She bit her lip with the realization that with that succinct declaration, she might well have sealed her fate: by her own admission, she was worthless as a hostage. The list of possibilities of what might be done with her had just narrowed.

She looked into one of the gallery's thick panes. The face looking back from amid a bramble of hair was that of a stranger: blank-eyed and haggard, a hag, no better than the beggars and whores who roamed the streets, someone to be used and abused with little regard. She felt the ship shift under her feet and the sails catch. Their momentum building, she watched the lights of the Constancy, and any hope of escape, fade into the twilight. With it, too, went her meager bag of possessions.

Everything was gone.

In spite of the quilt about her, a cold desolation settled over her. It was the final kick in the gut, Providence telling her once again that she was to have nothing...ever. Anything she ever managed to gain would be taken.

"What of your husband?" Blackthorne's blurred reflection in the glass moved as he circled behind her.

She rolled the silver ring between her fingers. Ornate, yet simple, with small rosebuds twining over a latticework background, it was now all that was left. Clutching her hand to her chest, she closed her eyes in benediction of all she had lost.

"He's gone," she said dully.

"Gone? Gone, as in to another island? Or, gone as in...?"

"Gone, as in prison," she cried. Spinning around, the quilt fell from her shoulders. "Gone, as in never to be seen again. Gone, as in I'm totally alone. Gone, as in there is not a single soul to know if I'm alive or dead!"

The weight of the day had taken its toll. Terror, battle, near drowning, and now captivity were all too overwhelming. Rage overcame sensibility. Squealing, she balled a fist and swung. He chuckled as he easily fended her off, infuriating her all the more. Fingers curled, she lunged, seeking to claw his throat, face...anything! Artfully dodging her attempts to knee him in the groin, he seized her wrists and pulled her against him. She screamed in anger more than fear.

"Quiet! Belay!" he hissed.

He pressed her face deeper into his shoulder, the pistol at his waist digging her ribs. Cate bucked against his body, lean and hardened by years at sea. Wrestling with her brothers had taught her how to fight; he flinched and grunted when her blows found their target. She felt a tug at the neck of her shift and heard the sound of fabric tearing.

Cate landed a solid kick to his knee and broke free. She leapt for the broad sill of the windows and hooked her fingers on the ledge, clinging to the slim chance of escape. Freedom was just below: a sea glittering in the starlight. The water was further down than she had imagined, but rational voices didn't prevail. He dove after her and seized her by the waist, striving to pull her away. Her fingers burned, the joints tearing. She kicked out and knocked his leg out from under him. He sprawled on top of her, one arm trying to pull her back, the other reaching to break her hold. Failing at that, he grabbed her wrist and squeezed, digging his fingers deep between the bones. A searing pain raced up her arm and shot down into her hand. Her fingers went numb and she lost her grip with a suddenness that sent them both tumbling along the sill.

He came up on top of her, his hips grinding hers. His breath hot on her chest, she slapped and gouged, going for his eyes, nose...any point of weakness. He caught one arm in mid-air and wrenched it around under her, while nearly catching the other. As they rolled, one way and then the other, she screamed and he clapped a hand over her mouth. She bit down until she heard the satisfying crunch of flesh. Grunting in pain, he jerked back and tried to shake her off, but she hung on like a terrier on a rat. Finally, he slapped her across the face. The blow sent her reeling backward. She came hard up against a gun with a force that knocked the wind from her.

Blackthorne came at her with a thunderous look. The black eyes gleamed with a brilliance that made him capable of any act of mayhem or madness. She sagged back, the gun's cold brass at her back another scream bubbling in her throat, but he stopped just beyond arm's reach.

"Scream again and you'll do it hanging from me bowsprit," he said in a low, gasping growl.

He twisted his arm around to examine the side of his hand, a curve of red droplets bright in the candlelight. He glared in disgust at her and plunged it into his mouth. He then snatched up the bottle and trickled rum over it, swearing as he shook off the pain.

Blackthorne came at her with a swiftness that he was on her before she could react. He grabbed her up and half-carried, half-drug her across the room to the curtain and, with a low, animal sound, shoved her through it.

