The Pirate Captain

CHAPTER 11: On a Beachfront

Given what Cate had learned at Lady Bart’s, Nathan and Pryce judged it would be a day or two before the ship bearing Creswicke’s betrothed would arrive, and so a course was laid for a place to wait. The men’s failure to reference their destination by name in Cate’s presence was taken as an indication that she hadn’t fully regained Nathan’s trust. There was the chance, of course, that he didn’t consider such bits of information to be of interest. It was anyone’s guess.

The studdingsails—pronounced “stuns’ls”—were set. Sideways extensions of both yard and sail, the vast spread of canvas gave the sense of the Morganse spreading her wings, rising from the water to sail like the wind-loving spirit that she was. Their destination was at last pointed out to Cate: a link in a far-flung chain of islands. Emerald against the azure of sky and water, skirted by a frill of white sand, to Cate’s eye, it possessed no distinguishing characteristics from the innumerable other razor-backed, hunched shapes they had passed. In the catalogue of islands Nathan carried in his head, however, this one was unique and the Morganse made for it with arrow-like sureness.

As they drew nearer, the sails were furled, the ship folding her wings, like a bird circling to land. The topmasts were swung down. Usually executed to reduce overhead weight, in this case it was the ship’s version of ducking her head, rendering her almost visible against the island behind which she now laid.

Impromptu rafts were quickly rigged, some to move everything necessary stores ashore. Cate was beginning to appreciate the concept of “the New World,” for that was what lay before her. Her foot tapped an impatient tempo on the floor of the longboat carrying her ashore, anxious for first opportunity to freely roam land.

From the anchored ship, the island looked exactly as one would expect a pirate safe haven: a broad sparkling bay, with a long stretch of white beach, bracketed by palm trees. Up close, the beach wasn’t as pristine as one would have thought. Signs of previous visitors abound: charred stumps of campfires, posts erected in the sand, tree stumps, and piles of discarded coconuts. Still, there was an Eden-like air.

“Damn near every one of these islands harbors wild pigs or goats,” Nathan cried. “Let’s have some fresh meat!”

Going ashore called upon an entirely different set of skills, each man assuming a new identity. Those who knew the land or were decent marksmen were sent as foragers. The strongest swimmers were sent with nets and spears. The strongest backs were put to chopping wood or hauling fresh water. The less adept were relegated to propelling the constant flow of craft to shore and back, loading, unloading or setting up camp.

Even with Hodder’s colorful expostulations echoing down the beach, rules ashore were a considerably more lax; no man was shy in his work, but neither was one shy in taking his ease. If a duty was finished, waiting for the next assignment could well mean laying in the shade, with a lavish application of grog.

“Is this what pirates do? Lay around on a beach, drinking?” Cate asked. Years of living in the Highlands had instilled in her the Scots’ distaste for anything that resembled laggardliness.

Intrigued by the notion, Nathan paused to look around. “Pretty much. If idle hands are the Devil’s playground, best not leave a hand empty, eh?”

He plucked a horn cup from a nearby lounger and downed its contents in a single gulp. Wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, he gave a roguish wind and strolled off.

Eager to see the island, Cate gathered up several baskets in preparation to join one of the foraging parties. Her hopes were dashed by a bejeweled hand on her arm and a “Not bloody likely!”

Cate had brought both her blood box and basket containing honestones, oil, and rags. It took both her stones and Petrov’s, the armorer’s, grinding wheel to keep up with the demand for edges on everything from broad axes to skinning knives. She was caught in an odd cycle of sharpening, and then repairing the damage inflicted by the same: a hatchet into a leg, a knife-speared hand and a machete-sliced arm.

The sound of a musket shot broke through the drone of labor. Everyone stopped to swivel his attention to the eastern arm of the bay. A residual puff of gun smoke marked the signal from the lookouts: a ship had been spotted.

…Seven…Eight…Nine…

If it couldn’t be heard, the silent counting on the part of every man could be felt.

Ten.

Nothing. One shot, one ship.

“Any vessel bound from Boston would be a-comin’ out o’ the west,” Pryce said, appearing at Nathan’s elbow. A clatter of rings marked Hodder’s presence. Their gazes fixed to the east, Pryce only put to words what they all appeared to be thinking.

Nathan nodded distractedly. “If they mean ill, they’ll pull in for sure; if they’re friendly, they’ll drop anchor.”

Neither scenario sounded pleasing.

Shortly, a runner arrived. Smalley—the longest-legged, and therefore, the fastest—skidded to a halt. “Compliments and duty, sir. Sail!”

“So I gather,” Nathan said dryly. “And?”

“Three-master.”

“Ah, well, that narrows it down to roughly two-thirds of the vessels what ply these waters. Report when you can illuminate us more fully.”

“Back to work, the lot o’ ya’s!” Hodder’s bellow startled Cate, spurring everyone to their tasks.

Idleness not being Cate’s nature, during a lull in the sharpening, she set to packing sand into the freshly Stockholm-tarred, wrist-thick ropes of the boarding nets, and then dragging them into the shade to cool and harden. As she worked, her mind continued to drift to the invisible approaching ship. She was entirely too new to this pirate world, and was envious of their ability to go about their duties with such blithe disregard.

Eventually word came from the lookouts on the Morganse’s mastheads. Cate straightened slowly, wiping the varnish and sand from her hands on a bit of rag as Diogo reported.

“Compliments and duty, sir. It’s a three-master, hull up, one o’ them French-made, by Damerell’s judgment.” The news was credible. Multiple vision-enhancing, gold rings notwithstanding, Damerell was the sharpest-eyed of all the ship’s people. “Blue-hulled with a yellow-checked boot.”

Nathan lifted his head interestedly. “Colors?”

Diogo squinted with the effort of recalling. “Flyin’ red and black; looks like a heart with a cutlass through it. He begged me to tell ye of a blue-and-white checked pennant, too.”

Nathan’s eyes sharpened. “Are you sure about that?”

“Sure as Damerell can be about anything, if you please, sir.”

“Well, rip me jib. I’ll be a son of a bitch.” Nathan snapped his fingers, grinning. “I think I know who it is.”

“Verily, Cap’n?” Pryce asked looking on, Hodder alongside.

Nathan’s enthusiasm leveled. “Aye, but discretion ’tis the better part of valor.”

“Are they coming here?” Cate’s pulse raced in alarm at the prospect.

“No reason to think she would pass a perfectly good anchorage,” Nathan said with annoying pragmatism. “She’s probably just made the crossing and anxious for anything resembling a solid hook, and in need o’ wood and water.”

Having crossed the Atlantic, Cate was very familiar with the yearning for dirt.

“What do we do?” she asked.

Nathan and Pryce regarded her, bemused by the “we” reference.

“We make ready for the worst and hope for the best. Sure as God made French whores, I know who it is, but there is always the Demon Doubt, eh?” It was a thin attempt on Nathan’s part to lighten the mood.

“Mr. Pryce, pass the word to Mr. MacQuarrie to gather his crews. They’re to be first to ship. Have ’em make ready and clear the decks. I’ll attend directly. But if she,” Nathan said, with a nod toward the heretofore unseen ship, “plans to take the ship, it will most certainly not be including you.”

Nathan ended with an emphatic look at Cate.

“Mr. Hodder, whilst Mr. Pryce and I are aboard, you’re to be in charge of those remaining ashore…and her! Need I review the consequences, if anything should happen?” A not so subtle shift of Nathan’s eyes punctuated his meaning.

In a clatter of ivory, Hodder snapped to attention and executed a salute that would have merited the Royal Navy. “No, Cap’n! Rest assured”

“Good man.” Nathan wheeled around to Cate. “You will be going on that little forage of which you were so anxious.”

“Forage?” she goggled. For a moment, she thought she had misheard. Nathan’s sudden change was quite transparent, and she was going to have none of it. With a ship bearing down, next to Nathan was so very much more inviting. “But you said—”

“There’s what is commonly referred to among pirates as ‘an emergency,’” he said, with an edge of sarcasm. “We do what me might to avoid them, but there’s a limit to what Providence allows. Mr. Pickford!”

“Aye, Cap’n?” came the answer in short order.

“You’re familiar with these islands?” Nathan’s inquiry was superfluous, since Pickford had been made master of the foraging details.

