The Pirate Captain

CHAPTER 2: Purgatory, or Just Hell?

Hitting the water was painful. Worse than falling from a speeding horse, the impact knocked the breath from her. The sea was surprisingly warm, the comfort she had sought, a mother’s embrace. The chaos and smoke now gone; she was enshrouded by the peace so long needed. The weight of her skirts dragged her down and the sun’s brilliance faded.

All would be well; it would all be over soon. She bore no fear: as a child, she had been told Heaven meant floating. Spreading her arms as an angel might, she leaned her head back. High overhead, the Constancy’s keel was a diminishing dark wedge, the pirate boats gathered at her sides like chicks.

Time came in blissful increments. Her heart pulsed, a hollow echo of itself, once…twice…slower…thrice…

A voice, deep and so very familiar, said, “Not yet.”

She yearned to remain, but knew she must go. It was what he wanted. She allowed the hands, ones she knew as intimately as the voice, to propel her upward, back to the light.

Rough handling shattered her euphoria.

A bit more gentleness was to be expected in the Dear Beyond, she thought crossly, as she was lifted and pulled. As if her complaints had been heard, peace was returned, gently rocking. Her hopes soared anew. She was being taken. This was the journey of which she had been told. Her heart raced with the anticipation of waiting glories, reunions with loved ones.

The journey, however, came to an abrupt end. She was manhandled once more, coarsely passed through a progression of hands. She thrashed in protest, desiring to be returned to the blessed exultation. To be shown such rapture only to have it taken was too cruel. The unpleasantness increased. She was dropped on a hard surface with the same care as the day’s catch. Her senses congealed enough for her to know that she laid half on her stomach, an arm pinned under her, in a growing pool of water. The vibration of approaching footsteps was felt through the wood under her cheek.

Through water-clogged ears she heard, “She breathin’?”

“Barely,” came in a male voice.

Breathing. Air!

Cate’s chest spasmed and she was caught between the gurgling wheezes of inhaling, while at the same time retching up foul-tasting sea water and bile.

“Aye, well, she lives now,” said the first.

On the small hope that she had been returned to the Constancy, she opened her eyes to a sideways view of a deck, but an unfamiliar one. Feet, bare and shod, surrounded her. She looked up into the faces of strangers staring down, with expressions of everything from curiosity to bemusement. A touch on the shoulder startled her and she swung out. With one arm pinned, however, she could only squirm like an exposed worm in the wetness, the feeble efforts bringing a chuckle from the onlookers. The hand returned to run from the crest of her shoulder down her back.

“Great Caesar’s ghost, lookit this, Cap’n.”

“Bloody hell! What the…?”

“Looks like a sword blade,” murmured another voice, gruffer than the first.

“Looks like she’s been through a war.”

Amid their wonderment and shock, came an inner voice.

Run!

Cate sprang up and fled. In a part of her mind, she sprinted like a startled deer, evading those giving chase. Another part knew she was but floundering, rubbery-legged and heavy-footed. Whether her path was aft or forward she had no notion. Foremost in her mind was the rail, and then the water. The pirates readily caught up and ran alongside, herding her away from her goal. Taunting, they plucked and snatched, shouting insults at her, until she came up against the raised face of the forecastle. She was trapped.

The pirates closed in. Cate elbowed a tall one in the throat and kneed a smaller one in the gut before she was seized and pressed against the wall. Ducking away from the mouths seeking hers, she screamed, a pitiful half-choked thing. They tore at her meager scraps of clothing to grope her breasts and plunge their hands between her legs.

A shout from somewhere amid them caused them to fall back. Cate was pinned to the wall, as if in presentation to a single man. A scar angled from brow to jaw across his brutish face. The thick braid hanging from the side of his head, studded with beads and bones, swung with his step as he strolled toward her. He was regarded with such deference, he had to be Blackthorne. Fondling his crotch, he intent gaze slid from her face downward. She felt sufficient breeze to know one breast was exposed. She angled an eye down to see her belly was bared, revealing its web of scars, old and so very secret. Mortified, she tried to draw up a knee, but it was seized and forced back down.

Scarface’s gaze returned to Cate’s face. His lips drew back into a leering smirk. “So you like knives, do ye? I’ll part that pretty flesh with somethin’ what will make you smile.”

Her breath coming in ragged gasps, she thought to spit in his face, but a mouth once filled with seawater had gone dry. He twisted up a handful of her hair in his fist, wrenched her head back and kissed her. His tongue plunged to gagging depths as the onlookers cheered.

“Hold fast. Belay, there! Belay!” came a shout, growing nearer with each word.

“Aye, Cap’n!” the pirates chorused and fell back, snapping to attention.

Only Scarface held her now. Cate writhed under him as his assault continued. She caught a glimpse over his shoulder of a face and a thunderous expression.

“Release her, I say. That. Is. An. Order!”

Scarface was jerked away, growling in protest. Now left to stand on her own, Cate swayed and staggered. Her legs folded and she crumpled to the deck. She tried to push up, but her arms were rubber. Head hanging, her hair in wet snakes about her face, she could only see the feet of the two men squared off over her. Scarface struck a belligerent stance. The “Captain” stood so near, she had to move a hand to keep from being stepped on.

“You bunch of rutting, unhung, clam-for-brains. Your mates are over there risking their asses for your pockets and all you can think of is your quim-wedges?” bellowed the Captain.

Something was dropped on her. A coat. She clutched it, rolling into it like a crab into its shell. A violent siege of coughing overtook her; the two men’s words came only in broken spurts. Their tone was telling enough: Scarface’s defiance and the captain’s fury.

“She’s a hostage, not plunder. Can’t you bunch of slavering curs remember that, or did your brains drain into your cockstands?” the Captain shouted.

Cate was jerked to her feet. Much to her relief, she caught enough of a glimpse to know it was the Captain who propelled her from behind, catching her when she stumbled. Unlike the flush decks of the Constancy, this ship had a raised afterdeck and cabin. It was there she was taken.

“What cursed piece o’ slime fouled that goddamned deck. Swabbers!” came a bone-penetrating bellow from outside as she was shoved through the door.

Stumbling, Cate caught herself on a mast that passed from the ceiling down through the floor.

“Stow yourself over there,” he said, pointing to a far corner.

She squinted into the cavern-like room. She had the impression of dark walls, but it was impossible to see past the blaze of sunlight streaming through the skylight. Shielding her eyes against the glare, she felt her way around to where she had been sent. Every few steps she was stopped by a gurgling hack of a violence that seemed to originate from somewhere near her toes.

“And put a stopper in your gob. I can’t abide a yammering woman.”

On deck he had been but a blur. Her eyes still unaccustomed to the darkness, he was still no more than a dark blot against the light. Still, she could feel his malignant glare. Light-headed from coughing, she thought to at least nod an acknowledgment, but even that small gesture threatened to be an affront. She stood gripping her elbows against the shivering that now beset her.

The light failed long before it reached the room’s corners, but it felt considerably larger than Chambers’ cabin. Under the skylight sat a large curve-legged table. Its surface was barely visible under the clutter of paraphernalia and charts, their curled edges weighted by everything from a candle sconce to something that resembled a dried cloven hoof. Pencils, dividers, and all manner of navigational tools were scattered about as well. The Captain stood there now, over a chart. Head bent, he walked the dividers across the parchment, the fingers of his other hand tapping the wood as if in calculation.