"And come out at your peril!" he snarled.

Cate strained to curb her own hard breathing in order to hear to what was happening on the other side of the curtain: stomping about, and a great deal of grumbles and curses, much unkindly toward women in general and her, specifically. She heard a heaving grunt and the quilt slid under the curtain with enough force for it to land at her feet.

She stood staring into the dark room. There was nothing but a curtain, no way of barricading or locking it. She inched her way forward with a groping hand extended. She stubbed her toe on the bunk and heard a smug snicker in the salon. He was still out there, listening, waiting. Sleeping on the bed seemed ill-advised. When he came in-and surely he would-he would expect her there. Determined not to give him the satisfaction of another sound, she clamped her mouth tight and felt around to the farthest corner. At the head of the bed, she came upon a book tucked in the corner. Its hefty weight promised to make a fair weapon-the only weapon thus far-and she tucked it under her arm. Once reaching the corner, she felt for the quilt and curled up with it on the floor.

Exhaustion was an anchor dragging her down. The events of the day flashed through her head like a riffled deck of cards. The speed with which they passed had a hypnotic effect and she felt her joints loosen. Muscles tensed for too long trembled and twitched as they let go. Deeper and deeper she sank.

Cate woke with a start. With no idea what had awakened her, she tried to quiet her pounding heart in order to hear, straining to see through the darkness. She shied at a spectral light glowing at the ceiling and felt quite foolish at seeing it was only the moon through a deck prism. A greenish pool on the floor, the thin ray was the only light in the otherwise stygian void. The curtain moved and she jumped then gasped with relief at realizing it swayed with the motion of the ship.

There was a noise, the same or different as what had wakened her she couldn't tell. She held her breath, as if listening might help her to see. She couldn't shake the sense of eyes being on her. Severe disorientation seized her at realizing that she was no longer on the floor. She was somewhere else, but with no recollection of how she had come to be there. Shifting her weight ever so slightly, she felt the lumpiness of a mattress under her and smelt the sharpness of male. A bed, the captain's bed most likely. Her blood pulsed in her ears as she felt with her rear, and then a hand. She was alone, so far.

The feel of eyes on her was unshakeable, however. She wormed further back against the bulkhead and pulled the quilt higher as she strained to hear what she couldn't see.

Sometime later, she heard another sound: an eerie, unearthly cry, which seemed to emanate from the bowels of the ship. Long and querulous, it faded to a slow death. An animal was her first thought, and yet too distorted by distance to be sure. Within a few moments, she heard it again, this time seeming to originate from outside and high above.

She lay awake through the night, jumping and starting at every creak, pop or vibration. At last, when the black of night gave way to the thin grey of dawn, she dozed off, too exhausted to care.

Chapter 3: The Lie Behind the Truth.

A distant pounding jerked Cate awake. Only her eyes moved as her sleep-muddled mind strove to sort out what had wakened her. The brilliance of morning squeezed around the curtain and through the porthole in glaring shafts that sliced the cabin's gloom.

"Cap'n!" There was no mistaking Pryce's bellow. The Great Cabin's door was knuckled again with increased vigor. "Cap'n!"

Someone stirred in the salon. The rustle of clothing and creak of leather was followed by a groggy, "Eh?"

"Beg pardon, Cap'n, but you're desired-"

"You can come in, Master Pryce." Neither was there mistaking Blackthorne's throaty growl.

She heard the halting clump of boots, and then a hesitant, "Cap'n, if you be of leisure-"

"Bloody hell, Pryce. Come in the damned room and stop caterwauling like a wretched fishwife!"

Even at her distance, Cate jumped at Blackthorne's roar.

The footsteps sidled further.

"Beg pardon, sir. 'Twasn't wishin' to intrude." Pryce's insinuation wasn't lost: a woman in the captain's cabin was apparently a familiar scenario.

"There's no intrusion to be made, Master Pryce." Blackthorne's reply came around a huge yawn.

"Some o' the hands represent as they heard screamin' last night, of the womanly sort."