“Aye, sir! Like the back o’ me hand.” Pickford rocked on his toes with pride, setting the garland of dried ears swinging at his neck.

“Very well, a-foraging you shall go, and you’re to take her with you,” Nathan added with an emphatic jerk of his head.

Pickford blinked in surprise, but made no comment. Cate felt the stab. Once again, Nathan couldn’t bring himself to call her by name. She could count the number of times on one hand—a few fingers, in fact—that he had ever done so.

“Roam far, and do not come back, no matter what you hear. Comprendes?” He spoke to Pickford, but bore her with a look, as if he harbored doubts of her ability to follow orders.

…no matter what you hear…Cate didn’t want to contemplate what that might signify.

Suddenly her knowledge of the pirate world seemed woefully lacking. Did they get on or did they fight like territory-minded dogs? Was the Brotherhood, as Nathan had referred to it, exactly that, or was it an allegiance limited to shipmates? Warring nations or alliances?

Her worry must have been evident; Nathan smiled in the spirit of reassuring her. It didn’t. With surprising familiarity, he squeezed her shoulder, and then gave it an encouraging pat.

“No worries, luv. As I said, I know who it is, but you don’t live to be an old pirate being careless. I’ll come for you as soon as I may. Now go. Go!” Nathan repeated more firmly when Cate didn’t move. “I can’t pay proper attention to a bloody thing if I have you to worry for. I’ll come when I can. Now go.”

Again, she understood his cost for having her about. She looked to the circle of grim faces on the awaiting foragers. The jury was in, unanimous.

“The minute it’s safe,” she insisted to Nathan.

“The. Minute.”

Nathan prodded Cate toward Pickford. “And try not to give the poor man anymore gray hairs than ’tis absolutely necessary,” he called after her.

With visions of flashing sabers and roaring great guns, Cate knew all too well how capricious life could be, how it could take violent turns. She also knew the pain of remorse, the fruitlessness of wishing what one should have done or said. Swept by a wave of panic, she wanted to throw her arms around Nathan and tell him everything in her heart.

Instead, Cate heavy-footed behind Pickford, feeling like an unwanted orphan. She paused at the treeline for a final look, but Nathan was already lost among his men. She could hear his graveled voice drifting down the beach, barking orders no differently than on deck.

Cate left the white glare of sun and sand, and plunged into the trees’ deep shadows. As the undergrowth closed in, the sea breeze died, and the air grew heavy with heat and moisture. The high canopy of trees afforded protection from the sun’s full blast, but its sultry presence was still felt. Beatrice’s bright blue plumage could be seen soaring overhead. Paralleling their path, she lighted from tree to tree, pausing to indulge in the occasional treat.

Looking up, Pickford paused next to Cate. “She’ll call out if there be aught alarming.”

Cate looked back toward the now-obscured shore, and wondered if “aught alarming” was happening there. She eyed the men surrounding her. Ordinarily made up of clusters of four or six, this detail consisted of over a dozen, each known for his marksmanship. A single musket would have been the standard, and yet an extra, sometimes two, was slung over every shoulder, a minimum of two pistols at their belts, with double powderhorns and shot bags. She determinedly pushed away thoughts of what might be transpiring on shore; silence had to be taken as a blessing. Idleness being anguish’s playground, she set to work.

A basket and dibble was shoved into her hands. Ignorant of the West Indies, she was at a loss as to where to start. Under Pickford’s and Harrier’s tutelage, however, she was soon industriously digging wild onions and ginger. Kneeling in the semi-rotted foliage and sweating, she loved every minute. During her walk on New Providence, she had been able to only observe the lushness. Now she was a participant, in it literally up to her knees. After months afloat, to have soil between her fingers and dirt under her nails…It was heavenly!

As soon as one basket was filled, another was issued. She was shown fruits and nuts—soursop, tree melons, and cashews—as well as those which were to be avoided. In this Garden of Eden, hazards awaited both underfoot and overhead: an inadvertent brush against a branch or sitting under the wrong tree after a rain could mean disaster. Herbs and local cures were shown to her, as well, and she collected them for her blood box: lis rouge and plantain, for swelling or sores; physic nut, for poultices and boils; gully root and monkey’s hand, for headaches; and fit weed, a cure-all for everything from fainting to convulsions, vomiting to fevers.

So engulfed in the work, Cate lost track of time. She jerked upright at hearing periodic gunshots, at the same instant knowing they came from inland. Hunters then, doing what hunters did best. The pause to take a drink from the water gourd at her waist allowed her mind to drift back to shore. Her sense of direction told her they hadn’t yet moved so far that muskets or cannon wouldn’t be heard. That direction was still ominously and blessedly quiet.

Where the trees thinned, she could see the sun make its march across the sky. Several hours had passed, the afternoon heat waning, when the last of the baskets and gunny sacks were filled to overflowing. Pickford and the rest of the party stood in indecision, their Captain’s strict orders heavy on their minds.

“Do you suppose it’s safe?” Cate finally asked. Hands twitching at her sides, she vibrated to be away.

“Cap’n said as the first sign o’ trouble, we were to head inland,” Pickford said.

“Yes, but there is no ‘sign o’ trouble’, is there?” she said with asperity. “If the Cap’n objects, I’ll tell him it was my idea. If we hear anything like trouble, we can always turn around and go back, can’t we?”

Pirates they might be; bristling with weaponry, capable of pillage and plunder, sending women and children screaming at the name, they were unprepared to deal with an intransigent woman. They balked sufficiently to claim they did, and then struck back toward shore, laden with their treasures.

Cate’s step quickened as the sea breeze freshened. She pushed through the last barricade of greenery, and it met her full in the face, bringing with it the smell of saltwater, burning wood, and tobacco. The worst fears had haunted her. As she stepped onto the beach, she expected to see blood and mayhem, cannonball craters and bodies strewn.

Instead, she found two ships on their moorings and the picture of peace. As advertised, the new arrival was royal blue, a brilliant yellow-checked strip banding her hull. The number of men on the beach had nearly doubled, the gently curved sand strip now a festive beehive. A makeshift camp had been set up, with shore galleys and cook fires. Sun dodgers had been rigged: stout branches planted in the sand with a piece of canvas stretched over.

A burst of jocularity came from one such lean-to near the central cook fire. Nathan’s laugh was easily identified, although never had she heard him do it so genuinely. As she neared, she could see him and another man lolled in the sand. She turned a quizzical eye to Pryce as their paths intersected.

“Old friend,” he offered succinctly. His thick shoulders hunched with disapproval.

Cate looked toward the water and the visiting ship with new interest. “Who is it?”

“The Griselle, ’cordin’ to the Cap’n.” That qualification seemed to hold significance. “Can’t be a-sayin’ fer sure, but the Cap’n claims she mostly sails the African waters, Arabie n’ such.”

“And the Griselle’s captain?”

Rocking on the balls of his feet, Pryce’s skepticism grew. “Don't rightly know, sir. Never met ’im afore, m’self.”

Cate studied the First Mate. By the set of his brow and line of his mouth, his mother-hen tendency toward anything that might pose a threat to his precious flock was in full alert. Her thoughts were broken by another burst of laughter.

“Well, at least it sounds friendly,” she said.

“Aye, friendly it ’tis.” Pryce waggled his heavy eyebrows, and whispered from the corner of his mouth, “I’d be a-steerin’ a canny course and bear a weather eye, if ‘twere me.”

She approached as advised. The two men were leaned back against puncheons or bags in their patch of shade, a bottle of rum at their respective sides.

“You're the one who said we could make it across the street without the guards seeing us,” the visitor cried, fizzing with humor.

Nathan pointed an accusing finger. “Aye, well, how was I to know that whore of yours was going to scream her bloody head off?”

“She wasn't my whore; you paid for her. She just fancied me.”

They broke into another peal of laughter, the stranger wiping his eye on his sleeve. Their merriment was infectious, Cate smiled without knowing why.

“’ello, luv!” Nathan called in a slightly slurred voice. His face lit at seeing her. He enthusiastically waved her closer. “I’d like you to meet an old friend—“

“Watch who you’re calling old,” growled the visitor congenially.

“An old friend,” Nathan repeated. “This is Thomas.”

Thomas’s head casually turned and he lurched upright. A pair of lake blue eyes raked her and he executed a bow from the sand.

“Well, well, Nathan, you old shellback. You never told me you had anything like this aboard.”

