His hands useless, Samuels strained blinked the paint from his eyes. Cate felt a wave of sympathy-albeit a small one-for it must have stung like hell.

"It's not your head he desires," Samuels sneered. "The prize is triple if you're alive."

Nathan doffed his hat and executed a sweeping bow. "Pray give me regards. Away with you now. Ta ta!" he called as Samuels stalked back to his ship.

A heavy thunk! of the boarding axes and the Sibylla was set free of her bonds. Uproarious laughter broke out from up and down the Morganse's deck as the ship drifted away.

"You tormented the poor man," Cate said to Nathan under the levity.

Nathan shrugged. "I gave him enough rope to hang himself. 'Twas not my fault that he took off running, figuratively speaking."

"Setting fire to his britches wouldn't have been your fault either, figuratively, that is."

"Can't help it if the man is oversensitive to heat." Grinning, he strolled off.

Pryce came up next to her at the rail. He peered up at the red "No Quarter" flag at the Sibylla's mainmast. "After havin' that flashed in their face, many a captain woulda took their water and boats, an' let 'em die a-drinkin' their own piss. Others woulda unmanned 'em, cut out their tongues, or slit their eyelids and let the sun bake their eyeballs."

Pryce ducked his head between his arms on the rail. The wide back convulsed under his shirt, and for the first time, she saw Pryce openly laugh.

"I'll warrant this is a damned sight better," he wheezed.

It came one night that the Morganse's decks barely pitched, with only the faintest trace of foam streaming from her bow as it cut the water, "Bearing well on a port tack on a tops'l breeze," as reported by Pryce.

There was a joyous mood aboard. Still in tearing spirits following their victory over the Sibylla-pink-tinged feet now a badge of honor-it had been another fortuitous day. The Morganse had come upon a sloop, riding low in the water, alone, "beggin' fer the takin,'" declared Pryce.

"Flyin' a Spanish flag," Nathan had snorted, peering at it through his glass. "You'd have to be as stupid as a French fuddler to believe it."

Surrendering at the mere sight of the famed pirate ship and her blood-crowned sails, the ship proved to be Dutch, according to her papers handed over by a profusely sweating master.

"Her guns had been tampioned so long, it would have required a bloody beaver to chew them out," Nathan sniffed in disdain after.

"Aye, a pitiful example of seafarin' she were," Pryce nodded. "Near ancient, with twice-laid rigging and furry-bottomed . The guns were honeycombed and fit to blow up in the face of the first hen-hearted swab stupid enough to touch a match. Held together with nothin' but paint, they wuz."

As it turned out, someone had banked on the ship's innocuous appearance allowing her to pass unencumbered, because she had been filled to near foundering with pastillas-bricks that is-of cochineal, a dye treasured by royals, merchants, and more importantly, the Captain of the Ciara Morganse. There had been enough lifted from the hold to keep the crowns of the Morganse's sails red for time out of mind and provide a retirement-sized sum for every share.

Cate enjoyed the merriment from her seat, for on the forecastle was the heart of the celebration. Tapping her foot, she joined in the singing when able to pick up the words, throwing in the strength of her voice when the starbolins challenged the larbolins in competitive rounds. In the midst of one such competition, a crewman came up beside her. He bent and in a loud whisper, gave his compliments and represented that she was required below: an injury, the exact nature of which she couldn't quite make out. It wasn't an uncommon request. At times, it seemed to come as regularly as the watch bells. She rose and followed, weaving virtually unnoticed through the festive throng to the companionway below.

Barely halfway down, her senses pricked and her step slowed at the sight of the deserted 'tween decks. After Bullock's remarks, she had made it a practice not to be alone. As her eyes became more accustomed to the dimness, her qualms were eased by the cocoon-like forms of hammocks, swinging heavily further aft, and two men nearer, hunched over a game of draughts.

Her messenger stood expectantly at the top of the steps leading to the hold and her spirits sank. Cate loathed the cavernous belly of the ship. She teetered on inquiring if there were some way the injured soul might be brought up, but immediately quashed the thought. If someone was hurt, the least she could do was suffer a little personal discomfort to give help.

Cate was near halfway down the companionway when a movement at the bottom of the steps caught her eye. She looked up to find Bullock standing there, a predator looming out of its lair. Cold fear pricked the back of her neck at hearing footfalls coming down the steps behind her, the two draughts players.

It was her experience that time often stalled in moments of danger, allowing every intricate detail to be observed: the thud of her heart against her ribs, hot breath on her neck of the one behind, the smell of Bullock's sweat, the clatter of the bones in the pigtail at the side of his head, the throbbing vein at his temple. The seconds preternaturally ticked as she measured her options.

Run!

