The Pirate Captain

CHAPTER 3: The Lie Behind the Truth

A distant pounding jerked Cate awake. Only her eyes moved as her sleep-muddled mind strove to sort out what had wakened her. The brilliance of morning squeezed around the curtain and through the porthole in glaring shafts that sliced the cabin’s gloom.

“Cap’n!” There was no mistaking Pryce’s bellow. The Great Cabin’s door was knuckled again with increased vigor. “Cap’n!”

Someone stirred in the salon. The rustle of clothing and creak of leather was followed by a groggy, “Eh?”

“Beg pardon, Cap’n, but you’re desired—”

“You can come in, Master Pryce.” Neither was there mistaking Blackthorne’s throaty growl.

She heard the halting clump of boots, and then a hesitant, “Cap’n, if you be of leisure—”

“Bloody hell, Pryce. Come in the damned room and stop caterwauling like a wretched fishwife!”

Even at her distance, Cate jumped at Blackthorne’s roar.

The footsteps sidled further.

“Beg pardon, sir. ’Twasn’t wishin’ to intrude.” Pryce’s insinuation wasn’t lost: a woman in the captain’s cabin was apparently a familiar scenario.

“There’s no intrusion to be made, Master Pryce.” Blackthorne’s reply came around a huge yawn.

“Some o’ the hands represent as they heard screamin’ last night, of the womanly sort.”

The comment came not in the way of accusation, but advisably, a delicate suggestion that a bit more discretion might be exercised the next time.

“Did they now?” said Blackthorne coldly. The scrape of a chair was followed by the stomp of a foot and labored scuffle of walking with one leg asleep. “And pray, what did the remainder hear?”

“Nuthin,’” came dully, after a brief pause.

“Uh-huh. I thought as much. She’s in there, if you desire to inspect for damages. ’Course, that would be to risk stirring her up again. You fancy caterwauling, do you, Master Pryce?”

Pryce sputtered and humphed.

“Was there an initiating purpose to this visit?” Blackthorne prompted.

“Huh? Oh, aye, sir! The bosun sends his compliments and, if yer of yer leisure, desires ye to attend. He says the larboard lift blocks an’ crosstrees on the fore gallant won’t answer. And the Company muster will be a-waitin’ yer leisure at eight bells.”

“Very well, lead on, Master Pryce,” said Blackthorne through another yawn, and the two left.

The salon now quiet, Cate took the opportunity to wake further.

Through a dull headache, she sought again to come to terms with where she was. A part of her concussed mind clung to the familiarity of her surroundings—the watch bells still pealed, the boatswain still bellowed, the holystones still scraped and the caulking mallets still rapped—and insisted if she was to close her eyes, she could still be on the Constancy

“This isn’t the Constancy, it’s the Sara Morgan or Carry Morgans, or whatever,” she said aloud. She had been aware of Pryce calling the ship by a different name, but was at a loss as to what it had been.

Cate opened her eyes and blew a long sigh. Yesterday, she had prepared to never see the sun rise again. Seeing the morning rays cut the cabin’s gloom had to be taken as a victory. The bone-rattling terror had given way to mere gut-knotting dread. Her hands no longer shook, the quaking reduced to no more than sporadic tremors, and her heart had slowed to a rate that promised it wouldn’t leap out of her chest after all.

Awaking in Blackthorne’s bunk, with no idea of how she had come to be there, was unsettling. Even more worrisome was to think she had slept through being moved and wrapped in the quilt. With all the fitful waking, she didn’t think to have slept so soundly. Wondering what else she might have slept through, she ducked her head under the blanket to delicately sniff and took a meticulous inventory of her body. There was no stickiness or soreness, nor any trace of the aftermath of sex or violation. It was another befuddlement: a visitor in the night had been expected, and yet none had come…or had he?

The smell of a man rose from the sweat-stained mattress and pillow. Musty and sharp, it was mingled with hints of rum, cinnamon, tar, and orange oil. It wasn’t objectionable. If anything, it made her realize how much she missed the smell of a man of a morning. It had been a long time, a very long time.

As she lay there, she heard the scamper of feet. At sea or land, the sound of rats never changed. She reflexively checked her toes, fingers, lips, and nose to assure there had been no nibbling, as she watched the rolling red back—and a sleek, healthy beast it was—lumber along the wall. The surprise came with a brindled face poked out from under the curtain. First impressions were of a fox, but it was considerably smaller, longer of body, and shorter of leg. The creature darted forward and pounced. The rat gave a startled squeal, a feeble kick and was dead. Holding its prey by the neck, the brindled beast regarded Cate with beady, vertically slitted eyes. Seemingly a bit surprised by her presence, it pranced off with its treasure to be devoured in privacy.

The call of nature forced Cate to rise sooner than she would have preferred. She rose stiffly, taking several steps before her legs became reliable. She listened carefully to verify that the salon was still empty before making her quilt-swathed entrance. The privy closet was in the far corner. She was excessively grateful for that tradition of the sea: the captain having his own convenience. Groping her way to the forecastle or asking for a chamber pot was unthinkable. If she were at sea a hundred years, however, she would never become accustomed to the feel of the wind and spray on her bared bottom.

After, she took in her surroundings. The Great Cabin was a man’s room; make no mistake, an eclectic collection from every corner of sea and continent. The Constancy’s walls—bulkheads, at sea—had been pristinely whitewashed. These were walnut, dark and rich with the patina of time, smelling of oil and wax. The mizzenmast marked the forward third of the room, the remaining space dominated by a carved mahogany table centered over a Turkish rug. The sidechairs were equally elaborate, with brass-studded seats, their tooled leather worn to a dull sheen.

Opulence and riches were expected—these were pirates, after all—but only luxuriant pragmatism was found; luxuriant, at least, by any standards in which she had lived of recent. Every object was unique, but at the same time functional, selected for utility rather than to impress: a velvet chair, because one might wish to sit. Before it sat an ottoman, fashioned from some kind of drum-looking something, in case one needed to rest his feet. A water-stained locker sat next to the chair, because one needed a place to set something, such as the thick book there now, a French classic. A candelabrum hung next to it, because one needed light to read.

By the side-lighted, double doors sat a massive Oriental porcelain urn, its inglorious task being to hold a lethality of swords, cutlasses, and sabers. Charts bulged from similar gilt-trimmed urns scattered about. Silver and gold cups sat next to ones of leather or wood; after all, one needed to drink. Battered horn lanterns perched next to silver epergnes; one needed light. The two cannons, their brass glowing in the morning light, were a cold reality against the warmth of human occupancy, and yet were quite fitting.

Perhaps the most intriguing of the room’s features were the books, a rare luxury and one that had been fully indulged. Cases, with moveable arms that locked or unlocked with a single flip, sat everywhere. Gilded and richly bound, under closer scrutiny, many of the volumes proved to be collections of classics, and in several languages.

Amid the live sounds of a ship under sail, she hitched the quilt higher about her shoulders and perched on the arm of a chair to stare out the windows at the rich hues of sky and wave. According to Chambers and the Constancies, she had committed a mortal mistake: she had allowed herself to be captured. She smiled faintly. Now she could be the one to tell the pirate tales and several fallacies she could correct. She felt frayed and worn, stained and bruised, humbled, but not beaten, not yet. Now, there was nothing except what she had always done: survive. She was a captive, but hadn’t been thrown overboard, lips cut off, or innards nailed to a tree…yet.

Things were looking up.

From the corner of her eyes, Cate saw something move. She looked, but found nothing. With a second glance, she found a small lizard sitting on the windowsill. With bulging orbs for eyes, the thing’s tiny throat pulsated with each breath. It darted first one way, then another. At one point it fixed a pale, reptilian eye on her, considered her to be neither edible nor threatening, and flashed out of sight through a space in the boards. Another appeared clinging upside down at the top of the window. It scampered about, and then disappeared outside.

She gradually became aware of voices on deck, their agitation increasing by the moment. She was startled to see what had to have been all hundred and twenty-odd, the entire ship’s complement, gathered. With the mizzenmast as a shield, she watched as a resounding cheer erupted. In the glare of sunlight, the milling throng faced the bow, like metal filings being pulled toward a magnet. They gave a rousing shout, their arms raised in much the same fashion as spectators at a hanging. Then there was a great stirring, like someone being brought forward.

A fearful shriek, a high, thin cry of pain rode the air. The crowd cheered, their agitation shifting to approval. A few moments later, came another cry, lower and filled with resentment. There was a scuffle, and then a man broke from the crowd and dove for the foremast ratlines. He scrambled up the rope ladders as gangs of pirates gave chase, racing up both sides, eventually going so high she could no longer see them. Their path up and across the yards could be tracked by the gazes and brandished fists of those on deck. From high above came another cry, and then the blur of a falling body. It caught in the rigging, spun, hit the rail, and then disappeared into the crowd with an odd thud, like a sack of wet meal.

A slightly puzzled hush fell over the pirates, a few grumbling with disappointment or disgust.

Stunned, Cate stumbled back, eventually coming up against the table. She was still standing there when Blackthorne stepped out of the crowd and sauntered into the cabin, the bellow of “Swabbers!” coming from behind him. He was barely through the door when he drew up short at the sight of her, his mouth curling in displeasure.

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” he said, pitching his coat aside.

“I’m not sure what I just saw,” she said shakily.

Blackthorne followed her line of sight to the milling crowd outside, now dissolving. “Oh, that. Company business. Justice desired serving.”

“Throwing a man from the yards?”

He turned to give her a queer look. “He wasn’t thrown. The stupid sod fell. Never was much in the tops,” he said more to himself. “’Tis an unfortunate mess, now.”

He cast a thoughtful glance toward the deck. Hoses had been rigged, the swabbers setting to work.

“’Twas a disciplinary action,” he said, turning back. “Those three—or two now—were drunk whilst on yesterday’s raid. Their own mates came forward to claim their drunkenness was cause for injury or inconvenience. ’Tis a direct violation of the Articles. They were judged by their peers; leaves the Captain completely out of it, praise God!” he added under his breath with a roll of his eyes. “The sentence was lopping of an ear…er, last ear in Towers’ case. A bit slow on the pick-up, that one is.”

“You cut off their ears?” The pained cries still ringing in her head, a wave of queasiness took her. She had witnessed any number of punishments—stocks, ear-pinning, pillory, ducking—many cruel and sometimes bloody, but this seemed uncommonly so, especially when done to one of their own, this so-called Brotherhood.

Blackthorne smiled tolerantly. “Flog a man and he’s not worth his salt for days. Caning and drubbing is no different. Put him in irons or bilboes, and he’s on his ass, at his leisure. Keel-hauling renders him as useless as flogging, and then what with all the rigging him up, throwing him overboard, dragging him the length of the ship, not to mention the mess after…”

He shuddered dramatically. “Most instances, a man’s forced to cut his own off, but strikes me as damned barbaric. No, a quick snick and Bob’s-your-uncle, the fuddling mump learns his lesson, hopefully. ’Tis not torture they seek,” he said, looking outside once more, “only justice. And those scuts will be a constant reminder to every man what lays eyes on him. Feeling better today, are we?” he asked, swiveling around to her.

It took Cate a moment to follow his abrupt shift, and managed an uneven, “Yes, thank you, Captain.”

All things considered, she felt much better.

“Nathan.” He dropped his battered leather tricorn on the table. “I’d fancied you’d call me Nathan…Cate?” The graveled voice held the question.

She nodded, managing a smile. From amid his glossy beard broke a gold-studded smile that lit the room.

