Thomas snorted. "And I'll wake up the King of England tomorrow."

"We're friends."

With the tip of his finger, he brought her by the chin back to him.

"Cate," he began, with the measured patience. "There's only one reason Nathan has you with him. You know it, and I know it, and every damned jack tar on that ship knows it, except Nathan."

His finger moved to stroke her cheek, the blue look softening. "Now tell me, lovely, what do you want?"

Heart racing like a cornered rabbit, she took a barely-tasted gulp of port, in a futile search for courage. To engage in wild fantasies about what could or might be, was to pick at old wounds and served little purpose.

"What importance is it to you, anyway?" she asked, pulling away from his touch.

Thomas drew a breath to say something, then thought better. Blowing out a tired-sounding sigh, he took a drink. Rolling it in his mouth, he pensively studied the glass.

"Nathan's a friend," he began, carefully measuring each word. "He's the best friend I've ever had or hope to have. I haven't seen him in years, but I know I can trust him and I think he trusts me." He looked up, his eyes darkened with solemn earnestness. "It would do my heart good to see the man have a little dose of happiness. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but I could have sworn you were just as taken with him as he is with you."

Cate stared at her fingers as they twisted the fabric of her skirt. She slid a nervous look from the corner of her eye, deep blue intently meeting hers. She still felt the sting of mortification after Nathan's cruel taunt the night before. Nathan didn't want her. It had been made eloquently clear time and again.

Pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose, she said, "I don't know if-"

"God's teeth," he exclaimed, rocking back. "You don't know what you want either?"

Dropping his chin to his chest, he heaved an exasperated gasp. "'Pears as though you two were made for each other. Heaven help you both," he finished, raising his hands in benediction.

Slapping his thigh, he rose. Emptying his glass in one gulp, he set it on the table with an empathic thump.

"Well, as I said, the bunk is over there. Don't be shy, but if as you say, you've five brothers then you'll know how a man lives and shan't be shocked. I've the watch, so if you need me, just call out," he said, waving vaguely toward the open skylight overhead. "Sleep well."

Pryce rolled his eyes starward, while the Cap'n paced the quarterdeck. The Cap'n took an enraged swipe at the darkness, and in the general direction of where the Griselle laid, and demanded for the hundredth time, "What the fucking hell is she doing over there?"

He slammed his hand on the rail and wheeled around. "Did he take her or was this her idea?"

"Don't rightly know, Cap'n." Pryce dared to glance about the decks for anyone or anything that might serve as a diversion or distraction, but the hands had scattered like the weak-livered cowards they were.

"What am I supposed to do?" the Cap'n demanded. A rhetorical question, Pryce considered. "I can't just sail over there and get her."

"You represented as he was a friend."

"He is, but what the goddamned, bloody hell does that have to do with it?"

Growling in disgust, the Cap'n jerked an irritated hand and stomped abaft. Pryce slumped with relief leaned against the rail. The reprieve, however, was too short-lived. He inwardly groaned at the sound of the Cap'n's approach. He knew the sound of that footstep, and the storm and thunder it promised.

"What am I to do?" Oddly, the Cap'n sounded almost desperate.

"Well," Pryce began delicately. "D'ye trust her?"

"Trust? Her?" Puzzled-as if the word was altogether foreign-the Cap'n paused to consider. "Of course...but, not around him."

The Cap'n absentmindedly rapped a tattoo on the rail, staring off into the night. "It's just...I'm not sure she is aware trust is expected...here...now...exactly."

His troubled scowl deepened. "She wanted to leave-said as much-and I thought I'd steered her clear, what with the way the men felt about her, and all, of course."

"Of course," Pryce said circumspectly. His mum raised no fools; he knew better than to argue the finer points of that convolution of the truth.

"'Pears to me yer facing the pirate conundrum: once ye've got yer treasure, then what's to do?" Pryce ventured, once the Cap'n calmed sufficient.

Failing to grasp the point, the Cap'n frowned expectantly.

