"Diggie represented you were taken captive by that vile Captain Blackwater," announced Lady Bart, alighting in a high-backed chair.

"Blackthorne. Captain Nathanael Blackthorne," the Commodore said tolerantly through an enduring smile.

"Pardon? Oh, yes, well, of course." Lady Bart shuddered for what appeared to be only for drama's sake. "Dissolute creatures. The civilized world would be so improved if we were rid of those despicable beasts. Diggie, I beg, can't you do something about those people?"

"Not to worry, my dear Bart," began one of the first gentlemen to be introduced, be-laced and blue-satined. The Honorable...oh, something! "Our Diggie has eradicated virtually every pirate ship in the West Indies. Blessed few remaining now. A dying breed, praise God, thanks to him."

"Hear him! Hear him!" came a restrained murmur.

Coldness pricked between Cate's shoulder blades.

"That Blackthorne chap has managed to give you the slip several times, has he not?" mused a younger man standing near the fireplace.

Henry, no Harry! No, wait, Fordshaw!

His outward demeanor unchanged, the muscles in Harte's jaw flexed.

"Yes, a few." He turned to Cate with intense conviction. "But mark me: that gnat shall be swatted from existence."

Under the conversation of the room, she heard a tapping noise. From the corner of her eye, she could see Harte's finger rapping on the black-lacquered surface of the tea table between them, marking a rhythm similar to the clock ticking on the mantle.

Cate looked to her lap, the tea forming an icy knot in her stomach. If someone had asked, she would have said sailing was a noisy business, but not until it was gone did she realize the degree. A seaman's voice was perpetually raised to be heard over plank, block, canvas, wind, and water. Well over a hundred men lived elbow to elbow, and yet one was required to shout to be heard by his mess neighbor, anger and conversation often at the same volume. Having become accustomed to noise that one could lean against, she was left swaying by soft, reserved voices, the delicate titter of laughter, the clatter of china and rustle of silk. Here, the clearing of a throat was a vile disruption. The once-moving air was now still, to the point of near suffocation, heavy with perfume, pomade, and pomanders.

A surge of heat rushed from her chest and up her neck. Just as it touched her cheeks, it turned to ice, and gooseflesh shot down her arms. She closed her eyes against the high, thin ringing in her ears. The room pitched violently and she snapped them open once more.

No reprieve there.

"...that horrible slaughter," finished the woman in green. She pivoted her attention to Cate and peered down her nose. "Oh, my dear...Madam. Harper, was it not? Yes, of course. The Commodore informs us you were aboard the Constancy, when it was set upon by those pirates in such an egregious manner. Such fortune, to have escaped with your life from that shocking incident."

"You were there!" exclaimed...Fordshaw-she was sure that was his name. Eyes rounded with anticipation, he hunched forward, teacup forgotten in his hand. "Oh, I beg, pray tell us of it...unless, of course, it was too shocking," he added with a miserable attempt at compassion.

"Well, of course it was shocking," Lady Bart interjected from her chair, with a vigorous flourish of an ivory and silk fan. "The thought of that sweet dear, little Lucy Littleton begging for her life, after those men had..." Her mouth moved, fish-like, as she groped for an appropriate word. "Well, you know...had their way with her-"

"No!" Cate was surprised by her own vehemence.

There was a unified rattle of teacups falling to their saucers.

"Beg pardon, dear?" It was Lady Bart who ended the stunned silence.

Every eye in the room swiveled on Cate. Literally perched on the edges of their seats, they leaned in for the sordid details.

"No," Cate repeated, more quietly but no less fervent. She drew a shaky breath. "I'm sorry, but no, that is not what happened. The Littletons died of a fever-"

"By what account?" demanded the honorable elder across from her.

Cate met his challenging look. "Mine. I was there."

Sympathy befell every face, with pitying eye-rolls and murmurs of "Poor thing," "Deranged," and "Shocked." Her sense of entombment in lace and satin, hosed legs, and slippers deepened.

There was a value, however, in being thought deranged: no one is comfortable in the face of it, hence conversation swerved away. Having failed to provide the amusement sought, they moved on, leaving her unobserved. Deflating with relief, she leaned back and closed her eyes, only to be swept by another wave of giddiness. The room spun again, sloshing like the Morganse's bilges. She clutched the arm of the chair and opened her eyes in search of a solid fix.