“Easy, mate,” Nathan warned good-naturedly. “Darling, this is Thomas, captain of yon Griselle.” He waved a misguided hand over his shoulder.

Cate bobbed a reserved curtsey. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain Thomas.”

“Just Thomas will answer.” Leaning heavily on one arm, he openly appraised her. “Very nice, Nathan. Very nice, indeed, although you always did have the luck with the women. Always gave me the leftovers,” he said to her with a conspiratorial wink.

Nathan cleared his throat sharply. “Come and join us, luv.” He hooked a bucket with his foot, dragged it nearer, and invitingly patted the top.

She could feel Thomas’ eyes following her as she passed, but was still startled when he reached out to seize her by the hand.

“And what might your name be, lovely?” he crooned, pulling her closer.

“Cate.” Nathan uttered it with sufficient sharpness to break Thomas’s stare. “Cate Harper.”

It was notable that Thomas might have been a friend, but not so much for Nathan to trust him with her real name.

“Charmed,” Thomas murmured. He pressed her knuckles to his lips, lingering far longer than would have been proper in most circles. His grasp was strong but gentle as he rolled her fingers between his. “I'll be looking forward to getting to know you so very much better.”

As politely as could be managed, she extracted her hand from his grip “You said you would come get us when it was safe,” she said hissed at Nathan as she sat.

Nathan batted his lashes in overt innocence. The bruising now faded to a purplish blue looked like kohl around his eyes. “Did I? Bloody insensible, that. Although, it might be said no woman is safe with Thomas about.”

Punctuated by a shift of the eyes, the comment carried an undercurrent of tension. Ducking her head, she looked up from under her brows to find Nathan, smile gone, one eye narrowed, watching Thomas watching her.

“Pray tell, how did you two come to know each other?” she asked, hoping to break the awkwardness.

Nathan smiled at that. “Thomas and I were mates years ago. About fifteen, were we not?”

“You were. You've always been the older one.”

“Not by that much!” Nathan said, puffed in mock indignation. “But, in addition, I also happened to be the wiser.”

“Aye, we were on the Gryphon—“

“No, no, ’twas the Nautilus first, then the Gryphon,” Nathan corrected.

They laughed knowingly, a private joke. Cate sensed it wasn’t a prudent time to inquire further.

Cate watched the two men for the next while, her brothers frequently coming to mind. As they recounted one escapade after another, they ricocheted from something akin to a competition, of who could weave the biggest lie about the other, to mellowed mutual admiration and lauding praises. On rarer moments, they sobered as reminisced about shared hardships and lost friends.

More cautiously, she watched Thomas. She had tried to imagine what Nathan’s friends might be like; Thomas was nothing like what she had expected. They were exact opposites: Thomas was tall, broad and fair. The dark blue eyes shining over broad cheekbones and the honey blond hair pulled back into a heavy tail gave him a Viking-like appearance. No woman would have been safe with this dashing pair in port. Possessing the same easy manner and dazzling smile as Nathan, Thomas wore his handsomeness as matter-of-factly as the brace of pistols crisscrossed at his waist, and the massive baldric, its dagger scabbard perched at his shoulder. The mat of golden chest hair at the opening of his shirt was marked by a diagonal scar. It was proof life had battered him as much as Nathan. Like Nathan, too, he talked with his hands, his blunt-tipped fingers punctuating his conversation rather than illustrating.

She looked down at her lap to find her fists clenched—painfully so—her knuckles gone white. She knew why, at the sight of Thomas, her heart had lurched and then sped, and cold prickles raced down her back. She also knew why she had paraded herself just a bit as she walked past him, and why she now sat teetering between cold dread and the urge to throw herself at him.

He looked just like Brian.

The sound of his laugh echoing down the beach had hit her in the chest like a fist. The eyes had been the next shock, the same dark blue to which she had lost her heart. The voice, deep and soft, resonated in her bones. Many similarities ended there. Brian’s hair had been the color of bronzed copper, his mouth wider, lips fuller. He had been slimmer built and had spoken with a soft Highlander lilt. Brian would have never leered at a woman the way Thomas just had, nor mentally undressed her as he kissed her hand. But the mannerisms, the smile…

Damn! It was him!

Nathan regarded her, sensing something amiss. Cate tried to rearrange her expression to something more common, but Nathan’s concerns weren’t appeased. Saying something could have broken the ice, but the only thing that came to mind was, “He looks like my dead husband.”

Unable to sit any longer, Cate lurched to her feet, both men jerking at her abruptness.

“I’m…I…er…” She searched the beach for an excuse, finally landing on a water bucket a short distance away. “I need to wash…Digging!” she declared, displaying her hands. “I’ve been digging and…”

She spun away, stalling in mid-step to execute a wobbling curtsey and mumble a barely intelligible nicety to Thomas. Then she scurried off, leaving the two somewhat slack-jawed.

“Wash?” she heard Thomas say in her wake. A disbelieving smirk edged his voice.

Nathan sighed indifferently. “From what we’ve been able to gather, ’tis a matter of women. Bloody perplexing; strikes without warning. All in all, ’ tis best left to lie.”

Once at the bucket, she was compelled to do something or look the complete liar. She bent to splash water in her face and found a pleasant surprise. It was filled with island water, sparkling and fresh compared to what she was accustomed to on board. Sluicing it again and again, it washed away not only the day’s sweat and grime, but the light-headedness that had seized her since seeing Thomas. As she discreetly turned her back to use her hem as a towel, she discovered she was directly downwind from them. Apparently, there were no secrets on a beach either.

“She’s stunning,” Thomas was saying.

She kept her face to the rough linen of her skirt a little longer lest anyone see her reddening cheeks.

“Is she? I hadn’t noticed,” Nathan said, offhandedly.

Thomas laughed, a deep and infectious sound. “Either you’re blind or a goddamned liar, and a bad one at that.”

“She’s a…guest.”

Cate’s cheeks heated further with the sting of Nathan’s disinterest.

Thomas gave a derisive snort. “How long have you had her? Any chance of you might be tirin’ of her yet?”

“Hold your tongue, mate,” Nathan said, evenly. “She’s not that kind.”

“Oh, come now, Nathan. This is me, not some shave tail still on his mama’s tit.”

“I mean it,” Nathan warned, without malice. “She's a good league above us, better than anything either one of us could ever hope for.”

“Well, we can always dream, can't we?”

“I wouldn't dare,” Nathan said after an interval, so low-voiced she could barely hear. “I wouldn't dare.”



###



As evening threatened, the work details converged to deliver their bounties: basketfuls of crabs, turtles, oysters, and shellfish from the bay; nets of fish from the sea and river, and game, two pigs, and a goat. With the exception of the last, Kirkland used it all, along with cabbage, pickled vegetables, olives, and spices from the ship’s stores to make a stew of sorts.

The Griselle’s cook was a man by the name of Youssef. Black-eyed, solemn, he was as territorially intransigent as Kirkland when it came to his galley. Given the language differences, it required the negotiating skills of both captains and a second cooking fire a designated distance away before armistice could be achieved. At his fire, Youssef jealously oversaw his own version of stew, a more pungently spiced version, enhanced generously with garlic, wine, and rice. Hermione blithely grazed while a wild cousin turned on a spit next to a brace of pigs.

As the purple hill shadows replaced the sun’s brilliant yellows, pot lids were clanged to beckon one and all. Cate sat against stacks of bagged coconuts, with Nathan barefoot at her knee, wielding a small mallet. Several lobsters had been thrown on the coals, and now he sat with a board across his lap, cracking shells. Swearing each time a finger was hit, he doggedly refused suggestions that his rum intake might have influenced his accuracy. Amid the merriment, interjecting his own embellishments to any story being told, he dredged fingerfuls of meat through melted butter and fed them to Cate. Chin dripping, eyes rolled in delight, she insisted several times she couldn’t take another bite, but couldn’t resist the elegant, slippery fingers stuffing the morsels between her lips.

Hunger sated, the sea rovers fragmented into smaller, more intimate gatherings, their fires dotting the shore like amber jewels. The Griselle’s crew brought an exotic texture to the gathering, most of her people hailing from African or Asian ports. As their music drifted on the evening breeze, the different strains melded into a multi-cultural, somewhat off-key refrain. Pirates they might have been, but first and foremost they were men, and engaged in what men did best: drink, smoke, tell insufferably unlikely stories of outlandish bygone deeds, recount legends, myths, and folk tales, sing raucous songs, and tell ribald jokes, salting it all with a heavy dose of laughter.

