"Mr. Hodder, whilst Mr. Pryce and I are aboard, you're to be in charge of those remaining ashore...and her! Need I review the consequences, if anything should happen?" A not so subtle shift of Nathan's eyes punctuated his meaning.

In a clatter of ivory, Hodder snapped to attention and executed a salute that would have merited the Royal Navy. "No, Cap'n! Rest assured"

"Good man." Nathan wheeled around to Cate. "You will be going on that little forage of which you were so anxious."

"Forage?" she goggled. For a moment, she thought she had misheard. Nathan's sudden change was quite transparent, and she was going to have none of it. With a ship bearing down, next to Nathan was so very much more inviting. "But you said-"

"There's what is commonly referred to among pirates as 'an emergency,'" he said, with an edge of sarcasm. "We do what me might to avoid them, but there's a limit to what Providence allows. Mr. Pickford!"

"Aye, Cap'n?" came the answer in short order.

"You're familiar with these islands?" Nathan's inquiry was superfluous, since Pickford had been made master of the foraging details.

"Aye, sir! Like the back o' me hand." Pickford rocked on his toes with pride, setting the garland of dried ears swinging at his neck.

"Very well, a-foraging you shall go, and you're to take her with you," Nathan added with an emphatic jerk of his head.

Pickford blinked in surprise, but made no comment. Cate felt the stab. Once again, Nathan couldn't bring himself to call her by name. She could count the number of times on one hand-a few fingers, in fact-that he had ever done so.

"Roam far, and do not come back, no matter what you hear. Comprendes?" He spoke to Pickford, but bore her with a look, as if he harbored doubts of her ability to follow orders.

...no matter what you hear...Cate didn't want to contemplate what that might signify.

Suddenly her knowledge of the pirate world seemed woefully lacking. Did they get on or did they fight like territory-minded dogs? Was the Brotherhood, as Nathan had referred to it, exactly that, or was it an allegiance limited to shipmates? Warring nations or alliances?

Her worry must have been evident; Nathan smiled in the spirit of reassuring her. It didn't. With surprising familiarity, he squeezed her shoulder, and then gave it an encouraging pat.

"No worries, luv. As I said, I know who it is, but you don't live to be an old pirate being careless. I'll come for you as soon as I may. Now go. Go!" Nathan repeated more firmly when Cate didn't move. "I can't pay proper attention to a bloody thing if I have you to worry for. I'll come when I can. Now go."

Again, she understood his cost for having her about. She looked to the circle of grim faces on the awaiting foragers. The jury was in, unanimous.

"The minute it's safe," she insisted to Nathan.

"The. Minute."

Nathan prodded Cate toward Pickford. "And try not to give the poor man anymore gray hairs than 'tis absolutely necessary," he called after her.

With visions of flashing sabers and roaring great guns, Cate knew all too well how capricious life could be, how it could take violent turns. She also knew the pain of remorse, the fruitlessness of wishing what one should have done or said. Swept by a wave of panic, she wanted to throw her arms around Nathan and tell him everything in her heart.

Instead, Cate heavy-footed behind Pickford, feeling like an unwanted orphan. She paused at the treeline for a final look, but Nathan was already lost among his men. She could hear his graveled voice drifting down the beach, barking orders no differently than on deck.

Cate left the white glare of sun and sand, and plunged into the trees' deep shadows. As the undergrowth closed in, the sea breeze died, and the air grew heavy with heat and moisture. The high canopy of trees afforded protection from the sun's full blast, but its sultry presence was still felt. Beatrice's bright blue plumage could be seen soaring overhead. Paralleling their path, she lighted from tree to tree, pausing to indulge in the occasional treat.

Looking up, Pickford paused next to Cate. "She'll call out if there be aught alarming."

Cate looked back toward the now-obscured shore, and wondered if "aught alarming" was happening there. She eyed the men surrounding her. Ordinarily made up of clusters of four or six, this detail consisted of over a dozen, each known for his marksmanship. A single musket would have been the standard, and yet an extra, sometimes two, was slung over every shoulder, a minimum of two pistols at their belts, with double powderhorns and shot bags. She determinedly pushed away thoughts of what might be transpiring on shore; silence had to be taken as a blessing. Idleness being anguish's playground, she set to work.

