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

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

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

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

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

"Aye, Cap'n!" the pirates chorused and fell back, snapping to attention.

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

"Release her, I say. That. Is. An. Order!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And put a stopper in your gob. I can't abide a yammering woman."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I beg pardon. I didn't realize-"

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

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

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

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

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

"What are you-?" Cate was cut short by another fit of coughing, this one full of fluid.

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

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

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

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

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

"Jump and I swear I'll cheer whilst you drown," he said.

"Excuse me?"

"Come the bloody hell away from the damned window!"

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

"I didn't mean...I mean, I wasn't-" she began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A fortuitous fit of coughing helped make her point.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her stomach took a sickening lurch. "No, I hadn't thought of that."

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

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

"I'd been told under no circumstances should I be taken by pirates."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As in what?

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

And what about the pirates over there?

And the sharks?

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

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

A boat, then.

And do what?

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

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

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

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

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

"My name is not Littleton."

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

"My father? He's been dead for years."

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

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

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

"My moth...? You mean Mrs. Littleton? She and her daughter are dead."

It was sobering to hear two lives memorialized so coldly.

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

"Why didn't you sicken?"

"I suppose I was healthier," she said evenly.

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