Glowing with spiced rum—another of Youssef’s specialties—Cate reclined against the bags in pleasant agony. His culinary task complete, Nathan joined Thomas in entertaining everyone around the fire with the chronicles of their adventures. Launching to their feet, they performed recreations, cavorting and pirouetting to the delight of everyone. Nathan was mesmerizing. With an audience at his feet, he was in his glory. Animated hands and exuberant expressions, flashing teeth and devilish eyes, he shamelessly told story after story. The two personalities created a whole, one beginning a sentence, the other finishing. Imitating each other to perfection, they jeered and jested at the other’s expense. It was friendship at its purest, and a grand sight it was.

Men filtered from their fire, until only Nathan and Thomas remained. Nathan’s guard slowly lowered, and became someone Cate thought might be the closest to the real Nathan, the one kept so meticulously enshrouded. He glanced at her frequently, his self-consciousness outweighing his curiosity. It was another aspect rarely revealed: vulnerability, uncertain if she would accept him for what he was rather than what he appeared to be, asking with a faint smile or a twitch of the eye, “Is it too distasteful? Too disappointing? Too ordinary?”

After the initial shock, Cate grew accustomed to Thomas, and was able to focus on the innumerable differences, while striving to convince herself he was nothing like Brian. Thomas’s eyebrows were a little heavier, his nose a bit longer, his fingers a little thicker. The bones that stuck out at the sides of his wrists weren’t as pronounced, and his two front teeth were squarer. Brian’s voice had been softer; Thomas’ possessed the deep resonance that came with such a large chest. Still, it was a constant battle not to let down her guard. Cate was subject to minor shocks: a lurch of the heart triggered by a sound, a glimpse, or a word, and the flush of need would surge through her once again. She focused on the ways Thomas was different, but her heart clung to all the similarities.

At one point, they were distracted by a commotion a short distance away, a fight erupting.

“Aren’t you going to do something?” Cate asked. She watched over her shoulder with growing concern as the confrontation between the two exploded into a brawl of over a dozen.

Thomas only lifted his head from his reclined position to observe. “Yours, I think.”

“Aye, so it would seem,” Nathan said disinterestedly. “Hold off. Those two what just jumped in are yours. No,” he said, directed to her inquiry. “Pirates.”

The single word was offered as an all-encompassing explanation. Still, as uninterested both men posed to be, they suffered that male characteristic of being unable to tear their eyes from a fight.

“If we were aboard, I’d be obliged to put them ashore and settle it there. Saves time all around, I’d say,” Nathan explained.

He glanced toward Thomas for affirmation, who readily concurred.

“Only a fool would wade into that,” Thomas added with conviction and took a drink.

As one would imagine, a pirate fistfight was a nasty, brutal affair and not limited to fists. In point of fact, anything that came within reach was employed, the combatants bludgeoning each other with everything from buckets to sticks of blazing firewood. Distance spared Cate the full visual effect of the damage inflicted, but she could still hear the meaty smacks, the crunch of bone, and pain-laden grunts.

“Maybe I should go see if anyone needs help,” she said.

“Not bloody likely!” Nathan and Thomas said in near unison, with a glare that pinned her in her place.

As predicted, such combat could be sustained for a brief period of time. The fighting stopped with the same suddenness as it had begun. It ended with handshakes, brotherly pats on the back, and toasting each other through broken teeth and spitting blood.

“So, tell me, Nathan,” Thomas said from across the fire during a lull. “Just what exactly are you doing here? How did you just happen to be anchored at the Straits?”

“We needed water and firewood and—”

“No, no, no!” Thomas waggled a finger. “Let’s cut the bull. This is no water and wood stop. You're up to something. What is it?”

Nathan glanced to Cate, and then leaned back on his elbows. Crossing his ankles, the tips of his braids sketched random patterns in the sand behind him.

“Always the nosy one, weren’t you?” Nathan said with grudging good humor. “We are awaiting the arrival of a most important newcomer to the Caribbean. But, before arriving, said newcomer shall be visiting her aunt’s home in Hopetown.”

Thomas sat up with interest and loosely draped his arms on bent knees. “Really?”

“Said newcomer,” Nathan went on, situating himself more comfortably, “arriving from Boston, is betrothed to one of the finest and most upstanding members of these waters.”

“And since she's coming from Boston, she would just happen to pass through the Straits. And, by some miracle of happenstance, the Ciara Morganse will just happen to be there exactly at the same time.”

“Exactly!” Nathan declared, jabbing a victorious finger skyward.

The firelight sparked on the amusement in Thomas’ eyes. “And to whom, pray tell, is this lovely creature betrothed?”

“Lord Breaston Creswicke.”

Thomas’ smile fell, the blue eyes sharpening. “Nathan, are you sure you want to do this?”

“Absolutely.” Nathan returned a level gaze across the flames.

“Well,” Thomas conceded, chuckling softly. “You never were afraid to ram the stick in the hornet’s nest.”

Thomas’s amiability faded as he studied Nathan over the flames. The shadows on his features sharpened, making him more like a marauding Viking. The backdrop of music had diminished by that hour. The low whine of a distant fiddle and the chortle of a hornpipe filled the long silence.

“He destroyed you once. Are you willing to risk that again?” Thomas asked gravely.

“I've been waiting for this opportunity for a very long time; a very long time,” was Nathan’s even response. “Would you care to join us?”

“As what?” Thomas shot back, intrigued.

Nathan tipped his head considering, his bells glinting in the firelight. “We could use a bit o' help. A consort could assure they shan’t break to open sea when the Morganse makes her move.”

“You'll have the entire Royal Navy and every privateer in these waters after you.”

“More is the reason two ships be the better.” Nathan watched as Thomas considered. “I'll give you twenty-five per cent of me plunder.”

A wry lift of a sandy brow came with, “Used to be fifty.”

“I've more important needs to consider these days,” Nathan said, cryptically.

Thomas laughed loudly to the night sky. “For that small cause, I’ll consider it a donation. You’ll allow me to consult with my men, but so long as there is a profit at the end, they are babes. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Nathan rose and faded into the nearby shadows to relieve himself. Weary of sitting, Cate stood, groaning with stiffness. As she shook the sand from her skirts, Thomas appeared at her side with surprising gracefulness for someone of his size and swept an even more graceful bow.

“Pray, would you care to walk?” He displayed a charming smile.

It had been a very long time since she had taken a stroll with a man. Its appeal outweighed the caution of going into the night with a relative stranger. She needed to get a hold of the emotions that had been set churning. She considered it might provide an interim in which she could face down her shock at Thomas without Nathan’s hawkish eye on her.

They headed down the beach, side by side, but a careful distance between.

She kicked off her shoes at the water’s edge and waded in the surf. The water lapping her ankles was as warm as the night air. The sand squished between her toes in little jets. Thomas waded beside her, unmindful of the waves washing over his boots. She was growing familiar with the Caribbean’s brilliant stellar displays. The moon not yet risen, allowing the night’s display to be particularly dazzling. Whoever the ruling goddess of the stars might be was at her finest.

At first, they engaged in the idle chat of strangers, probing to find common grounds. The most obvious was Nathan and it didn’t take long for conversation to work around to him.

“You’ve known each other a long time?” Cate asked. She remembered Nathan had mentioned an age, but had been too distracted to attend.

“Aye.” Thomas nodded amiably, hands folded behind his back. “I’ve known Ol’ Scupperbait for a long time. The hair was barely sproutin’ on our chins.”

“Scupperbait?”

He laughed with the malicious pleasure that came with revealing an embarrassment from someone’s past. “Aye, that’s what we called him. The name followed from his first voyage. He was so small and scrawny, he’d get washed across the decks and caught in the scuppers. We were fifteen or sixteen,” he said, getting back to her original query. “I saw Nathan make third mate at eighteen.”

“At eighteen?” From what she knew of life at sea, it was an impressive accomplishment.

“Nathan always had a way; the men naturally follow him…women, too.”

She caught the meaningful lilt and saw the speculative smile that lurked.

“Still do, the men, I mean,” she said looking away.

“I’d say the women, too,” he mused. “Anyway, we crewed together for years. I was his First Mate on his first command.”

