The beast nudged her elbow, demanding to be petted. Cate obligingly scratched behind the silken ears, feeling a bit better for the company. She thought the rustle of feathers she heard was Beatrice taking her leave, but it was Artemis, appearing from below. The owl alighted on the back of Nathan's chair and stared.

A triumvirate of women, she mused.

A dash of movement caught her eye: a gecko, perched on the sill of the stern window, eyeing her as well.

How does one discern the sex of a lizard?

"Well, here we all are, eh? A sisterhood amid the Brethren."

True to Nathan's word, port was made that afternoon. Seen from where Cate sat on the gallery sill, under the sun hanging in a hot orb, the little town appeared barely capable of clothing itself, let alone having any to spare. Nathan waved off the minor detail.

"I have the acquaintance of someone, who knew someone else, who had a connection with someone else, who had access to someone else."

In other words: don't ask.

Cate bit back the observation that the stays, shift, and skirt he deposited in her arms smelled markedly of fresh laundering. A small fragment of soap was placed ceremoniously atop the folded clothing. Laden with bits of flower petals and leaves, it was heady with the scent of lavender and roses.

Nathan dismissed her gratitude out-of-hand. "It seemed someone who worshipped cleanliness deserved something to put upon its altar," was all he said.

She impulsively kissed him on the cheek in gratitude, not only for the clothing but for everything this last day. It was then she discovered that he wasn't above blushing.

"Still need to find something to do with that hair," he muttered gruffly and ambled off.

Cate smiled. It was an old joke. Her unruly locks were a running point of contention with him, good-natured but determined. There was a certain irony in it, coming from someone who barely contained his own mane.

The days passed. Cate's confidence incrementally grew. She was still subject to jumping at an unexpected noise, the pop of a plank, creak of a shroud, clump of a boot, or slap of a wave sending her cowering. Shying at being left alone, she was given to periodic fits, vacillating wildly from sobbing to vacant stares. The smell of bilges, muck, and hungering men cloyed stubbornly in her nose, causing her to snort and snuffle. Nathan hovered over her as if she was an enfeebled aunt. She grew fractious and wanted to rebuke him, but found that she had neither the will nor the wherewithal to do so.

The death of his own crewman was on Nathan's hands. She would have never requested or expected such a deed, but the fact was he had killed in her defense. It was unclear if it had been a simple act of violence, chivalry, or if there had been a greater meaning in it. He wasn't saying and it was blessedly difficult to ask.

Men were dead; there was no romance or glory in that.

Cate mentally marked off the small blessings. She had been lucky, she kept telling herself. She was whole, nothing was missing, the bite above her nipple a sharp reminder of how close she had come. Her face was swollen, but there were no broken noses or teeth, not even a finger. Her throat hadn't been cut, and most importantly, albeit sore and bruised thighs, Bullock and his pack had failed at their initial mission.

So, why didn't she feel lucky?

She carefully searched the face of everyone she met, from Squidge to Hodder, Towers to Smalley, Jensen to Millbridge, looking for any signs of recrimination or reproach, accusation or resentment, but saw none. For that matter, she saw nothing. She didn't inquire as to what had befallen Bullock and his cohorts, and no one said. Every trace was gone, no belongings or gear auctioned off, no recollections over a cup of grog, no mention at all. It was a Brotherhood of Silence, in which she was an inadvertent member. What threats had been made to guarantee that silence was an even better-kept secret. On that mark, she was an outsider looking in.

In the long run, she had taken no worse beating than a forecastleman in a minor blow. The matter was over, forgotten. They had moved on, just as she was expected to do.

And so she did. Nothing more was said-nothing more need be.

End of Part One

Chapter 8: Social Skills.

Cate came out of the cabin and lifted her hair to allow what little breeze there was to cool her neck. Her shift was damp with sweat and she wriggled against the stays where the linen stuck to her ribs.

The Morganse had been before the wind since the morning sun struggled up through a haze-shrouded horizon. It meant moving with the wind, the effect being as if there was no wind at all, and the air pressed like a hot mask at one's face. Consequently, she had spent much of it in the cabin, where what little breeze there was funneled through.

