Cate waved away Nathan's indignant sputtering. "So far, I know Creswicke's fiancee is definitely en route. She should be here within the week, more or less, but she's not to go to Bridgetown directly. She's to stop off somewhere, but I haven't been able to learn where."

"Did Harte tell you all that during the first shining of the sheets or the second?" Nathan shot back with a cutting edge. He tilted his head to critically survey her. "Did your hair up for him, too, I see. Sweet-smelling soap; fancied up for him, too," he added, leaning nearer to sniff. "Prettying yourself up, employed all your tricks; bloody fast work for less time than a watch."

"What do you care?"

No longer of a mind to deal with this senseless sparring, Cate drew a deep breath, and said in measured calmness, "Supper will be rang directly. I hope to know more by the time it's finished. Shall I try to make my way back, or would you prefer I just keep going?"

Nathan exhaled sharply through his nose. "I'll be in that garden, tonight." He pointed toward the balcony, and then stabbed a finger at her. "You be there!"

A baring of teeth punctuated his demand. With a low grumble, he turned on his heel and headed for the balcony.

"How are you to get away?" Cate asked from close on his heels.

"That would be me own problem, wouldn't it?" Nathan snapped over his shoulder. Checking the grounds below, he threw a leg over the banister, pausing to glare once more. "You be there!"

And then he was gone.

Cate watched Nathan disappear into the woods at the garden's edge with a sinking sensation. The look on his face had been quite damning. She was beginning to think this entire venture had been a bad idea. Worse yet, he acted as though it had all been her idea.

She had barely turned when the bell in the hall sounded, announcing it was time to dress for supper, Sally entering on cue. Behind her trailed a small legion of assistants, bearing a dress and all the necessities to render Cate presentable.

By most standards, the gown that was laid out on the bed was a simple one, but it was the noblest Cate had worn in a very long time: striped dimity, cream and azure, over a floral petticoat. She stood in the middle of the maids as they buzzed about like skirted bees, tugging, tying, and pinning, often with conflicting instructions: "Stand straight," "Bend over," "Put your foot here," or "Don't move." A stomacher pinned, filet lace apron tied, a few plucks at her hair, a black ribbon at her throat, and she was declared ready.

Cate turned to the mirror and a complete stranger stared back. It only added to the sense of disorientation suffered since Harte had whisked her out of the tavern. She glanced over her shoulder toward the balcony and the long shadows of the garden beyond. Somewhere out there, Nathan was waiting. She wondered if he would approve of what he saw, or if the accusation and mistrust exhibited as he went over the rail would only deepen.

Any further thoughts were cut short by Sally's urging her out the door.

Once again in the downstairs foyer, Cate stalled at hearing voices echo from the drawing room. Gathering her nerve, chanting, "Only be a little longer," she made her entrance.

Supper at Lady Bart's was apparently the social height of the region and her guests dressed accordingly. The sight brought Cate instant flashes of being at Court. Not near so grand, the opulence was shocking against anything she had experienced in nigh a decade. Nothing so trivial as a tropical evening had dampened the guests' verve for style. Swirling hooped skirts, ruffles and flounces, flaring coattails and deep cuffs, it was a riot of vibrant colors of satin and silk, brocade, moire, and taffeta. As they craned their necks to see who had entered, their rice-powdered faces looked like a covey of ghosts. Seeing it was only her, they returned to their conversation. Harte materialized at her side to seize her hand.

"I was so distressed that you might be too indisposed to join us," he murmured fervently over her knuckles.

Cate felt a surge of compassion for Harte's valet; the poor man must have been exhausted. The Commodore's linens were fresh, his jacket brushed and uncreased, and the bow at the back of his head as crisp as ever a ribbon could hope.

Cate forced a smile, while attempting to graciously extricate her hand. Taking no notice of her intent, Harte tucked it into his elbow. She made her curtsey before Her Ladyship on his hand.