“You were pirates, then?”

He laughed at her innocence. “No, merchantmen. Nathan didn’t tell you of his first command, the Beneficent?

Silence was her answer.

“You’ve seen his brand?” he asked, wary.

“Blessedly difficult not to,” she said tartly. “He told me about when it happened and—”

“He told you that, eh?” Thomas nodded approvingly. They were still near enough for the light of the scattered campfires to gild his profile. “He must set a great store in you. He doesn’t speak of it to anybody, not even me, and I was with him when Creswicke did it.”

“Creswicke!” Cate stopped, gaping. “Lord Breaston Creswicke?”

“Aye, didn’t he tell you?” His caution returned, alert to having overestimated the extent of Nathan’s confidence.

Cate stared into the night, straining to recall what Nathan had told her one stormy night, of manipulation, deception, and discovery. “He told me about the brand, but he never said who did it. He said he had riled his employer.”

“Aye, well, there’s a bit of truth there.”

“He was accused of smuggling.” The statement was more a seeking of assurance that she wasn’t confused.

“Smuggling?” He chuckled humorlessly. “If only it had been that damned simple.”

“You mean he lied?” It came as no great shock. She had suspected from the first that Nathan hadn’t told her everything.

Thomas looked to his feet. “He wasn’t like that at first. Oh, aye, he was always a smooth talker and could charm the yellow off the sun. To his way of thinking, it’s not lying, it’s just telling the truth he needs at the time.”

Biting his lower lip, he narrowed his eyes, measuring both her and how much more to reveal. Lifting a shoulder and dropping it, his decision was made.

“Nathan had won the Beneficent gambling—and they were the other man’s dice. He always was the lucky one,” he added in wonderment. “Anyway, she was a fair ship. Nathan was a customer’s dream: fast delivery, rarely a loss, a master at evading pirates, and all the while undercutting his competitors.”

“Creswicke?”

Thomas nodded, pleased by her acuity. “Creswicke had been granted the charter for the Royal West Indies Mercantile Company. It was a favor from the Crown.” The edge in his voice suggested further intrigue was involved, but was disinclined to elaborate. “Nathan had Creswicke’s eye from the very first.”

“Because of his success?”

He glanced sideways at her, and then away. The wide shoulders squirmed under the linen of his shirt. “Ehh, let’s just say Creswicke has unique appetites and Nathan made him particularly hungry.”

Cate tasted the bile of disgust. Having lived in London for several years, she was familiar with such “tastes:” sodomy, bestiality, fetishes, depravities, and other deviations yet to be named. She was yet to meet the man, but already possessed a deep hatred.

She ground her feet deeper into the surf’s sand, as if it might abrade away the sickening sensation. “And?”

“And, eventually Creswicke made Nathan an offer he couldn’t refuse: sail for him or never sail again. It was a credible threat. He’d seen Creswicke destroy others who had dared defy him. Being the pragmatic sort, Nathan agreed. He figured sooner or later he’d find a way out of it. It wasn’t an all-bad arrangement: he was the youngest captain in the Company and still sailing his own ship.

“It wasn’t long after,” Thomas went on, “before Creswicke made Nathan another offer, aiming to make Nathan a part of his scheme. Indentured servants come cheap and die by the hundreds in transit. Creswicke was manipulating the books, listing people as dead, and then selling them for the profits. If anyone in London was to question, he’d claim the losses were due to pirates.”

Indentured servants.

It was nothing more than a polite term in delicate circles for slavery. Some were prisoners, banished into it. A good many more sold themselves to a benefactor as a means of gaining passage to the Colonies or elsewhere, where they would work off the debt in a given period of years. The reality—often discovered too late—was years could be added at the benefactor’s whim for anything from food and shelter, to labor lost due to illness or pregnancy. Many owners preferred indentured servants to Guinea slaves. They were considerably cheaper, came with none of the language barriers, and fewer rules governing them.

Brian had been transported as an indentured. Slavery was what it was, which was how she knew he was dead: he would never live that way. She closed her eyes, sickened further to think Brian might have been a victim in Creswicke’s insidious scheme.

Suddenly too restless to remain still, Cate started down the beach once more. Thomas easily fell in step beside her. The rhythm of his long strides next to her was disquieting, like a ghost walking at her elbow. They were away from the light of the campfires by then, the brim of his hat casting a shadow by starlight.

“Nathan told him to go to hell, at least that’s the version that can be repeated to a lady. The sniveling worm drug Nathan into it anyway, and gave him a shipload of them,” Thomas said grimly.

Her hatred of Creswicke rose exponentially. Even if Brian hadn’t been a victim, the possibility was enough to ignite a deep loathing.

“Nathan tried to refuse, but Creswicke was his boss, his word final. Every man has his limits and Creswicke found Nathan’s that day. It’s a rare thing to see, but Nathan has a black temper: he came near to killing the man. We wondered why Creswicke didn’t have him arrested on the spot. We didn’t know that would have disrupted his grander scheme: he didn’t want Nathan miserable, he wanted him destroyed.”

“Why didn’t Nathan just go captain somewhere else?”

There was a flash of white in the darkness as he gave a tolerant smile. “Creswicke’s charter gave him the same control of the West Indies as the Company has in the East. To refuse him would mean to never sail as a merchant again. Besides, the Beneficent was Nathan’s first command; ’tis a special place in a man’s heart.”

She flinched at seeing Thomas rub the back of his neck under the heavy tail of hair, just as Brian would have done.

“None of us liked it. We sailed for Nathan; we didn’t give a goddamn about Creswicke or his company. The manifest looked well enough. We thought it odd when there were Company guards at the gangways, but they represented it was an uncommon bad lot, and we believed them,” he said, sounding even more miserable. “We’d barely set the courses, when we began to hear such caterwauling from the hold, ’twas like the Sirens themselves. And the smell…”

Thomas coughed and cleared his throat of a sudden unpleasantness.

“With a bit of strong-arming, we overcame the guards and went below. They were children, over two hundred, packed like sheep in a pen. A better price in Charles Town was just Creswicke’s excuse to manipulate Nathan. Those poor wretches were nothing more than a blot on a ledger to him.”

He clamped his lower lip between his teeth and fell quiet. He took several strides before he spoke again, his voice tightened.

“Some had been sold by their parents, so the rest of the family might eat. Others were from the poor houses and orphanages. The rest: abducted, kidnapped; use whatever word you wish.”

The marketing of children wasn’t new. After the Rising, the streets of Edinburgh had been rife with rumors of raiding parties, sometimes uniformed, spreading through the night’s streets like a plague, sweeping through poor houses or tearing a child from a mother’s arms, if old enough to be weaned. The plague hadn’t been confined to Scotland. In many seaport towns and even London, gangs roamed stealing children.

He fell quiet so long that she thought perhaps he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—go on. The mournful cry of a killdeer came from the darkness, scurrying in circuitous patterns ahead of them.

“They were dying before the braces were sheeted home. We couldn’t bear it, especially Nathan,” Thomas said. “We tried to care for the poor things, but there were so many, sick and starved. Most were walking skeletons and some couldn’t even walk. They were dying a dozen a day. The screaming and the crying…” His words choked off, his hands spreading as he relived the helplessness. “The canvas we buried them in weighed more than the poor waif inside.”

The lobster and butter, swimming in chowder, took a turn for the worse in Cate’s stomach.

“Finally, Nathan had enough. Hell, none of us could bear it. He thought he knew of a place to go and someone to help. All we could think was to get those poor souls to land, food, and help.”

His countenance grew grimmer. “From Bridgetown to Charles Town was no secret; anyone worth his salt knew what our course would be. A privateer was waiting, one of Creswicke’s marauding wolves. There was no offer of quarter or parlay, nothing. They fired on sight.”

Thomas closed his eyes, the sandy brows drawing together.

“We were out-gunned from the beginning. They were a twenty-eight to our fourteen and those only eight-pounders to their sixteens. When the balls started finding their target, the screaming only got worse.” The last came in a tight whisper.

Cate had repaired what fragments of iron and arm-long shards of wood could do to full-grown man. The destruction on small bodies, packed tightly together, was too easily envisioned. In such close quarters, the air choked by screams and smoke, below decks would have been a grisly chaos.

