"Mr. Pryce," Cate began. He twitched at the sound of her voice, his fists tightened around the leather mug. "Please, I beg, Pryce, I desire to make amends."

His scarred jaw set, determined to see this through credibly. "I'm sorry, sir, if I-I never intended to make ye think I wuz tryin' any kind of foolishness."

"I know that." She bit back her vehemence. Collecting herself, she tried again, calmer. "I know that very well."

Pryce shot her a stony look, the grizzled brows meeting. "'Tis not the impression 'twas given."

"I know that as well," she said more evenly.

Her apology was an honest one. Honesty, however, was at its purest at its birth. Any attempts to expand or enhance only weakened it. Cate stood mutely patient as he regarded her with suspicion, waiting for the look capable of cutting her in half or turn her to stone, at his pleasure. This was her atonement and she bore it as unflinching as could be managed.

At the same time, Beatrice cocked her head to regard Cate, too, and her resolve wavered. Being judged by a bird was more disconcerting than she cared to admit. At length, Pryce saw what he needed. A quirk of the mouth and a raise of the mug marked the matter settled. He then drank to it.

Voices in song drifted aft from the forecastle. She heard Nathan, too, and followed the path of his voice the foretop crosstrees. Feet swinging over the edge, he was a dark blot against a dimming sky.

"You don't like me, do you, Pryce?" Cate heard herself say. It wasn't an accusation, just observation.

Pryce shied, wearing the look of a child caught with his hand in the honey jar. "You'll give me leave to say you're uncommon forward."

"Some people appreciate me for it," she said in a flush of defensiveness. Well, maybe only one: her husband. It would be a lie to say that she had never been told that before. "I can't help it. I was raised far from the niceties of civility and with five brothers. If I didn't speak up, I was forgotten. Don't change the subject, Pryce. You don't like me."

"Not sayin' as 'tis disagreeable. It's just...well...There be eyes that color on a statue in Vera Cruz."

Cate turned her head to hide a smile. "Yes, I believe Nathan-the Captain that is, mentioned as much." Indeed, Nathan had, her first day aboard, vowing she meant to curse him.

"I don't mean to reproach you, but why?" she went on. "Did I say or do to put you off? And the Captain, for that matter. Sometimes he stares at me like I'm a two-headed kitten."

Pryce waffled, making up his mind, changing it, again and again. Cate was on the verge of letting him off the hook upon which he squirmed, when he finally burst out: "With all due respect, sir, to tell ye plain: you look like her."

"Her?" she echoed dumbly.

"And in more ways than one might bear, in a manner o' speakin,'" he said in his West Country rumble.

Cate felt a cold, sinking sensation that she didn't care to put a name to. She braced against the weight of impending doom. Several bricks were about to fall into place in her construction of Nathanael Blackthorne: he was either married or had an eternal love somewhere.

"So, who is...her?" she asked in grave dread.

Wife? Sweetheart? Which would be worse?

"He hasn't told you? Nay, I s'pose not. He's disinclined toward the tellin,'" Pryce said, staring down into his drink. The grey eyes swiveled up at her and sharpened. "Ye've seen the Cap'n with his shirt off?"

It was posed more assumption than question.

"Umm...nooo...no, I haven't."

Cate's cheeks flamed. Having to admit Nathan hadn't found her attractive enough didn't come easily. As the days had turned to weeks, she had flirted with thoughts of something blooming between her and Nathan. The charming smile, flashing eyes, and engaging ways were not wasted. At times, he didn't seem to realize their effect. But then at times, it was clear he knew exactly, and applied them with purpose.

In many circles, Nathan would have been considered the consummate gentleman. He never bowed, rose from a chair, nor tipped his hat. He discreetly excused himself, or conveniently avoided the cabin altogether, when he thought it necessary. That didn't rule out the ribald remarks and colorful turn of phrase, but that was just Nathan being Nathan. Slowly, however, the cold realization had settled in: he wasn't interested in her. There were no overtures, not even the slightest insinuation or the most fleeting of dalliances. Nothing.