"Consider, Cap'n. What have we, and every member of the Brethren, spent our lives doin', eh? Lookin' for another man's treasure. Think on it! We search and scrabble, raid, pillage, and plunder, lookin' for the gold or silver what some other poor slob found and hid to keep it safe from the next pirate what seeks that same treasure. And as soon as he finds it, he's trying to hide it from the next."

The Cap'n's mouth took a sharp downward curve. "So, you're saying, immediately upon finding said treasure," he began slowly, "you're invariably and inevitably cursed to a life of maintaining and securing its safety?"

"Aye. And, so long as it be treasure, yer forever to be lookin' over yer shoulder, a-worryin' about who is comin' to take it."

"But, she's not a chest of Spanish coins, she's...oh, I see..."

Leaning on the rail, the Cap'n buried his face in his hands. He rubbed hard and groaned. "Seems I'm doomed before I begin. So where might I put said treasure?" he asked tiredly, peering through his fingers.

"Dunno, Cap'n," Pryce sighed. "Some treasures be more difficult to hide than t'others."

"Is that the ship?" asked Cate.

"Good chance." Thomas lifted the spyglass to his eye. "She's the look of a merchant and flying Company colors."

The next day had broken brightly, Cate waking shortly after first light.

Thomas's bunk had proven to be far more pleasant than anticipated. His appreciation for finer things extended to sheets, and feather mattress and pillows, as opposed to the canvas, oakum-stuffed one on the Morganse. It had smelled of him: a male mixture of musty and sharp. It wasn't offensive, in fact quite the contrary. Sleep hadn't been long a stranger.

Worried for what the day might bring, Cate had bounded out of bed. She paced under Thomas's mocking eye as the watch bell marked off the hours. Just past mid-afternoon, legs aching and back burning from being on her feet for so long, she heard the lookouts hail.

Thomas stood watching then closed the glass. "Mr. Al-Nejem!"

An Arabic man large enough to dwarf Thomas in both height and breadth loomed forward. "Aye, sir?"

Thomas lifted his face to the wind, and then gave the surrounding water a final look. "Prepare to make way. Hands to the t'gall'nts 'n' royals. And hoist the colors. Let's make sure they can't miss us."

Touching his fingers to his chest, and then lips, the First Mate bowed and left. In a burst of what might have been Arabic, the Griselle flashed out her canvas. The sails bellied and the deck became alive under Cate's feet. A rousing cheer erupted. The flap of something other than canvas drew Cate's attention to the Griselle's tops, where a black banner had been unfurled. This one bore a scarlet heart speared by a cutlass held by an unseen hand. Perhaps it was the infectiousness of the enthusiastic joy of the Grisellers, but the sight of it sent a surge of pride through here, which tightened her throat and quickened her heart.

Shielding her eyes against the afternoon sun, Cate could see the approaching ship, running with the wind, by the look of her staysails and studdingsails-yes, Nathan was a thorough master. She was learning, slower than he would have preferred, but learning. The flag at its mainmast was the same as she had seen her first day aboard the Morganse, on the privateer Nightingale. Nathan had ordered it to be burned. Seeing the Royal West Indies Mercantile Company's blue and white stripes, with the Union Jack for a canton, now carried a whole new meaning.

As the race of the water at the Griselle's sides increased, Cate looked again across the Straits, and the island where the Morganse laid. She longed to know what was happening there, but the headland blocked any view.

"Well, they made us," Thomas announced, the glass to his eye. "They just fell off." He gave a satisfied smile as he lowered his arms. "Luckily, these Straits are wide enough; they can pass without raking us, which means we won't have to fire, either."

"So, they think the Griselle is after them?"

Thomas nodded. "For now. That's why they're hugging the far shore, which puts them right in line with the spider."

He swung the spyglass toward the island's hidden bay. "Aye, I see 'er; the Morganse's startin' to make her move, t'gallants and royals a-flyin'. Nathan always was a flash with the canvas."

Cate chewed the inside of her mouth. "He's done this before?"