“We broke off. The Beneficent was fast, and Nathan can beg more speed out of a ship than any man at sea, but she was shot up. Their chasers pounded us in the stern the whole way. Finally, a ball hit the rudder, and when the Beneficent swung around, they had us in a broadside.”

He made several attempts before he was able to resume. “She broke into flames straight away. Afire, listing hard and no rudder, Nathan managed to keep the crew’s wits about them enough to run her aground, but easy like, so’s not to bring the rigging down on us,” he said, with no small amount of admiration. “What with those bastards still firing on us, we tried to get as many of those poor wretches ashore as possible. Those what could, ran, while we carried as many as we might, but the ones too sick, the ones we couldn’t get to…”

Thomas’s voice shook. He blinked several times and roughly swiped his face with his sleeve.

“Nathan sent us into the jungle, told us to keep going. Last I saw, he was on that flaming afterdeck, firing the swivel gun like a demon possessed.”

They ran until their burning limbs and lungs would allow no further. They pressed on through the jungle, confident of being pursued. But it wasn’t the two men or the children the enemy was after.

“We went back to get him, but there was nothing but a burned out hulk and bodies. The only prisoner they took was Nathan.”

He fell quiet, meditatively studying his hands as he flexed them.

“From what I heard,” he said. “Creswicke met Nathan at Bridgetown with the writ for his arrest in hand: smuggling, falsifying documents, flying under false colors, you name it. There was a trial, if you’re inclined toward calling it that. In the middle of it, some poor slave woman was dragged forward—one of Creswicke’s own—to swear that Nathan was her son. With that black hair and black eyes…” He faded off and glanced at her. “I’ve seen mulattos near as light as you. It was no great stretch for Nathan to be one.”

“And the son of a slave is a slave,” Cate sighed.

Thomas nodded. “And the property of the mother’s owner. There were paid witnesses present who swore to anything. Hell, it coulda been Mother Clary’s cat and the magistrate’s finding would have been the same. Nathan was declared a slave.”

Thomas fell quiet, his eyes narrowed to slits as he recalled.

“Nathan was thrown in the holding pens with the other poor bastards waiting to be sold. Garrick—a mate of ours, and a good one—and me were there when Nathan was brought up on the block. Like the others, they stripped him naked and shaved his head. You could see he’d been beaten to the point of barely able to stand. There was an auction, of sorts. Creswicke made a grand show of bidding for him, and then…”

He drew a deep breath and blew it out. “And then, he was branded.”

“But the ‘S’ is usually on the cheek,” she said, still mired in disbelief.

The corner of his mouth tucked up grimly. “It would seem Creswicke couldn’t bring himself to ruin the very face he cherished so much.”

A dull silver lining in a dark cloud: Creswicke’s unseemly appetites had turned out to be Nathan’s salvation.

“It wasn’t good enough for Creswicke to use the regular iron. Like Nathan was an animal, he used an iron meant for one. The executioner stood on Nathan’s hand to hold him still. Every finger was either broken or disjointed from Nathan struggling…and the scream.”

Thomas shook his head with disgust. “But Creswicke wasn’t done with his little sham. The law was every slave taken in Africa was to be branded by the company shipping him. And so he had the Company mark put on Nathan.”

His hand came to rest high on his chest, above his heart. It was exactly where the odd-shaped scar was on Nathan’s chest, just below the banner and the word “Freedom” etched in his skin.

He fell quiet again, carefully recalling.

“Creswicke had this sick smile on his face, his eyes all bright and shining as he declared Nathan was a runaway, claiming it was bounty hunters, not privateers, that had brought Nathan in. Punishment was fifty lashes.”

“That bloody, frigging, swiving bastard.”

Her blasphemy brought a smile to him. “Aye, that and more. Save yourself the trouble, m’lady. I’ve called him every name, in every language.”

He fell quiet again, his face going dark. “Nathan been flogged before; he knew what was coming. Only hatred kept Nathan on his feet as they tied him to the gibbet. Fifty lashes and the man was silent as a monk to the last.”

Thomas peeled a cautious look her direction. “Do you know what it is to see a man have his back flayed, to hear his skin rip with each stroke?” He shuddered violently. “I’ve seen it too many times; still can’t abide it. I’ve only let the cat out of the bag once in my command and regretted it since. Nasty business. It’s no pleasure to see a man standing in his own pool of blood.”

A cold prickle crawled down Cate’s back. Yes, she had seen floggings, and no, there was no pleasure. If anything, he had grossly understated the brutality. A man, his limbs bound, his body bared, the torn flesh tense and quivering in anticipation of the next blow. The tang of blood would have replaced the stench of scorched flesh. A man’s character was revealed at the first strike; some collapsed and sobbed like a child, others met each stroke with stoicism braced by pride. It went beyond punishment: it a meant to break a man.

Thomas blew a long breath, exorcising the grisly scene. “Garrick and me found Nathan that night. He’d been flung like the night’s slops into a pen not fit for a pig. I think Creswicke was hoping Nathan would crawl off someplace and he could catch him for a runaway again. Only God and the Devil know what he would have done then,” he added under his breath.

Cate knew what Thomas couldn’t put to words: inhuman cruelty. Confinement, hacked limbs, whippings, blindings, castrations…and worse.

An outcropping of rock blocked their way, and so they perched there, watching the tide purl out. A number of tidal pools formed in the scooped-out rock, the diamond-like grains of sand in their bottoms sparkling in the now-rising moon. It was a miniscule world of claws, antennas, and spines.

“Me and Garrick tried to care for him,” Thomas went on, kicking at a shell with the toe of his boot. “Nathan was out of his head for days. Rum and laudanum didn't answer. I had the knife in my hand, ready to cut the damned ‘S’ off him.” he said, looking down at his own palm, flexing his hand. “It might have cost him his hand, the use of it at the least, but at least he’d be free.”

He shook himself of the thought. “But Garrick stopped me, representing that there was another way.”

“Pirate,” she heard herself say dully.

Nathan was a marked man. He could either live among the vilest of the vile, where capture meant to be hung, his body tarred and left on display to rot, or his head on a pike, the walnut eyes gone black in death, picked to vacant holes by the crows; or he could risk being caught as a slave, meaning captivity and degradation at the hands of a monster.

“Aye,” Thomas sighed solemnly. “Freedom, in another world. There was no escape else. Every bounty hunter in the Seven Seas knows what that ‘S’ meant. But it needed to be Nathan’s choice, so we waited.”

The strength of friendship. “Two, mebbe three” Nathan had said, when she had asked how many he had had in his life. Two, for sure, for they had held his life in their hands and kept him safe.

“We took him to a conjure woman—at least I think she was a woman. She sent us off, made us leave him there. I paid my last respects, because I figured him to be a dead man.”

He stared, but was seeing something far different than the campfires, now directly across, flickering orange jewels along the shore. The gay voices and music could still be heard, broken and muted by the distance. The Morganse andGriselle sat like somber queens, adorned in their amber-glow necklaces of lamplight.

Gone in thought, or overwhelmed by the memories, Thomas was quiet for some time. The rattle of crabs scuttling behind her, Cate watched a phosphorescent fish dart about in one of the pools. Feeling as if she were being watched, she turned slightly to find a pair of disembodied eyes on stalks peering interestedly back.

“Never sure what happened,” Thomas threw into the silence, his angular features troubled. “If it was that conjure woman, or Creswicke, but Nathan was never the same. I mean, aye, on the outside he was, but inside…When you looked him in the eye, he just wasn’t there anymore.”

“I wish I could have known him before.”

His mouth a firm line, he said with gentle sadness, “No, you don’t. That person is gone; it wouldn’t answer.”

His fist balled where it rested on his thigh. “That was when we all turned pirate: Nathan, Garrick, and me. Garrick had been in the Brethren. He had been aiming to go honest, but went back, and took us with him. Neither one of us wanted to leave Nathan alone; we knew he’d go do something crazed, just to get himself killed. He did his best, in spite of us. We mended him from burned to broken, beaten to slashed. We were with him when a blade run him through. Killed that bastard myself,” he added in a pride-laden aside. “You’ve seen his leg?”

“No, I've never seen him—” Cate looked away, industriously brushing at a non-existent spot on her skirt.