While he was thus occupied, Cate wormed her arms into the sleeves of the coat and nestled deeper into it. From it rose the smell of male and sweat, with undertones of orange oil and cinnamon. Styled without lapels, the deep cuffs reaching nearly to her elbows, the coat had the feel of having once lived a life of privilege. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see traces of its original rich burgundy where soutache or other decorations had once laid. Now faded to the point of near colorlessness, the garment bore few embellishments other than horn buttons.

The knife scrape on her breast burned horribly. She twitched at the sting of the nicks on her ribs and belly. Water dripped from her, patting on the floor with the regularity of a ticking clock. She ventured a hand to wipe the wetness from her face, quickly tucking it back into the coat before the movement was noticed. The tremors increased, threatening to tear her joints, with the realization of what had just happened, or nearly so. She kept a sharp eye both on the captain and the door, half-expecting the snarling pack to burst in and finish what they had started.

“Would you mind not staring at me with those damned eyes?”

Cate started at being spoken to. His voice held a timbre that could have been quite fearsome had it not been so throaty and ragged. It took her a moment to find her voice.

“I beg pardon. I didn’t realize—”

“Aye, well, you are,” he huffed indignantly. “Seeking to curse me, I’ll wager. I’ve only seen eyes that color once. On a jaguar idol in Vera Cruz, they were. Cursed me, the bloody thing did.”

He ended with a dramatic shudder. A squat brown bottle sat amidst the table’s clutter. He snatched it up, uncorked it, and took a long drink.

Cate ducked her head to hide a smile. It wasn’t the first time such comments had been made, most especially while living in the Highlands. Nearly as superstitious as mariners, the Highlanders had more than once accused her of casting spells and curses.

He continued to work, while she continued to stand, her gaze fixed on a point at her feet where rug and floor met. From the corner of her eye, she saw him dart a glance at her now and again, presumably in hopes of catching her evil eye.

If only putting a curse on him would be that simple.

“What are you—?” Cate was cut short by another fit of coughing, this one full of fluid.

The Captain straightened. His scowl was visible even through the dimness. “You look bloody awful!”

She cleared her throat, a wholly unfeminine sound. “I feel like I’ve swallowed half of the Caribbean,” she said more crossly than intended.

“Rum will answer.” He seized the bottle, and then glanced about, muttering darkly under his breath. “Ah,” he said at finally locating a glass atop a desk. “I knew I’d seen one somewheres or another.”

Looking up from pouring, he was disconcerted to find her still standing. “Well, don’t just stand there gaping. Sit!”

She came up against something hard and cold, and realized she had been inching backwards the while. It was a cannon, one of a pair, “Merdering Mary” roughly carved in its carriage.

“Jump and I swear I’ll cheer whilst you drown,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“Come the bloody hell away from the damned window!”

Another glance showed she was indeed not much more than an arm’s length from a gallery of windows. Running ceiling-high, they angled out at the top, with a broad sill at their base.

“I didn’t mean…I mean, I wasn’t—” she began.

“Seems once in a day would be enough, but mark me, I shan’t raise a finger to preserve you from Jones’ locker. Most of the men believe ’tis the hand of God on a drowning soul. To save one is to deny God, so ’twill be no matter to watch you go.”

By the sound of his voice coming out of the shadows, he was pacing.

“Then why did you pull me out?” Cate considered how much easier things would have been if they had allowed her to drown.

“Because you are valuable,” he said coldly. “At least for now. But pressing the point could prove unwise. Value can be ever so relative, don’t you think?”

She had the impression the inquiry wasn’t meant to be answered.

“Pray, would you not oblige me to shout like you’re a f’c’stleman. Sit there if you like. Oh, hell, I don’t really give a damn,” he grumbled with an irritated swipe.

Minding the coat, Cate reflexively sat on the nearest thing: a chest beside her. Gripping the wood beneath her, the urge to cough built like a rumbling bubble in her chest. She gulped several times, breathing quickly in and out, hoping to squelch it.

“Be warned: puke on me deck and you’ll regret it. And take those rags off before you catch your death,” he said.

Squinting at him, she searched for any sign of lustfulness, but found none. Turning her back, she did so, the shift, now so torn, nearly falling off on its own accord.

His path around the table brought him into the full light. She sucked her breath in sharply at seeing him fully for the first time. Her first impression was of black eyes and a leonine head of black hair and beard. The back of her neck prickled as the name “Blackbeard” sprung to mind. She stoutly reminded herself that infamous personage was long since dead. He was of average height and slimly built, his hair bound by a faded blue headscarf. The remainder of his features being so buried in beard, it was blessedly difficult to tell much more about him, other than he was probably not much more than her score and a half in years.

In spite of the bucket boots he wore, he moved like a great dark cat as he brought the drink around, barely making a footfall; a predator, lithe and lethal. She drew her legs up underneath herself and tucked in the coattail more snugly around her, then shakily took the proffered glass, murmuring, “Thank you.”

Cate took a drink. Her throat constricted, requiring her to swallow several times before it was allowed it to pass.

“Rum!” She shuddered. “But, it’s fine. I’m grateful for anything, if it will allow me to warm up.”

A fortuitous fit of coughing helped make her point.

He eyed her with suspicion, then took a drink, closing his eyes to anxiously await its effects. She eyed him, trying to judge his level of drunkenness. Drink could bring a man to do many things not done when sober. His step was solid, but his speech seemed thickened, almost slurred, although that could have been resultant of its graveled quality.

In spite of its noxiousness, she took another sip. If nothing else, the liquor helped erase the nasty taste in her mouth left by seawater and vomiting.

He flopped into the ornate captain’s chair across the table from her.

“Rather foolhardy to jump, don’t you think?” he asked, gesturing toward the Constancy, visible through the stern windows.

“There was an island,” Cate said with far less conviction than intended.

He made a caustic noise. “That would have been a bloody long swim. I’d be hard pressed to find two hands what would be willing to row it, let alone swim it. You do know there are sharks in these waters?” he asked conversationally.

Her stomach took a sickening lurch. “No, I hadn’t thought of that.”

His mouth hovered at the bottle’s rim as he cut her a sidelong look. “Can’t imagine why anyone would do something so half-crazed.”

The implication that she was either mad or lying wasn’t lost, nor was it appreciated. Cate flexed her hands, aching from being clenched for so long.

“I’d been told under no circumstances should I be taken by pirates.”

He smiled at that, a dazzling display of white and gold teeth splitting the ebony mat of beard. “I’ve been told the same thing. Nasty rumor, luv.”

He rose to cruise the room once more. His path weaving through the light, he popped in and out of sight like a sword-bearing wraith.

“The warnings were very convincing,” she said evenly. “The Sarah Morgan and Captain Nathanael Blackthorne were enough to scare anyone.”

“Ah, then you know of me. Spent the best part of me life propagating that image.” Though his face was lost in the gloom at that moment, the smile in his voice couldn’t be missed.