"Oh, aye. More times than one would care to think. For Ol' Scupperbait, the challenge 'tis more the prize. How he loves to best somebody."

"She's opening her port lids, sir!" came the call from the masthead.

"Aye, a bluff; we're out of range." A smug smile was directed at Cate. "He's so busy looking at us, by the time he spots the Morganse, it will be too late."

"Alert the gun crews, sir?" inquired Al-Nejem from the other side of the helm.

"Nay. We don't desire a fight, just to entertain them. Pass the word to open the ports and stand by. That'll keep her eyes on us," Thomas said, with a devious chuckle.

Thomas went forward to attend his ship, leaving Cate alone to worry. The targeted ship pressed onward, her bow plowing the Straits' heavy swell. She stood unable to watch, yet unable to move away. Cat-and-mouse was definitely not her game.

Eventually, the Morganse poked her masts above the treeline, her ivory-and-red sails stark against the green and blue of land, sky, and sea. A huntress rising, she rounded the point and cleared the reef as easily as a lady might sweep her skirts around a table. Then she tore on, a mustache of white water arching at her dark bow. The pursued ship seemed to cringe at the sight of the Morganse bearing down; Cate felt a touch of the same cold dread as on the Constancy, at seeing the black-hulled ship and massive banner, with its leering skull framed by wings.

The Angel of Death.

"Ciara Morganse; it's Celt for 'black gift from the sea,'" Nathan had told her. And a gift she was, a black and red phoenix rising from the sea, spreading her wings to swoop down on her prey. She was an even more fearsome sight in the afternoon sun. The late sun deepened the sails' crimson crowns, "...dripping with the blood of her victims..."

"She is a sight to behold," Thomas said, coming up beside Cate once more. "I'd heard about those sails, but I wouldn't believe it, until I saw it. Leave it to Nathan, eh?"

Thomas stood in quiet admiration, as only a mariner would. "A bit of an antique she is, but she sails like she's fresh off the blocks. A lot of things may have changed, but Nathan still keeps his ship shinin' like a diamond in a goat's ass...tail," he corrected quickly, and tipped his hat. "Beg pardon, madam. 'Pears as I've away from the genteel company of a lady for too long."

Bronzed profile sharp against the azure sky, Thomas' gaze settled on the prey's blue and white flag. A narrowing of an eye and a twitch of a jaw muscle were the only indication of what lurked inside. The sight of it had to have carried a unique meaning for him and Nathan.

Feeling Cate watching, he smiled self-consciously. "Nathan has a way of sailing a ship that bears no mistaking. Whether he knows it or not, that poor bastard doesn't stand a nun's chance in a whorehouse-beggin' your pardon again, ma'am."

Now almost abreast of the pursued ship, Cate could see her decks. She knew enough of ships to know panic when she saw it: scrambling in the rigging, sails flogging, filling, and then luffing. The ship was downwind of the Griselle, which meant the shouting couldn't be heard, but the waving arms spoke volumes.

The Griselle ran parallel to the chase and the black ship, but in essence, it was a race between the latter pair. The cold truth was, the race was over before it began, the Ciara Morganse outdistancing her victim with shocking ease. The only unknown factor was when the slower captain would realize his disadvantage and heave to.

Puffs of blue-black smoke rose from the Morganse: her bow-chasers fired. Quailing, the prey veered and bolted, putting her course across the Griselle's.

"Son of a bitch!" Thomas cried, more in surprise than anger. "She's making a break for it."

"But, I thought-" Cate began.

"Aye, well, the good captain has chosen to dance with the devil he doesn't know. Mr. Al-Nejem! Give the Gunnery Master my compliments, and beg him to put two across the rabbit's bow."

There was a guttural bark and a burst of flame-sparked smoke. The Grisellers paused to track the ball's arc and splash off the fleeing ship's forefoot. Almost simultaneously, a second shot went off with identical results. The ship fired back, the volley whirring harmlessly overhead.

Thomas's eyes rounded in surprise. "You cocky bastard! One through her course, Mr. Nadir, if you please," he shouted to the waist.