“Oh, aye, of course.” Thomas demonstrably cleared his throat. “Aye, well…hmm…we almost lost him there. It festered to where we considered takin’ it. Then a conjure woman showed up; I swear she stepped out of the night.” He frowned, pondering. “She gave him some herbs or potions, or some such, and brought him through. He walked with a crutch for months after; made it bloody difficult for him on board.”

“But there isn’t a brand on his chest now,” Cate said haltingly.

Looking off into the night, Thomas nodded grimly. “Nathan put up a fair front—he’s good at that, you’ll have noticed?”

She nodded wryly. “Fair front” was a vast understatement.

“He did his best not to let on, but you could see the thing eating at him. The ‘S’ was bad enough, but to have Creswicke’s initials on him, marked and owned, it was like Creswicke had his claws around his heart, squeezing the life out of him.”

Thomas blew a long sigh. “So one night, whilst he was lost in drink—a fair regular occurrence—I—” His voice caught. He looked down at the hand resting on his leg. “I cut the damned thing off.”

“What did he say?” she asked, horrified. Waking up to a piece of one’s chest cut away had to have been a bit of a shock.

He looked off, intrigued by the thought. At length, he shrugged. “He never said…and I never asked.”

They rose and headed back. They walked in silence, emotionally drained. Cate's anger with Nathan for lying about the branding and Creswicke surged anew. She then chastised herself. It was her own fault, for poking her nose into matters that were obviously too sensitive, had she taken a moment to realize. She couldn’t begrudge him. She harbored a few of her own secrets for which she would lie or any number of other things to protect. It was hurt she suffered most, Nathan’s failure to trust her. She had gained his confidence enough not to be told no when she inquired, but no further. He had allowed her only what his pride could allow.

“What made all of you go your own way?” Cate asked at last.

Thomas’s broad shoulders twitched. He looked off into the night and said off-handedly, “Oh, time and tide. Garrick stuck with him for a bit longer, but I…chose to move on,” he finally landed on.

“Somehow, I doubt it was that simple.” Cate said tartly, peering up at him.

He cocked his head to regard her. “You're a smart woman; tall, but smart. Heaven help the man that gets himself tangled up with a smart woman,” he declared with a gesture skyward. “Aye, there was more to it: a woman.”

“What else?” she snorted.

“Money and women, only two things worth losin’ a good friend over,” he said sagely. “We both thought she fancied us; even came to blows over her. She’d filled him full of all manner of notions. When she finally chose me, he disappeared.”

She glanced toward his left hand; she didn’t recall seeing a wedding ring, but admittedly it wasn’t a reliable guide. “What happened?”

“Oh, eventually she ran off with the captain of a packet she fancied more.” He rubbed his finger thoughtfully alongside his nose. “I heard later she died in childbed.”

Something said he wasn’t as unaffected by either the separation or the death as he would like her to believe. Cate felt more than heard the beat of feathers whisking past her head. Jerking aside, she looked up to see a soaring shadow disappear into the darkness of the trees: Artemis, on the prowl.

“I’ve wondered if, maybe, Nathan had somebody, somewhere, a wife, or family, or…something,” she ended lamely.

It was an explanation that had risen more than once, when striving to rationalize Nathan’s disinterest in her. As unpleasant as that truth might have been, it would have explained so much.

“Nathan?” he sputtered. “What in all that’s holy made you think a thing like that?”

“He wears a ring on his wedding finger.” Cate was flustered by revealing how closely she had observed Nathan. She reflexively twisted at her own ring. Aside from his hair and bells, his pistol and sword unadorned and workmanlike, there was no flash or flourish. The rings seemed quite unfitting.

Thomas burst out laughing, the deep rumble echoing across the water. It startled the killdeer into flight, protesting as it arched off into the night.

“If you’ll notice, Nathan wears several rings,” he said, dabbing one eye.

He stopped to exhibit a massive fist before her face. “A fist makes a much stronger impression on a man’s jaw when it arrives in the company of metal.” He jabbed the air to punctuate his point. “Nathan’s never been a big man; a little help answers well.”

Thomas resumed walking, his hands falling to rest on the heels of his weapons.

“Nathan drop the anchor? Nay, I doubt it,” he said, returning to her initial question. “I haven’t seen him for a long while, but he never was one to pine over a woman half a world away, when a dozen are at his feet. He takes his opportunities as they rise, beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.” He mockingly tipped his hat.

“I just thought, maybe, since he…never…”

“Never!” He skidded to a halt, gaping. He bent closer, as if he might have misheard. “Never?”

Cate shook her head, grateful for the protection of darkness to cover her heated cheeks.

“Never,” Thomas repeated to himself. His face screwed in puzzlement. “Now that is a wonder. And a handsome one like you? Nay, it defies all logic. I’ve never known him to pass up anything in a skirt, sometimes even without. You’re sure?” He peered down at her skeptically, as if she was confused. “I could have sworn…”

He trailed off in invitation for her to pick up the thought. She was mum.

Head down pensively, hands folded at his back, Thomas walked for a short bit.

“Hark ye,” he said, stopping again. “What if we were to have a little fun? Make him think…?”

“No, I'm not playing sophomoric games. I remind him of someone, someone he thoroughly detests.” The admission came no easier then than the dozens of times she had repeated it in the privacy of her bed.

“But, you’re interested?” Suddenly shy, he kicked the sand, sapphire blue peeking up from under the straw-colored lashes. “I’m just asking, because if it weren’t him, I would be willing to step forward.”

He flashed a dazzling smile meant to charm. So reminiscent of Brian’s, Cate had to turn her head to keep from either laughing or crying, she wasn’t sure which.

“With all due respect, I’m not interested either way,” she said firmly.

“Hmm…you could have fooled me,” Thomas muttered falling into step next to her. He stopped again after only a few steps, fists braced on his hips. “How long did you say since you’ve shipped?”

“A little over a month.”

“And he never…once?”

“We’re friends.”

“Ouch!” Clapping a hand to his chest, he dramatically staggered backward. “Colder words were never spoken.” He shrugged and waved it away. “Well, if you ever find you’re no longer welcome on the Morganse, the Griselle will always be waiting.”

Like one of those feathery-antennaed creatures in the pools sensing every disturbance, she was acutely aware of Thomas beside her. With the creak of leather, the soft rush of his breathing, a mobile mouth that readily smiled, good-humored eyes, and a well-honed sense of irony, he was just like…

Cate clamped her lower lip between her teeth. Perhaps the walk had been a mistake; she wasn’t ready, not yet. She had thought Brian to be behind her, and yet there he was, right beside her.

“Were you with Nathan when he was shot?” she asked, determinedly taking a new line of thought.

Thomas stiffened, his step slowing. “He’s been shot?”

“Twice—at the same time—according to Pryce.” The story had haunted her, Pryce’s version being long on graphic and short on details.

“No reason to think Pryce would make up such things. Damn!” He swore again more vehemently, thumbing an errant strand of hair behind his ear. “Nathan’s had no kind of luck, has he? And yet, I swear he’s been charmed his whole life.”

“He’s alive,” Cate said, in the spirit of finding a positive.

Thomas nodded distractedly, leaving the obvious unspoken: at what price had that survival come?

“His mother was supposed to have been some kind of a seer, or some such; maybe she had something to do with that,” he said.

“What about his neck?” Cate touched hers in reference to Nathan’s gnarled scar.

“His…? Oh, that.” Thomas hunched his shoulders and looked to his feet. “No, no, I wouldn’t be knowing anything about that.”

It was obvious that was the farthest thing from the truth, and that he had no intention of saying otherwise.

They walked and talked of everything and nothing. From the islands interior came the chorus of nightjars and tree frogs. They paused to watch the waxen half-orb of the moon, finally high enough to pull free of the island’s jagged outline, and then strolled the now-illuminated shore. It was very late by the time they neared the camp once more, most of the bonfires down to glowing embers. The beach was dotted with low dark humps of sleeping men.

Thomas drew to a halt, doffed his tricorn hat and bowed. “It’s been a privilege, madam. It’s been a long time since I’ve had the pleasure of such a lovely lady’s company on such a grand night.”

Cate smiled. His flattery was more than a little heart-quickening. It was a wonder why he had saved such charms for taking his leave. He pressed his lips firmly to her hand, his blue eyes intent on hers.

“And I do mean it. If that bloody fool over there ever turns you lose, you just pass the word. No matter where I am on the globe, I’ll come for you, and that’s a promise.” A wink punctuated Thomas' pledge. His eyes had a way of looking at someone and holding them, and for a moment, she actually believed him.