Cate had practiced her knot-tying-in peace, but to no avail-and read. Later, she had embroidered. There was precious little thread remaining; each bit she treasured. She took great joy the process of watching the images of flower, vine, and leaf emerge with the addition of each stitch. Through the weeks hence, Nathan had often observed over her shoulder, fascinated as well.

"I've been around the world, more times than I care to count, and I've not seen work like that," Nathan said in open admiration.

He reached to examine it more closely, but thought better, his hands being so tar-stained. Instead, he tucked them into his belt and peered over her shoulder. He showed a surprising knowledge of design and color. As he bent, his braids fell forward, brushing her shoulders. His breath warm on her neck set her glowing both from his praise and nearness.

But now, eyes too tired and light too poor, Cate stopped working. Nathan had proclaimed repeatedly he didn't care how many candles she burned.

"Light it up like a wretched lightship, if you wish!"

But such indulgences didn't come easily.

The night threatened to be nearly as warm as the day, the air and sea too heat-stricken to stir. Cate thought longingly of the Highlands, with its cool lochs and tumbling burns in which one could splash. To dream, however, only served to highlight one's misfortune.

She stretching her back and working the stiffness from her fingers, she followed the voices outside. She balked at the mass of men. It had to have been the entire company. The last time she had witnessed such a gathering, it had been incited by Bullock's agitating, but there was a vast difference in the mood now. There was a tension in the air, but more in the way of vested interest rather than dissension.

Gathered under the halo of the lamps, Nathan and Pryce were at roughly the center. Nearby, atop stacked bags of Hermione's dry fodder, Millbridge looked comfortably on from a position of honor. Away from the light of the lanterns, the moon shone on the intent faces. There was no smoking allowed on board, but chewing tobacco was, although lo unto the poor unthinking soul who spat on Hodder's holy deck! Those who chose to indulge did so from the leeward rail, adding an odd, staccato chorus of spitting.

Cate halted at the outer margins of the gathering to listen.

"Nay, nay," Pryce was saying. "That won't answer. The Royal Navy'll smoke us afore we're clear o' the harbor."

"I 'aven't 'eard you come up with anything yet," pouted Smalley.

"Now, now, mates," Nathan intervened. "Squabbling don't pay the purser."

Nathan's face lit at spotting Cate, and he beckoned her near. As she picked her way through the crowd, the smell of the night's ration of rum rose amid the stronger ones of unwashed male and sun-baked clothing. Nathan gallantly rose from his seat atop a cask.

"Good evening, luv." Mirth sparked his eye as he bowed deeply. "Our compliments. We wish you joy of this fine evening."

"Good evening. Gentlemen," Cate said, nodding graciously to those she passed.

With a small amount of shuffling, a seat was arranged for her next to Nathan.

"The problem is: we've no idea of when she's to arrive," Nathan said, resuming the discussion. "If we knew that, the rest would be of minor consequence."

"Yes, but the only one what knows that is Creswicke," argued Squidge, a murmur of agreement coming from the rest. "And I don't fancy him telling us."

"Well," Towers sighed, morosely. "There has to be someone what knows."

A silence fell as each man retreated into his own thoughts. Looking across the faces, Cate slowly came to find a semblance of order in the gathering. Larbolins apart from starbolins, the men were loosely clustered according to their duty assignments, generally in the vicinity of their leader: Hughes, Cameron, Diogo, Damerell, and the balance of the forecastlemen near Fox, Hodder with his mates. The topsmen stood with the topsmen, Chips with his carpenter's mates, Jimmy Bungs and the coopersmates, and so on.

Cate leaned toward Nathan and whispered, "May I inquire what this is about?"

"By all means," Nathan replied, jovially. He bent to pick the bottle of rum from at his feet. He started to take a drink, but paused with the bottle poised at his mouth. "Would you care for a bit?"

Devilment quirked Nathan's mouth with the offer of temptation. It occurred to her that it mightn't have been the first bottle of the evening.

"No, thank you, I don't care much for rum," Cate said.