“Then may I assume that you are…?” Cate tensed. On deck, she had heard him called “Captain.” For formality’s sake, however, it was best to be sure. Amid the swirl of unknowns, a solid bit of information seemed essential. Liquid slopping on her hand broke her stare; she was shaking harder than she had thought.

“Oh, I beg your leave. Wretchedly uncommon to be introducing meself on me own ship.”

He drew up and struck a formal pose. Doffing the battered leather tricorn, he swept a surprisingly elegant bow. “Captain Nathanael Blackthorne. Your servant, mum.”

He scowled at seeing her shiver. She felt thoroughly sodden, the wetness of her hair having soaked through the coat. Chilblaines now set in. It seemed impossible that one could be so cold in the West Indies.

“Here, have another drink. I can hear your teeth clacking clear over here. Doomed to never have back me peace,” the Captain grumbled as he poured.

A plan seems required, she thought, as she stared into her glass.

As in what?

Now at his mention jumping carried its merits. Cate cut a clandestine look through the window at the Constancy rising and falling on the swell. Boats plied in a steady flow between the two ships as pirates looted the Constancy. She was a strong swimmer. Surely once she was alongside, the Constancies would pull her aboard.

And what about the pirates over there?

And the sharks?

Hmm…Yes, well, every plan has its flaw.

The island she had seen earlier was still in view, but now seemed so very out of reach.

A boat, then.

And do what?

There was no hiding on open water. She considered waiting until dark, and then stealing a boat. It would mean finding the distant island in the dark. To miss, however, would doom her to open seas, there to die of starvation and thirst. She secretly eyed the mizzenmast, collared by a rack bristling with cutlasses and sabers.

And do what? Your arms still hurt from the last swordfight. You plan to fight your way off the ship, and then what, escape? To where?

Pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose, she thought longingly of lying down in a dark, quiet place for the next fortnight. The saltwater, gurgling in her ears and filling her sinuses, rendered her too thick-headed to effectively think anything through. If she had been surrounded by a forest, mountains, or wilds, she would have known what to expect, how to survive. With nothing but water around her, hope of escape verged on impossible.

“What do you plan to do with me?” she ventured to ask again, a bit more steadily this time. In lieu of her own plan, knowing his might help.

He closed one eye as he strolled around her, shrewdly evaluating her as one would when purchasing a horse. “Scrawny and a bit old aside, a thing such as you could bring a good price at several markets. However, Miz Littleton—”

“My name is not Littleton.”

The Captain batted his lids with affected patience. “Aye, but it is. You shall enjoy our hospitality until your father is contacted—”

“My father? He’s been dead for years.”

“Come now, luv.” He virtually purred as he slinked nearer. A wolf circling its prey; the black eyes and wild hair only added to the impression. “Your father is in Kingston. We’ll send a messenger with a—”

“No, no, no.” She might have been suffering from a number of uncertainties, but on this she was clear. “My father is—”

“Your father is the King’s Commissioner—new King’s Commissioner, that is—of Jamaica, and as such shall pay more, a good bit more than what might be gotten at the markets, for the return of both you and your mother, as soon as those thick-pated offscourings find her,” the Captain added, with a malignant look toward the Constancy.

“My moth…? You mean Mrs. Littleton? She and her daughter are dead.”

It was sobering to hear two lives memorialized so coldly.

“Some kind of fever,” Cate said dully. “It took Lucy first, Mrs. Littleton but hours after.”

“Why didn’t you sicken?”

“I suppose I was healthier,” she said evenly.

“Can’t argue with that,” Blackthorne muttered, more to himself. “No explaining sickness, especially on a ship. I’ve seen entire crews decimated, whilst others remained in the pink.”

None of this came as good news. He stalked the room, uttering a black-sounding tirade in something other than Spanish or French, and took a long pull off the bottle still clutched in his fist.

“This wasn’t my damned plan to begin with. I tried to tell those oysterheads this wouldn’t answer. And now…” He broke off, thinking better of what he was about to say.

He came at her, shaking his fist, the bottle’s contents sloshing. “I’ll have you know, I do not approve of women aboard. Noxious creatures! Nothing but problems. It puts the men’s minds on nothing but their cocks, as you already may have noticed.” He canted his head toward the main deck, where Scarface and his men would still be.

He drew up before the window, swallowing back several more remarks that bubbled to the surface. Her heart leapt at seeing his hand come to rest on the pistol at his belt. She braced, chanting inwardly that death might be the blessing she had hoped for.

“What is your name then, luv?” he asked over his shoulder.

It was a bit disconcerting that he needed to know her name just before shooting her. She lifted her chin, determined to meet her end with grace. “Cate.”

“Catherine?”

“No, Cate will do nicely.”

He pivoted around on his heel. “Very well, Cate…”

A firm rap at the door caused her to start. A man’s silhouette, a dark blot against the glare of daylight, filled the doorway.

“Cap’n?”

She shrank back at recognizing the voice. It filled the room the same way it had echoed across the Constancy’s deck.

“Yes, Master Pryce?” Blackthorne beckoned him in with a wave.

Pryce advanced several steps, before he pulled up short at the sight of her. She snugged the coat tighter around her under his cold stare.

“Wishin’ to report, Cap’n,” Pryce said, averting his attention. “The prize has give over.”

“Readily?”

“None so much as might o’ been. Their weapons were already laid, until the cap’n’s wife there called the charge.” Pryce cut her a look, now a heated glare. “Took Chin directly in the leg, she did, and then managed to draw blood on several more afore…”

Blackthorne whirled on Cate. “I could have you hocked and heaved or flogged for drawing the blood of another.”

At some point, she had risen to her feet. She shrank back, coming up hard against the gun carriage as Blackthorne stalked toward her. He grabbed her by the arm and towed her around the table. Releasing her, he went out on deck, where a number of pirates churned through trunks taken from the Constancy. Shoving them aside, he pawed through the contents, seized something, and stomped back.

“I don’t give a damn about you, but that’s me number one coat and I’ll not have it bloodied up. Here,” he said and flung a garment at her. “Put it on or parade about half-naked, I don’t give a rat’s ass.”

The garment turned out to be a shift. She turned her back and wormed out of the coat while donning the other. The hem was barely over her hips, before the coat was yanked away. Blackthorne reached, meaning to snatch her by the hair. Thinking better, he took her by the wrist instead, the force grinding the bones together, and half-drug her to the steps below. In morbid dread of stumbling, she concentrated on her footing as he pushed from behind.

At the bottom, a shove propelled her much faster than her feet could manage. She stumbled several times. The passage wasn’t unlike that of the Constancy’s: narrow and lined with a couple of cabins to one side, and the galley the other, the cook, ladle poised in hand, watching them pass. They came out of the passage into an open space one could only call the gundeck. As low-ceilinged as the Constancy, the ’tween deck was cavernous. The pirate ship was no more than a platform for the double phalanx of guns, crouched in their carriages like silent black sentinels. The ports stood open, the fresh air thankfully stirring the miasma of bilge, stale gunpowder, and soiled hammocks.

She balked at the sight of a large number of men gathered at the foot of another companionway. It was only Blackthorne’s presence pushing from behind that kept her from turning and running, that and the recollection of what had happened the last time she tried to do so. The smell of blood grew sharp. It mingled with that of sweat and gunpowder as they neared. It was then that she saw the injured being helped down the steps. The wounded sat where they could, the more serious lying on the floor. Some glared at the sight of her; others looked on with mild interest.

