar hotel, weaving through the throng with practiced ease. They soon arrived at the modest hotel, an attached yellow building, its green shutters open to let in the sea breeze.

"You'll like this place," he assured her as he held the door open for her to pass through. "Clean, and the food downstairs is the best this side of the city." And, most importantly, fairly priced.

A porter in a crisp uniform greeted them, tipping his hat as he helped with their bags. The check-in was swift, Spencer's prior stays smoothing the process, and soon they were climbing the narrow staircase to their room.

It was simple but welcoming. A sturdy bed, a writing desk by the window, and a ceiling fan that lazily turned overhead. Alex ran a hand over the cool linen sheets before setting her hat down. With a tired sigh, she stretched her arms overhead and declared,

"I am absolutely famished. After I freshen up, we are going downstairs for food. No arguments."

Spencer chuckled as he unfastened his bag. "Wouldn't dream of it," he said. "You'll love the curry here. It's the kind that lingers in your memory."

Alex had already begun unpinning her hair, her mind set on the meal ahead.

Sunlight streaming through the windows, striking the top of her head, making her blonde curls, now wild and free, shine like gold. Despite the dirt and dust of travel, she still carried herself with an effortless elegance, her billowing white blouse and thick brown belt cinched at her waist accentuating her figure.

She was so damn gorgeous. And all his.

When she kicked off her boots and slid off her pants, wiggling her delectable ass practically in his face, he decided food could wait. There were much more pressing matters that needed his attention.

The restaurant below the hotel was alive with the hum of conversation, the clatter of cutlery, and the rich aroma of spiced meats and simmering sauces. Oil lamps cast a golden glow over wooden tables, and the air carried a hint of the ocean through the open windows.

Beside him, in the window seat, Alex sat with an easy grace, a slight smile played on her lips as she gazed out over the water,

They had just placed their order when raised voices emitting from the back room gained her attention.

A group of men sat in a dimly lit space beyond a beaded curtain, their laughter low and rough, the glow of their cigars cutting through the haze of smoke. Glasses clinked, filled with whatever strong liquor fueled their talk.

She leaned slightly toward Spencer and murmured, "Those men," she pointed, "they were by the docks earlier. I recognize them."

Spencer followed her gaze, his eyes narrowing slightly as he observed the group.

"They might know something about booking an earlier passage," she suggested.

Spencer exhaled slowly through his nose, considering this. Then, without a word, he pushed back his chair and stood, slipping his hat from his head and draping his jacket over the back of his chair—a silent message to anyone watching that Alex wasn't alone.

"Watch the hat. It's my favorite." He joked, not wanting her to know that he was worrying about other men joining her.

Lips twisting with amusement, she mockingly saluted, "Aye, aye, sir."

He leaned down, brushing a kiss against the crown of her blonde head. "I'll be back before the food gets here," he promised, his voice low and sure.

"You better, or I can't promise the food will be here," she grinned, "I did say I was famished."

He laughed at her excuse, and felt her eyes on him as he strode toward the back room, slipping through the haze of smoke and the scent of tobacco, stepping into a space filled with the grizzled faces of seamen who had spent their lives chasing horizons.

The room was thick with the scent of tobacco and sweat, the air rippling with the murmur of conversations in a dozen different accents. Lanterns flickered against the cracked plaster walls, casting long shadows over rough faces and weary eyes. Most of the men were dark-skinned, their hands calloused from years at sea, though a few pale deckhands sat among them, their clothes stained with salt and grime.

Spencer stepped forward, his presence unnoticed at first amid the boisterous chatter. He didn't hesitate, lowering himself into a chair across from the first man who met his gaze—a broad-shouldered brute with a greasy sheen to his skin, his gut pressing against the straps of his overalls. The man lifted a copper mug to his lips, his thick fingers curling around the metal as he took a slow drink.

"I need to get up the Suez sooner than three weeks from now. Know of a way?"

The man's dark eyes studied him for a moment, then flicked toward the entrance. "It's just you?"

Spencer shook his head. "My bride."

The man coughed on his drink, setting the mug down with a dull clang. "Bride… A woman?" He spread his hands as if to clarify the absurdity of the notion. "Mister, this—this ship is a trawler. The quarters, they are… The deckhands, they are… well, they are deckhands." He shook his head, making his point clear without needing to say more. "A woman on board? No."

