"I'll not have you..." Nathan's voice faded as he was distracted by something out the stern window. His eyes narrowed, and then sharpened, his attention zeroing in like a hawk on a mouse.

"Here is the captain's quarters: I can keep you safe," he said backing toward the door, his gaze fixed over her shoulder. With reluctance, he swiveled his attention to her. "Below, even with direct orders, there would be no guarantees."

At the door, Nathan paused long enough to sternly point and say, "You'll sleep here," and then stepped over the coaming.

The subject was closed.

Much to Cate's chagrin, there was strong logic in his point. Captain he might be, but human nature-men's nature-was what it was. True enough, the punishment for disregarding a direct order would be severe, but the damage would already be done. There would be no reversing an attack in the night.

"On deck there. Sail ho! A point windward astern," came the hail down through the skylight.

Turning to the window, she saw sails: bright barbs of white against the steel-grey of the departing storm.

Heart racing, Cate ran to the quarterdeck where Nathan and Pryce stood shoulder to shoulder, gazing intently over the leeward taffrail.

"Do you see what I see, Mr. Pryce?" Nathan's back was to her, but his smile could be heard, plump with anticipation. "Has she made us?"

"Aye. Wore 'round and straight as a needle she bears."

"It's the Terpsichore, Woodbridge commanding," Pryce said after several moments. He spit over the rail. "Creswicke's minion: privateer."

"Another one?" Her voice pitched high at the thought of being pursued yet again.

The two men turned, neither having noticed her there.

"Aye, the waters seem to abound these days," Pryce said with significance directed toward his captain. Nathan only shrugged.

Nathan cast an eye skyward, and then considered the oncoming ship. "Straight at him, Mr. Pryce. We're the faster. We should be able win the weather gauge. You know what to do."

"Prepare about!" Pryce's cry was instantly picked up by Hodder, and then echoed down the chain of command. From there it scattered into a half-dozen crew captains, amid the slapping of scores of bare feet as the hands scurried to their posts.

The water raced down the Morganse's sides as she sped toward her foe. Cate shifted her position in order to maintain her view of the distant ship as the Morganse pirouetted. Amid mutterings of "Beg pardon, miss," "By your leave, mum," "Have a care," "Mind yer step," and "Over here, if you please," she was bumped and jostled until she found a neutral spot, just aft and slightly leeward of the mizzenmast. Once again, she was left to wonder if the Terpsichore might be her salvation or damnation. Communication being what it was. it seemed unlikely that word of her wanted status could have passed so quickly from England to every naval vessel in the West Indies. Judging by the zeal with which they readied to fight, Nathan and his men saw the Terpsichore's presence as a personal matter, and had nothing to do with her.

"Clear the decks!"

Cate jumped at Hodder's bone-penetrating bellow.

The distance between the ships closed at a shocking rate, their prows slicing the deep blue water. At one point, there was a mass cry of elation: the Morganse had gained the precious weather gauge. The intricacies of it still evaded Cate, but its importance was readily grasped.

A puff of smoke and the splash of a ball well ahead of the Morganse's forefoot signaled the battle had begun.

Nathan grabbed Cate by the arm. "Get below."

"No!"

"Get-" He was cut off by a ball, which skipped off the water and whirred overhead near enough to nick a backstay. "Goddammit, get below! I'll not stand here and watch you be sheared in half."

Nathan jerked the pistol from his waist, checked it, and then shoved in her waistband. "You know what to do, as do I."

He winked and sent her on her way, dragging foot, but going nonetheless.

"Fire as they bear!" Nathan shouted, as she made her way down the aft steps.

Her foot had barely touched 'tween deck when the first gun spoke. So intensified by the confined space, the sound was a physical blow to the chest. Ahead a gun fired, hurtling back against its tackles with shocking violence. The smoke wafted in greyish-white whorls about Cate's skirts as she made her way forward to the passage below. An arm shot out to stop her, while the next gun captain glared down the barrel, waited for the roll and sparked the touchhole, arching his body away from the recoil.

Cate snatched a lamp from its peg and it lit from a slow-match before going lower. The hold was no less forbidding than it had been on her first visit. This time, however, she had the light as company, to keep the dank murk at bay. Once more at the furthest point possible, she ensconced herself atop a puncheon, the lamp at her elbow.