The comment came not in the way of accusation, but advisably, a delicate suggestion that a bit more discretion might be exercised the next time.

"Did they now?" said Blackthorne coldly. The scrape of a chair was followed by the stomp of a foot and labored scuffle of walking with one leg asleep. "And pray, what did the remainder hear?"

"Nuthin,'" came dully, after a brief pause.

"Uh-huh. I thought as much. She's in there, if you desire to inspect for damages. 'Course, that would be to risk stirring her up again. You fancy caterwauling, do you, Master Pryce?"

Pryce sputtered and humphed.

"Was there an initiating purpose to this visit?" Blackthorne prompted.

"Huh? Oh, aye, sir! The bosun sends his compliments and, if yer of yer leisure, desires ye to attend. He says the larboard lift blocks an' crosstrees on the fore gallant won't answer. And the Company muster will be a-waitin' yer leisure at eight bells."

"Very well, lead on, Master Pryce," said Blackthorne through another yawn, and the two left.

The salon now quiet, Cate took the opportunity to wake further.

Through a dull headache, she sought again to come to terms with where she was. A part of her concussed mind clung to the familiarity of her surroundings-the watch bells still pealed, the boatswain still bellowed, the holystones still scraped and the caulking mallets still rapped-and insisted if she was to close her eyes, she could still be on the Constancy "This isn't the Constancy, it's the Sara Morgan or Carry Morgans, or whatever," she said aloud. She had been aware of Pryce calling the ship by a different name, but was at a loss as to what it had been.

Cate opened her eyes and blew a long sigh. Yesterday, she had prepared to never see the sun rise again. Seeing the morning rays cut the cabin's gloom had to be taken as a victory. The bone-rattling terror had given way to mere gut-knotting dread. Her hands no longer shook, the quaking reduced to no more than sporadic tremors, and her heart had slowed to a rate that promised it wouldn't leap out of her chest after all.

Awaking in Blackthorne's bunk, with no idea of how she had come to be there, was unsettling. Even more worrisome was to think she had slept through being moved and wrapped in the quilt. With all the fitful waking, she didn't think to have slept so soundly. Wondering what else she might have slept through, she ducked her head under the blanket to delicately sniff and took a meticulous inventory of her body. There was no stickiness or soreness, nor any trace of the aftermath of sex or violation. It was another befuddlement: a visitor in the night had been expected, and yet none had come...or had he?

The smell of a man rose from the sweat-stained mattress and pillow. Musty and sharp, it was mingled with hints of rum, cinnamon, tar, and orange oil. It wasn't objectionable. If anything, it made her realize how much she missed the smell of a man of a morning. It had been a long time, a very long time.

As she lay there, she heard the scamper of feet. At sea or land, the sound of rats never changed. She reflexively checked her toes, fingers, lips, and nose to assure there had been no nibbling, as she watched the rolling red back-and a sleek, healthy beast it was-lumber along the wall. The surprise came with a brindled face poked out from under the curtain. First impressions were of a fox, but it was considerably smaller, longer of body, and shorter of leg. The creature darted forward and pounced. The rat gave a startled squeal, a feeble kick and was dead. Holding its prey by the neck, the brindled beast regarded Cate with beady, vertically slitted eyes. Seemingly a bit surprised by her presence, it pranced off with its treasure to be devoured in privacy.

The call of nature forced Cate to rise sooner than she would have preferred. She rose stiffly, taking several steps before her legs became reliable. She listened carefully to verify that the salon was still empty before making her quilt-swathed entrance. The privy closet was in the far corner. She was excessively grateful for that tradition of the sea: the captain having his own convenience. Groping her way to the forecastle or asking for a chamber pot was unthinkable. If she were at sea a hundred years, however, she would never become accustomed to the feel of the wind and spray on her bared bottom.

After, she took in her surroundings. The Great Cabin was a man's room; make no mistake, an eclectic collection from every corner of sea and continent. The Constancy's walls-bulkheads, at sea-had been pristinely whitewashed. These were walnut, dark and rich with the patina of time, smelling of oil and wax. The mizzenmast marked the forward third of the room, the remaining space dominated by a carved mahogany table centered over a Turkish rug. The sidechairs were equally elaborate, with brass-studded seats, their tooled leather worn to a dull sheen.