Cate felt like a stone among the diamonds. So many women had gone before-his conquests were legend-but why not her? She had longed to ask why, but in the grand scheme of things, what difference did it make? If it was because her voice was too deep, her eyes too green, if she was too tall, her bottom too round or not round enough, or if she was too dull-witted? Which would she rather hear? Which one would ease her best through the nights of lying in that same bunk, staring and wondering?

"Aye, well..." Pryce's destroyed mouth compressed in disapproval, clearly thinking her to be either lying or had deemed his captain unsuitable. Either was an affront to his sense of honor.

"All rotated around a woman. What else?" What little light was left caught the spark in his eye of a storyteller settling in. "Cap'n met up with one. A beauty, she were, in her own way," he was quick to qualify.

Pryce regarded her more narrowly. "As I represented, ye put me in mind o' her...tall, well, mebbe not quite so much," he said with a second look. "She had a go-to-hell way o' lookin' at ye-square in the eye, she did-and not a by-yer-leave in 'er. She was a pirate at heart; took to it like a fish t' water. Get her blood riled and she could be ruthless as any man, moreso. Could pass fer one too, given a big hat, that is. Not as strong as a man and that vexed her considerable. Got herself into trouble on that score more than the once."

A faint smile came some an unspoken thought. He shook it away before going on.

"As it chances, Hattie had 'er own ship. At first, she and the Cap'n sailed in consort, scourge of the Caribbean. Hell, the whole world was at their disposal," he said with an enthusiastic swipe of his hand. "Then her ship took a ball to the magazine. Blew 'er to smitherines, but Hattie lived to tell of it. By that time, she and the Cap'n were, well, let's just say no woman can resist his charms and she had her own charmin' ways. So, bein' the good-hearted soul that he is, he took 'er in, she 'n' what was left o' her crew, havin' in his mind the next prize would be hers."

Pryce glanced to assure Nathan was still in the tops. A raucous chanty had broken out on the forecastle, involving a lonely sailor and bow-legged whores. Nathan's graveled tenor rang from above, enthusiastic, if not a good bit off-key. It was rare to hear his ravaged voice raised in song. He must have been in high spirits, indeed.

"'Twas a fiery mix: they fought like cats and dogs, and made love like rabbits...Hmph!"

He made a half-strangled noise and buried his nose in his drink. "Beggin' yer pardon, sir. I think she fancied treasure and prizes, but d'ye see, the Cap'n's not in it for the plunder. He's in it fer his ship. Piratin' is just a means."

The last carried an air of warning. Cate bristled at the assumption she only sought fortunes, but to deny it would only serve to strengthen his point.

"You were on the Morganse then?" she asked.

"Nay. We'd had a partin' o' the ways a bit afore. I tried to warn 'im to go to windward o' Maubrick, his First Mate, but the Cap'n wasn't of a mind to be a listenin'," Pryce said wincing.

"Do you think they loved each other?" It was a question that screamed to be asked, but an answer she didn't desire to hear. She was suddenly cold and tucked her hands under her arms.

"Love? Hmm...?" An uncomfortable notion, he leaned heavily on the binnacle to ponder. "Ehh, admiration, fer sure. Common goals, lust, aye. But no, 'twas not my notion Hattie had it in 'er.

"Well," he said, resuming his tale, "the first ship didn't suit 'er. The second was too slab-sided, and the third too slow in stays." Pryce shook his head. "She had 'er claws in 'im deep, by then. A women can lead a man 'round, if'n she knows how."

He arched a brow, the sharp grey eyes measuring the cut of her jib, as to whether she was of the same breed.

"Hattie musta tired o' waitin', 'cuz she threw in with Maubrick. Belike, he filled her full o' ideas, a-promisin' the moon. Some say the Cap'n shoulda knowed. Others say she 'n' Maubrick were too smooth, but the day finally come..."