Cate hitched her skirts and spun, directly into a hand clamping over her mouth. She was hit at the back of her head and the world faded. Internal voices screamed as she was half-carried, half-drug away. She flailed and took a neck-snapping cuff to the face. She screamed, but to no effect, the hand at her mouth jamming it back down her throat. The sound of the crew's merriment on deck echoing down the hatchway, the dank void of the hold closed in as she was taken deeper.

Not again! Not again!

Reality merged with nightmares, melding into a new horror, too nightmarish to be real.

Cate was thrown down on a hard surface that she dimly registered as coils of chain. The cable tier then, nearly to the forepeak. For some reason, knowing where she had been taken was important. The smell of sweat, bilges, and sea bottom rendered the air nearly too thick to breathe. Bodies pressed into the small space and hands snatched at her.

The hand at her mouth blocked her screams. They sounded maniacal in her own ears. Panic seized her, blotting out all other thoughts but one: escape. She clawed, bit, and gouged, a demon possessed by that single notion. Rank breath blew hot in her ear. She jabbed an elbow in its direction. She hit something soft and fleshy, resulting in a strangled, agonized yelp. The grip on her mouth loosened and she bit down. She heard a crunch! and tasted blood and grime. An enraged growl filled the small space. A fist clouted her in the face, and then the stomach, driving her breath driven out in a violent whoosh. A low dull tone rang in her ears.

Wild with desperation, Cate fought, and was beaten harder. Her arm was savagely twisted behind her back, the bones of her wrist ground together to the point she thought it might be broken. Hands fumbled roughly at her front. The lantern light bobbed wildly. In the erratic light, she saw no more than a blur of faceless heads on a mass of bodies. A fist rose from the mass and she turned her head in time to take the blow in the temple. Fingers gouged the skin of her chest as her bodice was ripped open. She kicked. There was an animal growl and her breast was given a cruel twist. Her screams into the palm at her mouth went from panic to pain. A body came down on top of her. She bucked and kicked, but to no avail, her arms and legs pinned. She felt the moist heat of a mouth at her breast. She gave a high thin shriek of shattering agony at being bitten, so hard she thought her nipple to be gone.

Fingers dug at her thighs, seeking to wrench them apart. Cate fought to curl into a defensive ball. Her arm, twisted under her, felt as if it had been torn from its socket. The grasp at her middle tightened and she was hit again, in the jaw and stomach. A coppery taste filled her mouth and she began to choke.

This couldn't be happening. Not on a ship filled with men! Where are they? Where are they!

The desperation spurred Cate into a greater frenzy. Better to die than to live through this again.

Not again! Not again!

She struck out with her feet. Just one good kick: throat, gut, or balls, whatever luck would provide. Something hard, either a fist or a knee, drove into her gut, again and again. She slumped, too dazed to move as her legs were yanked apart. A weight came down on top of her, the thick ropes underneath grinding into her spine. His breath panted hot and ragged in her ear as his hips worked between her thighs, eagerly thrusting, but to little avail.

An incensed bellow vibrated the small space. The man on top of her lunged to his feet, jerking her with him. Cate was barely clear of the floor when she was dropped, coming down hard on the cables. Her gut convulsed, black spots swirled behind her lids. She was snatched up again. Whoever held her was knocked from behind and they shot forward together to land in a tangled heap. Her head slammed the floor again. The ringing in her ears reached a higher pitch. Bursts of red pricked the edges of her vision and her grip on the world began to slip.

The small space became a tumult of heaving bodies, filled with curses and grunts, the meaty slap of fists hitting flesh. Cate curled on the floor as they fought over her, beyond caring when she was trampled or kicked. A pleasant numbness settled over her. It promised an end to the nightmare; all she need do was surrender to the looming oblivion. She gave over to the spiraling flashes, allowing them to draw her down further and further...

Amid the voices, there was one, graveled and gruff, so familiar and very near.

"Cap'n. Nathan, yer killin' 'im!"

Pryce. It was Pryce!

Arms roughly scooped Cate up; she shrieked and kicked. The grasp around her tightened and she heard an urgent shush in her ear, the sound thickened by ragged breathing. She opened her eyes into another pair. Bare inches from hers, they were black and wild with rage. Seeing her look up, Nathan swore in relief and clutched her to his chest with a gasping sob. She surrendered into his haven of warmth and safety, and the turmoil faded behind them.

Nathan's heart hammered against her cheek. She was vaguely aware of shifting patterns of light through her lids as he carried her, and then the jostle of climbing steps. Amid urgent voices and pounding feet, she cracked her eyes to see worried faces trust at her, inquiries and orders colliding. There was another jolt of hastily mounted steps again and they were back in the cabin. The clatter of curtain rings as Nathan barged through told her they were back in the sleeping quarters. There, with exaggerated care, he lowered her to her feet.