The furniture had been cleared in order to make room for the grandeur, and so the guests milled about in small clusters while waiting for the dining room doors to open. Even in her new finery, Cate felt like a brown wren among the peacocks. She shifted first on one foot then the other at Harte's side. As uncomfortable as she found him on a personal level, she was grateful for his presence. For the first time in her life she felt protected by the Royal Navy. Erect and square-shouldered, in his navy and buff, bullioned epaulets and ornaments of commendations gleaming under the chandeliers, his resplendency deflected the stares.

The crystal cup thrust in Cate's hand contained a punch of some sort, with rum. Ah, well. There seemed to be no way of avoiding it in the West Indies. It was both fruity and spicy, and most particularly, cool. It was delectable. Her tension drained with each sip, the twirling sensation she suffered earlier being replaced by a pleasant lightheadedness.

Her uneasiness abated somewhat. It wasn't as though she was without social skills. Although she was rusty, it wasn't difficult: a smile, a nod, murmur some inconsequential something on the rare occasion when addressed. The problem lay in the fact that such parlor skills were not her nature. Standing next to Roger, the cold disapproval from the women was easily managed. Jealousy was rarely a good color on anyone. While she observed the women, however, she looked up several times into an emerald haze of him watching her. She smiled faintly and buried her nose into her drink.

The way the men regarded her was another matter. Distracted by laughter at the far end of the room, she looked back into an expression of raw hunger on the part of young Fordshaw. The same came from Lord Something-or-Another, earlier in blue, now in peach moire. Another mentally undressed her where she stood. Emboldened by her sullied status, their assumption was if she had played the whore to the pirates-Blackthorne specifically, his appetites well-known-she would now do the same for them. She longed for one of the fans the women brandished in grand style, so that she might send a few messages of her own, namely a good bash across the face, or somewhere lower and more efficacious.

Cate shifted closer, more grateful still for Harte's presence.

It was the third-no fourth-glass of punch which brought Cate to see Roger in a much more pleasant light. He wasn't without his charms. Once relaxed, he was witty and quite knowledgeable on many subjects. Clean-profiled, tall and regal, under different circumstances she may have found him attractive, in an aloof, thin-blooded sort of way.

She worked her fingers together, feeling the metal cool of her wedding ring. It was a constant reminder of a past life. After losing Brian, another man in her life was never a consideration. Nathan had been a complete surprise.

Nathan. She shied at recalling his look as he slid off the balcony: betrayal, heavily laced with the satisfaction of suspicions rewarded. He had expected the worst from her and, to his mind, she had fulfilled the prophecy. The warm flush of the punch dissolved under the chill of that reality.

She felt Roger looking attentively down at her. "Have no cares," he said in quiet earnestness. "I'll assure that you are at my side."

It took Cate a moment to fathom what the devil he was about. Seating arrangements? Good Lord!

Supper was called, a matched pair of footmen opening the doors. Lady Bart took the head of the table, the Commodore opposite. His position of honor spoke loudly to Lady Bart's regard. Cate was whisked into the seat to Harte's right, much to the displeasure of those scrambling for that same spot. The lush-eyed Fordshaw, a heart-shaped mouche at the corner of his mouth-declaring himself both kissable and a lover-was to Cate's side, Mrs. Big Wig across. As the toasts were given, her stomach rumbled.

The bounty at Lady Bart's table, however, struck Cate almost ill. For the months, she had lived on ship's fare, and before that on what could be begged or scrounged. Now she was faced with over a dozen dishes. More than once, she looked down to find the cold, startled looks of her food staring back: fish, doves, crabs, and a suckling pig from its silver-platter repose in the middle of the table.

Her stomach might have been empty-several cups of punch aside-but it was now quite closed. She ate without appetite, much of it becoming a glutinous mass in her mouth. The wines, and excellent they were, however, flowed like the proverbial river, the footman seeming to have taken up a permanent position at her elbow to refill her glass. Roger grew more intent with concern at seeing her poke her food about the plate. Like an obedient child, she tried to eat, but only wound up scattering it, piling it up, and scattering it again.