She was accustomed to the sound of a small war breaking out every afternoon, before the dog watches and evening grog. Nathan was a firm believer in the price of a hundred weight of powder a cheap investment for gun crews that could hit a floating barrel at will, in any weather conditions, and continue to do so in less than two-minute increments, or marksmen who could hit that same barrel thrice in barely more than one. In that process, she had learned the importance of quickness and even timing, and the hazard of great guns going off simultaneously, putting a huge strain on the ship, to the point of possibly causing her damage.

Hearing the thump of the Terpsichore's guns and feeling the Morganse shudder when she took a hit, Cate was a reminded that this was no practice. She grasped the rim of the cask, her knuckles whitening, the rough oak gouging her fingertips, as she worried for Nathan. Chanting that he had been doing this for years, she tried not to count the incoming shots. To do so seemed to paint a target on his chest. The blessed man had swelled to twice his size at the prospect of a fight. Her presence dampening those spirits, he had wished her away. And so, she was left with doing what she had done for months aboard the Constancy: nothing. She would have far preferred being in the thick of it, rather than sitting in the moldering dark waiting to hear a scream, dreading what might await when she at last returned to the world of sun.

Cate braced as the ship veered, took an uncommon lee lurch, and then swept through her pivot. In the dark void of the hold, the maneuver had a dizzying effect. The grind and scrape of the planks working under the strain vibrated into her chest.

And then, almost as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Unlike the last time, there was no musket fire. The fight never grew that close.

By the time the first victorious cheer had erupted, Cate was already at the bottom of the steps. She reached the main deck in time to see the rail lined with men, their trousers down around their knees, slapping their bared arses toward the retreating Terpsichore. She found Nathan on the quarterdeck. Fixing his breeches, his somewhat guilty look dissolved into a brightener one at seeing her. He winked and nodded, and then set to heartily clapping his men on the back and giving them joy of their win.

The Morganse was bruised, but nowhere near as damaged as her engagement with the Nightingale. Her people were already putting her to rights: cutting away tangled rigging and pitching the useless debris overboard. Nathan's cheerfulness as her backdrop, Cate bent to the task of tending the injured. Compared to the last time, they were minor and few. She set up her makeshift sick berth below with what she had: a table, a bucket of hot water, some bandages recently gathered and a jar of salve from Mr. Kirkland.

Mr. French was regaling Cate of how his gun, Bloody Bess, "Took the Tersipchore foretop, whilst Lucifer did for the bastard's mizzen," while she worked to extract a sliver longer than her finger from his thigh, when Pryce and young Jensen appeared bearing a box, which they presented to her. Similar to a portmanteau, it was leather-covered, with straps and a handle on top. The inside was filled with rudimentary weapons for the warfare against sickness and injury. Amid the jars, bottles, gauze bags, and folded waxed envelopes, sat a shining pair of scissors and tweezers, crafted by Petrov, the ship's smith.

"We've scavenged every prize fer medicines and such, but the pickings have been blessedly thin," Pryce told her, dolefully shaking his head over the box. "Not a one possessed more than vitriol, dead leeches, purges, squill pills, and a rare bit o' poppy syrup. 'Course, 'tis no countin' the things what we had no idea. Needed a Latin master for that. The Cap'n can cipher a bit o' that Popish falderal, but bloody little sense could be made o' it."

Pryce's claim was born out by the Latin lettering on many of the labels. Rough translations had been scrawled next to it, most now smeared and water-spotted.

"We woulda taken the first chirurgeon we come upon, clapped 'im in irons, if come the need, but blessed few in these waters," said Pryce.

"There was that one-" began Jensen.

"Ah, yes! I mind him. What was the cove's name? Died of a fever afore we learnt if he was worth his salt."

"Tach," cried Jensen, shuddering. "All he could think was to bleed everyone."

"Aye. And cursed ghoulish about it he was. 'Peared to me he just wuz a-wantin' blood to lure his blessed sharks. The man appreciated his shark steaks the likes o' which I ain't never seed."

And so, armed with her new line of defense, Cate set to work on the powder burns, splinters large and small, broken bones, busted guts, and bashed heads.