Amid the ensuing disgruntled murmurs brought on by that revelation, Nathan regarded her with a narrow look. "So you keep saying."

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Captain."

"Indeed, there is." Nathan's jaw worked sideways as he scrutinized her. "Indeed, there is."

The walnut gaze lingered. Then he straightened and cleared his throat. "A man without a plan is a man who plans to fail. Therefore, we plan, in hopes of a bit of profit."

"At whose expense?" Cate asked.

"Lord Breaston Creswicke..." began Smalley.

"Of the Royal West Indies Mercantile Company..." continued Towers.

"Is betrothed," Nathan completed, his eyebrows lifting in emphasis.

"Ah, yes," she said, recalling Samuels' revelations during his ill-fated visit. She smiled faintly, wondering if he had yet divested himself of the pink paint.

"And so, you're going to kidnap said fiancee?" she asked.

"Exactly!" Nathan declared, pleased at her ability to grasp.

"Problem is," continued Pryce, less enthusiastic, "with no idea of where, what or when, we're sailin' blind."

The pirates called out a number of suggestions-people, places, options-many of which were shouted down before the presenter could finish.

"'Tis obvious Samuels doesn't know when she's coming, or he would have held out for more money else." Nathan said in his usual cold pragmatism.

"So we're left with the who, a possible when, but not the where," sighed Pryce.

"Someone must know," she cut in, picking up their frustration.

"Obviously, Creswicke," sneered someone from the rear.

"He never comes out o' that stronghold of his in Bridgetown, so we'll not be a-squeezin' it out of him," Pryce added with prim disdain.

"You can bet your Aunt Maud's bloomers, he'll have 'er guarded, that's for sure," said Towers, with a lugubrious shake of his head.

"Guarded by whom?" asked Cate.

The men stopped, perplexed by her query.

"Who's to guard her?" she repeated. Looking from face to face, she came around to Nathan.

"Probably the Marines," he said, squinting speculatively. "What have you in that lovely mind?"

"If the Marines are to guard her," she began slowly, picking through her line of logic. "Then wouldn't it follow that the Marines would know when she's to arrive?"

The men exchanged glances, uncertain. Nathan looked thoughtfully at the deck between his feet.

"Just ask the Marines?" Nathan asked, looking up dubiously from the corner of his eye.

Cate was a bit taken back at their failure to see the strength of her point. "Certainly. Why not? You could learn everything you need."

Pirates weren't shy about expressing their misgivings, and did so with verve then.

"But how do we do that?" Chin's voice finally rose over the others.

"Kidnap one," someone shouted from the shadowy reaches, eliciting a laugh.

"Torture 'im until 'e talks," called another from the opposite direction. The prospect of inflicting pain brought an enthusiastic cheer.

Nathan batted an irritated hand, quieting them all. "Nay, that won't answer. Who's to know the one what we take would be the one knowing?"

"Well, we can't very well just walk in and ask 'em," blurted Towers, ruffled by Nathan's dismissal.

"Why not?" Cate asked.

"Because, me darling," Towers said, condescendingly rolling his froggish eyes, "they'll take one look and smoke who we are."

"Serve nothin' but to get us arrested," put in another faceless voice, bringing further murmurs of approval.

"Then send someone who doesn't look like a pirate," Cate said, a bit testily. She looked from one to the next, waiting for the response that never came. Instead, they stared blank-faced...except Nathan.

"And who pray tell, would that be?" he asked, his gravelly voice dropping to a near purr.

"Me."

Nathan was both stunned and suspicious. "You'd do that for us?"

"Certainly, why not? You've all been so good...about everything...It's the least I can do."

Pryce crossed his arms and swiveled a severe eye. "Put a name to what be on yer mind?"

"Go to wherever the Marines are and talk," Cate said, suffering to point out the obvious.

"That's it? Talk?" Nathan gave her a queer look.

"Yes." Seeing doubt was rampant, she explained in slow, patient terms. "With all due respect, gentlemen, it's not a difficult recipe: put men and drink together, add a little flattery, perhaps a flutter of the lashes, and it's but a matter of time."