Pryce’s voice rose over the commotion. “By the saints, Chin. Any chuckle-headed fool could see a thing like that won’t close on its own.”

A final shove from Blackthorne put Cate squarely before the man Pryce addressed. Hunched on a stool, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his chest, the man clutched his thigh, the blood seeping between his fingers pooling on the floor. He looked up and she found herself looking into the same impassive broad face and flat black eyes of the one who had held the knife to her throat, the one she had slashed with her sword. Her stomach lurched, the rum she had drank now an icy cannonball. Chin’s face twitched with recognition, and then settled into malevolence.

“He be refusin’, Cap’n,” Pryce said, his hands propped on his hips. His destroyed mouth tucked up in a wry twist. “You know how he is about bein’ sewed.”

“I sorry for it, Cap’n. In wrong place,” Chin said in stilted English. The admission of having been done for by a woman didn’t come easily. The glare he directed at her suggested he desired the favor to be returned.

Blackthorne knelt next to Chin and clapped him on the shoulder. “Word has it someone thought you a fish and sought to dice you up for supper. Appears to be a tough one what needs throwing back, eh, mates?”

The pirates laughed, the tension lifted. The change in Blackthorne was so remarkable she had to look again to make sure it was the same man. Like an actor shifting roles, he was suddenly amiable, even caring. Judging by the surrounding faces, this version was a familiar one.

Blackthorne gently pried open Chin’s grasp to inspect the wound. A surge of guilt struck Cate at seeing the gash through the rent in Chin’s breeches. Longer than one’s hand, it ran diagonally across the fat of his thigh, the blood welling to a steady flow once the pressure was removed. Pryce’s analysis had been accurate: with the edges curling back, a wound such as that would only fester, eventually costing him his leg.

Blackthorne clucked his tongue as one would scold a child. “’Tis going to have to be sewn.”

Sweat beading on his shaven head, Chin clamped his hand back in place and bit his lip against the pain. “All respect, sir, I can’t bear thought of stitch, especially by any o’ you.”

Blackthorne took the rebuke in stride. “You’ve seen Pryce and Kirkland both mend many a man.”

“Aye, many fester and die—lucky ones, at least. So, Crooks?” Chin directed his question to a man who stood against the bulkhead, his partly empty sleeve knotted off just below the elbow.

“Can’t say ’twere Pryce’s fault entirely,” Crooks said, laconically.

Blackthorne fixed a minatory eye on her. A drama was being played out in which she was expected to take part, but how, she couldn’t tell. Chin’s reluctance seemed to be feeding Blackthorne’s irritation with her. Judging by the intent and worried looks, Chin was held in high regard by all. The sense of brotherhood was striking, no different than among the Highland clans.

Wiping hands suddenly gone sweaty on her shift, she looked from one grizzled face to the next. Bearded and sun-beaten to evenness, they could have all been of one family. In full daylight, they had been a barbarous and menacing lot. Now, clustered in the cramped and dim space, they were even more intimidating. The sight of Chin set the cut on her breast to sting anew. It was either play along with the drama, or face Blackthorne’s wrath.

Cate glanced judiciously at Chin’s leg, not without sympathy. “You can try binding it, but you know that won’t answer, don’t you?”

The pat of blood dripping on the boards marked the seconds as she held Chin’s gaze. His defiance faltered, his lids lowering. They snapped open, only to close once more.

“Bleeding like that for another hour or two,” Cate said, “you’ll be half out of it, probably verging on delirium. By then, weakened by all the blood lost—”

“Right she is!” Pryce cried. “I ain’t never seen a gash what benefitted with the waitin.’”

Pryce’s declaration was endorsed by encouraging murmurs from all around. From behind Chin’s back, Pryce moued at having to agree with her. She looked to Blackthorne for some sign of having done right, but he was too intent on Chin to notice.

“What man would pass up the chance for a lady’s hand on his leg and not have to pay first?” Blackthorne winked, prompting a lewd chuckle from the rest. “Hell, I’ll throw in all the rum you can swallow.”

Chin’s increasing struggle to keep his eyes open gave credence to her prophesy. Through a haze of pain, he regarded her with cold suspicion, trust apparently a scarce commodity among the pirates.

“I’ll warn ye, Cap’n,” Chin said at last. “That could be a fair bit.”

“I’ve a quid in me pocket what says you can’t make a pottle,” said Blackthorne as he rose to his feet.

Catching their captain’s spirit, the men made their wagers, bringing forth coppers, shillings, shares of grog, and other tokens of value. Blackthorne turned and clapped a hand on Cate’s shoulder. To the idle observer, it would have seemed a genial gesture, but he squeezed the soft muscle until she winced.

“A life for a life ’tis our motto, so have a care,” he said, low-voiced in her ear. “And hark ye well: there are no secrets on a ship, so I shan’t advise foolery.”

Chin made it as eminently clear as his broken English would allow to all within hearing that he would not be touched until properly numbed. He ground out black-sounding Chinese at being lifted to a table. He beamed, however, when the promised rum arrived, and he drank with purpose.

As it turned out, Pryce and Kirkland, the cook, shared the duty of ship’s chirurgeon. A medicine chest was brought, containing a sharpened sailmaker’s needle and a spool of cord-like thread.

“That’ll never do,” Cate muttered, poking a finger at them. “There should be a sewing kit in those trunks from the Constancy. In the smallest one, I believe.”

“Fetch it!” barked a voice.

“Bring some of those petticoats, too,” she called after the hand who scrambled away.

The remainder of the medicine stores was disappointingly sparse: a few rags, a bottle of liniment smelling of things long-gone bad, and a jar of innocuous salve. That, plus hot water from the galley, and rum, composed the total of her weapons. Meager, yes, but she had gone into battle against injury with far less.

An ebony etui was delivered. It bore a silver family crest with the initials “LL.” Lucy Littleton. Cate stroked the glossy wood, seeing once more the slip of a girl. Barely fifteen, Lucy had possessed all the innocent sparkle of youth, breathily anticipating her coming life, a husband her greatest aspiration. She would have been stunned to see her symbols of ladyhood being put to such brutal use.

But Lucy was gone now.

Cate flicked open the small case and extracted two silver needles and the ivory bobbin of black thread.

Next to where Chin lay appeared a man. As tall as he was broad, he seemed a mountain in the low-ceilinged space. Black of hair and eye, his body was so encased in bands of geometric tattoos it was difficult to discern his skin’s natural tone. He shifted as she did, always taking a position directly in her line of sight. Arms crossed over a hogshead chest, he stood disquietingly still, except for the start he held: a length of rope, a fist-sized knot at its end. He swung the bludgeon-like thing with well-practiced ease, passing it several times closely enough for her to observe the knot’s discoloration, looking too much like dried blood. The knot was periodically struck with startling force against whatever surface that happened to be within range.

At one point, there was a subtle shift in the press of men around her, parting to allow a single figure forward. The dry old stick’s rheumy eyes regarded Chin’s leg, the man’s withered mouth pursing in consideration.