She was tying off the splint on Mr. Church's arm, broken when he failed to outdistance a recoiling gun, when she became dimly aware of someone behind her, close enough to nudge her in the back. Living on a ship with over a hundred and twenty others, it was common to be jostled, and so thought nothing of it.

"Women are good but for two things and both are with their legs apart," came from so near behind she could feel his breath hot on her back.

Her gut lurched. She knew the voice without looking: Bullock, the one who had accosted her when first arrived. She looked up into Church's insolent grin. She tried to move, but found she was now trapped between Church's legs with Bullock behind her. A quick glance revealed that Bullock had timed his comment well: no one was near, no one to hear, no one to witness.

Setting her jaw, Cate gave the binding a final jerk on the knot hard enough to elicit a pained yelp from Church. She jabbed an elbow into Bullock's as she pushed herself clear, and then climbed to the main deck to their jeering chuckles.

Cate retreated to the safe shadows of the Great Cabin for the remainder of the day. Bullock's comments had put her at ill ease. They were a stark reminder of how tenuous her status aboard was. It was only Nathan's protection that kept her safe. If anything were to happen to him...

She shied from finishing that thought.

As much as Nathan denied it, she knew her presence caused problems. Bullock was one symptom. The two crewmen, Hughes and Cameron, revealing her involvement with the Stuart Uprising was another problem. The knowledge hadn't gone without comment, if not incident. The Uprising was seen by many English as a direct threat to their King: England's soil had been invaded, English lives lost. Any participants in such an insurrection were seen as traitors; animosity ran high throughout the realm, including on a pirate ship. She hadn't been deaf to the crosswords and epithets uttered by some of the men.

Again, she wondered why Nathan kept her aboard, what he planned to do with her.

He had assured her she was not to be turned over for the reward, declaring, "Never in all me days have I been that desperate."

She was being kept, but for what? Hostage or prisoner? Slave, mascot, or pet? Insurance seemed more fertile ground: a bargaining chip in reserve, with either the Royal Navy or the Royal West Indies Mercantile Company.

It was wholly confusing. For months on the Constancy, Cate had listened to railing against women aboard and the bad luck they apparently carried in their skirt folds. Surely pirates would be of the same mind, if not more so. That night, she made her case to Nathan. A shrug and a dismissive flap of the hand was her answer. Mr. Pryce had exhibited a proclivity for superstition, so she pressed her case with him. His mouth compressed as if a great mystery of the ancients had just been posed. "Aye, ye've a point there."

A Company Council was called. The exact logic was lost to her somewhere in the debate. The final outcome, however, punctuated by a cheer, was from that point on she was to be addressed as "Mr. Cate."

Lolling atop a cask looking on, Nathan raised a bottle in salute. "I'm good with it!"

The subject was closed.

The Morganse found a cove in which to hide and lick her wounds inflicted by the Terpsichore, and those which lingered from the Nightingale. It was an open but protected place, the ship's masts merging with the ratcheted spine of the island curving around her.

All hands set to their duties with a gleeful eagerness. Battle had disrupted the Morgansers orderly world and they were anxious to set it back to rights. They set to knotting and splicing, conversation requiring a raised voice in order to be heard over the woodpeckerish rap of caulker's mallets, and Chips and his mates, looking harried but happy. Wood and watering parties were sent ashore, as well hunting parties for fresh meat. Foragers were sent to gather fodder for Hermione and anything else that might be had. In the West Indies, apparently all one need do was put their arm out and food was to hand. After years of eking out an existence on scraps, such a state of plenty seemed edenic to Cate, if only she could see it.

"Let's give ' er a new set o' boots and tops," declared Nathan, and then jabbed an elbow at Cate's side. "It's cleaning. You'll love it."

It would seem the sea was of the opinion that the bottom of a ship was solely intended for weed, barnacles, shells, and any number of other things to grow, including the insidious teredo. The shipworm was described to her as nothing more than a mass of sawblade-like jaws set on devouring the ship from under their feet. Able to make holes the size of Cate's thumb, the creature itself nearly as long as her arm, with such voraciousness that surely, if she bore an ear, she could hear them munching away.