As the servants moved like wraiths at the table's perimeter, conversation fell into small localized groups. The low hum of one blanketed the next, the titter of female laughter high over the men's deeper. Amid the tinkle of silverware and china, came the rise and fall of Lady Bart's shrill. Conversation at Cate's end of the table was dominated by Big Wig. Harte her primary focus, Fordshaw a distant second, she piped higher when either man sought to address Cate.

As Big Wig prattled on, Roger arched a questioning brow at Cate, the significance of which was unclear. Cate returned a vague smile, hoping her discomfiture wasn't too apparent. It had been a long time since she had worn anything so restricting. The stays were too short, gouging her back and ribs at every breath. The gown was too narrow at the shoulders and too short at the sleeves, the banded cuffs cutting her arms.

"Is everyone a guest?" Cate asked of Roger during a brief lull in Big Wig's dialogue. Her head buzzing from the wine, it was a silly question, but conversation of some sort seemed requisite.

"That would depend on one's categorizations," he said under the table's chatter. He scanned the table briefly. "A few are just arrived from Barbuda, here for the season."

Cate nodded knowingly, in spite of not having the foggiest what "the season" might entail. Days? Weeks? Months?

"A few more are somewhat more of a permanent arrangement, having arrived months ago," Harte said with open disapproval.

From the corner of her eye, Cate saw Mrs. Big Wig, fork gone forgotten in her hand as she craned an ear. Out of open malice, Cate lowered her voice further, obliging Roger to lean nearer yet.

"Has Her Ladyship not heard of putting a pineapple on the bed?" she asked.

Roger hesitated, and then unsteadily laughed at the tradition of using the celebrated symbol of hospitality as a means to inform a guest of having overstayed their welcome.

Perhaps the thought of being so handily excused struck too closely.

"And pray, how long do you plan to visit?" Cate's question had been meant as a jest, but a poor one. Her cheeks heated. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to be forward."

"Not at all." Harte was so much more handsome when he genuinely smiled as he did then. "The lodgings in Hopetown are insufferably dreary. Lady Bart has been kind enough to indulge me of her hospitality."

For a fraction, Cate felt sorry for him.

"Have you known Lady Bart long?" she asked.

Momentarily distracted by something said down the table, Roger seemed surprised by the question. "Yes, I made her acquaintance some years ago, shortly upon my arrival to the West Indies. I met her husband first, of course, but since I have come to consider myself a friend."

Glancing toward his hostess, he smiled with the same regard one would show toward an eccentric aunt. "Bart can be trying, but she is a dear."

Time passed. Dinner dragged. The room became oppressive, in spite of the opened doors and windows, and bank of fans overhead, operated by a doe-eyed slave boy in the corner. Rivulets of moisture trickled from under the wigs, leaving flesh-colored paths on the rice powder. The heat combined with perfume, sweat, and pickled eel brought a prickle between Cate's shoulder blades. Wondering if her cheeks were as red as they felt, she looked up into Roger's intense green look. Good heavens. Surely he didn't think her flush was on his account.

Attempts on the part of Lord Whatever-His-Name to catch Cate's eye were easily ignored. Directly at her elbow, however, Fordshaw's efforts were not. Such a dandyish sort, she wondered what he could possibly want with her or any woman, for that matter. At one point, his foot came down on hers, the slippered toe brushing her ankle. The side of his leg came against hers. Soon after, his forearm pressed her, with a meaningful look from the corner of his eye.

Cate was opting between a fork into Fordshaw's hand, a well-aimed spoonful of aspic to the face-or better yet, her entire plate-or a more overt table knife to the ribs, when Roger turned to direct a footman. Fordshaw took the opportunity to lean close enough for his breath to be warm on her neck.

"I wish you joy of your escape." He lifted his wine glass to his mouth, cupping the curve of the glass as if it was a breast, and ran the tip of his tongue suggestively along its rim. "Might I offer you something in the way of further condolences in your hour of need?"

