Pryce looked to the ground between his feet. Damn! Now there was what he dreaded most. Eyes like a hawk, the skipper had, able to see into a man's soul better than a witchy-woman. Failing orders was galling enough; failing the Cap'n like some fond and feckless scrum was worse.

"She made it aboard, did she not?" the Cap'n repeated, the battered face clouding ominously.

"Well, d'ye see-"

"Where is she, Pryce?"

"Well, 'twas like this, you know how she can be-"

"Where is she?!"

"We needed a diversion, and so..."

"Where the goddamned hell is she!" Blood set to trickling from the Cap'n's nose.

Pryce drew a deep breath. "Harte's got her." The Cap'n would never hit him, but he braced for the storm in the offing.

"How the...?" He blenched and rolled away to puke.

Pryce winced in sympathy. He'd suffered stove-in ribs, knew the agony what would come with each retch, and bore a hand at the finish. Alternating between gasping and swearing, the Cap'n clutched his sides, while Pryce fetched more water. Much to his relief, this time it stayed down.

"I'm glad it's you, Pryce," muttered the Cap'n at one point, fondling the makeshift cup. "If it were her, she'd insist on that damned honey water of hers."

"Aye, she would, at that. Sets a great store by it, she does," Pryce heartily agreed. "And sure as a cock's crow, you'd be drinkin' it, and the Devil take ye."

"No telling her 'no', is there?"

"No, there ain't. Nathan, I beg yer leave. She wouldn't hove to. Hell, you know how she is."

"Don't I, though." The Cap'n sighed, that small movement causing him to wince.

"Ribs broke?"

"Nay, just tender. Me stomach took the worst. I've the impression they weren't quite done with me, yet."

"Aye! Ye wouldn't be a-drawin' breath else."

The Cap'n took on a dogged look. "I can't leave her, mate, not with him."

"Aye." A blind man could have seen that coming. Getting the Cap'n to stay put whilst the rest went to fetch Mr. Cate: now that looked to call for a fair bit of doing. When the skipper set his mind, one might as well try to turn the tides.

Pryce squinted up from under his brows. "Don't suppose you could mebbe stand off a bit, do ye? Won't do 'er or anyone else much good, if yer laid out in the bushes somewheres."

"Always the pragmatic." The Cap'n grinned as much as he dared. It didn't go unnoticed that the question went unanswered. "Might you spare a bit of that rum you hold so dear?"

"I'm speechless as to what ye be implyin!'" Pryce said, feigning ignorance.

"Buggering hell, man! You've toted that flask since the day you shipped. You fancy it more than you fancy a fat widow. Now, give over."

In grudging good humor, Pryce fished the flask from his shirt and they shared, the Cap'n in careful increments. No sense in wasting it, if the Cap'n was just going to puke it. While they awaited the rum's restorative powers, he regaled the Cap'n with Mr. Cate's performance in front of the blacksmith's. He laughed, clutching his sides.

"She's one brave lass," Pryce said admiringly. "I ain't never seed the likes."

Considering the tales she told and the scars she carried, the woman had endured what would have broken many a man. Instead of slinking-and not a mother's son would blame her and she did-she looked the world square on and told it to go to hell!

"Aye, it's a rare attribute," the skipper said, looking off. "'Tis is likely to get her killed by and by."

"Likely to get you killed. She's near as crazed as you."

The Cap'n struggled to his feet and swayed. He took several steps, as if unsure of where the ground was. Finally, he folded to his knees at the stream's bank. He dipped a hand, like he was of two minds. Then he crumpled to the ground and rolled to land face down in the water. Grasping a rock, he floated like a corpse, the water swirling reddish-brown in his wake. In the time a normal soul would have foundered, he rolled over, hair streaming like kelp. Pryce rubbed a tired hand over his face. The man was always half fish.