A basket and dibble was shoved into her hands. Ignorant of the West Indies, she was at a loss as to where to start. Under Pickford's and Harrier's tutelage, however, she was soon industriously digging wild onions and ginger. Kneeling in the semi-rotted foliage and sweating, she loved every minute. During her walk on New Providence, she had been able to only observe the lushness. Now she was a participant, in it literally up to her knees. After months afloat, to have soil between her fingers and dirt under her nails...It was heavenly!

As soon as one basket was filled, another was issued. She was shown fruits and nuts-soursop, tree melons, and cashews-as well as those which were to be avoided. In this Garden of Eden, hazards awaited both underfoot and overhead: an inadvertent brush against a branch or sitting under the wrong tree after a rain could mean disaster. Herbs and local cures were shown to her, as well, and she collected them for her blood box: lis rouge and plantain, for swelling or sores; physic nut, for poultices and boils; gully root and monkey's hand, for headaches; and fit weed, a cure-all for everything from fainting to convulsions, vomiting to fevers.

So engulfed in the work, Cate lost track of time. She jerked upright at hearing periodic gunshots, at the same instant knowing they came from inland. Hunters then, doing what hunters did best. The pause to take a drink from the water gourd at her waist allowed her mind to drift back to shore. Her sense of direction told her they hadn't yet moved so far that muskets or cannon wouldn't be heard. That direction was still ominously and blessedly quiet.

Where the trees thinned, she could see the sun make its march across the sky. Several hours had passed, the afternoon heat waning, when the last of the baskets and gunny sacks were filled to overflowing. Pickford and the rest of the party stood in indecision, their Captain's strict orders heavy on their minds.

"Do you suppose it's safe?" Cate finally asked. Hands twitching at her sides, she vibrated to be away.

"Cap'n said as the first sign o' trouble, we were to head inland," Pickford said.

"Yes, but there is no 'sign o' trouble', is there?" she said with asperity. "If the Cap'n objects, I'll tell him it was my idea. If we hear anything like trouble, we can always turn around and go back, can't we?"

Pirates they might be; bristling with weaponry, capable of pillage and plunder, sending women and children screaming at the name, they were unprepared to deal with an intransigent woman. They balked sufficiently to claim they did, and then struck back toward shore, laden with their treasures.

Cate's step quickened as the sea breeze freshened. She pushed through the last barricade of greenery, and it met her full in the face, bringing with it the smell of saltwater, burning wood, and tobacco. The worst fears had haunted her. As she stepped onto the beach, she expected to see blood and mayhem, cannonball craters and bodies strewn.

Instead, she found two ships on their moorings and the picture of peace. As advertised, the new arrival was royal blue, a brilliant yellow-checked strip banding her hull. The number of men on the beach had nearly doubled, the gently curved sand strip now a festive beehive. A makeshift camp had been set up, with shore galleys and cook fires. Sun dodgers had been rigged: stout branches planted in the sand with a piece of canvas stretched over.

A burst of jocularity came from one such lean-to near the central cook fire. Nathan's laugh was easily identified, although never had she heard him do it so genuinely. As she neared, she could see him and another man lolled in the sand. She turned a quizzical eye to Pryce as their paths intersected.

"Old friend," he offered succinctly. His thick shoulders hunched with disapproval.

Cate looked toward the water and the visiting ship with new interest. "Who is it?"

"The Griselle, 'cordin' to the Cap'n." That qualification seemed to hold significance. "Can't be a-sayin' fer sure, but the Cap'n claims she mostly sails the African waters, Arabie n' such."

"And the Griselle's captain?"

Rocking on the balls of his feet, Pryce's skepticism grew. "Don't rightly know, sir. Never met 'im afore, m'self."

Cate studied the First Mate. By the set of his brow and line of his mouth, his mother-hen tendency toward anything that might pose a threat to his precious flock was in full alert. Her thoughts were broken by another burst of laughter.

"Well, at least it sounds friendly," she said.

"Aye, friendly it 'tis." Pryce waggled his heavy eyebrows, and whispered from the corner of his mouth, "I'd be a-steerin' a canny course and bear a weather eye, if 'twere me."