Cate cast an anxious eye toward the window, and then the clock. It was nearly four; the walk back to the longboat would require at least an hour, and stepping smartly at that. Somehow, some way, she had to extract herself from this horror. She was already sure to be late; Nathan would have to be patient.

She smiled at that thought. Now there was a contradiction in terms: a patient Nathan Blackthorne. Animated, circuitous, funny, imaginative, vociferous; many words could describe Nathan, but patient was not one of them.

As Cate idly sipped her tea, she caught a play of eyes over Big Wig's fan. The room was quite warm in the late afternoon hour. The ladies' fans were in full employment, but cooling was a secondary function. There was a language of the fans, a silent dialogue of suggestion, flirtation, and clarification. She was familiar with this particular tongue, as carefully schooled as was every female present. The target of most of messages was the Commodore. Judging by the hidden eyes, touches to the right cheek or heart, he more or less had his pick of the room.

Cate's train of thought was interrupted by, "I'm given to understand our dear Lord Creswicke is sparing no expense on his upcoming nuptials."

The comment came from the direction of the fireplace. Fordshaw?

"Readily achieved when you're the head of the Royal West India Mercantile Company," snorted His Honorable. "I shouldn't care to imagine how many of our coins have gone toward payment for that."

Snickers and murmurs of agreement passed around the room.

"Marrying well certainly does the pocket no harm, either," sniffed Lady-in-Green.

"Poor thing," sighed another dispassionately. "I suspect the girl doesn't comprehend what awaits her."

"No matter, if she does or not," said Elder-in-the-Chair. "The arrangements are made, signed and witnessed, as I hear it."

"Mutual advantages," mused Mr. Fireplace. "Her father acquires direct connections to the Company-and a tidy empire our Lord has built-while Lord Creswicke receives thousands of pounds and exclusive access to Boston's markets."

"Fair trade all around," cried someone.

Another wave of knowing laughter rounded the room. Underneath the titter of knowing laughter that came from around the room, the rapping on the table at her elbow grew more emphatic. Too slow for a heartbeat, it was just as unfailing, but weighted with menace.

"It might be said we all benefit. If it wasn't for his privateers and our good Commodore," Elder-in-the-Chair said with a deferential bow in his direction, "we'd be at the mercy of those wretched pirates. Heaven only knows what our lives would be, and not a hope of safety or peace."

Approving murmurs were uttered, the Commodore bowing from his place.

Cate sat stiff, hoping no one would notice her white-knuckled grip on her saucer. She meant to take a sip, but the cup rattled, clattering even louder as she set it back down.

"Are you well, Madam?"

She looked up into Harte's intent green gaze. She nodded, but judging by his frown, he wasn't convinced.

"Diggie, I've been given to understand you've been made charge of Lord Creswicke's more, shall we say, delicate arrangements?"

Harte reluctantly shifted his attention to Elder-in-the-Chair. "It would seem Lord Creswicke has found my services indispensable."

"Do tell, Diggie!" Mrs. Big Wig declared, bouncing with child-like anxiousness. "What is His Lordship's latest folly?" cried another.

Harte sipped his tea, allowing the suspense to build.

"Lord Creswicke's betrothed," he said, with disdainful emphasis, "will be under my charge, until her arrival to Bridgetown."

"I thought she was in Boston," Mr. Fireplace said.

"Indeed, until some weeks ago, she was," said Harte, smug with importance. "As we speak, she is bound for the West Indies."

"When is she to arrive in Bridgetown?" asked Mrs. Big Wig conversationally, nibbling a biscuit.

He cocked a brow in calculation. "Sometime in the next fortnight, but probably less, but she shan't be going-"

Blessing her luck, Cate closed her eyes. It was for only the briefest of moments, but was stricken with another wave of violent dizziness. The room heaved like the deck of a ship. Her hand jerked as she grabbed for the arm of the chair, the cup and saucer crashing to the floor. She lurched to her feet and teetered. Harte caught her by the arm.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, touching a shaky hand to her forehead. "I beg your leave. I must be more tired than...Perhaps I should..."

"By all means, my dear," Lady Bart cooed, rising.

Against a backdrop of mutterings of "Airs," "Thin blood," and "Burned feather,"

Her Ladyship took Cate from Harte's grasp.

"You need your rest. You're positively frayed. Now you shall be seen back to your chamber, where you can lie down..." Lady Bart droned as she took Cate away.

In the shuttered light of the bedchamber, Cate lay on the bed.

The house had long fallen quiet, Lady Bart and her guests having retired through the afternoon heat. The small clock on the mantel chimed six; supper would be rung soon.