Pryce let the suggestion in his voice finish the thought. He glanced once more to the foretop. He was telling far more than Nathan would have desired, and no small wonder. No one appreciated dirty laundry-misfortune and mishap-to be bandied about. But then, he was Nathanael Blackthorne, a legend in his time. Fame had its price.

"And?" Cate prompted.

"Shot 'im."

The words cracked the air. Beatrice ruffled and croaked, "Flog the bastard!"

"The Cap'n has two holes in 'im: one in the front..." he said, pointing to just below his right breast. "And one in the back."

"Which one-?"

"Which one looked him in the eye and pulled the trigger, whilst the other spineless scut shot 'im in the back?"

Pryce took another long drink and smacked what was left of his lips. "There be only three souls a'-knowin' that, and the Cap'n ain't a-sayin'. Cast him off, they did. 'Ceptin' they figgered 'im to be dead straight away, so the mutinous dogs didn't even oblige him the honor of a pistol."

Nathan had alluded to something having happened before, another subject he preferred not to broach.

Cate gulped, sickened. Betrayal was never a pretty thing, but this one was particularly ugly. "But how...? I mean, obviously he lived, so how...?"

"No one knows, but 'im, and he ain't sayin'. He claims he died, if yer inclined to believe that sorta thing. There be a pouch at his belt with two shots, one flattened, kinda like when it has hit bone. The other is all scratched, like it was dug out. Carries 'em with 'im, he does, at all times, just a'-waitin' for the day when he can give 'em back, if ye get me meanin.'"

"But, he has the ship, so he must have-?"

"They both still breathe, if that be yer meanin'. But aye, that be the interestin' part of it. With the Cap'n gone, the Morganse was broken-hearted and would sail for no other man." Pryce lovingly stroked the surface before him. "First chance, threw herself on the rocks she did, impaled on a spire, right through the heart. She sank to the bottom to join her true love."

Now she felt the one being played. Although, she had heard Nathan speak of the ship as if she drew breath, and had seen him engage in what was tantamount to one-sided conversations with her.

Attachment? Connection? Affection? Yes, they all applied.

"Obviously, he got her back somehow," Cate prompted.

"Aye," Pryce nodded agreeably, looking skyward, as a mariner often did. "'Tis a matter o' speculation. He's the only one what knows and he ain't sayin'. I've heard tell he made a deal with the Devil o' the Deep."

"That's ridiculous," she snorted, feeling extremely tried on again.

One brow arched. "Is it? Take a look, if yer of a mind to doubt it. He carries two holes what no man should have survived. I've seen him walk through hellfire 'n' brimstone and laugh, not a sleeve singed. And I've seen 'im run through by a blade such that no man should live to tell. He's a man what can't be kilt on a ship what can't be sunk. It don't make 'im crazy-no more than bein' dead would," he added in an odd rationalization, "just a mite careless.

"Where's Hattie now?" Uttering the name didn't come easily. "Has there been any word?"

Pryce shrugged disinterestedly as he swirled the mug's contents. "Heard she's dead and heard she's piratin' the spice routes. The Cap'n's still on the prowl, a-lookin' fer either one, and heaven help 'em when that day comes."

He stared off toward the foretop. "Sometime after it all, I seen him in Tortuga. 'Twas a good thing I knew him from afore, cuz I barely recognized him. No one, includin' him, could say as how he came to be there. He was a scarecrow, nothin' but the rags on his back a-holdin' his bones together and not near enough o' those to keep 'im decent. He was livin' on rum and whatever scraps throwed his way. He still can pick a pocket better than anyone I ever seed," he said with a faint smile of admiration.

"An old whore had taken him in, allowed 'im t' live in the goat shed. He smelled like a dead one, too. He couldn't take three steps without a-coughin' up blood. Everyone treated him like he were a leper or had the fever, but he claimed it was bein' shot what gave him the lungsickness. It was his eyes what near killed me: lifeless as a shark, cold and dead."

Pryce shook his head, as if to rid himself of a bad dream.