Eventually, the Cap'n stood in midstream and shook off like a great dog. The blood and filth gone, he was white as a ship's biscuit, but nearer to decent. The eye once matted shut stood open. He sat next to Pryce and put out a hand for the flask.

"What's in yer head regardin' her?" Pryce asked, smacking his lips in satisfaction after his own pull.

It took the Cap'n so long to reply, Pryce allowed he mightn't.

"I'm on beam ends on this one, mate." The Cap'n lifted a hand, then dropped it in surrender. "There's not much I can do. She's married."

Pryce squinted, thinking perhaps he'd been hit in the head harder than credited. "Never caused ye to set yer sails aback afore."

"I don't know. Scupper and burn me, if I know why, but it does this time."

Cate floated between the delicious netherworld of sleep and the harsh reality of day, knowing it necessary to leave the one, but unwilling to cope with the other. At length, she let go her desperate grasp and allowed the day to drag her up to join it in all its glory.

She had no idea of the time. The sun blocked the shutters, the room too dim to see the clock. She contemplated the benefits of lying abed and waiting for it to chime. Reprimanding herself for such decadence, she rose. Wrapped in a corner of the quilt, she shuffled to the window and pushed back the shutters. Squinting, she shielded her eyes against the brilliance and checked the sky. Brooding clouds gathered in low behind the trees, but she determined it to be well past midday. As if on cue, the clock chimed a delicate "two."

Cate groaned aloud. Tea was not far away. Soon Sally would burst in to prepare her for another session with Lady Bart and her guests, including the ever-impressive and omnipresent Commodore Harte. At the moment, she couldn't imagine how she could look the bastard in the face, let alone speak, pleasantness being in the realm of impossible. She pinched the bridge of her nose, and measured the prospects of pleading a headache, illness...better yet, insanity. Given her earlier performance, the latter would be readily credited.

She looked up into the judgmental stares from the room's faces.

"I beg your leave, but I'm fresh out of answers," she said crossly to the circular curia.

A light scratch at the door was the only warning before Sally burst in, arms loaded. Spreading her burden on the bed, she propped her hands on her hips and regarded Cate with a critical eye. "You appear rested."

"I feel much better, thank you." Physically, sleep had been rejuvenating; emotionally she was spent, thought and conversation coming only with effort.

A gown-and all its accompanying accoutrements-had been brought, another pass-down, no doubt. In a surge of defiance, Cate declined and insisted on wearing her own. If she was to meet Lady Bart's guests, it would be as herself. Sally put up a fair protest, but Cate's doggedness prevailed. There was some turmoil regarding the whereabouts of said clothing, with the off chance they had been disposed of. At length-and to her great relief-they were found. Carefully spread out in place of the gown, Cate's skirt and stays were barely recognizable after a transformational laundering and pressing, the apron as pristine as the day Billings had crafted it.

"You don't have to go," Sally said.

The cogs of Cate's mind ground slowly, dimly wondering if perhaps she had voiced that wishful thought without realizing. "Excuse me?"

"Tea," Sally enunciated, as if Cate might be a trifle dim.

"I thought attendance was compulsory."

Sally waved that off. "I could give your compliments, and then your regrets. I'll tell them you're too distraught and not at your leisure."

Cate bit her lip. Sally's directness was both unique and refreshing. The offer was tempting, deliciously so. She could play the overwrought victim, but to do so would run the risk of missing word of Nathan's welfare. If he had been captured or found dead, heaven forbid, it would be the highlight of the afternoon.

No, she would go.

Cate was ushered to a stool before a dressing table. Mesmerized by the rasp of Sally brushing her hair, she closed her eyes. It was a luxury, one life rarely allowed. Sitting on a tufted satin stool, before a table laden with toiletries befitting of a lady of substance, she felt decadent.

The brush abruptly stopped. Cate snapped from her reverie to find Sally solemnly staring at her through the mirror's reflections.

"Did Blackthorne hurt you?" The maid's voice was sharp and abrupt, but rooted in earnest concern.