Upon returning to the bedchamber, Sally and the nameless chambermaid had stripped her of her clothing and deposited her in bed. Tucked up under a coverlet, wet cloths laced with lavender were applied to her forehead and chamomile tea poured down her throat, all in the spirit of aiding her recovery from the arduous ordeal at the hands of pirates. Once satisfied that she rested comfortably, they left her to her peace...at last!

There would be no sleeping, however. By now, Nathan would be pacing, assuming he had ever stopped since her departure.

The dizziness she suffered was troublesome. It was a wonder how one could feel so landlubberish on land. Reclined even now, she was obliged to keep one foot on the floor to assuage the sensation of being pitched out of bed. She could have been well on her way, else. Instead, there she lay, stripped to her shift, feeling more a hostage of Commodore Harte and Lady Bart than ever she had on a pirate ship.

At first, Cate had thought the dizzy spell to be a blessing: an opportunity to escape not only the parlor, but the house. Instead, the house had been brought to full attention. In retrospect, the dizziness has been so severe, escape under her own power would have been nigh impossible. All she need do was fall and break a limb, and she would be imprisoned forever.

Feeling as if she was being watched, Cate looked around the room into a number of faces staring back. Miniatures, figurines, and cherubs peered from wallpaper, fabric, and frames, scrutinizing her with everything from demanding to outright accusation. The portrait of an old man, no doubt some revered, ancient ancestor judging by the position the mantel, bore the most penetrating glare.

"This wasn't my plan," she huffed defensively. "All you need do is hang there. We, the still-living, have it a bit rougher."

Adding to Cate's annoyance was an increasing racket coming from outside. Muttering one of Nathan's better oaths, she rose to investigate, feeling carefully for the floor her first few steps. As she pushed open the balcony doors and went out, she recognized the sound just before seeing the brilliant hyacinth-colored flash of a parrot in the trees.

"Beatrice?"

"It certainly is!"

The gravelly voice came from behind. Startled, Cate yelped as she spun around. "Nathan!"

He swung a final leg over the balcony rail and stood before her, puffing from the climb.

"What on earth are you doing here? Come in here before you're seen," she hissed.

"I played bloody hell trying to find you." Nathan shook an admonishing finger at her as she pulled him inside.

"What are you doing here? How did you find me?"

The thought of him looking for her was touching...but...

"Didn't fancy I would find you, did you? Looked all over!" Hooking his thumbs in his belt, he struck a triumphant pose. "Thought you could give me the slip-get away clean-but I found you."

Cate fanned a hand, backing away. "What's that smell?" Even as she asked, she knew: there was no mistaking cheap perfume.

"I had me virtue threatened," he said.

"You couldn't have been in much of a hurry, if you had time sufficient to stop at a whorehouse."

"I was attacked. An innocent, I was!"

Cate pressed a cautionary finger to her lips. She lowered her voice, which obligated her to move closer to both him and the smell. "How did you ever find me?"

"My impeccable instincts-" Her dubious stare brought Nathan's boast to an abrupt halt. "And Beatrice," he conceded, crestfallen.

A myriad of questions popped to mind, none of which Cate desired to pursue. Capture for him meant an appointment with the gallows.

"You have to go, before you're discovered," she said.

"I came to help you escape," he said, resisting her attempts to urge him back to the balcony.

"Escape? I don't need to escape."

"Aren't you under arrest?"

"No," she said, puzzled by such a far-flung assumption.

Nathan prepared a reply, but then noticed she wore only a shift. The soot-colored eyes flicked toward the tousled bed and eyes she had always known to be warm went cold. He stalked to the bed to snatch up the bedclothes and shake them at her.

"Ah, so it would appear the fly didn't mind being caught by the spider after all. A roll at the tavern wasn't enough, eh? Decided to give the sheets a wearing here, as well?"

"What are you talking about?" she asked in clipped precision.

Growling in disgust, Nathan pitched the sheets aside. "I know you went to his room. You're a faster worker than I'd credited," he said with grudging admiration.

"You're not making any sense."

"Coy does not suit you, Missy. I had the inseparable duo follow you-"

"You had me followed!" Cate flinched at her own volume, and hissed lower, "How dare you. You didn't trust me..."

Nathan stalked back, glaring. "I trusted you, then. I sent them to assure you were safe. I see now I was grossly misguided in me concerns."

She flushed at his accusation. "We don't have time for your childish arguments-"

"Childish!"