There was an awkward moment. For a man who seemed to have a response to everything the day before, he was markedly ill at ease, searching the rug at his feet as if he might find the words there. The scratch marks, livid on his chest amidst the heavy growth of hair, brought a sense of satisfaction. Hopefully, he would think twice before trying her again. She saw the hand she had bitten was wrapped in a doubtful-looking strip of rag. In the spirit of atonement, and perhaps a bit of endearment, she considered offering to put a bit of salve on it. Never being one to dodge the unpleasant, she took the first step. Anything was better than this insufferable throat-clearing.

“Shall I—?” Cate began.

“A pact,” he declared. His habit of interrupting hadn’t improved.

Cate looked to see if he was jesting. He wasn’t. “I beg pardon?”

“A pact would answer: I stay on this side of the room,” he said with a sweep of his arm in a general direction of where he stood. “And you won’t attack me again. Agreed?”

“Attack! I never—” Her cheek heated, feeling once again the sting of where he had hit her.

“Tell that one to the fishes. A fine state of affairs and thank-yous for showing a little kindness—”

“Kindness,” Cate sputtered. “But you—”

“What?”

“And then, you—”

“What? Any signs of ill-handling are your own bloody fault. Not a hand was laid, until provoked.”

“Provoked!”

“Nasty habit that, repeating everything you hear. Have you suffered this affliction long?” Blackthorne, or rather, Nathan asked, peering with affected interest down the long line of his nose.

Cate eyed him, trying to decide what he was playing at. Madness and flaws of character had been mentioned in the pirate tales. First, there had been the bullying brute, then cajoling and compassionate with his injured crew. And now, here was another manifestation, which smacked of intentional disarming. If so, he was a crafty one, indeed.

She rubbed her brow in frustration. “I surrender.”

“Ah, a sane voice at last. A truce it ’tis.”

“Then by your leave,” she fumed, retreating to the corner she had been sent to the day before.

“Sit. Sit.” He waved her back. “We’ll call…it…here,” he said, toeing an inconspicuous board. Visually following the plank’s seam, it ran from under the table, across the room, to the middle of the double-wide doors.

“Hungry?” he blurted. “Tea?” The query came more as a declaration than offer.

At first she thought she hadn’t heard correctly. His changes of subject were dizzying.

“Yes, tea would be lovely.” An offer of coffee—of which she was in desperate need—would have been met with even greater relish, but she would take anything.

Blackthorne purposefully strode to a narrow companionway leading below. “Mr. Kirkland!”

Nerves already on edge, she jumped at his bellow.

Quick footsteps could be heard below, followed by a querulous, “Aye, sir?”

“We require tea.”

“Beg pardon, sir?” The invisible man’s dismay was palpable.

“Tea, Mr. Kirkland. We require tea, if you please.”

There was a long pause and a befuddled “Aye, sir” and fading footsteps.

Nathan turned back with an elaborate sweep of the hand. “Tea, directly.”

Frowning with a bit more concentration than might have been necessary, he busied with charts and logbook. The dark eyes crept up at one point to linger with open avidity on her bare calf. The look was gone with a quickness that made her think perhaps it had been imagined, a mask of inscrutability now in place. Nonetheless, she drew her legs under the chair and rearranged the quilt more closely.

Cate had noticed blessed little about him earlier. In the light of a new day, he wasn’t nearly as ominous. He was slightly above average height. She had expected a larger, a more formidable figure for someone who had been accredited with such deeds as he. Shot 13 times? Beyond an aristocratic nose, the high cheekbones and forehead, not much more could be discerned, for his features were lost in the abundant beard.

There was no getting past the hair: a voluminous, mop-like snarl that reached well below his shoulders. Bound by the omnipresent headscarf, which showed signs of once having been blue, the raven-colored mass was a tangle of braids. Some were made up of only a few strands, while others were nearly the thickness of a finger, many of those haphazardly worked together into larger braids. All were secured by random bits of colorful bits of yarn or thread, twine, or strips of cloth. A delicate metallic jingle accompanied his every move. At one point, he turned the back of his head to her and the light caught near a score of what she first thought to be silver beads. She then realized they were actually tiny bells, barely the size of the tip of her pinky.

…one for every virgin…

The mind reeled.

Aside from his hair, a few rings on his fingers and a tattered sash at his waist, there was nothing peacockish about him. Compared to the ornate swords in the urn, the one at his side was a workman’s model. His baldric, its hand-sized buckle and pistol, were equally plain.

He felt her staring, and so she diverted her attention to anything: the great guns poised at the stern windows. Their muzzles jutting under the gallery sill, they lurked like two pugnacious brass watchdogs. Blackthorne followed her line of attention and smiled.

“A ship’s only as good as her stern chasers,” he said with a loving gaze.

Said affection was borne out by the names roughly inscribed in the wooden carriages: Widower and Merdering Mary.

“How many do you have?” she asked.

He flopped in his chair and propped his feet on the table, but then yanked them down.

“Thirty-six.” The announcement came with no small amount of pride. It was considerably less than the count given on the Constancy; one more bit of gross misinformation.

“And we can serve up a minute-fifty barrage for hours, thanks to Pryce and Master Gunner MacQuarrie. They do know how to drill a crew,” Nathan said, eyes rounding in admiration.

Cate cringed at the mention of the First Mate’s name. The walnut-colored eyes didn’t miss a thing, the dark dash of brows narrowing.

“I can’t say I entirely trust the man. He sought to have my clothes cut off,” she said, suppressing a shudder.

Nathan chuckled. “Can’t say as I blame him. I’d wager not a man aboard hasn’t fancied that.”

The man she assumed to be the earlier-beckoned Kirkland came up the steps from below, bearing a tray. The apparent cook was a round man with an even rounder face. Like many others, he wore a kerchief around his head, this one being so small it clung precariously to his bald, sun-scaled crown.

“Would the lady care for a bit o’ toast?” Mr. Kirkland asked, hovering anxiously.

“Bread?” The closest to bread she had seen on the Constancy had been ship’s biscuit, appropriately called hardtack, since only lengthy soaking rendered it edible.

Blackthorne chuckled at her awe. “Aye, softtack. Ovens were installed a bit ago. Not large ones, mind, but enough to allow for a bit of variety. Pirates are a heartless and scurrilous lot, but our bellies still appreciate a fair meal.”

The last time she had eaten was breakfast past, under Grogan’s watchful eye, and meager it had been. Vomiting and the terrors of the day before had left her quite sharp set, and her stomach growled loudly at the suggestion of such a feast. Blackthorne was quick to clear his throat loudly enough to cover the sound.

“No worries, luv,” Blackthorne grinned. “Let it never be said someone went hungry under me watch.”

“That would be lovely, Mr. Kirkland,” she said at last.

“And perhaps a bit of fruit?” the cook suggested.

She nodded and he scurried away, obviously pleased by his insightfulness.

Blackthorne rose and made the host. The ritual of serving—the murmured inquires of “Milk?” “Sugar?” and “Honey?” and the clatter of porcelain and tinkling of the spoon—eased the tension. As he bent, she noticed there were bells in his mustache, as well. Similar to those in his hair, they hung asymmetrically: one at the corner of his mouth, the other high over the opposite lip.

…one for every virgin…

Then what do those two mean?

Tar-stained, but long-fingered and finely boned, his hands moved with surprising gracefulness. The porcelain’s delicacy was a sharp contrast to the lacework of fine scars across the backs and knuckles as he passed her cup.

He poured his own, sipped with exaggerated delicacy and nearly gagged. Struggling against the urge to spit it out, he rolled it from side to side in his mouth. He managed a hard swallow at last, his lip curling in disgust.

“Vile stuff,” came out in a half-strangled rasp.

Cate took a sip and closed her eyes in pleasure. These being pirates, something in the “gunpowder” variety had been expected, but this was aromatic and slightly spicy, one never tasted before. Setting down the blue-flowered cup, she looked up to find him staring, round-eyed.

“What?” Hitching the quilt higher, she glanced to see if she was more indecent than thought.

“Your eyes. They changed color.”

“Oh, that,” she said, averting them to the table. “I’ve been told as much before. I’m sorry, I can’t help it. It depends on—”

“No, no, ’tis all well…it’s just…if you might warn a soul. Yesterday they looked like—”

“An idol that cursed you, I think you said.”

“Aye. Now, they’re the color of Gordos Bay.”

She had heard any number of references through her life, most people being at a loss to assign a name to the color, but never anything quite that impassioned.

“Almost green, then,” Blackthorne said pensively. He ducked his head to see once more. “And now, almost blue…but not quite. Odd…indescriptably odd.”

He shook his head, his bells jingling with the movement, and then darted another look to see if they had changed again. Seizing upon the distraction, she cleared her throat, in essence calling the meeting to order. She gave her hair another cursory smoothing. Half-drowned and sleep-mussed, wearing a blood-smeared and torn shift, she knew she must have presented a sorry sight.

“May I ask again, Captain,” she began levelly, “what do you plan to do with me?”

His expression sobered. His features were carefully arranged, a skill at which she was discovering he was very accomplished. “Why were you on the Constancy?”

“I had to leave England, rather quickly,” Cate said after some deliberation. “The Constancy was the first ship away for a price I could afford.”

Blackthorne cocked a suspicious eyebrow. “Wanted to leave or had to leave?”

She pensively chewed the inside of her mouth as she traced the scalloped edge of the saucer. Hours of sleeplessness had provided hours to think. There might be no family willing to pay for her return, but there was another who would, no questions asked. As she was given to understand, Kingston, and hence the authorities, was very near, meaning her sojourn with the pirates could be very brief.

It all depended on the whim of a very pragmatic, yet unsettling pirate.

“Captain, I’ll make it easy for you. You and your men pulled me out of the water and saved my life. The least I can do is return the favor.”

She took a deep breath. She was a captive on a pirate ship. What could be worse? Revealing herself, however, didn’t come easy. After years of secretiveness, false names, lies, and being suspicious of every person met, confession to a stranger was now necessary, one known for treachery in pursuit of a prize. And yet, it was that very trait upon which she depended.

“There is a price on my head. None so large as the ransom of a commissioner’s daughter,” she conceded, smiling briefly, “but His Majesty’s authorities will pay at least enough for rum to last you and your men for several days.”

One brow twitched, but Blackthorne’s face remained carefully impassive. “What...?” He stopped to clear his throat. “What could you possibly have done to draw such attention from His Royalness?”

“Ever heard of Bonnie Prince Charlie?” Cate watched him carefully from under her brows for his first reaction. For many Englishmen, it was a very sensitive issue, raw feelings often very near the surface. If he was one who fiercely resented Charles Stuart’s campaign, her future could be very bleak.

His face screwed in confusion. “Certainly. Who hasn’t? What the bloody hell has a Catholic upstart seeking to overthrow the Crown, whose only outcome was the destruction of every fool crazed enough to follow, have to do with anything?”

“My husband and I were two of those crazed fools,” she said without rancor. “Reluctantly, but that’s another story. Brian, my husband, was an officer in the Stuart army. Since I always rode with him, I was considered to be ‘aiding and abetting the enemy.’” She chuckled, shaking her head in disbelief. “At one point, there were even handbills for my arrest.”

He absent-mindedly scratched his beard, jerking his hand down when he thought her looking.

“Last night, you said you had no one. What of your family?” he asked.

“All very far away and probably dead; I haven’t seen or heard from any of them in a very long time.”

“And his family?”

Cate took another sip of tea. “If they were caught harboring, or even so much as associating with a criminal such as me in any way, they could be arrested. Their lands would be confiscated, they would lose everything.”