Inwardly seething, Cate lifted her glass as if in a toast. She batted her lashes with all the charm and innocence she could muster, and said through a frozen smile, "Touch me again, and I'll cut off your cock with this table knife, just as I did that pirate while he slept."

The dainty laugh Cate added at the end, as if having just heard something witty, drew Roger's attention. He scowled at Fordshaw, now pale under his powder. Fordshaw smiled unsteadily then made a great show of shifting both his chair and attention away.

"I say, Diggie," said Lord Peach-Moire called from the far end as the cloth was pulled for dessert. "Where did you say Lord Creswicke's intended is to land?"

"I didn't," Roger said somewhat dryly, pleased when all ears turned his way. "She's destined for her aunt's home."

He rolled a sip of wine in his mouth, ostensibly appreciating its bouquet, but actually allowing the suspense to build.

"Here!" Lady Bart cried, beaming. "She's to come here. The poor child is my niece."

Caught in mid-sip, Cate choked. Sputtering, she flapped her hand, assuring all she was fine. Following insincere murmurs regarding her welfare, a reserved exclamation of surprise made its way around the table.

"Lady Bart, I beg, pray tell how, in good conscience, can you allow your niece to be married off to that...that...?" inquired Mrs. Blue-Dress.

"Upon my word, it wasn't my idea," said Lady Bart in evident distress. "It was that grasping brother of mine; his foremost concerns revolve on two things: his connections and his money."

"Does he have any idea of Lord Creswicke's, er...nature?" asked Eames judiciously.

"Well, if he doesn't, he should," Lady Bart sniffed. "I've written him dozens of times, protesting this arrangement most vehemently, and he has chosen to ignore me on every count. The best I can do now is offer the poor girl a quiet refuge until the momentous occasion."

Dessert crept. Cate picked at her apricot tart, seed cake, and comfits. Eventually Lady Bart announced the meal complete. The ladies rose and retired to the drawing room for sherry, while the men remained for their port, walnuts, and cigars.

Cate barely wetted her lip in sherry. She always found the stuff excessively sweet. In the absence of male influence, the women's conversation quickly spiraled down to childbirth, child rearing, and bad husbands, for which she had no frame of reference, and therefore nothing to add. She squirmed against her stays, a raw spot now growing under her arm, and dreamed of the time when she might again draw a full breath. One foot idly waggling, she half-listened to aimless dribble about people she didn't know, while glancing repeatedly toward the windows.

Her mind raced with far more important issues. Learning the fiancee's destination was not good. If Nathan was determined in his plan, it meant having to pass under the nose of not only a Commodore, but several Royal Navy ships. It was difficult to imagine Nathan would be so foolish as to attempt something so harebrained. And yet, if the stories she had heard on the Constancy were any measure, he would dare any number of hazards in order to embarrass Harte.

She strained for ways to talk Nathan out of this plan of his, but a larger and more immediate problem loomed: escape.

Time was not on Cate's side. Dinner had taken nearly three hours; it was well after dark. Nathan was waiting; she had to find a way to slip out. The further she delayed, the further Nathan's doubts in her would plunge. Between Roger, the guards-no house of this stature would be without-guests, servants, and a Commodore, escape unnoticed seemed nigh impossible. Nathan had slipped in and out in broad daylight with alarming ease. Even with the cover of darkness, attempts on her part promised to be executed with considerable less aplomb.

Out from under Roger's scrutiny had been a step in the right direction, but Cate was still faced with a roomful of women. Going to the privy wasn't an option; she had already seen the footman slip a chamber pot under Mrs. Blue-Dress' chair.

Risks be damned, she abruptly rose. Playing the distressed damsel to the fullest, pleading headache and exhaustion, she backed out of the room. Once in the hallway, she sagged against the wall and closed her eyes.

Alone at last!

Someone touched her on the arm, and she shrieked. Whirling around, she found Lady Bart standing there.

"He's waiting for you," the matron whispered in breathless drama.

"Waiting? Who?"