Opulence and riches were expected-these were pirates, after all-but only luxuriant pragmatism was found; luxuriant, at least, by any standards in which she had lived of recent. Every object was unique, but at the same time functional, selected for utility rather than to impress: a velvet chair, because one might wish to sit. Before it sat an ottoman, fashioned from some kind of drum-looking something, in case one needed to rest his feet. A water-stained locker sat next to the chair, because one needed a place to set something, such as the thick book there now, a French classic. A candelabrum hung next to it, because one needed light to read.

By the side-lighted, double doors sat a massive Oriental porcelain urn, its inglorious task being to hold a lethality of swords, cutlasses, and sabers. Charts bulged from similar gilt-trimmed urns scattered about. Silver and gold cups sat next to ones of leather or wood; after all, one needed to drink. Battered horn lanterns perched next to silver epergnes; one needed light. The two cannons, their brass glowing in the morning light, were a cold reality against the warmth of human occupancy, and yet were quite fitting.

Perhaps the most intriguing of the room's features were the books, a rare luxury and one that had been fully indulged. Cases, with moveable arms that locked or unlocked with a single flip, sat everywhere. Gilded and richly bound, under closer scrutiny, many of the volumes proved to be collections of classics, and in several languages.

Amid the live sounds of a ship under sail, she hitched the quilt higher about her shoulders and perched on the arm of a chair to stare out the windows at the rich hues of sky and wave. According to Chambers and the Constancies, she had committed a mortal mistake: she had allowed herself to be captured. She smiled faintly. Now she could be the one to tell the pirate tales and several fallacies she could correct. She felt frayed and worn, stained and bruised, humbled, but not beaten, not yet. Now, there was nothing except what she had always done: survive. She was a captive, but hadn't been thrown overboard, lips cut off, or innards nailed to a tree...yet.

Things were looking up.

From the corner of her eyes, Cate saw something move. She looked, but found nothing. With a second glance, she found a small lizard sitting on the windowsill. With bulging orbs for eyes, the thing's tiny throat pulsated with each breath. It darted first one way, then another. At one point it fixed a pale, reptilian eye on her, considered her to be neither edible nor threatening, and flashed out of sight through a space in the boards. Another appeared clinging upside down at the top of the window. It scampered about, and then disappeared outside.

She gradually became aware of voices on deck, their agitation increasing by the moment. She was startled to see what had to have been all hundred and twenty-odd, the entire ship's complement, gathered. With the mizzenmast as a shield, she watched as a resounding cheer erupted. In the glare of sunlight, the milling throng faced the bow, like metal filings being pulled toward a magnet. They gave a rousing shout, their arms raised in much the same fashion as spectators at a hanging. Then there was a great stirring, like someone being brought forward.

A fearful shriek, a high, thin cry of pain rode the air. The crowd cheered, their agitation shifting to approval. A few moments later, came another cry, lower and filled with resentment. There was a scuffle, and then a man broke from the crowd and dove for the foremast ratlines. He scrambled up the rope ladders as gangs of pirates gave chase, racing up both sides, eventually going so high she could no longer see them. Their path up and across the yards could be tracked by the gazes and brandished fists of those on deck. From high above came another cry, and then the blur of a falling body. It caught in the rigging, spun, hit the rail, and then disappeared into the crowd with an odd thud, like a sack of wet meal.

A slightly puzzled hush fell over the pirates, a few grumbling with disappointment or disgust.

Stunned, Cate stumbled back, eventually coming up against the table. She was still standing there when Blackthorne stepped out of the crowd and sauntered into the cabin, the bellow of "Swabbers!" coming from behind him. He was barely through the door when he drew up short at the sight of her, his mouth curling in displeasure.

"You look like you've just seen a ghost," he said, pitching his coat aside.

"I'm not sure what I just saw," she said shakily.