She approached as advised. The two men were leaned back against puncheons or bags in their patch of shade, a bottle of rum at their respective sides.

"You're the one who said we could make it across the street without the guards seeing us," the visitor cried, fizzing with humor.

Nathan pointed an accusing finger. "Aye, well, how was I to know that whore of yours was going to scream her bloody head off?"

"She wasn't my whore; you paid for her. She just fancied me."

They broke into another peal of laughter, the stranger wiping his eye on his sleeve. Their merriment was infectious, Cate smiled without knowing why.

"'ello, luv!" Nathan called in a slightly slurred voice. His face lit at seeing her. He enthusiastically waved her closer. "I'd like you to meet an old friend-"

"Watch who you're calling old," growled the visitor congenially.

"An old friend," Nathan repeated. "This is Thomas."

Thomas's head casually turned and he lurched upright. A pair of lake blue eyes raked her and he executed a bow from the sand.

"Well, well, Nathan, you old shellback. You never told me you had anything like this aboard."

"Easy, mate," Nathan warned good-naturedly. "Darling, this is Thomas, captain of yon Griselle." He waved a misguided hand over his shoulder.

Cate bobbed a reserved curtsey. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain Thomas."

"Just Thomas will answer." Leaning heavily on one arm, he openly appraised her. "Very nice, Nathan. Very nice, indeed, although you always did have the luck with the women. Always gave me the leftovers," he said to her with a conspiratorial wink.

Nathan cleared his throat sharply. "Come and join us, luv." He hooked a bucket with his foot, dragged it nearer, and invitingly patted the top.

She could feel Thomas' eyes following her as she passed, but was still startled when he reached out to seize her by the hand.

"And what might your name be, lovely?" he crooned, pulling her closer.

"Cate." Nathan uttered it with sufficient sharpness to break Thomas's stare. "Cate Harper."

It was notable that Thomas might have been a friend, but not so much for Nathan to trust him with her real name.

"Charmed," Thomas murmured. He pressed her knuckles to his lips, lingering far longer than would have been proper in most circles. His grasp was strong but gentle as he rolled her fingers between his. "I'll be looking forward to getting to know you so very much better."

As politely as could be managed, she extracted her hand from his grip "You said you would come get us when it was safe," she said hissed at Nathan as she sat.

Nathan batted his lashes in overt innocence. The bruising now faded to a purplish blue looked like kohl around his eyes. "Did I? Bloody insensible, that. Although, it might be said no woman is safe with Thomas about."

Punctuated by a shift of the eyes, the comment carried an undercurrent of tension. Ducking her head, she looked up from under her brows to find Nathan, smile gone, one eye narrowed, watching Thomas watching her.

"Pray tell, how did you two come to know each other?" she asked, hoping to break the awkwardness.

Nathan smiled at that. "Thomas and I were mates years ago. About fifteen, were we not?"

"You were. You've always been the older one."

"Not by that much!" Nathan said, puffed in mock indignation. "But, in addition, I also happened to be the wiser."

"Aye, we were on the Gryphon-"

"No, no, 'twas the Nautilus first, then the Gryphon," Nathan corrected.

They laughed knowingly, a private joke. Cate sensed it wasn't a prudent time to inquire further.

Cate watched the two men for the next while, her brothers frequently coming to mind. As they recounted one escapade after another, they ricocheted from something akin to a competition, of who could weave the biggest lie about the other, to mellowed mutual admiration and lauding praises. On rarer moments, they sobered as reminisced about shared hardships and lost friends.

More cautiously, she watched Thomas. She had tried to imagine what Nathan's friends might be like; Thomas was nothing like what she had expected. They were exact opposites: Thomas was tall, broad and fair. The dark blue eyes shining over broad cheekbones and the honey blond hair pulled back into a heavy tail gave him a Viking-like appearance. No woman would have been safe with this dashing pair in port. Possessing the same easy manner and dazzling smile as Nathan, Thomas wore his handsomeness as matter-of-factly as the brace of pistols crisscrossed at his waist, and the massive baldric, its dagger scabbard perched at his shoulder. The mat of golden chest hair at the opening of his shirt was marked by a diagonal scar. It was proof life had battered him as much as Nathan. Like Nathan, too, he talked with his hands, his blunt-tipped fingers punctuating his conversation rather than illustrating.