"Oh, you don't have to play coy, my dear. I saw your impatience and he is so anxious." Lady Bart winked conspiratorially and patted Cate's arm. "I know all about it."

He? Cate gaped. It was outrageous to think Nathan had somehow communicated with Lady Bart. Surely some kind of alarm sounded would have been sounded, if a pirate had been discovered in the garden.

"Diggie. He's waiting for you just outside." She squeezed Cate's arm and winked significantly. "Be off, my dear, I assured him there would be no awkward interruptions."

The tiny-footed woman slipped back into the drawing room, leaving Cate in a cold sweat. In the spirit of avoiding "Diggie," she could either stand in the hall for the remainder of the evening, or go to her room. Either scenario placed Nathan and Harte in roughly the same vicinity. Or she could go outside to evade an unwanted suitor, while looking for one who had no intention of being one-suitor, that is.

Cate shook her head. I've been around Nathan too long. I'm beginning to sound like him.

"I can do this," she chanted under her breath, beating a tattoo on her leg with her fist. She walked with the animation of the condemned. "All I need do is go out, dismiss him, and then I'm away."

It was galling Harte would be so presumptuous. She had given him no reason to think she was about to go running off into the night with him. For one of his character, such impulsiveness seemed markedly out of character.

Cate's step slowed with niggling second thoughts. She was well versed in social behavior and its minutiae, and had taken particular care not to send any false signals. She had no fan; no mistakes there. Somewhere in the middle of dinner, there had been a time or two when their gazes had met. Nothing had been meant as flirtatious, but apparently he thought otherwise. Roger's passionate impulses might have been flattering, was it not for the possibility they were prompted by something other than her charms. He bristled at any mention of Nathanael Blackthorne, which lent credence to his ardent attentions stemming more from rivalry.

No matter. He was about to be set straight, and in short order.

Cate pushed open the doors, and stepped into the garden and its smells of jasmine and damp earth. She stopped to inhale the fresh air as deeply as the stays would allow. Rendered by the moonlight in a palette in hues of silver and indigo, it proved to be a dismaying maze of hedges and shrubbery. Stones grinding softly underfoot, she followed the winding paths. Feeling vaguely like a rat in a maze, she hoped Providence might smile this once, and allow her to find Nathan first.

"Madam Harper?"

It wasn't the graveled voice she hoped to hear.

Cate jumped, and yelped, "Roger! You startled me." Touching a hand to her chest, she was admittedly not as startled as she let on, but it provided the time to recompose.

"You've called me Roger, may I call you Catherine?" Not the usual nasal flat, his voice was now deep and husky-so very enamored.

Cate laughed, as hollow and false as those heard all evening. "No one has called me Catherine since my father; Cate will suffice."

"Lovely, Cate."

She flinched at Harte's breathy joyousness. All powers of concentration absorbed by her worry for Nathan, she stammered badly, then opted for the dense-headed approach. After all, ignorance was claimed to be bliss.

"I thought you to be with the men, having their port and cigars." Bearing a false smile, Cate fixed her attention on Harte in order to resist the driving urge to look around for Nathan.

"I was waiting upon you. Did Lady Bart not tell you?"

"Perhaps she did," she said faintly. "I must have forgotten."

So much for ignorance.

Harte stepped closer yet. Considerably taller, his nearness forced to her tip her head back in order to see his face.

"I must speak my heart, Cate." He stammered, then forged ahead. "I've found I am fascinated by you; you've entranced me and I am compelled to be with you."

Outwardly impassive, Cate cringed inwardly. He clearly meant to sweep her off her feet. If anything, it was having quite the opposite effect: she was not moved. Well, maybe moved to scurry away, but certainly not attracted, as so obviously hoped. Fawning men she had never found appealing.

She fell back a step. "Isn't this somewhat sudden?"

"I know my behavior may seem impulsive and erratic." Harte turned away to clutch his hands to his chest. "There was someone-someone else so very special-and I hesitated, playing the gentleman and the fool. Since, I couldn't help but think, if I had been a little more...forthcoming, it might have gone quite differently."