And so it was, with deadly accuracy: a ball through the foresail, the mizzen pierced next. Two more, the rabbit's foretop yard was sheared, and her roundhouse creased, marked by a burst of splinters.

With either nerves of steel or a failure to comprehend her peril, the ship returned fire. The shots came with an irregularity and inaccuracy that robbed them of threat. The peril of the "lucky shot" became more real, when a ball flew near enough over the quarterdeck for everyone to duck.

"Get below," Thomas cried at Cate over the roar of guns.

"No!"

"Get below."

Cate balled her fists and braced as he stormed toward her. "I will not," she shouted up at him. Truth be told, Nathan would have never allowed her to remain on deck, but she had no intention of skulking below, amid the butts and hogsheads, left to wonder what was happening.

"Nathan would hang me by the balls if something was to happen to you."

"Then tell him it was my fault."

The blue eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "Small help coming from the grave. Damnation! How in the hell does he manage you?"

Rumbling oaths under his breath, Thomas spun away.

Backs glistening with sweat, the gun crews labored, driven by the indignation of being fired upon by a vessel deemed barely worthy: swabbing, ramming, loading, and then, with a rumble of wheels, hauling home the carriages. The space between the ships was thick with grey clouds of smoke, the lick of flame harbingers of another incoming round.

The Griselle dealt her damage, but took it as well: a foreyard was sheared, another shot snarling the forestays. There was the pained cry, and then two more. Sections of rail amidships burst into a shower of splinters. A jet of water shot skyward when the scuttlebutt was hit.

"Sharp shooters aloft! An extra ration to the one to take out that captain," Thomas cried.

The ratlines went dark with men bearing muskets scampering skyward. Lethal barrages erupted in overlapping waves, the smoke and smell of gunpowder curling down to merge with what already swirled about the deck.

Shying under the Griselle's accuracy, the ship veered on a larboard tack, putting her course directly across the Morganse's forefoot once more. The turn brought her stern into view, Capricorn emblazoned on the sternplate. In a brazen move, she attempted to rake the Morganse with a sputter of guns as she crossed, but lacked both accuracy and angle to be effective. Squinting to see through the acrid-smelling smoke, Cate could see the Morganse's damage: holes in the sails and the occasional spout of splinters.

The two pirate ships crisscrossed each other's path with drill-like precision, the Capricorn always in the middle. The maneuver allowed each to maintain their speed, the gun crews smoothly shifting from side to side as they carved their turns. The Capricorn found herself in the dubious position of having to maintain a two-sided barrage. The pounding from both sides would render her decks a hellish scene. Canvas and wood was no match for 12 to 18 pounds of hurtled iron. The Capricorn wasn't without teeth, however. A volley carried away two of the Morganse's jibs and rigging, another hitting her foreroyal.

The Capricorn finally swerved away from the Morganse. This time, she carried too much sail, too high. The wind heeled her over, until her chains plowed the water. Her crew scrambled to compensate, but not before canvas and yards were carried away. The Morganse took advantage of the resulting lull in the Capricorn's headway to put her sails between the Capricorn and the wind.

"Well, he's got 'er!" Thomas came up alongside Cate, and shouted to the helmsman, "Lay 'er in irons. Let's see what this rabbit is going to do."

The Griselle's bow nosed to the wind and slid to a halt.

"Now what?" Unable to tear her eyes from the two ships, Cate could barely breathe the question.

His hands coming to rest on the weaponry at his waist, Thomas lifted one shoulder in a casual gesture. "Nathan sends a boarding party, finds what he seeks, and takes it."

"Sounds easy enough."

"It is, if the good captain there chooses to abide. If he opts to resist..." He paused, pursing his lips. "Aye, it could be a mite nasty."

"Nasty?" Cate turned to glare up at him. "Nasty!"

"Hand-to-hand combat, blood on the decks; 'tis always nasty business." He looked down at her with teasing glint and a wide grin. "Don't worry! One wrong move and we'll be on that ship like sharks on a carcass. Nathan knows what he's doing."