"Are you all right?" Still caught up in the rush of combat, he set to frantically patting her over.

"I'm fine." The lie came too easily, and yet Cate lacked the faculties to say aught else.

That simple acknowledgment, however, appeased him. He backed away, holding his hands out as if he feared she might topple over. Satisfied she would remain upright, he retreated another few steps to snatch what served for a towel from the washstand. Wadding it up, he pressed it under her nose. A wooden arm moved to assume the task, the cloth instantly bright red. Someone was bleeding. From all indications, it was her.

Emotions washed over her, like surf on a rock. There were so many, so fast, she felt as if she might drown. Unable to choose which one first, she responded to none. She should be crying, hysterical, screaming, shaking...laughing...something. Instead, she stood much like that rock, holding the towel to her nose and mouth.

As emotionless as she might have been, Nathan pulsed with enough for both of them. His blood still up from fighting, emotions coursed through him like lightning bolts, looking for a place to strike. He drew back and with several deep breaths in an effort to achieve a facade of calm.

Nathan's sleeve brushed against her; she looked down to see she was exposed nearly to the waist, the full curve of both breasts taught against the tattered edges of her shift. She thought to do something, but her arms refused to move. Seeing as much, with exaggerated daintiness, Nathan tugged the torn edges together to a modicum of decency. The muscles in his jaw, however, where white.

"Thank you." The voice was so foreign Cate thought perhaps someone else had spoken. It seemed important that be said.

He smiled, a weak attempt, but one necessary for the benefit of both of them. "No worries, luv. 'Twas naught more than what any gent would do."

"How did you find me?" Cate asked from under the wadded towel. Her head throbbed horribly, everything still a jumble of disjointed events.

The smile grew, more honest this time, but soon faltered. "Beatrice. The bloody beast set to caterwauling; wouldn't belay until we followed."

A commotion rose from the ship's caverns, the voices and scuffling of one group roughly herding another.

"What will happen...to them...?" Cate couldn't bring herself to utter a name. The mere hearing of their muffled voices made the ship suddenly feel too small.

"Any number of things," Nathan said distractedly. "Anything short of a slow, agonizing death being too lenient by my estimation."

Clucking his tongue in admonishment, Nathan took the towel from her and dabbed the blood from her chin. "I'll be called up as well." He smiled grimly. "I've drawn blood, killed an unarmed man. On that offense, I'll be meeting me own judgment."

"Because of me?" Panic surged at the thought of another mutiny.

"No," he said with measured patience, "because four miscreants took a crack-brained notion."

Like learning to walk, putting one thought in front of the other, she strove to comprehend. Nathan stood before her, disheveled and blood-smeared. He had killed a man, his own crewman, because of her. The nightmare she thought to be over was just beginning, the hellishness spreading to everyone near. She could lose him, and would have only herself to blame.

"He couldn't have been unarmed. Everyone carries a knife," Cate said.

Nathan smiled tolerantly. "Aye, like coppers to a cook, they are, but that will be a matter for them." He canted his head toward the unseen deck.

Cate felt rather than heard the ship come alive with a rising tide of agitation, the air charged like St. Elmo's fire. The voices of eight score of men rose to a feverish pitch, demands colliding with explanations. Pryce's bass cracked out and they fell quiet.

"What will they say?" she asked.

"Anything they want and nothing that will stick. Justifiable, plain and simple," he added, more for his own benefit than hers.

Nathan's fist closed around the sponge with a force that whitened his knuckles, the water dribbling on the bed between them. "I killed what needed killing. If only God can take a life, then call me Jehovah, for I'll do it if it needs doing and with a clear conscience on me judgment day."

"Cap'n?"

Startled by the voice at the curtain, Nathan whirled, seizing his pistol with one hand and shoving her behind him with the other. He made a guttural noise of both relief and frustration, and lowered his weapon.

"Aye, Mr. Pryce?"

"A word, sir, if ye please," came a voice through the cloth.

"Come."

Barely stirring the velvet, Pryce slipped in. Cate cringed, the space suddenly too crowded. More aware of her dishabille than she, Nathan moved to block her from Pryce's view. Pryce averted his eyes, nonetheless.

"She's the right to accuse," Pryce said without preamble.

"Do you think that's entirely necessary, Mr. Pryce?" Nathan shot back testily.

"She's a right to declare and witness her justice." The proclamation came evenly, without prejudice.

Nathan barely glanced over his shoulder at her. "The lady declines. You know me wishes." His voice dropped to a rumbling vehemence. "I want them dead, the worst way possible. If that means a slow-match to their balls, allow me to be the one to light it."

An arch of his brows indicated Pryce didn't disagree. "One didn't live to face his crime."