“You don’t sound Scots, that’s for bloody sure.” Blackthorne leaned back, hooking his thumbs into a belt buckle nearly twice the size of his hand. “Can’t smoke that accent of yours, but it is most certainly not Scots.”

“Oh, I’m not; Brian was a Highlander, though. Clan Mackenzie,” she said with a spark of pride. She sobered as she toyed with her wedding ring. “The day before he was captured, he told me to forget him, consider him dead. God, as if I could!”

She braced her elbows on the table and dropped her head in her hands. Grinding her palms against her forehead, she was grateful for the protective curtain of hair that fell around her as another emotional outbreak dashed to the surface. The fall into the sea must have washed away every bit of fortitude she possessed, leaving her inordinately fragile.

“Does he know where you are?” he asked.

“If only,” she said, choking back the tears. She heaved a quivering sigh. “He was captured almost five years ago. I haven’t heard from him since. I was told he had been transported, but I have no idea where.”

“Did you not make inquiries?”

“And pray enlighten me as to just how was I supposed to do that?” she bristled, looking up. “‘Excuse me, Your Lordship, might you overlook the warrant for my arrest for the moment, and pray tell me where you took my husband?’” Cate made an unladylike noise in the back of her throat.

“So, you’ve been living alone?”

Living alone.

It sounded so simple. And yet, there was a note of appreciation in his question; he wasn’t altogether unfeeling of the magnitude of what that entailed: wandering, living in rat-infested hovels, existing on scraps, always alone. Alone, cold, hungry…and above all, afraid.

She smiled, apologetic for having flared. “I moved to London; large cities are ever so much easier to disappear into. I’m a fair hand with a needle; I can do fancywork no one else can. At one point, a family took me in as a tutor, because I could read and write, but I had to be careful. The most casual association with me could mean imprisonment.”

Blackthorne leaned back in his chair, intently grave. “But then, you had to leave?”

She sipped her tea and nodded. “The authorities were closing in. After a few close calls, I decided it was time to leave. I went to the docks in Bristol with every shilling I had and bought passage on the first ship away.”

“You were headed for Kingston. Do you know anyone in Kingston?”

“Hardly,” she scoffed. “Mrs. Littleton would have been my only acquaintance. It would have been of great advantage to have a recommendation, even a place to go, but it doesn’t matter now.”

She finished her tea, the cup clinking softly on the saucer as she set it down.

“So, Captain, you have your prize before you. Report to the nearest garrison that you have Catherine Mackenzie, and you’ll be the richer man for it.”

“You said Harper, before.”

She winced at her ruse being exposed. In fact, he was smiling, as if he expected the duplicity and was proud of her for it.

“Yes, well, it’s actually Mackenzie; Harper was my maiden name.”

The Captain leaned forward. “Why are you telling me this? It could mean the hangman’s noose—”

“Drawing and quartering.”

He sat back, duly impressed. “The Crown prides itself on doing no bodily harm to women, officially, at any rate.”

“It was made eloquently clear that they were willing to make an exception in my case,” she said with a grim smile.

Heavy footsteps, amid a goodly amount of labored breathing and florid cursing, interrupted them. Crane and Toad, her two guard-assistants from the sick bay, came through the doors lugging a massive dome-topped chest. The smashed lock dangled from the hasp; its contents foamed out from under the lid. Toad now wore a bandage about his head, the ends flopping from his crown like rabbit ears. He was comical-looking until the bloom of red over where his ear had been, and the streaks of dried blood down his neck and shirt came into view. Close behind them came two more men to deposit smaller trunks. Knuckling their foreheads, all took their leave.

“I passed the word for the…er…um…well, I know how women are about their…things...” Blackthorne, or rather Nathan, frowned in the puzzlement as to what could be so valuable.

“Pray tell them, ‘Thank you.’” She looked to her lap to hide a smile. “It’s a lovely thought, but there’s only one small problem: those aren’t mine.”

His smile faltered into a displeased curl. “Blundering, cod-handed dolts! They claimed ’twas all—”

“There wasn’t much to be found.” She looked away, for it was embarrassing to have to admit being so near destitution. She winced at the stab of loss. She blinked to clear her blurring vision as she looked out the windows, to where the Constancy had vanished. She felt Blackthorne watching, but elaborated no further.

“Might I suggest that you find something, unless you desire to go about like that,” he said, rising.

Seeing him abruptly side-step from the imaginary line in the floor reminded her to keep to her side as she followed him to the trunks.

“I have nothing,” she said evenly.

Blackthorne flipped open the lid of the largest, its ransacked contents—silk, satin, lace, ribbons, ruffles and linens—spilling out. She recognized the churned snarl of whites, pinks, blues, greens, and yellows as having been Mrs. Littleton’s.

With a pang of remorse, she ran her fingers along the silver crest that adorned the front of the largest trunk, an oval, full of flourish and detail, it bore a scripted “L.” She was familiar with the exact contents of all three trunks, for she had been the one to pack them. Being the only other woman aboard, she been the one to care for the ill women. She had sponged their fever-wracked bodies, day and night melding into a blur. She had overheard a crewman mumble something about “a couple of days;” she had no alternative but to accept that as fact.

Their deaths had been a blow. In the short time, she had become close to Mrs. Littleton, but most particularly Lucy. There had even been suggestions that, once arrived in Kingston, she might find a position in the Commissioner’s household. Those hopes disappeared over the rail as the bodies were sent to the deep.

“These are women’s things, aren’t they?” Blackthorne asked.

“Yes, but Mrs. Littleton was a good twelve inches shorter than I—and at least double at the waist—and Lucy was a girl of fifteen, barely half my size.”

The smaller trunk had belonged to the younger. A sleeve stuck out, lilac-flowered, with the same silk flowers at the elbow. She touched the flowers, smiling inwardly as she recalled Lucy in that very dress as she strolled the Constancy’s decks.

Blackthorne frowned, clearly unfamiliar with feminine complexities. “Can’t you just fix up something? I thought you said you were fair with a needle.”

She looked down, fingering a pink satin sleeve, heavily ruched with lace. “Certainly, in a couple of days, but I’m not sure how practical any of this is going to be. These are ladies' things: silks and satins, and fine laces.”

“You're a lady.”

“Hardly.” Cate made an unladylike caustic noise. “It's not usually the first word to come to mind when describing me. Regardless, I don't think any of these would be appropriate for a ship of this…nature.”

“You mean a pirate ship?”

She met his dark gaze squarely. “Yes, a pirate ship.”

“No worries, luv.” A flash of ivory split the beard as he grinned. “’Tis many a far stronger man what shrinks at the word. Hell, some days I struggle with it meself.”

The humor faded, suddenly becoming very distant. And then he shook his head, as if to rid himself of a thought.

“Aye, these are very fine things,” he murmured, fingering an azure brocade sleeve.

“All in good time, but in the meantime, I’ll be in need of something.”

Mr. Kirkland’s arrival brought them back to the table. A plate of toast awaited, with a small dollop of jam, a sliced orange, and a battered silver knife. The honey jar had been slid from the teapot next to the plate.

Blackthorne sat, only to rise abruptly and head for the door.

“Is there anything else that I…er, we can get you?” he called over his shoulder.

The offer held the tone of being meant only in jest, and yet it held a strain of sincerity.

“Some hot water,” she said in a surge of unadulterated self-indulgence.

That stopped him in his tracks. “Eh?”

“A basin and some water…to wash with.” Her heart quickened at the prospect. A trans-Atlantic voyage demanded severe conservation of fresh water, and hence no allowance for a luxury such as washing. She had no soap, but the thought of hot water alone sent a thrill through her. His puzzled look gave her a sinking sensation that she might have presumed too much.

He saw as much and his gaze softened. “Treasure is in the eye of the beholder, is it not?”

Mirth lit his eyes as he bent an elaborate bow, touching his fingers to his heart, and then lips. “Your wish is but me command, m’lady.”



###



Hovering fretfully at the top of the companionway, Mr. Kirkland indulged Cate in four more pieces of toast, another orange, and enough tea—alas, not coffee—to float the ship. Now anchored by food, she felt considerably steadier. Kirkland then brought a steaming ewer, a porcelain basin ringed with images of frolicking cherubs, and a sponge.

“Picked and cleaned it, myself,” he beamed.

From a chest of drawers, he produced a length of cloth intended as a towel. Face burning with embarrassment, he then scampered away.

She moved her toilet to the sleeping area. The curtain posed a flimsy barricade, but it provided the impression of privacy. Modesty demanded she keep the quilt about her—prying eyes and all—but pragmatism pointed out the impossibility. She poured a measure of water into the chipped basin, and shed both quilt and shift.

It was her first opportunity to inspect the damage from Chin’s knife. Lying just above the full of her breast, the length-of-a-finger cut was now lightly crusted with dried blood. The nicks on her ribs and midriff were bright with newness in comparison to the white lacework of old scars. Those, which ran from the curve of her ribs to the flat of her belly, had been long forgotten. It had taken the threat of another blade to call them back to mind. In consideration of all the damage from so long ago, it was a puzzle how Chin’s knife could have prompted her to react as if she had been nearly eviscerated.

Troubling, but she shook the thought away.

Later, all very much for later.

A basin and a sponge wasn’t a real bath, but it was luxurious compared to the wooden bucket of seawater and the hem of her shift, the sum total of her ablutions for the last two months. The water was dank but fresh, not salt. It was glorious. In spite of its initial warmth, it cooled her skin and sent goose flesh creeping up her arms.

She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to ponder Captain Nathanael Blackthorne.

It hadn’t gone unnoticed that he had effectively eluded answering her questions regarding his intentions. In fact, he seemed to ricochet between not wanting to say and not knowing. Neither thought was comforting. It still remained to be seen if he would rise to the bait and turn her in for the reward. Initial impressions had been his interest was only mildly piqued, but if she had learned anything about the good Captain, it was that he was a master at keeping his council.

As Blackthorne sat sipping tea, he had appeared benign enough, but even a lion could look peaceful when sleeping. She had eyed him at the table, wishing she had paid more careful attention to what the Constancies had told of him. So much had been said, it was nigh impossible to separate the horrors and misdeeds credited to Blackthorne from the other names bandied about. She fancied herself a good judge of character, but Blackthorne was a difficult to fathom, partly because his features were so buried and partly because he was rarely still. He shifted roles like an actor. Was the real Blackthorne the bully she had met in the cabin or the compassionate one met kneeling next to the wounded Chin? Or was it the disarming charmer who had just taken his leave, the inscrutable temporarily tilted aside? Or was it all an act, with the single intention of getting her to drop her defenses?

No, only the foolhardy would be sucked into believing any of the façades. The malignancy, which most assuredly lurked behind the curtain, rendered him doubly treacherous. Besides, even if the Captain indeed proved to be benevolent, there were still a hundred and twenty-some pirates aboard who were not.

As she dried off with the scrap of towel, she glanced about the dim room, curious for an insight as to Blackthorne, the man. It was, however, more austere than the salon. Aside from the quilt, the narrow bunk sported a worn canvas-covered mattress and a faded checked pillow. At its foot sat a sea chest, with intricately knotted rope handles. A small stand was next to the bed, a sconce over it. Atop the stand was a stack of books: Catullus, something in French that she couldn’t read, and Moll Flanders. Eclectic taste, to say the least. A dull gleam in the bunk’s corner caught her eye—a bottle wedged there. Uncorking it, she sniffed: Madeira. A washstand in the corner, a low stool, a row of empty pegs on the wall, and a hanging locker containing a disreputable rain tarpaulin completed the room.

No extra clothing, no luxuries, no hints of the person or his past; contrary to his colorfulness of character, Nathan Blackthorne, famed pirate and scalawag, was a man of simple needs and tastes.

