The Duchess and the Dragon Read Online Free PDF

him. “Sign your name as Drake Winslow. You dare not go by Drake Weston any longer.”
    He stared at the tip of the quill, the ink so black and ready to drip, wondering if he could do it. Then he hunched over the page and scrawled the foreign name.
    “It is over,” he whispered into the dark.

    DRAKE STOOD WITH the rest of the indentured in a long line on the docks of the River Thames. The mid-morning shadows of the warehouses fell across them, shading the sun as it rose beyond the Tower of London. London Bridge sat in the distant west, a familiar black outline against the gray sky. How many times had he clattered over that stone edifice and thought nothing of its magnitude, its memories of such a great city. Now he might never see it again.
    Turning toward the west and his new future, Drake felt a shaft of doubt for his own sanity. Two ships bobbed in front of them on the dark green waters of the Thames. One, massive and sturdy, was being loaded with supplies, her hull sitting low in the water. Next to it floated their ship. Studying that rickety craft with the eyes of a man who had financed and inspected many
a cargo vessel, Drake fought the urge to slink out of line and back into the shadows.
    Being indentured was the least of his worries. His shaky resolve to follow Albert’s plan threatened to dissolve into the wisps of a nightmare. Mere weeks ago he wouldn’t have considered trusting a barrel of tea aboard this heap and now he was boarding it himself? Ludicrous! And yet, what choice did he really have?
    He looked around at his companions, dock workers and passersby, half hoping for some miracle to jump out and save him. Instead, his feet shuffled forward with the rest.
    A sudden shout drew his attention and that of his companions. A constable was leading a man, hands tied behind his back, down a gangplank and back to shore. The constable jerked to a halt, his eyes sharp as he scanned the crowd. Drake ducked his head. The hat he wore was pulled down low over his eyes, two weeks’ worth of beard darkened his cheeks and chin, but he was tall and stood out. His chances of being caught in such a disguise were slim, but still, sharp tension stiffened his spine. The colonies were better than Newgate.
    Or so he kept telling himself.
    A woman behind him coughed, a rasping sound that boded ill. His skin crawled of its own accord as he took an involuntary step forward. They were a downtrodden lot, his fellow passengers. The stench of poverty hung like a bleak aura around them. Drake shuffled even further forward, hunching down, allowing the hollow feeling in his gut to reach his eyes.
    No one he knew could possibly recognize him. He scarcely recognized himself.
    His mind fixated on the murder—those few moments replaying in his head with razor-sharp clarity. Sixteen long days since an interrupted breakfast and a poor man’s death. Days filled with watching and waiting, but Drake knew not what he was waiting for. Sixteen days of anxiety gnawing at him till he’d lost so much weight that his clothes hung from his frame in heavy folds. Sixteen nights of fitful sleep for fear the nightmares would come. Nightmares that strove to ensnare him and pull him down into madness where murderers belonged. Truth be told, he had little need for a disguise; his mask of wretchedness was only too real.
    They drew closer to the gangplank—a wet, narrow board slippery from muddy feet. The dank, fishy smell common to the Thames assaulted his nostrils; the screech of seagulls above their heads grated in his ears. A mother and two small children set foot upon the gangplank, and Drake found himself holding his breath. The youngest child, a little girl, began to cry and wouldn’t move; the boy clung to his mother’s skirts threatening to topple them all.
    “Get a move on!” A shrill voice from behind yelled.
    The woman took another step, but the younger of her children swayed. All eyes in line watched as the mother screamed and grasped a