“Huh! I’ve seen worse.” The creaky-voiced pronouncement came with the same significance of a verdict handed down at Old Bailey. And then he was gone. Puzzled, Cate forbore inquiring as to what that performance had been about.

While waiting for Chin’s rum to take sufficient effect, Cate inspected the other casualties those who would allow her, that is. A good many would not deign to subject themselves to the hands of a woman, preferring to bind their wounds themselves or be attended to by their mates with whatever bit of rag might be to hand, in spite of her protests.

“Eye fer an eye,” came a low-voiced rumble from somewhere behind her.

“Justice,” hissed another.

She spun around to where several men sat wearing a unified mask of malice.

“We’ll see whose blood stains the deck next,” said Chin in a rum-thickened slur.

She spun back to Chin, now dull-eyed with drink, but glaring nonetheless. Her breast and ribs stinging anew, she thought to apologize to him, but a hollow gesture it would have been, for if the circumstances were to present themselves again, she would have done the same. She straightened, a strange calm befalling her as she took the bottle from his increasingly limp hand. She met his stare as she poised the bottle over his wound and poured. She took great satisfaction from the resulting bellow. It was cut short, however, by the crack of the knotted rope on the bench at her knee. She started as if she had been the one struck, and her hard-found will dissolved.

As she picked up the threaded needle, her pulse raced, her mouth gone dry. She had repaired many a man, but never damage done by her own hand. She periodically paused to swipe the sweat from her eyes; putting a needle through skin wasn’t as easy as one might imagine. Chin’s jaw muscles stood rigid with determination to present a stoic front. And yet, no amount of resolve could prevent his flesh from twitching at every stab. The needle slipped often from her blood-slicked fingers.

She worked under the added pressure of being observed not only by the rope-swinging watchdog, but two others, loosely disguised as assistants. One, small and squat, with huge bulging eyes and an inordinately wide mouth — Frog, as she privately christened him — stood poised with a knife—being disinclined to trust her with it—to cut the thread as she knotted off each stitch. The second, tall and thin to the point of near frailty, with a neck and limbs befitting a great bird, Crane ripped bandages in between sprinkling sand under her feet whenever the floor grew too slippery with blood. She resented their lack of trust, flattering herself as one who possessed enough honor not to exact revenge on a wounded man.

With a sigh of relief, she tied off the last stitch. She moved on to the next one injured, and then the next, all the while working under the severe mask of Watchdog and every man she treated. Those who conceded to being treated by her were, for the most part, as stoic as Chin. Unflinching as she sewed their flesh or set their bones, they didn’t scruple, however to smirk at her terrified state.

The bastards!

Cate glanced at the faces of each one and tried to match them with those she had seen during the fight on the Constancy. It was impossible that she could have been directly responsible for every injury, but clearly they thought as much. She focused on her task, allowing her bent head to take the brunt of their malice. Now bloody to the wrists, she could smell her own sweat above the press of bodies around her. Her jaw ached from being set. Determination turned inward, some might have called it “fortitude,” but her father, brothers, and husband had called it “stubbornness.”

Be damned if I’m going to be cowed by a bunch of pirates!

At least that was what she told herself, until her pace slowed. Mastiff swung his club-rope with a resounding whack, spurring her to work with renewed fervor. Under more ordinary circumstances, she could have worked with confidence; she had staunched a war’s worth of wounds. This wasn’t the maiming and dismemberment as wrought by cannon fire. Hand-to-hand battle produced more in the way of slashes, fractures, and dislocations, dismemberment being limited to knuckles, noses, or ears. The blood, however, ran just as red, the agony just as real.

The hatch grates were drawn back and ’tween decks was flooded with daylight. With it a came a downdraft of fresh air; she inhaled deeply several times through her nose to clear away the fug of blood, vomit, and unwashed male. The lowering to the hold of plunder from the Constancy began, bulging net after net. The process involved a great deal of cursing and shouting, often requiring her to shout into the ear of her patient. Those injured in the loading process took their place in the makeshift sick bay’s line: a gaffing hook to the foot, a smashed hand, and one who had taken an inopportune step and tumbled through the Constancy’s hatch.

And then, she was done. Wincing, Cate slowly straightened and waited. No one stepped forward; no one beckoned. Flushed with exertion, she washed the blood and filth from her hands in a bucket and dried them on her hem. Little could be done for the shift she wore, now smeared red from chest to knees. All told, there had been well over a score to be seen, all now either resting comfortably in their hammocks or back on duty. She wasn’t ashamed to admit there was a small part of her that had enjoyed the work. For once, she had felt useful, a sense she had thought to be long dead.

Mastiff, Frog, and Crane having disappeared, she stood half expecting someone to either drag her away to be confined somewhere, or returned to Blackthorne’s cabin. Many of the men circled around her as if she carried wharf fever, while others intentionally brushed against her as they passed, murmuring lewd remarks. She retreated to as out-of-the-way corner as could be found in such tightly-packed quarters: atop a sea chest wedged between the aftmost guns—yes, she needed to remember that at sea cannon were called “guns”—and waited.

There was a bone-rattling bellow of “Swabbers!” She picked up her feet, crusted with the same slurry of sand and blood that fouled the floor, to allow the pile of reddish-brown crumbles to be swept away by one of the men who appeared armed with brooms, mops, and buckets. He worked with a low-voiced grumble of “Damned landsmen what don’t know how to mind a deck. Swab. Swab. Swab. And not a moment’s rest. ’Twas like the Glory Almighty was coming to visit.”

Mess was called, with all its furor of gathering men. The pirates hunched over tables slung between the guns and gobbled down their meal oblivious to the cargo nets, which still passed up and down. The smell of food reached her, but her stomach was closed, the scent leaving her queasy.

A dull ache seemed to have permanently settled behind her eyes. It was a different sort from the pain that thudded where she had hit back of her head. The sense of fulfillment faded and cold fingers of fear clawed her gut again. The price of idleness was time to think. Nothing pleasant came to mind, only broken recollections of the ominous warnings heard on the Constancy. She looked down at her hands, now resting in her lap, and wondered when the trembling might stop. She buried her head in her hands and covered her ears, in hopes that if she was to block it all out, she might wake from this nightmare. A more desperate hope was that she had actually drowned and was dead.

That would make this Purgatory, she thought, scanning the pirates.

And a fitting description it was: a soulless, damned-looking lot they were. There was, however, none of the despondency or misery one would expect in Hell’s waiting room. These men laughed and jested, poking good-naturedly at each other as they ate with zeal.

Through the clamor of men and handling of cargo nets, she felt first through the floor, and then heard the footsteps coming toward her, heavy with irritation and the desire to make that displeasure known.

“Ah! So the lamb couldn’t find its way through the wolves back to the flock?” Blackthorne jeered as he drew up before her. “Have to be a dull-witted dawcock not to be able to find your way aft.”

“No one said…You never…”

“Tach! Must I bid you to breathe, as well?” he cut in, an annoying habit, she was coming to discover.

Exhaustion and tension had rendered her uncommonly over-sensitive, for his image blurred.

“Bloody hell, not blubbering again,” Blackthorne said at seeing her eyes fill, as he handed her down from her perch. “Your bladder lie too close to your eyeballs, does it? Shall I leave you with them, so you might truly have something to wail about?” he asked with a gesture toward the men.