Anything wooden and afloat in seawater required careening, the regularity rising with the temperature of the water in which she plied. It meant literally running the ship on shore and divesting her of everything, including guns and rigging. It was an arduous and monumental undertaking, rendering the ship as vulnerable as a beached whale for the best part of a month.

A good amount of the Morganse's bottom was copper-sheathed, denying worms and barnacles access. Another portion was studded with copper nails, a massive expense, but one her captain willingly paid to keep her bottom sweet. A space between copper and waterline still existed, and so boot-topping it was, as Nathan had so colorfully ordered. It was an intermediary measure: shifting guns, rigging and cargo to roll the ship on her side-a parliamentary heel-baring the space below her waterline to be breamed.

"Only a strake or two," Cate was told. The strakes, the planking seams in the ship's hull, could be seen if she stretched far out over the rail. While out there, in the clear water underneath the ship, she could catch glimpses of the green skirt of weed wisping with the currents.

She was pulled back by her skirt, like a parent jerking a child from a precipice. Turning around, she came directly into Nathan standing there.

"Going somewhere, are we?" he asked in a low voice, with a mixture of suspicion and dare, but daring her to do what?

Startled, she could only sputter. He spun away, apparently losing patience in waiting for her to find an answer.

The workload required all hands. No parties made the pull ashore for the mere sake of fun. And so, once again, Cate was tempted by the nearness of land. She gazed longingly at the long gleam of white sand between the azure and emerald of water and trees, so near and yet so far.

With no skill at carpentry, useless at knotting or splicing, lacking the strength to move guns or do heavy lifting, and Millbridge barring her from helping to stow the cabin, Cate was sat down to make besom brushes: bundling and tying twigs onto the ends of branches. Dipped in tar, the brushes were set afire to heat the graving, the hull's coating. The heat and fumes poisoning the worms, the fires softened the graving enough for the irons and scrapers to remove the weed, barnacles, and other filth.

Cate moved about, careful not to trip over the tackles rigged for the network of lines over the side from which the men dangled. "One or two strakes" put the decks at an acute angle. In truth, the incline was not much more than when the ship was heeled over sailing, but her motionlessness-baring the cove's minor swell-made it seem far more precarious. Not unlike when on that same tack, the topsmen scampered about in the rigging with the agility of monkeys and the industriousness of squirrels.

There was a good deal of convivial shouting and swearing. It must possess an energizing effect on men, for it seemed they could rarely accomplish a task without. The deck grew hazy with curls of smoke rising from the sides, acrid with an odd mix of burning weed, sulfur, tar, and perhaps a tinge of cooking worm. The smoke wafted low across the water and ashore, hanging among the trees like tobacco smoke wreathing a man's head. Bits of canvas were rigged at the ports and hatches to funnel air below where the noxious smoke tended to collect. Fire and ships were mortal enemies, a ship being barely more than a pile of aged wood saturated with tar and paint, and so lookouts stood at the ready, with hoses and filled buckets.

Both sides complete, the Morganse righted for good, Nathan yielded to Hodder, chafing to the point of near apoplexy over the ruin of his precious paintwork. The swarms of besom-brush-bearing ants were replaced by paint-brush-bearing ones, the sharp smell of fresh paint joining the heady fug of breaming.

Declaring "idle hands and all that," and disinclined toward revealing the ship's fixed whereabouts with the daily great gun practice, Nathan ordered small arms practice instead: knives, pikes, boarding axes, sabers, cutlasses and the like. A series of chalk circles were drawn on deck and the smell of the sweat of exercise mingled in the air as the pirates honed their hand-to-hand skills. Stripped to their breeks, their chests shone with sweat as they sparred and parried with uncommon intensity, the classrooms taking on an air of competition. Under the watchful eyes of their mates, the combatants were cheered on by a large audience lining the ratlines, yards, and yet-to-be-painted rails. Beatrice shouted a bawdy repartee from amid the men peering down from their roost.

Cate stood by with her blood box-so named by Nathan, since it appeared every time there was blood-for injury was frequent. She smiled faintly as she watched, thinking it wasn't unlike when Brian's men had trained in preparation for raids and clan wars or during the Uprising. There was, however, one difference: a blood-lust abandon.