Blackthorne followed her line of sight to the milling crowd outside, now dissolving. "Oh, that. Company business. Justice desired serving."

"Throwing a man from the yards?"

He turned to give her a queer look. "He wasn't thrown. The stupid sod fell. Never was much in the tops," he said more to himself. "'Tis an unfortunate mess, now."

He cast a thoughtful glance toward the deck. Hoses had been rigged, the swabbers setting to work.

"'Twas a disciplinary action," he said, turning back. "Those three-or two now-were drunk whilst on yesterday's raid. Their own mates came forward to claim their drunkenness was cause for injury or inconvenience. 'Tis a direct violation of the Articles. They were judged by their peers; leaves the Captain completely out of it, praise God!" he added under his breath with a roll of his eyes. "The sentence was lopping of an ear...er, last ear in Towers' case. A bit slow on the pick-up, that one is."

"You cut off their ears?" The pained cries still ringing in her head, a wave of queasiness took her. She had witnessed any number of punishments-stocks, ear-pinning, pillory, ducking-many cruel and sometimes bloody, but this seemed uncommonly so, especially when done to one of their own, this so-called Brotherhood.

Blackthorne smiled tolerantly. "Flog a man and he's not worth his salt for days. Caning and drubbing is no different. Put him in irons or bilboes, and he's on his ass, at his leisure. Keel-hauling renders him as useless as flogging, and then what with all the rigging him up, throwing him overboard, dragging him the length of the ship, not to mention the mess after..."

He shuddered dramatically. "Most instances, a man's forced to cut his own off, but strikes me as damned barbaric. No, a quick snick and Bob's-your-uncle, the fuddling mump learns his lesson, hopefully. 'Tis not torture they seek," he said, looking outside once more, "only justice. And those scuts will be a constant reminder to every man what lays eyes on him. Feeling better today, are we?" he asked, swiveling around to her.

It took Cate a moment to follow his abrupt shift, and managed an uneven, "Yes, thank you, Captain."

All things considered, she felt much better.

"Nathan." He dropped his battered leather tricorn on the table. "I'd fancied you'd call me Nathan...Cate?" The graveled voice held the question.

She nodded, managing a smile. From amid his glossy beard broke a gold-studded smile that lit the room.

There was an awkward moment. For a man who seemed to have a response to everything the day before, he was markedly ill at ease, searching the rug at his feet as if he might find the words there. The scratch marks, livid on his chest amidst the heavy growth of hair, brought a sense of satisfaction. Hopefully, he would think twice before trying her again. She saw the hand she had bitten was wrapped in a doubtful-looking strip of rag. In the spirit of atonement, and perhaps a bit of endearment, she considered offering to put a bit of salve on it. Never being one to dodge the unpleasant, she took the first step. Anything was better than this insufferable throat-clearing.

"Shall I-?" Cate began.

"A pact," he declared. His habit of interrupting hadn't improved.

Cate looked to see if he was jesting. He wasn't. "I beg pardon?"

"A pact would answer: I stay on this side of the room," he said with a sweep of his arm in a general direction of where he stood. "And you won't attack me again. Agreed?"

"Attack! I never-" Her cheek heated, feeling once again the sting of where he had hit her.

"Tell that one to the fishes. A fine state of affairs and thank-yous for showing a little kindness-"

"Kindness," Cate sputtered. "But you-"

"What?"

"And then, you-"

"What? Any signs of ill-handling are your own bloody fault. Not a hand was laid, until provoked."

"Provoked!"

"Nasty habit that, repeating everything you hear. Have you suffered this affliction long?" Blackthorne, or rather, Nathan asked, peering with affected interest down the long line of his nose.

Cate eyed him, trying to decide what he was playing at. Madness and flaws of character had been mentioned in the pirate tales. First, there had been the bullying brute, then cajoling and compassionate with his injured crew. And now, here was another manifestation, which smacked of intentional disarming. If so, he was a crafty one, indeed.

She rubbed her brow in frustration. "I surrender."

"Ah, a sane voice at last. A truce it 'tis."