"No isn't an option," though more and more he was tempted to send her back to London, home safe.

He squinted. "Is she pretty?"

Spencer smirked, his gaze automatically locking on Alex through the beaded curtain. She was laughing at something the person who refreshed her drink was saying, her smile radiant. "She'll take your breath away."

The French man had followed his line of sight. Seeing the bride, he scoffed, glancing around the room at the other seamen—rough, hardened men who had spent too long at sea.

His voice dropped lower. "Are you crazy? No. They will throw you overboard and keep the woman for themselves. No."

Spencer's jaw tightened, but the man didn't let the thought linger. He scratched his chin, then pointed across the room to a man sitting alone, his back slightly hunched, a drink cradled in his gnarled hands.

"I have an idea for you," the Frenchman said. "That old man. He is transporting a tug to the Suez. Once you get there, you can get passage to anywhere."

He eyed Spencer. "He is looking for deckhands. Ever worked a deck?"

Spencer hesitated for the briefest second before answering honestly. "No."

The Frenchman sighed, shaking his head in disbelief. "Better you lie. Say yes." He pushed back his chair and stood. "Come."

Spencer followed as the man crossed the room, the murmur of conversation shifting as eyes flicked toward them. The Frenchman slapped a heavy hand on the table in front of the lone figure.

"Lucca!"

The old man, Lucca, barely stirred at the mention of his name. He sat hunched over his drink, the candlelight flickering against the deep lines of his face. His weathered hands, scarred and steady, curled around the chipped ceramic cup. Without looking up, he muttered, "Who's askin'?"

The Frenchman clapped a hand on Spencer's back, pushing him a step forward. "This one." He dropped into a chair, motioning for Spencer to do the same. The wooden chair groaned under Spencer's weight as he settled in, but Lucca still didn't look up until asked, "You found any sailors yet?"

Gnarled fingers lazily tapped against his pipe as Lucca took another slow drag. Smoke curled from the corner of his lips as he finally spoke. "Nobody wants to transport a tug. All the money's on the merchant ships and whalers."

The Frenchman smirked, jerking a thumb toward Spencer, "Got one right here says he'll work your deck for passage."

Lucca finally lifted his head to scrutinize Spencer like a man who had spent a lifetime spotting weakness in others. His sharp gaze dragged over the man in front of him, taking in the way he carried himself—the way his hands rested easily but his shoulders held tension. He said nothing at first, just let the silence stretch between them before deciding. "Looks like a hunter," he muttered.

Impatient to get back to Alex, Spencer leaned forward, tone firm. "I need transport to a port that gets me to Britain."

Lucca scoffed, shifting in his seat. His black beanie sat low over his forehead, barely keeping the stringy gray hair from falling into his eyes. His denim button-up was open, revealing a stained white tee underneath, frayed at the collar. He didn't look like a man in a hurry to do anyone favors.

Spencer pressed on. "I can pay. And I'm willing to work."

At that, Lucca's brow lifted slightly. "How much you want to pay?"

"Cruise liners charge. I'll pay you that."

Lucca snorted. "Thirty pounds to swab deck and stow gear?" He didn't have to think long. "All right. You got a deal. We leave first light. Harbor nine, slip—"

Before he finished, his hand shot out, gripping Spencer's forearm. It wasn't an aggressive move, but firm, deliberate. His thumb traced over the ridged scar on Spencer's skin, his expression shifting from amusement to something darker.

"Mustard gas," he muttered.

Spencer tensed slightly, caught off guard. "How'd you know that?"

Lucca's gaze turned distant, his fingers slowly releasing their grip. A hollow silence stretched between them before he finally spoke, voice thick with something heavy and unspoken.

"Used to captain a liner… made into a hospital," he rasped. "Brought the boys on who got hit with that mustard. Once you've seen them boys… There's no unseeing it." His throat bobbed. "You just know it when you look at it."

He coughed—a deep, wet sound—before clearing his throat, shaking off the moment. "Mr. Hunter..." he said, his voice rougher now. "Tomorrow, we're gonna make a sailor out of you."

Another coughing fit overtook him, his body convulsing slightly as he gagged, groaned, and finally spat into the cup in front of him. Spencer caught the glimpse of dark red staining the inside. The old man wasn't long for this earth.