He was back in character, Cate thought glumly as he shoved her back toward the Great Cabin, a considerably more circuitous path with the tables now set up and hatches opened. The affable, engaging captain seen among his men was gone, the glowering, fractious one returned.

Once in the cabin, she quickly retreated to her previous spot. Standing there, she gazed out the window at the low-slanted sun’s rays. The day was almost over and of prodigious proportions it had been. She hoped never to see another like it. There was, however, the niggling possibility that it might be her last. Fixed on that thought, she was deep in observation of the patterns of light and shadows on the water, committing them to everlasting memory, when she was interrupted by Pryce’s arrival.

“We’ve cleared the prize of everythin’ need be,” he said, pulling up before Blackthorne, now seated at the table. Behind him, she could see the deck still teemed with the shipping of theConstancy’s plunder. “We’ve looked from tops to wells. ’Tweren’t no other women yet, exceptin’ the capt’n’s wife there.”

Pryce looked at her with a coldness that reached across the room.

“Guns disabled?” Blackthorne asked.

Folding his hands behind his back, Pryce proudly rocked on his heels. “Aye, sir. Guns spiked and rudder disabled. ’Twill be the morrow earliest afore she’ll be makin’ ready. There be no danger o’ her givin’ chase, nor makin’ port soon.”

“Well done. Any of her crew come over?”

The First Mate’s gargoyle-like countenance brightened with pride. “Aye, ten, sir. ’Pears they’d heard of the Ciara Morganse and couldn’t pass up the opportunity.”

“Very well, then. Pass the word for these fine specimens of seamanship, so they might sign the book.”

The moment Pryce stepped over the door’s coaming, Blackthorne spun around at her.

“In there!” he hissed, with a swipe toward a curtained doorway. “And don’t come out until you’re bid.”

She slunk along the margins of the room and ducked around the velvet barricade, into what she thought to be an anteroom. She froze at the sight of the bunk in the thin light passing through the porthole. The Captain’s bed. His bed.

It was a less-than-subtle hint. Cocking an ear, she heard nothing more than Blackthorne rustling about. For the moment, it seemed safe.

She sagged against the wall. Bracing her head in her hands, she drew several shuddering breaths, striving to loosen joints that had constricted into knots. A clearer head was going to be necessary if she was going to survive this. The tightness in her chest and pressure behind her eyes were harbingers of a breakdown of epic proportions bubbling just beneath the surface. Lucid thought was becoming nigh impossible, her mind leaping from one panic-laden thought to the next. She drew down on herself even tighter. Anyone who dealt with animals knew they could sense fear and would feed on it. Now was not the time for any such display, not with Blackthorne just the other side of the curtain.

She sat on the edge of the bunk. This was the moment of privacy and quiet she had longed for, and she strained to think. She eyed the port high on the bulkhead. It was large enough that she could slither through, but beyond waited nothing but ocean and sharks. The space was considerably larger than her cabin on the Constancy, but it was still small enough that one glance showed there were no doors or windows. No one would be coming in, but neither would she be getting out.

Voices from the salon broke her thoughts. She rose to peek between the curtain and the wall. A worn leather book now lay open on the table before Blackthorne, quill and silver ink bottle arranged beside it. The Constancy converts stood opposite. Viewed from the side, they looked vaguely familiar, some a little more than others. Several pirates filed in and took up positions along the bulkhead, apparent witnesses to the proceedings. Pryce stood at his captain’s elbow, a hand poised over the pistol in his belt.

Blackthorne straightened and assumed a grave demeanor. “Can any of you read?”

There was a unified declination and humbled murmurs.

“Very well, then. I’ll summarize: this is a pirate ship.”

The statement was met with surprised looks and nervous tittering.

“I know, ’tis obvious, mates.” Blackthorne’s smile was audible. “But I’m obliged to make that known. We abide by the Code of the Coast, as set forth by Morgan and Bartholomew, and our articles are as such: there will be no gaming for money’s sake, nor smoking. As a side note, I might add: spit on me decks and live to regret it. And all marlinspikes shall be eyed and spliced. If you’ve no eye, then see the armorer directly. No drinking alone below decks and no bottling your tot. No carrying an uncovered light after eight o’clock…”

Blackthorne’s graveled voice rang clear as he recited the list. Many of the strictures were common sense, essential for the co-existence of so many men crammed on a single vessel. The newcomers listened, intently nodding.

“…to keep their pistols and cutlass clean and fit for service. He what sees a sail first, shall have the best pistol or small arms taken from said vessel. No man shall withhold information pertinent to the safety and welfare of crew or ship. There will be equal shares in everything taken…”

Cate sagged, the blood draining from her limbs. Blackthorne’s voice faded as she stumbled back onto the bunk.

Took the women, the unlucky ones bein’ raped before their family’s eyes, ’til there were nothin’ left.

Heaven help any woman taken by those slavering curs.

The words rang all too clearly.

She dug her nails hard into her scalp, hoping the pain might this time wake her from this nightmare.

It didn’t.

A quilt lay at the foot of the bunk. She snatched it up and pressed it to her face, to muffle the sobs of desperation and terror that erupted. She prided herself on not being the typical woman, who collapsed into a sniveling wreck at the least provocation, but it seemed she had been doing more than her share of sniveling these last days. Hopelessness had been visited upon her before, but that had been trivial compared to this.

“…and stand your watches without dereliction. Do you swear to abide by these?”

Blackthorne’s question snapped her back to her surroundings. She shakily returned to the curtain in time to see the Constancies solemnly nod.

“Sorry, mates. I can’t hear your heads rattling. Call out like the tars what you are.”

Pryce stepped forward and soundly cuffed the nearest one on the back of the head. “’e’s yer captain, now. Ye’ll be showin’ him the respect what he’s got comin.’”

“Aye, sir!” came a chorus with renewed vigor.

“Very well, make your mark. You’ve now joined the Brethren of the Coast.”

Each of the fledglings bent to scrawl his mark, after which he gave his name. Blackthorne entered it with flourish. It was a solemn but brief ceremony.

“Welcome aboard the Ciara Morganse,” Blackthorne announced as he capped the ink. “And mind now, I’m your commander. Withholding information will be penalized.”

He allowed for the weight of that to settle, and then asked with whip-like sharpness, “Who was the woman?”

Cate’s heart leapt at the thought of being so blatantly investigated; he knew full well that she could hear every word. It wasn’t so much fear that made her blood pulse; no one on the Constancy knew anything damaging of her past. Her annoyance stemmed from someone snooping about in her affairs.

Two of the Constancies shrugged, while the remainder groped for a name.

“Name’s Harper, sir,” said one, at last.

“That was Captain Harper over there?” Blackthorne countered, with a vague wave toward the Constancy.

They were momentarily puzzled, thinking it a trick question. “Nossir. That were Cap’n Chambers.”

Blackthorne leaned forward on the table with sharpened interest. “You’re sure?”

“Positive, sir.” All heads nodded; eager to be in the good graces of their new captain.

“Not Littleton?” asked Blackthorne.

“The Commissioner’s wife and daughter? They died weeks ago, sir.”

“Aye, commended them to the deep, we did,” added the other eagerly. “With proper words, of course.”