Cate had given it no mind, but the ruined gown, hysterics, and a tear-swollen face would have given the impression she had been ravished, or at the least, used rough.

"No; I appreciate the thought, but no, he didn't hurt me," Cate said, smiling faintly.

"You love him, don't you?"

Cate looked again into Sally's steady gaze, the hairbrush poised in mid-stroke. "Beg pardon?"

"You love him," Sally repeated evenly. Romanticism softened the stern features. "You have been on that ship with him all that time, and now you love him."

She set to brushing once more, muttering under her breath, "Some women have a way of picking the wrong man."

Cate shifted gaze to the weary, turquoise-eyed image before her. Did she? Had she fallen in love with Nathan?

A pang of guilt knotted her gut. Since losing Brian, she had never considered the possibility of another man. For years, it had seemed traitorous to think of another man in her bed. But the cold hard facts were, she was ready. It was painful to look into the mirror and admit it: Brian was gone and Nathan was there; he was most definitely there. For the last weeks, her world had been suffused with him.

Did she love Nathan, though? Did she feel for him as she had felt for Brian: the stirrings of the heart that came with an unexpected glimpse, or stirrings of the flesh at a smile or coffee-and-cinnamon-colored look...or the emptiness that came when he wasn't about? Was she willing to do all the same things, take the same risks and instill the same trust, in hopes of the same in return?

"Yes, I love him." The admission smacked of the desperate fantasies of a widow, probably past her prime.

"I thought so." Sally brightened with fanciful speculation. "Is he dark? I've heard he's dark, with eyes that can stop a woman's heart and lead her to destruction."

Cheeks heating, Cate bit her lip. "He is that."

"I had me a man once," Sally said after a protracted silence. She applied the brush with renewed industry. "I loved him so much it hurt. Then one day he up and turned pirate; left me with barely more than a by-your-leave."

The heavy hair was brought up from the Cate's neck and pulled a ribbon around her head. Sally gave a wistful sigh. "They're a difficult lot to love. Heaven help the woman that falls in love with a pirate."

Tying the ribbon off with a flourish, Sally bent enough to find Cate's reflection once more. She smiled with a spark that rendered her years younger. "Ah, but they're worth every bit of the pain, aren't they?"

This time, Cate felt better prepared as she went down the stairs to take on Lady Bart and her guest-filled parlor. Sally's prescriptive dose of brandy had stiffened her spine and dulled her senses sufficiently to render the prospect of the afternoon tolerable. After all, what could they do that hadn't already been done? Embarrass? Stare? Ignore? Pity? Whisper behind their hands, or for that matter, behind her back?

In the foyer, Cate's courage faltered-more like shattered-at seeing Roger Harte step out to intercept her path. It took every bit of resolve to keep from recoiling when he pressed her knuckles fiercely to his lips.

"I'm so pleased to see you have regained yourself," he said. The green eyes burned with intensity. "I was so very concerned for your welfare and peace."

In other words, you believed I had gone completely around the bend.

It was a testimonial to her acting ability. Harte's belief that she was a faint-hearted, quailing rabbit, ready to fall in prostration at so much as a coarse word was more than annoying.

Keeping her eyes averted, until her glittering hatred was mastered, Cate murmured a polite, non-committal something. She tried to retrieve her hand, but he clasped it firmly, stroking the back of it with his thumb.

"You have nothing to fear," Harte said.

She cringed at his big-brother-watching-over-the-defenseless-woman tone.

"Every precaution has been taken: extra guards posted and two Marines at your chamber door. So you see, my dear, you have nothing to fear," he went on.

Behind a frozen smile, Cate inwardly groaned. If no one could get in, neither would anyone be going out. A sword now hung at his side, a pistol-so laden with gold and ivory, it looked more ceremonial than practical-was tucked at his waist, presumably all for her protection.