Suddenly guilty for having invaded his privacy, she turned to a more pressing problem: clothes. Donning the soiled and crumpled shift once more, she went through the now empty salon to the trunks. She held little hope of finding another shift. Several had been soiled during the women’s illness, and in the spirit of decency, she had dressed each in a clean one before burial.

She hesitated at the side of the largest trunk, chewing at the inside of her mouth. The owner of this trunk had once been alive, breathing and talking, loving and being loved. Now, Mrs. Littleton was gone, leaving nothing but a few possessions to mark her passing. Gathering her resolve, she lifted the lid and groped through the tangled mass. She held a hope, though a desperate one, that the pirates had been thorough enough in their pillaging of the Constancy to have found her little bag, the one she had so carefully hidden, so that it wouldn’t be found. For her to find it there would have meant Providence had smiled upon her, a rare occasion indeed. The backs of her eyes began to prick at the thought of what had been lost. She shook it off and set to digging with more intent.

Just as her hand hit something hard—a hairbrush, it felt like—the clump of boots announced Nathan’s arrival. She rose and bobbed a curtsey. Slightly flushed with exertion, his arms were laden.

“I come bearing gifts,” he declared.

He reached as if over an invisible barricade and dropped the cloth bundle he bore into her arms. She shook it out to find a man’s shirt and breeches.

“They'll answer fine. I can't recall the last time I wore pants, but it's certainly better than a quilt,” she said.

“The hold’s full o’ swag, but nothing seemed…” He struggled for a word, and finally landed on “Appropriate,” but winced, not happy with that one either. “We’ll be putting in on the ’morrow, the next day the latest; perhaps we can find something better then.”

The breeches were sky blue velvet, the shirt a fine lawn, with deep-laced cuffs and collar. As she held the shirt up for inspection, it was difficult to overlook the elegant fabric’s transparency. Suitable for a man, under a waistcoat and jacket, it was otherwise quite revealing.

“Oh! I brought this, too.” From his sleeve, Nathan pulled a long strip of cloth, its ragged edges evidence of having been torn from a larger piece.

“It’s for…well, you know…it's…” He cleared his throat meaningfully and crisscrossed his chest. “It's to help with…things.”

Agitation radiated from him like heat from a brewing pot, his displeasure seeming to stem from the very items he had just given her.

“You're not one of those men who think women shouldn't have legs,” she cried.

His discomfort gave way to indignation. “The last woman I knew to wear breeches tired to kill me.”

“And somehow, it was the breeches’ fault?”

“What else?”

She thought him to be jesting, until she saw his deadpan expression.

“I'm sorry,” she sputtered, holding up what was meant as an apologetic hand. “I'll try to give warning, if I’m taken by the urge.”

“I would appreciate that,” he said coldly.

The smell of dankness, wet wood, stale body odor, and old vomit met her nose, strong enough to be smelt at arm’s length.

Her stomach rolled and she blurted, “I’ll need to wash these.”

“Excuse me?”

“Wash. They need washing.” Even if it meant using seawater, the smell of that would be far preferable. Standing in nothing but an oversized shift was hardly the time to be particular, but on some things she was unwilling to compromise.

His lip lifted, wrinkling his nose. “Why?”

“Because they smell.”

“Like what?”

“Any manner of things. Sniff.”

She shoved the offensiveness under his nose. He obligingly bent, audibly sniffed, and straightened. “Not bad. I’ve certainly smelled worse.”

It was all too clear that it could have smelled like a dead horse and he would have said the same.

“Not on me.” Tension was making her more sensitive and truculent than what was customary.

“Have you any concept what it took to find those for you?” Blackthorne demanded, propping his hands on his hips.

“No,” Cate said, somewhat chastened. “But I'm not wearing anything that smells like…that.”

“I don't give a bloody damn if you lie naked in the bunk for the next fortnight.”

With a disgusted growl and an angry swipe, he turned and made for the doors, veering at the last to the rail at galley companionway.

“Mr. Kirkland! The lady desires to wash.”

Blackthorne made a great show of walking the boundary line. Just short of the door, however, he trounced his foot down on her side, making a defiant gesture behind him. He skidded to a halt before a mass of gape-mouthed crewmen gathered at the door.

“What are you looking at, you bunch o’ knot-headed laggards?” he cried, scattering them like chickens from the garden gate.



###



Cate’s face heated with embarrassment as she stood next to the bunk and ran her hands over her rear and down her thighs. There was no looking glass. Only self-consciousness was her guide. It was awkward to be wearing pants. She had worn them as a child and into her later years of youth, but rarely since. Inordinately large, the shirt and breeches barely touched her body. Even with the shirt’s voluminous tails tucked in and the ties at the back drawn tight, the waistband still hung precariously at her hips. A belt might have answered, but there was none.

With an experimental shift of her shoulders, she tested the bindings around her chest. She smiled privately at Blackthorne’s fretfulness, but was grateful for his thoughtfulness. Modesty had never been her burden. She didn’t consider herself large-breasted, but in view of the lawn’s sheerness, precautions were necessary. She checked the binding’s knot a second time. Short of walking about with her arms crossed, she was still unsure as what to do about the neck opening. With one of the ties missing, it gaped nearly to her navel. The binding prevented exposure, but the draft was disconcerting.

What I wouldn’t give for some stays just now.

Mrs. Littleton’s and young Lucy’s were in the trunks, but either would have required extensive alterations before they could have been serviceable.

The shirt was for the most part dry and clean, or rather cleaner, there being a limit as to how much could be attained with cold seawater. The breeches were still damp and quite crumpled; the velvet unappreciative of being washed in a bucket. The state of undry, however, wasn’t unpleasant. She was not yet accustomed to the tropical heat and the breeze through the damp cloth was quite refreshing.

She tentatively pushed aside the curtain and went out into the salon. Its empty state was a reprieve to having to face anyone. In spite of the stern’s expanse of open windows and the breeze through the cabin’s double doors, she was in desperate need of fresh air. With no wall or encumbrance other than a forbidding seam in the planks, she still felt trapped. Careful to stay on her side of that demarcation, she paced and wondered if she was to be allowed out of the cabin. No mention had been made one way or the other. No guards were in sight, although she could feel eyes on her.

The boundary line imposed by Blackthorne ended perpendicular to the coaming, a raised barrier at the bottom of the door to prevent water from pouring in. Whether the coaming was part of her limit was unclear and Blackthorne…er, Nathan was nowhere to be seen. His voice could be heard now and again, broken by wind and ship.

She paced in circles, each pass a bit closer to the door. Nothing was said. No one seemed to notice. Steeling her nerve, she stepped over the coaming and waited in the shadow of the afterdeck’s overhang.

Nothing.

She inched further. A few of the hands nodded as they passed, casual and noncommittal. A few inches further brought notice in the way of raised eyebrows and men elbowing each other to exchange significant looks. Pirates they might be, but they were still sufficient creatures of tradition to stare at the scandalous sight of a woman in pants. It made her even more aware of her bare calves, the visible division of her legs and her rear for all to see.

This is going to be more difficult that I thought.

She was instantly struck by a difference in atmosphere. Captain Chambers’ deck had been a quiet deck, “Silence fore and aft!” a common cry. The Constancy hadn’t been a tyrannical vessel, although more than once she had seen a man started with the same bludgeon Mastiff had brandished at her. Compared to Constancy’s guarded reserve, this was cheerier, a chatty ship. For such a barbarous rabble, to find slovenly disorder on the verge of mayhem would have been no surprise. Instead, the decks were scrubbed to whiteness, the smell of fresh paint wafting in the air. Brass, or any other surface which could be induced to shine, gleamed. The sheets hung on their pins or kevels in close-ordered ranks.

Alert for any sight or sound of Scarface, who had attacked her yesterday, she glanced about, hoping to see Nathan. From overhead came Nathan’s voice, ragged and torn, like someone just awakened from a deep sleep. Inching further took her into the blaze and warmth of the sun. She shaded her eyes and saw him on the quarterdeck. In essence the roof of the Great Cabin, the afterdeck was bracketed by a pair of elegantly curved stairs with scrolled rails and balustrades. With as much dignity as could be gathered, all the while expecting to be sent back like a recalcitrant pup, she mounted the steps.

At the top, her step slowed. A twitch of Nathan’s brow and quirk of his mustache acknowledged her presence, but he left her to stand for some moments, his version of a reprimand. The space was populated with several more crewmen, going about their duties. At her arrival, most either left or moved further aft, leaving she and Nathan alone, or as much so as could be managed on a ship.

“Do…you…mind…?” she asked.

One eye narrowed in suspicion as she sidled closer. “Do…you…plan…to…take the ship?” he asked, mimicking her halting query.

“Hardly. I was unsure if I was to be allowed…out.”

“If you weren’t, you would have known,” Blackthorne said with a severe look. “Shackles are blessedly difficult to overlook.”

Something had been bothering her about him from the moment she had topped the steps. It finally struck her.

“You shaved!”

The abundant beard was gone, a swatch of newly exposed and shockingly pale jaw in its place. The only remnants were a spade-shaped beard over a strong chin and a mustache, its silver bells still in place. With a long sweep of bold jaw and high cheekbones, under all that hair had lurked a very comely face.

“Did I?” He feigned astonishment as he passed a hand along his now-smooth jaw. “Ah, yes, I recall now: Navy Sunday.”

“It isn’t Sunday, is it?” If so, being captured had disoriented her worse than previously suspected.

He scowled. “Of course not; Navy Sunday is on Wednesday.”

“So, today’s Wednesday?”

“No, goose. ’Tis Tuesday.”

Cate pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose.

“…a day of washing hammocks, bathing and laundry and such,” he was saying. “A high holy day for you, to be sure,” he added with a dramatic roll of the eyes. “Navy Sunday; you’ll love it.”

“But you said today is Tuesday.”

“Is it?” Touching a finger to his chin, he struck a thoughtful pose. “Oh, aye. So it ’tis. Just setting an example: cleanliness is next to holiness—”

“Godliness.”

“Eh? Oh, whatever.” Blackthorne ended with a broad sweep of his hand, and then added with a suffering air. “Leadership is an ever-pressing burden.”

Between his grimed shirt, tattered collar and cuffs, worn pants missing buttons at the knees, and tar-stained fingers, she had a strong sense his personal grooming was far from burdensome.

He again took his eyes from the horizon to regard her shrewdly. “With all due respect, you make a better woman than you do a lad.”

“Thank you…I think.”

Still staring at his transformation, it was easier to see that he was jesting. His smile was broad, brilliant, and quite charming.

“’Twould appear a belt might be in order,” he said, eyeing her judiciously.

Cate gave the sagging waistband a self-conscious tug. “I hesitated to ask for one. I was afraid you might use it on me first.”

A corner of his mouth twitched, but he was otherwise unresponsive.

“I thought I might ask leave to see to the injured?” she asked hesitantly.

“And what, pray tell, do you seek to gain from that?” His query was more in the way of wonderment than suspicion.

“To see how they do.”

He made a derisive noise in the back of his throat. “You were the one to attend them, ergo you, above all, should know. They’ve not been added to the Butcher’s Bill, so one will assume they do well enough.”

Cate flinched at his sarcasm. Just because a man hadn’t been listed as dead didn’t necessarily mean he was in the pink. Seeing her reaction, he relented to explain.

“Chin’s confined to his hammock on pain of being lashed in if he shows a leg. Three other names are on the binnacle list: one pukes every time he rises, another stove his ribs in—no need to risk putting one through a lung, eh?—and the last still can’t raise his arms, so he’s a worthless scug. The balance are to their duties on pain of being accused of malingering.”