She looked down at her lap to find her fists clenched-painfully so-her knuckles gone white. She knew why, at the sight of Thomas, her heart had lurched and then sped, and cold prickles raced down her back. She also knew why she had paraded herself just a bit as she walked past him, and why she now sat teetering between cold dread and the urge to throw herself at him.

He looked just like Brian.

The sound of his laugh echoing down the beach had hit her in the chest like a fist. The eyes had been the next shock, the same dark blue to which she had lost her heart. The voice, deep and soft, resonated in her bones. Many similarities ended there. Brian's hair had been the color of bronzed copper, his mouth wider, lips fuller. He had been slimmer built and had spoken with a soft Highlander lilt. Brian would have never leered at a woman the way Thomas just had, nor mentally undressed her as he kissed her hand. But the mannerisms, the smile...

Damn! It was him!

Nathan regarded her, sensing something amiss. Cate tried to rearrange her expression to something more common, but Nathan's concerns weren't appeased. Saying something could have broken the ice, but the only thing that came to mind was, "He looks like my dead husband."

Unable to sit any longer, Cate lurched to her feet, both men jerking at her abruptness.

"I'm...I...er..." She searched the beach for an excuse, finally landing on a water bucket a short distance away. "I need to wash...Digging!" she declared, displaying her hands. "I've been digging and..."

She spun away, stalling in mid-step to execute a wobbling curtsey and mumble a barely intelligible nicety to Thomas. Then she scurried off, leaving the two somewhat slack-jawed.

"Wash?" she heard Thomas say in her wake. A disbelieving smirk edged his voice.

Nathan sighed indifferently. "From what we've been able to gather, 'tis a matter of women. Bloody perplexing; strikes without warning. All in all, ' tis best left to lie."

Once at the bucket, she was compelled to do something or look the complete liar. She bent to splash water in her face and found a pleasant surprise. It was filled with island water, sparkling and fresh compared to what she was accustomed to on board. Sluicing it again and again, it washed away not only the day's sweat and grime, but the light-headedness that had seized her since seeing Thomas. As she discreetly turned her back to use her hem as a towel, she discovered she was directly downwind from them. Apparently, there were no secrets on a beach either.

"She's stunning," Thomas was saying.

She kept her face to the rough linen of her skirt a little longer lest anyone see her reddening cheeks.

"Is she? I hadn't noticed," Nathan said, offhandedly.

Thomas laughed, a deep and infectious sound. "Either you're blind or a goddamned liar, and a bad one at that."

"She's a...guest."

Cate's cheeks heated further with the sting of Nathan's disinterest.

Thomas gave a derisive snort. "How long have you had her? Any chance of you might be tirin' of her yet?"

"Hold your tongue, mate," Nathan said, evenly. "She's not that kind."

"Oh, come now, Nathan. This is me, not some shave tail still on his mama's tit."

"I mean it," Nathan warned, without malice. "She's a good league above us, better than anything either one of us could ever hope for."

"Well, we can always dream, can't we?"

"I wouldn't dare," Nathan said after an interval, so low-voiced she could barely hear. "I wouldn't dare."

As evening threatened, the work details converged to deliver their bounties: basketfuls of crabs, turtles, oysters, and shellfish from the bay; nets of fish from the sea and river, and game, two pigs, and a goat. With the exception of the last, Kirkland used it all, along with cabbage, pickled vegetables, olives, and spices from the ship's stores to make a stew of sorts.

The Griselle's cook was a man by the name of Youssef. Black-eyed, solemn, he was as territorially intransigent as Kirkland when it came to his galley. Given the language differences, it required the negotiating skills of both captains and a second cooking fire a designated distance away before armistice could be achieved. At his fire, Youssef jealously oversaw his own version of stew, a more pungently spiced version, enhanced generously with garlic, wine, and rice. Hermione blithely grazed while a wild cousin turned on a spit next to a brace of pigs.