Voices from the drawing room echoed down the hall. Roger cleared his throat loudly, either to warn of their approach, or as a chivalrous but ineffective attempt to cover what was being said.

"It is unfortunate when one must face the outcomes of a weak decision," came a male voice.

"She should have done the honorable thing, to be sure," said another.

Cate knew the remark for what it was: a thinly veiled reference to the common premise that a woman, caught in such a compromising circumstance as a pirate hostage, should kill herself. She looked up into Roger's sympathy verging on pitying gaze; he was of the same mind. The rationale behind that conclusion always left her wondering: was the woman to do so to save herself from being subjected to the horrors, or to save those around her the social horror of having to face her?

This from people who wouldn't have the courage to do as much themselves, she thought bitterly.

Their entry brought an uncomfortable hush. All would be aware of all her earlier performance. Now, as the cowardly hostage, she was not only fallen, but deranged. A wave of unsteadiness swept her. Not as before, when struggling to regain her land legs; this was more like the condemned awaiting their fateful hour. Misinterpreting her unsureness as delicacy, Roger saw her seated, and then took up a shepherd-like position at her elbow.

The cool reception absolved Cate from the necessity of idle chat. She was avoided as if she was a refugee from Bedlam, apt to launch into hysteria at the least provocation. It was an effective shield and she augmented the impression with an occasional eye roll or twitch. The men regarded her with more reserve; Fordshaw must have related her threat. At the same time, they were intrigued, challenged as to whom among them possessed the manly fortitude to tame the wildcat, the prospect of losing said manhood if they failed their restraint.

She wasn't without experience in drawing rooms and the higher life; quite the contrary. It wouldn't be an empty boast to announce that she-this pitiable wretch-had been at both the French and Spanish Court. To declare that Brian's clan had been well connected with both royal houses through business, political, and religious avenues would surely be met with cold disbelief. And if she were to let it slip, not overtly, but in a quiet, by-the-by manner, that her maternal grandmother was a Hapsburg, the royal house currently sitting the Spanish throne, she would be thought to be completely around the bend.

To see their shock was a grand temptation, but she kept her counsel.

As Cate scanned the room, there was the chance Sally's brandy dosage might have been a bit of overmedication, for determination was giving way to stubbornness. Lady Bart's hospitality wouldn't be without limits; there were ways of getting oneself literally shown to the door. Her lowly stature was being tolerated only in deference to the good Commodore, but that umbrella would stretch just so far. Given the matron's long-suffering inclination toward charity, however, it would have to be something grandly stunning, an offense of the highest degree to provoke ousting.

So what was it to be: aspersions at 10 paces? Spitting? A belch? One of Nathan's colorful curses? A cry of "Long live Prince Charlie?"

No, that could get you arrested.

A woman sat in the chair opposite the tea table and arranged herself. It took a moment to recognize her as Mrs. Big Wig-Mrs. Devaynes, that was it!-now wearing a semi-normal sized wig, a pink bird perched ridiculously at the crown. She allowed Cate a hollow smile, and then pointedly diverted her attention to a woman opposite. Cate continued to sip her tea, wishing it were something stronger.

Conversation droned. Roger the intransigent sphinx at her side, Cate sat transfixed on the corner of a rug several feet away. A floral, its green leaves recalled the churned ground where Nathan had fallen, its red flowers his blood. Hatred surged. Unwittingly or not, every person in that room was a pawn in Harte's insidious game, including Lady Bart.

At one point, Roger was drawn away-Lady Bart, with some household detail-and Cate heard a polite clearing of a throat from Devaynes' direction.

"Tell me dear, if you don't mind-?"

Cate stirred, startled at being addressed. "Excuse me? I beg pardon?"

Mildly flustered, Devaynes hesitated, and then leaned over the table to say under the conversation, "I pray you don't think me forward, if I were to inquire...?"

Cate nodded, cautious of where on earth this line of questioning might lead.