Shouting on the forecastle distracted him. As he craned his head, the wind lifted the hair from his neck and she nearly gasped aloud. God knew she was familiar with scars, but this one was particularly grisly. Running just under the bold line of his jaw, it wasn’t the location so much as the nature of it: thick, curving gnarls of white against the tender skin of his throat. It was a wonder what horror could have inflicted such a thing. In morbid curiosity, she waited for his head to turn, to see if it continued to the other side.

It did.

In the absence of a beard, another tattoo was now visible, curving like a collar at the base of his neck. It was an interwoven, chain-like design, strongly suggestive of Highland designs. The woad-colored pattern was muted by his tan. Under the protection of shirt and hair, the blue was brilliant against the pale ivory of his skin.

Cate had stood on the Constancy’s quarterdeck many a time, but never did she experience what she did then. The difference between the two ships had been felt while lying in her cot, but there on the quarterdeck, it was even more pronounced. The Morganse sailed with an ardent zeal, a fine thoroughbred straining to run. Cate’s heart quickened and her breath came short with the same thrill as if she was riding that same horse, too spirited to be controlled, and yet racing too fast to jump off.

Chambers had spoken affectionately of his ship, but never had she seen him at the wheel, a point she made to Nathan.

“Ordinarily ’tis not the captain’s charge, but I can’t bear to be away from her for long,” Nathan said, lovingly stroking the wheel. “We belong together, she and I, I and she. Besides, it does the crew well to see the captain standing his watch, same as the rest.”

“It looks as if you’ve done this for ages.”

“Sailing, you mean? Went to sea at twelve.”

“No, I mean at the helm, with the Morganse.”

He gave her a tight-lipped smile. “All told, only a few years of late; lost her there for a bit, I did.”

“What happened?” Cate asked, bracing a hand on the binnacle against the roll of the swell.

“Mutiny.”

The word was uttered no differently than if it had been “ague” or “storm.”

Her face heated with embarrassment. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—”

“No worries, luv.” There was a reassuring flash of a gold and white smile. “A minor setback there just for a bit, but she’s mine now.” He stroked the wheel again, his fingertips tracing the curve of the worn-to-a-polish wood.

“Ciara Morganse,” she said, careful to pronounce it as closely as possible to the way Pryce had on the Constancy, a far cry from Sara Morgan. “It’s a bit of an odd name.”

“Aye, Ciara Morganse,” Blackthorne corrected. With a lilt reminiscent of the Highlands, it came out ‘kee-h-rah.’ “It’s Celt. It means ‘black blessing from the sea,’ roughly.”

“Was she a gift?”

He looked away, sobering. “Some would call her that.”

Cate took his abrupt change in demeanor as an indication of having reached the limit of what he was willing to discuss. As they talked, she noticed curious looks on the part of the crew. At first, she thought it was the shocking sight of her in pants, but gradually came to realize the gapes were aimed at their newly barbered captain.

“I’m ashamed to confess, this isn’t quite what I had expected,” Cate said looking down to the main deck.

“You were you expecting what: debauchery, rampant drunkenness, chests of gold, piked heads, and disemboweled bodies?”

“Not the bodies.” Such a juvenile concept left her feeling quite foolish, the condition worsened by having to admit to it.

“Not the bodies,” Blackthorne muttered, both mystified and amused. He closed his eyes and gave his head a sharp shake. “For all our renown, a pirate ship is first and foremost a ship, and must be run as such.”

“You’re saying there is no difference between this and…say, the Constancy?”

He wagged an admonishing finger. “Nay. We are a ship, but we run things considerable different. Captains are elected, as are quartermaster, bosun, and such.”

“I thought pirates were free spirits, freedom of the seas, where the wind blows and such.”

“Oh, aye, we’re that to be sure, but one must have rules. Otherwise, ’tis all ahoo, from the f’c’stlemen to the boomtricers, or from the bracemen to captain of the crosstrees. Foredeck crew wouldn’t know what the afterguard is up to. Gun crews would be firing all willy-nilly without a master…” A flutter of hands and rings flashing in the sunlight embellished the chaotic picture he painted. “Nay, a chain of command is necessary, which Morgan and Bartholomew discovered directly.”

“I’ve heard of them,” Cate said slowly, struggling to recall the details from the conversations overheard on the Constancy.

“Code of the Brethren. The Pirate’s Code. Code of the Coast. As I said, without rules there’s havoc, and in that they did abound. So, the two old walruses called a truce, sat down across from each other and wrote it out, a pistol in one hand and a bottle o’ rum in the other.”

“Rather civilized.”

He laughed grudgingly. “For an uncivilized lot, eh? Bear in mind, many of these men have lived under tyranny in the Royal Navy; they’ve seen the hell of the wrong person being the only one under God, and have assured it shan’t be suffered again. Matters of piracy—raids, ambushes, boardings and such—are a company decision. Piracy, however, requires stealth, and stealth requires a plan. The execution of said plan requires discipline on the part of everyone.”

“Other than electing the captain, what else does it include?”

“Bunch o’ things. You’ve heard most of it.”

She winced at recalling the induction of the Constancies overheard the day before. “I was distracted.” An understatement, to say the least; terrified was more the word.

Her excuse was met with skepticism, but Blackthorne didn’t press. “Each ship has its own terms; a man’s mark is his pledge to abide. I shipped on one what—other than the milk goat and a couple of chickens—no animals were allowed. The captain had a morbid fear of anything furred or feathered; thought they would suck the life from him as he slept.”

“And if they don’t abide?”

“On some ships, discipline is the quartermaster or bosun’s concern. As you just saw, we call a ship’s Company, the unfortunates meeting a court of their peers, and not the most forgiving lot they are.”

“Then where do the stories come from of the captain flogging and keelhauling?”

“Oh, aye, ’tis reserved for the merchants and Navy.” He chuckled dryly. “You’ll find no ropes, nor three sisters starting a man. Any pirate captain what orders such things on his own accord would stand a good chance of facing the same himself or worse.”

“There’s worse?”

“There’s no such thing as an ex-captain on board.” He paused, allowing the implications of that to sink in. “There’s but two choices: death or marooning.”

“Marooning?”

He nodded grimly, looking away. “Cast adrift or left on an island to die. In the spirit of human kindness, the soul is customarily given a water gourd and a pistol.” He held up a beringed index finger. “One shot.”

“One shot,” she echoed dully. Cate gulped at the implications of that: a slow death, suffering from heat, starvation, thirst, exposure, and loneliness, or use the pistol and end the misery. Mercy was provided, but by only one’s own hand. “You’ve…seen…this…?”

His mouth pressed in a grave line. “First hand.”

She braced against the binnacle. The move would have appeared to the idle bystander as a reaction to the pitching deck. The reality was her knees threatened to give way.

“What other rules are there?” she asked, desperate for a change of subject.

“In the Code or the Articles?”

“Articles, I suppose. I shouldn’t desire to inadvertently violate something.” Of greater importance, she thought, was the existence of rules regarding hostages.

Idly scratching an arm, he recited a list, many of what she had heard the day before. Most rules were based in common sense and efficiency. She found it difficult to concentrate on his words, distracted as she was at the sight of him handling his ship. With an unexpected pang of envy, she watched the long fingers skimming the wheel’s spokes. They were the hands of a man holding his beloved, pausing to caress a soft curve, seeking her needs, guiding her at his pleasure.

“Most pirates came by way of the Royal Navy, press-ganged during the war,” he was saying. “The war ended and His Majesty was no longer in need of ’em. Having been gone for years, many had no family to which to return, so they went back to what they knew: the sea, excepting pirating was the only ready employment.”

She closed one eye to regard him. “I can’t imagine you in the Navy.”

Blackthorne made a derogatory noise. “And justifiably so, since I wasn’t. I always loved the sea; got it from me sire, I suppose.”

“And always desired to become a pirate?” she declared, heartened by her ability to announce it before him.

His countenance darkened. “No!” He checked himself, quickly assuming a more benign attitude. “I came by that by an entirely different course.”

Another sensitive territory blundered into—and so many there seemed to be—she sought another subject.

“So, what are you doing out here? I mean, have you a destination?” The question was rooted in more than idle curiosity. It was safe to say the ship’s destination would have a direct impact on her future.

Devilment lit his eyes. “Prowling, luv; cat after the mouse. A bit o’ pirating, looking for anyone unsuspecting what may cross our hawse.”

That statement was borne out by a lookout posted on every masthead.

“And then what?”

Blackthorne peered at her as if she was a bit dim. “Cut ’em out.”

“That’s stealing.”

He chuckled dryly. “That, my dear, you’ll find ’tis a matter of perspective. Enemies are contrived any number of ways: wrong race, wrong religion, wrong king, or just wrong words. A privateer steals in the name of the one what finances him, often finding himself on the wrong side of the very law he thought to honor. Just ask ol’ William Kidd. He had the blessings of the Crown itself. He took ship upon ship, all for the glory of King and Country. Only by the time he returned home to deliver said prize, he had been declared a pirate and was hung for his efforts.

“First Holland was our friend and Spain our enemy. A flick of the pen and Spain was our ally, France and Holland our enemies. Then France was our friend, and Holland and Spain…” He gave a shrug. “’Tis easier to assume them all as foes. Piracy is honest: we take it because we want it.”

“But, if you take it—?”

“Ah, but what if it had been stolen it the first place? Thievery comes in many forms.”

“So, you see yourself as some kind of a Robin Hood?”

A laugh erupted from him loud enough to cause men at the ship’s waist to look up from their work.

“Hardly. Nothing so grand. ’Tis every man for himself.” He cut a sharp gesture toward those same ones looking up. “Every one of those blighters would take it all and be damned the rest, would that he could.”

“On deck there. Sail ho!” came a cry came from high above. “Four points to larboard. Rounding the point, sir. A sloop: twenty-two…make that a twenty-four. Flying the Company flag.”

Wheeling around, Cate saw the oncoming ship’s flag. The Cross of St. George showed prominently in the canton, but the field was blue and white-striped, not the infamous red and white of the East India Tea Company.

“The Royal West Indies Mercantile Company,” Nathan said with thinly veiled contempt. “Rarely are colors flown to be believed, but ’tis every reason to believe this one. The treacherous blighter wants us to know who he is.”

“Orders?” Pryce bound up the steps and pulled up short at the sight of his freshly-shaven captain. His grey eyes cut accusingly at her.

“How do you make her?” Nathan demanded.

“She’s the Nightingale, or the Faithful, for anyone what cares to see the difference, painted up like a tart on the Sabbath. Privateer. More like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”

Cate recalled hearing on the Constancy of sleights of hand: ships being taken, and then disguised for the purpose of evil-doing.

Pryce spit contemptuously over the rail, and then fixed a reproachful eye on his skipper. “It were a risk to come here. They been a-layin’ fer us.”

“A risk known and well worth,” Nathan said with a significant look. “Damn. I fancied she’d had enough of our fire and thunder off Barra Terre. Very well, let’s give the sod what he seeks.”

“She runs better and she has the wind. We’ve land in our lee to boot,” Pryce warned in his West Country rumble. A cautionary nod indicated a nearby island.

“That she does, but we have the greater will, have we not?” said Nathan with a fleeting smile.

“She’s brailing up her courses, sir,” came a call from overhead.

“Well, there’s your answer, if anyone fancied she meant to hail us for tea, eh?” Nathan grumbled.