“Of course,” Blackthorne said, head bent in thought. “Very well. Well done, and all that…”

A wave shooed them all out with the exception of Pryce, who lingered expectantly.

“Cast off then and make way,” he said to Pryce, still distracted. “You’ve got your course. Go. Go.”

“Cap’n, Bullock and his lot are at it again,” Pryce said, lowering his voice to barely audible.

Blackthorne stiffened and swore. It wasn’t good news, but at the same time didn’t seem to come as a great surprise.

“Heard ’em a-tryin’ to rouse his mates,” Pryce added circumspectly.

“What’s that piss-vinegar of a sea lawyer up to now?” came Blackthorne’s low-voiced vehemence.

“The usual: too much work, others a-shirkin’ their duties, twice-laid cordage—”

“That’s the best cordage money can buy.”

“Aye, as any man worth his salt knows well. ’Tis a malcontent for sure, but he has the ears of many, too many.”

“Very well, an extra ration of grog for all,” said Blackthorne after a brief reflection. “Not many complaints can swim through that. And pass the word to the galley ‘tis time for duff. That should appease the Furies,” he ended with a grandiose swipe.

“There be another matter—” Pryce began with some hesitancy.

“Suffering Jesus on the cross, now what?” Blackthorne grumbled, more out of frustration than anger.

“Towers, Smalley, and Quinn: they be drunk during the raid…again. That makes three in the month.”

“Don’t I know it,” sighed Blackthorne. He gave a caustic snort. “The Demon Rum calls louder than their hides, eh? Witnesses?”

“Six what are willing to step forward and claim inconvenience, but there be more what will help make the case, if need be.”

“Very well, pass the word we’ll muster the Company after we’re aweigh. Make it so, Master Pryce.”

“Is she the one we seek, Cap’n?” Pryce asked in an even more clandestine tone.

Blackthorne paused to consider. “Dunno, Pryce. Dunno.”

Blackthorne waited until the clump of Pryce’s boots had died, before calling, “You can come out now…if you haven’t jumped overboard again.”

She stumbled back from the curtain, at first fearing she had been caught eavesdropping. With a hand that shook far more than imagined, she smoothed her hair and made herself as presentable as possible, when wearing nothing but a torn and blood-stained shift, to go meet her fate. At the last moment, her confidence wavered and she pulled the quilt from the bunk. Donning it like a cape, she settled the folds over her shoulders, feeling far less vulnerable as she stepped out.

It was early evening, the cabin’s saturated colors of the day giving way to the muted, half-tones of impending dark. Blackthorne was in the midst of lighting the candles. One brow lifted under the edge of his headscarf at seeing her swathed in the quilt, but no comment was made. It was another one of his disconcerting habits: ignoring the obvious to pounce on the obscure.

“You’re letting the Constancy go?” she asked, careful to strip all emotional inflection from her voice.

Blackthorne stopped with the taper suspended over a wick. “Certainly. Why not? We have what we came for, or so it would appear.”

His same brow arched, this time with suspicion. “What interest is it to you?”

“Nothing. I was led to believe you…pirates,” she struggled with the word. He noticed and smirked. “That you always forced captives to join your crew, and then destroyed the ship.”

He genuinely laughed, a flash of white splitting the black abundance of beard, and blew out the taper’s flame. “Aye, that can be the case. Forty more hands can make duties lighter. But,” he cautioned, wagging a finger, “Twenty souls here under protest can be even more burdensome. So, we take what we can,” he went on, tucking the book back into its place on a shelf, “And let them go, assuring of course, that their gratitude doesn’t come in the form of shooting us in the ass. With any luck and fair winds, we’ll be leagues away before they can make port and report us.”

“That’s very generous.” She was afraid to hope the same compassion might be extended when it came to the dispensing of her final fate.

Blackthorne shrugged off the compliment as he flopped down in his chair once more. “Generosity will get you killed, darling. Practicality: now there’s a friend you can count on.”

Mindful of the quilt, she sat across the table from him. “So, you…pirates…share…everything?”

“Aye,” he said affably, amused by the break in her voice at the word “pirate.” “We’ve a plunder book what lists all what’s taken; ’tis open for any man to see. The bosun and gunner get a share and a half. The quartermaster gets a share and three-quarter, and Captain—that would be me,” he pointed out, with a teasing glint, “receives two. But everyone gets a share of everything, no exceptions. ’Tis the Code,” he added with an underlining sweep of his hand.

“How…” She gulped, the words not being where she had expected. “How many are there aboard?”

Leaning his head back, he closed one eye in calculation. “A hundred and twenty-four now, but we’re still a bit short-handed.”

“That many,” she said faintly. Struck by a wave of queasiness, she raised a hand to her head. Seeing it shake, she tucked both underneath her legs.

“Are you well?” He lurched up and came around the table.

“Yes,” she stammered, shying. “Why?”

“You just turned the color of spoilt custard. You need rum!”

“No! No! Please…!”

Her protests were too late; he had already seized the bottle and was refilling her glass.

“Can’t have you falling out on me deck.” He cast a worried eye toward her that suggested said “falling out” might occur before he could finish pouring.

A cold sweat prickled her forehead. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t under enough of a massive strain without having to keep drinking the vile stuff, she thought moodily as she took the glass. The thought occurred that he aimed to render her insensible, in order to take advantage of her, but she could handle her drink far better than that.

Once confident that she wasn’t about to “fall out,” he pulled up a chair and sat. Their knees nearly touching, he hunched interestedly forward.

“What did you say your name was?” he asked. A taunting smile grew at her hesitation. “Trying to remember, eh? They do say the less you lie, the less you are required to remember. Let's have a real name this time, luv.”

She hung on to the glass as if it were an anchor, needing something solid to hold on to, a weapon, if necessary. He wasn’t a large man, but his nearness was disquieting, nonetheless. Clutching the quilt tighter, she inched sideways in her chair.

“Catherine Harper.”

“As you said before.”

“No, I only said Cate, before. Can’t we just accept that and move on? What difference does it make, as long as it’s not Littleton?”

He leaned back. Tenting his fingers to his lips, the dark eyes were keen as a predator’s. “And does Cate Harper have any family?”

In desperate need of fortification, she drained the last bit of rum from her glass and glared at him over the rim. “Fishing for someone else to ransom, Captain?”

Her bravery held but for a few moments. The urge to flee surged again. She was on her feet before realizing it, only to discover there was no place to run. Trapped, she turned to the window.

“No, Catherine Harper has no one, absolutely no one,” she said to the night.

“Any slab-sided dolt can see that you are a lady by speech and carriage, in spite of your clever disguise,” he said dryly, rising behind her.

“Disguise,” she cried, spinning around. “You were the ones who—”

“Details,” he said, with a dismissive flutter of fingers. He circled, regarding her again as if she was prized livestock. “In spite of a sojourn at sea, you’ve the skin and teeth of a lady as well. Someone has paid dearly for your maintenance.”

“There’s no one.”

“Did your mother not teach you not to lie?”

Cheeks heating, she crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m not lying. There’s—”

She was cut short at seeing his gaze drop to her hand.

“You wear a wedding ring,” he observed in a cunning tone.

“Please don’t take it.” She clutched her hand to her chest.