"They look like they are trying to hack each other to pieces," she said, wincing at the sight of a vicious swipe by Mr. Rowett, his snakeskin vest tossed aside.

"Pirate." Nathan offered the single word as an all-encompassing explanation. He sat next to her atop a cask, watching with a sports-like avidness.

"Which means kill afore gettin' killed," Pryce added from Nathan's other side. He stood leaning against the rail, arms crossed loosely on his chest.

Distracted, she didn't see what happened to cause a cheer to go up, proclaiming Rowett the victor. Those two were barely away, before two more stepped into the circle, squared up and the fight commenced again.

"Y'know, Cap'n," Pryce began thoughtfully, eyes tracking the fight. "If'n she's to be here, she should be able to protect herself."

"Right you are." Nathan pulled his eyes from the match. "Should things happen, you could be need of defending yourself. Can you fight?"

"You mean, as in fists?" she asked warily. The "should things happen" comment was casually made, but his meaning was clear and not to be taken lightly.

"No. You're feisty, but no match." Nathan paused to shout encouragement to one of the combatants. "What about swords? I hear tell on the Constancy you were quite admirable."

"You're too kind," she said tartly.

"No, I mean it. Isn't that how you saw it?" he said, thumping Pryce on the shoulder.

"Aye, verily sir. A fair hand, to be sure."

"For a woman," she said, peering around Nathan to Pryce.

"Well, to be sure," Nathan equivocated as did Pryce. Alighting from the barrel, he took her by the arm. "C'mon, let's see what you've got."

The crew gathered around and a lengthy group conversation ensued revolving around the finer points of weapon selection, size and weight, the grip being of greatest significance. A more serious debate followed as to who was to be her opponent. Jensen was the first option, by virtue of their similarity in size and his need for practice. Pryce dismissed that out-of-hand, pointing out the lad's lack of skill could mean her accidental injury. Through the process of elimination, Nathan was finally urged forward, the tacit agreement being if anyone was to cause Cate harm, let it be the captain.

The next thing Cate knew, she had been shoved into the circle, armed and facing him. Wiping her palm on her skirt, she clasped the sword, the grip biting her flesh. A cutlass, actually, curved and wicked, meant for close-quarter fighting, as on the deck of a ship. Much lighter than the long swords of the Highlands, it came alive in her hand; "blooded" as Brian had called it, "a blade that knows its purpose."

"Loosen your grip a bit, luv," Nathan instructed calmly. He stood with his arms relaxed at his sides. Circling catlike, sword in hand, he became the pirate, barbaric and deadly, the one she had expected to meet.

"Don't allow your enemy to see fear," he said. "Stare him in the eye; make him wonder..."

Cate lunged, catching him off guard. It brought a cheer from the crowd and a short outburst of bemusement from Nathan. The surprise lasted less than the time it took for his arm to come up in almost playful defense. Irritated that he dared to take her so lightly, her attack grew more focused with each stroke. Amid the scrape and clang of metal against metal, a small smile gradually tucked one corner of his mouth, pleased and even a bit admiring.

"Keep your elbow down, lass," Pryce shouted. "That's it. No, no, keep it down!"

Calling a halt, Nathan seized her elbow. "Keep it down here," he said firmly. "Let it come up too high and you're leaving yourself open." He poked her sharply in the ribs with his finger, eliciting a startled squeak. "Next time, that could be a blade."

They squared off, Nathan's dark eyes fixed on her. Without out a flicker of warning, he attacked, pressing her back. Not possessing the strength or skill for a prolonged offensive, she was obliged to rely on defense. Arms and legs burning, she was envious of his freedom of skirts to tangle his legs when he lunged or riposted. Too soon, a flick of his blade and her sword was wrenched from her hand, clattering to the deck. The hands cheered anyway, shouting words of encouragement, many impressed that she could bear a sword at all.

Nathan clapped her on the shoulder as she worked the sting from her fingers and shook out her arm. "Not bad, luv. With a little practice, you could be fair. The problem is strength."

His words inflated, and then bruised.

Damn him! He wasn't even breathing hard.

"Don't look so wounded," Nathan laughed, slapping her jovially on the back. "Bloody awkward for a woman to be as strong as a man; doesn't sound appealing a-tall. What of it, Pryce?"