Cate understood precious little of the exchange, but none of it sounded good, she thought as she watched the lower corners of the Nightingale’s mainsails draw up. Even a landsman such as herself could see the two-masted ship was smaller and sleeker, her sails triangular as opposed to theMorganse’s square, and ran her length rather than across. A long, dove-tailed streamer broke from the Nightingale’s peak and the pirates gave a jeering roar.

“What is that?” she asked.

“He’s declaring his superiority, like he’s the goddamned Commodore hisself. We’re expected to hove to,” said Nathan.

“’Tis usually reserved for ships sailing under the King’s papers,” Pryce explained with equal contempt.

Nathan glared across the water. “Not bloody likely, the split-tongued, master rogue. She might be smaller and handier, but she’s outnumbered and outgunned. Action stations. Hoist the colors.”

A heavy flap, of a different timbre than canvas, drew her attention upward. There she saw the black and white banner at it was unfurled from a backstay, and a cheering roar went up from the crew. When seen from directly overhead, the haloed skull leering down, it was even more massive and imposing. Cate burst in a half-laugh, half-sob, seized by a thrill of fear, and at the same time, an inexplicable surge of empowerment and pride.

“On deck, there. Sail ho!” came from above again.

“You’ve gone feeble, mate. We’ve made her,” Nathan called up.

“Nossir, ’tis another. Larboard astern.”

Nathan cast an eye in that direction and swore. “It would appear an escort had been sent for the good ship Constancy.”

Guilt heated Cate’s face, as if she was somehow responsible for this. It was possible the two ships had intercepted the Constancy and Chambers had told them of her being taken. Judging by Nathan and Pryce’s reaction, this was a continuing rivalry, which made her presence no more than coincidence.

“She’s the Eclipse, sir,” came from overhead shortly after.

“Captain Eldridge Simmons, commanding,” sighed Nathan with a scornful smirk.

“Harte’s minion,” said Pryce.

“More like sacrificial lamb,” Nathan shot back, grudgingly. “One would have liked to assume His Pompousness Commodore Harte would have sent one with a stomach for the smell of powder.”

“Which means?” Cate asked, more testy than intended.

Nathan smiled tolerantly. “The Royal Navy puts a great store in its gunpowder. A ship is set out with an allotment and not a grain more. Anything beyond said allotment is the captain’s expense. Yon Captain Simmons is ambitious, but he’s also cheap.”

“Which means?” she pressed.

“Which means our fair foe will do everything in his power to avoid using the one thing what could gain what he desires: a prize, and a fat prize we would be.”

“Thrice afore he’s cut ’n’ run,” Pryce put in.

“And more than likely to now. Pass the word to Mr. MacQuarrie: bar and chain shot. Dismast them before they splinter ours,” Nathan told Pryce as he handed off the helm. “Clear the decks. Blood is what these bastards came for, so let’s show them theirs.”

Pryce thundered down the gangway, the men scattering to their posts ahead of him. They raced either to the guns, and the ship’s defense, or the rigging, and the ship proper. None of the dread seen on the Constancy was here. These men knew full well what was about to come, and like a glutton dove in without regard for indigestion.

In the face of the burst of activity, Cate’s first urge was to do something, yet had no notion of what. She discovered again that it was possible to be bathed in a cold sweat in the tropics, an icy stream of it trailing between her shoulder blades. Seeing the pirate ship bear down on the Constancy had been a nightmare. Now she stood on that very ship as another enemy bore down. It was like a revisiting bad dream: scary, yet familiar. The waiting, however, was the same, time being ticked off by each wave cut by the Nightingale andEclipse’s bows.

“Mates,” Nathan called down to the main deck. “Yon ships desire our heads. Let’s hand them their asses instead. Blow these bastards back to the festering hell from which they came. A fourth of me share to the gun crew what takes out their helm.”

A rallying cheer went up. The ship vibrated as the port lids slammed open. Shirts cast off, backs glistening with sweat, the crews manned their guns, ramming home wadding and charges. Bellowing “Heave!” they hauled on the side-tackles, the guns rumbling home into their ports.

The Nightingale was the first to fire: a shot across the Morganse’sforefoot.

“Manners, if you please, Mr. MacQuarrie! Pray send that sodding bastard a reply to his invitation.”

The Master of the Guns glared down the long barrel of the gun nearest the bow, intent on the swell. “Fire!”

The gun barked, MacQuarrie arching his body away from the recoil. A tongue of flame licked out from a cloud of smoke and a ball shot out, hurtling across theNightingale’s bow. The deck was still vibrating under Cate’s feet from it when Nathan pulled her around to him.

“You need to get to the hold,” he said. “They will seek to rake us by the stern, so go as far to the forepeak as you can. And for God’s sake, keep your head down. Mr. Pryce, a pistol, if you please.”

The requested weapon was delivered. Nathan took it and matter-of-factly set to checking the load and priming. When finished, he touched a finger to her chin, his gaze fixing hers.

“Listen to me, luv. Take this. Save it for yourself. If we’re boarded, use it. Even in breeches, with those curves you’d never pass for a man. Do not allow yourself to be taken. Sabe?”

Her gut knotted at what that meant. She looked to the ships looming closer. Was the enemy of the pirates automatically her salvation, or was the Nightingale a menace to all in her path? Where did the Devil lie? Either ship could be her salvation, rescuing her from a fate worse than death—until her identity was discovered. Imprisonment and the executioner’s block waited after that.

There were no answers, only instincts. She looked into Nathan’s steady gaze, solemn and intent. Was he to be her captor or protector? Savior or curse?

“Very well,” she said and took the weapon.

“What?” he mused at her surprise. “Shocked to be armed? ’Tis one against over a hundred. We’d have to be a bunch of cod-handed, Dutch-built dolts if we were to be shot by a lone woman. And to what point or purpose would it serve?”

He paused to regard her anew. “But then, perhaps I presume too much. If you prefer to be with them, then say the word and allow us to save the powder. You’ll be adrift within half a glass and aboard that fair ship before the sun is below the gun’l.”

Her silence was his answer.

“No worries.” Grinning at her dismay, he winked. “’Tis old hat. I’ve suffered far better and survived far worse. Now, do not come out, no matter what you hear.”

He leaned to kiss her lightly on the top of the head. “I swear I’ll fight for you. Now go.”

She was too numb to be startled by his gesture or words. She felt herself being urged toward the steps. By the time the shock had worn off, he was gone, deep among his men. She woodenly made her way to the forward companionway through the throngs of scrambling men. She saw their mouths move, but their voices were muted, as if heard under water. At the top of the steps, she stopped to look back at Nathan, shouting orders from the quarterdeck break.

Damn him! He was enjoying this.

He caught sight of her and smiled.

With a smile like that, how could she not have faith?

Winking, he waved her on.

“Lively, now. Bear a hand, there. Puddening chains, if you please, Mr. Hodder” was the last she heard of him as she went below.

The scene ’tween deck was chaos, but an organized one. Muskets and cutlasses were dispersed, while strips of cloth were secured around heads, arms, or waists, to differentiate themselves from the enemy. Tubs of slow-match and baskets of cartridges were brought up from the hold, while wet sand was spread against slippage in the inevitable blood. Over the din could be heard the rap of the carpenter and his mates’ hammers, for “clear the decks” meant not only stowing every object which might pose a hazard, but knocking down the cabin walls.

She took Nathan’s instructions to mean she was to go to the lowest point possible, and so she continued downward. She hung onto the manrope to keep from being bowled over by the hands racing up and down with laden arms. At the bottom of the steps, she balked. The hold was dark and airless, smelling of things gone too wet for too long. What checkered light that managed to squeeze through the grates lost its battle against the void and died within a few paces.

Cate turned away from the stream of men, toward the bow. Clutching the pistol, sliding one foot in front of the other, she groped her way past casks, hogsheads, bales, and crates. Each step took her further from the furor of preparation, and the comfort of human voices faded. She thought a few times she had reached her destination, only to discover it was a barrel or some other obstacle. She pressed ahead, Nathan’s final words still ringing in her ears.

If I’m not to worry for him, then why did he tell me to shoot myself?

At last, a blind hand verified a solid wall before her. The ship veered and lurched. She skidded on the wet boards and came down hard on one knee. Swearing away the pain, she crawled to the wall and planted her back against it, ignoring the wet coming up through the planks and soaking her breeches.

Don’t let yourself be taken.

Where had she heard that before, she thought grimly. The advice came readily enough, but she had yet to be advised as to how she was to accomplish it. Such advice carried even more weight coming from a pirate, the very one she had been warned against. Unlike the Constancy, she felt a kinship with Nathan and his men, for their hatred of the Nightingale had been as instant and visceral as Highlanders sighting British patrols.

Save this for yourself.

Cate looked down, but in the blackness could only feel the pistol. It was a chilling prospect: to kill herself rather than being taken prisoner. Or, she thought, fondling the cool metal, had Providence provided her another way, a means to escape it all?

One shot and be eternally free.

It was the first time since everything had been lost that she held a weapon. True, a blade had always been to hand, but a pistol promised an efficient end to the misery, starvation, and worst of all, loneliness.

Click.

And then what? She contemplated at what point she would hear no more: the metallic working of the hammer, the gunpowder’s hiss, or the discharge itself? Or would she be aware long enough to hear the retort in the hold, fading as her life did?

All further thoughts were blotted out by the first great gun blast, the next only seconds after, followed by a rolling sequence from fore to aft. The reverberations clashed into each other and settled in her bones. Cannon—guns, on a ship—was nothing new to her. Those experienced before, however, had been with land under her feet and a husband at her side. Now, she was surrounded by nothing but sea and strangers. She knew little of sea battles and didn’t share Nathan’s confidence: two ships against one seemed impossible. The piercing of 12 inches of oak wasn’t unthinkable, dooming them all to a watery death. She tried to convince herself that she should find courage in those guns: they were the Morganse’s defense, their safety in every bone-rattling burst.

The splintering crash of the Morganse taking her first hit dissolved all resolution. Cate felt the ship shudder through the wood at her back. TheMorganse sagged, but then came up on the swell, rising above the pain, and fired. The voices of Widower and Merdering Mary joined in from the Captain’s cabin, confirming Nathan’s prediction: the Eclipse had crossed the Morganse’s stern. The deadly duo aft fell mute, and the starboard guns spoke as the Eclipse crossed. The Morganse was now in a crossfire.

The ship’s timbers creaked under the strain of firing, flinching at every hit. It became a hypnotic din: the guns’ roar, the crash as they leapt back against their tackles, the bellow of men and rumble of carriages being hauled back into place.

Roar. Bellow. Rumble. Roar. Bellow. Rumble…

It was a three-beat tempo from a 36-piece orchestra.

The crossfire was short-lived, the guns firing on the Eclipse going quiet. The retort of the Nightingale’s guns, however, grew louder, which meant she was pressing nearer.

Fingers of fear crawled up like the wetness at Cate’s bottom. The water seemed to jet higher between the planks with every roll. The waves rushing past the hull sounded too much like water over a falls, pouring in, the ship becoming nothing more than a coffin. The acrid smell of gunpowder overpowered the hold’s dankness. On the smoke rode the shrieks of the wounded and dying, and the smell of blood. It seemed impossible that anyone could remain alive in the face of all the gunfire.

Not Nathan, please, not now.

The deck pitched as the ship carved another turn. The thud of the great guns gave way to the staccato crackle of small arms: muskets and pistols. The barrages were a pummeling assault, one lethal wave overlapping the next. The ship slowed, and then came the grind and scrape of wood against wood, like two gigantic tubs, the wood at Cate’s back reverberating with the collision. All sense of motion ended. The musket fire intensified. Deafened by the guns, she could barely make out what sounded almost like an infantry charge: the cries of men, the clash of swords, and sporadic pop of pistols.