"Bought 'im a decent meal, I did, but he didn't possess the strength t' chew. He could still swallow, so I got 'im drunked up, followed him until he fell out in an alley. Piled him up in a cart and carried him off to a fishin' village, t'other side o' the island. The people were poor there-poorer than most-but decent folk. I left 'em enough money so's they could see to him and theyselves. I went back a few months later, but he was gone. No one seemed to know where, he just up and disappeared, leavin' behind a couple o' lasses with sad eyes and swellin' bellies. It were a year or so before I saw 'im again; I thought he was a ghost what come to haunt me fer my sins."

Pryce smiled faintly at the recollection. "He was the ol' Nathan then...sorta. The burn was back in his gut, a-wantin' nothin' more than his ship and those two black-hearted mutineers, in that order. He was damned single-minded on the matter, but I reckon that were what kept him alive."

Cate held herself in tight check from the quarterdeck to her berth, although her rigidity and stomp gave cause for guarded looks from those in her route. Once past the curtain, she emitted a frustrated growl and flung herself across the bunk. She counted the seconds, hoping her anger would subside. Barely to three, she punched the mattress, grunting with each blow.

So that was it! Now, she knew why Nathan wasn't interested, why he was pleasant, and yet so impeccably distant. It was simple enough. The good news was, it wasn't a matter of anything she had said or done. Quite to the contrary, it was entirely out of her hands. Which led to the bad news: it was entirely out of her hands.

She flopped onto her back and stared, the blackened beams overhead shimmering through tears. One leg hung over the side, her heel rapped an agitated tempo against the wood, while a fist pounded a similar rhythm on the bulkhead.

She reminded him of someone else. How simple could it be? It was the one reason she never thought of, the one scenario which never came to mind. Just by simple coincidence, misfortune, circumstance, or fate, she reminded him of someone...his precious Hattie.

And what, exactly, do you think you're going to do about it?

Not much, came back the answer. Nothing you can do.

She blindly hurled the pillow across the room.

It wasn't fair!

It was one more stab from Providence: she was to be forever denied anything which might smack of happiness.

A few weeks ago, you were desperate for someone to notice if you lived or died. Where's your gratitude in that?

Rational thoughts wedged their way in. To begrudge Nathan his true love would be to begrudge herself of having Brian.

"That was different," she grumbled moodily. Brian was gone.

One was obliged to question Nathan's judgment. He had never shown the impulsiveness that would be necessary for one to give his heart so readily to someone so treacherous.

Yes, but the heart is often blind.

On a gentler note, it had to have been hellish for Nathan to be constantly reminded of such betrayal and cold-heartedness. More was the question why he was so determined to keep her aboard? Why didn't turn her over for the reward straightway, or put her off at St. Agua and be shut of her?

Only the ancient sages could fathom what went through that convoluted mind.

"Ooohhh!" Cate growled.

A rap on the doorjamb startled her.

"Are you well?" came Nathan's voice through the curtain.

"I'm fine," she said, more sharply than was warranted.

She rolled over on her elbows. Ducking her head between her arm and her side, she sniffed, hoping he wouldn't hear.

There was a grave pause, before he said, "You don't sound it."

"I'm fine."

There was a low grumble, another considering pause, and then a shifting of feet. "Shall I pass the word to fetch you something? Rum?" A grunt instantly negated that. "Coffee? Brandy!" His voice brightened with the victory.

"No, I'm fine," she insisted, dashing the wetness from her face.

"You don't sound it."

She choked a smile at hearing his concern. She drew a quivering breath and expelled it slowly.

"I'll be fine," she said with great effort. "I like I always am," she added under her breath at the sound of his retreating steps. "Just...fine."

Gleaming and freshly breamed, with Mr. Hodder's repetitive call of "Mind the paintwork" in the air, the Morganse won her anchors and cleared the cove, a proud lady in her newly applied cosmetics.

Rich in that same pride, Pryce stood at the leeward rail, rocking on his heels. "She'll run through the water now as slick as an old whore's-"