Lucca wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, "First light," the old man repeated, before tipping back his drink like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

After satisfying their appetite, Alex asked to stroll through the market they'd passed by the docks. She was thinking of purchasing one of the beautiful pashminas she'd seen hanging. Spencer humored her, never complaining as he walked at a slower pace to match her smaller steps.

"You've seen every vendor booth- twice now," Spencer pointed out as she rifled through yet another rack of local goods. His brows went up when she again walked away with nothing. "Aren't you gonna buy anything?"

She smiled, "Present company is gift enough," she spoke it lightly, but knew it was the truth. She hadn't felt the urge to covet a single thing since winning the grand prize.

The sharp cries of seagulls echoed across the docks, blending with the rhythmic lap of water against the hulls of anchored ships. The air smelled of salt, fish, and engine oil.

Alex and Spencer walked in step, holding hands, their boots scuffing against the wooden planks.

"Have you sent a wire?" she asked. her voice quiet beneath the distant shouts of dockhands.

Spencer turned slightly to meet her gaze, silently asking her to explain.

The breeze played with loose strands of her hair. "To your family. Letting them know you're coming."

Spencer shook his head. "Can't send a wire to the States from here."

"Ships can," she countered.

He frowned.

She had to prove she knew what she was speaking about.

"They have radios that can send signals a thousand miles or more," she explained. "I toured the helm on our passage. The captain showed me how they relay messages from ship to ship until they reach London."

She smiled then, tilting her head toward him. "From London, they can wire anywhere in the States."

Spencer said nothing, but the look he gave her was one of reluctant admiration.

Alex's lips twitched, beyond amused by her macho American cowboy that always had to be in control.

The docks stretched ahead, lined with towering steamships and smaller merchant vessels, their decks bustling with movement. Spencer led the way toward one of the larger ships, its pristine white hull reflecting the warm glow of lantern light.

A uniformed officer stood at the gangway, his navy-blue coat pressed crisp, gold stripes gleaming at his shoulders. He took one look at them before speaking.

"You need permission to board this ship, sir," he said.

Spencer removed his hat. "Apologies."

The captain's expression remained impassive. "If you're looking to book passage, the Union Castle office on Hudson handles all departures."

"I don't need passage," Spencer said, voice strong and steady, "I need a favor."

Alex was sure it galled him to even ask, and she was proud of him for doing it just to put his Aunt Cara's mind at ease.

Spencer continued, choosing his words carefully, "My family in the United States has suffered a tragedy. I must return home today. But I need to send word ahead. Could you allow me to use your radio?"

The captain gave a single nod. "I can send that message."

A young shipmate handed Spencer a well-worn logbook and a pen. "Write the recipient's name here, sir. And the message."

Spencer pressed the pen to the page. She watched him scribble something down, and noted his handwriting was almost as neat as hers.

"Thank you," he murmured.

"My pleasure, sir."

As they exited the ship, Spencer caught the grin tugging at Alex's lips, the kind that hinted at some private amusement.

He narrowed his eyes. "Why are you smiling?"

She clasped her hands behind her back, rocking on her heels. "I'm extraordinarily pleased with myself."

"That so?"

"Mmm-hmm." She lifted her chin. "You should be smiling too. I'm proving quite resourceful on this journey, and we haven't even left yet. No telling how I'll save the day next."

Spencer gave a noncommittal grunt. "Yeah. No telling."

She sighed dramatically. "Oh, I'm sorry. Is my jovial nature infringing upon your sullenness?"

He stopped them in the middle of the crowded dock, hooked an arm around her waist, and looked down at her. "You're not going to do this the entire trip, are you?"

"Do what?"

"Talk."

She shot him the look—the one women reserved for men who had thoroughly exasperated them.

"I talk when I'm nervous," she informed him. "If you'd speak as well, you could cut my talking by half. But no, you're too busy sulking, which makes me doubt everything, which makes me more nervous, which means I must double my talking to compensate."

Her words came out in a rush, and even as she spoke them, she felt the weight of them. His family had been slaughtered. They needed him, and he'd ignored them for two years. The reality of it settled over her like a damp chill.

Still, she forced herself to keep her tone light.

"Frankly, I'm shocked it bothers you. Most men find it quite endearing." She lifted her brows, feigning innocence. "I've blabbered my way into many a courtship, let me assure you."

She struggled to keep a straight face at the bold lie. Arthur had been her only courtship, and that had proved… not worth the effort.

Spencer didn't know that, though, "Oh, I have no doubt."