And then, it was quiet.

It brought no sense of peace. If she had been scared before, she was terrified now. She wished she had paid more heed to the stories on the Constancy and knew more of what constituted victory at sea. On land, it was often a matter of which side took the fewer casualties or gained the most ground. Was it a simple matter of which ship was still afloat, which captain still stood, or were there other deciding factors?

Cate clutched the pistol and waited. Joints aching, hand cramping, time became interminable, marked off by her shuddering gasps from holding her breath while striving to listen. Smoke rendered the muggish air nigh unbreathable. She vibrated with the desire to go help with the wounded; Nathan’s final demands the only thing holding her back.

No, not “final demands.”

“Final” was a word which put him too near the grave. “Parting wish” sounded ever so much more bearable.

Having wished for the sight for so long, when the lantern appeared, she thought the glow through the gloom and smoke to be a dream. Unsure if it was friend or foe, she cowered against the bulkhead, clasping a hand to her mouth lest the rasp of her breathing reveal her location. There was nothing to be done for her heart; hammering so loudly, it was sure to give her away.

“Hoy! Missus?” came a voice through the dark. “Cap’n begs you leave.”

And then, the light disappeared.

Rising stiffly, Cate groped a return path, the fogged light through the grates and the cries of agony her beacon. Finding the steps at last, she came up to the gun deck into an ethereal world. The sun streamed through the ports in glaring shafts through whorls of grey smoke, the men moving like dark ghosts. From the swirling clouds came voices, thickened and muffled, orders colliding with pleas. She came upon a wounded man leaned against a gun carriage. As she knelt, she was touched on the arm.

“He's gone,” the pirate shouted, semi-deafened by gunfire. His smoke-blackened face pinched with grief as he looked down at his fallen mate.

Her ears still ringing, it took a moment to fully understand what he had said. Her first impulse was to argue, but then saw his meaning. The man sat clutching his abdomen and the shard of wood that had speared him, nearly the thickness of his arm. His life oozing between his fingers, he wore the shocked look of one knowing he was about to die and naught to be done about it. Another, sprawled nearby, had been taken by a more merciful means, half of his head cleanly swept away.

The drive to find Nathan strengthened. Seeing him safe would allow her the peace of mind to tend the rest. Wiping her eyes, now burning from the smoke, she climbed to the main deck, the dread of what she might find weighting every step.

The last rays of afternoon slanted on damage that was far worse. The breeze, which now barely stirred, failed to clear away the stench of death. Cate had seen the havoc wrought by a cannonball on an open battlefield. It was nothing compared to what 16 pounds of hurtled iron could do, smashing through everything—and everyone—in its path: shredded canvas, splintered wood, and snarled rope, the shattered bodies resembling half-butchered hogs. Hanging shoulder-high, the smoke shrouded anyone standing, giving them a ghastly headless appearance.

Her bare toes curled as she picked her way through the destruction, cautious of the treacherously slippery blood that streamed toward the scuppers, the surrounding sea taking on a brackish pink cast. She closed her ears to the gurgling coughs and death rattles that she passed. It was too late for them. Pryce hunched over a man propped against the bulwark; Kirkland was not far away with another casualty. Tiptoeing through offal and vomit, she felt something round and slightly giving underfoot. She looked down to see a fingertip sticking out from beneath her foot. More could be seen lying about, single knuckles to entire digits, with the occasional pinkish curve of an ear.

The silence in the aftermath of battle was always the most deafening, the elation of victory doused by destruction. These mariners bore the added pain the damage suffered upon their ship, a lady who had fought as valiantly as they. Their efforts were divided between tending their mates and her. As before the battle, it was a scene of chaos, but again with purpose. The powerful voices of the captains of the tops, forecastle, waist, and the like, rallied their men. The mariners busied with tending each other, tying rags about bloodied limbs and heads. Some sat stoically as his mate fished into his flesh with a knife for whatever battle had inserted. The more seriously injured lay waiting, either to die or for help, whichever came first.

The price of victory.

The wreckage of rigging and spars was already being cut away and tossed overboard, along with the bodies of those past identification or Nightingales. No one here would mourn the latter.

Her heart lightened at finding Nathan. He stood amidship, sword clutched in his fist. He whirled around at her approach, eyes still wild with the exaltation of battle. His bloodied blade raised, and then lowered at seeing it was her. His cuffs and sleeves were crimson. A fine spray of blood, like paint flung from a brush, flecked his face and chest hair, kept brilliant by his sweated skin. A trail of scarlet ran down several braids from a dark blot on his headscarf, near his crown.

He swiped the blood from his smoke-blackened face. His breath coming in ragged bursts, he lurched unsteadily toward her, but stopped when his foot hit something: an arm, severed near the elbow.

He kicked at it in frustration and fury. “Goddammit to f*cking hell! Is this what you expected, woman?”

A nearly decapitated body lay at his feet. A vicious swipe of his blade finished the job and he bent to snatch the head up by the hair. She stumbled back several steps when he charged at her shaking it, the dead eyes rounded and frozen.

“Pirates! Heartless, soulless, ravaging barbarians, without a shred of decency or humanity,” he shouted, the cords in his neck rigid.

He grunted with the effort of tossing the thing over the rail. “Goddammit, I didn’t want this,” he extolled to the sky.

Chest heaving, he stood staring across the water. “We had them: three against one, at the least. They boarded in the smoke, but we pushed them back. The sharpshooters mowed them down like pigeons. Then we boarded…”

Rubbing an arm with a hand that shook with weariness, he looked toward theNightingale, and said in a hoarse whisper, “It’s worse over there.”

He blinked, like a sleepwalker awakened, and turned as if seeing her for the first time. “Are you all right?”

In view of the carnage all around, she choked a mirthless laugh, sounding almost maniacal in her own ears. She managed a nod. The small gesture gave him ease. Dashing at his face with his sleeve, he swayed. He took a step, staggered and his knees buckled. Cate caught him with a shoulder under his. A crewman lent hand and they guided him to the quarterdeck steps.

Kneeling before him, she tried to take his sword, but he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—let go, and she had to pry it free. Now she could see that a good portion of the blood on him was his, pouring from near his crown.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She bit back a smile. “You look bloody awful.”

He swiped at the blood on his face and flicked it away. “Can’t say as I disagree. Seems I didn’t duck fast enough.”

Nathan lurched to his feet and leaned over the rail to retch. Several more spasms took him before he shakily sat. His ill-focused gaze steadied on her.

“Planning on putting me out of me misery?” he asked dully.

Cate looked down to find the pistol was still in her hand. “Give me a good reason and I'll use it.”

She dropped the weapon on the step and bent to help Nathan to his feet. “C'mon, you need to lie down.”

Mumbling in protest, he rose, nonetheless. He swayed precariously and she braced a shoulder under his.

“Cap’n, orders?” Pryce cried, drawing up before them. His face was soot-blackened as well. Rivulets of sweat had carved flesh-colored lines, which gave him an odd striped appearance.

“Where be the captain of that fair vessel?” Nathan asked.

Pryce dabbed the sweat from his face with his sleeve. “Which piece o’ him would ye care to address?”

“Burn that f*cking flag,” Nathan said, glaring at the other ship.

“He’ll take it personal.”

“Good, because it is. Pray set that hulk aweigh as soon as possible.”

“She looks helpless,” said Cate, noticing the Nightingale for the first time. The two ships sat virtually yard to yard, bound by lines and boarding planks. Ravaged and listing badly, the Nightingale was a sorry sight. Mainmast splintered, yards tangled, shredded canvas draped from her waist to nearly her bow. Wallowing on the swell, she slumped in the water, her spirit as shattered as her rigging. The Eclipse’s sails, in the meantime, were no more than a blot of white at the line where sky and water met.

“And that concern would be mine, how?” Nathan’s brown eye glared ghoulishly through the glistening red. “A pirate with fewer scruples would have torched her, and then listened to them scream, until the magazine caught and they all went to the depths.”

“You’re to be commended for killing a captain, but not destroying his ship?” she said in disbelief.

“No, I’m to be commended for being alive and he’s not.”

“The Nightingale has able hands and land in her lee,” Pryce said, dispassionately. “They’ll do.”

Nathan wobbled. His legs buckled and his weight sent Cate staggering. Pryce dipped a shoulder to take the load and half-carried, half-drug his captain into the cabin.

“Put him on the bunk,” she called from behind. “And take off those boots.”

Pryce did so, pitching them into a corner. He passed Kirkland at the door, bearing hot water and cloths.

The cook hovered as she filled the basin, critically eying his captain, now splayed on the bunk like a rag doll. “He should be bled.”

Cate suppressed a reflexive shudder. “I think we’ve had quite enough blood let for one day. After all, the body does require at least a little upon which to carry on, don’t you think?”

Kirkland clearly didn’t “think,” but forbore pressing the point, and scurried out to go tend the casualties.

“Can’t abide bleeding.” She hadn’t realized she had spoken aloud, until she heard Nathan grunt in agreement.

Nathan made a flailing attempt to rise. Failing, he fell back on the bed, gasping. “I shouldn't be here,” he said and gathered up for another try.

“I have yet to witness bullheadedness being able to stop bleeding,” she said, pushing him back down.

Cate sat on the bunk to deter him from another escape attempt. She carefully pulled away his headscarf and dropped it to the floor with a sodden splat. His high forehead was divided by a sharp line of deep bronze below pale ivory. Head wounds tended to bleed profusely and this one was no different. Taking a rag, she swiped away the blood in order to see more clearly.

“You’ve quite a head of hair,” she said quietly, hoping to distract him as she probed.

Underneath his scarf, there were several inches of loose hair before being woven into the multitude of braids. One ended abruptly at his shoulder, sliced away by a blade. Blooming in their newfound freedom, the hair ends sparked in the candlelight with a multitude of colors: sable, umber, sienna, the occasional sorrel, and even bronze. Feeling through the heavy silk, she finally located the wound: a nearly finger-length gouge, running along the curve of his skull. Seizing the candle from the sconce, she held it higher for better light.

“Hmm, it looks like if it wasn't for that scarf, a good piece of your scalp would be gone.”

Nestling the basin on the mattress between them, she cleaned the abrasion and the area around it, picking away bits of hair, cloth, and wood. The water swirled redder with each squeeze of the cloth. The feel of Nathan's flesh made him so very real, no longer the personification of a legend, but a man, warm and breathing—a bit raggedly at the moment, but still doing so. At first, he twitched at her every move. Gradually, his shoulders eased and his body uncoiled, the hand curled in his lap falling open. She looked down at one point to find he was observing her just as closely.

“You have double eyelashes,” she said in quiet astonishment.

The thick dark frame around his eyes was composed of two rows, one a hair’s breadth above the other. In the candlelight, it was difficult to see, but she was sure a blush rose from his collar.

“You have a chipped tooth, just there,” he said, tapping a gold one of his in illustration.

“Could use some soap,” she said, looking away. Soap, at least the kind not made with lye and ash, and didn’t burn the skin, was a rare and expensive commodity.

“Sorry, luv. ’Tis a pirate ship.”

Cate smiled wryly. “No mind. It’s been years since I’ve owned any. Here, push.”

She directed his hand to the bit of cloth over the wound. He did so, shakily but gamely, while she set to washing his face and neck. More damage was revealed. Many of his knuckles were sliced and scraped. A razor-like line of blood marked his neck, a wider one across his wrist. She felt a slight queasiness. Had any of those been a bit deeper, and it would have been his fingers, arm, or head lying on the deck.