"A knife to the liver is known to do that," Nathan said laconically. "You be the Quartermaster, Pryce. Dispensing of justice is at your pleasure. You've always proven to be most imaginative."

Pryce's composure faltered. Cate's fogged mind was able to grasp his surprise: Nathan had just absolved him of any hesitancy or guilt, freeing him to deal with Nathan's fate the same as anyone else. If Nathan were to fall under the hammer of ship's justice, Pryce's likelihood of assuming command would hinge on his lack of prejudice or allegiances. He would also be the only barrier between her and the rowdy mass outside.

"Carry on, Master Pryce," Nathan said, cutting off Pryce's attempts to object. "I'll attend directly."

Puffed with displeasure, Pryce touched his forelock and left.

Nathan's braids fell in a curtain about his face as he studied his blood-caked hands. Would the men the blood as hers, or that of the man he killed? Surely, if they saw the one, they would realize the other, or would pirates only see the blood of a fallen comrade and want more in the name of revenge?

"I'll be fine. Go." It was surprising how effectively she was able to lie again.

Nathan looked up and curved a wry smile. "Do you ever say that and mean it?"

His smile broadened in gratitude. "This shan't take long."

It was unclear if he spoke for his benefit or hers.

Cate glassily watched him leave, straining to fully appreciate what he was about to face: a court of his peers passing judgment on the slaying of a mate, a member of the Brotherhood. Murder or justifiable? It was reasonable to believe justice would come swiftly and wouldn't be gentle. Beyond that, her concussed mind was unable to fathom.

Icy talons of shock and numbness sunk deeper into her gut. A part of her argued she should move, do something. No decision came, however, the task of standing consuming every shred of will. Her gaze drifted, eventually coming to rest on a corner of the rug upon which she stood. Not necessarily fascinating, but with no motivation to do else, there she remained.

A rap on the doorframe stirred her sufficiently to murmur a response. Jensen shyly pushed his way in bearing a ewer of steaming water. His brilliant flush stirred her self-consciousness and she tugged at the fragments of her bodice to something more decent. Frowning, Jensen's mouth moved as he filled the basin. The words thudded in her ears, as if heard underwater. He turned with an expectant look. She nodded, only because she thought she ought. With that, he left.

Cate was dimly aware of the rising turmoil of the crew assembling on deck. Still muzzy-headed, the words were lost, but the mood was readily judged. Tension? Yes. Blood-thirst? Not yet. Her senses pricked at the sound of Nathan's voice, loud and gruff above the rest. Commanding? Yes. Defensive? Not in the least. She tried to concentrate, wanting to know-needing to know more-but that battle had been lost before it had begun.

Wash.

The directive, simplistic enough to be grasped, came from somewhere within. Cate fumbled, the ties of skirt and the laces of her stays being maddeningly elusive. With a shrug of the shoulders, her shift fell away, landing at her feet. With arms that seemed to be someone else's, she wet the sponge and began to mechanically dab. The room was warm, yet her skin was icy to the touch. She looked at the blood-smeared limb. Sickness rose at the back of her throat at wondering whose blood it might be. Slowly turning a hand before her face, she examined the scraped knuckles and broken nails. The sight stirred recollections, but nothing tangible enough to be grasped. The light glinted on the hairs snagged under one nail and revulsion seized her: they weren't hers. Her gaze drifted down to her naked body. She swayed at seeing the patches of blood, oozing scrapes and welling bruises. Her thoughts moved like rusted gears as she strained to piece it back together.

From outside came cheers, raucous and angry. They quieted just as quickly, while one rang out, defensive and heated: Bullock.

Cate quailed and gasped, the sponge landing in a wet splat at her feet. Drawing a shaky breath-Breathing. Yes, breathing was important-she bent to retrieve it. She straightened to look squarely into the glass above the washstand. A wretched creature stared back, battered and bloodied, features swollen to the point of grotesque. The circular pattern of a bite marked her breast, bright red where the dark rose center met the milky pale.

Another inch, and...

She carved a slow spiral and crumpled to the floor. Curling into a ball, she wished for a shell in which to crawl. If she could make herself small enough, it...she might go away.

Cate felt more than heard Nathan's hurried approach. Cracking an eye open, she searched the planked floor for a hole into which she could dissolve. There were none.

"I know you don't fancy-"

Nathan's words died in his throat. Swearing, he set a bottle on the nightstand and snatched the quilt from the bunk as he knelt. He murmured little nothings as he brought her to her feet, discretely snugging the quilt about her as she rose.

"Have to bear an eye on you every minute, don't I?" Nathan gently chided, as if she were a helpless child. A backward kick sent the discarded clothing to the corner as he guided her to sit on the bed.