“Why would I do that?” he asked, his face screwing in puzzlement.

“You pirates take everything, don’t you?” She didn’t scruple uttering the word now, employing every bit of the loathing that boiled to the surface.

“Aye, that we do, but I can assure you one silver ring wouldn’t signify,” he said amiably, but then his tone hardened. “And I beg that you spare me the stuff-and-nonsense of you being the good Captain Whatever-His-Name’s wife.”

“I told you, there is no one.”

She bit her lip with the realization that with that succinct declaration, she might well have sealed her fate: by her own admission, she was worthless as a hostage. The list of possibilities of what might be done with her had just narrowed.

She looked into one of the gallery’s thick panes. The face looking back from amid a bramble of hair was that of a stranger: blank-eyed and haggard, a hag, no better than the beggars and whores who roamed the streets, someone to be used and abused with little regard. She felt the ship shift under her feet and the sails catch. Their momentum building, she watched the lights of the Constancy, and any hope of escape, fade into the twilight. With it, too, went her meager bag of possessions.

Everything was gone.

In spite of the quilt about her, a cold desolation settled over her. It was the final kick in the gut, Providence telling her once again that she was to have nothing…ever. Anything she ever managed to gain would be taken.

“What of your husband?” Blackthorne’s blurred reflection in the glass moved as he circled behind her.

She rolled the silver ring between her fingers. Ornate, yet simple, with small rosebuds twining over a latticework background, it was now all that was left. Clutching her hand to her chest, she closed her eyes in benediction of all she had lost.

“He’s gone,” she said dully.

“Gone? Gone, as in to another island? Or, gone as in…?”

“Gone, as in prison,” she cried. Spinning around, the quilt fell from her shoulders. “Gone, as in never to be seen again. Gone, as in I’m totally alone. Gone, as in there is not a single soul to know if I’m alive or dead!”

The weight of the day had taken its toll. Terror, battle, near drowning, and now captivity were all too overwhelming. Rage overcame sensibility. Squealing, she balled a fist and swung. He chuckled as he easily fended her off, infuriating her all the more. Fingers curled, she lunged, seeking to claw his throat, face…anything! Artfully dodging her attempts to knee him in the groin, he seized her wrists and pulled her against him. She screamed in anger more than fear.

“Quiet! Belay!” he hissed.

He pressed her face deeper into his shoulder, the pistol at his waist digging her ribs. Cate bucked against his body, lean and hardened by years at sea. Wrestling with her brothers had taught her how to fight; he flinched and grunted when her blows found their target. She felt a tug at the neck of her shift and heard the sound of fabric tearing.

Cate landed a solid kick to his knee and broke free. She leapt for the broad sill of the windows and hooked her fingers on the ledge, clinging to the slim chance of escape. Freedom was just below: a sea glittering in the starlight. The water was further down than she had imagined, but rational voices didn’t prevail. He dove after her and seized her by the waist, striving to pull her away. Her fingers burned, the joints tearing. She kicked out and knocked his leg out from under him. He sprawled on top of her, one arm trying to pull her back, the other reaching to break her hold. Failing at that, he grabbed her wrist and squeezed, digging his fingers deep between the bones. A searing pain raced up her arm and shot down into her hand. Her fingers went numb and she lost her grip with a suddenness that sent them both tumbling along the sill.

He came up on top of her, his hips grinding hers. His breath hot on her chest, she slapped and gouged, going for his eyes, nose…any point of weakness. He caught one arm in mid-air and wrenched it around under her, while nearly catching the other. As they rolled, one way and then the other, she screamed and he clapped a hand over her mouth. She bit down until she heard the satisfying crunch of flesh. Grunting in pain, he jerked back and tried to shake her off, but she hung on like a terrier on a rat. Finally, he slapped her across the face. The blow sent her reeling backward. She came hard up against a gun with a force that knocked the wind from her.

Blackthorne came at her with a thunderous look. The black eyes gleamed with a brilliance that made him capable of any act of mayhem or madness. She sagged back, the gun’s cold brass at her back another scream bubbling in her throat, but he stopped just beyond arm’s reach.

“Scream again and you’ll do it hanging from me bowsprit,” he said in a low, gasping growl.

He twisted his arm around to examine the side of his hand, a curve of red droplets bright in the candlelight. He glared in disgust at her and plunged it into his mouth. He then snatched up the bottle and trickled rum over it, swearing as he shook off the pain.

Blackthorne came at her with a swiftness that he was on her before she could react. He grabbed her up and half-carried, half-drug her across the room to the curtain and, with a low, animal sound, shoved her through it.

“And come out at your peril!” he snarled.

Cate strained to curb her own hard breathing in order to hear to what was happening on the other side of the curtain: stomping about, and a great deal of grumbles and curses, much unkindly toward women in general and her, specifically. She heard a heaving grunt and the quilt slid under the curtain with enough force for it to land at her feet.

She stood staring into the dark room. There was nothing but a curtain, no way of barricading or locking it. She inched her way forward with a groping hand extended. She stubbed her toe on the bunk and heard a smug snicker in the salon. He was still out there, listening, waiting. Sleeping on the bed seemed ill-advised. When he came in—and surely he would—he would expect her there. Determined not to give him the satisfaction of another sound, she clamped her mouth tight and felt around to the farthest corner. At the head of the bed, she came upon a book tucked in the corner. Its hefty weight promised to make a fair weapon—the only weapon thus far—and she tucked it under her arm. Once reaching the corner, she felt for the quilt and curled up with it on the floor.

Exhaustion was an anchor dragging her down. The events of the day flashed through her head like a riffled deck of cards. The speed with which they passed had a hypnotic effect and she felt her joints loosen. Muscles tensed for too long trembled and twitched as they let go. Deeper and deeper she sank.

Cate woke with a start. With no idea what had awakened her, she tried to quiet her pounding heart in order to hear, straining to see through the darkness. She shied at a spectral light glowing at the ceiling and felt quite foolish at seeing it was only the moon through a deck prism. A greenish pool on the floor, the thin ray was the only light in the otherwise stygian void. The curtain moved and she jumped then gasped with relief at realizing it swayed with the motion of the ship.

There was a noise, the same or different as what had wakened her she couldn’t tell. She held her breath, as if listening might help her to see. She couldn’t shake the sense of eyes being on her. Severe disorientation seized her at realizing that she was no longer on the floor. She was somewhere else, but with no recollection of how she had come to be there. Shifting her weight ever so slightly, she felt the lumpiness of a mattress under her and smelt the sharpness of male. A bed, the captain’s bed most likely. Her blood pulsed in her ears as she felt with her rear, and then a hand. She was alone, so far.

The feel of eyes on her was unshakeable, however. She wormed further back against the bulkhead and pulled the quilt higher as she strained to hear what she couldn’t see.

Sometime later, she heard another sound: an eerie, unearthly cry, which seemed to emanate from the bowels of the ship. Long and querulous, it faded to a slow death. An animal was her first thought, and yet too distorted by distance to be sure. Within a few moments, she heard it again, this time seeming to originate from outside and high above.

She lay awake through the night, jumping and starting at every creak, pop or vibration. At last, when the black of night gave way to the thin grey of dawn, she dozed off, too exhausted to care.