She was struck with a shocking wave of relief. Nathan was barely more than an acquaintance; it was inexplicable that his welfare would be such a concern. He had wormed his way into her heart already.

Charmer.

He brought the word a whole new meaning.

Veering from a path of thought she didn’t want to take, she asked, “When you told Pryce to burn the flag, he said ‘He’ll take it personal.’”

Nathan was quiet for so long, she thought he might not answer. Glancing down, she found him staring off with a remote expression. She had thought it a safe question, but his personal boundaries were elusive. Having stumbled upon several of those limits that day, it was clear Blackthorne possessed more than average.

“R-W-I-M-C.” He spoke each letter with firm distinction. “Royal West Indies Mercantile Company. You have heard of it?”

“Only mention and none of it flattering.”

“Justifiably so, darling.” His lips pressed into a firm line. “TheNightingale was a privateer, a licensed hunter to dispatch anyone who might be ‘inconvenient’ to the Company.”

“That’s nothing more than a hired assassin.”

Nathan smiled grimly. “That would be in the eyes of the one holding the gun. A privateer doesn’t have the balls to rob on his own; he needs someone to cover his ass by paying his way, promising to hold his hand when he fails. If he succeeds, he wraps death and destruction up in a tidy package with a bow, and calls his murder and thieving ‘for the greater good.’ Pirates are the only ones honest enough to call it what it is and die in the process, to the dismay of no one.”

“And the ‘he’ would be…”

“The current lord-on-high in these waters, one Lord Breaston Creswicke,” he said, posing as pompously as could be while lying in bed with one hand pressed to his head.

Cate twitched at the name.

“You’re familiar with him?” Nathan asked, sharply.

“Only in name. Pryce was probably correct: he won’t appreciate his flag being burned, would he?”

Nathan puffed with the satisfaction of a task achieved. “Nay. I can only hope it’s the first thing he sees when the Nightingale finally makes port.”

“Why didn’t you sink it, if you detest him so much?”

He shifted, suddenly restless and defensive. “Have to have been a bit daft to give them quarter, didn’t I? By rights, I should have taken them all hostage, strip them of everything, including their dignity, and send that wreck to the depths. That’s what any good pirate would have done. But then, why not send that pitiful mess back, let him see he’ll have to do better than that to take the Ciara Morganse, allow those men report how the Morganse raked their decks with musket fire, until no one had the courage to take the wheel, and then, let them wonder what lengths it will require the next time?

He snorted in disgust, looking a bit silly with an arm up over his head. “Sir Spineless Simmons hauled his wind at the second volley, tucked his tail and ran, leaving his consort to take the brunt. With some able handling and a bit o’ backbone, they could have had us.

“Full broadside was how the Nightingale wanted it, even in the face of our sixteens to his twelves. We had the size advantage too; we ran close so as to keep him from firing up into our rigging, while we had free run at his. Musket fire finished off what was left; a rain of hell with sixty firing at will.”

He paused to switch hands. His shoulders twitched with indignation.

“The bastard wouldn’t hove to, even when he knew he’d been bested. His men and ship were nothing more than a means to him. Aye well, we sent him off to a world where he shan’t be annoyed with such trifles. He’s in Jones’ hands now.”

“What would push a captain to be so foolhardy?” Cate asked, squeezing out the rag, the water now brackish with blood and grime.

Nathan glanced up briefly. “There are two great motivators in this world, darling: ambition and fear, and not necessarily in that order.”

“I understand ambition, but what would make him so afraid?”

“Not what? Who?”

“Creswicke? He has that kind of power?” She had heard as much on the Constancy, but had taken it more in the way of exaggeration.

“He has a way of making examples what leaves lasting impressions,” Nathan said, with a cold finality.

He fell quiet as she worked. When she finished washing, she removed the basin to the washstand. He took that as his cue and attempted to rise. Hindered by her hand firmly on his chest, a dueling match ensued: he determined to rise and she, determined that he not.

“You should be lying quiet,” Cate said, pushing him down.

“Bloody hell, woman. I’ve no time to be cosseted,” he said, batting her away her. “I should be tending me ship.”

“You should be—”

Nathan lurched to his feet in spite of her insistence. In the process of struggling, his hand had come away from his head. The blood welled with renewed force and tracked down his forehead. Head high in defiance, he took two steps, wobbled, and then staggered to the basin, just in time to be sick. She caught him as he reeled sideways and wrestled him once more to the pillow. Scooping the cloth from the floor, she clapped it back in place—not sorry to see him wince—and redirected his hand to it. Knocking back the hair, she stood over him.

“If I thought taking your breeches would keep you here, that is exactly what I would do.”

“Can’t wait to see me in me altogether, eh?” The tease was short-lived. Darkening with determination, Nathan attempted to rise again. “I need to tend me ship.”

“You’re as white as that pillow.”

The pillow in question was actually a dirty off-white, but the parallel held, nonetheless.

“I need—”

“Am I to assume you prefer being seen wobbly like a colt and vomiting over the rail like a landlubber?” Cate demanded.

Chastened but not beaten, he laid back on the pillow, glaring up. “I’ll not lie here, whilst me ship—”

“Shall I call Mr. Pryce, then?” Huffing with aggravation, Cate wrung the cloth in the bowl and set to cleaning the blood from his face…again!

“Torturing me, you are,” Nathan huffed indignantly. “If you were so damned concerned regarding me miseries, you’d at least allow me a spot of rum.”

Having been married to a Scot for a number of years, she was well-versed in stubbornness, and in the process, fancied herself as having cultivated a similar streak of her own. In dealing with said Scot, she had learned a frontal attack was too often ineffective; a feint to the flank often proved best.

“There is still bandaging to be done,” Cate said with a suggestive lilt. “I’ll wager you’ve a fair good headache.”

“Hurts like the dickens,” he said, anticipation heightening.

“Well, in that case,” Cate began judiciously, “a bit might be allowed, for medicinal purposes only.”

“Of course!” Sobering, he lowered his voice. “Of course.”

“Very well, then, a bargain?”

“Negotiating, is it?” He brightened at the prospect. Batting his eyelids affectedly, he settled in for the challenge. “A parlay it is. Your terms?”

Mindful of the delicate nature of such proceedings, she paused, taunting him with a prolonged consideration. “You stay in that bunk…and I’ll fetch the rum.”

“This bunk, for that rum,” he reiterated, gesturing toward the salon. “Agreed!”

The village idiot could have seen his wheels of deception turning. She would have done no differently if positions were reversed, she thought as she fetched the bottle. His face fell in predictable proportions at seeing her pour a dollop into a cup.

“You said the rum. Those were the terms,” Nathan said in stunned betrayal.

“I didn’t specify how much, did I?” It was her turn to affectedly bat her lashes. “You were planning to jump up the instant I turned my back.”

“They say power corrupts,” he muttered, darkly.

“All the rum…” Cate held out the bottle in evidence of her good faith. He made a furtive grab for it and fell back into the pillows, clutching his head.

“All the rum,” she said loudly enough to be heard over his cursing in pain, “for all the night.”

He glared at her from under his arm. “Think you’re some strategic genius, eh? Very well, we have an accord.”

Face screwed with discomfort, he took the bottle and a long pull.

His dignity ruffled, Nathan pointedly ignored her, at least as well as one might while having his head bandaged, grunting noncommittally to any remarks she made. Gradually his agitation eased and his responses grew more disjointed. Little by little, the bottle became too heavy. She handily caught it as it rolled from his lap and set it within easy reach, in case he was to wake.

His eye was beginning to swell; it would be black by morning. Lying with his bare feet askew, the bandage a white slash against the darkness of hair and tan, he looked pale and fragile. Beaten, but not conquered, he would rise again, just…a little…later. Between the blood-matted hair and sullied shirt, he was a mess, but it would have to wait; there were more injured waiting to be attended.

“Sleep well, Captain,” Cate said as she picked up to leave.

Nathan stirred and asked groggily, “Where are you to sleep?”

“I doubt if there will be much of that tonight,” she said, stopping at the curtain. “Worry not; I'll find someplace. Good night, Captain.”

“Nathan.” came a drowsy voice. “I’ve asked you to call me Nathan.”



###



As forecast, it was a long night. The moon had nearly completed its journey across the sky when Cate finished with the casualties. Tiredly rubbing the back of her neck, she strolled the main deck. She drew deep draughts of the night air into her lungs to clear them of the fug of sweat, vomit, and blood she had been breathing for the last several hours. It had been a night of extractions, removing from bodies what musket and cannonball had inserted. She had been in blood most of the night, either washing it away, probing in it, squeezing it off with stitches, or staving it with bandages. The soles of her feet were raw from the sand spread on the blood-slicked boards. Over a score required attending, some Nightingales. Bleeding on the Nightingale’s deck, they had pled to join the Ciara Morganse. Already short-handed, and with not knowing what the Butcher’s Bill might be, they had been taken on. Between herself, Pryce and Kirkland, all had been seen to, and now all rested comfortably, thank you, Demon Rum.

It had been enlightening to watch Pryce. Behind that monstrous face was a man of passions. As fiery as he was commanding his men, his compassion had been limitless, either holding their hand while they suffered, or whispering comfort in their ear as they died.

Away from the makeshift sickbay ’tween decks, the scene was quite different. The Nightingale’s plunder of rum, wine, and beer had been consumed, as testified to by the numerous dark shapes of bodies sprawled and slumped, several of which she nearly tripped over. Those still upright huddled in the glow of the lamps, proclaiming on this victory and reliving those of the past.

The combination of darkness and drink made her uneasy. It was known to prompt many a man to mischief he mightn’t have committed else. She moved nearer to the Great Cabin and the deterrence provided by a Captain, sleeping though he was. Leaning against the rail, she tipped her face into the breeze. She was coming to relish the soft tropical nights. Granted, the air lacked the bracing freshness of the Highlands and the stars weren’t the icy pinpricks of the northern skies. The Caribbean air wrapped one like a mother’s blanket, the stars glowing with the warmth of a hearth’s light through a window.

Exhaustion drove her inside. The low-angled moonlight banding through the gallery windows showed her way to the sleeping quarters. She drew the curtain aside carefully, lest the rings rattle. Once her eyes adjusted to the dim, she could make out Nathan on the bunk. His outline was limned by the blue-green of the moon through the deck prism, one arm flung in slumbering abandon. She listened to his even breathing, its raspiness echoing his graveled voice. It was a fetching sound; resting her head against the doorframe, she lingered.

It had been more than a little annoying to learn that both Pryce and Kirkland possessed a credible skill at sewing the flesh, and with something far more fitting than the sailmaker’s needle she had been handed to mend Chin’s leg. It seemed they had been having a bit of a go at her. Their Captain had to have been in on it, she thought unkindly. She felt quite put upon, but seeing the innocence with which he slept dissolved her annoyance.

At length, she moved to the table. There she slouched in a chair and tried to think of a single place in her body that didn’t ache. Every joint felt as if it had been ground into the next. She sat staring out the stern gallery, shaking with fatigue, covered in vomit, blood, and filth, pulsing with a sense of fulfillment.

She had been needed.

Every bone ached, but at the same time, she was exhilarated. The true reward had come in the grateful faces. She was very familiar with the way men away from home yearned for a woman’s touch, a kind word and a smile often doing more than bandages or salve. What she had forgotten was how taxing the process could be, as if each man had taken with him a small piece, until there was nothing but an exhausted body and a drained spirit.

With an exhausted groan, she fell across the table, pillowing her head on her arms.

Another day done. How many more to go?