Cate watched as he strode away.

Her anger with Nathan surged anew. He had lied about Creswicke and the branding. He had looked her square on and lied.

She then chastised herself. It was her own fault, for poking her nose into matters that were obviously too sensitive. Not a lie, but a half-truth, under the glare of scrutiny. She couldn’t begrudge him. Half-truths weren’t unknown to her. She had told a number of them in order to protect a few of her own secrets that she harbored. It was hurt she suffered most, Nathan’s failure to trust her. She had gained his confidence enough not to be told “no,” but no further.

Thomas’ reaction to her inquiries regarding Nathan’s marriage status hadn’t been reassuring. More and more, it appeared Nathan’s rejection of her was as Pryce had represented: she reminded him of someone. Barring radical disfigurement, her prospects were dim.

Cate picked her way through the sleeping bodies, sprawled and softly snoring. Her pace slowed at seeing a man’s shape separate from the black void of a stack of casks. Fear surged when he moved to intersect her path. Then she gasped with relief at seeing it was Nathan, the rattle of the palms masking the tinkle of his bells.

Her heart warmed, as it did every time she saw him unexpected. Filled with a rush of emotions, her first urge was to throw her arms around him, and tell him all would be well. The impulse was cut short at seeing the irregularity in his step and a bottle in his fist. He halted and swayed, the smell of rum reaching well ahead of him. Then she caught a brooding spark in his eye, and her freshly warmed heart fell cold.

“Have a nice walk?” The biting edge in his voice hit a nerve. It was the same accusing and contemptuous tone she had heard on the road from Lady Bart’s and later on the Morganse.

“Yes, if you must know, we had a very nice walk,” she said coldly, brushing past. She didn’t appreciate being made to feel like a shepherded lass.

“I suppose you were properly kissed good night,” Nathan called to her back.

It was another well-aimed barb: first Harte, and now Thomas.

Annoyance brought Cate to a halt. She wheeled around and braced a hand on her hip. His shirt flared in the pool of moonlight in which he stood. He lifted the bottle with a defiant jerk and took a drink.

“Why would you assume the first time I’m alone with a man, I’d be kissed?” she demanded.

His bells sparked like fireflies as he took several unsteady steps toward her. “That’s what I would do. Beautiful night, stars, moon…” A hand lifted in illustration toward the night.

Nathan swayed again. With a bit of effort, he focused on her face, and then fixed on her mouth. “A woman should be kissed. ’Tis what they are suited for.”

Cate's heart tripped an odd beat, and then resumed as a dull thud in her ears. She wanted to be angry, but her heart prevailed again. For all his brashness, sometimes verging on ribaldry, he had never once made such a flirtatious comment. He had to have done a good deal of drinking in the time she was gone to be so inebriated, more so than ever witnessed, except for one night. Barely a week hence, he had appeared at her bedside, rambling a confusion of concerns and feelings, which had all faded with the effects of drink and daylight.

And now he was in drink again.

The thought of him entertaining such romantic notions made her a bit breathless; the stuff of trite romance novels, to be sure. Any woman knew flirtation when they saw it, but there was an oddness about it, verging on…sincerity or jealousy? Squinting into the moonlight, she tried to see his face—as if Nathan would ever reveal more than intended—but most of it was deep in the shadow of his hat.

He pressed closer as she inched back. She came up against a tree, thankfully, for her knees suddenly gone unreliable.

“You would force yourself on her?” Whether she willed it or no, she was drawn to him, a moth to a flame.

Nathan puffed with indignation. “Categorically not. I’ve never taken a woman unwilling in me life. Certainly shan’t start now.”

Cate swallowed. “And if, she were willing? What would you do?”

Nathan stood close enough now to smell the rum mingled with his spicy sharpness. His lids hooding his eyes, she felt his gaze travel the line of her shoulder and neck. Surely, he could hear her heart thumping, for it nearly deafened her. Bracing a hand against the tree, he leaned nearer, his braids brushing her chest.

“Persuade her,” he purred. The tease in his eyes was countered by a dangerous lilt in his voice.

Her head whirled. Cate held Nathan's eyes with hers, determined not to close them, lest it was a dream—one dreamt a hundred times. She didn’t dare think…She didn’t dare hope…It was almost as if he had somehow known. Had she cried out in her sleep? Dimly—for lucid thought was becoming nigh impossible—she wondered if he had been watching more closely than credited all these weeks, and had known her feelings all along.

Fine tremors coursed through her. Breathing became unnatural, jerky and only with effort. Her heart and body knew what they wanted, even if her mind disagreed. Her nails dug into the bark of the tree at her back. That and a fragile thread of doubt the only thing that kept her from flinging herself at him.

“Persuade her, how?” Damn! Her voice shook like she was a mere maiden.

“I’d move close.” The graveled voice had gone husky, words of sanded velvet. “And put me hand under her hair and touch her pulse just there.”

Cate flinched at the unexpected heat of Nathan's hand on her night-cooled flesh. The dark eyes, now mere inches from hers, flickered with uncertainty.

Damn him! He knew he could melt her with a touch. His fingers skimmed her collarbone, her skin glowing in their path. Nathan pressed lightly on the vein just under her jaw. Surely, now he would feel her blood racing, all her best-kept secrets known. His grasp tightened and she grew dizzy, with a faint ring in her ears.

“Then, I would take her in me arms and put me hand just so.” He did so, his hand tracing the curve of her spine. His fingers splayed wide at the small of her back, and her belly tightened. “I’d hold her close, feel her breath come short, so warm.”

His eyes still holding hers, his mouth hovered so very near. The heat of his body radiated through his shirt. A heart drummed in her ears, hers or his?

His fingers brushed her cheek. “And then, I’d turn her face up to mine, touch me lips to hers—” Cae closed her eyes and parted her lips as his mustache brushed them. “And I’d—”

Nathan stiffened and jerked away as if seared. Blinking, he staggered back like a sleepwalker abruptly awakened. He glared as if she had somehow tricked him.

“That’s what I would do, if she were willing,” he said, with a curt wave.

Cate sagged against the tree, incensed and humiliated. She was no schoolgirl looking for her first kiss! Fury surged and the stars turned to pricks of red.

“Keep looking, Captain.” She pushed upright, praying her legs would support her. “Someday, maybe, you’ll find someone just that willing.”

The backs of her eyes stung, and she dashed at the wetness on her cheeks as she stalked away.

Damn him! Damn him!

Seething with mortification, Cate kicked sand at the glowing coals of their deserted fire. Sparks spiraled into the night’s sky. Sensing she was being watched, she whirled. Expecting to find Nathan, she was met with two golden eyes, instead. Roosted in a tree, Artemis’ flat owlish face stared back.

“You’ll find a nice huge rat just over there!” she snarled, with an angry swipe.

Swearing under her breath, she searched out her quilt from the piles of stores brought ashore. Pausing to dutifully stoke the fire, she threw the wood at it with far more force than was necessary. She knelt to scoop out a makeshift bed, sending the sand in curving spurts behind her, and threw herself into it.

Nathan could be brash and abrasive, but never had he been so cruel, and with pinpoint accuracy, alarmingly so.

The bastard.

Cate rebelled at the thought of being leashed. His presumption that she would be so wanton as to throw herself into the arms of the first man to come along was vexing. Once again, he sought to control her, watch-dog her every move. When she had agreed to stay, she had known such would be the case, but she hadn’t bargained for him asserting himself so soon.

“I managed years on my own—on the worst streets of London, mind—and did very well, thank you very much! I had a damned father and five damn brothers, and I don’t need a damned another of either.”

She squirmed and huffed.

Yes, but you went into the night with a man you barely met.

Thomas’ resemblance to Brian had caused her to throw all caution aside. That little oversight could have been disastrous.

But it wasn’t…

But it could have.

As she glared at the flames, cooler thoughts began to prevail and she settled her head more comfortably. There was a chance Nathan’s concerns were well founded. After all, he knew Thomas and what he was capable of far better than she.

“If he was so blessedly concerned, then why didn’t he come looking?” she grumbled to the fire.

Perhaps he did, but had gone in the wrong direction, and by the time realized…

“Bull! That was no excuse for being so cruel and taunting…”

Somewhere in that morass of thoughts, Cate slept.